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rassvetsky · 1 year

Note

would literally lose my fucking mind if you wrote carmy like touch starved, idk maybe everyone is staying after to celebrate something and he’s dragging you into his office to eat you out with absolutely zero shame because he needs it so bad

your wish is my lifelong quest i love you, hope i did it at least some justice loml

Carry You Away With Me

carmen "carmy" berzatto x fem!reader

He looked sheepish for a moment, lips curling into a grin for another split second before returning to his natural expression, eyes finding yours and locking you into his gaze. "Do you think anyone would notice if I took you elsewhere right now?"

[4k] | chef ill be honest with you this is just porn, needy!carmy (he's fucking adorable), office sex if that's even a term, established relationship, cunningulus, unprotected sex, cum-play. my apologies to the church

reblog and/or like for a kiss, feedback much appreciated! not proofread.

It was around 11 when you returned to the restaurant with a bottle of champagne cradled in your arms, watching as Gary and Tina pushed a few tables together to make a bigger one for the rest. Eating together wasn't a rare occurrence, but it often only happened an hour before service in the morning— dinners were mostly had at home or skipped altogether, depending on the importance one put into their health. But tonight called for an after-hours get-together, one that Sydney and Marcus pushed for when Ebraheim showed up in the morning with the latest issue of Gastronomica, featuring a very familiar name this time around— Carmen Berzatto.

"You know— I bet you can like, make it to a Vogue issue sometime later on, too."

"That's not exactly food-related."

"I'm just saying, dream high and—"

The few clinks of a spoon against the glass cut Fak right off and Carmen made a mental note to thank god for that later on, his gaze lifting from the long, full table that everyone was surrounding to the source of the sound; the now-empty champagne glass that Richie held.

"Can we all take a moment to stop stuffing our faces with this whatever-the-fuck it is to congratulate my cousin right here?" he spoke up, bringing a smile to your lips as you reached for Carmen's hand from under the table and muttered out "chou à la crème", another dish that Marcus had been experimenting with lately. A short chuckle left Carmen's lips when he vaguely heard what you said, and he gave your hand a firm, appreciative squeeze before rubbing his thumb along the back of your palm. "Gastronomica isn't just any magazine. I think it's supposed to be one of the good ones, like—"

"—the Vogue of food!"

"Maybe! Who knows, anyway— really, I'm proud of this mess of a man and you all should be, too." and maybe this was the most affection that Richie could whip out in public, but it was more than enough— because despite his hate for having the spotlight directly on him, Carmen was currently busy offering a smile to Richie, which the other reciprocated shortly before sitting back down, his quiet little hum of affection drowned out by the mutterings of 'cheers' along with the clink of everyone's glasses.

Proud was an understatement for this little dysfunctional found-family.

But you knew Carmen, you knew that he'd much rather skip on the compliments and pats to the shoulder; and you were way too sure that he'd need a moment to himself sooner or later. That moment came almost fifteen minutes after, when everyone split themselves into a few groups of completely different conversations, scooped up chocolate sauce and cream and small pieces of the delicate pastry got left behind on the empty plates— you felt Carmy's fingers wrapping around your upper thigh, concealed by the dimmed out lights and the table.

"S'up?" you returned your attention to him upon feeling his fingers tapping along to some nonexistent rhythm on your clothed skin, not too invested in the story Richie was busy telling everybody with the loudest voice he could muster to begin with.

"Elsewhere?"

"Not too far, jus' my office. For a couple of minutes at most." he leaned in closer to your ear just so you could hear him over the 2012's pop playlist Manny whipped out earlier, a completely mesmerizing turn of events when he started singing along to a random Katy Perry song— but that leaning closer action proved Carmen to be just another self-saboteur because he was feeling specifically out of place all day and to feel your perfume so close was a pull with a force out of this world. He couldn't pull back away then, couldn't return to his own chair and you had no choice but to push him away manually. "I promise."

"Any ulterior motives I should be aware of?" you grinned, letting your fingers curl right over his own on your thigh— and making a mental note to ease him into the habit of using hand moisturizers regularly sometime, upon the roughed up feel of his skin.

"You wound me, baby." his expression seemed to linger over offense, but his eyes told a completely different story; and before you knew it, he was pushing his chair back to get up, patting Gary's shoulder on his way to the back of house, a momentary turn of his head just so he could silently tell you to follow with his eyes.

And that, you did, despite the raised eyebrows of Richie's that you met along the way.

The kitchen smelled like a different kind of citrus, one that only belonged in dishwashing detergents as you maneuvered through the stations, cleaned up from the day's worth of filth. From your peripheral vision, you noticed Carmen reaching behind to undo the strings of his navy apron, leaving out the top string that he'd have to pull over his head until you could catch up and he could get to the office. His shirt was, again, as pristine as ever and it was a work of magic how he managed to come back home with a perfectly clean white t-shirt each day, if not for a few little drops here and there.

Finally, he pushed open the door of his office for you and you stepped in, finding your way to his desk in the darkness to flip the switch of the small light that illuminated the paperwork mostly. When your eyes found him again, the apron was long gone— tucked away in a corner, folded, although not so neatly. "Happy now?"

Instead of a reply, he just plopped down on the old, squeaky chair by the desk, thighs spread and arms wide open to make space for you. You took the offer right away, seating yourself on one of his thighs but still balancing yourself on your feet too, in order to not just dump your whole body weight on him and potentially numb out his leg. He couldn't care less, as he wrapped himself around you tightly and pulled you closer. "I don't really give a shit about Gastronomica."

"I figured," you mumbled against the material of his shirt, lungs filling in with a scent that only he could carry— a surprisingly pleasant mix of cigarettes, sweat, and gravy. It belonged to him, at least. "When's the last time you gave a shit about anyone's opinion outside of here, anyway?"

A soft hum left his lips, one that feigned agreement— but he wasn't paying much attention to what you've been saying to begin with, mind all muddied with specific moments in time that included you. Come to think of it, he'd been like this all day, even when Richie jokingly smacked him across the face with the magazine or when Tina elbowed him while he was trying to explain why she had to strain the mixture twice to get a flowing consistency— on the back of his mind, there was always you; always the lack of time he got to spend with you when the rush hour got too much to bear and he couldn't bring himself to lift an arm when he came back home to you.

When was the last time he properly touched you, took his time to memorize all the little ridges and beauty spots across your body, he couldn't remember.

So as you spoke, listing out all the reasons why he should be proud of himself for all the accomplishments, Carmen's arm curled around your waist and his fingers found your thighs again, the warmth of his palm seeping through the material of your leggings and from the way they teased upwards, you knew where this was going. "... that you managed to turn— are you not listening?"

His smile was so smug that you wanted to either kiss, or slap him. "Not really. But go on."

"Carmy, if you actually think that I'll do anything non-churchy with you here while everyone's literally twenty feet away, you're so wrong." you breathed out, because that's all you could do when his lips ghosted over the side of yours, before trailing down to where your jawline met your neck. He only hummed as a reply, clearly not giving a shit about your opinion either at that moment— but to say that you weren't enjoying the attention would be a blatant lie.

His fingertips traced the seams outlining your underwear through the extra layer of fabric while his lips latched to your neck, finally, with his warm breath hitting against the sensitive skin and the usual wet nature of his kisses leaving behind a glistening spot of adoration. You leaned into it, rather shamelessly— legs parting and fingers carding through the locks on the nape of his neck, and that only encouraged him further, causing him to whisper out a curse and a few sloppy words of praise. "Just let me, hm? Please?"

The sense of desperation in his tone was enough to push back any words of disagreement that you could blurt out at that moment. You knew you had to power through, it would be so embarrassing and disrespectful to let him have his way with you right here, while everyone else was still at the FOH— but the way his palm covered your clothed core and his fingertips teased the slight outline of your slit, all while his pretty lips were oh so busy whispering absolute filth in your ear was slowly taking away all the care you had in the world. "Carm— not a good idea."

"You weren't saying that last week, right here," two weeks ago, to be exact, but you couldn't blame him for not being able to tell time apart. "Had to cover your mouth and all, s'loud for me—"

"You're getting carried away." you chuckled, the deepest of breaths still not enough for the capacity of your lungs as you tugged on his locks slightly, prying him off of your skin just so you could get a look at him.

"Let me carry you away with me. Please, fuck— I can't think of anything else when you're on my mind." he pulled away a little from your neck, eyes of pristine skies staring right at your soul with the expression of a kicked puppy— he knew exactly how to get his way when he was miserable like that. His fingers were still against your heat, expecting permission. "Ten minutes only, just let me touch you."

You could recognize that tone, that incurability way too well— it was often reserved for nights shared between hushed whispers of promises, where he was too needy to form a single thought and all he could do was to cover your body with his and curl onto you, to feel your warmth against himself and to be one body and one soul for an hour. Uncommon in nature, even rarer to take place in a room that he reserved for professional affairs only— but the heart wants what it wants.

To his surprise, you suddenly pushed your lips against his— letting his fever take over you as well, with your hands clutching onto his shoulders and hair. You could hear the slight groan escaping his lips when his fingers breached under the tight waistband of your leggings, pushing the material down slightly with the bend of his wrist before turning his hand a little to tug it all downwards, urging you up on your feet. You got up from where you were seated, now standing between his legs with your back bent just so your lips would be on his, but he broke the kiss with a smile that took over when he finally pulled down both articles of clothing at the same time. Your back straightened when he managed to push them both down to your ankles, your hands on his shoulders to help with your balance as you stepped out of them, feeling his moist lips over your abdomen for a second before he pushed you backwards slightly, towards the desk.

He took that momentary advantage to get up on his feet and pin you right in between his own body and the desk, hands blindly pushing the loose folders to the side. You felt too exposed when his palms gripped the underside of your thighs just to prop you up on the desk, lips finding and panting against yours, a clear indication of his need seeping through the way he tugged and nibbled before his tongue found its way to caress yours.

There was nothing nice about it, but you couldn't bring yourself to care— not when he whispered your name against the plush of your lips so sweetly when your fist closed around his hair, not when he didn't even know what to do with his hands; grabbing, fondling at every inch of your skin that he could reach shakily. He pulled you flush against his body, letting you get a feel of the harsh dark denim against your bare center and you had to bite into his lower lip to stay quiet, ultimately earning a groan from him when his hands slipped under your shirt.

"Bear," you whispered out, his lips chasing yours when you pulled away to speak— which made you chuckle quietly, as he looked at you again. "Ten minutes."

"Ten minutes," he parroted, the usually wide eyes of his now hooded, pupils blown out as if he was looking right at the sun. When you reached in to kiss him again, you couldn't catch him fast enough— he was already holding onto your thighs to crouch down, looking up at you with a Cheshire grin when you spread your legs a little further apart, a force of habit.

Leaning back on your palms against the desk as much as the cramped space could allow, you took a deep breath— but it wasn't enough to prepare you for what came next when his tongue trailed a bold line across your slit, spreading your folds apart gently. It was a pleasant routine, one that you never quite got used to; because when he was down on his knees with his tongue tracing abstract shapes across your clit in a teasing manner, it was all about you and to think that a guy who often rushed things and went through life at a 2x pace would slow down just to put all of his attention on your pleasure only was more delightful than any compliment one could attain.

Carmen's fingertips were perhaps digging into the skin of your thighs a bit too hard, but could you possibly complain? The tip of his tongue dipped between your folds to spread your essence upwards, a mix of his saliva and your wetness covering your clit when he closed his lips around it and sucked— letting out a blissed groan, one that he'd scold you for if you were the culprit. You could only imagine how hard he must've been at that moment, he was always a sucker for situations like this, with the thrill of doing something so forbidden, right where he could be caught and your taste on his tongue, thighs on either side of his shoulders.

Imagining it didn't help your situation at all, it was hard to focus on one coherent thought when he kept flicking his tongue over your sensitive bundle of nerves but you forced through— with the thought of the blunt tip of his length all flushed and leaking in your palm, curses leaving his soft lips whenever your fingers got a bit too tight around the girth. He liked it when you put your focus there, tip of your tongue tracing the slit and leaving kisses over it while the rest of your palm jerked him off— firm and slow.

And you'd always let your lips stray when he got close, deciding to suddenly bite into the skin of his inner thighs or to lightly trace his perineum with your tongue, just to have him reduced to a writhing, whining mess with not enough air to survive in his lungs. He'd spill onto your fingers and you'd clean him up right away, moving your way upwards with wet little kisses until you reached his lips. And he was one dirty fucker because tasting himself on you when you kissed him all sloppily was probably one of his favorite things in the world.

Drowned out in all the thoughts, you didn't notice how close you were until your thighs were shaking around his shoulders, and he finally added his fingers into the mix then— his middle and ring fingers easily breaching through, grazing all of your sensitive spots from the inside. You had to press your palm against your mouth to not let a sound then, when your climax finally hit you, and you'd probably slide right off the table with how quaky your whole body was at that moment if it wasn't for Carmen's strong grip on your body, holding you right where you belong.

The position was a bit merciless on his legs so far but he made it up to his feet again, giving you a light peck on your lips before his fingers found his mouth, his tongue circling the digits to clean them up as he stared right at you, into your soul. He pulled them out with a slight pop, and licked his lips clean. "How long did we take?"

"I don't know," you panted out. "I was busy imagining the way you come."

His light laughter brought a tender, yet bittersweet ache to your heart. "Fuck, you get off to that?" and you could tell him all about just how beautiful he was, and how much it turned you on to see him blissed out in pleasure— but you didn't know if your lung capacity allowed for it at that moment, as being quiet came with the benefit of holding your breath for longer than you should. "Tell me more."

You giggled against his lips when he braced himself on the desk with his two hands holding onto the edge on both sides of your thighs. Both of your hands moved down to the front of his pants, too fucked out to care about timing as you palmed him through the material just to see that grin on his lips falter. "I'm gonna make you jack off and watch sometime." you mumbled, slowly pulling the zipper down after setting him free from the belt and the button. He hummed, forehead to forehead, before reaching for another little peck.

"As much as I don't see why I should jack off while you're in front of me," he spoke, a sharp intake of breath cutting his line of thought halfway through when your fingers finally wrapped around his cock. "but— shit, if you're into that… Only if you do it w'me, though. I wanna watch too."

"You don't get to watch." you sighed, bringing him closer with your legs to line his length up with your entrance. "You're just gonna sit there and come on your hand like a loser."

Carmen couldn't help the short snort that left him. "Are you even capable of being mean to me?"

"Mm-hm, I'm very mean when I wanna be." and right after that, his tip slid right into your cavern, pulling a deep exhale from both of you when he pushed a bit deeper. His lips found yours, mostly to keep the noises at bay while his hips rolled into yours, grinding against you before retreating a little, only to push in harder this time around.

You felt so full and blessed that you didn't even have to imagine anything to get lost in the feeling.

His pants slid further downwards with each thrust until they pooled around his ankles and your thighs wrapped tighter around his body, trapping him in. His arms were so delicately wrapped around your waist that you had to hold onto him with your whole remaining power to not slide further towards the wall, but he couldn't exactly notice that when he was feeling so damn lucky, whole length wrapped in a warmth beyond his comprehension.

And again, you couldn't blame him, because neither of you managed to notice when the skin slapping against skin got a bit too loud, and your lips pulled away from his just to breathe out the filthiest little nothings, like how much you needed him to fill you right up to the brim. "Fuck, give it to me." your hips met his thrusts half-way through when you pushed yourself against him. "Carmy, come inside me, please."

"Yeah? Are you gonna take it all?" his voice sounded broken, and his fingers would surely leave imprints on your hips with how tight his grip was. "Won't let you waste a drop, baby. I won't."

Somehow, through how feral he was with the way you were begging him, the responsible side came forward and captured your lips in his again— because while his team was full of respectful people, they were also little shits who would never live it down if they heard those beautiful sounds that escaped your lips with each hit of his blunt head against your sweet spot. The thought somehow egged him on further— he couldn't exactly decide if he was too possessive to let anyone hear or if he was possessive enough to make sure everyone knew he belonged to you, but at that moment, both of those thoughts turned him on too much, enough for him to feel his high approaching. And judging by the way your walls cramped down on him tighter with each passing second, you weren't too far behind.

You could feel yourself gushing around him, coating both of you in your essence beyond simple cleaning, but that was a matter to worry about later, not when the love of your life was balls-deep inside of you, his rough grunts right against your ear when he reached to press his lips right below it. "Close?" he mumbled, and even though your mind was too busy to hear and comprehend him properly, you nodded— feeling his arms wrapping around you tighter, pulling you closer to the warmth his body provided. And while as much as you'd like to keep this going for longer, witnessing his pace falter and voice break as he moaned out your name, filling you up in the most delicious way slowly was enough to have your eyes roll to the back of your head in pleasure, and to have the knot finally snap.

Your whole body was buzzing, shaky even when he held you so tight against his chest as if you'd vanish right there and then— something that he always did after sex, no matter the circumstance. You giggled wearily against his shoulder, leaving a few kisses here and there before he pulled away slightly to pull you into a kiss— nothing like the ones you shared in the past minutes, this one was all sweet and loving. "Might drip if I pull out."

"You can't stay there forever, Carm."

"Oh, but I want to." he huffed out but still moved to slowly pull out of you anyway, having you both hiss in sensitivity and just like he thought, his come was ready to spill all over the place. Quick-thinker in nature, he caught his seed with his fingers right before they could go further, pushing them back into you just to hear you gasp— and slap his shoulder playfully.

"You're a fucking freak."

"Shut up— round two at my place? Kinda wanna see where that watching me jerk off fantasy of yours might lead us."

a/n: once again i could be easily manipulated into breaking into your house with a part two, who knows

also @carmensberzattos consider this a marriage proposal

#carmen berzatto x reader #carmen berzatto x you #carmen berzatto x y/n #carmen berzatto fic #carmen 'carmy' berzatto #carmen berzatto #carmy berzatto #carmy the bear #the bear #the bear fanfiction #the bear fic #the bear fx #jeremy allen white #lip gallagher #lip gallagher x reader #carmen berzatto smut #carmen berzatto fluff

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tadpolesonalgae · 25 days

Text

Can’t Bring Myself To Hate You - Part 15

Azriel x Third-Oldest-Archeron-Sibling!Reader

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

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

word count: 16,175

-Part 14- -Part 16-

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

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 feeling sick.” Something flickers behind his eyes, but it’s gone too quickly for you to even attempt to recognise. “You were probably feeling sick from hunger,” he mutters, as if it’s obvious, arms folding over his chest, leaning back against a tree. “Using magic can take up a lot of energy, even if it doesn’t feel like it. You should have—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you coming up for your cycle?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Isn’t that right, Shadowsinger?”

————

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

————

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

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

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

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

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

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

————

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

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

Use it wisely.

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

————

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s not for you to speculate on.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

————

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

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

Maybe they were discussing Court matters.

“I—…Should I wait out—”

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

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

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

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

“Excellent. Then you can leave.”

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

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

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

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

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

Back to the Night Court.

Back to Velaris.

Back to your family.

Back to be judged.

————

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

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

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

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

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

Wouldn’t be bothering any of them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why did you leave?” He asks quietly.

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

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

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

Where else were you supposed to go?

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

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

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

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

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

“Answer,” he murmurs, promptingly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why is this the first way you see it?

Why is this the first time he allows it?

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

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

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

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

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

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

“About what?”

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

You’re quiet. Silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry.”

————

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

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

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

Why might she have a weapon in her bag?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He should ask her what it is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Is it pointless to try and salvage their relationship?

Would it be better if she did kill him?

————

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

————

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

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

You’re back.

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

She’s with me. How is Feyre?

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

There’s a pause, and Azriel steadies himself.

How is she?

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

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

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

Feyre will go and speak to her sister.

And Rhys will be the one to speak to him.

What a mess.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

————

Silence hums in your ears, so quiet.

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

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

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

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

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

To wipe yourself from memory.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The ash stings your fingertips.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

————

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

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

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

————

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

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

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

Mother murder you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s going to die.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The prophecy having come to fulfilment.

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

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

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

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

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ilwonuu · 4 months

Text

𖥔 ͙ࣳ hate the club. k. mingyu

this fic is inspired by this song so pls listen to it <333

“tired of going out, scared ill run into you”

“damn you know i hate the club, but i came cuz i know you’d show up”

summary 𖡼 your friend group goes out every friday. you never feeling up to joining them. you always find an excuse not to come. but now you’re sitting at home with nothing to do. so why not drink a little and hangout with your friends at the club?? what could go wrong? seeing your ex could definitely happen..

warnings- ex to lovers!!, alcohol consumption, smut with semi plot. switch!mingyu, switch!reader, oral sex f.receiving, fingering, riding, pet names- baby,princess,unprotected sex(don’t do it), creampie, multiple orgasms, lmk if i missed anything pls<3

authors note- i read over this like once so if theres any spelling or grammar errors pls let me know!!! i hope u guys love this i loved writing it!!!!

you feel bored with no company tonight. not loving the presence of nothing of your apartment and stuff animals as you usually do. sending seungkwan a quick text telling him you’ll be joining him, seokmin, and chan tonight. getting a sassy text back as usual

kwannie😓- what the fuck. girl don’t play????

kwannie😓- u better not be lying because seokmin and chan are actually gonna be the death of me.

kwannie😓- be ready at 9 ok.

you- im not kidding hoe and yes i am already ready ish???

kwannie😓- ok ill be there at 9 😘😘😘

you smile to yourself continuing to get ready. checking to see if you have a good amount of time to finish your hair. happy to see you have enough time with it only being 8:15.

finishing everything you need to do finally making your way outside after getting a text from seungkwan saying that they have arrived. walking to his car somewhat nervous about what the night has in store for you. you never know you could meet someone? or see someone you absolutely hate.

getting into the car immediately being greeted by your best friends. “y/n!!!! i feel like im seeing a ghost you never fucking leave your house” chan says laughing causing you to send him a glare. “shush be happy im here for once okay”

“no seriously i thought my eyes were deceiving me when i read your text” seungkwan says quickly starting to head to the club they always go to. “ok guys thats enough let her live she doesn’t have to come out with us every time.” seokmin says giving you a slight smile.

“thank you seokmin. the only one who appreciates me” “okay but yes of course she doesn’t have to come out everytime. but she doesn’t come out anytimes!!! this is her first time in like 10 years” chan says laughing with seungkwan as he also finds chans joke hilarious. causing them both to receive a glare.

“very funny chan!!! i will get out of the car and walk back home.” you say looking at him threatening him playfully. “you’re dramatic” kwan says finally pulling into the parking lot of the club.

“im also very nervous to be here.” “if we see anyone we don’t like it’ll be fine y/n we don’t have to interact or anything” chan says knowing exactly who you were thinking of getting out of the car having the rest of you follow his lead into the club.

“yea you’re right..” you say slowly walking behind them into the loud crowd of people dancing. “ok first things first drinks!!!!” seungkwan yells dragging you all to the bar. chan seokmin order vodka shots happily, quickly running to dance in the crowd of people. “can we just get two shots of tequila each?” seungkwan asks for the both of you. smiling at the bartender when his drinks are set in front of you two. “okay lets drink these then lets dance!!!” seungkwan smiles at you quickly taking his shots now waiting for you to do the same.

you nervously take the shots making a grossed out face after downing it with a sip of water. seungkwan pulling you towards the crowd as soon as you were ready shortly finding seokmin and chan. “how do you guys get drunk so fast?” you laugh at seokmin and chan completely lost in the song dancing dramatically. “they are fucking lightweights” seungkwan says causing you both to laugh at them.

“i fucking wish. i only feel a little tipsy” you say scanning around the club with your eyes. “do you want to get more drinks or wait a bit then??” seungkwan asks while pulling you close to dance with him. “nah we can wait” you say over the loud music.

you are really trying to have a good time but this isnt really your thing. you were hoping that the drinks would losen your nerves up a little bit but you were so wrong. now you are dancing completely soberly with seungkwan. trying not to ruin your best friends night. “im gonna go to the bathroom real fast kwannie” you whisper to him before disappearing to find the bathroom. you quickly use the bathroom heading back over to the bar to get a couple more shots. “fuck why did i do this to myself” you say under your breath quickly downing the shots without water this time. feeling a little better making your way back into the crowd searching for any of the three boys you arrived with.

pushing through the crowd trying to find them. you accidentally push someone a little to hard quickly going to apologize. “i am s-so sorry.” you say realizing exactly who you bumped into having them turn and look down at you. “jesus you push fucking h-“ mingyu immediately freezes after seeing you. “fuck y/n? what are you doing here?”

“well this is a public place and a club so i would assume we’re here for the same reason.” you say sarcastically while trying to push past him. “well what are you doing by yourself?” he asks concerned stopping your movements. “where is seungkwan?” he looks around the club quickly scanning seeing if he sees anyone who looks like the boy. “well actually im not sure so if you’ll excuse me i will be continuing to look for my friends.” you say finally trying to push past him again.

“wait just let me help you look for them. it’s kinda depressing being here alone.” he says once again finally letting you push past him to continue looking. he follows behind you slowly. “so uh how have you been?” you scoff stopping to look at him. “are you serious right now? i really would rather not pretend to like you right now okay? just help me find seungkwan and then you can go back to whatever you were doing.”

you say sighing going back to looking for you friends. mingyu doesn’t say another word and just follows you quietly. “why don’t you call him?” he suggests. “i left my phone in seungkwans car like the bright fucking person i am.” you say getting more annoyed as the situation goes on.

“shit you wanna use my phone then? i still have his number from you know..” he says nervously handing you his phone after clicking on seungkwans contact. “y-yea thanks” you take his phone letting the memories wash over you. you patiently wait as the phone starts to ring and shortly someone picks up. “seungkwan??? where did you fucking go??” you are now getting more uncomfortable with the fact that you lost all of them in the span of 10 mins. “um what the fuck mingyu you sound like y/n also why the hell are you calling me?” seungkwan slurs over the phone questioning you. “seungkwan ur drunk. also this is fucking y/n im using mingyus phone dumbass!!” your voice sounding annoyed more now. “girl what? why are you using his phone? are you guys…? um back together?” he asks loud enough for both you and mingyu to hear.

you sigh looking at mingyus eyes go wide at what he just heard. “s-seungkwan can you just fucking tell me where you went? you know what fuck it im just gonna get an uber home okay im tired.” you say slightly tearing up at the stressful situation. “we just went to the bar upstairs y/n. are you sure you wanna leave already we’ve only been here for like an hour.”

seungkwan asks through the phone sensing that something is wrong. “do you want me to send seokmin with you? he said he will come with you.” he offers. “kwannie its fine ill just order it off mingyu’s phone. will you just drop off my phone tmr? i left it in your car.” you say finally after ending the call after hearing his okay.

“mingyu do you mind if i use your phone to order a uber?” you turn to mingyu hoping he will say yes. “yes of course y/n. but you don’t need to do that. cheol said he was here to pick up me and shua but im guessing shua is with some girl so cheol can just drop you off.” he says smiling at you. “okay um let me make sure i have my keys and fuck i don’t they are also in seungkwans car.” you say realizing as you feel your pockets. “wanna just stay at my place tonight?” he blurts out quickly. “mingyu- i- what?” now your confused, tired, and annoyed. “just come sleep at my place. its not that weird y/n. what’s the chance seungkwan is gonna come unlock his car rn? come on i’ll drop you off in the morning i swear.” “its not weird to you? we haven’t spoke in like a year.”

this was not a great idea. you and mingyu ended on somewhat bad terms. he wasn’t willing to commit to you. he ended up treated you like shit because of it. you know this has nothing to do with what he asked but it’s obviously on your mind. you are now confused, tired, annoyed, and overwhelmed.

“y/n i kinda need a answer now. cheol is outside.” he says snapping you out of your thoughts and back into reality. “u-uh okay yea lets go” you say immediately regretting it. mingyu smiles grabbing your hand making the way out of the club to cheols car. quickly getting into the back seat.

“whats up mingyu. hey y/n. y/n????? oh shit hi” he says now realizing that is is actually you. “hello cheol nice to see you” you say softly laughing. “yea you too. um are you guys back together?” he asks out of the blue. “nope!!” you quickly say hoping he doesn’t ask anymore questions. “just drive cheol.” mingyu says and mentally thank him because cheol didn’t ask anymore questions driving silently. you two make it to mingyu’s house after a 10 minute car drive. “ah fucking finally these heels are literally the worst” you say walking into his house kicking them off as you go. “you can borrow some clothes. i think i even have your old pjs in my room.” he says taking off his shoes as well. “im surprised you even still have those.” you say making your way to his room. the memories coming back as you seen his room looks the same way it did when you guys were together. you grab the pajamas making your way to his bathroom quickly changing heading back into his living room. “you want to take my bed? i can sleep out on the couch.” he says throwing a pillow and blanket onto the couch. “no mingyu its fine i can take the couch. you can have your bed.” you say laughing at him slightly going to sit on the couch. “or you can sleep in my bed with me.” mingyu says looking at you cautiously. now leaving you pressured at what he is offering right now. “mingyu. what are you doing? you know that isn’t a good idea. we aren’t together anymore.” you say laying down getting comfortable. “i know we aren’t. but fuck y/n have you not been thinking about us at all? or anything that we had. i miss it. i miss you.”

you look at him with a blank expression. what the fuck do you say? of course you think about him and your relationship. more than you should. “mingyu i do okay. i never stopped really but im not in the mood to get hurt again okay.” “i fucking promise you i will never treat you the same way i did okay?” he moves to sit next to you on the couch moving to grab your hands. “let me make it up to you? let me show you i can be there for you. i want to be the boyfriend you deserve. will you just give me a chance?” you think for a couple seconds.

he seems genuine. you did miss him a lot. a chance doesn’t hurt right? “okay mingyu. i will sleep with you in your bed okay. but i swear if you do anything like how you did before the break-“ he kisses you softly shutting you up. “i promise.” he says holding his pinky up

you wrap your pinky around his smiling as he lifts you and carries you to his room. softly throwing you onto his bed and climbing next to you. “you don’t know how much i missed you. i thought i was never gonna see you again.”

“yep that was the plan until i saw you at the club.” you state not wanting to lie to him. “well im so glad i saw you.” you smile at him. “can i make it up to you? ill make you feel so good y/n if you let me please.” hes already begging and you guys haven’t even done anything but a kiss.

he was always like this. he would immediately get needy after one small touch. mingyu was definitely a fucking switch. most of the time he loved being in control and seeing you beg for him. but everyone knew mingyu always leaned towards the subby side. he will listen to your requests always. if you’re happy he’s happy.

you nod softly at him watching him quickly shift between your legs pull down your shorts and underwear in one swift movement. kissing up your thighs slowly making your breath hitch under his touch. “fuck you’re so wet and i haven’t even touched you baby.” slowly moving his fingers up your slit inserting a finger in. his fingers immediately hit your g-spot causing you to already squirm until his firm touch.

“fuck you’re so tight. i can barely move my finger babe.” watching you closely as he inserts a second and third finger quickly watching as you get wetter from his touch. “g-gyu please more i need more.” you beg him hoping to add something extra to get you closer to your high.

“shh baby let me take my time i promise you’ll get everything you need okay?” he says sweetly pulling his fingers out of you with the noise of your squelch filling the room. “you hear yourself baby? you’re making a mess on my bed already hm?” he coos at you shifting so that his head is in between your legs. gently grabbing your thighs to spread your legs. “i bet you taste as sweet as i remember hm? could eat you for fucking days.” he immediately dives into eating your pussy. licking your slit as he slides one of his fingers back inside you.

“g-gyu oh my god.” eyes rolled back having your back arched as he absolutely devours you roughly sucking your clit fucking his finger into you quicker. looking up at you through his eyelashes not stopping his movements. not even to praise you. he is too pussy drunk and doesn’t want to stop anytime soon. grabbing a hold of his hair pulling on it when his finger hits that spot again making you go crazy. “m-mingyu i’m gonna cum please don’t stop.” and he doesn’t he sucks on your clit harder keeping up his pace with his finger. you come all over his tongue and his fingers. fucked out completely as you watch mingyu lick up your cum and hum.

“you taste so sweet princess. fucking delicious baby.” he smiles at you again moving up to kiss your lips. tasting yourself on his lips.

“what do you want baby? i will give you anything you want.” pulling his shirt over his head looking at you waiting for your answer. “can i ride you? g-gyu please i need you so bad.” he nods quickly. “m’course you can” he moves so he’s sitting up against the headboard of the bed. watching as you move onto his lap.

you have never seen mingyu take his pants off quicker. immediately pulling his dick out pulling your face closer to peck your lips. smiling into the kiss lining up his dick with your entrance slowly sinking down onto him.

mingyu is always more subby with this position immediately begging and pleading for your touch. “f-fuck y/n please move i need it so bad please baby.” he begs you trying not to fuck his hips into you.

you slowly rock your hips into his moaning at the feeling holding onto his shoulders for support. “you’re so tight im gonna cum so quick. i-i’m fuck i’m sorry” grabbing ahold of your hips to move you quicker on him. “i’m so close baby fuck.” he says feeling you bouncing on his dick now trying to chase your own high. “m-me too.” he groans lowly feeling his dick twitch inside of you. “f-fuck can i cum inside or where do you want it?” “inside p-please.” he doesn’t have to be told twice immediately cumming inside of you throwing his head back lost in the intense pleasure

you don’t stop bouncing on him. “babe i’m so sensitive fuck.” he says to you still fucked out holding onto you.

you nod. “i know baby but please you can last a little longer right? for me right? my good boy.” you try to turn him on with your words knowing it will go straight to his dick. he moans at your words pulling you into a quick kiss. “y-yes i’m so good for you.”

you smile at him quickening your movements now really needing his shoulder for support as you feel yourself coming. “f-fuckkk look at you c-creaming on my cock oh shit im gonna cum again.” you feel his cum shoot immediately into you. moaning at the feeling riding out both of your highs.

slowly climbing off of his lap laying next to him. “i missed you so fucking much.” he says pulling you under the covers with him kissing your forehead. “i missed you too but i don’t miss how you think i just want to lay here feeling your cum leak out of me.” you say playfully shifting to show him the puddle that is now under your crotch.

“its fine baby we can shower in the morning. plus what if we fuck again. you’ll just be full of my cum again.” he says with a straight face. you roll your eyes burying your face into his neck.

“i guess we’ll have to explain to seungkwan and cheol why we told them we weren’t back together…” you think out loud before falling asleep in your boyfriends arms.

#Spotify #mingyu #mingyu smut #seventeen #seventeen x reader #seventeen smut #mingyu x reader #mingyu fic #svt hard thoughts #svt x reader #svt imagines #svt fluff #svt smut #svt #svt fanfic

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lilacsandpetals · 2 months

Text

Frozen Blossoms

Frozen Blossoms Pt. 7

Last part here

Bi-Han x F! Reader

Tags and notes: Arranged marriage AU, SFW (but some suggestive themes), exploring emotions, Pre-MK1/MK1 AU

Warnings: NSFW, violent thoughts kinda?

As you returned, you had fallen asleep in Bi-Han’s arms, so you don’t exactly remember when you got home. Everything seemed like a blur as you tried to make sense of what happened, all the while medics had been tending to your sustained wounds. Most of the lacerations were minor. A few cuts, some scrapes, and unsightly bruises were present, but you didn’t consider it that alarming. Then there was the sprain your ankle sustained, which would be unpleasant to manage. But that would heal within a few weeks, as long as you rest, that is. You could manage the physical wounds. That wasn’t the main thing that was bothering you. It was more so trying to grasp what had just happened, the stress, and the plethora of other emotions that came wrapped up with it.

Sometime after all the commotion you found yourself lying on your bed, cleaned up, and with a change of clothes. You appeared much better, truly you were anything but. Your head was aching, you felt almost nauseous as you replayed the sequence of events over in your head again and again. It was as if you were working yourself into feeling ill. It was odd, you didn’t want to think about it, you wanted to pretend that it didn’t happen. That it was some type of horrid dream. Yet your brain drifted back to it almost constantly; going over what had occurred and what you could’ve done to avoid it.

A part of you felt ashamed. You felt as if you caused such a hassle. And maybe you felt embarrassed too, you started your training here shortly after you married, and yet when you needed it, you couldn’t put any of your knowledge or training to use. How were you supposed to live up to your status? Did the rest of the clan think less of you?

You didn’t think any of this could be a possibility when you had gotten married. It just never occurred to you. You should’ve thought it over more seriously before marrying him. But back then you were actively trying to avoid thinking about the marriage altogether, you were running away from your impending future. How foolish of you. Maybe you would have been more mentally prepared if you had been realistic and rational. It was an unspoken expectation to expect risks in your position, and now you are suffering more than you would have, had you taken the time to process that fact.

But you’re tired now, and you don’t want to think about it. You want it to stop. So you try to sleep. You close your eyes and hope this is all a bad dream.

——————————

This wasn’t a dream.

It was more like a nightmare, that’s what it felt like for Bi-Han. It all happened too quickly. Nothing he considered suspicious had occurred when he accompanied you. And he had thought that slipping away for a moment would be fine. He was so focused on trying to find the perfect gift for you, something that would suit you, that he didn’t realize what had happened until a fire erupted. Screams and the commotion of fleeing civilians took over his senses as he scanned the area for you. He had helped some people avoid injury, leading and practically pushing them away from harm. Maybe he could have been more considerate but he wasn’t particularly focused on them. Perhaps it was selfish, but he was solely concentrated on finding you.

But you disappeared quickly, and from that point on, he knew the fire was a calculated distraction. He rapidly returned home to recruit his brothers’ assistance in locating who could have stolen you away from him. And he was quick to deduct that a rival clan had kept you as a hostage. At least that’s what he hoped. Because he knew rivalries were rarely kind affairs. And that the quicker you were killed, the faster new bridal prospects would be offered up to secure new alliances.

He doesn’t want that, he doesn’t want to think about it. That’s why he wastes no time tracking you down. He leaves Kuai Liang and Tomas to collect notable evidence as they rampage through the worn-down building. He’ll need it to quell any problems that may arise from the bloodshed he is about to partake in. He is devoid of mercy as his bloodlust takes over his every action, allowing it to steer him like the strings of a puppet. His heart beats widely, Kuai Liang and Tomas have gone ahead of him, searching for you. And he’ll have to thank them after this is over. He needs you to be alive. You have to be, but a part of him is fearful as he breaks through the door where his brothers’ voices filter through.

And there you were. Alive, scared, and disheveled.

He hasn’t felt such an odd mix of relief and sadness before.

So when he gathers you up in his arms to return home, he tries to remain calm, like he is composed, even though he is anything but. He is glad you felt comfortable enough to doze off as he carried you back home, but as he thinks back on it, you were more than likely just exhausted. When he handed you off to the medics you had woken up abruptly, gripping his arm with such desperation that it made his stoic face finally falter. He couldn’t hide the frown that made its way to his face as he tried his best to comfort you, assure you that he was in the room, that he was not going anywhere, and that the medical staff had to make sure you were okay. And when he reluctantly let you go, he couldn’t help but feel that he disappointed you.

He keeps a watchful eye as your wounds are tended to, and when you’re being bathed and dressed by a few select maids he slips away to fill in the Grandmaster on what has happened. On his way there, he pulls the hairpin from his pocket, eyeing it for a moment before hastily shoving it away. He doesn’t want to look at it right now.

——————————

The days pass by, some more quickly than others. Your wounds slowly healed, although a few of the cuts manifested into unsightly scars. Thankfully your ankle was healing in a timely manner.

And Bi-Han was at your side through it all. Ever the dutiful husband. He was attentive, keeping an eye on you, tending to any need before you even had the chance to ask. He was patient with you. His hands were gentle whenever he helped change any bandages or the binding on your ankle.

But he was quiet. More so than usual.

You would try to make conversation, but he seemed adamant about keeping your verbal interactions brief. You asked if he’d want to drink tea with you in the mornings and evenings. He used to say yes and you two would converse, even if he was busy. Now you were met with quick and polite refusals. You’d ask him about his day, he’d be to the point, barely elaborating on anything the way he once did. You felt as if the only times your conversations were extensive were when they revolved around your injuries and healing process. The sense of intimacy you both shared seemed to be rapidly deteriorating as well. The other night you lazily turned to him in your bed. He was looking at you, not a word left his lips. You whispered a simple goodnight and leaned it slightly, just to place a chaste kiss on his skin. But he tilted his face down, slightly away from you. You figured he was tired, yet you feared it was something else.

It perplexed you. He maintained the same level of kindness, but you felt as if there was a disconnect. Was he angry at you? Or maybe disappointed? It wasn’t your fault, it’s not like you had asked to be kidnapped. But maybe if you were better equipped, better prepared, then it would’ve never happened. And if it never happened maybe you two could have been closer by now. Maybe he wouldn’t feel so far away even when he’s in the same damn room as you.

His demeanor had added to the myriad of thoughts that circled through your mind like clockwork. It was exhausting. You placed a hand on your forehead as you lay in your bed. You wanted so badly for it to stop, but these thoughts always lingered in the back of your head. And tonight was no different. On occasion it seeps into your dreams, conjuring up different scenarios of what could have been. Scenarios where Bi-Han didn’t come to your aid in time or where he explicitly makes his distaste of you known. It makes you wake up in a cold sweat. To which Bi-Han would promptly awaken as well. He would reassure you that you were safe within the Lin Kuei’s walls and that he was by your side before urging you to go back to sleep.

If this one event was enough to rattle you, it made you wonder if Bi-Han ever had any nightmares. He had seen and endured far more than you ever had. Did it ever bother him? Did it ever disturb his sleep? Now that you think of it, he only ever fell asleep after you were sound asleep. Other than the past days, you rarely ever woke up in the middle of the night, so you weren’t aware of him dealing with any nightmares, if he did suffer any at all. Some semblance of guilt settled in your stomach. Maybe you should be more attentive in that way, or at least check up on him more often. This incident opened your eyes to the reality of his line of work. Of course, you knew the Lin Kuei are a fierce clan but it was different when you had experienced it firsthand. You didn’t know how gruesome their outings could be, it made you worry for him more than you did before.

At that moment, the image of Bi-Han coming to your rescue comes to mind. He was doused in the shade of red that day. You could scarcely see the blue and black shades of his clothing. Splotches of blood had been splattered across his cheek and forehead. When he carried you back you had noticed the dried blood stuck under his fingernails, was that his blood or someone else’s? You had a feeling it wasn't his. He was capable of a level of brutality that you weren’t fully aware of prior. And the image of your husband practically soaked in someone’s else blood is seared into your mind.

Although, it didn’t scare you as much as you thought it would.

Was that a bad thing? You couldn’t tell.

——————————

Bi-Han thinks that you haven't been yourself lately, but he doesn’t blame you. You always seem lost in thought, your facial expressions oscillate between concentrated or dissociated. You often had a headache or just didn’t feel well. He thinks it’s still the shock of the incident getting to you.

And today is no different.

A migraine had taken hold of you today and so staying confined to your bed seemed all too enticing. It was becoming a bad habit. Technically your body was healing and you should be getting back into the regular flow of your lessons, but you couldn’t bring yourself to get right back to it. You know you should, it’d help you be better prepared for future endeavors, and maybe it would serve as a good distraction. But lately, your motivation has been lacking. So again you’ve found yourself isolated, staying in your room more often than not.

But your head hurts and you feel slightly nauseous, so it’s more comfortable to stay in bed than venture out. The majority of the day is spent going in and out of sleep.

Bi-Han enters the room quietly. He’s been busy lately, trying to better himself. Taking up more responsibility from his father in managing the clan, and training more often.

It’s for your sake, really. That is what he tells himself.

But he’s taking a break from his busy schedule. He just wants to see if you’ve eaten yet. Much to his dismay there is a tray of untouched food at your bedside, while you lay buried under a layer of cotton blankets.

You were falling asleep again, trying not to mull over the same worries that had been eating away at you for days. Your eyes were closed but you felt a dip in the bed and a hand brush up against your forehead before it gently pet your hair. You knew it was Bi-Han. It was comforting when he was near, you felt far safer with him than you did with anyone else. You didn’t open your eyes, your eyelids felt too heavy and your body was being lulled to sleep, but a small smile briefly graced your lips. He caught sight of it.

He was satisfied that you were getting some sleep at the very least, he’d often have to soothe you back to sleep after you’d wake up in a panic from nightmares plaguing you in the dark of night. Every time you endured another nightmare, he felt his guilt increase. However, you currently looked peaceful, and seeing your smile just now gave him a sense of satisfaction, or rather what he’d come to know as just plain happiness.

But did he deserve that happiness?

It scares him that he was undoubtedly close to not being able to see you smile again. He retracts his hand, and you don’t react. He figures that you must be asleep now. His back leans against the headboard of the bed, while his eyes drag down to take in your form.

He has not spent much time with you since that day. Part of him yearned for you, and yet part of him was keen on avoiding you.

He didn’t realize he would take such a liking to you when he married you, but he grew weak to your presence. Soon enough he found himself intoxicated with you. The small delights of your smile, your touch, your softly spoken words, they had taken hold of him. You had become precious to him. And when softening his heart towards you, he failed to realize the anguish he would suffer had you ever been taken away from him.

It’s as if he could feel himself shutting down. Building up a wall against the harm you might do to him. Because the fact that the very things he adored about you were finite, that you would not be here forever, terrified him.

Pathetic.

He wanted to avoid the hurt. Shield himself from an uncertain future. It wasn’t his intention. He didn’t even notice the visceral response, at first anyway. Of course, he took care of you, but he limited himself. He didn’t speak to you as often, as if to punish and protect himself simultaneously. He was hesitant. Why attach himself any more than he already was? It only posed a greater risk to him. And now his own lack of competency reveals a rotten core that causes him to be egocentric yet again. To slowly start pushing you away again despite your needs and despite the desires that lay in the crevices of his heart.

For a lingering moment, he thinks of his father. How his father must’ve hurt when his mother died.

His father really loved his mother, didn’t he?

He misses his mother.

She was a strong woman, honorable and resilient. As a child, he always thought his mother would be there. He was exposed to the concept of death at a very young age, but he never thought it would pertain to his family. As he grew older he understood that perhaps there would be a risk of death in battle. He’d seen his clanmates perish and witnessed his father slaughter their enemies and those who threatened Earthrelm. And then he partook in those activities himself when he was just barely blooming into adolescence. He never anticipated death to come to him or one of his loved ones through illness. And yet he was served just that. No matter how strong his mother was, no matter how mindful she was, she was betrayed by her own body. And he was powerless to stop it. He felt as if she slipped through his fingers. He hated watching her wither away bit by bit. He despised how helpless and fearful he had felt back then. He hadn’t felt that type of despair until that fire erupted and you disappeared from his sight.

And after his mother passed, nothing ever felt the same anymore. His father said time would heal their wounds. But he found his father to be dishonest because not a day went by where he wouldn’t ponder the fantasy of a life where his mother lived a healthy life.

Some reality where his mother didn’t frantically scold him for weeping about her misfortune. Where his father didn’t push him exponentially harder than his brothers. Where he didn’t have to watch his father fall apart in private. Where he didn’t have to bear the burden of his father’s anguish-fueled training, and where he didn’t have to tend to Kuai Liang’s sadness at the expense of his own grieving process. He buried that grief within him, and it somehow found its way to seep out of him.

Maybe it wasn’t just grief.

Some immature, boyish part of him was angry. Upset that his mother left him to bear so much on his own.

Anger was such a familiar emotion to him, But this anger felt different. Taking root and creeping out of a part of himself that he seldom shows anyone.

He was angry that his mother left him. And he was furious at himself for still being hurt over it. It was immature and unbecoming of him. Perhaps that was the same anger he felt towards you, he abhorred the fact that you had grown to be of such importance to him. He hated that you could cause him to delve into that ever-familiar fear and worry once more. He hated that you could have left him.

But truly, it’s all misguided, and deep down he knows it.

If he is being honest, he detests himself for feeling the way he does.

There’s a rustling of the bedsheets and Bi-Han is pulled out of his thoughts when he hears you gasp.

“What is it?” he asks in a rather urgent tone.

Your eyes flutter open and you move to slowly sit up, you take a few deep breaths and instinctively grip his forearm, his hand is slow as he moves to place it over yours. The sudden nature of your awakening leads him to believe you must’ve experienced a glimpse of another nightmare, and he can’t bring himself to ask you if you’ve dreamt about the incident again. If you’re dreaming about his shortcomings again. He knows he is tactless. If you bring up the nightmare, he will assure you again that it will not happen, as he has done in nights prior. It’s almost amusing that as many times as he has reassured you, his own confidence falters bit by bit.

If you do not bring up any distressing dreams, he will not push you to disclose anything.

“Are you hurt?” he mumbles. You shake your head, but wince when you try to move your foot. “The wraps on my ankle are bothering me, I just want to take them off for a little while,” you say softly and lean forward but Bi-Han lightly waves his hand. “I will do it.”

You lean back and Bi-Han raises your foot as he unwraps the binding. He moves your foot from side to side slowly, as he’s no stranger to a sprained ankle. “The binding is bothering you more because you haven’t been elevating your foot enough. The more often you keep it elevated, the less swollen it’ll be,” he says and grabs a small pillow to place under your foot.

“Thank you,” you respond and shoot him a smile. “I appreciate all the help.”

“It’s my duty, is it not?”

You bite your lip. You appreciated his help, but you thought by now he’d give you a different answer. Something that alluded to a suggestion of care or affection. You thought he would ask if you’ve had another nightmare (you did). But you awoke to his presence and it is comforting enough to know that he is by your side. Yet the air feels thick in your lungs as you acknowledge that his words are minimal. He asks no questions despite the knowing look in his eyes.

You sigh quietly, “Duty is everything, hm?”

His eyes meet yours for an uncomfortable moment. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

You properly sit up now. “You know when we married I initially performed out of duty. But now it’s out of care. I care about you Bi-Han.” You want to say more, add a more potent word to showcase your feelings for him, but you bite your tongue.

“And you think I don’t care about you? Why else would your well-being concern me?” He tosses the wraps to the floor and you can’t help but think your statement has struck a nerve.

You cross your arms, “do not twist my words.”

He looks towards you, a small frown forms on his face, but it disappears just as fast. “Haven’t I proven myself to you? I watch over you day and night, I take care of you.”

A retort lays at the tip of your tongue but you refrain from speaking. Technically, he was speaking the truth. Yet you desired something more. Maybe you were misconstruing things? But no. You knew something was off. So you hold his gaze and shake your head. “Yes, you have. And I appreciate everything you’ve done for me.” You’re hesitant for a moment. “Is everything alright?”

The question catches him off guard. Have you noticed any change? He has attempted to maintain the air of normalcy as much as possible. “Yes.”

You wanted to give him a chance to voice his concerns. “Are you sure?” You ask quietly. You know something is off, but how much were you meant to push him on the subject? Bi-Han places his hand on your shoulder “I am certain.”

You lay your hand over his and squeeze it gently, “If you say so.”

You don’t believe him.

——————————

There’s a full moon that just barely shines through the window of the kitchen. You’ve always found it lovely, a peaceful and comforting sight. It’s a stark contrast to the tea kettle screeching above a small flame on the stove.

You take longer than usual to remove it from the heat.

You’d much rather be in bed right now, but you’d woken up in the middle of the night to find your bed empty. You were waking up in the middle of the night less often as time went on. Bit by bit your fear of being snatched away began to decrease. Yet the unease of your husband’s behavior fueled your overthinking. And the fact that this was the third time this week that he had disappeared in the middle of the night did nothing to help you. You suspect that he went to train on his midnight excursions, as you’d often stir awake when he’d return. You’d catch glimpses of him heaving and glistening with sweat.

Bi-han’s behavior leads you to think he is not being entirely honest. Now you do have to hand it to him, he is extremely skilled at concealing his unrest when he really wants to. But the longer you two have been married, the more of his habits you’ve picked up on. When he is angry or upset the training grounds become his second home, he becomes reckless; more scrapes and bruises grace his hands. He refrains from drinking his preferred tea of oolong and instead opts for something more bitter. He doesn’t converse as often anymore. You know it’s not as noticeable as before, but its lack still lingers. It irks you, it feels like such an odd step back. You do try to be patient, but you thought you were past this. You thought you were at a point where true comfort could be found with one another.

You worry about him. He had slowly opened up to you, but not to the degree you long for. You felt like you were always longing for more, when would you finally get it? You wonder if Bi-Han feels the same, and you wonder if he struggles to articulate the desire just as you do. You suspect that if you bluntly ask him what is troubling him, he will brush off the question. So you will have to devise an alternative strategy.

You carefully pour two cups of tea and now you wait. It’s in the late hours of the night. You assume the others are asleep. Your ears are attentive to your surroundings and hear the echo of footsteps getting louder and louder as they resonate through the hallway. You choose this moment to ambush your husband.

Bi-Han abruptly comes to a stop, if you didn’t know any better you’d say he was startled. He looks at you the way a disappointed superior would. “What are you doing up at his hour? And what of your ankle? Go to bed.”

You shake your head. “No, I couldn’t sleep and it seems that neither can you. So I made tea for the both of us”

He sighs and rubs his knuckles lightly, they’re red. “No, I am fine without tea.”

You try not to roll your eyes. You were attempting to remain neutral but here you were already beginning to lose your patience. Or perhaps that was a side effect of feeling tired.

Your hand makes its way to grab his forearm. “I already made it, you might as well drink it.”

He looks down at your hand and figures that arguing more at this point wouldn’t do him any good. He follows you to the small table in the kitchen, pulling out a chair for you to sit on before he sits down himself. So he joins you, sipping his tea quietly so as to not disturb you. However, he is mistaken because his silence is perplexing you to no end.

You sip your tea as well, it’s too hot. “You know I’ve missed our conversations, I feel as if we barely have time to spend together, let alone have a conversation.”

His gaze meets yours. The desire to be defensive is there, but all he does is return his eyes to his tea. He misses your chats too, in the morning, midday, the evening, but he can’t bring himself to say it. He doesn’t deserve your company if he has failed at protecting you, one of the main fundamentals of being a husband. “I’ve taken on more responsibilities recently.”

“Do those responsibilities include avoiding me?” You ask plainly and raise an eyebrow at him.

So much for subtlety.

His eyebrows furrow and that ever-familiar crease emerges on his forehead. “Whatever I do, I do for your benefit.”

“The lack of your presence does not benefit me.”

He clenches his jaw. He won’t voice it, but he is exhausted, he doesn’t exactly want to address this right now. “Am I not by your side whenever my schedule allows me the time? Have I not checked up on you throughout the day? Do I not aid you whenever necessary?”

Your resolve falters briefly. That was true, he still cared for you, physically anyway. “That’s not what I mean.”

He knows what you mean, and he is simultaneously impressed yet shamefully irked that you have taken notice of it. He is unwilling to speak on it.

“Let’s go to bed.”

You cross your arms. Of course, he would avoid the topic, he was a stubborn man, you knew that by now. “Fine, you can go to bed.”

Bi-Han finishes his tea in one quick gulp before getting up and looking at you. “Finish your tea, let’s go.”

“No I’d rather stay here, I’ll come to bed later.”

“Wife, it’s late, I’d rather not leave you here alone.” You could hear the shift in his voice, from polite to politely annoyed, and maybe a hint of underlying concern.

“You left our bedroom in the middle of the night to train anyway.”

He supposes you’re correct. “You were asleep when I left. I was getting in more practice, and our bedroom is one of the safest places in the Lin Keui’s Palace.”

“In my opinion, the kitchen is safe enough. Goodnight.” You return to drinking your tea and Bi-Han does not move. You wonder when he’ll leave the room, but the second you finish the tea you feel your chair being swiftly pulled backward and before you know it, your husband has taken you up into his arms. You briefly grasp at his shirt from the sudden movement. “What’re you doing?”

“Your ankle hasn’t fully healed yet. I’m taking you back to our room.”

“My ankle is almost fully healed. Put me down.” Even though you speak your request, part of you wants him to deny it.

“No.”

You try not to focus on him as he brings you back to your shared bedroom. You keep your eyes averted from his face, and he notices. He places you down on your side of the bed.

“So stubborn,” he mumbles under his breath.

Your head snaps back up to look at him. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” he responds gruffly and proceeds to let his hair down. You pinch the bridge of your nose “You’re far more stubborn than I am.”

“Oh, am I?”

“You know you are.” You pause and lay down in your bed facing the opposite direction before pulling the sheets up to your shoulders. “Pushing me away won’t help anything and we both know it,” you mumble.

“I’m not in the mood to quarrel with you, I’m going to bed. You should too.”

You close your eyes, trying not to focus on the sounds of your husband maneuvering around the room, and hoping that sleep falls upon you quickly.

——————————

Your hair is being particularly troublesome today as you try to style it. You need something to pin it back. Maybe it’s because the air is thick, but you can’t decipher if that’s due to the placebo of your own tense thoughts, or if the usually frigid climate has a touch of humidity. And maybe you’re mulling over minor peculiarities to convince yourself that it’s all a sign to move forward.

Today you’ve pushed yourself to try and engage with your regular schedule again, at least when it came to your lessons. So as you sit in front of your vanity you take a deep breath and try not to let your mind wander. But that was easier said than done. You had to look presentable today, how long would you be allowed to wallow in your room? Even if they let you keep to yourself for days, it wouldn’t exactly display a good impression. You had to become acclimated to moving forward despite what you dealt with. Everyone else in the clan seemed capable of doing it, so you should be too.

One particular strand of hair fails to stay in place as your hand traverses your jewelry box. You are looking for a clip or pin to match your clothing for today, but nothing seems to suit your tastes. A sigh of frustration leaves your lips and you start rummaging through the drawers nearby. Now Bi-Han kept some of his belongings in the bottom drawer and you knew that. You rarely saw him open it and in the process of hastily checking each one, you open his. Now you’re not one for snooping around, you respected your husband’s privacy. But technically, what’s yours was his and what’s his was yours, isn’t that what married couples always said? Or at least the ones that had been around you growing up had uttered the phrase here and there. Your eyes quickly scan the contents of the drawer before coming to a halt. Hidden away in the back corner of the drawer is a small blue box adorned with gold lining. You raise a brow, you don’t think you’ve seen Bi-Han with any pieces of jewelry before, not after your wedding day. You carefully pick up the box and examine it before opening it.

What you find perplexes you.

‘What is that?’

A lone pin sits at its center. It is simple, silver, with a shimmering blue gemstone at its core. You delicately pick it up. This was a pin suited for a female. Was this for you? It must be, right?

Although wouldn’t Bi-Han have given it to you by now?

You told yourself you’d try to maintain a sound mind today, and yet your husband’s distance delves your brain into overthinking again. What if the pin was for someone else? What if he didn’t see you fit for the role of his wife any longer?

No.

You cannot allow your thoughts to wander any longer like this. You were already mentally exhausted and you refuse to add this to your list of worries. Still, it concerns you that you had found this hidden away, or what you assumed to be hidden anyway. Perhaps this was against your better judgment, but the pin was simple and beautiful. To be fair even if it didn’t entirely match your outfit, it did match your necklace.

If this accessory was meant to be a surprise you don’t understand why he would take so long to give it to you. No holidays were near, nor was your birthday coming up.

A hypothesis forms within your thoughts as you pull back a portion of your hair and hold it in place with the hairpiece. If Bi-Han sees the pin and becomes aggressive, then it must be for another. If he sees the pin and leaves it, it must be for you. Now you would expect a minor scolding, maybe you’d be reprimanded for ruining a surprise, but if the gift was for you anyway, you wouldn’t consider it a big deal. You stare at your reflection in the mirror and take a deep breath. Your eyes fall to the necklace you are wearing. Bi-Han did have good taste when it came to picking out things for you. He was attentive in that way. A twinge of guilt seeps into you, he has grown warmer towards you since you had married. Maybe his distance wasn’t a fault of your own, but an outcome of what had happened to you.

Maybe it had shaken him up as well.

You decide you will speak to him this evening.

——————————

Your tutors were happy to meet with you today, and due to your lack of consistency with attending your lessons, you had a lot to catch up on. You did not mind it very much. Truthfully it helped to keep your brain from wandering. You’ve seen Bi-Han throughout the day in passing, he would stop by the room you were in and eye you up and down before asking if you were feeling okay. You’d give him a curt “yes,” or just a nod of the head to indicate that you were busy.

You don’t think he believes you.

The day goes by quickly for you and soon your tutor is advising you to join your family for dinner, but you calmly decline. Conjuring up an excuse that convinces your instructor to leave you be. You’d probably grab a snack to satiate you later on. For now, you just wanted time to think. Approaching your husband after dinner concludes seems like a decent idea. You don’t think Bi-Han noticed your new little accessory and based on last night’s sour conclusion, you didn’t want to suffer through an awkward dinner with your in-laws present. You yawn and lean back in your chair while stretching out your arms. Maybe you can go relax for now, you think you deserved it after all that work.

——————————

Bi-Han wasn’t all that hungry right now, he told Kuai Liang that he’d dine later on as he had something to take care of. Honestly, he didn’t want to face you just yet. Nor did he want to maintain the guise of a happy couple who hadn’t argued the prior night. Engaging in theatrics for his clan’s pleasure was much easier when you two had first married, but now a simple argument had him uneasy. He knew you were still upset and he knew he was partially at fault.

He slowly makes his way through the halls of his home as his mind wanders. To be fair, he thought you were partially to blame as well. You just had to keep prying no matter how many times he had refuted your remarks. His walking comes to a slow halt as he thinks of what you said the night prior. Was his absence affecting you that much? A selfish part of him is satisfied with your longing for him, yet he again feels frustration when he thinks of his attachment to you as well. And it stings to think that he is once again failing as your husband. He should’ve been attentive, he knows you need it. And yet he is mindfully absent for his own heart’s sake, or maybe for its penance. He sighs as he opens the door to find you already there. He is about to utter your name as you turn around until his eyes catch sight of the jewel that adorns your hair. His breath hitches and his heart beats a little faster.

Before you can even greet him, his voice clamors through your room.

“Take that out of your hair and put it back where you found it. Now” he hisses.

You narrow your eyes, so he did notice it although you weren’t expecting such a visceral response. “No.”

He clenches his jaw and steps forward, you take a step back. “Why do you want me to take it off?” you say in an accusatory tone. ‘So much for resting.’

“Because I am your husband, and I am asking you to remove it” he responds. You raise an eyebrow, you can tell he is trying to maintain an undisturbed aura but it is not working. “And I am your wife, telling you I am not taking it off,” you respond and smile up at him. “Maybe if you told me why you want me to remove it so badly, I’d be more inclined to do so.”

He sighs as if he is tired and you speak up again, “Because if you don’t, it makes me wonder if this was a gift for someone else.”

His jaw practically drops, “Do you think so low of me?”

“What else am I supposed to think when you’ve hidden this pin away?” You hastily take off the hairpin and flash it in front of him. He steps forward and reaches to take it but you take another step back. You know he could snatch it right out of your hand before you even had a chance to realize that he’s done so. Therefore some part of you appreciates his failure to do so.

You cross your arms with the pin still in hand, “Bi-Han, why would you hide this away?” You bite your lip out of nervousness.

He pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. “You’re fretting over things you don’t understand.”

“Then help me understand.”

You can tell how frustrated he is by the way he clenches his fists and the deep breath he takes. But you watch how his face changes, from frustration to disdained haughtiness. He steps forward once more and by now your back is against the wall.

He eyes you up and down and his eyebrows furrow. “Give me the hairpin.”

You sigh, he does look slightly unnerving to you, but you will not allow such tactics to sway you. “Intimidate me all you want, we both know it won’t work with me, I know you well enough by now.” If you were honest, this whole ordeal made you feel like you didn’t know him at all.

Bi-Han’s hands come to rest on your shoulders. “You don’t know me.”

You let out a defeated laugh. How were you supposed to spend the rest of your life with someone that refused to communicate? The very thought unnerved you. “Then help me fix that!” you respond in an exasperated tone. “And here I am again, begging you to help me understand. What am I missing here? And do not lie to me. How long would you have us both dance around this unspoken issue?”

He shakes his head in a defeated manner, it doesn’t suit him, “Don’t concern yourself with such things.”

You shoot him an angry look, “I concern myself because it involves us. I am your wife and I can’t read your mind,” You hiss and motion towards yourself. “What is it? Are you ashamed of me? I’m sorry.” You tried to maintain a calm demeanor but your voice is shrill by now. You shove the hairpin into his chest and attempt to push him away from you, but the pin falls to the floor as his hands wrap around your shoulders. The look in his eyes screams of intensity, while yours remain seeped in anger.

‘Sorry?’

Why would you be sorry? It’s his fault. He hated to even acknowledge the fact, but it was true. Had he been present, had he been there, none of this would’ve happened. Had he been a proper husband, he would’ve kept you safe.

Just another task he’s failed at.

“There is nothing to apologize for.”

“Yes, there is,” you respond stubbornly.

He stares at you, his look has now become unreadable to you. “I am the one who failed you.”

That statement of his brings you pause. You tilt your head up and lean forward rather confused. You would never take him as one to admit failure of any sort.

“Failed me at what? What do you mean?” Your throat feels dry as you await a response. What could he possibly be going on about? Your hand moves up to squeeze his hand gently, urging him to continue. His eyebrows are still furrowed, and you hear him gulp before he speaks. “If I had been more watchful, you would not have been taken or injured in the first place.”

Oh.

He had saved you, you were living and breathing before him, yet that’s what had been on his mind. Your resolve falters a bit. You didn’t realize it was that, and here you were worrying that he was ashamed of you. Perhaps you’ve thought too little of yourself. You had taken the increasing distance for a perpetual disking, not quiet insecurity.

“I- I thought it was something else. I thought it was me, or the state of our marriage-”

He cuts you off, “What do you mean.” His voice is a little quieter now.

“Bi-Han.”

“Answer me.” He sighs in a tone that echos remorse, “please.”

You gaze up at him as his eyes lock on yours. His heart is beating fast, and he hates it. His facade is crumbling before you.

He hates it.

“We were married off too quickly, I didn’t think things through, I did not realize what I was getting myself into.” You look back at him now, searching for a hint of emotion in his face, but he does his best to remain stoic. Still, you place a hand on his cheek, and the sensation of his jaw clenching is felt on your fingers.

You feel his hand cover yours, you wonder if he’s trying to remove your touch.

“Are you attempting to imply that you’re not happy with our arrangement?-“ he cuts himself off. He was about to snap at you. Say that he can bring you back home to your original clan if that’s what you desire, that he’d end things amicably. However he knows he could never do that, he’d rather keep you locked away for himself. Would that be another sentiment of his selfishness? It is. He’s been pushing you away, but the thought of you actually leaving strikes fear into his heart.

You shake your head vigorously, “No, I was uneasy initially, but I’m happy when you are actually around.” You drop your hands and clutch at the fabric of your own dress. “I want you around. I feel safer with you around. I miss you.” You say softly. You almost feel like a child, confessing feelings of fondness. Surely you’ve told him you missed him before? But this is different. His hand comes to rest against your cheek, drawing your attention back up to him.

You miss him. And truthfully, he misses you too. You will not live forever, neither will he. Your time together is finite. He desires your time. He desires your affection, your presence. Why in the world has he been depriving himself of something you’ve been so willing to give? He knows, but his burning inhibitions are beginning to quiet down as he looks back at you. The look on your face has morphed into something sincere, so genuine. You reach out to him with open arms, offering up a place of solace that he’s been desperately craving since he was a boy. He engulfs you in his arms and buries his face into the crook of your neck, almost as if he’s trying to shield himself from his own shortcomings. It’s against his very nature, but he can’t help himself, not anymore.

The words spill out like vomit. Repulsive to him. But it’s soothing to your ears, it serves as an assurance that you’ve yet to lose him.

“I endangered you. I nearly lost you.” His tone is so wrath with what you liken to regret, that it pains you.

“I should have known better, I should have kept a better eye on you. What if you had gotten gravely injured? What if you were killed? It’s my fault. How am I fit to be your husband when I’ve failed at the simplest of duties? If I can’t even keep you out of harm's way, how am I to be cognizant of the safety of my clan?.” His voice falters the slightest bit as he speaks.

“It’s not your fault. If it weren’t for you I would not be alive.” You say quietly.

Neither of you faces the other as you speak, only hiding away in the embrace that shields each other to some degree. But you can’t bear it anymore. You attempt to pull away, to look at him face to face, and guarantee that he believes you when you vocalize your assurance. But he doesn’t let you. His grip on you is firm, his fingers dig into your sides as if he’s trying to keep you from disappearing. “Don’t.” He speaks so quietly, it’s unlike him. Your fingers graze the back of his neck before you find yourself petting his hair, you’re content when he doesn’t pull away.

“I-I am inadequate. I just didn’t think about how dangerous your line of work is. It didn’t occur to me until I was caught up in the middle of it. If I had been more aware of my surroundings, or if I had trained harder then maybe I wouldn’t have been in such a vulnerable situation.”

“Don’t speak of yourself that way.”

You shrug your shoulders lightly, “I’m only stating how I feel. And we both know that’s true.” You murmur.

“What good do you get out of blaming yourself?”

“Couldn’t I ask you the same thing?”

He doesn’t respond and you gently tug at his hair, “Bi-Han?”

“It’s not the same.”

“What do you mean?”

“How can I not blame myself? I foolishly let my guard down, when I’ve been trained to never do so.”

You’re quiet for a moment. That day had been enjoyable for you both, you wouldn’t expect him nor yourself to have predicted the unfortunate events of that day.

“You’ve acknowledged that it’s happened, but as you said yourself, what good will constantly punishing yourself do? What’s done is done, and I am thankful that you kept me from greater harm.” You hold onto him tighter as you speak. “I see how you’re punishing yourself, don’t you understand that hurts me more than whatever happened that day?” You mumble quietly.

You hear his breath hitch. “That is not my intention.”

“But that’s what’s been happening.” You try to tear away from his grip, and he reluctantly lets you go so that you’re able to face him. You cup the sides of his face within the palms of your hands. “I care for you, we’ve been bound by marriage and I take that commitment seriously. I want to bear your burdens with you, haven’t I shown that I want to be by your side as we endure this life?”

His hands come up to grip your wrists as if he were to remove them from his face, but he refrains from doing so, “You don’t understand what you’re saying.”

“But I do,” you counter. You find yourself leaning closer. “I’ve experienced what risks come with your line of work now, and that is by no fault of either of us. Do you not think that I would have fled back to my clan had I truly wanted to leave? I’ve seen you drenched in the blood of your enemies and I still crave your presence. You’ve been deluding yourself.” You take a deep breath. “I vowed to remain with you through times of sickness and in health, through prosperity and devastation. Until my last breath.” Your hands move to the base of his neck and you tug him to get closer to you, he leans down slightly as you speak again “I expect you to vow the same. And to uphold those vows as I do.”

Maybe it is the haziness of words finally spoken, or the surge of warmth and tenderness coursing through his once cold veins, but before you can finish your sentiments you feel lips crashing into yours and desperate hands grasping at your waist. There’s a messy fervor to the kiss, an accumulation of unbridled longing and lingering frustration. Your teeth clash in between gasps and the colliding of lips. He pulls away briefly and you see the red tint emerging on his swollen lips. You find it enticing. Your fingertips brush up against his lips, “swear the same to me.” His hand rests on the back of your head as his lips make their way to trail from your jaw and down your neck. “I vow to remain by your side in sickness and in health, through prosperity and devastation.” Your breathing picks up, and you grip his shoulders.

“For how long?” You mumble.

“Until my final breath.”

His knee is pushing forward as he speaks, coming to rest in between your thighs and you slowly feel as if it’s becoming harder to maintain your composure. His hands encase you and before you can protest, he’s laid you on the bed. You prop yourself up on your elbows as he looms over you with both of his hands resting at your sides. In this moment you are reminded of how imposing his stature is. Excitement and nervousness blend into a sensation that makes your heart beat frantically. You look up at him, and he shifts his eyes from your gaze. You reach up and lightly tuck a strand of his hair behind his ear.

“Are you sure you wish to do this?” He says in a formal tone. His seriousness almost makes you chuckle.

Although you didn’t expect the evening to lead to this, you’re far too eager to refuse.“I am,” you respond as one of your hands trails his bicep. Meanwhile, his hand undoes the sash tied around your waist. His fingers move slowly, almost methodically now as he begins to remove your dress, you’re left in your undergarments and you feel butterflies in your stomach.

Bi-Han slows down the pace and wonders if you are at all as nervous as he is. He excels at whatever he pursues and he thinks this should be no different, but when he’s not purely acting on instinct and has a moment to think, his mind wanders. He wonders if he will live up to your expectations. He tries not to speculate on if you’ve done this before with someone else, the very thought makes his blood boil. But these thoughts dissipate when your hand begins to undo his belt. He swiftly grabs your wrist and you give him a lazy smile, “I don’t want to be the only one undressed, I’d rather we be on equal footing.”

That was an excuse, you were actually eager to marvel at his physique.

He lets go of your wrist and sits back as he takes off his shirt. Your hand runs down his chest and abdomen. Bi-Han’s body appears as if it was sculpted, harboring the finest architecture. His skin is somewhat dry, but cool to the touch. As your hands drift along his torso you attempt to commit every curve and crevice to memory. Soon enough your arms wrap around his neck and you drag him down with you as you press your lips against his again and again. His hand slips to your back, attempting to undo the pesky layer of clothing shielding your chest from him. When he does get it off, you watch him toss it aside. You’ll scold him later about being so careless with your clothing. But your thoughts return to the activity at hand when, suddenly his hands are exploring your chest. His hands are rough and calloused against your skin, a stark contrast to your own. You can’t help the gasp that escapes you. You feel him smile against your lips but you pull away again and he takes the opportunity to drag his lips along your throat.

Your eyes are still closed as you run your fingers through his hair. It’s been so long since you’ve engaged in any form of physical intimacy, and to indulge to this degree with him is still so new to you. “I’m still somewhat mad, you know.”

He’s quiet for a moment as his lips traverse down your chest and stomach, occasionally allowing his teeth to graze your skin. “I would not fault you for it, allow me to make amends.”

“And how will you do that?” you mumble. He shifts his position downwards, hooking his fingers into the sides of your underwear, and just like that, the last piece of clothing veiling your body is gone. His gaze is greedy as he eyes your exposed form and you instinctively shut your legs. Only to have your husband take hold of your thighs and spread them apart. He allows his fingers to explore uncharted territory. And he takes note of your expressions as he does so. He drags a finger down your slit, intentionally lowering his body temperature so that you tremble at his touch. You want to grab something, and so your arms reach out towards him instinctively and there’s a sense of satisfaction that settles in his soul, watching you grasp at him when you’re so vulnerable like this. One of his hands takes hold of both of yours, kissing them. He runs his thumb across the scar on your left wrist, and he realizes it must be from the rope that day. It must have burned when it continuously chafed against your skin to the point of drawing blood.

“BI-Han?”

Oh.

He hasn’t realized he’s stopped the movement of his fingers, and that he’s been focused on your wrist more than he should be at this moment. He places one more kiss against the scar. You smile hesitantly, “So that you remember, I’m not upset about that.”

You are far too kind, too forgiving towards him. He does not respond but returns to his endeavors between your legs. You feel two of his fingers enter you and gasp in response. He maintains a constant motion, catching you off guard when his thumb moves to caress a certain bundle of nerves.

Maybe this is his desire to please you, to make amends for his behavior somehow, or maybe it’s his need to excel, to prove that he’s the best you’ll ever have. He doesn’t know exactly. He doesn’t know when such inclinations formed within him. He thought he’d be more concerned with chasing his own pleasure, but for now, it’s an afterthought. And before he knows it, his lips are brushing against your inner thigh.

A high-pitched gasp leaves your lips when he begins. You cover your mouth, surprised not only at the sounds that have left your mouth but additionally at his skill. You feel his hand reach up only to roughly tug at your arm, “do not hold yourself back,” he says gruffly. You can’t even bring yourself to respond. The man works wonders with his tongue. Your brain allows you to focus on nothing but your husband’s oral expertise.

Until your notation of his skill causes you to wonder.

You grab a fistful of his hair and pull it lightly. Causing him to grunt and look up at you. His lips are slick.

“Where did you learn to do this?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

You groan and pull his hair a tad harder. A small laugh leaves his lips, he will spare you for now.

You’re thinking about how you like the sound of his laughter when he responds. “You need to pay attention to your belongings.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve been reading your novels. They are descriptive.”

You feel even more heat rush up to your face as he returns to his venture between your thighs. You didn’t realize he’d been reading those books, part of you is embarrassed at him being aware of some of the content you prefer. However, if he puts his newly gained knowledge to use, you don’t mind him snooping on your reading material.

Tension begins to build but your husband deprives you of reaching that peak of pleasure just yet. You laugh breathlessly, “You’re being cruel. Was this meant to make amends or punish me?” His fingertips take hold of your chin, forcing you to look up at him. “Patience, wife.”

The longing look in your eyes only fuels his desire for you. His arm hooks around your waist to drag up back up toward the front of the bed. And perhaps he’s become too eager, the growing ache in his pants is becoming harder to ignore. You watch as he hastily removes his remaining clothing. Your eyes travel downwards and you’re happy to find that your original suspicions were correct, he was well endowed. Bi-Han catches your line of sight and grabs your chin to make you look up at him again. “Shameless.”

You smile, “Can you blame me? I’ve been curious since our wedding night.�� He raises an eyebrow, he supposes you were equally as curious as he was back then. You reach out a hand to touch him, touch it, but he catches your wrist, using the opportunity to quickly pin you back down to the bed.

“You must learn restraint.” Bi-Han knew he was teasing you but he was just as guilty. His eyes drank in the image of your exposed form. His hands move to travel down your body, groping and grasping at the flesh displayed before him. Your skin is oh-so-soft, and his fingers return once again to the heat between your legs. The sounds leaving your mouth make him feel dizzy with desire and he finds himself impatient. “Spread your legs.”

Before you respond, his hands grip your thighs to spread them apart.

He leans down and his cold breath mingles with yours as you gently take hold of his face in your hands.

He doesn’t speak. The situation almost doesn't seem real to him. Words would not be able to articulate what his feelings are at this moment, so he entrusts his touch to convey his affection and desire for you. Between kisses pressed to your lips and the connecting of your flesh, he finds bliss between your legs. His body acts on instinct, the feeling is maddening. Is this what he has been lacking in life? For a brief moment, he recalls tales of war and battles raged for the sake of woman’s love, for her affections and touch. Perhaps for the first time in his life, he can understand that reasoning.

But he is brought out of his trance when you let out a shaky breath and grasp him hard enough for your nails to leave red indents. He pulls back to see your face contort into pain and quickly removes himself out of a mix of embarrassment and concern.

He was hurting you.

In the past, perhaps he wouldn’t have cared, but he does now. He cares that he’s hurt you, and a part of him is ashamed that he became so lost in his own pleasures. Guilt is evident in the way he scowls and turns his face. You sit up and reach out a hand before he can even think to come up with a retort or retreat.

“It’s normal, stop it.” You practically tug him back on top of you. You know in the past, you wouldn’t make the effort to assure him, you wouldn’t long for him like this, but you do now. His arms rest on either side of you again and his eyebrows furrow when you graze your lips against the corner of his mouth. “Go slow at first, please.” And so he complies. The stinging emerges again and you scare him when your eyes shut in what appears like distress to him, prompting Bi-Han to halt his pace again. “… Are you positive you wish to engage in this with me.” His tone of voice is timid almost, a stark contrast to what you’re used to hearing.

“I’m certain.”

And so he continues, and soon the pain begins to delve into pleasure. You find yourself lost in ecstasy. Briefly, you think of how carefully his hands hold onto. How hands capable of killing could hold you so close. His hips continuously collide with yours and you wrap your legs around his waist, drawing him nearer. Obscene melodies echo throughout the room prompting your husband to pick up the pace. You know there’s a possibility that your voices might leak into the hallway. You know your nails are digging into his skin as you hold onto him for leverage, and you are aware that your skin will be littered with bruises and bite marks. But you could care less right now. Those will be problems to address later. For now, the physical sensation is all you can bring yourself to focus on.

Had Bi-Han known this is what consummating your relationship truly felt like, perhaps he would have taken you on the wedding night. But no, it wouldn’t feel this passionate, this consuming. You draw him in and the pleasure makes him practically feel intoxicated The sounds that escape your lips only heighten the experience. The way your nails drag down his back only reinvigorates him. His hands tangle in your hair and you feel his breathing pick up. His teeth graze your neck and you feel a distinct pressure building up within you. You assume he does as well when the grip he has on your body tightens enough to leave imprints. You’re left panting when he finishes, his seed dripping from your core and staining your thighs.

He seems as if he’s in a daze, breathing heavily as his eyes drag ever so slowly up your form. The image of you breathing heavily while sprawled out in front of him is one that he’d like to commemorate to memory.

But now the euphoria delves into exhaustion. His body weight becomes increasingly difficult it holds up as if his soul is luring him to rest. And before he knows it, he’s not bothering to hold himself up anymore. He’s lying against you, and he can feel your arms wrap around him once more. But the feeling is short-lived.

“You’re heavy, get off.” You groan. Maybe it’s the endorphins running through his veins, but he finds your annoyance endearing. He lazily rolls off of you and watches the rise and fall of your chest as you attempt to catch your breath. Sweat glistens on your skin.

You catch his gaze and cross your arms over your chest. “How shameless,” you tease.

He reaches over to move your arms out of the way, and you allow him to.

“You seduced me, take it as a compliment.”

You chuckle lightly, “Noted.” You shift onto your side to face him. Bi-Han still looks effortlessly flawless. He hasn’t even broken a sweat in your recent activities, at least it looks that way to you. You move closer to him, enough so that you’re able to rest your head against his chest. “Aren’t you tired?” You inquire. Your husband shakes his head, “somewhat.” His movements are languid as he drapes an arm over your shoulder and presses a kiss to your forehead.

You let out a small chuckle. “What is it?” He asks.

“I could never imagine you behaving in such an endearing manner when we first met.”

“I’ve exceeded your expectations then,” he says in a factual tone of voice.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you reply jokingly.

He raises an eyebrow, “is that a challenge?”

And suddenly he’s maneuvered himself to loom over you once more. His lips hover over yours as he awaits your answer. Your body is worn out, you can feel a dull ache blooming between your legs, and perhaps your response is against your better judgment.

“Yes.”

——————————

The sunlight casts a warm glow as it enters your bedroom, and in time it nudges you awake. As your eyes flutter open slowly, you find your husband watching over you. “Good morning,” You say and smile as you reach out a hand to caress your husband’s cheek. He lays his hand over yours. “Good morning.” He takes your hand and presses a small kiss to your knuckles. “Did you sleep well?”

You chuckle lightly, “You put me right to sleep last night, I am well rested.” You try to shift your position but grimace at the soreness residing between your legs. “I may spend all day in bed.”

A smirk flashes across your husband’s face and you shoot him a pensive look, albeit lightheartedly.

You move to rest against him but stop when you remember the hairpin. “Bi-Han-“ you start off, but it’s as if he could already anticipate your question before you had a chance to ask. He holds the accessory between his fingertips. “In the chaos of the evening, it was displaced.” He appears the slightest bit hesitant but hands the pin back to you. “It was for you, or rather it is for you.” You smile faintly “It matches my necklace perfectly.”

“That’s why I selected it that day.” His voice trails off slowly. His silence echoes his sincerity and you smile softly at him.

“I’ll cherish it. Thank you.”

Your simple acknowledgment is enough to put him at ease now, but he still appears contemplative.

“What is it?”

These words seldom leave his mouth, but when conversing with you, the words now flow with ease. “I am sorry, I pushed you away and laid the brunt of my problems on you simultaneously.”

“I won’t hold it against you.” You move to lay your head against his chest. “I’ll allow you the rest of our lives to make it up to me. You swore to stay with me til death, after all.”

“Of course.”

You smile and soon enough you find your eyelids feeling heavy again. You close your eyes, and the sensation of your husband’s hand gliding up and down your back accompanies the calming rhythm of his heartbeat. You know that this life won’t be easy, but something tells you that you will be okay.

That you both will be okay.

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This is the last chapter as far as things go right now. Maybe in the future I'll post some one shots that take place in this fic's universe though. Thanks for sticking around and bearing with me for taking so long with this upload. And of course, thanks for reading 💙

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#mk1 #bi han mk #sub zero x reader #mortal kombat 1 #bi han x reader #bi han sub zero #bi han x you #bi han fanfic #i hope i caught all the typos #i'm posting this at 2:20 am lol

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dadsbongos · 6 days

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dog and rabbit

9.5 k words / summary - When your party is locked into a stuck trap, you and Laios are the only ones who can bare each other. You both want to be consumed, one literally, and know that only the other can fulfill your desire.

warnings - reader with she/her pronouns, cannibalism as a metaphor for love/cannibalistic thoughts and imagery, fully romantic but no upfront confession, allusions to spoilers but everyone should be safe to read, reader has ego issues and parental issues, laios and reader are both FREAKS, starvation as a plot device

~~~

pt 1 - dog eat rabbit

Mama’s hands are crusted with drying mud, dirt flakes up her bare arms as she smooths a lumpy plot. She’s knelt down, across from her is Papa, and beside Papa is his dog -- tail wagging and mouth dangling open to pant, pant, pant. Between them all is the small rectangular grave Mama just finished pampering. A thin stick sits up straight from the head of the filled hole. You stand at the other end, staring at Papa’s dog with ambivalence.

You wanted to sanitize her vibrant scratches and swelling bite marks, and you wanted her scrapes to get infected. You hoped she would recover to her yippy self soon, and you prayed the mounting limp from her front right paw was permanent. You’d be devastated if she died of her injuries, and you’d find the death to be just.

She’s terrible.

You mock up a world where she was the one eaten instead.

She’s your sole best friend now.

You hope she’s full, no longer at risk of starving to illness.

“Sit, girl,” Papa beckons, a calloused, wrinkled finger directed towards the gaping spot by your mother’s side, “Be respectful. You wanted this memorial, now be part of it.”

“I didn’t want- !“

As if sensing your following words, Mama hisses a sharp shush, then pats the ground beside her. Papa raises a brow at you, testing. Sunlight burns your back, and you spontaneously decide the shaded spot by your mother is more appealing (entirely unrelated to your parents’ demands).

Now, you are face to face with your new best friend because she is your real best friend’s murderer. You hate her. You love her. You want her to feel every shred and tear and pierce she inflicted upon your bunny.

“Darling,” Mama coos, fingers dancing up your shoulder and through your hair, uncaring for how she ruins the strands, “be realistic. A simple marsh rabbit was never going to survive out here.”

“He followed the river out for a reason,” you murmur, now looking down from the big, remorseful, wet eyes of Papa’s dog, “We were meant to be best friends.”

“You’re not a baby anymore,” Papa snaps, rising onto his feet, he glares at you. He glares at you with deep lines retracing their places in his forehead, and his hands clench so hard they shake, until they suddenly go lax. He waves both hands out, shaking them free of all tension as he sighs and turns and prattles down towards the ocean.

His dog follows, slower than she used to with a pause and caution fresh to her gait, licking his hand as he pulls free his fishing pole from the sand. Mama pats down your back and mutters apologies.

You rise shortly after and whistle the dog back into your small shelter, knowing how her wounds will burn should she follow your father into the lapping sea water. She licks your face and you pet around the open scratches from this morning.

You dream that night of what would happen if you let her wander into the ocean.

You wake up with an incredible sense of guilt.

…

“I’m so tired,” Marcille dregs her weight onto your back, causing you to stumble under the sudden hefty addition, “We should stop soon!”

“Agreed,” Chilchuck huffs, stretching his arms out in front of him.

“How about you?” Laois coils at the waist to glance back at you, brows raised high, “Packs wearing you down?”

“No!” you howl defensively, hands wriggling deeper into the leather of Chilchuck’s waterskin when Marcille moans in protest to your denial, “But! If everyone is tired then we should settle down, probably. I think.”

“I think so, too,” Laios nods, deferring to Senshi -- the pair murmuring about which of the dark archways lining the dungeon hall leads to a safe rest stop.

Your party finally piles into an off-room, Marcille still slouched against your back to send you both careening towards the far left end of the cellar.

“Hmm,” Chilchuck points up towards a series of holes in the cobbled archway, “It looks like this room’s rigged to lock us inside. So be careful to not step on this tile, it’ll activate the- !”

Senshi grunts over the sudden sinking in his left side, foot slid over the edge of the stone Chilchuck’s index finger is aimed at, “Whoops.”

A scream escapes the half-foot, Chilchuck narrowly rolling out of the way of downcoming spears. Pointed ends stab towards the cobblestone floor, tips scraping rock, effectively trapping your lot into the cellar.

“Eek!” you scream, both hands pawing at Laios’ arm, “We’re gonna die in here!”

“Shut up, we’re not gonna die in here,” Chilchuck groaned, rising to his knee to inspect the lock attached to the middlemost bar, “I’ll get it open in the morning. If anything, it might help keep us secured overnight, so I can’t be mad.”

“Are you sure that’s okay?” you ask, Marcille nodding in backup to your question.

“It’s a pretty simple lock, so it shouldn’t cause me too much grief in the morning.”

Laios nods, stepping back carefully to avoid jangling you off his arm as he sets out his sleeping bag. You stand over him now, hands splayed gently across his back as he flattens his mat, “If you’re gonna stay by me, could you help me get my armor off?”

If anyone except Laios were to ask, you’d probably take offense to the wording -- but it was Laios, and you know Laios well enough to know he’d never want to hurt your feelings.

So you nod, despite the fact he cannot see you, “Of course!”

Neither you or Laios is certain when physical contact became so normal between you, only that now it's strange for Laios to remove his heavy plating without you. So he tries to suck up every opportunity he can now, requesting your assistance whenever the party stocks into a room with a door to keep out ambushers.

“Hey,” Marcille beckons from across the room, already having set out both your mats, “I thought you’d be by me tonight.”

“I will be! Just… helping…” you return focus to Laios, giddily undoing the leather straps of your leader’s grieves before rushing off his pauldrons.

“Thanks again,” he works off the clasps on his arms, slinking free from each piece with a noisy series of clunks and thuds.

“I love helping,” you rationalize quickly, face alight with glee as you wait for Laios to set aside his gorget. Once given a go-ahead nod, you eagerly grasp the lip of his cuirass by the waist and tip upwards. While you’re not lying about your natural proclivity to be helpful, you’re also not terribly against feeling the broadness of Laios’ body up close.

You blame it on admiration.

You admire how he can move so smoothly in such heavy pieces. You admire how despite the both of you being tall-men, he’s managed to occupy the stature to a fuller extent than you. He’s not just big because of his race, but he’s got real discipline to continuously train and hone his combat skills. His muscles are as aesthetically pleasing as they are a sign of his dedication.

In a weird way, you think every monster to be eaten by him should be honored.

Ironically, that night you dream of the party’s first encounter with monsters you couldn’t eat: Orcs.

…

“First ones to die are the ones with the weapons!”

“Aah!” you shriek, immediately releasing your daggers so the blades crash by your knees with a faint tink, tink, tink, “I’m unarmed! Please don’t kill me!”

“Have a backbone!” Chilchuck shouts at you, though beads of sweat are pouring down his face as well.

“I don’t wanna die, Chilchuck!” you cry, sniffling.

“I don’t either, you know?” he hisses in your ear.

Your eyes are too clogged by waterworks to make out the following dispute between Senshi and the Orcs. Now hugging a pair of onions to your chest for support rather than your teensy needlepoint daggers.

“Them veggies be something you grew, I guess?” despite the lilt in his tone, you don’t take the Orc Chief’s tone as a question, “We’re on a supply run lookin’ for food. ‘Preciate if you’d share them with us.”

“Sure, be happy to. What you got to trade for them?” Senshi must be crazy to expect a trade with big, hungry Orcs with big, shiny weapons surrounding you all.

“No trade. Tribe’s desperate, we barely got up to this floor alive. You’ve been a good friend and I hate to do this, but… hand over everything you got. Right now.”

You fumble the onions between your arms, then shirking off the carrots tangled in your bag’s side pockets. Senshi glares at you through his peripherals, grumbling quietly for you to pick the crops back up before returning to his parley with the Orcs.

Unfortunately, your obvious compliance earns you no favor compared to your comrades.

“Coward,” Marcille thunks her head against the cabbage in her hands, “Coward!”

“I was scared!” you wish you had your forfeited onions back, even if only to provide something to cling to. The space between your arms feels so glaringly empty it makes your racing heart swerve to overdrive.

“Everyone was!” Chilchuck glares up at you, then toward Senshi, “Except that idiot.”

“Be nice,” you knot your fingers together, only to watch them unravel again as your group is herded towards the Orcs’ makeshift camp. Then, you look to Senshi for backup, “Besides, they were getting thrown out if we couldn’t trade, right? What’s the harm?”

Senshi shakes his head at you disapprovingly, and it oddly cuts deeper than when your father would do the same, “You need to stand your ground, that’s the difference.”

“Don’t antagonize her,” Laios jumps in, voice level in spite of the agitated pinch in his brow, “You all know she hates pain.”

“Who doesn’t, dumbass?!” Chilchuck grits, quickly hushing himself, “None of us want to suffer.”

With admittedly no comeback, even with all your prayers that he’d clunk one together, Laios shrugs, and -- as if sensing your dilemma -- sticks out his bicep for you to hug to your chest.

…

You woke up feeling despondent, gloomily rolling up your area and preparing for the day’s adventure while Senshi made breakfast. And as much as you wish Laios’ curiosity could inspire any excitement within yourself to try the lumpy larvae porridge from cellar-dwelling insects, you’re really not craving any.

“Hey!” but there the blonde is, calling to you and restlessly patting the floor beside him, “Come on, it’s almost ready!”

With weak, frizzly resolve, you conceded in an instant. Just as instantly, you regret it.

Faint, tangy iron clings to the gum of your mouth. A sourness washing over your palette soon after. Your lips press tightly before your tongue lolls out and you’re scraping the harsh edge of your spoon down your flesh, “Blehhh…!”

“Seriously?” Chilchuck sighs, though not withholding his own scrunched face, “You’re acting like a kid.”

“It’s gross!” you whine, bowl clattering between your legs, “It hurts my mouth!”

“Really?” Laios leans in from your left, his chest, while still unguarded, crushes against your shoulder, pointing down into your bowl with his own spoon, “Mind if I have yours?”

“Be my guest,” you slide the bowl his way, then squishing the tip of your tongue into your top gums, “I think it burnt a dent in my mouth.”

Chilchuck groans this time, loud and abrasive, eyes narrowed at you, “It’s not even that bad.”

“You’ve been brainwashed! Monster guts are monster guts, and this time their stomach acid burned my mouth!” you look to your right, at the elf contently munching on Senshi’s cooking, “Right, Marcille?!”

(Senshi’s rebuttal of, “Ain’t no guts in this.” goes unnoticed)

“Hm?” she withers under your pointed stare, shoulders shriveling towards her chest, “I mean, yeah, it is weird…” then she lifts her bowl level to her face, dodging your gaze, “But I don’t think it's burned my mouth.”

“Maybe I’m allergic,” you drivel, focus flitting to Laios’s hands as he grabs your serving to dig in -- even licking the excess off your abandoned utensil, “If I’m allergic I might die…”

“Or you’re just crazy,” Chilchuck intervenes.

“Be nice to me!” you cry, raising a fist as if to strike the man over your fire. You’d never, you don’t have the courage.

Laios nods, “Be nice.”

“You’ll be hungry later,” Senshi chastises, “Eating is the privilege of the living. You’re squanderin’ it.”

“We’ll have lunch later,” you curl your knees to your chest, binding them with both arms tight around your thighs, “I can wait.”

“Who says we’ll find anything worth eating?” you doubt Chilchuck cares about either your stomach or Senshi’s cooking, you instead boldly assume he just wants to keep lecturing you.

“We will!” you lay your head against Laios’ shoulder, peeking up at the man through your lashes, “Right, Laios? We’ll find food again today.”

“I mean, yeah,” he blinks down at you cluelessly, “Deeper we go down, the more we’re bound to find!”

“See! We’ll find food!”

“It’s too early to be fighting…” Marcille frowns, eyes flicking from you to Chilchuck, and back to you.

Chilchuck retires his own bowl and grossly wipes his mouth off with his arm before scooching to the door, waving off whatever retort could follow.

Senshi takes both yours and Laios’ bowls once both are emptied before turning to you, “You may want to dig into the spare snacks in your bag anyway. Ain’t good to start the day on an empty stomach.”

His sudden warmth inspires a molten ooze in your own chest, you shyly nod before muttering, “Sorry for calling your cooking gross… it isn’t, actually. I liked- !”

“Larvae pods can’t be for everyone,” he cuts you off with a speedy recovery, “More for the people that do enjoy it.”

“Thanks for sharing!” Laios claps your back, trying to be friendly and only rattling your balance.

Senshi and Laios begin packing up as you spindle onto your hands and knees to crawl the couple of paces towards your bag. Creeping a hand under the flap to dig for treats, your whole body spiking with goosebumps and raised hairs when you distinctly miss any indentation of rations in your palm. You prattle forward another two knees-worth and unlatch the golden clasp to dig through your bag.

“Oh, no…” you mutter, movements growing more agitated the longer you go without finding food, “No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no…”

“You okay?”

You jump back, clenching both hands over your heart and nodding rapidly, “Yeah, fine! No worries here, Laios!”

“Sounds good!” he backs away to continue assisting Senshi.

“No!” suddenly, Chilchuck’s voice stabs through the room, “No, no, no, no, no!”

“What’s wrong?” Marcille rushes over, clutching Ambrosia between unsteady palms.

Thankfully the party’s attention pivots to the screaming lockpick and you get the grace of pretending there’s absolutely more food left for your group. No problems here!

“It’s jammed!” Chilchuck wrangles the silver bars, then latching onto the boxy lock itself as if to choke all life from the metal, “How am I supposed to pick a lock if the lock isn’t sufficient quality?!”

Or, apparently, you cannot pretend. At least not for long because a problem arose on the opposite side of the cell.

“You can get us out though, right?” Marcille’s grip on Ambrosia loosens, even calm enough to lay the staff against a wall.

“Of course, I can. Who do I look like?” Chilchuck scoffs.

Silently, you beseech Chilchuck’s expertise surpasses this lock’s apparent lack thereof.

“So, how’s the door?”

“Still not open!”

“I thought you were a specialist on these things, Chilchuck.”

All fiddling and knocking ceases in an instant, Chilchuck now staring dead-eyed at Laios for his unwelcomed quip.

“So scary,” Laios whispers beneath his breath, then turning towards you with a subtle downturn of his lips, “What’d I do?”

Hugging yours and Chilchuck’s bags closer to your chest with a stilted shrug, you reply, “I guess he didn’t appreciate the input.”

“I thought- “

Chilchuck’s icy stare kills your leader’s words in his throat.

“Well, we still have leftovers, so we aren’t in trouble of starving for awhile,” you fabricate, digging a hand through your bag to aid your illusion of ease, “When we do run out, I have a plan! So don’t worry about going hungry.”

“Hm?” Laios quirks a brow at your uneven grin.

Before he can prod for more direction, Marcille’s popping back and relieved groan creak through the room. She arches up from her recline on the ground, gold tresses fluttering out around her head. With more huffing and moaning, she flips onto her stomach and stablizing onto her elbows to stare at Chilchuck’s twiddling. Poking and striking various chords and rods within the lock’s bottom hole, you can hear Chilchuck’s frustrated swears in both common and native tongue (though the longer he goes without success, the more obscure and foreign his curses sound).

You’d hate to see Chilchuck face more defeat than he’s already bore. Few hours have passed since waking to find yourselves locked in the dungeon cellar. Chilchuck will soon be considering blood sacrifices made from all four of you, you fear.

“You know, it’s been awhile since I could wash my hair… would be nice if we were out so I could take care of that,” Marcille grins, already knowing the response she’ll pull talking like that.

“Marci, be quiet…!” you whine anxiously, eyes narrowing on Chilchuck’s back.

The man slowly turns his head to narrow his eyes at Marcille, “Huh?” she shrugs coyly, curling a finger into framing strands of her long hair, Chilchuck laughs. Rage thinly veiled by (obviously forced) lightheartedness, “Didn’t quite catch that.”

“Guys!” you wail, “Please!”

Senshi sighs through his nose, murmuring about kids bickering as he polishes the knife you only see used for cooking.

Tense silence descends upon your group once again.

Turning to the blonde at your side, you murmur, “I’m more worried about how to keep from getting bored. I feel like boredom is when everyone starts hating each other…”

Laios straightens up at your concern, twisting noisily through his personal bag to drag out a leather bound journal, “I could show you my notes about monsters! They’re pretty long so it’ll take awhile, perfect way to kill time while Chil’ gets us out!”

Nodding, you lean into his side, watching intently as he recites each tidbit and offbeat scribble as if by heart. You notice that none of the writing is as softened by print or recognizable as what’s scrawled in his guide on edible monsters. You don’t think this book has been exposed to the party yet, and that thought is patently delightful. That you are so dependable to Laios he’s willing to show off something born from his raw passion.

“It was something I teased when I was by myself,” he confesses, cheeks glowing rosy at the vulnerability of it all, “When I started wondering about the integrity of the Gourmet Guide, it inspired me to make a real guide. So, even though I’m sad the author probably never ate the monsters they wrote about, I can still honor the passion it gave me.”

“Wow,” you turn onto your hip and cradle his arm against yours. Perhaps overly casually, you sling a leg over one of his and rest your head against his shoulder, his chill shirt icing the heat on your own cheek (his simmering skin beneath quickly reheats it), “You’re really cool, Laios.”

Marcille’s side-eye goes unacknowledged when you say that.

“Seriously?” you’re easily distracted from everyone else when Laios is grinning so brightly at you, “You think so?”

“Mhm!”

“You’re really cool, too,” he wishes he could say more, but your pretty face so close to his is strangling his bravery.

That night, you have the strangest dream.

…

A lion of gold fur and pearly wings looms over you, globs of His drool hanging and dribbling onto your forehead. Temptation to reach up and comb your fingers through His mane rushes through you -- but you cannot move. Limbs bogged by a weight unseen, and then there is a dog.

Big black eyes pour down on you, front paws plastered at each side of your waist to hold himself up. Pointed teeth peek through its panting snout -- bloodthirsty growls verberating low through its body. You blink and the dog is different. Yipping like a friend, tail wagging at the sight of you, it licks your cheek. You blink and the dog is gone, replaced with a fellow tall-man. Armor removed and shirt hanging low, you can make out his collarbones and the dip down towards his chest -- if you dare to stare straight down then you could make out the handles of his hips.

Blood stains the seams between his teeth, chin glistening with crimson gush. Faintly, you can make out the sensation of lips puckered around your fingers; sucking and nibbling at your nail beds. Chilchuck, Marcille, Senshi. They all seem so at ease, faces completely lax similar to those of nursing kittens.

Laios’ lips press into your neck, hot and cold clashing when he introduces teeth. You can’t even feel the pain as he digs in -- instead, you feel just as calm as your friends look.

You feel serene.

Marcille snaps a finger bone like it's a carrot between her molars. Chilchuck and Senshi lave the spilling blood from her cheeks. They can’t get enough of you. Laios burrows his arms beneath your waist, pressing your body closer into his as he desperately tongues your flesh down his throat.

Hungrily and contently, they swallow you down. Every morsel.

You feel most loved.

…

You woke up feeling grateful.

Chilchuck has not yet gotten your party free. As the day progresses, you feel that gratitude leaking over the floor. It curdles in the open air and soaks into the bottom of Marcille and Laios’ shoes as they ask you to unlock your food pouch.

Cheerful, expectant faces haunt you from above. Marcille, of course, has nothing but patience for you, but the killer is Laios. Obviously. Laios, who so, so fervently and imperatively trusts you so, so wholeheartedly is your biggest problem in this fiasco. He always looks at you like you could never do anything wrong, and you’ve never hated it until now.

Wide, twinkly amber eyes drill into you, “It’s been awhile since we’ve had to dig into the rations, I don’t even remember what’s all in there.”

Marcille nods in agreement, excitement at the prospect of eating obvious in the drool pooling in the corners of her mouth, “Right? It’ll be nice to have something non-monster related, at least.”

“You think so?” Laios pouts, “I thought you were warming up to eating monsters.”

“It's still not my first choice!”

In the midst of their spat, your attention is split between trying to conjure a plausible reason to deny them; and manifesting a destiny where they forgot why they approached you.

By the time Marcille’s tummy croaks through the cramped room, neither has come to fruition. She cups the pouch of her stomach, embarrassed at its echoing rumble.

“Jeez, thought I was hungry…” Chilchuck teases from his post at the door.

“Hey! That was a totally reasonable sound for how long it's been since we ate. And who’s to say that was even me? It could’ve been Laios!”

“It wasn’t,” Senshi adds.

“Definitely wasn’t,” Chilchuck’s sly grin cracks upon the sound of his own gut joining the conversation.

“Ha!” Marcille’s joy is usually able to cleanse your dreary moods, but usually you’re not keeping such a destructive secret.

Usually, you don’t freeze yourself in place like it’ll prevent your party from noticing you’re still alive -- all to avoid them asking the same question from minutes ago,

“So, can you open up the food pack?”

You are not so lucky.

Laios has asked you again.

Rare is it for you to refuse him, because rarer it is for him to ask something outrageous or impossible (or impossibly outrageous) of you. This is the one in a billion chance that you must turn him down. But how can you when he’s looking at you so kindly?

A frazzled, puny No trapped in the back of your desiccate throat when suddenly Senshi says it for you.

“Best to save our rations so we can eat right before we leave.”

Senshi’s trust in you makes you somehow more nauseous. Marcille’s downtrodden agreement makes that stacked nausea triple. Laios curling up beside you to keep you company makes you so electrified you’re certain to be hiccuping bile soon.

(you don’t end up puking, thankfully)

That night, you dreamt of the time you and Laios met.

…

He’s really beautiful, it's the first thing you notice about him. Too beautiful to be a dungeon crawler, Laios’ face is more befitting of royalty. To be praised and swooned over and kissed.

“It’ll be less pay than, well, our swordsman or mage.”

You think his thoughtfulness makes him more beautiful.

Strangely, you feel the need to comfort him. Overcompensate the mediocrity of such a position simply so he doesn’t feel guilty hiring you (because in the back of your head is the fear that if he feels guilty, he simply won’t take you on).

“That’s fine! I don’t mind at all, as long as I get any money I couldn’t care less.”

You just want a house. You just don’t want to suffer.

“Alright, then, looks like we have a carrier,” Laios looked to Falin, the girl nodding with a cheery smile.

You just want to be as close to the beautiful, shining, gnashing sun as possible.

…

You woke up feeling thirsty.

You’d twisted over to dig out your watersack when you found that your entire pack was missing. Ice spilled across your entire body at the sight, a swelling, obnoxious anxiety aching through your nervous system. You could feel your heartbeat in your throat, and you could hear the blood pumping through your ears.

Slowly, your head swivels around the room, until you find your pack in the arms of another -- who is now settled across the room rather than beside you.

Peculiarly close to Senshi’s pseudo-camp, Marcille is scratching your bag tightly to her chest.

“Marci,” you call, dredging the boys’ curiosity towards you. You don’t know if she’s taken the liberty of looking inside, “Give that back…”

She does not, merely hugging the leather tighter. Such desperation clues you that she’s most likely just as oblivious about the bag’s contents as everyone else is. Her stomach rumbles loudly, you swallow dryly and wet your lips to beg.

“Marci, please!”

The elf hisses back, not unlike a pestered kitty, and clutches your pack tighter to her chest. She glares through her lashes, kicking her legs out when Laios reaches to take your bag back.

Senshi shakes his head and rises from his own spot in the corner. Marcille’s gaze hones in on the dwarf instantly, and she whirls around to face the wall -- now caging your bag to her chest.

“Marci,” you retry weakly, “please, hoarding isn’t- !”

She silences you with another shortburst glare over her shoulder, “Who said I was hoarding?” she ‘hmph’s and shakes her head, “How do I know you won’t just eat it all as soon as I’m not looking?! Huh?! You’ve gone the longest without food after all!”

You gasp at the accusation, then sparing a glance up at Laios to see if he’s buying her tale, “How could you say that? I always share! It’s everyone’s food!”

“Marcille,” Senshi commands cooly, standing at your side, “you should know that isn’t like her. We all share our food so nobody goes hungry. To intentionally starve others is just cruel.”

“Exactly!” you plea, shakily reaching out only to yank your hands back to your chest when she snaps at your fingers with full teeth, “Just give it back, please?!”

Laios frowns, visibly uncertain how to bring you and Marcille back to the giddy lounging gals you were mere days ago, “Marcille, you two are friends -- if you know she’s never stolen before, why would she start now?”

Marcille sharply redirects her stare into the corner, shrugging and clutching the pouch tighter.

Chilchuck bangs his forehead into the door, “Children.”

“Marcille…” you whimper, hot in the face and barely believing you’re even telling the truth right now. You’re delirious with dehydration and hunger and skepticism that you’re being honest, making it hard to see straight. Elf and tall-man faces blur together, Senshi is blotted out by the black dots in the corners of your vision, and Chilchuck is a mere speck. Far, far away. You feel far, far away. Like you could die, like you’re dreaming, and oh as the words come out of your mouth you’re actually hoping that you are dreaming, “it’s empty.”

Every head snaps to you. All dizziness snaps into hyperawareness. At minimum it's two degrees colder than it used to be, you can hear the sound of your own breathing, and the smell of mold rots away every other scent in the room.

You shrink into yourself and barely scrounge the courage to keep from curling into a rocking ball of apologies. Your disbelief doubles when you realize you’re still looking Marcille in the face -- eye to devastated eye.

“It’s empty?”

“It’s empty…”

Senshi steps back from your side, you want to dig your nails into his ankles and drag him back. You don’t. Laios retreats as well and you selfishly wish he’d just pierce you with his sword, if only to end this humiliation and regret. Now that everyone’s staring at you, you realize you probably should’ve said something from the start.

“I thought maybe Chilchuck would’ve gotten us out by now… I didn’t think we’d still be here…” you try to reason.

The harsh clatter and clang of Chilchuck’s picks against the ground draws your attention, he’s got both hands knotted into fists. His face drawn in a slant, as if he’s silently asking you to repeat yourself. As if he didn’t quite catch that.

“Then it's my fault?” he swiftly dodges the arm Senshi puts out as a blockade, now in your face and far more threatening than usual, “You’re saying it’s my fault your pack is empty?”

“No! Just- !”

“So why even mention that?!” he huffs, “Why even say my name?”

“I just thought that once we were out we’d find more food and then it wouldn’t be a problem!”

“So you still wanted to lie to us?”

“I never said that! You’re putting words in my mouth! Stop putting words in my mouth!”

“Your plan was to intentionally hide the truth -- that’s lying!”

“No! It’s just hiding!”

Chilchuck screams, raw with frustration and unbridled by cumbersome words. He covers his face with both hands as if he’s in pain just to look upon you.

“I’m sorry!” you plea, now turning to Laios with weak sobs bubbling right beneath your skin. Your face feels as though it's been scorched with dragon’s fire, though your eyes are flooded wet, “I just didn’t want everyone to be scared. I would’ve told you once we were out! Promise!”

Laios always liked being close to you the best, including Falin. In the wake of her disappearance, his inclination towards your presence has only magnified. You engage his interest in monsters, you’re forward and blatant with your compassion, and your skin on his is always so soothing. Laios doesn’t guess if you’re genuine, he knows you are. He imagines that’s why when you touch him it’s so warm and calming whereas others’ makes him itch.

Your soul itself must be as sweet as the bottom innard of an ivy tentacle.

“I know,” Laios nods, smiling thinly, “I know you would’ve.”

If you say you thought it was for the best, then you really must have, and he can’t berate you for having a heart.

You return his grin threefold, overtly thrilled he’s believed in you, yet again.

“You’re kidding!” Chilchuck shouts, now tugging sharply at his hair in frustration, his face red, “Laios, how can you let her get away with this?!”

Marcille shoves your pack into your face, standing over your toppled form. She looks like she hates you.

Now you’re the one cradling a food-barren bag to your chest. Laios assists you to your feet, prying your bag from your arms with gentle fingers to settle it along the wall. It sags, giving way to its empty stomach and collapsing over itself, folding into halves.

Marcille inhales deeply, mouth popping open to speak, but it's your resident half-foot’s voice that cuts through the air.

“Why are you here?” Chilchuck grumbles, glaring up at you.

His sudden venom stuns you into silence. Chilchuck’s face round with a specifically unfamiliar malice. Through his wired irritation at mimics and tentacles, he has never looked so particularly irked. So vexed. He looks like he detests your very face.

“I need money…” you murmur, curling into yourself the longer his terrible stare goes, “Just like you…”

“No. You’re not just like me, we’re not alike,” he’s unnecessarily defensive at your claim, “I’m useful. I work. You don’t do anything. Why are you here?” he lowers his voice, but you can’t mistake the change for any sense of relief, “There’s lots of things you could do for money.”

“Chilchuck!” Marcille wails, eyes wide -- snapped from their previous disdain and now fraught with shock and dread, her hands hover at her chest as if she could physically slice, rearrange, and mend the tension, “Don’t say that!”

“Be nice,” you wring your hands, “Be nice to me,” you frown, “I didn’t want to work a hard job, and being a carrier pays well enough. Then, uh, then I thought maybe I could be useful if I died… I could be like a meat shield, and then when I die you could eat me. You know, if you ever got stuck down here… like now.”

Chilchuck guffaws, jaw dropping and brows furrowing in distraught, “Eat you?! You thought we would eat you?!”

“I wouldn’t be offended,” shrugging, you crane your head down before subtly ticking sideways towards Laios, “You’ve never eaten human, right? I’m sure it’d be interesting.”

“How could you say that?!” Marcille buds in, once again on the offense. Senshi lingers in the back of your party, beneath the shaded hood of his helmet his gaze is steely. Determinately opposed to your very ideals. He’s eerily quiet, as if complying with Chilchuck and Marcille’s side will mistakenly motivate your own. That, or he’s so horrified none of his nerve endings will respond to his brain.

Laios does not refute your claim.

He swallows roughly, eyes darting to the floor.

“Everyone,” still staring at the ground, Laios steps between your group’s semi-circle, “Enough fighting,” his voice is quiet, too, but not calm. Ragged and soft, exasperated, “Please, stop fighting.”

A sturdy markdown of your offer never escapes his lips, though.

You nod slowly, “I’m sorry for being so useless. I thought I was doing something good…”

“You do,” Laios takes you by the shoulder, spinning you the other way towards your lone mat. His voice grows quieter, by the echo you can tell he’s talking to the others now, “Don’t antagonize her.”

Your sleeping bag is cold, it ruffles stiffly everytime you move. The fluffed material beneath your head fares no better, frost biting your cheek and lapping your splayed, exposed eyeballs. Tears prick as both eyes crisp dry -- cooled droplets dripping across your cheeks. Sorrow mixes with the salt, you thought you were doing good.

Perhaps by volunteering yourself to be used to the very last shred of meat, you could be more treasured. Cowardice outweighed by willingly absorbing the worst of your party’s instincts. By this method, you are more desired.

So you thought, but you’ve been rejected.

Squealing with protest, your sleeping bag retches around shivery shoulders as you smush your quivering lips into the material of your mat.

“These past couple of days have been hard on you, huh?” Laios unrolls his own sleeping bag beside yours. You flinch at the unwelcomed rumble of his voice, unfortunately he continues, “I get it. Everyone’s on-edge,” his comforting words fail to reach you, he slips into his bag, staring at you, “I hope you’re not sleeping yet… That’d make this kind of pointless…”

“Laios.”

“There you are,” he sighs, relieved, and you cannot imagine why. You don’t think there’s anything to be relieved about as long as you’re around, sucking up space and precious resources.

“Laios,” you call, “We should just do it. Right here.”

“Huh?”

You twist your head to peek over your shoulder, chilled tears drying tracks into your cheeks, confirming each of your friends is tucked and slumbering on the other side of the room. Surely, none of them would hear so long as you didn’t fight back; and you’re certain you won’t. Laios isn’t the type to make you suffer. He knows you hate suffering. He isn’t sadistic, after all, the only pleasure he takes in killing is the follow-up: eating.

“You want to, right?” you usually wouldn’t be so daring as to make the suggestion on your own, but food supply has dwindled too drastically by now. Everyone else can maintain their delusion all they want, but you know Laios is not one to deny himself, “Laios, you want to?”

He inhales sharply, molten amber eyes blazing through your face -- faint candlelight shines against his irises and bounces back the lump of your silhouette. Stubbornly, he says nothing -- neither nodding or shaking his head. Instead, he lies still, as if bitten by a Cockatrice.

“We can do it right now. They’re all asleep.”

Laios sneaks a hand through the neckhole of his sleeping bag, arm slithering out to soothe the pad of his thumb over your cheek. Silently, he appreciates the roundness of your face, the slope of your neck.

He does want to sink his teeth in, but this feels stranger than consuming monsters. It stretches far past the walking mushrooms or slimes on the top level; the problematic nature of your proposal even surpasses Chilchuck’s humanoid debate. You’re not a mere humanoid -- you’re human. Another tall-man. Your muscle composition is just the same as his -- your skeletons indecipherable from one another.

It shouldn’t be difficult to decide, Laios knows that much. He shouldn’t have to think about it. He shouldn’t shut down every time you mention it.

Despite that, he does -- he considers how the flesh of another tall-man would roll between his molars. Would the meat be salty? Or savory? How much fat should he trim -- or should he boil it all down just to save?

But aside from that, the reason he wants to mark your neck is not those taboo urges. Completely unrelated, in fact.

Laios’ fingers trail from your pulse point, curving along your exposed shoulder and dipping beneath your bag to dig blunt nails into your arm.

“No,” he squeezes your shoulder in what he hopes is a reassuring gesture, “Not you,” his hand retracts, coiling back to his chest, “I don’t want to eat you.”

“We’ll all die…” you frown, eyes of an iridescent sunshine sheen maintain their hold on you, “It’s better for one to go rather than the rest of the party, right? I can be useful like that…”

“I don’t want to eat you.”

“Oh…”

“Yeah,” his eyes flutter shut, brows pinching towards the middle of his face. And he cares not for what that may say about him as a leader. He’d giddily offer up the entire party to be found by corpse retrievers before gobbling you down.

“But then why keep me around? I don’t do anything special like Chilchuck or Marcille. I can’t cook or fight like Senshi. And I’m nothing like you.”

“You don’t have to be,” he tucks his chin by his chest, still avoiding your stare, “I prefer you as you. I’m glad we know each other, I don’t care if you feel useless because you’re not. Just having you around makes me feel more alive. More excited to explore the dungeon, even before Falin got taken. I feel like I need you around more than before. Since Shuro said he hated me… I guess it’s been tougher to trust that I’m not annoying everyone. With you, though, I don’t even have to question it. Outside the dungeon, too, when we’re in town. It’s nice to be around you the most.”

His eyes are clenched tighter and tighter the longer his spiel goes on -- he cannot bear to look you in the eyes while guts and bile spew from his lips. His cheeks are red, raw from self-imposed exposure.

“Do you mean that?” you ask quietly, eyes so wide in shock he’s forced to meet them as he opens his own, “Am I useful to you, just because I’m me?”

He hums, nodding softly. Crude emotion overwhelms you at the admission; confusion and disbelief and desire tangle in your stomach, loose tendrils flapping up into your gullet and knotting around your uvula until you spit up a meek,

“Can I sleep with you?” as if he would refuse you, you tack on, “I don’t want to be alone.”

Wordlessly, Laios unzips his sleeping bag -- you crawl out from your own to invade his space. His body is soft yet firm against your back, and he makes a clear effort in keeping his breaths shallow. You can see the worsening red tint of his cheeks, even in the wavering candlelight.

Laios’ body goes limp once you’re settled beside him. Selfishly, you press into his lax form -- exhaustion and hunger making your head light. You’re not concretely sure you’re conscious right now. Maybe this is your final dream before you are culled by starvation.

Your stomach grumbles, and Laios pouts at the sound. Bringing one hand over his own abdomen, Laios edges his fingers around his ribcage. He can feel the bone’s impression. He hasn’t been able to feel the protrusion since splitting from the traveling caravan with Falin. He’s unaccustomed to starving himself, he’s unsure how much longer he can hold himself together. You, however, pay no mind to the sound.

You don’t so much as crimp into yourself.

“It’s kinda weird,” you muse suddenly, turning in Laios’ bag so your chest is pressed to his. Oddly, for all its intimate implications, the contact feels natural, “I hate suffering more than anything else, but I can’t bring myself to regret giving you my breakfast a couple days ago. Even though the suffering that nasty junk gave me was a lot better than how I feel right now.”

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” Laios’ arms wrap around you, tucking you even closer to him and forcing your legs to mingle with his, “Eating is the best thing you could do for your body.”

“I’m happier you got to eat than I would’ve been after eating it. Besides,” you cant your head up, chin digging into the center of his thick chest -- looking up at Laios, “I prefer sleeping to nourish my body.”

“As soon as we’re out, you’ll have the most delicious meal we can make in the dungeon.”

He hugs you tighter.

You don’t dream that night. But Laios does.

pt 2 - rabbit eat dog

Laios’ cheeks sting in the frosty air, forearms and knees stubbornly tingling through the puffer of his red long-sleeve. Attempting to make out the space even five inches before his face is impossible through the thick, icy fog, but he knows the way. His feet pivot in perfect tune to each divot and roll of the plains.

He’s grown up here. Ran over these lands since he could lift one leg over the other, though now he is alone. Wandering with only the intent to find, and even then he is alone. Laios never feels more alone than when he is in a room full of people, at least in solitude he cannot be ridiculed or judged. Cowardly as it may seem to run from his problems, Laios chases relief -- where exactly that is, he’s unsure. His relief comes in forms that move, much more inconvenient than ale or tobacco but also much more divine. Moving sister, moving moon, moving monsters.

A cursory, confirming glance up gives sight to the real moon hanging above Laios -- a pale face beaming down to give light, only to be choked out by this unabating fog. Fond for night, Laios feels eased by the celestial. Nighttime, childishly, is something he’s always associated with terrible creatures in the bowls of dungeons. Besides that, is how quiet the house becomes past sundown, when the only conscious soul is his. Sometimes his sister stood up with him, too, and that was nice.

Nice, still, is the other moon’s presence. One less large and pale. One that walked at his side.

A soft glow scourges through the plumes of gray, encouraging Laios to quicken his pace. Warmth blooms across his frosted extremities, thawing stiff joints until suddenly he’s too hot beneath his puffer. Stripping the material, he’s left to sweat in a simple pullover shirt as he begins stumbling towards the glow.

Fog clears, drifting apart seamlessly.

Laios trips abruptly, seemingly over his own footing, before tumbling to his knees, hands scraping on hidden rocks and dirt clots. His eyes water from the intense sear of light painting the ground.

“Hey.”

Laios, against better intuition, feels a bizarre sense of calm wash over him at the voice’s intrusion. Perhaps specifically because of whose voice calls to him.

You loom over his huddled frame, just as bright and welcoming as the moon, and just as pretty too. Prettier, he corrects.

“Hi,” he returns your greeting lamely, rising slowly to a stand.

“You look hungry.”

Recently, Laios has discovered that even after a hearty meal his appetite is not quite satiated. During the brief moments where his mind can wander, he spends it contemplating what he could be eating in that moment. Well, that when he’s not thinking about you. While his stomach is not a bottomless pit ever unfilled, more often than not he’s adopting the attitude of well, i could eat. Not quite greed, not quite temperance. He’ll take what is offered and be gracious.

So, yes, in short, Laios supposes he is always hungry. Admitting that to you is particularly embarrassing, however, because you never seem hungry. Even when your stomach sings with starvation, your discomfort is completely invisible.

He used to assume it was your resilience -- a sign of your courage, to continue adventuring regardless of your terror.

(now, he’s starting to think differently, with your fresh disposition of raw nerves and desperation to be enjoyed)

“You’re hungrier, right?”

“Not really.”

“Oh…” he’s unsure how to respond. Trapped to stare at you while you stare back.

These parts of the fields are entirely unfamiliar to Laios.

“You should be hungry,” he tries to reason.

“Why?”

“Don’t know. Just a feeling, really.”

“What should I eat?” you frown, inching closer.

“Whatever you want,” he answers honestly. Laios believes in free will, but in some strange, completely unintelligible way, he thinks you deserve the most free will. He thinks you should do whatever you want, whenever you want, and he’s left confused how you don’t feel the same.

(feasibly in light of the night’s cannibal-themed fight) You suddenly suggest, “What about you?”

Laios freezes at that, all fire radiating from you icing over in an instant. Gaze sinking to his feet. Could he realistically agree to that? End his life to feed you? Does his devotion stretch so far?

Laios would hate to (permanently) die… but he would hate more for you to (permanently) die before him.

He dodges your question with one of his own, “Would you still like me if I was a monster?”

When he’s feeling distinctly indulgent, Laios flashes into long past fantasies of becoming a tri-headed beast.

And if he were to become one, would you gaze upon him just as kindly? Would Laios still be Laios to you?

His eyes follow each twinge in your face as you think, brows scrunching and bottom lip sucked between your teeth. Eventually you nod, slow and measured, “Yes. I would.”

Laios believes that, honestly. You would have to. You’re just that amazing. So, he should be amazing in equal measure -- or more, he should aim to impress you with his greatness.

So, yes. If you really wanted to. He could feed you with himself.

…

You wake up feeling unrefreshed.

Senshi, Marcille, and Chilchuck continue to bar themselves across the room from you. Laios freely travels from one end to the other despite your party’s annoyance with him. Grumbling stomachs echo from each person in the group now, and you wonder if maybe you should circumvent Laios’ rejection to feed your friends anyway. To make up for your various mistakes and blunders. It's only right.

You stare at Chilchuck’s back -- his arms no longer flailing with movement, hands instead paused around the box lock itself. He’s glaring at the mechanism, you think he’s hoping nobody notices his lack of effort. Marcille and Senshi are murmuring amongst themselves, casting wry glances your way every other sentence. Perhaps they’re discussing potential ways to make you suffer when they finally gut you.

You wouldn’t fight back, you know you wouldn’t. For the good of the pack’s survival, you’ll let them feast upon you.

(it does not once cross your mind that they could be talking about how to best convince you you’re wrong for writing your own consumption off so easily)

Laios sits at your back. Not moving. Not touching. Watching.

Your eyes drift from Chilchuck’s petrified frame to the floor, then to one cobbled block slightly lower than the others. About an inch below level, but not sunken in completely: the stone Senshi stepped on.

“Senshi?” you call.

No response.

“Hey, Senshi?”

He’s staring at you, but his eyes are hard to make out beneath his helmet. You shift upon your knees despite Laios’ soft bleat of disapproval. Marcille now stares as well, eyes much easier to spot when they’re wide with worry.

“I think this stone is…” you shove the step with your meager might and it budges a mere centimeter.

Laios’ hand overlaps yours, pushing down as well. The stone thuds loudly, and Chilchuck suddenly jumps back as the spears clink and shoot into the holed ground. He rockets back up to fuddle the lock, this time it clicks and pops open first try.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me!” Chilchuck kicks up at the retreating bars in vain. He whirls around to see you and Laios hunched over the stone and sighs, silently passing you both to collect his bags and exit.

Senshi and Marcille follow example.

Laios unlatches from your back, and you miss his warmth more immediately than you thought you would.

“I think I should leave the party.”

“Why?” he frowns so genuinely, you’d be unable to buy his cluelessness if you hadn’t known him for so long.

“They don’t like me anymore,” you settle both hands in your lap, plucking at the skin around your nails, “They know I’m useless.”

“So?” his tone is soft, so opposite to his callous start, “I want you here more than anybody. I’m happy to have people I trust and who are good at their work, but I think if you didn’t come with us back into the dungeon, it’d be another thing I’m always thinking of instead of what’s in front of me. And nobody gets my fascination with monsters like you do.”

“Senshi does…”

“I like you more than I like Senshi.”

“Why?”

Laios opens his mouth, teeth white and glistening in the soft flicker glow of dancing orange candle flame. You await his bite. He closes his mouth. You wish you were so confident to pry it wide and press yourself into his cheeks. You wish he’d just eat you whole. Spare no mind to how the others thought of it. If they won’t accept you bones and all, then you’ll continue to long for Laios. You can do that easily. You’ve been an expert in the matter since you joined his group.

“Nobody else will take me, Laios,” you greedily grasp him by the shoulder, “I’m being so selfish, but I need you to- !”

He slaps your hand away, reaching over your offending hands to snag you by your own shoulders, “I don’t want to hear that, you shouldn’t talk like that! You deserve to live, and eat, just like everyone else! We’re friends as much as we are party members, right? They wouldn’t stick around if they weren’t. Your friends wouldn’t want you to be eaten either.”

You glance at the archway, none of the three others are visible, “Is that why they were mad?”

“I can’t speak for them, but you should be up front about how you feel. Talk to them before leaving,” he lowers his head, “If you’re planning to leave still, anyway. Though, I really hope you stay.”

Laios is too afraid to say he’ll beg, if it would enrich the offer. The mere idea of your face twisting angrily or an annoyed rejection slipping past your lips kills him. With both you and Falin gone, Laios would feel a sense of estrangement he hasn’t since his army days. Loneliness amplifying until it's unable to be ignored. The grief and confusion of your loss would muddy the remaining friendly faces in his party -- the taste of monsters would even be dulled. Humiliation would rattle his sense of self everytime he remembered that you’re not even dead, just drifted away.

He’d never survive without you, but he refuses to steal your entire life that mercilessly so he pretends he could.

“If we all just talk to each other, then nobody has to get hurt,” Laios’ hands lower to yours, he squeezes gently while avoiding your eyes, choosing to study the way you lean into his touch, “I don’t want you to go. And I don’t want them to be hurt.”

“Okay,” you rise onto unsteady feet.

Laios separates from you to begin stowing away both your belongings while you squirm into the hallway in front of your party. They shuffle awkwardly, with only Senshi capable of meeting your eyes. Yet he stands the furthest from you.

“I- “ the words dance over your tongue, you thought you were prepared to say them. You’ll leave. You’ll leave. You’ll leave. But you can’t. The words trip and fall and tumble back into your throat before you surrender, “I don’t want to leave the party, but I am sorry for lying. I know I don’t do much, but I love adventuring with everyone. Really, I only- !”

“We were stressed,” Marcille steps forward, releasing one hand from Ambrosia to lay on your hand, “I don’t think it’d be easy on anyone to say the leftovers were actually gone. Especially when you knew that’s what we were relying on to not starve.”

Senshi nods slowly, “We weren’t expectin’ you to run off as apology. You’re young, you make mistakes.”

Marcille elbows your party’s half-foot.

Chilchuck sighs, shaking his hands out at his sides in the way your father used to, “I’m sorry. For calling you useless. I get why you lied, I probably would’ve done the same thing in your position to keep the party from freaking out. But, please,” his usually (deceptively) friendly and pleasant face has morphed into one of weary, a grown man concerned for a child, “Never say anything like that again. We don’t want you dead, let alone to eat your body. You have to plan to stay alive with everyone else, otherwise what’s the point of even joining the party?”

“Right. Sorry,” you blurt, increasingly ashamed of your suggestion earlier.

Their rejection stems not from disgust, then, but love.

They don’t want to eat you because to them you shouldn’t even die.

What a strange conclusion to now be forced to draw. You’re not sure how to swallow it, every time you try it rushes back up. Your friends’ concerned faces give you the determination to keep trying, though.

Laios barrels through the doorway -- redressed in his armor with the remaining bags slung over his shoulders, grinning broadly, “Looks like we can start walking again.”

Much to everyone’s chagrin, the trek towards the next floor begins on an empty stomach. When you reach up for the packs you usually carry, Laios jerks them from your grasp, you whine quietly, “Hey, that’s my job!”

“I know,” he shrugs the bags around his broad frame to fit them more comfortably, “but you haven’t eaten longer than me, and you didn’t sleep very well last night. So let me.”

His strides quicken until he’s by Senshi, you watch him point towards you and Senshi hums thoughtfully.

Your stomach rolls with hunger, and the sting makes you reach out for Laios. You slip your arms around one of his and cradle his elbow into your gut, reducing the ache with a different digging sensation. Laios leans towards you to make the work easier, all while continuing his conversation with Senshi about what the most delicious dungeon meal they could make you would be.

~~~

i like relationships where they dont understand each other but want to try anyway :3

i also love writing readers that are insane and fundamentally insufferable, but still loved

#laios touden x reader #laios x reader #dungeon meshi x reader #dunmeshi x reader #delicious in dungeon x reader

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brattyfork · 5 months

Text

drank

summary: matt n his brothers go to a party. he has fun but he missed you.

warnings: drunk sex, sub!matt+mommy kink lol

based on this request!

way back when, when matt and i first started having sex and figuring out our safe word, something interesting came up.

“what if i’m drunk?” i looked at him confused.

“what do you mean?”

“well sometimes when i’m drunk i get horny, i wanna have sex but i don’t want you to feel like you’re taking advantage of me”

“oh ok, uhh i mean we can still use the safe word in that situation right? ill just make sure you remember it before we start?”

“okay sounds good” he smiled at me.

the boys had some influencer party to go to, normally i’d tag along but i really didn’t wanna go anywhere, opting for one of matt’s tshirts instead of a crop top (is this line cringe?).

i knew matt wouldn’t do anything stupid at a party. furthermore, i knew nick and chris, mainly nick, wouldn’t let him do anything really stupid. i trusted him, i knew he’d feel the same about me going out, as long as he knew i’d be safe.

i decided to just sit on the couch, watch tv. i was watching criminal minds when i heard a car door outside. i could hear someone fumbling with the doorknob for a few seconds before before the lock turned and the door opened. nick walked in first, holding the door open for chris and a stumbling matt. he kicked off his shoes, slamming his hand on the wall, almost falling.

“how was the party?” i asked no one in particular.

“well they had fun” nick said, gesturing to the two younger triplets.

“it was cool, matt had too much to drink. lightweight.” chris rolled his eyes.

“be nice” i scolded. matt made his way to the couch, throwing himself over the back, sitting next to me then laying his head in my lap.

“you have fun baby?” i spoke softly.

“yes, missed you tho” i ran my hands through his hair.

“i missed you too my love” i dipped my head down to give him a sweet kiss. it quickly turned rough and needy. i pulled away, conscious of his brothers still downstairs. he let out a whine trying to chase my lips.

“you wanna go to bed baby?” i looked into his eyes, hoping he knew what i meant. his eyes were dark, not black with lust like usual, more doe-y, filled with need.

he nodded using all his strength to sit up, lifting his head off my lap. i stood up, looking back when i noticed he hadn’t moved. “cmon baby, let’s go” i tried to encourage him.

“mmmm, carry me”

“matt you know i can’t carry you, you’re too big”

“don’t be mean!”

“you know what i mean baby, you’re too strong and muscular”

“mhm”

“cmon get up, let’s go” i reached out my hand. he groaned, grabbing it and pulling with so much force i almost fell on him. i brought my other hand over, now using both my arms and all my strength to pull this man up. he finally stood up, he walked perfectly fine. i rolled my eyes, realizing he way just being lazy. he held my hand tight as i walked us up the stairs to our room. i pulled him into the room, he lets go of my hand, falling to the bed.

“how ya feeling baby?” i asked sitting next to him on the edge of the bed.

“i feel good, i missed you”

“i missed you too sweet boy”

“i really, really missed you” looking at me with his doe eyes, silently begging me to understand.

i leaned down to him pressing a sweet but deep kiss, pulling away shortly after.

“what’d you miss baby?” i whispered against his lips, pressing one more kiss to them before moving down his neck.

“your hands, your mouth, you” he whimpered the last word as i bit down into his neck, sucking a deep purple hickey into the soft skin.

“yeah? you want mommy to make you feel good? with my hands?” i ran my hands down his pants, resting my hands right next to his bulge. “with my mouth?” i placed wet kisses to his neck, grazing against the mark i left before.

“fuck yes please god yes”

“do you remember your safe word?”

“yes yes i know my safe word, just touch me already” i grabbed his face harshly.

“don’t be a brat, or ill leave you here to take care of yourself” i spat. he gave me puppy eyes.

“‘m sorry mommy”

“you gonna be a good boy for me?”

“yes yes, wanna be your good boy please”

i ran my hands up his shirt, moving them along his tummy before bringing my fingers to the hem and pulling it up. he got the hint and leaned forward, allowing me to take it off. i brought my hands down to his zipper. i began unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans when i felt him tug on the hem of my shirt. i pulled away, taking my hands off his lap to lift my shirt over my head.

when i looked back at him, his pants were down. i straddled him briefly, moving over him to the other side of the bed. i leaned down, kissing down his now visible v-line, slipping my fingers into the waist band of his boxers. his dick shot up, the tip red and needy, dripping with precum.

“aw baby. so worked up and i’ve barely touched you”

“please…”

“please what baby? what do you want?”

“need you to touch me please” i brought my hand up to his mouth.

“spit”

he did as i asked, or demanded i guess, and i brought my hand down to his cock, stroking up and down him a few times. he threw his head back, letting small moans and whines out, egging me on more.

i stroked him for awhile, focusing on the wonderful faces he made and his desperate noises. he started to squirm, trying to buck up into my hand.

“please mommy more i need more” i smirked at him, the sound of him begging was music to my ears.

i decided to be nice, letting spit fall from my mouth onto his cock before leaning down, sucking on the tip. as soon as i got used to his size in my mouth, i deep throat him, letting his tip hit the back of my throat.

this earned a loud “FUCK” from him, causing me to pull off, making him whine.

“you gotta be quiet baby, don’t want your brothers hearing how needy you are, do you?” i taunted, his cheeks turning a brighter pink. “gonna be quiet? be a good boy for me?”

“yes fuck i promise i’ll be good”

i brought my head down to his lap, taking all of him in my mouth at once. he bit his lip, the whimpers still sounding through. i sped up, going up all the way to the tip and quickly back down to the base. matt had stopped biting his lip, opening his mouth so he could let out large breaths. as i kept sucking him, his breathing turned to what could only be described as panting and fuck it was so hot.

“i-i’m close, f-fuck” he let out between pants. i thought for a second, stilling my movements before pulling off. he let out such a needy groan, i could’ve cum right then and there.

“why?” he looked to me, his eyes brimming with tears.

i gave him a kiss, feeling bad that he was upset.

“i’m sorry baby, mommy wants you to fill her up, don’t you wanna make mommy feel good?”

“yes fuck wanna be inside you mommy please god” he moved his hands up to my bra, still covering my chest.

“can you take this off? wanna see your pretty body” i smiled at him, moving my hands behind my back to unclasp it, pulling it down my shoulders making my tits bounce. i swear i could see some drool leave his open mouth. i quickly pulled my pants and underwear down, not wanting to make him wait any longer and needing him inside me.

i straddled his lap, rubbing my wet clit over his cock, still slippery from my mouth.

“ohmygod” he slurred out, making me giggle a bit, loving how much of an effect i had on him. i lifted myself up, taking him in my hand and lining him up with my entrance.

i sank down slowly on him, feeling every vein against my walls. his eyes rolled back into his head, a deep whine coming from his throat, harmonizing with my moans.

“fuck matty, so fucking big, making mommy feel so good” i bounced on him a few times before i realized how tired i was and began grinding instead.

“h-holy shit mommy, feels s’good”

“been such a good boy for me tonight baby, you wanna cum inside me?”

“fuck, yes please fuck oh my god”

i leaned down connecting our chests, moving my head into the crook of his neck. i sucked another mark into him, nibbling the rest of his neck before breathing on his ear.

“cum whenever you’re ready baby, gonna make mommy cum too” i continued grinding on him, his tip brushing the bottom of my cervix each time. i moved faster, chasing my own high. i felt him twitch inside me, sending me over the edge. i bit down on his neck, trying not to be too loud, matt cried out. between me biting him and clenching around him, his hips sputtered, unloading his cum as far into me as he could.

i let out a squeaky groan as he filled me up. there was no better feeling, his warm load sent me over the edge everytime. i came again, crying out as i clenched around his sensitive cock and began to twitch on him.

matt wrapped his arms around my lower back, trying to still my movements. we both came down from our highs, i lifted my head out of his neck, moving to look at him. his hair was messy, i could see the marks id left, his lips red from biting them so hard, his eyes glossed over.

i kissed him, passionately, there was no sexual motive behind it, i simply wanted to convey how much i appreciate him. he was incredible, in every single way, not just in bed, he was the perfect boyfriend. the perfect man.

“i love you more than anything”

“i love you too baby, so so much” he replied, brushing my hair out of my face.

i gave him another peck before moving to get off him, realizing his cum and cock we’re still inside me. he held my thighs, not letting me get up and i looked at him confused.

“will you uh- can we… sleep like this?”

“of course baby, you like how it feels? leaving your cum inside me? how tight i am around you?” i teased him.

“fuck don’t talk like that, i don’t have the energy for another round” he chuckled.

i gave him another kiss before laying down on top of him, moving carefully so he didn’t come out.

“goodnight matty” i whispered into his ear.

“goodnight my love”

a/n: hi yall, sorry i haven’t posted in a while. busy w school and on top of that we found out we gotta move. but i hope u guys enjoyed, i wrote most of this while high so if anything doesn’t make sense lmk. ALSO i am catching up on requests rn, if you requested something i promise i am working on it <3

#sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #matt sturniolo #matthew sturniolo #chris sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #nick sturniolo #nicolas sturniolo #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo smut

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 10 days

Text

the girl next door 22

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as age gap, manipulation, chronic illness, noncon/dubcon, coercion, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: A new neighbour moves in and upends your already disarrayed life.

Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself.

This lewk but silverfox

A man shows up shortly after. You think it’s the judge but you vaguely recognise his thick gray hair and his stance. Steve greets him happily and introduces him as Bucky; the other witness.

He nods at you and your mom as he crosses his arms and subtly checks his watch. He’s not dressed as nicely as Steve; he has no jacket but he wears a button-up and slacks. You wonder if he’s just as surprised by the whole affair or even if he has the context to be.

Your mom and Steve barely know each other. It’s only been a few weeks since he moved in. Isn’t marriage supposed to be a big thing? Something you do after at least a few years. Well, how do you know? All you know of normal life, you learned from TV and everyone knows that’s not realistic.

The judge arrives and introduces herself as the Honorable Valentina de Fontaine. Your vision is blurry as she begins by reading from a piece of paper. Is this how it really is? No romance, no fairy tale, just a stuffy city hall room and a judge with a script. You don’t know why it’s bothering you so much.

It’s just too fast. It’s too surreal. It just doesn’t feel real.

You can barely process the words as Steve and your mom stand before the judge. Their vows are lost to the void of your confusion. That man, Bucky, stands near, intently listening but showing no emotion. He senses you looking at him and gazes back at you. You quickly turn away and self-consciously pull at your dress.

You don’t move until your asked to sign. You take the pen but have a hard time getting a grip on it. How strange it all is. You manage to sign your name on the paper to verify your presence and step back. The declaration of man and wife echoes in your ears.

What does it all mean? Steve is... your stepfather now? Is he still going to live next door? Is he going to move in? Do you have to go? Where? What about your mom? She’s still sick. None of it makes sense.

The judge congratulates the happy couple. The do seem happy. You bend your arms over your chest and clutch the sides of your neck. You chew your lip awkwardly as your mom and Steve beam at each other triumphantly.

“Uh, right,” Steve snaps out of it, “so, we’re going to do lunch. How about it, Buck, you wanna join?”

Bucky looks dully at his friend then glances at you. You notice how your mom clings to Steve’s hand. All of this is so fast and so much.

“Sure, why not, I can drive this one,” Bucky says, “so you two love birds get at least the drive to yourself.”

“You don’t gotta do that,” Steve smiles.

“Don’t mind,” Bucky insists, “you two must be so excited.”

“Honey,” your mother keeps her voice low, “it’s alright, they can meet us at the restaurant, right? I mean, we’ll need to talk about a few things on the way.”

“Sure, uh, sure. There’s a reservation so you can just give my name,” Steve’s voice evens out, “see ya there.

“Mm, sure. Starving anyway,” Bucky mutters and turns to you, “coming?”

You look at the man then your mom Steve. Your mother gives you a look that says get out of here. Best that you don’t ruin the happiest day of her life. It truly does seem to be. You don’t think you’ve ever seen her anything close to elated but she’s just smiling and latched onto her husband.

Her husband.

You turn and follow the other man from the room. He slows his gait until you’re walking beside him. He’s quiet as you tread through the maze that is City Hall. As you get to the parking lot, he points you without a word. You go to a car and hear the locks slide back.

You wait until he gets in the driver’s side before you open the passenger door. As you buckle in, he checks the mirror and turns the engine. He sighs.

“Must be strange,” he comments as he reverses out, “new dad and everything, huh?”

You’re quiet but make yourself eke out a noise, “mhmm.”

“Sorry, I probably don’t make it any better,” he steers casually, “why don’t you save us both the trouble and find something to listen to?”

He turns on the stereo with a button on the wheel and you flinch. You hesitantly lean forward and search the stations. You don’t want to make him listen to anything too out of his preference and you’re a bit too embarrassed to search for what you really like. You settle on a station with old songs you recognise vaguely.

“Talking Heads, nice,” he comments. It takes you a moment to realises that’s the band’s name.

You nod and look out the window. He doesn’t press further. He doesn’t try like Steve to manufacture the conversation. He just lets you be. You can appreciate that. You watch the buildings pass by and flutter your fingers against your legs.

As the car pulls in behind a restaurant, you feel another lurch in your stomach. You’re both hungry and terrified. It’s a nice place and you’ve never been anywhere nicer than an Applebee’s. That was when you were eight and your grandmother took you out for your birthday.

You let Bucky take the lead. He gets out, you get out. He crosses the lot, you cross the lot. Right there at his side. He’s a stranger, you don’t know him, but his presence is almost reassuring. He has a confidence you could never fathom. Besides, what choice do you have?

You step inside and he steps ahead to meet the hostess. He gives Steve’s name and you trail after him as you’re led further inside. You see other diners dressed nicely for their meals. You look down at yourself and the faded polka dot dress.

You sit and wait. You’re on edge, waiting for Bucky to say something, anything. To ask you a question. So what about your mom? You take care of her? She’s sick, huh?

He lets you be and orders a coffee, asking if you want something at the same time. You just ask for water and sink into the chair. Your eyes wander over the floor and up another table. Another woman stares at you. You try to ignore her as the server nears and puts down the coffee and water, a small divet between his brows.

As you sip, you hear your mom’s crow above the din. You glance over as she walks ahead of Steve. The settle in and order drinks as Bucky greets them. It all still feels so disjointed, like a dream. As if the little pieces of reality have been stuck together haphazardly.

"There's the happy couple,” Bucky muses dryly.

“Says the eternal bachelor,” Steve retorts, “sound jealous, huh?”

“I’m quite happy, actually. Got my own space, my own bed, my own everything.”

“Sure,” Steve chuckles, “sounds amazing.”

“Any plans for the honeymoon?” Bucky asks though he sounds disinterested.

“Probably will have to wait a while. For now, we’re just gonna sort things out,” Steve turns and looks at you, “you’re quiet, kiddo, what’s going on?”

You shake your head and sit back as the server returns with a coffee for your mom and a grapefruit juice for Steve. You wait for him to leave but he doesn’t. You stare at the table and he clears his throat. You look up at the man as the table stills.

“Excuse me, miss, um,” he keeps his voice low, “this is a nice establishment so I’m going to have to ask you to cover up.”

You bite your lip and your eyes go wide, “what? I don’t...”

“You can put a napkin over your chest,” he suggests.

Steve lets out a heavy breath and your mother mutters under hear breath.

“I...” you look down and try to pull your dress up, “I’m sorry.”

“Here, take my jacket,” Steve stands strips off his jacket, offering it up. “Thanks, you can go.”

You accept his coat with a quavery thank you and he sits after the terse dismissal. With your head down and your body on fire, you pull the jacket around your shoulders, hiding in it. It smells like his cologne. Your eyes tinge and you roll them back to keep from crying.

“Wow, that was rude,” Steve says.

“Well, she shouldn’t be wearing something so inappropriate,” your mother snorts.

Bucky shifts awkwardly and you turn your face away, humiliated.

“Her dress is just fine. That guy has no right to be commenting on her body. We’re paying customers,” Steve snarls, “makes me wanna just go.”

“It’s okay,” you sniffle, “really.”

“It’s not okay,” Steve insists.

‘”Oh, honey, don’t be so dramatic,” you mother snickers, “if she didn’t want people to comment, she’d cover up.”

Steve is quiet as Bucky sips from his coffee. He clinks it down and you wince.

“I think you both should let her speak for herself,” he says bluntly, “and if she doesn’t wanna talk about it, move on.”

You blink and slowly peek over at the man. He doesn’t glance back or even acknowledge you. He just sits back and swirls his mug.

“I always hated places like this,” he scoffs.

#steve rogers #dark steve rogers #dark!steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #bucky barnes #drabble #series #the girl next door #mcu #marvel #au #silverfox au #captain america

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violentdelights-violentendss · 1 month

Note

How about BSD men when you're sick with a cold? (Totally not cause i have one rn lmaoo) I love your work btw <3

Thank you sm! And ofc! Hope you like this!!! (same, I was sick this whole week 😞😞 hope you get better soon)

(This is part 1. Part 2 with the rest of the members will come shortly!!!! I decided to slip it so at least one half of it was out…I think I might start doing this in the future to be able to post more frequently! Btw, I have seen all your requests and currently working on them!!!! Please keep requesting! I love every single one of them!)

BSD Men When Reader Is Sick With a Cold (P.1)

In this post: 🌹 Doppo Kunikida, Atsushi Nakajima, Yukichi Fukuzawa, Edogawa Rampo, 🌹

Pairing: Fem!reader/BSDMen

Synopsis; How would the BSD Men act when you have a cold.

Yukichi Fukuzawa

Fukuzawa, being the president of the Armed Detective Agency is a responsible person. The minute he notices you’re feeling sick, he takes care of you so well, he almost rivals Yosano. He makes sure that you take all your medications, constantly checking your temperature, and will not make you lift a single finger. You are his sick princess; you stay in bed and do absolutely nothing. If you ask for anything, he would rush to get it for you. With Fukuzawa’s love and great, responsible care, you overcame your cold very quickly.

“Where is (Y/N)?” His voice cut through the thick fog in your mind, sounding distant and echoing loudly. You winced, peeking open your eyes. Reality felt dreamlike; you saw Fukuzawa walk towards you, the view of your boyfriend slanted, as you were lying on the surface of the table in the conference room. You had hoped to refresh the burning hellfire that crackled in your mind, but with no avail.

“My dear,” Fukuzawa sighed, sitting down next to you. “You should go home.” He chided, pressing a large hand to your forehead. Your elevated temperature made his usually calm face grow worried. “You’re burning…you’re going home.”

You tried to protest, feebly gripping his arm to hold him back, but the worried glance Fukuzawa threw at you, seeing you pale, burning, nothing could convince him to make you stay at work.

You closed your eyes, your illness draining you far too much to remain awake. Every sound echoed in your ears, hurting your already weakened head.

When you blinked your eyes open, you found yourself in your apartment, and only vaguely remembered Atsushi bringing you home. Fukuzawa would have done so himself if he didn’t have a crucial meeting with a politician he could not avoid.

You dragged yourself to bed, too tired to change, only falling in your futon. Morpheus immediately pulled you under, dragging you to the depths of a dreamless sleep.

You opened your eyes suddenly, feeling a presence next to you even through your agitate sleep. Your eyes had to concentrate more than usual to focus on reality, ironing what was blurry, before you noticed the presence was Fukuzawa.

“Shh…I’m here, my love,” he whispered in your ear, adjusting the covers around you to make sure you weren’t exposed to any cold air. You immediately calmed down, snuggling against his chest. “Take this before you sleep,” Fukuzawa whispered, slipping two pills inside your mouth. You swallowed, knowing they were probably medication to reduce your fever.

You conked out right after, vaguely remembering finding it difficult to fall into deep sleep. You only found peace when Fukuzawa wrapped you in his arms, caressing your head.

You woke up the next morning to an empty bed. You sat up, pressing a hand to your forehead. You sighed in relief when you realized your temperature had gone down, but you still felt under the weather, your eyes burning, and your throat itchy. You glanced at Fukuzawa’s empty spot, wondering where he could have gone.

Almost sensing your thoughts, your boyfriend walked inside your room, carrying a mug of delicious warm milk with honey. “Good morning, sweetheart.” He cooed, seeing you sniffle sadly, clearly not happy you were sick. “I made this for you.” He handed the mug to you, making sure you didn’t burn yourself holding it.

“Yukichi, I don’t like being sick.” You whined, leaning against his side when he sat down next to you.

“I know, darling, but you have to rest to get better. And not stoically push through it like you were doing yesterday.” He chided softly, urging you to drink milk. You pouted, knowing he was right.

You couldn’t help but feel sadness crawl on your face, when you realized you wouldn’t be able to spend your few days off having fun with your partner, who you already saw too little of.

Fukuzawa realized, and to try and bring back the sparkle of happiness on your face, even amid a sore threat and runny nose, he leaned down to press a kiss to the tip of your nose. “Would you wish to watch a movie?”

As he had hoped, a smile brightened your face, and you almost jumped up in joy, Fukuzawa’s hand blocking you from doing so, afraid you would topple over sick. “Can we watch a romcom?”

“Whatever you desire, my love.”

The two of you cuddled in bed, using your laptop to watch your favorite romcom. You could have not been happier, snuggling underneath the covers with your perfect boyfriend, and Fukuzawa also enjoyed spending some time with you, peppering a series of kisses on your face every time the characters kissed on scene.

Edogawa Ranpo

Ranpo is…interesting when you are sick. It’s one of the few times he shuts down, and does not know what to do, or how to react. For once, the genius detective feels lost. When he realizes you’re sick, his first reaction is disgust, and worry that you could infect him, and then he freezes when he realizes you, his beloved (Y/N), is sick. Panic infects his body, and he just..crashes. It takes a few seconds for his heart to calm down, and to regain the composure on his face. All of his panic runs behind his face, only visible through his emerald green eyes to whomever knows him very well. The moment he has calmed down, he takes control, even if the fear of messing up and making you even sicker haunts his mind. Ranpo cures you slightly chaotically, forgetting to give you medicine and then remembering late at night, but he tries his best, and succeeds in making you feel better, inevitably being exhausted by the time you are no longer sick. Now it’s your turn to take care of him.

“Where is (Y/N)?” Ranpo asked, sulking at his deck, his lips wrapped around a vanilla lollipop as his green eyes scanned the office, noticing your absence.

“She took a day off.” Kunikida replied, not lifting his gaze from his computer.

“She didn’t tell you?” Dazai asked as he spun around in his chair, accidentally kicking Kunikida’s leg and then rolling away when his partner got mad.

Ranpo shook his head, sucking on his lollipop pensively. “Nope…I wonder why,” he thought aloud. You were his girlfriend, and always told him everything. He didn’t know why you didn’t tell him today that you wouldn’t be going. He knew you knew he preferred when you were in the office, brightening his day by just caressing his hand when you walked by, busy working.

When you were not there, Ranpo usually took the day off with you, doing whatever you had needed to be doing. For a second, Ranpo’s rapid mind jumped to the unrealistic thought that you might be cheating on him, but he quickly threw the idea away, not even considering it.

But the lack of knowledge irked Ranpo, and he didn’t feel like rummaging through his pocket to find his glasses to use Ultra Deduction. Instead, Ranpo tapped on his phone for a few minutes, calling your number.

The wait felt excruciatingly long, and he only focused onto the rhythmic beeping, completely ignoring Kunikida choking Dazai.

“Hello?” You answered, your voice strangely nasally and lower than usual.

“(Y/N)!” Ranpo called sadly, pouting. “Why did you not tell me you were taking a day off? I could come over and cuddle in bed with you,” he whined, throwing the finished lollipop in the bin.

You sighed: you had hoped you could escape telling your adorable boyfriend that you were sick. He always panicked, and exhausted himself while he took care of you, and you didn’t feel like draining his energies for a menial cold. But of course, nothing ever went the way you had intended it to, still feeling a little smugness lift your lips into a smile: Ranpo had noticed your absence almost immediately.

“I’m sick,” you explained. Almost to provide you with ironclad evidence, your throat started itching uncomfortable, and you coughed for a few seconds.

When your words registered in Ranpo’s head, he froze. His eyes went unfocused, and his phone almost slid out of his grasp. An avalanche of thoughts flooded his mind, the most common theme, fear and worry. Extreme fear for you, and worry because he didn’t know how to care for you; both feelings battled in his chest, a conflicting tsunami that only rendered his green eyes duller.

“Ranpo?” You asked, your voice rough after your coughing fit, but the silence on the other end of the line scared you more.

“I’m coming over.” Was the curt reply you got.

“Wait, what? Ranpo, no you’ll get sick — and he hung up.” You sighed, placing the phone back next to you, and waiting for Ranpo to barge in through your door.

It took a good thirty minutes, but your prediction came true. Opening with his copy of the key, Ranpo flew in, his arms decorated by various bags filled with medicines. “I’m here!” He gasped, his chest heaving.

“Ranpo, did you run?!” You croaked, trying to get out of bed and hold Rampo before he inevitably collapsed.

“No, of course not.” He replied, blatantly lying. He gently pushed you back down on the bed, climbing in after you. He emptied out all bags in the center of the bed, and you widened your eyes in shock at the medium sized pile that formed on your duvet.

“Oh my god…that’s enough medicine for a lifetime,” you whispered. You did, however, feel very loved, as you watched Ranpo rummage through the pile, trying to find a specific packet. This man, who hated exercise, had run around multiple pharmacies to try and find one that would make you feel better. Your heart melted into your chest, almost making your tired eyes teary. You gently clasped his hand, pressing a kiss to his knuckles.

Ranpo barely noticed, digging frantically. “Here it is!” He exclaimed victoriously shoving a small, blue box into your hands. “This is the best one for sore throats, apparently.” He said, a proud smile loitering on his face.

You opened it, downing the pills with some water. “Thank you, Ranpo,”

“Am I the best boyfriend or what?”

“You certainly are.”

Ranpo’s smile grew, and his cheeks darkened by a few shades: receiving praise from you was on the same level as receiving praise from the president from him. “Now, they said sleep helps as well, so we should sleep.” Ranpo declared, hurriedly placing all the medications on your bed side table, before dragging himself underneath the covers, and snuggling against you.

You laid your head on his chest, already feeling your throat become less irritated, letting you exhale peacefully. Ranpo fell asleep before you, his rhythmic breathing becoming your lullaby. As felt your eyes go droopy, and your mind quiet down, resembling a calm mountain spring, you could not help but think that you truly had gotten the best boyfriend in the world.

That claim was instantly withdrawn when you were shaken awake at 3 in the morning by a sleep-drunk Ranpo, who suddenly remembered you had to take another medicine in while talking that one. You sighed, but after all, it meant Ranpo truly loved you, and that was more than enough for you.

Doppo Kunikida

Kunikida is a man of rules, and ideals, and he tries to follow his life bound by his self-imposed rules. He has a specific page on his notebook dedicated to the procedure to follow when he, or you, go down with a cold. But his ideals, and rules get thrown down the drain when you actually have a cold. Like Ranpo, Kunikida freezes, but not because he does not know what to do, but because he wants to do everything in his power to make you feel better. Seeing you sick, and coughing makes his heart ache, and is what pushes him out of his brief moment of panic. Kunikida writes down your symptoms in his notebook, and goes out on a hunt to find the best medication. He will then take care of you lovingly, but also strictly, not letting you get out of bed, or miss some medications because you say you feel better. A small part of him will also be blaming himself for allowing you to get sick, even if he can’t protect you from everything. Kunikida will, however, always remain by your side, not caring of the perpetual danger of falling ill as well: he can’t leave you alone when you’re sick. You’ll be wrapped in his arms at all times, and that is one of the best aspects of being taken care of by Kunikida.

Kunikida was typing on his computer, filling a report that, initially, had been Dazai’s. He noticed movement from the corner of his eyes, noticing you slumping in the chair next to his.

“Kunikida,” you called, gently tapping on his desk to get his attention.

“Yes, darling?” He asked, still typing on his computer.

“Do I feel a little warm to you?”

Kunikida looked up from his computer immediately after hearing your words. He instantly stood up, walking towards you. Your health always took priority on his work.

You did look paler, and more tired, Kunikida thought, as he pressed his hands on your forehead. “You’re a little warm,” he sighed, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Unfortunately, I cannot go home with you right now.” Kunikida said, hurriedly looking through his notebook, snapping it closed in anger.

You waved your hand. “Don’t worry, Kuni, I’ll just go home by myself.” You tried standing up, but Kunikida gently pushed you back down on the chair.

“I can’t let you go home alone. You’ll stay here, and I’ll take care of you while I work.” Kunikida declared, picking you up in his arms.

“Darling, I don’t feel that sick…and taking care of me while you work will just exhaust you more than you already are!” You tried protesting, as your boyfriend gently laid you down on the couch in the Armed Detective Agency office.

“Taking care of you will never exhaust me.” Kunikida grumbled, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead. He took his jacket draped on the back of his chair and covered you with it, returning to his desk to continue working.

Throughout the day, Kunikida walked over to your half conscious, half sleeping form on the couch, taking your temperature, and bringing you cups of water to drink. Kunikida also gave you various medicines that he had quickly popped out to buy on his break.

Various times you caught him glancing at you with worry, feeling that he was not doing enough to take care of you. You also saw him intensely research which medication to give you, also going as far as calling Yosano (it was her day off) to ask her what she thought would be the best course of action.

Lying on the couch, slipping in out of sleep, you felt enveloped by the warmth of your boyfriend’s love, who took care of you efficiently even while he was working.

You slowly woke a few hours later, noticing that the bright sunlight had been replaced by the lukewarm colors of the sunset, and the agency was empty, only Kunikida remaining, sitting at his desk. His hair shone like golden strands in the light, and his grey eyes resembled pieces of melted starlight.

You pushed yourself up, noticing your fever had gone. Your throat was still itchy, and your nose still clogged, but you felt better, overall. You slipped Kunikida’s jacket on, walking quietly towards him. You leaned over his shoulder, caressing his cheek, your two shadows intertwined on the floor.

Kunikida turned to glance at you, surprised. “Do you feel better, sweetheart?” He asked, turning to face you, immediately pressing his hand to your forehead to check your temperature.

You leaned into his touch, nodding happily. “All thanks to you, my perfect doctor,” you cooed, sliding down in his lap. Kunikida turned a fiery red, looking away.

“(Y/N), this is highly inappropriate!” He squeaked, although his hands tentatively went to wrap around your waist.

“Oh, come on: no one else is here. It’s not like we’re fucking in public.” You joked, panicking when you heard Kunikida choke on his spit. You laughed, gently slapping him on his broad back. “Ah, what should I do with you?” You asked, peppering kisses on his jaw.

“Kiss me properly,” Kunikida said quietly, seemingly having abandoned the war cry of propriety.

You laid your head on his shoulder, admiring his sharp features that were only accentuated by the dying sunlight that slid through the large windows. “I can’t, Kuni, I’ll get you sick.”

Kunikida looked at you in silence for a second, also admiring your face, his eyes zoning in on your lips. You saw the internal struggle reflected clearly on his eyes, a dueling waltz between his love for you and his ideals.

“Oh to hell,” he croaked, before diving down to press a passionate kiss to your lips, even going as far as to slide his tongue inside your mouth.

Your eyes widened in shock, but you quickly responded, threading your hands through his hair. Kunikida slowly pulled back after a few minutes, both of you panting for hair and grasping onto each other. Kunikida turned even redder when he noticed a small string of saliva glittering between the two of you. He pressed his forehead against yours: “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“Oh! How cute!” Dazai called suddenly, waltzing into the room.

Kunikida never fainted so fast before in his life.

Atsushi Nakajima

Atsushi would know what to do, probably having to take care of his fellow orphans. But he will do everything with an underlining panic he will try to hide for your sake, but that you will inevitably notice because he’s soaking in sweat, even if it’s winter. It’s because he worries so much; anxiety crawls inside his body, and he almost dies on the spot. But once you reassure him that it’s just a common cold, his heart will stop running a marathon and he will calm down. Atsushi takes care of you with love, as well as diligence, sleeping lightly to make sure you’re sleeping well. He’ll make you take warm baths, helping you get out and in, and will cook you whatever you want.

When Atsushi had waltzed into your shared apartment, excited to take you out on a date, his heart had dropped to his stomach when he saw you bundled up in your futon, trembling.

“A-Atsushi!” You called, your voice nasally. You opened your arms, looking like a scarecrow draped in duvets and covers.

“What happened?” Your sweet jinko boyfriend asked, worry evident in his furrowed brows as he knelt next to you, tucking the covers back around your body to make sure no draft would touch your skin.

“Got a cold from my last mission,” you mumbled, sniffling. “Walking around the countryside drenched in cold, mountain water was not a smart idea.”

“You did what?!” Atsushi stared at you, even more worried because you had walked around for god knows how long shivering in the icy air. You smiled sheepishly. Atsushi sighed, exasperated, pressing one of his hands to your forehead, relieved that you seemed to have only a slight fever. But your shivers were worrying his already panic-stricken heart.

“I’ll make you some soup.” He started getting up, but you grabbed his loose tail and tugged back onto the futon.

“No…warm me up! You’re always so warm!” You whined.

“I’ll do that after I make you the soup, okay, love?” Atsushi asked, gently persuading you to let go of his belt.

You pouted, reluctantly letting go. Your face suddenly brightened. “What if you order pizza!”

“No! That’s not what you need right now!” Atsushi called from the kitchen, scolding you gently. You sighed, dropping back into the covers.

Your caring boyfriend soon walked out of the kitchen, holding a steaming bowl in his hands, his eyes fixated on the quivering soup that danced threateningly close to the edge, teasing to suddenly overflow.

Atsushi placed it down in front of, a sigh of relief rushing out of his lips. You giggled, eyeing the sweat that had accumulated on his forehead out of concentration. You reached down to grab the spoon. You blinked, and the spoon was gone, now tightly held in Atushi’s grasp.

“Absolutely not. I’m feeding you.” He said, deciding to ignore your questioningly raised eyebrow. “And I’m not exaggerating.”

You decided to stay quiet, and simply enjoy the care your boyfriend was enveloping you in, relishing in the joy of being loved. You obediently swallowed down the warm and delicious soup, noticing how it smoothed out the irritation in your throat. “It’s delicious, ‘Sushi,” You said, in between spoonfuls.

Atushi’s cheeks turned red, and he grinned shyly, playing around with the remaining soup in the bowl. “I’m a good cook, aren’t I?” You threw your arms around him, nuzzling your nose against his.

“The best cook.” Atsushi beamed back at you, kissing the tip of your nose as he put the bowl down.

Lazily, you trailed your hand down his chest, feeling his solid muscles underneath. An idea suddenly came to you, and a lazy grin spread on your lips. “Baby, I’m cold.” You whined.Your hand, who had momentarily stopped on his stomach, restarted its journey, slowing sliding down to to his crotch.

Atsushi, who had been resting his head against yours, pulled back to look at you, worry evident in his eyes. “You’re cold…— (Y/N), WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” He gasped in surprise when he felt your warm hand on his dick, his breath getting stuck in his throat.

“Thanking the cook for the delicious dish!”

“A-Absolutely not! You’re sick! No!” He stammered, his eyes wide and panicked, his hand immediately clasping yours and gently pushing you back down in the bed, tucking the covers around you, restricting your movements: Atsushi knew he couldn’t resist you for long, and needed to prevent your hands to linger on his body before he got a hard-on.

“Atsushi! What the fuck?!”

“You need to rest. Doing what you wanted to do is not resting.” Atsushi stumbled and tripped over his words, his cheeks burning with embarrassment. You huffed, rolling your eyes. Atsushi glanced at you, playing with his fingers. “If you’re better tomorrow then maybe…” He quietly trailed off, defeated by the small pout that lingered on your face. You immediately perked up, smirking at him. “B-but only if you feel better!”

“I’ll sleep right away and get all the rest in the world so I feel better immediately!” You giggled, lying comfortably down in bed.

Atsushi sighed, a small smile on his lips, knowing that his heart truly belonged to you. He quickly slipped underneath the covers, holding you in his arms to suppress the shivers that had suddenly returned. You soon fell asleep, and Atsushi stayed awake a few more minutes, making sure you weren’t uncomfortable, before letting himself be pulled to sleep. But not too deep of a slumber: he had to make sure you, his treasure, his princess slept fine throughout the night. He was ready to sacrifice his sleep for that.

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