Azriel never had a bad track. “Chain me to a tree, Rhys, go ahead. I'll rip it out of the ground and fly with it on my damned back. BANGER. “Be careful how you speak about my high lady” ICONIC. “I’m getting her back.” LIFE CHANGING. “Hold tight,” he ordered her, “and don’t make a sound.” UNMATCHED.
there’s a phenomenon when it comes to enjoying a male character in a piece of media where it’s so much fun and i love my blorbo and i want to talk about my blorbo and read analysis of my blorbo but i realize very fast and very hard that the majority of fans made up a version of him that appeals to their horniness and it’s become the popular and standard interpretation and i do not care for that guy at all like i’d beat him with hammers actually
content warnings: smut 18+ (dry humping, fingering, wingplay, p in v), language, slightly possesive Azriel
word count: 5.7k
synopsis: Azriel takes matters into his own hands when the leering males of Hewn City put you on edge. You never expected the night would lead to the two of you sharing a bed.
my masterlist
~ ~ ~
“Tell me what you’re thinking.”
Azriel’s voice was a low hum in your ear, his breath warm against the shell of your ear. Your own breath caught in your throat, your heart beating rapidly inside your chest. His scent suffocated you—cedar and salt mixed with the leather he wore like a second-skin.
You shifted—just barely—in his lap, but the sudden movement was enough to cause your wings to brush against his, and you both sucked in a sharp breath. Azriel’s grip on your hip tightened, his fingers digging into the flesh at your side, holding you in place.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, heat rushing up your neck and to the tips of your ears.
Azriel’s other hand came up to your face, gently turning your head to face him. “Don’t be,” he murmured, his voice so low, a mere breath against your flushed skin.
You turned away, resting your head against the slope of his neck, shifting your body once again to put yourself on display. Your eyes scanned the crowd of sneering denizens, the ballroom brimming with disdain and hatred only members of the Court of Nightmares could breed.
It was the Illyrians scattered amongst the crowd that unnerved you. Illyrian males, generals and their warriors, with wicked intent limning their eyes as they watched you. This was not a ball for the High Lord. This was not a Night Court ball. It was a ball for the equally depraved, coming together to conspire in the name of court alliances.
It was Azriel’s idea to attend the ball—to force them to house him as a guest of honor. It was Rhys’s idea to send you with him, and to feed into the depravity that would inevitably unfold. It had worked with Feyre once, why not play the card again?
Now you were draped in scraps of cobalt silk as you lounged in the Shadowsinger’s lap like a doll. An overt temptation for every male in the room—every Illyrian miscreant that thought it was their right to—
You closed your eyes briefly, pretending to bask in the heat and touch of Azriel—which, you were, to be fair—but it felt unhinged and tainted in a way that made you queasy. You slowly dragged your eyes up to his, and his gaze was still glued to you, his eyes hooded and shadowed in a way you had never seen before.
You tilted your head, Azriel leaning down ever so slightly so that your lips grazed his ear. You swallowed hard, steeling the nerves and want warring inside you. “I’m thinking,” you whispered, “that I hate the way they’re looking at me.” Your breath grew shaky as his fingers lightly grazed your ribs, goosebumps pebbling in their wake and letting you maintain the appearance of lust-drunk lovers. “They look at me like I’m theirs to claim,” you breathed out, your anxiety soaking the words.
Azriel stiffened, his gentle ministrations stalling and his grip on you tightening once again. “We can leave,” he murmured, his voice dark and strained.
You licked your lips, shaking your head softly. “We can’t.”
He squeezed your hips. “We can,” he growled, and the sound rumbled through you.
You knew he was entirely serious. You knew the moment you said the words, he would have the two of you vanish in a cloud of shadows, to hell with the whispers and taunts that would inevitably follow in your wake. You didn’t want to be the reason this ended poorly. You had agreed to this. You knew it would be unsavory, vulnerable—you just didn’t think it would unnerve you this much.
You didn’t think you would be affected by Azriel this much. You thought you could control it, stifle the longing and desire you had harbored for the male just as you had for so long already. Instead, you were a mess of nerves and primal instincts roaring inside you to do something, for fuck’s sake.
Then Azriel’s fingers grazed the underside of your chin, coaxing your head up to face him, the back of your head bumping against his shoulder. His eyes were filled with heat, a raw fury burning bright behind his irises that was so different from the usual icy rage that lurked beneath them. His eyes searched yours, your breath stalling in your throat as he leaned closer, his lips brushing against yours.
He lingered there, your frantic breaths mingling with his, electricity crackling down your spine with every teasing touch. His fingers dragged around to the back of your neck, gripping the hair at the nape of your neck, forcing your eyes open from the sudden sting. Azriel’s eyes were bright as they met yours, and you realized he wanted your attention. He wanted you to understand you could push him away. A shadow lightly traced the curve of your waist, and you knew he wanted you to understand that this was still him and you.
You nodded, the movement small and shaky, but Azriel didn’t hesitate to close the distance between you. His lips slotted with yours, warm and soft and demanding. He controlled every press, every nip, every ministration of his lips against yours. You were entirely pliable for him, euphoria clouding your mind as you gave yourself over to him—as you let him claim you.
His lips dragged away from yours, pressing frantic and desperate kisses along the underside of your jaw, all the way down to the side of your neck. You swallowed the whimper that clawed at your throat, blood rushing in your brain that turned the buzz of the ballroom into a dull and muffled thrum. Azriel sucked at the delicate skin of your neck, his teeth grazing it before pulling away. His chest rose and fell with slightly more effort than usual, the smallest crack in his stony facade that only you could see.
He dragged his thumb over your neck, pressing slightly against the now sore and undoubtedly marked skin. His hand fell back to your waist, and you were now sitting sideways in his lap—at some point you must have shifted to bring you closer to him. He pressed a gentler kiss to your cheek, then brought his lips back to your ear, but there was nothing quiet about the words he growled, “You’re mine.”
Azriel leaned back, shifting in the chair so that his legs spread a little more, jostling you slightly as he dragged your back to his chest once more, but still ever so mindful of your wings that draped over the edge of the throne. Your breath was labored and erratic, your pulse a loud thump in your ears and your skin set ablaze—your nerves and senses buzzing with an electricity that had no chance of dying out as you felt him hard beneath you.
Every second that dragged by as you sat in his lap only stoked the fire that had been lit in your core, and your blood was hot with desire as your body rested against the male you desperately wanted. The courtesans’ eyes that had previously raked over your body were gone, gazes now averted—not because they were uncomfortable with the blatant sensuality, but because they recognized the threat that underlined every one of Azriel’s actions.
Your fingers curled around his wrist that rested at your waist, a silent thank you that he acknowledged with a gentle kiss to your shoulder. His other hand curled around your leg, his fingers grazing the skin of your inner thigh, so close to—
His fingers dug into your sensitive skin, your breath catching. You tilted your head toward him, desperate for more but unsure how much further you were willing to go in this throne room. Azriel’s eyes were busy raking across the ballroom floor, and when his gaze caught on someone, you followed his line of sight to an Illyrian male whose eyes burned with disdain as he stared at the two of you—the male your father had tried to sell you off to as a pretty and obedient wife. Azriel’s lips slowly stretched into a wicked and satisfied smirk.
His lips pressed to the corner of your mouth, but his gaze lingered on the male that still made you feel sick with rage as you thought about the way he once touched you, the way he thought you would just give him what he wanted because your father had said you would. You leaned further into Azriel on instinct, your eyes falling away from the male you considered no better than the dirt on your shoes.
“We’re done here,” he murmured, his hands curling around you as his shadows swallowed the two of you whole.
You sucked in a breath as the darkness cleared, and Azriel gently set you on your feet, the cool stone of the Moonstone Palace somehow softer than the roughly hewn rock that had surrounded you moments before. A gentle breeze licked against your flushed skin, gauzy curtains that lined the balcony blowing in the wind. The quiet of the night wrapped around the two of you in a gentle cocoon, soothing the lingering anxiety that had hid beneath your skin.
Azriel’s hands lingered at your hips, his face soft now that the two of you were alone. You felt like you could finally breathe again.
“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice soft but rough.
You swallowed hard, the heat and desire from just moments before still buzzing through you, but now that you were alone—now that the act had dropped, you felt embarrassed and foolish for your loss of control.
You nodded, taking a step away, forcing his hand to fall away. Hurt flashed in his eyes, but he didn’t move. “I’m fine,” you answered, but your voice was small, embarrassingly weak and breathy.
Concern flooded Azriel’s eyes. “Sweetheart,” he murmured. That name nearly sent you to your knees. “That was a lot. It’s okay if you’re shaken.”
He took a slow step closer, his hand reaching for your wrist, but you pulled away. Agony lanced through his eyes, his face turning a bit ashen. “Did I do too much?” he whispered. His eyes were wide as they met yours, and his fear broke your heart in two. “I—I’m sorry. I thought—I knew you were uncomfortable, and I hated the way they were looking at you—so I thought—” He ran a hand through his hair, his shadows flaring outward before falling back behind him. “I didn’t mean to take advantage—”
Now you reached for his hand, your touch startling him. “Azriel,” you cut in gently, “you did nothing wrong.” Your thumb brushed against his hand, tracing the scars that lined his skin. “You’re right, it was just a lot.”
Azriel’s grip tightened on your hand, pulling your hand up to meet his lips. He closed his eyes as he pressed his lips against your knuckles, sending your heart rate soaring all over again. “We’re never doing that again,” he murmured, and before your heart could plummet too far, he added, “I’m liable to kill someone if I see them looking at you like that again.”
Your stomach twisted itself into knots as you debated your response, the words falling softly from your lips before you had really made a decision, “It wasn’t all bad.”
Azriel’s eyes snapped open, his hazel irises once again bright as they stared into your eyes. Then they slowly fell to your lips, and he lowered your hands back to your side. “No,” he murmured, “it wasn’t.”
His thumb brushed over the inside of your wrist, his other hand coming up to brush your hair behind your ear, revealing the expanse of your neck—revealing the mark he left there. His eyes darkened slightly, his pupils blowing wide. He licked his lips, rolling the bottom one slowly as he took you in, as if deciding what he wanted to do with you.
But then he murmured, “I should go.”
The disappointment that clanged through you was heavy and sharp, leaving cuts and knicks in its wake as it fell through you. You could have sworn the scent of his own desire was mixing with yours—for the briefest moment you thought he might—
“Is there anything you need,” Azriel added suddenly, his voice heavy and slightly desperate, “before I go?”
Your eyes snapped up to his, and there was no mistaking the longing in his eyes—no mistaking what he was really asking you, what he was hoping you would take.
So, Cauldron damn you, you took it.
Your hands came up to his face, pulling his face down to press your lips to his, the earlier electricity that had thrummed beneath your skin exploding now that you were alone. It traveled up and down every inch of your skin, and you gasped as Azriel’s hands snaked under your legs to lift you up. You kept kissing him, the new angle making it easier to take what you wanted.
Azriel kissed you back feverishly, pulling at your lower lip every time you leaned away to catch your breath, but there was no mistaking that you were in control this time. His hands were warm against the bare skin of your thighs, the silk scraps of fabric doing nothing to cover yourself from him. Azriel sent the two of you stumbling into a wall, his hand coming up at the last second to protect your head. His other hand held you up, pinning you against the wall as his lips moved back to your neck, his kisses no longer controlled and calculated but entirely wanting and reverent.
You had dreamed of this.
Azriel groaned, and an entirely new warmth bloomed in your chest, covering you from the inside out. You grasped at his neck, your fingers twining with the soft strands of his hair as his hips thrusted against you, the friction making you gasp as heat pooled in your belly.
“Azriel,” you gasped, and he did it again, the motion jagged and hurried as if he couldn't control himself.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he said breathlessly against your neck.
You wiggled your hips, desperate for more, for him to keep moving. “Not this again,” you whined.
Azriel moaned as you ground down onto him, then pulled his lips back to yours. He let you kiss him for just a moment, let you bite his lip before he pulled away again. His eyes were wild as they met yours, his hand behind your head coming around to brush his knuckles against your cheek. “Tell me what you want, baby,” he whispered, his hips shifting just enough to catch against your barely covered core. You gasped, your head tilting back against the wall. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll give it to you,” he promised, dragging his lips over the skin of your collarbone.
You held his head against you, desperate for his lips to continue their path across your skin. “I—”
The words died in your throat as Azriel gripped your hips, shifting your body so that your core rested on his thigh, a gasp falling from your lips. He guided your hips ever so gently, just enough to taunt you and tease you with the perfect pressure, the perfect tendril of pleasure curling through your core. “Fuck,” you gasped, your head falling to his shoulder.
“Tell me,” he begged, still expecting you to form a coherent thought, to speak, when he was doing this with you.
“I want—” Another glide of your hips, another breathy moan breaking up your words. Azriel’s fingers dug into your hips. “I want you to fuck me—” you whimpered. Your hand rested against his cheek, Azriel leaning into the touch. “I want you to fuck me like you meant what you said.”
Azriel’s movements stuttered, and a flush of embarrassment started to quickly spread up your neck. The air was still charged, but it grew heavy as he stared at you, as he processed your words.
His throat bobbed, and his hands slid back to the underside of your thighs, holding you against him as he carried you over the oversized bed. He laid you down gently, your wings flaring out on either side of you as he followed after you, crawling over you until he could lean back down to press his lips against yours, this kiss softer than any of them.
His nose dragged across your cheek as his mouth hovered by your ear, his body entirely covering yours as he hovered mere inches from your body. “You want me to fuck you,” he murmured, “like you’re mine?”
Your chest was hot as he leaned back to look at you, as you realized the fabric covering your chest had slipped away, leaving you bare and exposed. You worried you had gone too far, that you had just ruined this, made this something it never would be.
“As if that was ever in question,” Azriel growled, and your eyes fluttered shut when his hand came to your chest, his fingers shoving the silk aside to toy with your nipples. Then his mouth replaced one of his hands, his lips wrapping around you, his spit slicking the sensitive skin as his tongue laved over it, your skin on fire for an entirely different recent.
Azriel pulled away, tugging at the tangled pieces of silk wrapped around you, until they finally gave away with a loud rip. “That wasn’t mine,” you chided, though you didn’t really care.
“I know,” he murmured, his lips pressing against your hip, just along the edge of the lace that covered your core. “I bought it.”
You blinked, your brain snagging on his words in the middle of your haze. “I thought Rhys—”
“I wasn’t letting my brother choose which sinful gown would grace your body,” he growled, his fingers curling around the waist of your underwear.
Your head fell back into the pillows as he trailed kisses down your thigh, dragging the lace slowly down your skin until you were completely bare before him. You were completely bare—and he was still entirely covered by his leathers.
“The dress,” you murmured, eyes fluttering shut as Azriel’s lips dragged closer to your center. “It was the color of your siphons.”
Azriel chuckled, slightly sheepish, slightly self-deprecating, and when you forced your eyes open, you saw a faint rosy hue dusting his cheeks. “I’m well aware,” he murmured.
“I liked it,” you whispered.
Azriel’s eyes flashed with something so raw and primal it sent your heart racing, and then he was flipping you onto your stomach. His hands rubbed over the back of your thighs, and when his fingers finally grazed the slick collecting between your thighs—he pulled away.
You whimpered, but he shushed you gently, pressing a kiss to the middle of your spine, right in between the base of your wings. “If anything is too much,” he murmured, voice low but entirely serious, “I want you to tell me, and we’ll stop.”
You nodded absently, desperate for him to just get on with it already—to touch you—but his hands squeezed your hips as soon as you started to wiggle against the comforter. “Promise me?” he asked.
You nodded again, voice breathy and desperate as you said, “I promise, Az.”
His hand ran down the length of your spine, making your shiver. A shadow brushed your face, and there was something oddly settling about its presence, and about the familiar nickname that fell from your lips as Azriel admired your body.
“Good,” he murmured. Then his fingers slid through your core, stroking the tender flesh with slow and deliberate ministrations, until finally his finger sank inside you.
You moaned, desperate for him to keep going, to keep moving, but he waited a second, letting you adjust, and then he slowly dragged it back out. He didn’t wait to add a second finger, the stretch burning a little more, but it only made you desperate for him. He picked up his pace, stroking and pressing against the most sensitive parts of you, pushing you closer and closer to a precipice you were desperate to fall over.
His other hand slid beneath you, pulling your hips up slightly so he could circle your clit, the added pressure sending you over the edge. You trembled as you came, as you held onto his wrist against your stomach, your body overcome with the pleasure he plucked from you.
You don’t know how long you stayed like that—don’t know how much time had passed before he pulled his fingers from you. Your brain was light and fuzzy, drowning in pleasure and euphoria and disbelief that this was where you were, and this was who you were with.
Azriel pressed another kiss to your spine, the touch gentle and loving and wanting. His fingers grazed the base of one of your wings, making you shudder. Sudden trepidation spread through you, nerves coiling tight where your pleasure was still pulsing.
Azriel stilled, his hand falling away. “Sorry,” he murmured, his nose brushing against your shoulder gently.
“It’s okay,” you murmured. “No one has ever touched my wings.”
“That’s okay,” he murmured against your skin, assuming it was a dismissal, a request to move on.
“You can,” you hurried out, and Azriel’s movements faltered again. “If you want.”
Azriel groaned, his forehead falling against you. “Of course I do,” he murmured. “Just—hang on.”
He pulled back, then turned you over gently onto your back, letting you adjust your wings before laying you down again. His face was flushed, and a smile spread across his face when he met your eyes.
You couldn’t help but smile back. “Hi,” you murmured, face heating from your awkwardness.
Azriel’s grin grew. “Hi.”
You glanced down at his leathers, reaching up to place your hand against his chest. “Do you think you can undress too?” you asked softly.
Azriel glanced down, as if just realizing he was still dressed. He cursed under his breath, immediately pulling away to start stripping away his leathers. You watched closely, your breath stuttering from just how beautiful he was. His body was sculpted to perfection, muscles built and honed over centuries of training rippled with his movements, scars littering his skin from wounds even healers couldn’t mend perfectly.
Then he slid his underwear down his legs, and you suddenly found it hard to swallow. Azriel blushed when he found you staring, but he quickly moved to rejoin you on the bed. His hand stroked your side, and his shadows had grown more frantic, more of them breaking away to stroke against the curves of your body.
Azriel pressed his lips against yours again, and the feeling of his skin against yours was downright euphoric—you felt like you were floating. Then one of his hands slowly reached behind you, and his fingers traced the delicate membrane of your wing. You shuddered, the touch entirely foreign and wonderful all at once.
“Still okay?” Azriel asked softly, his eyes meeting yours.
“Yes,” you breathed out. Your eyes fluttered shut as he traced up the membrane until he reached one of the ridges, dragging his fingers along the sensitive skin. It was unlike anything you had ever experienced, unlike anything you had ever done to yourself.
You shuddered as pleasure traveled down your spine. You relished in the gentle ministrations, and when Azriel leaned down to press his lips against the top of your wing, you whimpered. Your eyes caught on his wings draped over the two of you, and in a desperate attempt to give him just a fraction of the pleasure he was giving you, you reached for his wing, your fingers brushing hesitantly over the dark membrane.
Azriel shuddered, his body curling into you. “Fuck,” Azriel groaned.
You pulled your hand back quickly. “I’m sorry—”
“Don’t be,” he assured. He brushed his thumb over an extra sensitive part of your wing and you thought you might fall apart all over again. “You can do whatever you want to me,” he said, voice gravely.
You swallowed, reaching out shakily to brush against his wing, trying to replicate the ministrations he was making on yours. Azriel whimpered, his head falling into the crook of your neck, and you couldn’t believe you had him like this. Your other hand curled around his neck, holding him in place.
The two of you chased your highs, touching and stroking and feeling every inch of each other—it was undoubtedly the most intimate thing you had ever experienced—and as soon as you were certain you were about to explode from the high, Azriel pulled away.
He looked down at you, his eyes flitting down the length of your bodies, memorizing the way his body pressed against yours. “Sweetheart—”
You nodded frantically, your hand cupping his cheek. “Please,” you begged.
His forehead fell to yours, and he dragged himself through your folds, coating himself and building the pressure once again in your stomach. Then he caught himself on your entrance, the tip of him just barely slipping inside but already stretching you. “Shit,” you whispered.
“You feel so good,” Azriel breathed out, his cheek pressed against yours. He pushed himself in further, slow and gentle as he let you adjust slowly, and the both of you were trembling in each other's arms. “You want me to fuck you like you’re mine?”
He pulled out slowly, and when you nodded, he thrusted in hard, his hips going flush with yours and pulling a moan from your throat. “You are mine.”
“Yes,” you moaned.
He repeated the motion, the friction quickly fanning the fire growing between the two of you. “Say it,” he groaned, more of a plea than a demand.
“I’m yours,” you moaned, breathless and exhausted and in utter bliss.
Azriel dropped random and frantic kisses to your skin. His thrusts grew quicker and more intense as his hands gripped your hips. He lifted one of your legs to hook around him, and the change in position let him push even deeper, somehow drawing him in even closer.
One of his hands left your hips to clasp gently around your throat, his grip sliding up to hold your jaw and pull your gaze to his. “You’re mine,” he said again, voice near desperate. “And I’m yours.”
I’m yours.
It was embarrassing how quickly the words sent you toppling over the edge, an overwhelming rush of ecstasy consuming your mind, body, and soul. You never wanted to come down. You wanted to stay here, with Azriel, in this moment where he said things to you like he was yours and you were his. The earlier events of the night were a distant memory, and you were determined to hang onto him and this moment as long as he let you.
“You’re breathtaking,” he murmured, his thrusts growing frantic and even more desperate. “You’re everything.”
Azriel’s hips stuttered, his warmth filling and coating every inch of you. His breathing was heavy, warm pants brushing against your skin as he collapsed against you. He pressed a gentle kiss to the side of your jaw, and you were suspended in a state of utter disbelief that this just happened.
Azriel slowly pulled out of you, groaning softly as he watched. You whimpered when he left you, and he shushed you gently as he rubbed his thumb on your hip. “You okay?” he asked.
You nodded, too exhausted to form a coherent response.
He pressed one more kiss to your lips, then rolled off you. “I’ll be right back.”
You watched him walk into the bathing room, picking up his underwear on his way. You climbed under the covers while he was away, the chill of the air creeping into your bones now that his warmth was gone. He returned just a moment later with his underwear on and a towel in his hands. He crawled back onto the bed, pulling at the covers over your chest, but you tugged them back. “What are you doing?”
His fingers stayed curled around the duvet, a confused lilt to his lips as he watched you. “Cleaning you up?”
Your face went hot. “I can do that.”
“I’m sure you can,” he said, gently coaxing the blanket away from your body, your grip slowly growing slack. “But I’m going to take care of you, okay?”
You nodded, your entire body going fuzzy as Azriel smiled at you softly, his gaze reverent as he peeled the covers away, and then gently coaxed your legs apart. He wiped down every inch of you, and you were certain that you had never trusted someone as much as him.
You were certain your heart belonged to him, and you had most likely royally fucked yourself over by not only sleeping with him, but falling into the intimacy of it. It wasn’t just two friends fucking—not to you, at least.
You could still feel a warm and electric pulse slowly beating in your chest, as if you were physically bound to him. Azriel tossed the cloth on the floor, seemingly unworried about the mess, and then climbed into bed and pulled the covers up over both of you. He tucked your body against his, your cheek resting against his chest, and when his wing draped over the both of you, you had forgotten why you were worrying.
~ ~ ~
It was unusually bright in your room, the light making you scrunch your face up as you curled away from it, burying your face in your pillow—only, it wasn’t your pillow your cheek was smushed against. Azriel was asleep beside you, his bare chest acting as your personal pillow while his arm looped around you.
His nose scrunched up when he shifted into a beam of sunlight, lifting his arm to cover his face. He pulled you closer, curling into you just as you had to him—then his eyes flew open. He glanced down at you, startling when he found you already watching him.
His cheeks immediately turned pink, and you could feel your own flush creeping over your skin. “Good morning,” he mumbled, almost shy.
“Good morning.”
Your fingers rested against the center of his chest, and you were scared that if you moved you would burst the delicate bubble surrounding the two of you.
Azriel didn’t share that same fear, it seemed, his warm hand rubbing up and down your spine. “Do you feel okay?” he asked, his voice thick with sleep.
You nodded, noticing the lingering soreness between your legs for the first time—but it didn’t hurt.
Azriel hummed, pulling you flush against his chest. “Good,” he mumbled. “How long do you think we have before Rhys drags our asses back to Velaris?”
Anxiety twisted in your chest, and that was when you noticed the glowing ember still pulsing behind your ribs—stretching out toward the male who held you in his arms. Did he feel it? Was it really possible that he was your—
A tug against your ribs made your breath catch, and you glanced up at Azriel to find him watching you with soft eyes, apprehension now lining them. “I feel it,” he whispered.
Your eyes started to water and your nose burned as you felt for the thread that tied your souls, tugging at it once just to make sure—
Azriel flinched, his own breath catching.
“Do you want this?” you asked, voice shaky and terrified by what he might say. Do you want me?
His throat bobbed, and guilt started to creep into his eyes, your stomach dropping. Then he continued his soft ministrations against your skin, and pressed a soft, hesitant kiss against your forehead. “More than anything,” he whispered. “I’ve known about the bond for a while.”
Your heart stopped beating. “How long?” you made yourself ask.
A beat of silence passed, then, “A couple of months.”
Months?
Why had he never told you? Was he disappointed? Did he not want—
“Sweetheart,” Azriel said gently, his thumb brushing against your cheekbone. “It was because I was scared.”
You squeezed your eyes shut, remembering now the tether that the bond created between not only your souls, but also your minds. You forced yourself to open your eyes, to face him and his unrelenting patience. “Scared of what?”
“Not of you,” he murmured. He brushed your hair behind your ear, the strands undoubtedly frizzy and unruly from last night’s activities and hours of sleep. “Never of you. I was scared you wouldn’t want me—and then I was scared you would, and that I could never be the male that deserved the title of your mate.”
His hand brushed over your head, as if he needed to keep touching you, needed the reminder that this was real—you were real, and you were in bed with him. You knew that feeling well.
“Clearly, last night I let my desires overrule my fear.”
“And now I know,” you said quietly.
“And now you know,” he said.
“You don’t have to earn me,” you told him gently, heart cracking at the thought of him believing himself unworthy of your mating bond. “You’re already enough as you are.”
He made a sound that sort of sounded like a laugh—a disbelieving one at that.
You tilted your head up to face him, your hand coming up to tilt his face down toward yours. “I mean it, Azriel.” Your thumb traced the edge of his lips. “I meant what I said last night.” I’m yours.
His eyes snapped open, flaring with heat and awe. “I meant what I said,” he told you quietly.
“Good,” you murmured.
You pressed your lips to his, uncaring that it was early morning and you were both still addled with sleep. His lips moved softly and lazily against yours, his hand pulling you flush against him by your hip.
You pulled away after a bit, wanting to look at him again. “I’ve dreamed of this,” you admitted softly, a bit of awe and bashfulness mixing inside you.
Azriel’s face split into a grin, his eyes crinkling at the edges. “I know.”
You shoved at his shoulder, the push so light he barely moved, and then he wrapped his arms around you to crush your face against his chest again. You laughed, feeling light and free and loved. “Of course, you do.”
summary: On a rare night alone in the House of Wind, the worst storm in decades strikes. It wouldn’t be a problem if they didn’t make you so uneasy. Luckily, the House isn’t as empty as you thought.
word count: 11.7k
content: [ explicit sexual content, oral sex (f receiving), piv, explicit language, there's only one sleeping bag, y/n is scared of storms, very briefly insinuated tamlin x reader, daemati-use, wet dreams, lovemaking for the most part but we get rough for a sec ]
author's note: we’re gonna assume mental shields stay up during sleep…. yeah...
✦ . 1k Celebration Apothecary . ✦
midnight essence
infused with a veil of dreammist & a dash of blaze
enhanced with lover's knot & starlight crystals
stirred
thank you anon for the request!!!! i'm finding i really enjoy writing friends to lovers this is so sweet :") anyway i hope you like this one!! <33
The cold in the Winter Court didn’t seep into your bones—it gnawed at them. Gnawed like it had teeth and purpose and the unrelenting patience of a predator that knew you’d wear down eventually.
You’d stopped pretending to sleep an hour ago, after the lantern blew out. The wind outside the tent moaned like a creature in mourning, threading through the seams and catching in the corners of the thin canvas until it felt like the whole thing might lift and carry you off with it. You pressed deeper into the bundled cloak beneath you, trying not to shiver too obviously. You failed.
You were wrapped in more layers than you could count—thermal base, thick wool, a coat heavy enough to double as a blanket—but it still wasn’t enough. Even Rhys, normally indifferent to climate or discomfort, had resorted to cloaks and furs, the sharp line of his jaw the only part of him visible from beneath the hood pulled low.
Behind you, Rhysand exhaled, sharp and irritated. “You’re shaking so hard I can feel it through the ground.”
You didn’t open your eyes. “You always this broody when you’re forced to keep all that power on a leash?”
A beat. Then—“Keep talking and I’ll show you how not broody I can be.”
You snorted, cracking open one eye. “That doesn’t even mean anything.”
“I’m cold. I’m tired. I haven’t let my magic out at all in twelve days. Give me a break.”
You finally rolled over to face him, the dim moonlight filtering through the tent’s fabric casting his features in pale blue and silver. There was a tension around his mouth, in the fine line between his brows. He hadn’t looked truly relaxed since your boots first crunched through the snow at the border.
The artifact—known only in whispers as the amulet of Larethine—was said to suppress magic so completely that even a High Lord’s power would snuff out like a candle. Rumored to have vanished after the war centuries ago, it resurfaced in scattered reports. They all pointed to the same abandoned temple buried somewhere in the Winter Court’s northern edge, where the snowfall was so constant it blanketed even sound. Rhysand intended to retrieve it quietly—before word spread and the wrong hands reached it first. So here you were. Nearly two weeks with no magic, no contact, no help. Just the two of you, and a map worn soft at the creases.
Rhysand’s power coiled beneath his skin like a thing alive, begging to be freed. But Kallias’ wards draped over the court like a net of ice, intricate and merciless. The second he even brushed the world with a tendril of it, you’d be caught.
You hadn’t expected it to wear on him like this.
“Your pack,” he said after a pause. “Still soaked?”
You winced, remembering the misstep near the creek a few days ago, then nodded. He shifted. “Come here.”
You blinked. “What?”
“Your pack, and everything in it—including your sleeping bag—is useless. It won’t dry in this weather. Either we share mine or I watch you freeze to death. I vote the former.”
You hesitated, the silence between you swelling into something tight and uncertain. But then another gust of wind screamed past the tent, and pride gave way to practicality.
“Fine.”
You crawled across the narrow space and slipped into the sleeping bag beside him. It was cramped—painfully so—and the moment you settled, his body pressed to yours, impossibly warm. You turned onto your side instinctively, back to his chest. You could feel every breath he took, feel the slow thump of his heart against your spine, the barest hint of muscle shifting when his hand curved around your middle, settling just beneath the edge of your ribs, his palm held steady against you.
Behind you, something rustled, and then the faint brush of membrane—Rhys shifting, one wing sliding from the sleeping bag in a slow stretch over you.
“Don’t you dare,” you whispered. “That thing freezes and falls off, we’re really fucked.”
He snorted quietly. “It has excellent circulation, thanks.”
“Put it away.”
Another rustle of fabric as he tucked the wing back inside.
“Warmer now?” he said dryly.
“Mm.”
The silence this time wasn’t uncomfortable. You listened to the wind, to the soft crinkle of fabric with each small movement, to the quiet hum of his presence behind you. It was startling, how much space he took up without speaking, how much lighter the silence felt now that he was pressed against you.
His breath stirred at the hair at your nape. You tensed, then forced yourself to relax again, inching away a fraction. He followed.
“Rhys.”
“What.”
“You’re breathing on my neck.”
A pause. Then, shamelessly: “It’s where your neck is.”
You huffed, and he chuckled—a rare sound lately. Low and warm, it rolled through your back where your bodies touched, and you had to fight not to smile.
After a long moment, his voice came again, quieter.
“We’ll find it tomorrow.”
You gave a small nod, felt more than seen.
He shifted behind you, the subtle movement bringing his chest closer to your back, breath skimming your hair. “Then we get out. We go home.”
You let out a quiet breath, just enough to fog the air in front of you.
“You always this optimistic at night?”
He hummed low in his throat. “Maybe you bring it out in me.”
That pulled a small, tired smile from you.
“Must be the frostbite. You’re delirious.”
His fingers flexed slightly where they rested at your waist.
“Mm. That, or the cold makes me honest.”
Something in your chest ached—not sharp, but deep. You didn’t answer. Just let the silence settle soft around you.
Sleep found you curled into his warmth, his hand resting at your waist, his breath a gentle rhythm against your skin. And in the morning, with the air sharp in your lungs and the scent of pine still clinging to the chill, that warmth lingered over your skin.
The cold in the Winter Court hadn’t gone with the morning light. You’d found Larethine two days after that—tucked beneath the roots of an ancient ice-locked tree, a whisper of power veined through crystal. The mission had ended days later in a quiet exhale, a long journey home trailing behind it. It had been nearly three weeks since then. Long enough for bruises to fade, for muscle to stop aching.
Still, the cold seemed to have burrowed itself into your bones, the bite of it still there, even in the warmth of your bed in the City of Starlight.
You woke to the sound of wind clawing at the windows. A storm, full and furious, had settled over Velaris—the kind that turned the Sidra restless and made even the stars hide. Thunder cracked a beat later, loud enough to shake the walls.
Your heart was already racing, breath shallow and tight, at odds with the warmth wrapped around you. You lay there a moment, still and listening, the storm rattling through your bones like it had teeth again. They’d always scraped at your nerves, left them humming like struck strings.
The covers were a tangled mess around your hips, shoved down in sleep. Your T-shirt had ridden up high, bunched beneath your ribs, and when you looked down, you caught a glimpse of bare stomach, underwear, the slope of one thigh kicked over the sheets. You shifted, tugged the hem back down, fingers moving slow and clumsy like they weren’t entirely yours.
You remembered bits and pieces of the dream, not that it’d been much different from the others you’d had since that night. Tonight, he hadn’t been content just to hold you. His hands wandered. His mouth dragged slowly over your skin, coaxing sounds you’d never let slip in daylight. You woke slick between your thighs, the ache lodged deep and stubborn.
Another crash of thunder rolled across the rooftops. You pushed the blankets off and swung your legs over the side of the bed. The house was magicked to stay warm; your skin was slick with sweat, and still, you felt chilled.
You didn’t think about it. Didn’t bother with pants or slippers. Just padded into the hall in your T-shirt—soft, worn thin, hem brushing mid-thigh and swaying with every step.
The storm pressed against the glass. The quiet inside felt louder for it.
You moved through it automatically, headed for the kitchen. The house was still, shadows long and familiar, but your mind had already drifted somewhere else—somewhere colder.
You hadn’t stopped thinking about that night. Maybe you’d tried to. Maybe you’d told yourself it hadn’t meant anything. But your body remembered. Before your thoughts could catch up, your body remembered—his warmth at your back, the weight of his hand at your waist, the breath at your neck.
That same tension had curled beneath your skin now. You hadn’t realized you missed it until it came back.
The air had gone heavy the moment he touched you, and you hadn’t breathed properly since. You hated how your body still reacted—like it didn’t care what your mind had decided. Like it knew better.
Maybe it did.
You reached the stairs and took them without thought, one hand trailing the banister. The house didn’t creak beneath you. Even your own footsteps felt hesitant, like they didn’t want to disturb the memory.
You’d spent weeks pretending it hadn’t changed anything. That you were still the same. That he was.
You stepped into the kitchen without turning on the faelights. The storm outside pressed at the windows, a steady beat of rain—or maybe snow—smeared against the glass in streaks. Slush, probably.
You moved on instinct, pulled the kettle from its place, filled it from the tap. The cool weight of it settled in your hands, grounding—but not enough.
You set it on the stove and twisted the knob, a faint click giving way to the low hum of magic-warmed coils. Still, your thoughts refused to quiet.
You’d been telling yourself you hadn’t wanted it. That it had just happened. But you remembered leaning into him. You remembered the way your body had reacted—eager, instinctual, like you’d been waiting for it.
You reached for a mug without looking, fingers curling around the ceramic absently. It was warm from the cupboard’s enchantment, but your skin still felt cold.
You exhaled slowly and leaned your hip against the counter, staring at nothing.
And while the kettle began to warm, your thoughts slipped—quiet and treacherous—back to the tent. But your mind didn’t pull up the truth of that night. Not the soft hush of breath, the shared warmth, the way you’d both kept to yourselves despite how closely you lay. What you remembered instead—what you felt—was the dream you’d had in his arms. The one you hadn’t dared to admit to anyone.
You remembered the weight of his hand curling around your hip—broad, sure fingers splaying possessively across your skin like he’d always known exactly where to touch you. His thumb pressing just beneath your navel, slow little circles that made your breath catch. His chest, solid and hot, flush against your spine. Each inhale of his drawing your body tighter to his, like he wanted to fit you perfectly between every breath. Like he couldn’t stand the space between you.
And gods, you’d imagined how he’d move. He’d start slow, savoring it. Savoring you, every thrust controlled. He’d want to melt into you, to lose himself in every slick, shivering inch. And the press of him felt so real in your mind that your thighs pressed together without you meaning to.
The slow, deliberate roll of his hips against you, grinding in the dark with maddening restraint. Like he wanted to drag it out. Like he wanted to feel it, not just fuck.
But it wasn’t like you didn’t have dreams about that, too.
Like the one you’d just awoken from.
Where he wasn’t slow at all. Where he’d pushed you against the window, dragged your panties down with a growl, and dropped to his knees. He devoured you like a male starved. Like he needed it to breathe.
His tongue was relentless, slick and firm, fucking you with slow, torturous precision until your hand flew to your mouth to muffle the cries threatening to tear from your throat.
And just when your body began to shake, just when you thought you’d collapse—he was rising, lifting you like you weighed nothing, and sinking into you with one long, ruinous thrust that stole every breath from your lungs.
His voice rasped against your ear, all filth and hunger, whispering what he’d do next, what you’d beg for, how good you look, all wet and wanting and his. Every stroke dragged need from you like a confession, torn from your throat in gasps, in whimpers. Every thrust was a claim, a promise, a demand. You shattered on his cock like you’d been made for it—again, and again, and again—until your body blurred at the edges and all you could feel was him.
And then—your name. A low murmur against your throat, reverent and rough at once, like it scraped its way out of him. Like it meant something. Like saying it against your skin was the only prayer he knew.
Almost a whisper. Almost a plea.
Almost—
Lightning split the sky—and thunder followed like a war drum, slamming through the silence hard enough to rattle the windows.
You flinched, heart in your throat, the mug slipping and knocking against the counter. Goosebumps bloomed across your skin as the thunder faded, but it wasn’t the cold tiles beneath your feet that made your hands shake.
Wasn’t the storm making your chest rise and fall just so.
It was the echo of your name, murmured into your neck.
The ache in your body for something that had never even happened—
But felt, somehow, like it had.
Your breath came fast and shallow, heat rushing to your cheeks in a flush you couldn’t chase away.
Your heart was still hammering when—
“Couldn’t sleep either?”
You jumped. The kettle screamed—when had it even started? The mug nearly slipped again, and you cursed under your breath, scrambling to keep hold of it.
A flush of panic surged alongside the remnants of arousal—
Glamour. Now.
Your scent vanished in an instant.
You rushed to take the kettle off the burner.
Shields—already up, and you triple-checked them. Reinforced them out of instinct, out of panic. Just in case.
Rhysand stood in the doorway, framed by the faint flicker of lightning beyond the windows.
Shirtless, his chest bare and skin golden in the dim light from the hall. Pajama pants slung low on his hips. Hair mussed, like he’d just gotten out of bed—like he’d just been dreaming too.
Your stomach flipped.
You couldn’t even bring yourself to look at him—not after what you’d been thinking, not with your skin still warm from it.
“I’m so sorry,” you blurted, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I didn’t mean to wake you, I didn’t realize it was whistling—gods, I’ll—”
“You didn’t,” he said, voice low and even. “It was the storm. You’re fine.”
But something in his tone—the careful way he said it—made it feel like he was only trying to spare you.
You glanced down at the mug in your hand like it might save you. “Right. Okay. Still. Sorry.”
He didn’t move at first. Just watched you, eyes unreadable in the dark.
Then, quietly: “Storm wake you too?”
“Yeah,” you murmured. “Thought tea might help.”
A flicker of a smile touched his mouth—barely there. “You always brew it with wide eyes and shaking hands?” he asked as he stepped closer, brushing your fingers when he took the mug from your grasp.
You huffed a soft laugh. “Only when the thunder sounds like it’s about to rip the sky open.”
That earned a quiet breath of amusement from him as he slid an arm around your shoulders. Solid. Familiar. Like it belonged there.
“You know it’s mostly just noise, right?” he murmured. Rhys topped off the water in your mug, grabbed two teabags from the tin, and dropped them into the mug. His arm remained looped around your shoulders, holding you close as he covered the cup with a saucer to let it steep. “Sounds a lot worse than it is.”
You nodded, but your thoughts felt foggy and slow. Maybe it was the storm, or the hour, or the way he still hadn’t let go. The way his arm fit around you so naturally, as if it belonged there. As if it had never left since that night.
You shouldn’t read into it. It’s just comfort. Just instinct.
But you can’t stop noticing the warmth of him, steady and close. Can’t stop thinking about how easily he’s always known how to settle you—how natural it feels to lean into him like this.
Your lips press together, and you try not to think about how that same warmth once curled around you in a tent, or what it felt like to wake up in his arms.
His arm shifted, sliding from your shoulders to the small of your back, hand warm and steady as it pressed there. “C’mon,” he said softly, guiding you away from the counter and toward the little breakfast table near the window. He handed you your mug on the way, his fingers brushing yours again.
You moved without thinking, still wrapped in that dazed hush the storm had settled over everything. You sank into the chair without a word, and with a quiet flick of his fingers, the table filled. A crystal bowl of sugar cubes appeared near your elbow, followed by a small pitcher of warm milk, and even a tiny plate of shortbread cookies that hadn’t been there before.
“Thank you,” you murmured, the words quiet and full. Rhysand only nodded, moving back to the kettle to make his own.
After some time, you removed the saucer and took a careful sip—still too hot—before setting the mug down. Instead, you watched the steam curling lazily upward, trying not to let your gaze wander to where he stood by the counter. The stretch of muscle across his back. The ink winding over golden skin. The slow flex of his wings as he moved.
Then, lightly, “Cassian tried to give Azriel a haircut today.”
Your brows lifted. “He didn’t.”
Rhysand’s mouth curved faintly, though the only indication of his humor from where you sat was the soft shake of his shoulders. “He did. Said he could ‘blend the ends’ better than the hairdressers at the Riverfront salon.” He turned slightly toward you, the kettle behind him just starting to bubble.
You snort. “That’s because Cassian thinks ‘blending’ means cutting in a straight line.”
“Exactly,” Rhys said dryly, just as your fingers reached out—without looking—toward the honey jar at the far end of the counter.
His own hand twitched, summoning it with a flick of magic, smooth as breathing.
“He nearly took a chunk out of one of his wings,” he added, the jar gliding toward you in the same breath.
You caught it mid-air and spooned in a little honey, not missing a beat. “Azriel let him?”
“He didn’t know,” Rhys replied, pouring his own mug. He added the tea bags, covered it with a saucer, and took the seat across from you. “He thought Cassian was just trimming his own hair. Came back from the bath and Cassian had scissors and that look in his eyes.”
You stirred slowly, keeping your eyes on the swirl of tea. “I’m shocked he survived.” Whether you meant Cassian or Azriel didn’t matter; the sentiment applied to both.
“Mor told him if he even looked at her hair with a pair of scissors in his hands, she’d skin him.”
You smiled faintly. “Wise.”
Rhys’ lip twitched a little. “I thought so.”
The silence that followed was the kind that didn’t need filling. You let it stretch, let it settle into your bones like warmth. Outside, the thunder seemed to soften, like it, too, was growing tired.
After some time, Rhys lifted his mug, nose wrinkling slightly as he brought it to his lips.
“Lavender?” he asked, skepticism coloring the word.
You glanced up at him over the rim of your own cup. “It’s calming.”
He took a sip anyway, then made a quiet sound like he was trying not to grimace.
“It tastes like wet flowers.”
You gave him a look. “You’re still drinking it.”
“Out of solidarity.” He gave a theatrical sigh, settling the mug down like it had personally offended him. “Suffering beside you. As always.”
That pulled a soft laugh from you—small, but genuine, slipping out before you could catch it. The first moment of true ease you’d felt since you’d woken up. Rhysand didn’t say anything, just watched you with that quiet attention he wore too well, the corners of his mouth tilting upward like it pleased him to see it.
You let the silence stretch. “I didn’t know you were staying the night,” you said, still not quite looking at him.
“Didn’t mean to, ” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Had a few things to check in on here. Then the storm hit, and…” He shrugged one shoulder, casual, but not careless. “Didn’t want you riding it out alone.”
The stupid little flip your stomach did was entirely unhelpful. You took a slow sip of tea to ignore it.
The quiet settled again, a little softer now. Gentler.
Then Rhys’ voice came, quiet and rough at the edges.
“You always pace around in shirts that short when you’ve got the place to yourself?”
You spluttered mid-sip, barely managing to swallow without choking. Then shot him a withering glare over the rim of your mug.
He was smirking now, the picture of smug innocence. “It’s cute,” he added. “Cozy. Terrifying, really.”
“Keep talking and I’ll convince the House to trap you in the bathroom with no toilet paper.”
“You won’t,” he said confidently, that lazy grin still tugging at his mouth. “You’re too tired. And besides—” he leans in just slightly, your eyes flicking up to meet his despite yourself—“you’d miss me if I left.”
You flinched as a particularly loud boom of thunder cracked. The windows trembled in their panes, wind howling against the glass. The faelights dimmed briefly, a flicker like the storm had drawn a breath too deep.
“You should lie down,” he said quietly.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re wired.” His eyes flicked to the goosebumps on your arms. “And freezing. Come on.” He rose, tea still in hand. “I’ll stay with you. We’ll wait it out together.”
You hesitated. “... You don’t have to.”
“I want to.” The words were light, but not careless. “At least let me for a bit. You can talk at me until the storm passes.”
And the way he said it—casual, easy, like it cost him nothing to offer his presence—undid you more than it should have.
You didn’t answer right away. Just took another sip, hoping the warmth would quiet your pulse.
He let his words sit for a beat before offering, with a spark of levity, “I’ll stay on my side. Promise.”
“You don’t have a side.”
“I’ll make one.”
You narrowed your eyes as you considered him, gaze trailing from the smug tilt of his mouth to the glint in his eyes. “Fine. But no funny business.”
“Define funny.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
You stood slowly, cradling your mug between your hands, and padded after him down the dim hallway. Neither of you said anything for a few moments, and you liked that—liked the hush between your footfalls, the faint creak of old wood beneath your steps, the way Rhys kept his pace just a half step ahead of yours.
Then, without looking back, he said, “You’ve got more mugs than sense.”
You glanced at him, deadpan. “They’re seasonal.”
He lifted his, inspecting the faded gold lettering. “‘I survived Calanmai in the Spring Court.’ It’s nearly Solstice.”
You took a long sip. “Year-round commemoration felt appropriate.”
He snorted. “You weren’t even in the Spring Court for Calanmai. We were in the Day Court dealing with that trade dispute, remember?”
“Sure, not this year.”
You turned your mug just as he glanced back, hiding the side that read “I Got Picked at Calanmai and All I Got Was This Mug.”
You shrugged. “You don’t know me.”
He stopped outside your door, wings tucking in as he leaned casually against the frame. You opened it without a word and stepped inside, flipping on the lamp. The room glowed in warm golds and shadows, the storm pressing faintly at the windows.
Rhysand followed a beat later, hands wrapped around his mug, gaze roaming the space like he hadn’t already seen it a hundred times before.
You crossed to the dresser and started absently clearing up—folding the sweater draped over the chair, tucking a pair of socks into a drawer, shoving a bra beneath a pillow like it hadn’t been lying out all day.
“Please,” Rhys said behind you, voice drier than your tea. “As if it’s the first time I’ve seen one of those.”
You tossed him a flat look over your shoulder. “They’re not for your viewing pleasure.”
“Everything’s for my viewing pleasure,” he muttered, already halfway to the bed, mug thunking down on the nightstand like a punctuation mark.
You rolled your eyes and turned back to the dresser, reaching for a lacy little number you hadn’t realized was still out—only for Rhys to beat you to it, no doubt winnowing the last few feet just for theatrics.
He held it up delicately between two fingers, eyebrows lifting in mock reverence. “Really, (y/n)? This barely qualifies as a scrap. Is it for… special occasions? Or just Tuesdays?”
You snatched it from his hand, cheeks warming. “Stop being a pig.”
His grin was wicked. “Oink.”
You glared at him, but the corner of your mouth twitched. “You’re insufferable.”
Rhys just shrugged, entirely unbothered. “Your hospitality says otherwise.” He moved to climb onto the bed like he’d done a hundred times before. You gave him a long, unimpressed look, then turned to grab your tea.
By the time you turned back, he was already against the headboard, wings gone, legs stretched out. He looked perfectly at home—too at home.
You slid in beside him with a muttered, “Don’t spill anything.”
“I never do,” he said, tugging the blankets up from where they’d bunched at the foot of the bed, covering you both.
You didn’t dignify that with a response, just curled your fingers around your tea and let the warmth soak in. The bed creaked quietly as you shifted against the pillows. His thigh brushed yours.
Thunder grumbled far off, less urgent now. You let yourself breathe.
Then, casually, Rhysand said, “Still humming, by the way.”
You blinked at him.
“When you stirred your tea earlier,” he clarified, turning his head toward you. “Didn’t even notice, did you?”
“I don’t do that.”
“Hum while you stir your drink? You do it all the time,” he said, flopping his arm behind his head. “Drives Amren insane.”
You let out a small, startled laugh. “Now I’m just sad I don’t hum louder.”
“That’s the spirit,” he said, raising his mug in mock toast. “Rattle whatever functions as her soul.”
You clinked your cup against his without thinking. “She’d gut you if she heard you.”
“Please,” he said. “She’s wanted to gut me for centuries.”
You smiled into your tea, warmth pooling in your chest that had nothing to do with the drink. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable—just full. Full of steam and thunder and the fact that Rhys was here, warm beside you, his presence taking up more space than it had any right to.
He sank deeper into the pillows, stretching out like he belonged to the space and it belonged to him. His eyes drifted to the ceiling, distant but not vacant. And you let yourself look. The lines of his face were softened in the low light, made golden and shadowed by turns. He looked older like this. Not aged—just… full of time. The kind of tired that sat behind the eyes, ancient and endless and quiet.
And yet he was warm beside you. Solid. Here.
“You always do that,” you said after a moment, surprising even yourself.
His gaze slid toward you, slow and deliberate, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to hear the answer. “Do what?”
“Go quiet. Like you’ve left the room without getting up.”
A faint hum, low and noncommittal as he turned back to the ceiling. “Sometimes I do.”
It wasn’t a deflection. Just a truth handed to you gently.
You ran your thumb around the rim of your mug. “Where’d you go just now?”
A pause. Not long enough to mean avoidance, just… thought.
“Nowhere.” A pause. “Here.”
His eyes didn’t leave the ceiling, but something in his jaw eased.
You didn’t look away. Couldn’t.
Then Rhys moved, and your shoulders were almost touching. He huffed a quiet laugh. “Y’know, I used to imagine this.”
You blinked, the sudden shift catching you off guard. “Imagine what?”
He didn’t seem to notice your disorientation, eyes still fixed ahead. “This—sitting here, quiet like this. You. Me. Tea.”
You stared at him for a second.
“Tea, huh?” you managed, still trying to catch up.
He grinned faintly. “Always figured it’d be chamomile.”
You shook your head, smiling despite yourself. “Let me guess. In your daydreams, I served you tea in a silken robe and draped myself over your lap like some lovesick devotee.”
Rhysand raised an eyebrow, finally turning toward you with a glint in his eye. “You were wearing mismatched socks and humming off-key. The usual.”
That startled a laugh out of you, too loud for how late it was. “So you’ve always had terrible taste.”
His brow pulled just slightly, not in confusion but… disappointment? “I like to call it refined,” he said after a breath.
You felt heat rise to your cheeks again, so you did what you did best: sipped and looked away. Beyond the window, wind and water still tangled in the dark—but the violence of it no longer touched you.
“You know,” Rhys said after a pause, his voice dipping low again, “if we’re pointing fingers, you’ve been the quiet one.”
That violet gaze stayed fixed on you. You’d been on the receiving end of it before—in briefings, in battle, across a crowded room. But never like this. Never steady enough to knock the air right out of your lungs.
You didn’t answer.
He shifted again. “Won’t even look at me. What’s that about?”
You didn’t look up. Kept your eyes on the tea gone cold between your hands. There were a dozen reasons you could’ve given. Because the moment felt too full. Because it was easier not to see his face when you answered. Because his voice in your space, his body next to yours, felt like opening a book you weren’t ready to finish.
Instead, you said nothing.
Rhys didn’t push, he let the moment stretch.
You tilted your head back, eyes flicking toward the ceiling like it might hold a map for what to say next. But what came out wasn’t planned. Just something that had lived on the tip of your tongue for far longer than you were comfortable with.
“Do you remember that night in the Winter Court?” you asked softly. “When we were in the tent?”
His reply was instant. “We were in the tent a lot of nights, you might have to be a bit more specific.”
You gave him a sideways look. “The night with the storm. When the fire kept going out.”
Realization flickered across his face. “Ah,” he said, voice quieting.
You hadn’t meant to bring it up. Not really. But something about tonight—about the tea and the thunder and the way he looked lounging on your bed like he belonged…
You two had never talked about that night. Never talked about the way his arms wrapped around you like instinct. Never talked about how it felt too natural, too easy, how the silence between you only ever felt like comfort and understanding. But now, with the storm as this strange cocoon around you…
You didn’t know what you’d expected him to say. But now that the words were out there, you couldn’t take them back.
You nodded, fingers tightening slightly around your mug. “I couldn't feel my toes. Thought I might lose them honestly.”
“You were shaking,” Rhys said, a quiet chuckle buried beneath the words.
You looked over at him, the corner of your mouth lifting. “You didn’t seem to mind holding me.”
Rhys tilted his head, his smile softer now. “I didn’t.”
Time slowed, dense with everything you weren’t saying. The storm pressed against the windows. His thigh brushed yours.
Then, quietly—like he was still deciding whether or not to say it—
“I thought about kissing you.”
You looked at him, heartbeat racing.
“You were freezing,” he added quickly, almost like a defense. “I kept thinking if I kissed you, it might stop your teeth from chattering.”
You huffed a breath, setting the mug down on your nightstand. “That is not how body heat works.”
“No,” he agreed, eyes warm. “But it was a nice excuse.”
Your chest tightened. He wasn’t teasing anymore. Not really.
“I didn’t sleep much that night,” you said.
Rhysand looked at you. Really looked at you. “Neither did I.”
You swallowed. The storm murmured against the windows like it remembered too.
“…I had a dream,” you admitted, voice barely above the hush of rain.
His brows lifted, but he didn’t speak. Just waited.
You hesitated. “Not the kind I should’ve had with you so close.”
A beat passed. And then he said, softly, “No?”
You shook your head once.
Rhys’s voice dipped, amused but careful. “Was I at least impressive in it?”
That pulled a short laugh from your chest—breathless, a little flustered. “You were… very convincing.”
His smile turned lazy. “Convincing, or irresistible?”
You huffed. “Don’t push it.”
“Never. I ease,” he said with a smirk like sin, sipping from his mug. “That’s how you get what you want.”
You rolled your eyes, but your pulse was a steady thrum beneath your skin. You could feel the heat of him beside you, the weight of everything that hadn’t been said over the years pressing in like gravity.
“I kept waking up,” you murmured. “Because I thought… if I moved too much, you’d pull away.”
He was very still. “I wouldn’t have.”
You looked over at him, heart skipping. He was watching you with that unreadable expression—the one that always made you feel like he knew more than he let on.
Then, almost too casually, he added, “For the record… you did move. Quite a bit, actually.”
Your heart stopped.
No, surely not—
You would’ve remembered that. You definitely would’ve remembered that. Right?
You blinked. “I did not.”
His grin was maddening. “Mmm. Rolled right into me. Twice.”
Heat rushed to your face, ears, down your spine.
You opened your mouth, then closed it again, then opened it just to whisper, “You’re lying.”
He looked far too entertained.
“Twice,” he repeated, like he was doing you a favor.
You groaned, dropping your head into your hands. “Kill me.”
“I did consider it,” he said with a faint smile, “but you were clinging to me. It felt cruel.”
“Cauldron boil me,” you muttered.
“I thought you were doing it on purpose,” he went on, tone far too innocent. “Torturing me in my sleep.”
Your face remained planted in the palms of your hands, groaning. “I’m never speaking again.”
“That seems dramatic,” he said, clearly delighted.
“I hate you.”
“You’re blushing.”
“I’m leaving.”
“This is your room,” Rhys said, not missing a beat.
You peeked at him through your fingers. “And you just let me?”
Rhys gave a one-shouldered shrug, eyes twinkling. “Well, what was I going to do? Shove you away?”
You sputtered. “Most people would’ve!”
His expression didn’t change, but something about the air shifted—like even the storm outside had quieted to hear what he might say.
“I wasn’t exactly in a hurry to stop you.”
Your breath caught.
You looked at him, expecting the usual grin, some teasing remark—but there was none. Just quiet.
“You never… You never said anything,” you murmured. You weren’t talking about that night anymore—you both knew it.
Rhys hummed, low in his throat. “Didn’t want to spook you. Or tempt fate.”
This was about all of it. The looks, the silences, the way he’d never pulled away. The way he always felt just out of reach, like he was waiting for you to be sure. Like he’d been sure all along. But so had you—only you hadn’t known he was. You’d stayed just out of reach, too, waiting for a sign that never came.
You gave a breathless sort of laugh. “You think that would’ve tempted fate?”
He arched a brow. “Wouldn’t it have?”
Your silence said enough.
He let it hang there for a beat, then—without looking at you—reached for his mug again. Took a slow sip like he wasn’t aware of the tightrope he was walking. Like this wasn’t everything.
And when he set it down again, he spoke like it was nothing. “Whatever it was you dreamed… you certainly made it hard to stay asleep.”
Your fingers curled in your lap.
He still wasn’t looking at you, but his voice was velvet. “You were restless. Kept shifting. Making these soft little sounds, kept saying—”
You made a strangled noise. “Rhys.”
That made him glance over—his smirk unfairly smug. “Yeah, like that. A bit breathier though.”
You smacked his arm without thinking—more flustered than actually annoyed.
He chuckled, clearly pleased with himself. “Just saying. Must’ve been quite the night.”
Your pulse thudded hard against your ribs. You should’ve told him to shut up. Should’ve changed the subject.
Instead, you said, quiet and steady, “You can see it, if you want.”
That wiped the grin off his face. He sat up, and his eyes found yours again, sharp and glittering.
“…Can I?”
You hesitated. Because the air between you felt different now, like the quiet after a confession, when the world waits to see what you’ll do with it.
You pushed the blankets off and sat up, mirroring him. Legs folded beneath you. Hands braced in your lap. You weren’t touching, but it felt like you were, every inch between you a live wire. Close. Closer than before.
You met his gaze and slowly, steadily, exhaled and let go.
Not all the way. Just enough. A slow unspooling at the edge of your mind—like a thread tugged loose.
It wasn’t dramatic. No crashing walls. No shuddering gasp.
Just a tilt. A lean. A flicker of trust in the quiet.
Like cracking a door open—not wide, just enough for someone to slip through if they wanted it badly enough.
And he felt it. You knew the moment he did. Not by any shift in his expression, but by the way his presence responded—quiet and immediate, the brush of his mind ghosting along the threshold of yours. Not a push or a pry, just a gentle touch, like a fingertip at your temple, tracing the edges of your mind’s adamant, as if to say, I’m here. It’s only me. Don’t be afraid.
When he did come in, it was careful. Gentle. Not a push, not a pry—just a brush of thought, like a thumb brushing over your bottom lip. He moved through you with reverence, with restraint. Not like he was looking for something, but like he was waiting for you to offer it.
The pressure in your chest built. Not from fear—but from how intimate it was.
You felt the weight of him in your mind. The shape of him. Familiar and foreign all at once. Rhys, your friend. Rhys, the shoulder you’d leaned on more times than you could count. Now quiet in your head, holding still, holding back—waiting.
So you let him see.
The memory rose, and it bloomed slowly, like a flower opening to sunlight.
Your skin slick with sweat, flushed and bare. Blankets kicked down around your hips. Rhys between your thighs—his mouth everywhere at once. On your throat, your breasts, the inside of your knee. His voice low and rasping, coaxing, worshipping. You arched into him, hands fisted in his hair, dragging him closer, closer.
Soft sounds slipping from your lips. His name. Over and over, like a prayer.
The pace of his thoughts shifted.
You felt it—felt him—react, felt the pulse of heat that wasn’t yours.
But still, he didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He only watched as the memory played out, as you trembled beneath the ghost of his mouth in your dream. As your back arched for him. As your dream-self gasped his name like it meant everything.
You could feel his focus on every detail, like he was memorizing it all.
The way you sounded. The way you looked. The way you wanted him.
Rhys.
You whispered it in your mind—his name soft and aching.
Rhys.
The dark curled tighter inside you, shadows licking through your veins like smoke—hungry and unrelenting.
Taking. Taking. Taking.
Your hips shifted. Your breath hitched.
Rhys.
His breath stuttered in response—wherever he was.
And then, in the quiet of your room, you heard it.
A groan.
Low. Wrecked.
Rhys.
Your eyes snapped open.
Only—you weren’t in your room anymore.
The air was sharp and cold. You could smell pine, damp earth, that faint mineral tang of snow on the wind. Canvas fluttered quietly overhead. The lantern cast that same golden pool of light. You heard the storm beyond the trees, muffled and distant. And beneath you—sleeping bag. Mat. The slight ache in your shoulders from a long day of hiking.
It was perfect.
Too perfect.
You blinked—and felt it all at once: the soft cotton of your shirt clinging to your skin. The same T-shirt you’d fallen asleep in earlier tonight. The same thin underwear beneath it. Your legs were bare. Cold.
And he was there.
Rhys, kneeling over you—close. Real. One of his thighs braced on either side of your hips, careful not to press down. His hands planted on the floor beside your shoulders. Caging you in without meaning to. Pajama pants slung low on his hips. Chest bare. Hair mussed.
No sign of the coats you had that night. No gloves or boots or scarves to fight off the cold. Just skin.
Warm. Alive. Here.
Your fingers dug tight into the sleeping bag beneath you. “What are you doing, Rhys?”
He tilted his head. “You tell me. It’s your dream.”
The words landed low in your belly.
Because it was—your memory, your dream, your body already humming with the way the figment of him had touched it before.
He was watching your mouth when you spoke again. “This isn’t how it happened.”
And gods, you could see it—where his hands had already touched this version of the night. Where the boundaries had softened, blurred. The cold clung to your skin still, but this was a watered-down echo of what you’d felt that night. Especially with the heat of him radiating so close, like he was the only warmth left in the world. The wind outside faded. All you could hear was the rhythm of your own pulse.
His gaze flicked up to meet yours. “No. But it could’ve.”
You swallowed. “You didn’t have to quiet the storm.”
He blinked, like the thought had genuinely never occurred to him. “I’ve been doing it all night,” he said simply. “Well, since the kitchen. Bit by bit, so you’d think it was fading on its own.”
Your heart stuttered. “Rhys.”
His mouth curved, not quite a smile. “What? You think I couldn’t feel how tense you were?”
“You didn’t have to do that,” you said, the words quieter now. “I didn’t… I didn’t ask you to do that.”
“Oh?” His brows rose slightly, magic shifting like the tide. “Should I stop then?”
And then, with no more than a flicker of thought, he did.
Sound returned all at once. Wind shrieking against your bedroom windows. Rain pounding the glass in sheets. Distant thunder rolling deep and endless across the city.
Your body locked up. Breath caught in your throat.
And just as fast as it came, it was gone again.
Silence fell. Not the true silence of the storm easing, but the quiet Rhys had crafted for you—thick, warm, and distant, like a memory.
You didn’t say anything right away.
Because part of you wanted to laugh. Not at him—but at yourself. At the sheer madness of lying half-dressed in your own memory, with your best friend hovering over you—inside the dream you’d had about him. Seeing it. Breathing it in. Touching the edges of everything you’d refused to say out loud.
Your voice came quieter this time. “We’re not just looking anymore,” not really a question, but you needed confirmation.
A pause.
“No,” he said—low and sure, gaze locked to yours like it was a tether. Like he needed the confirmation too.
You stared at each other. That same heat coiling in your gut, the same ache building where his hands hadn’t touched you yet.
You shifted slightly, barely a brush of your knee against his.
That was all it took.
He leaned in—slow, careful. Like giving you a chance to stop him.
You didn’t.
His mouth brushed yours once. Barely. A whisper of contact, soft and almost uncertain.
But your breath caught, and your hands moved on their own—reaching, pulling him closer, until that uncertainty dissolved and his mouth claimed yours fully.
It was deeper this time. Hotter.
Not hungry. Not desperate.
Just inevitable.
Like he’d always meant to kiss you, and some part of you had always meant to let him.
While one hand held him up, the other found your hip, steady and sure, but not insistent. Just… there. A grounding point. A question.
You answered it without words—just a shift of your weight forward, the press of your chest against his, your fingers sliding up to rest lightly at his jaw.
He groaned low in his throat. Almost inaudible, like he didn’t mean for it to slip out.
Your kiss deepened, slow and molten. His tongue brushed yours, deliberate, and you let him in. Let him have that part of you.
His hand slipped beneath the hem of your shirt, just his fingers at first. Testing. Savoring. The warmth of your stomach. The shape of your waist.
His touch wasn’t greedy. It was careful. Almost reverent.
“You’ve thought about this,” you murmured, breath catching as he dragged his knuckles along your ribs.
His lips ghosted down your jaw. “So have you.”
You didn’t deny it. How could you, when the lines between dream and memory were already blurring around you? When your body was already arching into his, betraying every want you’d ever buried?
You didn’t have to say it. Not when he could feel it in every breath you took.
He kissed you again, slower this time, like he was trying to memorize how you tasted. How you responded. The way your breath hitched when he rolled his hips just barely against yours.
Still clothed. Still not quite there. But the heat between you was unmistakable. Heavy. Radiating.
You whispered his name against his lips, barely audible.
His mouth stilled against your skin. “Say it again.”
You did. Quieter. Closer to a prayer than a plea.
Rhys pulled back just enough to look at you—really look.
There was no smirk this time. No mask of arrogance. Just that same dark, endless gaze, lit now with something deeper. Something older.
“You’re sure?”
Not a tease. Not a dare.
Just a question. One last door he wouldn’t walk through unless you opened it.
You met his gaze and gave him the only answer that mattered—leaning in, mouth brushing his in a kiss that was softer than before. Not desperate. Not urgent.
Just honest.
Your fingers found the back of his neck, curling there, grounding yourself in him. In this moment.
And Rhys melted into it, bearing his weight on his forearm now, the hand beneath your shirt sliding up again—flat palm, slow drag. Like he was rediscovering a familiar map, one he hadn’t realized he’d memorized until now.
Every breath you took pressed your chest against his. Every motion of your hips fed the fire you were both barely keeping contained.
But it wasn’t just heat burning between you.
It was years. Of glances held too long. Of arguments that meant more than they should’ve. Of moments like this, only imagined.
Rhysand pulled back, far enough to drink you in—eyes roaming, slow and deliberate, like he meant to memorize the sight. The flush on your cheeks. The part in your lips. The want you didn’t bother hiding. “What were you thinking about in the kitchen?”
You blinked. “Nothing.”
He arched a brow. “Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not,” you said quickly, too quickly. “I just—I couldn’t sleep.”
He hummed, unconvinced. “Funny. Because I was sleeping. And then I wasn’t.”
He shifted above you, and his hand drifted. Down your stomach. Past the pushed-up hem of your shirt. “It wasn’t the storm that woke me,” he murmured, and that hand kept going, slow and steady. “It was your scent.”
You gasped as his palm cupped you over your underwear—broad and warm and possessive. The heel of it pressed just right and he knew it. “Rhys—”
But he didn’t stop. Didn’t soften.
“I wanted so badly to know what you were dreaming about,” he said, voice dipped in velvet and ruin, rich with heat. His fingers curled just slightly, a teasing drag along the soaked fabric. “I could smell it. Clear across the house.”
He leaned in, mouth brushing your ear now. “I could smell you,” he said, voice dragging slow, like he wanted the words to settle in your blood. “Warm and ready. Like sugar melting off skin. Like salt and heat.”
His breath skimmed your ear. “I wanted to fall to my knees right then and taste every drop of it.”
He inhaled at the curve of your neck, sharply, greedily, hungrily. Like he could drink in the want from your skin. “It hit me like a fucking punch to the gut.”
Your thighs twitched. He smiled.
“You were so wet, weren’t you?” His thumb moved now, tracing slow, idle circles over the damp cotton. “Dripping onto the sheets, dreaming of something. I couldn’t stop thinking.”
You, on the other hand, simply couldn’t think. You could barely breathe.
“Thoughts of you…” he murmured, dragging the words across your skin. “Spread out across my sheets. Still dreaming. Still wet. I imagined you there on my bed, mouth parted, thighs sticky with it. Maybe you were dreaming of me fucking you slow—dragging it out. Or maybe rough—hands on your hips, face pressed into the pillow.”
His hand stilled. Breath shallow.
“I wanted to touch myself to it,” he said, voice torn. “To that scent—your need hanging in the air like perfume. To the image of you in bed… It drove me fucking mad,” he whispered. “The thought of you, wet and whimpering in your sleep. I almost fisted my cock right there, just to take the edge off.”
A pause, thick with restraint.
“But it felt like… a line I couldn’t cross. Like taking something that wasn’t mine to have yet.”
His head dropped slightly, forehead brushing yours.
“So I just lay there. Thinking. Burning. Telling myself to sleep—Rhysand, ignore it. Don’t be an idiot. Don’t think about her fingers between her thighs, don’t think about her mouth open, whispering your name into the night—
Just sleep.”
A beat. A slow, shaky inhale.
“But I couldn’t stop thinking. Couldn’t stop needing you. And right when I couldn’t fucking take it anymore—right when I gave in and was reaching for myself—”
“Rhys,” you breathed.
“It vanished. I thought maybe I’d imagined it. So I got up, went to get some cold water.” He kissed the curve of your jaw. “Tried to walk it off.”
Another slow press of his thumb. Another spike of pleasure.
“And then,” he went on, gaze sharpening like a blade, “I got close to the kitchen. Heard you moving around.”
His smile turned feral.
“And there it was again.”
You made a soft, involuntary sound—embarrassed and wrecked all at once.
Rhys purred against your neck, all smoke and satisfaction. “That scent. Cauldron, it’s maddening. Didn’t even touch yourself, did you?”
You shook your head, barely.
He groaned—deep and low and filthy. “Fuck, don’t even have to touch yourself to flood the whole fucking house with it.”
His fingers dragged along the soaked fabric again, deliberate and slow. “All of it between your thighs, and you just… stood there. Thinking about it. Letting it drip down like you didn’t care who smelled it.”
You thought you were alone.
Cassian was in Illyria, Azriel was in Vallahan.
Rhysand hadn’t said a word before you’d gone to bed. Hadn’t made himself known, hadn’t so much as sent a thought your way.
He had to know you thought you were the only one home.
You never would have left your room like that if—
“You wanted me to find you like that?” he whispered. “Is that it? Standing there in your little shirt, soaking yourself, pretending you couldn’t sleep while your body screamed for me?”
Your hips jerked. His hand didn’t budge.
“Rhys,” you tried, broken and breathless.
But he was far from done.
“Maybe,” he mused, voice going molten, “you wanted me to walk in and bend you over the counter. Pull these—” he snapped the waistband of your underwear—“to the side and taste that sweet, sleepy mess you made between your legs. The one that begged me to wake you up with my mouth.”
You let out a ragged breath—half sob, half moan.
“Tell me what you were thinking about in the kitchen,” he said again, lower now, darker. “And this time, don’t lie.”
You swallowed. “I wasn’t—”
His fingers slid beneath the cotton. Skin on skin. Heat on heat.
You gasped, hips twitching, breath gone.
“Try again,” he growled, mouth at your throat. “Or I’ll keep my fingers here all night and won’t let you come. Not until you tell me.”
Your legs trembled. “It was you,” you admitted, voice wrecked. “It was always you.”
He groaned like the words were a reward, his fingers finally moving with purpose, circling, stroking.
“That’s better,” he said. “Now tell me what I was doing.”
You bit your lip.
His fingers stilled instantly.
“You—” your voice cracked, and you dragged in a shuddering breath. “You had me against the window.”
He hummed in approval, fingers pushing in just a little, just enough to make you gasp. “Which one?”
“The big one. Upstairs. In your room.”
“Of course,” he murmured, darkly pleased. “You like the one with the view.”
You nodded helplessly.
“And what was I doing to you?” he prompted, thumb brushing maddening circles again. “Tell me exactly.”
Your cheeks flushed, but you obeyed. “You came up behind me. Wrapped your hand around my throat. Pressed me against the glass.”
Before the words even finished leaving your mouth, Rhys shifted—free hand sliding up, fingers curling gently but firmly around your throat, thumb pressing into the soft spot beneath your jaw.
You gasped.
“Like this?” he asked, voice all sin and silk.
You nodded, throat moving against his grip. “Yes.”
His hand between your thighs moved diligently, slick sounds soft and obscene. “Keep going.”
“You pushed my legs apart. Made me look out at the city. Said you wanted everyone to see how pretty I looked for you.”
He groaned—low and wrecked. “Of course I did.”
And then he moved—sliding down your body, pressing kisses to your stomach, your hip, the crease of your thigh. He peeled your underwear off your legs with lazy reverence, and when he looked up at you from between your legs, his eyes glinted like a god about to claim what was his.
“Did I touch you like this in your dream? With my tongue?” he asked softly, like he didn’t already know the answer.
You moaned, thighs twitching. “You didn’t stop.”
He grinned—dark, delighted—and then he didn’t stop, either.
His mouth was on you in a heartbeat—hot, open-mouthed kisses to your swollen cunt, tongue dragging through your folds, firm and slow. His grip on your thighs tightened, keeping you open, helpless, right where he wanted you.
And gods, he was good.
He licked into you like he was trying to taste the dream itself, moaning against your cunt like you were the one unraveling him. When his tongue flicked your clit—once, twice, then again—your hips bucked and he groaned, wrapping an arm around your waist to keep you still.
“Gods, I knew you’d taste good,” he murmured to himself, voice hoarse. “Did I make you come like this?”
You whimpered. “Twice.”
His mouth sealed around your clit again, tongue flicking faster now, more pressure, more hunger. Your hands scrabbled at the blankets, his hair, anything to hold onto as the pleasure surged, sharp and sudden and far too much—
And then you broke. Legs shaking, breath gone, climax crashing through you with dizzying force. He held you through it, tongue still moving lazily, drawing every last tremor from your body.
You didn’t even have time to recover before he was moving—rising over you again, mouth glistening, eyes wild with want.
His hand cradled the side of your face, thumb brushing along your cheek as he leaned down, kissed you slow and deep. Let you taste yourself on his tongue. Let you feel how much he needed this.
He pressed his forehead to yours, breathing hard, voice low. “Tell me what I did next.”
You blinked up at him, dazed and already aching again. “You—” your voice faltered. “You didn’t even let me catch my breath. You just… slid inside me.”
A groan rumbled in his chest, and he shoved his pants down with the kind of urgency that made your pulse stutter. reached down, dragging the head of his cock through your slick folds with maddening patience.
“Like this?”
He guided the head of his cock through your folds, slick and aching. You nodded, breath catching.
“No teasing,” you whispered.
His jaw clenched, and then—
He pushed into you with one long, slow thrust, the stretch of him making your eyes flutter shut.
“Fuck,” he breathed, head dropping to your shoulder. “You feel—.”
He started to move, hips rolling deep and steady, slower than the rhythm you’d imagined in sleep. He thrust like he couldn’t get enough.
Gentler. Like he wanted to savor it. Like he couldn’t believe you were real.
His hand slid down your side, settling at your waist, grounding you as his body rocked into yours with patient, aching care. Each thrust was deliberate, every motion a silent promise. And when he looked down at you—eyes dark and open, lips parted with quiet reverence—you felt like the only thing that mattered in the world.
“Is this okay?” he murmured, voice low, rough with restraint.
You nodded, breath hitching. “Better than I could’ve ever dreamed.”
That pulled a soft smile from him. He dipped down to kiss you again, slow and lingering, his hips still moving with that unhurried rhythm that had your toes curling. He wasn’t fucking you—he was making love to you. Deep and warm and full of something that felt dangerously close to adoration.
Then his fingers tugged at the hem of your shirt, a silent question. You shifted beneath him, lifting your arms to help, and he peeled it off you with reverent care, tossing it aside without taking his eyes off you.
His lips brushed yours again, breath warm and trembling. “You feel so good,” he murmured, like the words had to be pulled from somewhere deep. His gaze drifted down your body, hungry and awestruck all at once. “And you look…” His breath hitched. “You look so fucking beautiful.”
One hand slid up, fingers splaying over your ribs before cupping your breast—slow, purposeful. His thumb brushed over your nipple, and your back arched instinctively, a soft sound catching in your throat.
“There you go,” he whispered, lips ghosting over your skin. “That’s it. Just let yourself feel it.”
He groaned, leaning down to press a kiss to your collarbone, then lower. “Been thinking about this,” he rasped, tongue flicking over the peak before he took it into his mouth. “Dreaming of this.”
And his hips never stopped moving.
The pace stayed slow—for a moment longer. Long enough to draw another gasp from your throat, long enough for your fingers to tighten against his back. But you felt it—how his control began to fray. How the roll of his hips deepened, a little harder now, a little faster.
“You still with me?” he breathed, lifting his head just enough to see you nod absently. “That’s my girl… Let me take care of you.”
He drew back and pushed in hard, the force of it knocking the air from your lungs. Then again. And again. Still tender—but no longer soft. Not when he buried himself inside you like he couldn’t stand the thought of being apart.
You clung to him as the pace built, sweat slicking your skin, breath mixing in the charged air between your mouths. He kissed you like he needed it, like he needed you, all of you, while he fucked you deeper, rougher, until every thrust had your eyes rolling back.
You turned your head, breath catching as his mouth dragged along your jaw. “You feel—fuck—you feel so good,” you whispered, the words trembling out of you.
He groaned in response, hips stuttering just slightly.
“Every time you push in,” you went on, voice low and wrecked, “gods, it’s so deep.”
His hand slipped beneath your thigh, hitching it higher, opening you more. “You’re perfect,” he growled. “Fucking perfect.”
Your fingers curled around his nape, tugging him down until your lips brushed his ear. “You don’t have to hold back,” you breathed. “I can take it.”
His hips slowed.
You didn’t stop. “I want to take it,” you whispered, and then added, a little bolder, “Want to feel all of it. All of you.”
A low, broken sound escaped him. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“I do.” Your gaze met his—open, hungry. “I want you, Rhys.”
He didn’t speak. Didn’t blink.
Then his grip tightened—hands sliding under your thighs, pressing them up, hooking your legs over his shoulders, folding you open. The new angle had you gasping as he sank in, slow at first, then all at once—deep and overwhelming.
He held you there, panting above you, pupils blown wide.
“This is what you wanted,” he said, and he started to move—hard, fast, relentless, like a dam breaking, like he’d been holding back for years and couldn’t anymore. “So take it. Don’t close your eyes, look at me… There’s my girl. There you go.”
You couldn’t even think, couldn’t breathe as he talked you through it. You could only feel as he fucked you into the blankets with single-minded, devastating purpose.
Your hands flew to his shoulders, nails digging in as he drove into you again and again, every thrust punching a sound from your throat—breathy, desperate, wrecked. You couldn’t even meet his gaze anymore, too overwhelmed by the sheer stretch of him, the heat of him, the way your body clenched around him like it never wanted to let him go.
“Look at me,” he growled, hips snapping forward.
You tried. Gods, you tried. Your lashes fluttered as your eyes met his—wild and dark and hungry.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “Keep those eyes on me while I fuck you.”
You whimpered, head falling back, thighs trembling in his hold. “Rhys—”
“I know,” he panted, pace unrelenting. “I know, baby. I feel it too.”
His hand slid up your side, fingers splayed across your ribs before brushing the swell of your breast. He cupped it gently at first—then squeezed, thumb circling your nipple until you cried out.
“You’re doing so well, fuck—taking me so deep. Can you feel how tight you are around me? Gods, you’re perfect like this,” he said, voice cracking. “Under me. Around me. Fuck—mine.”
You were close—so close it ached, a coil drawn tight in your belly, ready to explode.
“I can’t—” you gasped. “I’m gonna—”
“Let go,” he urged, voice nearly breaking. “Come for me. I want to feel it.”
And with one more brutal thrust—deep, punishing, perfect—you shattered around him—body locking up, mouth open in a silent cry as pleasure surged through you like lightning. But he didn’t stop.
He didn’t slow down.
Rhys kept fucking you through it, relentless, determined, dragging every last wave of that climax out of you with deep, punishing thrusts. His grip on your thighs was bruising, the way he held you open, kept you wide and helpless beneath him, like he needed to watch the way you came undone.
“Look at you,” he groaned. “So fucking beautiful when you come.”
Your hands clawed at the blankets, your mind white-hot and unraveling. Every thrust hit something electric inside you, your body too sensitive, too raw, and yet—you wanted it. Needed more.
“Too much,” you whispered, the words barely a breath.
“No, baby,” he growled, dragging his cock out slow—then slamming back in so hard your vision blurred. “You can take it. You’re gonna give me another.”
Your mouth dropped open in a moan, back arching as he angled his hips just right—grinding deep, relentless, right against that spot that made you sob.
“I can’t—” you tried again, voice breaking, but your body told a different story. Your hips rolled to meet him, thighs quaking where he held them, cunt pulsing so hard around him it was all he could do not to lose it.
“Yes you can,” he hissed, sweat slicking his chest. “You’re already close. I can feel you—so tight, so wet. Fuck, you’re milking me.”
You couldn’t think. Could barely breathe. The pressure built again with terrifying speed, your body strung so tight it felt like you might snap in half.
Then his thumb found your clit—circling, pressing, teasing just enough— just enough—
You screamed. Loud and wrecked and his, as a second orgasm slammed into you, fiercer than the first, crashing over you like a storm. Your whole body locked up, legs shaking violently in his grip, and all you could do was feel—like you were flying apart in a thousand pieces, pleasure white-hot and endless. Your vision went white. A cry tore from your throat as your body clenched down around him, pulsing with wave after wave of raw, blinding pleasure. He cursed, his rhythm faltering, then slamming back in with a groan as he chased his own end.
“Gods,” he choked. “You feel—fuck—fuck—”
And then he was coming, hips pressed flush to yours, buried as deep as he could go, filling you with every last pulse of him.
He didn’t stop touching you, even then—his movements gentler now, grounding, soothing, his hands sliding down your legs, your hips, up to cradle your face as he pressed his forehead to yours, both of you panting, trembling, lost.
You were still trembling when he finally eased out of you, slow and careful, like he hated to leave the warmth of your body. You hissed at the sudden emptiness, your legs twitching with the aftershocks.
“Shh,” he murmured, kissing your temple. “I’ve got you.”
You barely registered him moving—just the rustle of fabric, the shift of air. Then something warm and damp pressed between your thighs, and you jolted.
“Relax,” he said, voice lower now, rasping with the remnants of his own ruin. “Just cleaning you up.”
Your head lolled to the side, eyes half-lidded. “Where the hell did you even get that?”
Rhys gave a soft huff—almost a laugh—as he wrung out the cloth and dabbed between your legs with unhurried care. “I always come prepared.”
You groaned. “That better not be from your pocket.”
He smirked. “Don’t worry. It was clean. Can’t say the same for you.”
You swatted at his shoulder, too weak to land anything meaningful. He caught your wrist easily, brought it to his lips, kissed your knuckles. Then, quieter, more serious: “You okay?”
You met his gaze, and for a second, it felt like the world narrowed to just that—his eyes, searching yours, all that fire banked into something steadier. Warmer.
“I’m good,” you whispered. “Better than good.”
He nodded, brushing a damp strand of hair from your cheek. “Didn’t mean to wreck you like that.”
“Liar,” you muttered, which earned another soft grin.
“I mean,” he murmured, voice dipping as he smoothed the cloth over your skin one last time, “I did—but I wasn’t planning on it going that far.”
You let out a breathless laugh, instinctively crossing your arms over your chest as the chill started to creep back in around the edges of your bliss.
“Rhys,” you said dryly, “as much as I’m enjoying the ambiance out here, I’d really prefer not to freeze to death with your come dripping out of me.”
He huffed a soft laugh—but a blink later, the cold vanished. The ground beneath you softened, gave way to your plush mattress. Dim, golden light from your lamp spilled over you both. The scent of lavender and sex filled the space.
Rhysand shifted closer, his arm curling low around your waist. The weight of his touch, the steadiness, was enough to drown out the storm still raging beyond the window.
You tucked your head beneath his chin, let his warmth settle into your skin.
“Next time,” you mumbled, eyes already heavy, “you conjure us a fire first.”
His chest shook with a quiet laugh. “Next time,” he promised, voice like velvet and shadows, “I’ll give you anything you want.”
Summary: Rhys is a bumbling buffoon when it comes to meeting his mate for the first time.
Warnings: awkward tension, reader lives in the hewn city
A.Note: not totally proud of this one since it’s hard for me to write first meeting stories with a concluding ending, but I hope you guys enjoy :)
Word count: 4.8k words
The scratching at my door had me sitting up in an instant, my back pressing against the cold stone wall as my hand slid beneath my pillow, fingers curling around the worn hilt of my dagger. My breath came shallow, controlled, as I listened—waiting for another sound, another shift in the air that might give away whoever had decided to test their luck tonight.
Life in the Hewn City never allowed for restful sleep. Not when shadows slithered in every alley when cruelty pulsed like a second heartbeat through its streets. And especially not now that Morrigan was gone.
Her father's estate had been far from a sanctuary, but at least the sheer power Keir wielded had kept the worst of the monsters at bay. Here, in my apartment on the outskirts of town, I had no such protection. Only thin walls, shattered locks, and neighbors who wouldn't need a reason to break into a young female's bedroom—who wouldn't care that I was High Fae, not when my magic was little more than a flickering candle in the wind.
A shiver danced down my spine as I gripped my dagger tighter, pulling it free just as the handle of my door twisted. My breath stilled.
Wards should have held. I'd watched Mor herself etch them into the worn wood, her golden power laced with every careful stroke. And yet the door creaked open, the darkness beyond bleeding into my already shadowed room.
I made myself as small as possible, the blanket of night cloaking me enough to fool a drunk—most in this wretched place were—but if they stepped inside if they came closer...
A head popped through the gap.
Gold hair caught the dim light.
My breath punched from my lungs. "Morrigan."
I tumbled out of bed, my dagger forgotten as I all but threw myself at her. She caught me effortlessly, her arms wrapping tight around my waist, solid and real, her familiar scent washing over me.
"Oh, I've missed you," she murmured, holding me as if she'd been gone for years rather than two unbearable weeks.
I pulled back just enough to take her in, my hands framing her face, my eyes darting over her features, searching for any sign of injury. My stomach knotted at the gauze wrapped around her waist, but otherwise, she seemed unharmed.
"I thought you got out safe?" I whispered.
She smirked. "Forgot some things."
There was something reckless in her eyes, something sharp and unyielding.
My stomach tightened further. "Mor—"
"I'm getting you out of here."
Her grin was edged with mischief, with certainty.
—
I had heard the rumors—the hushed whispers exchanged between patrons in dimly lit taverns, drunken murmurs of a secret city our High Lord kept hidden from the rest of us. A place untouched by the cruelty of the Hewn City, a myth spun to keep fools hopeful.
I never believed a word of it.
But Velaris was real.
"The City of Starlight," Morrigan had said, her voice breathless with something I hadn't seen in her since we were reckless, ignorant children. She'd smiled then—wild, unguarded. And I had known, in that moment, that every whispered legend had been true.
The city thrived even in the late hour. Laughter and music curled through the streets, golden lights casting soft glows against dark stone. I had never dreamed a place like this could exist, not outside of bedtime stories and half-formed wishes. And yet, Mor guided me through its winding paths as if it were the most natural thing in the world, showing me pieces of the Night Court I had never dared to imagine.
Until, finally, she led me to a small cabin at the edge of a quiet clearing.
Warm light spilled from its windows, shadows dancing against the wood as the hum of conversation and bursts of laughter leaked into the night. It was a thrilling sound—carefree, safe.
Mor stepped onto the porch, her fingers curling around my wrist as she turned back to me with a smirk. "I've been living here for the past few weeks," she hummed, as if it were no great thing. "And I decided I missed my roommate."
Her words barely registered over the clatter of voices inside. I could hear the easy teasing, the playful shouts.
I hesitated.
"It's Rhysand's cabin, but—"
"The High Lord's?" I whirled on her, my stomach clenching.
Mor blinked, as if I'd said something absurd. "He's my cousin, you know?"
I did know that. Of course I did. But the knowledge didn't stop the shiver that traced my spine.
I had seen Rhysand twice in my life—twice was enough.
Both times, I had been convinced I would die right there on the spot, crushed beneath the weight of his power. It exuded from him like a second set of wings, dark and monstrous. The ground itself seemed to quake beneath his steps. To say he was powerful was an insult to the very meaning of the word. He was terror incarnate, the nightmare that lived in the dark corners of every court.
I had heard the stories—of him reaching into minds and shattering them from the inside out, twisting their own fears into weapons sharper than any blade. He did not need to lift a hand to kill.
My throat went dry. "He's not in there, is he?"
The words were barely a whisper, but Mor only shrugged, far too casual. "Sure he is."
I nearly choked. What?
"Mor—"
She didn't give me a chance to protest.
Her fingers curled around mine, firm and unwavering, and before I could think to dig in my heels, she had pulled me forward—up the steps, through the doorway, past the foyer—until I was standing in the heart of the house.
The moment we entered, the conversation stopped.
Four sets of eyes locked onto me.
Hazel. Silver.
And then—
A violet gaze, piercing and unrelenting, dilated with something unreadable.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
Rhysand.
The High Lord of Night. The male who could level entire armies with a flick of his wrist, who could peel apart minds like flower petals and leave nothing behind. The nightmare whispered about in every corner of the Hewn City.
And he was staring at me.
His lips parted slightly, as if words had caught in his throat.
Mor, of course, was entirely unaffected. "Gentlemen," she said, grinning as she strode deeper into the sitting room. "And Amren."
The silver-eyed female merely flicked a gaze over Mor before cutting straight to me, a sharp, assessing glance that made my stomach twist.
I was still trying to school my expression into something other than imminent death panic when Mor gave my wrist a final squeeze and released me.
"I'd like you all to meet—"
"She's my mate."
Silence.
Utter, perfect silence.
Then—
A choked sound came from the male lounging in an armchair, wings draped lazily over its sides. He had dark hair, hazel eyes gleaming with delight, and an unmistakable aura of shit-eating amusement. That one must be Cassian.
Next to him, another male, shadows curled at his feet like living things, merely blinked—slowly, deliberately—before glancing at Rhys and murmuring, "That was subtle." And there's Azriel.
Rhys, for all his legendary cunning, looked like he wanted to launch himself into the Sidra.
"Mate?" I rasped, my stomach flipping over itself.
No. No, surely not. That was—impossible. I would've felt something.
Or have I all along?
"You must forgive our dear High Lord," Amren drawled, sipping from a glass of something dark. "He usually has more tact when announcing these things."
Rhys finally seemed to snap back into his body, straightening his spine with something like composed horror.
"What I meant to say," he amended, his voice dropping into something far smoother, far silkier—too smooth as if he were compensating, "is that it's a pleasure to meet you."
Cassian snorted. "You just said she was your mate."
"Yes, thank you, Cassian."
Azriel's lips twitched. "I think she got the message."
My head was spinning, my throat tight. But my body had stilled—not from fear, exactly, but from something else. Something coiling in my chest, something aware.
Rhys's gaze flicked to mine, and his expression softened instantly, all humor melting into something devastatingly gentle.
"It's late. You must be exhausted." His voice had dipped, his usual charm tempered with something achingly sincere. "Let me get you something to eat. Or drink. Or—are you warm enough? I can get you a blanket—"
Cassian was shaking with silent laughter. Azriel merely watched, like he was filing this away for later use.
Amren, however, had no such patience. "Oh, for Cauldron's sake," she muttered, rolling her eyes. "She's not a wounded animal, Rhysand, stop circling her like a mother hen."
"I just want her to be comfortable," he argued, flashing her a glare before turning back to me with something so devastatingly earnest that I nearly forgot who he was. What he was.
He liked me.
No—he wanted me to like him.
Rhysand, the most powerful High Lord in history, was tripping over himself to win my favor.
And somehow, that was more terrifying than any of the rumors I'd ever heard.
—
I wasn't entirely sure how I ended up sitting on a plush couch in the middle of the High Lord's cabin, wrapped in a ridiculously soft blanket that I didn't remember agreeing to. A cup of tea—also not requested—was placed carefully in my hands, steam curling in the dim candlelight.
Rhysand hovered nearby.
And I meant hovered.
He was standing at an awkward, not-quite-close, not-quite-far distance, shifting slightly as if debating whether he should sit or stand or vanish into the floor. His normally easy, fluid grace had been utterly abandoned, leaving him looking... well. Uncertain.
Cassian, sprawled in the armchair across from me, was barely keeping it together. His wings twitched every few seconds, his lips pressed tightly as if physically holding in his laughter.
Azriel, seated beside him, was far more composed—but the slight upward tilt of his mouth betrayed his amusement.
I took a sip of my tea, trying to make sense of all this.
The High Lord of the Night Court—the terror of the Hewn City, the most powerful male in existence—had declared me his mate. And then proceeded to fall apart before my very eyes.
I was still trying to process it when Rhys spoke.
"Would you like more pillows?"
I blinked. "What?"
His violet eyes were very, very wide. "You look like you could use more pillows."
Cassian made a strangled noise.
Azriel coughed into his fist.
"I—I'm fine," I said slowly, watching as Rhys's shoulders sagged in relief.
Too fast. All of this was happening too fast, I couldn't keep up.
"Are you sure? Because I can get more."
Cassian let out a wheezing breath, eyes shining with unrestrained delight. "Yes, Rhys. More pillows. That's definitely what she needs."
Rhys shot him a withering glare before turning back to me, smoothing his expression into something intended to be charming, but coming across as deeply, deeply desperate.
"Or food!" he blurted. "Have you eaten? I can make you something. Or, well, I can't make you something, but I can get someone to—"
"She has tea, Rhys," Amren cut in dryly. "You shoved it into her hands two minutes ago."
"I did not shove—"
"You definitely shoved," Cassian confirmed, barely containing his cackle. "I thought you were going to spill boiling tea all over your mate."
I flinch slightly at the term as Rhys shoots back with, "I was being thoughtful."
Azriel hummed, taking a slow sip of his own drink, the amber color telling me it was something much stronger than tea. "Is that what we're calling it?"
I had absolutely no idea what to do with any of this.
Rhysand—the charmer, the schemer, the legend—was unraveling at the seams in front of me.
Because of me.
"I can make my own food," I finally said, mostly just to say something.
Rhys visibly straightened. "Of course! Yes, I knew that. I just—" He ran a hand through his hair, his usual ease nowhere to be found. "I want you to feel at home."
Cassian grinned. "I think she'd feel more at home if you stopped looming over her like a lovesick bat."
Rhys's glare could have melted stone.
Azriel just leaned back in his chair, shadows curling lazily around his shoulders. "I don't think I've ever seen you like this," he mused.
Rhys turned his attention back to me, clearly trying to regain some dignity. He attempted one of his infamous smirks. "You must forgive them. They're not used to seeing me flustered."
Cassian clapped a hand to his chest, eyes sparkling. "Oh, it's a gift, truly."
Azriel nodded solemnly. "We should savor this moment."
Rhys looked seconds away from throttling them both.
I just stared at him, still gripping the cup of tea like it was the only solid thing in the world. "Are you okay?" I asked before I could stop myself.
His breath caught.
And for a moment, the amusement, the chaos—it all faded. His eyes softened, something raw flickering behind them.
"I'm fine," he said, voice lower now, steadier. "I just... I wasn't expecting this."
Neither was I. But still, something shifted in my chest at the way he looked at me—like I was something precious.
I wasn't ready to name that feeling.
But for the first time since I'd arrived, I didn't feel like running.
Slowly—mercifully—Rhys seemed to remember how to function again.
He settled into the chair across from me, still watching me with those impossibly violet eyes, but at least he wasn't hovering like I might vanish if he so much as blinked.
Not that he'd relaxed entirely.
No, because the moment I so much as shifted—adjusting the blanket, setting my tea down—he twitched as if preparing to leap to his feet and fix something.
If I asked for anything, I had no doubt he'd be up and fetching it before I could even finish the sentence.
But at least he was sitting.
Amren, on the other hand, was done with the entire situation.
With a long-suffering sigh, she stood and stretched. "Alright. That's enough of this."
Cassian perked up. "Of what?"
She shot him a withering look. "The two of you sitting here, watching this disaster unfold like it's a theatrical event."
Cassian grinned, utterly unrepentant. "Oh, but it is."
Azriel just sipped his whiskey, but the small smirk on his lips said everything.
Amren turned her glare to them both, then pointed at the door. "Out."
Cassian gaped. "But—"
"Out," she repeated, already making her way toward him.
Cassian barely had time to dodge before she grabbed his arm, yanking him up with surprising strength for someone so small. "Azriel, move," she barked.
Azriel, for all his shadows and lethal grace, barely managed to stifle a chuckle before obeying.
Rhys, looking very much like a male clinging to the last shred of his dignity, just sighed. "Amren, I hardly think—"
"Oh, please." She shot him a knowing look. "You want them gone."
Rhys opened his mouth. Closed it. Then glanced—too quickly—at me.
Cassian cackled. "Oh, this is so good."
"I hate all of you," Rhys muttered.
Cassian just grinned, throwing an arm over Azriel's shoulder as Amren shoved them both toward the door. "Love you too, brother!"
The door shut behind them then silence settled.
I exhaled slowly, my mind still spinning from all of this—this place, these people, Rhysand, sitting before me and looking as though he didn't quite know what to do with himself.
Mor, still seated beside me, gave a soft, reassuring smile. "Ignore them," she said. "They're menaces, but they mean well."
I nodded, unsure what to say.
She nudged me gently. "You doing okay?"
I hesitated.
Then, quietly, "I think so."
Mor's smile warmed. "Good." She stood, stretching. "I'm just down the hall if you need anything, okay?"
I nodded again. "Thanks, Mor."
She winked. "Get some rest."
And then, just like that, I was alone. With Rhysand.
Who, despite his best attempts to seem relaxed, looked about two seconds away from combusting.
The silence stretched for a beat too long before Rhys cleared his throat, shifting in his seat. "So," he started, voice smoother now, steadier, "what do you think of Velaris?"
I exhaled, my grip loosening on the blanket around my shoulders as I glanced toward the window. The city lights still twinkled beyond the glass, mirroring the stars above.
"It's..." I searched for the right word. Magnificent."
His lips curved. "It is." He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "Not what you expected?"
A soft huff of breath left me. "In all honesty, I didn't even expect it to be real."
Rhys chuckled, low and warm. "Most don't."
I looked back at him. "How long has it been hidden?"
His expression turned thoughtful. "Since the war." His gaze flickered to the window, a distant look in his eyes. "My family—my court—has fought to protect it for centuries. It's the one place in all of Prythian untouched by war, by cruelty." He met my gaze again, and this time, there was something softer there. "Now it's yours, too."
Something shifted in my chest at that. The way he said it like I belonged here. I swallowed. "And the court?"
His smile returned, easy and knowing. "You've already met the worst of them."
I let out a small laugh, shaking my head. "I don't believe that."
"Oh, you should." He smirked. "Cassian and Azriel? Winged buffoons. Mor? Chaos incarnate." He placed a hand on his chest, feigning solemnity. "And me? Well, the stories you've heard don't paint me in the best light, do they?"
A teasing edge now, that sharp, clever humor creeping into his voice.
I tilted my head. "No, they don't."
He grinned, but it softened as he glanced back outside. "You'll see for yourself, though." He hesitated, then added, "You'll be here for Starfall."
"Starfall?"
His eyes lit up, and suddenly, it was as if the shadows in the room no longer existed.
"You've never heard of it?"
I shook my head.
Rhys leaned closer, his voice dropping to something conspiratorial, enticing. "Once a year, the sky does something extraordinary."
I raised a brow, peering out the large arched window to look at the galaxy of stars just outside. "More extraordinary than usual?"
A chuckle. "Much more." He sat back again, watching me with a quiet sort of delight, as if he already knew I'd love it. "The stars don't just shine that night. They fall."
I blinked. "They fall?"
"Mmm." He traced a circle on the arm of his chair. "Not like shooting stars—though it looks similar. The souls of long-lost beings drift across the sky, shimmering trails left in their wake. It's..." He trailed off, searching for the word.
"Magnificent?" I supplied, unable to help the small smile tugging at my lips.
Rhys gave a slow, approving nod. "Very."
Something warm settled in my chest. For a moment, neither of us spoke.
And then, finally, I allowed myself to really look at him.
Not the High Lord. Not the nightmare. Just Rhysand.
And gods, he was handsome.
The kind of handsome that made the room feel smaller, the air feel warmer. Sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, those impossibly violet eyes that seemed to catch every flicker of candlelight. And the way he looked at me—like I was something precious. Like he already knew me, in some deep, unspoken way.
I cleared my throat, shoving away the thought. "It sounds magical."
He grinned, and for the first time, it wasn't the grin of a High Lord, or a male who held the power of nightmares in his hands.
It was just a smile. For me.
A slight yawn slipped from me, Rhys was instantly moving.
"Mother above, I've kept you up too late—" He was already leading me toward the hall, his steps brisk, his hands half-lifted as if he wanted to guide me but thought better of it.
I barely had time to keep up as he strode toward a door across from Mor's, gesturing to it like it was some grand reveal. "This is yours—of course, if you don't like it, we can find you another room, or a different house entirely, or—"
"Rhys—"
"I really should have let you rest earlier, I can be insufferable when I ramble, and—"
"Rhys."
"I hope you find everything comfortable, but if you need anything—extra pillows, a softer mattress, a different view—"
I pressed my palm to his chest. He froze.
His breath hitched, just barely—but I felt it beneath my hand, the sharp inhale, the slight stutter of his heartbeat.
His eyes locked onto mine, the violet darkening, blazing.
I had only meant to stop his spiraling apologies, but now... Now the air between us was thick with tension.
Something unseen curled and tightened, coiling like a living thing beneath my skin.
Rhys exhaled sharply through his nose. Slowly—reverently—his hand lifted, covering mine where it lay over his chest. His fingers curled just enough to hold me there, as if... as if he couldn't bear to let go.
Something between us shifted and I didn't have time to decide if it was for the better or not.
A pull, deep in my ribs. An ache that hadn't been there before.
Rhys went completely still.
Like he was waging some great internal war, fighting against a force that neither of us had yet spoken aloud. But I felt it.
The way his fingers tightened just slightly over mine. The way his lips parted like he was about to say something, only to think better of it.
The way his eyes—those star-flecked, devastatingly beautiful eyes—searched mine like they held the answer to something he'd been waiting for.
I should have stepped back.
I should have moved.
Instead, I stood there, heart pounding, fingers twitching against the soft fabric of his tunic.
Rhys swallowed, his throat working around the motion, but he said nothing. Did nothing. Just stood there, his chest rising and falling beneath my palm, his fingers flexing ever so slightly over mine like he was grounding himself—like he needed to hold on. I knew I should step back.
We had only just met.
Yet that fact seemed irrelevant, insignificant compared to the weight of the moment curling between us, thick as smoke.
Because I could feel it—something pulling me toward him, that bond deeper than attraction, sharper than longing. It was in the way his breath came uneven, in the way his gaze dropped, just briefly, to my lips before snapping back up to my eyes, a flicker of something raw, something wanting, breaking through his carefully placed walls.
His lips parted, like he might say something. Like he might stop this before it went too far.
I didn't let him. Didn't give myself the chance to second-guess, to think, to reason.
I surged forward.
Rhys barely had time to exhale before my lips met his. Soft. That was my first thought—how soft his lips were, warm and parting against mine as if in stunned surrender.
And then he was kissing me back.
A sharp inhale, his hand sliding up my wrist, curling around it like he couldn't quite believe this was happening—but wouldn't dare let go, either.
His other hand found my waist, light, hesitant, his fingers pressing in just enough to ground me, to anchor us both in the storm of whatever this was.
It wasn't desperate. It wasn't hurried. It was slow, tentative, a gentle exploration.
His nose brushed mine as he tilted his head, his lips parting wider, and I felt the way he breathed me in—like I was something to be savored, something he hadn't known he was starving for until now.
A small sound left me—something between a sigh and a whimper—and Rhys shuddered, his grip tightening ever so slightly, his fingertips pressing into my skin like he needed to remind himself this was real.
We lingered there, caught in something we didn't have a name for, something neither of us had expected but couldn't seem to pull away from.
His thumb brushed along my wrist, slow, reverent, as our lips moved together in a rhythm that felt achingly natural.
Like we had done this a thousand times before. Like we would do it a thousand times more.
When we finally parted, it was only enough to breathe, our foreheads pressing together, breaths mingling.
Rhys's fingers flexed at my waist.
"I—" His voice was hoarse, rough with something unspoken. He swallowed. "We should stop."
I exhaled shakily, my hands still fisting the fabric of his tunic.
"We should," I admitted.
His thumb traced slow, lazy circles along my wrist, like he was memorizing the shape of me, the feel of me.
And then, softer—softer than I'd ever heard anyone speak my name—
"But I don't want to."
I barely had time to whisper, "Neither do I," before he kissed me again.
His lips were still on mine, still moving, still taking, even as he rasped against my mouth, "We can't."
But he didn't stop. Didn't pull away.
If anything, his hands tightened at my waist, fingers pressing into my skin like he was anchoring himself—like he was fighting a losing battle against whatever force was unraveling between us.
I gasped as his tongue slid against mine, slow and thorough, like he was trying to memorize me, like he was desperate to learn every piece of me with nothing more than his lips, his hands, his breath.
"Rhys," I whispered, not knowing if it was meant to be a plea or a warning.
He groaned, his forehead pressing against mine, his breath coming out in short, uneven pants.
"I want to know you," he said, his voice so raw, so gutted that it sent a shiver down my spine.
Then his lips were on mine again, harder, deeper, like he was proving it, like he needed me to believe him.
"I want to know everything," he murmured against my mouth, between kisses that left me gasping, left me trembling, my fingers still tangled in his hair. Another kiss, this one rougher, hungrier. "Everything."
I whimpered against his lips, barely able to think, barely able to breathe with the way he was consuming me, the way his words were carving themselves into my ribs.
He groaned, like the sound was being ripped from him. "I—" He shuddered. "Tell me to stop."
I froze beneath him, blinking up at him, my head spinning, my lips swollen from his kisses.
He swallowed hard, his breathing uneven, his hands flexing at my sides.
"Tell me to stop," he repeated, voice ragged, "because I don't think I can on my own."
His words hung between us, raw and trembling, his breath fanning against my lips. I could still taste him, still feel the imprint of his hands at my sides, as if he had branded himself into my very skin. My heart pounded against my ribs, my body warring between the pull of the bond and the sliver of hesitation curling in my chest.
I slipped my hands from his hair, brushing my fingers along his jaw, feeling the tension coiled beneath his skin. "Rhys," I whispered, my voice barely a breath.
His eyes, dark and blazing with emotion, searched mine. I saw the restraint there, the war he was fighting within himself, the way his hands trembled against my sides.
I swallowed, forcing myself to find the words through the haze of want clouding my mind. "I'll accept the bond," I murmured. His breath hitched, his entire body going utterly still. "I just need some time."
A heartbeat passed. Then another. And then—he exhaled, his forehead pressing against mine, his entire frame shuddering. His hands skimmed up my sides, gentle now, reverent, like he was memorizing every inch of me before letting go.
"You could take centuries," he murmured, his lips brushing against my temple, featherlight. "Beyond that, if you wanted. I'd wait for you, always."
Something in my chest ached, something too big to name. I closed my eyes, breathing him in, the warmth of him, the endless patience laced in every word.
I tilted my head up, pressing the softest of kisses against his lips—nothing like the desperate, fevered ones from before. Just a promise. Just a thank you.
His hands lingered on my waist, like he wasn't quite ready to let go, but he didn't stop me as I pulled away. A small smile tugged at my lips. "Goodnight, Rhys."
His eyes softened, something almost wistful in them. "Goodnight, my love."
With a final glance, I turned and slipped into my room, closing the door behind me. And even then, I could still feel him—like a shadow, like a promise—waiting.
Comment or reblog with a “💙” to be added to the general taglist!
Can you do one where reader gets injured but doesnt want to bother anyone so she doesnt sag anything. The catch unsub, and maybe spencer notices something is off but is not sure. Eventually she loses so much blood and collapses on spencer or something like that. Not sure how it ends. Fluffy and angst
thankkkssss
xoxoxoxo
collapse — spencer reid
pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n )
content warnings: established relationship , reader is hurt , lots of blood , mention of stitches , reader got stabbed
a/n: hi hi !! hope you like this <3 i might've gotten carried away
The adrenaline was the only thing keeping you upright.
You bit down hard on your lip, the metallic tang of blood blooming across your tongue as you suppressed a groan of pain. The unsub thrashed violently between you and Spencer as he fought against your grip.
Your side burned—a deep, throbbing ache—but you refused to loosen your hold.
Just a little longer.
To your relief, the unsub finally stilled, his resistance crumbling as Spencer adjusted his grip and shoved the door open with his shoulder.
Spencer’s voice cut through the ringing in your ears.
“Are you okay?”
You could see the concern etched into the lines of his face—the way his brows furrowed, the slight downturn of his lips. You had taken a nasty hit during the struggle, but you had brushed it off, insisting you were fine.
You weren’t fine.
But now wasn’t the time.
You forced a soft smile, willing your voice to stay steady. “Yeah, I’m fine. Don’t worry.”
Derek was already at the car, his expression hardening as he took in the unsub’s snarling face. He reached out, wrenching the man from your grasp and shoving him into the backseat with a muttered, “Nice try, pal.”
The moment the weight was gone, your knees nearly buckled.
You leaned against the car for support as the world tilted slightly. Spencer stood in front of you, close enough that you could see the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes.
“Are you sure?” he pressed, his voice softer now, almost hesitant.
You swallowed hard, willing the black spots at the edges of your vision to fade. “Yes, Spence. I’m okay.”
You pushed off the car, determined to prove it—to him, to yourself. You took a step forward, reaching out to touch his arm, to reassure him—
And then, everything gave out.
Your legs crumpled beneath you, the pain exploding in a white-hot burst as your vision blurred. The last thing you registered was the warmth of Spencer’s arms catching you, his voice cracking as he shouted your name.
Then—
Darkness.
Spencer barely caught you in time, your weight slamming against his chest as his hands scrambled to keep you upright.
“Hey—hey! Look at me!” His voice was too loud, too sharp, cracking under the weight of sudden terror.
Your skin was pale, your breathing shallow. His fingers brushed against your side—and came away wet.
Blood.
His stomach dropped.
“Morgan! Hotch!” The words tore from his throat, raw and desperate.
Derek whipped around, his eyes widening as he took in the scene. “What the hell—?”
“She’s bleeding!” Spencer’s hands were shaking as he lowered you to the ground, his mind racing through symptoms, probabilities, how much time—
Your eyelids fluttered weakly, struggling to focus on his face.
“Sorry…” you slurred, the word barely audible.
“No, no, no—don’t apologize, just stay awake, okay? Look at me.” His palm cradled your cheek, his thumb brushing your skin in frantic, soothing strokes. “You’re gonna be fine. Just keep your eyes open.”
Hotch was already on the radio, calling for an ambulance, but every second stretched into an eternity. Spencer could feel your pulse under his fingertips—too fast, too thready.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
He should have noticed. He should have known.
His breath hitched as your eyes started to close.
“No—hey, no! Stay with me!” His voice broke, fingers tightening around yours. “Please.”
Somewhere in the distance, sirens wailed.
The sound should have been a relief. But as the paramedics rushed toward you. Spencer couldn’t breathe.
“We need to move—now!”
Hands reached for you, but Spencer’s grip tightened instinctively, his fingers tangled in the fabric of your shirt. A paramedic pried his hand away—gently but firmly.
“Sir, we need to treat her.”
He forced himself to let go.
The seconds it took to lift you onto the stretcher felt like hours. The moment they strapped you in, Spencer was moving, climbing into the ambulance before anyone could stop him.
“I’m not leaving her.” His voice left no room for argument.
The doors slammed shut. The ambulance lurched forward.
And then—there was nothing but the sound of the heart monitor’s steady beep and the too-slow rise and fall of your chest.
The paramedics worked quickly, cutting away fabric to reveal the wound—a deep, angry gash just below your ribs, still bleeding.
His stomach twisted.
The EMT pressed a fresh bandage to your side, and even unconscious, you let out a weak whimper.
Spencer’s hand shot out before he could stop himself, his fingers tangling with yours. Your skin was ice-cold, your grip limp.
“Hang on,” he whispered, voice cracking. His thumb traced frantic circles over your knuckles, as if he could somehow transfer his own warmth into you. “Just hang on, okay? You’re gonna be fine.”
The ambulance hit a pothole, jostling you slightly. Your face contorted in pain, and Spencer’s free hand hovered uselessly above your shoulder, desperate to comfort but terrified of hurting you more.
“Can’t you go faster?” he snapped, his voice fraying at the edges.
The paramedic didn’t look up. “We’re almost there.”
Spencer swallowed hard, his eyes darting between your face and the heart monitor. The numbers taunted him—too low, too slow.
This was his fault.
He should’ve seen it. Should’ve known. He’d watched you take that hit during the struggle, seen the way you’d stumbled afterward, the way your hand had pressed discreetly to your side. But you’d smiled at him—soft and reassuring—and like an idiot, he’d believed you.
A sudden twitch of your fingers against his snapped him back to the present.
His breath caught. “Hey—?” He leaned closer, his free hand brushing your cheek. “Can you hear me?”
Nothing.
The ambulance screeched to a halt. The doors flew open.
And just like that, you were ripped away from him again, whisked into the bright, sterile chaos of the ER.
A nurse stopped him at the doors. “You’ll need to wait here.”
Spencer opened his mouth to argue—but the doors swung shut in his face.
Alone in the sterile, suffocating silence of the waiting room, Spencer Reid— man who always had an answer—could do nothing but stand there, your blood still drying on his hands, and wait.
The fluorescent lights hummed overhead. He couldn’t sit. Couldn’t breathe.
So he paced.
Back and forth, back and forth—wearing a path into the linoleum like a man possessed. His hands flexed at his sides, fingers stiff with dried blood. Your blood. The sight of it made his stomach twist.
The team came and went in shifts, each checking on you, each casting worried glances his way.
Then, the adrenaline crashed.
Exhaustion hit him like a physical blow, but he refused to sit. The hospital chairs were too stiff, the silence too loud, the waiting unbearable. His mind, always too sharp for its own good, raced through worst-case scenarios.
He should’ve seen it. Should’ve known.
“Reid.”
Hotch’s voice cut through the static in his head. Spencer hadn’t even heard him arrive.
The unit chief stood beside him, his usual stoicism softened by the faintest crease of concern between his brows. “Any updates?” he asked as his eyes flickered toward the treatment doors.
Spencer shook his head, his throat too tight to speak.
Hotch didn’t push, before stepping aside as Garcia burst through the entrance, her heels clicking frantically against the linoleum.
“Oh my god, is she okay?” Her voice was high with panic, eyes red-rimmed behind her glasses. She zeroed in on Spencer immediately, her hands fluttering toward him like she could physically tether him to the present. “Spencer, talk to me—”
“They haven’t told us anything yet,” Hotch answered for him.
Garcia’s lower lip trembled. “But she’s tough—she’s gonna be fine, right? She has to be—”
Morgan arrived next, his usual swagger replaced by a grim tension. He took one look at Spencer’s ashen face, the blood still streaked across his sleeves, and exhaled sharply through his nose, but he didn't say anything.
Spencer's gaze was fixed on the clock above the nurses’ station, barely noticing anything around him.
Twenty-seven minutes.
Too long. Too long.
Rossi appeared with coffee no one drank. JJ murmured reassurances no one believed.
And Spencer paced.
At the fifty-three-minute mark, a doctor finally emerged.
Spencer’s heart stopped.
She looked at him first—of course she did—and offered a small, exhausted smile.
"She's going to be okay."
The words struck Spencer like a physical blow to the chest. Oxygen flooded back into his lungs so violently it burned, his knees nearly buckling under the sudden weight of relief. Behind him, Garcia gasped - a wet, shuddering "Oh thank God" muffled against Morgan's sleeve as she fisted her hands in his leather jacket.
Spencer remained frozen. Rooted to the spot.
Because the doctor was still speaking, her lips forming words that dissolved into meaningless static before they reached him.
—significant blood loss—
—no organ damage—
—lucky the blade missed the artery—
Lucky. The word turned to ash in his mouth.
There was nothing lucky about how your body had gone limp in his arms, your blood seeping through his shirt as he'd screamed for help. Nothing lucky about the way your eyelids had fluttered weakly before going still—
"—kept asking for you."
His head snapped up so fast his neck cracked. "What?"
The doctor's expression softened around tired eyes. "During moments of consciousness. She was disoriented, but she kept saying your name."
Something vital fractured behind his sternum. You'd asked for him. Even half-conscious. Even bleeding out.
"When can I see her?" The demand ripped from his throat, jagged and desperate.
"She's in recovery now. Give us another hour to get her settled, then one visitor at a time."
An hour. Sixty more minutes of this agony. Spencer's fingers twitched at his sides, still tacky with your blood.
"Reid." Hotch's voice dropped into that particular tone that brooked no argument. "Sit down before you collapse."
Spencer barely registered the hard plastic chair biting into his back. His hands trembled violently in his lap - the same hands that had failed to notice your injury, failed to protect you—
Garcia thrust a paper cup of lukewarm coffee between his shaking fingers. "Drink this," she ordered, her usual bubbly cadence replaced by steel. "
The coffee tasted like ashes, but he drank it anyway, if only to stop the trembling.
The clock on the wall ticked mercilessly. Each second stretched into eternity. Around him, the team moved quietly - Morgan pacing like a caged panther, JJ making hushed phone calls, Rossi leaning against the wall with a tension that belied his casual stance.
And Spencer sat. And waited. Counting each breath, each heartbeat, until he could see for himself that you were truly alive.
The hour passed in agony.
At first, there had only been relief—a dizzying, all-consuming wave of it that left Spencer lightheaded. You were alive. That was all that mattered.
But as the minutes crawled by, other emotions began creeping in, slithering through the cracks in his composure like poison.
Anger.
It started as a spark, small but insistent.
How could you not tell him?
The question burned through him, relentless. You’d lied to him. Smiled right at him, blood soaking through your shirt, and told him you were fine. He could still hear the way your voice had wavered—just slightly—when you’d said it. He should’ve known. He should’ve—
His hands clenched into fists, nails biting into his palms.
And then, worse than the anger at you—the anger at himself.
He was a profiler. It was his job to notice the details, to see what others missed. He’d watched you fight the unsub, watched you stumble afterward. He’d seen the way your hand had pressed to your side, the way your breathing had turned shallow. But he’d let you brush it off. He’d believed you.
Idiot. The self-loathing settled heavy in his chest.
Across the room, Morgan shot him a look. “You good, Reid?”
No. He wasn’t.
“Peachy,” Spencer bit out, the word brittle.
Garcia frowned, reaching for him, but he stood abruptly, the chair screeching against the floor. He needed air. Needed to move.
The hallway outside was quiet, sterile. He braced his hands against the wall, head bowed, breaths coming too fast.
He’d studied every microexpression, every twitch of every unsub they’d ever hunted—but he hadn’t seen this. Hadn’t seen you.
What if the unsub had gotten another hit in? What if—
“Reid.” Hotch’s voice cut through the spiral. Spencer didn’t turn.
“She’s alive,” Hotch said, quiet but firm. “That’s what matters.”
Spencer’s jaw worked. “She could’ve died.”
“But she didn’t.”
Because she got lucky. The unspoken words hung between them, heavy as a verdict.
A nurse appeared at the end of the hall. “Agent Reid? She’s asking for you.”
The nurse's shoes squeaked against the linoleum as she led him down the hallway, the sound grating against Spencer's frayed nerves. His pulse hammered in his throat with each step closer to your room. When they reached the door, he froze in the threshold, his fingers twitching at his sides.
"Thank you," he muttered to the nurse, barely recognizing his own voice.
The door clicked shut behind him.
And then—your eyes flew open, locking onto his like you'd been waiting.
"Spencer."
Your voice was rough, but the relief in that single word nearly undid him. A shaky exhale escaped you, as if you'd been holding your breath until this moment.
Each step was measured, unsteady, as if his body had forgotten how to move without trembling. He had counted every agonizing second until this moment, had played it over in his mind a hundred times—how he would rush to your side, how he would take your hand, how he would finally know you were alive.
But now that he was here, his legs wouldn’t cooperate.
And then he was at your bedside, close enough to see the exhaustion in your eyes, the way your lashes fluttered weakly with each blink. His throat tightened.
"You're awake," he whispered, the words cracking under the weight of everything he wasn’t saying.
Your fingers twitched against the sheets—a weak, aborted movement, like you wanted to reach for him but didn’t have the strength.
"Told you I was fine," you murmured, voice hoarse but laced with the faintest tease.
A broken sound escaped him—half-laugh, half-sob. His hand finally lifted, hovering just above yours before he let it settle, his touch feather-light, terrified of hurting you.
"You collapsed," he said, the words raw. "You—you bled out in my arms."
You swallowed hard, your fingers twitching weakly beneath his. Then, with effort, you patted the empty space beside you on the hospital bed—an invitation, a silent plea for closeness.
For a heartbeat, he hesitated. His gaze flickered over the IV line taped to your arm, the bandages peeking out from beneath your hospital gown, as if weighing the risk of hurting you against the unbearable need to be near you.
Then, carefully—so carefully—he sat down on the edge of the mattress, his weight barely disturbing the sheets. His hands trembled as he reached for you again, but this time, you were the one who bridged the gap. Your fingers brushed over his knuckles, tracing the dried blood still smudged there—your blood—before curling loosely around his palm.
"But I'm okay now," you murmured, your voice soft but steady.
His breath shuddered out of him. He turned his hand beneath yours, intertwining their fingers with aching gentleness, as if you were something fragile. Something precious.
"You scared me," he whispered.
"I know. And I’m sorry," you whispered.
A flicker of guilt passed over his face, but before he could spiral further, you added with a weak smirk, "The nurses told me about a tall, pretty guy not letting them work properly."
They hadn’t, of course—but you knew him. Knew he’d hovered, frantic and pale, demanding answers they couldn’t give fast enough. Knew he’d probably been seconds away from reciting medical journals at them just to feel some semblance of control.
Spencer blinked, then huffed—a startled, breathless sound caught between indignation and reluctant amusement. "I—that’s not—" He faltered, then exhaled sharply, shoulders slumping. "Okay. Maybe."
You grinned, despite the dull ache in your side. "So you admit you’re pretty?"
His cheeks flushed, but his grip on your hand tightened—just a fraction—like he was afraid you’d slip away if he didn’t hold on. "I admit," he muttered, "that you’re impossible."
"And yet," you teased, shifting slightly—then wincing.
Instantly, his expression sobered. His free hand hovered over you, uncertain. "Don’t—don’t move, just—"
"Spencer." You caught his wrist, guiding his palm to rest gently over your uninjured side. His breath hitched as his fingers skimmed the dip of your waist—careful, reverent, like he was relearning the shape of you.
He bit his lip, his thumb brushing once, twice, over the soft fabric of your hospital gown, as if to reassure himself that this part of you, at least, was unharmed. Then, with a quiet exhale, he murmured, "The rest of the team is waiting outside. I’m pretty sure Garcia got you a bunch of different plushies."
You could practically see it—Garcia bursting in with an armful of absurdly cheerful stuffed animals, each one louder and more ridiculous than the last.
"How many are we talking?" you asked, lips quirking. "Enough to start a zoo?"
Spencer’s mouth twitched—almost a smile. "At least three with googly eyes. One of them might be a neon pink llama."
You snorted, then immediately regretted it as pain lanced through your side. His hand tensed against you, his face flooding with concern.
"Hey—easy," he murmured, shifting closer instinctively. His other hand came up to brush a stray hair from your forehead, his touch lingering. "No more making fun of Garcia’s questionable taste in plushies until you can laugh without wincing."
"That might take a while," you admitted, but you were smiling again—small, but real.
Spencer’s gaze softened. "I’ll wait."
The silence stretched between you, thick with unspoken tension. Then, Spencer uttered the words like they'd been clawing at his throat:
"You lied to me."
His voice was quiet—too quiet—but the hurt in it cut deeper than any blade. His fingers still rested against your side, but they'd gone stiff, like he couldn't decide whether to pull away or hold on tighter.
You swallowed. "I didn't lie. I just... didn't mention the part where I was actively bleeding out."
His jaw clenched. "Semantics."
"Spencer—"
"No." His hand finally withdrew, raking through his hair instead. "You smiled at me. You said you were fine. Do you have any idea what it was like, watching you collapse like that? Thinking—" His voice cracked. "Thinking I'd just let you die?"
The raw pain in his words stole your breath. You reached for him, ignoring the protest of your stitches. "Hey. Look at me."
He did—reluctantly—and the guilt hit you like a punch. His eyes were red-rimmed, his face pale with exhaustion.
"I'm sorry," you whispered. "I didn't want you to worry. I thought I could tough it out until we got him cuffed."
"That's the problem," he said hoarsely. "You don't have to tough it out alone. Not with me."
Your throat tightened. "I know. And next time—"
"There won't be a next time," he interrupted, voice fierce. Then, quieter: "Please."
You caught his hand again, pressing his palm to your cheek this time. "Okay," you murmured against his skin. "No more lies. Even the stupid ones."
He let out a shaky breath, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. "...Even the stupid ones,"he agreed.
And just like that, the weight in the room shifted—not gone, but lighter. Bearable.
Outside, Garcia's voice suddenly carried down the hall, "—FBI, ma'am, I promise the emotional support alpaca is essential to her recovery—"
Your gaze drifted down to his hands—those beautiful, trembling hands still streaked with rust-colored stains. The sight punched through you harder than the wound ever had.
"You should wash up," you whispered, tracing a fingertip along the edge of the dried blood caking his knuckles.
Spencer flinched as if burned. He hadn't even noticed. But now the evidence clung to him like a second skin, flaking when he flexed his fingers. Your blood. The realization sent a violent shudder through him.
"Right," he choked out, standing abruptly.
He made it two steps before turning back, his voice cracking. "Don't— Don't disappear while I'm gone."
The joke fell flat, undercut by the raw fear in his eyes.
"I'll be right here," you promised, patting the sterile sheets. "Go."
The bathroom fluorescents buzzed overhead as Spencer scrubbed at his hands with surgical precision. Steam rose from the scalding water, turning his skin an angry red. He didn't stop until every last trace was gone.
The water ran pink, then clear, swirling down the drain with the last physical remnants of your blood.
Then — voices. Loud. Familiar.
Garcia swept in first, arms overflowing with plush animals—including, as promised, a neon pink llama with absurdly large googly eyes. "Oh, sweetheart!" she wailed, nearly tripping over her own heels in her haste to reach you. "Look at you, all brave and beautiful and—oh my God, is that a bullet wound?!"
Morgan followed close behind, rolling his eyes. "She was stabbed, Garcia."
"Details!" Garcia sniffled, dumping the stuffed animals onto your lap with surprising gentleness before cupping your face. "The important thing is, our favorite badass is still kicking."
JJ appeared next, balancing a tray of suspiciously green hospital Jell-O. "We brought contraband," she said, grinning as she set it on your bedside table. "Well, contraband adjacent. It's still hospital food, but it's the lime flavor, so…"
Rossi lingered near the foot of your bed, arms crossed, but his usual smirk was softer than usual. "You gave Reid ten years off his life, kid."
"I know," you admitted, your gaze flickering toward the bathroom door.
Hotch stepped forward. "You did good work today," he said simply. "But next time, maybe mention when you're bleeding out."
The apartment was quiet when Spencer brought you home.
He'd already fluffed the pillows on the couch, laid out your favorite blanket, and arranged a small army of Garcia's plushies along the back—including the neon pink llama, which now sat proudly on the armrest like some kind of fuzzy sentinel.
You barely had time to take it all in before he was at your side again, hovering. His arm hooked gently around your waist, his touch feather-light, like you might break.
"Sit," he murmured, guiding you down onto the couch with the same careful precision he usually reserved for rare first editions. "Do you need water? Pain meds? I bought those crackers you like—"
"Spencer." You caught his wrist as he started to turn toward the kitchen, tugging him back gently. "Breathe. I'm okay."
He hesitated, his gaze flickering over you—checking, always checking—before exhaling sharply. "I know. I just…" His hands flexed at his sides, restless. "I need to do something."
You understood. This was Spencer Reid, after all—the man who needed equations to make sense of the world, variables to control. And right now, the only equation that mattered was you, alive and here, and he had no idea what to do with the leftover terror still humming under his skin.
So you gave him a task.
"Okay," you said softly, nodding toward the blanket. "Then sit with me. And tell me about the book you’ve been reading."
Something in his shoulders eased. He sank onto the couch beside you, close enough that his knee brushed yours, and reached for the blanket.
"It's about quantum entanglement," he started, his voice warming as he draped the fabric over your legs with meticulous care. "The theory that particles can become linked, so that what happens to one affects the other, no matter the distance."
You smiled, leaning into him. "Sounds familiar."
His breath hitched. Then, slowly, his arm slid around your shoulders, pulling you carefully against his side.
"Yeah," he whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "It does."
Outside, the world kept turning. Cases would come, and wounds would heal.
But here, tangled together on the couch, you were perfectly, irrevocably linked—and nothing, not even blood or time or space, could change that.
Found this article from KRLA beat (June 4, 1966) and some of the fan's answers are quite funny. also what the hell was the last question trying to ask I'm a little scared
𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 in which you and spencer almost say i love you four times and one time where you actually do.
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 16+ minors dni!, fem!reader, established relationship, spencer is down bad, so is reader tho, idiots in love, they’re both lowkey rlly hormonal bro, pet names (love, handsome), this one’s a rollercoaster, fluff, angst, lots of suggestiveness because reader likes to tease lol, allusions to smut (didn’t actually write it tho sorry!) fighting, spencer kinda acts like a bitch, makeoutshesh, mentions of reader being insecure of her physical appearance, mentions of typical cm content, mentions of blood, mentions of reader getting hurt, protective!spencer, derek and reader have a cute friendship, lots of mentions of maeve so spoilers on that end, pls let me know if i forgot anything!!!,
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 8.1k (damn)
𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 so i had many cute loose concepts and i kinda meshed it all into one fic. this is also loosely based on birds of a feather by billie eilish! im in love with this piece ugh
𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
The first time
“You look different,” Derek mumbled, mostly to himself, but loud enough to catch on. You turned towards his voice. The only thing different was that Hotch had let you come in later than your usual schedule since you had a random doctor's appointment— Oh, and the recently purchased light-blue button up you were wearing.
Your brows furrowed at Derek, one hand adjusting the strap of the purse that hung loosely on your shoulder as a light brown bag sat comfortably in the other. “Different..?”
Emily followed Derek, joining in as she glanced over at you from her own respective desk. “Actually he’s right,”
“I’m wearing a new shirt..?” You fiddled with the first button of your shirt, pursing your lips in bewilderment.
“No—“ Emily squinted at you. “It’s something else..”
Your mouth hung slightly open, not really sure how to respond to their prying eyes. They both were glancing at you, then at each other, then you again, but this time up and down—
“I hope it’s a good difference,” You commented as you waltzed past them and towards your boyfriend's desk. Spencer was hunched over at his desk, eyes practically burning holes into the files that sat in front of him.
His lips were pursed familiarly, just like he always did when he was so concentrated, along with the familiar furrow in his brow. His hair was tousled, a strand or two falling flat in front of his forehead. He looked so good it made you dizzy.
An instinctive smile had already reached your face once you made it to his desk. You leaned over him, slapping the brown bag on top of the files he was reading. He flinched slightly, but nevertheless, was finally pulled out of his deep concentration pool. You placed your palms on his shoulders, running them down his chest as you leaned over to hug him from behind.
You placed a kiss underneath his ear. “Hi handsome,”
He sank in his desk, realizing it was only just you and immediately easing. He hummed placidly, entranced by the sound of your sickeningly sweet voice. You pulled away to which he took the opportunity to glance over his shoulder at you.
You gave him a soft smile, one you used that made his heart soar. How your eyes grew lenient and lips curved gently upwards as you scanned as much of his features as your brain could possibly take in.
You placed both hands on his shoulder and nudged your chin towards the bag. “Brought you your favorite,”
His hands were already on the bag before you could say anything else and when he looked inside he was in fact correct on his suspicions when he saw two chocolate sprinkled doughnuts.
They smelled heavenly and he knew they were enough to cure his very major and very much present sweet tooth he had woken up with this morning. A large uncontrollable smile slapped right onto his face as he opened his mouth. “I—“
He stopped, clamping his mouth shut abruptly.
Thank god. He swallowed those three words that had nearly left his mouth, pushing them right back into the back of his throat before the damage could be done.
It wouldn’t necessarily be the first time this week where he let the confession accidentally slip. He realized that as of recently, he would catch himself with more and more of a necessity to tell you how he felt.
The two of you started seeing each other romantically about six months back. It was completely out of nowhere when he asked you out for the first time. The second— and third, and fourth and continuing times after were more than expected.
It didn’t take much for the two of you to realize how much of an importance the other partook in your day to day basis, even despite being friends for so long prior to the dating.
And everyday he saw you he felt this big tightening in his chest that made it actually impossible for him to breathe. He felt all this pent up emotion that was getting harder for him to manage with every passing day.
It scared him, how much he cared about you. How much he wanted you to be a part of his everyday life and how much he wanted to tell you how it made him feel— how you made him feel.
But that fear was exactly the reason why he’d clamp his mouth shut every single time he felt like he wanted to tell you.
“I—uhm,” He cleared his throat. “Thank you, really I—“
You watched him, titling your head to the side with a prying gaze. “Have I ever told you how amazingly perfect you are?”
You purse your lips, leaning over his shoulder and pretending to be deep in thought. “I’m not sure— I think you’re gonna need to jog up my memory.”
He shook his head, huffing a laugh as you leaned down and pressing a long kiss onto his lips. You hummed in contentment, feeling the fuzziness in your chest reach every nerve in your body.
“Hey,” You pulled away, glaring over at Derek from Spencer’s desk. “Calm your hormones or I’m telling Hotch to hit HR up,”
“Actually hormones aren’t something you can consciously control, they’re a biological response to situations we find—“ Spencer quipped, earning a loud groan from Morgan.
You rolled your eyes, looking down at Spencer and reaching a hand up, running it ploddingly through his thick brown curls. “Are you coming over tonight?”
He nodded. “Yeah,”
“Looking forward to it,” You pecked his lips once more. Before rounding his desk and making a b-line for your own.
Spencer scanned you up and down as you waltzed away, not realizing you were wearing the shirt you bought last weekend. The one that enhanced the beauty of your hair and skin color, mapping a perfect picture he wanted to get lost looking at. He also couldn’t fail to avoid the way the shirt deliciously hugged every curve and bump your body had to offer. And those dress pants—
He squeezed his eyes shut, groaning internally. He then thumped his forehead onto his desk, cheeks blazing with heat, knowing he was more screwed than anyone in this whole building, a lost cause if you will.
As you strutted past Derek and Emily’s desk towards your own, Emily gasped loudly. “I think I finally got it,”
“Yeah, I completely agree with you,” Derek followed. You looked at them both quizzically.
“Could it be?— No,” Emily gasped once again and you immediately noticed that it was fake, alarming you of whatever game they were getting at.
“Yeah, I think it’s finally happened.” Derek leaned back in his chair, clicking his tongue and smirking over at you. “Pretty girl here is in love,”
Your cheeks turned hot, as your eyebrows shot up defensively. “What?”
Derek liked to say the two of you were still in your ‘honeymoon phase’ and you couldn’t disagree with him— it was the most accurate description of your relationship with Spencer.
But saying in love triggered something— physically and emotionally.
“No wonder she looks so different,” Emily tutted. “She’s got that ‘happy in love’ glow to her.”
“Shut up,” You have the strap of your purse on a death grip as you opened your mouth to protest but failed miserably as all the words died in the back of your throat. Thank god Spencer seemed preoccupied with the donut you had just given him.
“I’m—“ You shuffled, slapping yourself internally. Way to give it away. “You guys need to find a better hobby.”
And with blazing cheeks, a dry throat and a concerning pattering heart blaring against your throat, you stalked your way back to your desk.
The second time
“But that isn’t fair Spencer!” You groaned, gripping your bag as if your life depended on it. “You can’t expect to save everyone and then blame yourself when it doesn’t go well,”
There had been a sensitive case today, clearly an unsuccessful one. Spencer, like usual, jumped at the first opportunity to start blaming himself— for not being quicker, for not being smarter.. Whatever reason he could nitpick at, he was currently doing so.
You tore your purse off your body and tossed it into a small basket by your front door. You roughly tore your heels off, slightly relieved at the feeling off the palms of your feet on the wooden floor.
“There were flaws in the profile— flaws in the geographical profile,” He huffed, frustrated, filling every fiber of his words. He tore his satchel off his body, grabbing his files from it prior and slapping them onto your coffee table. “We couldn’t even correctly pinpoint the Unsubs M.O before he started sadistically killing again, we couldn’t—“
You felt for him, you truly did. Spencer was one of the most kind hearted, considerate people you knew, but that came with a lot of self-demands. He had to be everything at once, and be there for everyone at once and if he didn’t reach the bar he’d set up for himself, this would happen.
He pushed past you and towards your kitchen. “Spence, we aren’t going to solve every case, no matter how good our work may be.”
“You think I don’t know that? The average percent of homicides cleared or "solved" is 60 to 65 but around 35 to 40 percent go unsolved.” You opened your fridge, grabbing a pitcher of water and grabbing a glass from your cabinet as you listened to Spencer.
“35 to 40 percent, do you know how high that is?!” He stressed. You realized his irritation was heavy because he was reaching his peak of rambling.
Spencer just couldn’t stand when things like this happened. When people did horrible things and got the luxury of roaming free— he couldn’t help but feel like he was at fault for that. If he was just quicker, or smarter maybe they would’ve caught whatever bastard was terrorizing people.
“I know you know that!” You huffed a breath of frustration. “But that’s the way this job works Spence!”
“What would you know about how this job works?” He turned, hot on his heels, facing you with an indescribable exasperation pooling around his eyes.
You stopped in your tracks, looking up at him sharply and setting the still empty glass of water and pitcher back onto the table “What’s that supposed to mean?”
His eyes were deeply upset— cold and hard and so much different from the soft and welcoming gaze of your partner. “You wouldn’t know the first thing about being a profiler. You joined the team around three years after the rest of us.”
You stared at him with incredulity. When in a relationship with somebody, as well as learning all of their admirable virtues, you also learn their defects. And one of Spencer’s defects was that he had no filter whatsoever when he got angry. He just said the first thing that came to mind and spit it out and towards whichever person was unlucky enough to fall victim.
Not that the two of you fought often because you quite literally never did— but you’d see him pissed at people and his petty side sometimes felt the need to make an appearance.
You, however, had never had to experience this firsthand. You’d seen it happen at work, with JJ, with Derek, with the press. But two of you had never spoken to each other the way you were doing now. And if he thought you were gonna let him slide, he’s got another thing coming.
“What about Rossi?” You challenged as you crossed your arms across your chest. “I was accepted into the team just months after he was, you’re gonna tell him he wouldn’t know the first thing about being a profiler?”
“That’s different—“
“How?” Your veins were pumping with adrenaline. Your fingers shook violently, and the back of your throat suddenly burned with the need to cry. “I had jobs before getting called into the BAU, and I busted my ass off in college—“
“It’s not the same!” He spat. “You had never worked with the team before, it took you months to learn how we processed things, how we handled them.”
You could visually see Spencer bite down on his tongue only now attempting to reel himself down back to earth. And if you didn’t know him better, you wouldn’t be able to recognize the identifiable regret that appeared in his eyes while you continued on.
“And who are you to hold that against me Spencer?”
He swallowed thickly and let out a heavy sigh. You ran a frustrated hand through your curled hair. “All i’m saying is that—“
“I know what this job is like, which is why I’m telling you to get out of your goddamn head.” You didn’t scream at him, but there was a firmness in your voice that could scare practically anyone off.
“The things that have happened, happened today or will happen are never going to be in our control,” You told him. “Never.”
“Just because you’re angry and pissed does not give you a free card to attack me,” You slammed the glass cup onto the counter and pushed past him, making your way out of the kitchen. Spencer didn’t follow you to your room, he knew it wasn’t a smart idea.
So as your bedroom door slammed shut, he stalked over to your couch, opening up the paper files onto your coffee table, and rerunning them once again. He wasn’t able to concentrate at all though, knowing you were in the other room tossed in bed and probably crying because of him.
A few long hours later, Spencer closed his files and looked over towards your door. There had been no noise emitted whatsoever from your room, which he wasn’t sure if that made him feel better or worse.
He felt like an idiot. Presumably so, he was so stupid for just lashing out like that on you. Your intentions were never ill intended, yet he still pushed you away and he hated himself for that.
He stood up, making his way into your kitchen and grabbing the empty glass. He poured some water into it and went over to your door.
You were lying down, blankets wrapped around you protectively as your back faced him. He couldn’t help but smile, feeling the endearment tighten in his chest.
You stirred in your sleep as the bed sunk beside you, groaning softly. Spencer hovered over you, setting down the glass of water on the nightstand beside your head.
“Hey,” His voice was very soft, maybe even enough to send you back into the nap you were in— until you remembered what had happened earlier and thought that maybe talking to him was a better idea.
Your eyes burned and your head hurt. You sniffed away the buildup that the crying had caused. You then blinked away the grogginess from your eyes, along with the slight burning sensation due to the tears you had shed earlier. “Hey,”
Your sleepy voice was enough to send Spencer into a whirlwind. It tugged at the strings of his heart and all he wanted to do right now was grab you in his arms and hold you there forever.
He laid on his side beside you, running a soft hand across your arm with the encouragement for you to turn around and face him.
A slight sense of anxiety was coursing through him. He was scared that a part of you was still mad at the way he spoke to you, and the worst part was that he couldn’t blame you, because he had in fact acted like an idiot.
You blinked up at him from over your shoulder. “What time is it?”
“Around nine?” You hummed, flipping on your side and turning to face him. Spencer slapped at the nerves inside him and shifted slightly in his position.
“Hey,” He reached his hand over to yours and intertwined his fingers with your own. “Were you crying?”
“Yeah,” His tone hadn’t been patronizing or ridicule intended, it was more so concerned. You reached up to rub your eye.“You were pretty fucking mean.”
Spencer wanted to kick himself. Truly. There wasn’t anything else to say but how utterly stupid he had been for causing you any type of harm when his main promise was to prevent you from any of it.
“You should drink some water,” He lifted himself up by his elbow, hovering over you again and reaching for the glass.
“I’m not thirsty,” You mumbled, snuggling closer into your pillow.
“You should still drink love, you haven’t had a single drop of water since we got here and you’re probably dehydrated,” You didn’t look at him. “I added those watermelon electrolytes you like so much.”
You peered at the glass, suddenly feeling deathly thirsty. With a huff, you reached for the glass. “Fine,”
You downed the whole drink in a matter of seconds, melting at the taste of the sweet watermelon tartness on your tongue. Once you finished the glass, you handed it back to Spencer who set it on the opposite nightstand.
“Can we talk?” You nodded. “I’m sorry,”
You looked up at him, opting him to continue. “I shouldn’t have snapped the way I did. You were trying to help me, and by attempting to push you away I said stuff I really, really shouldn’t have and I’m so sorry,”
With a few seconds of silence, you reached down, intertwining both of your hands. Your thumb glided over his knuckles as you listened to him.
You mumbled. “It’s okay Spence,”
He shook his head. “It’s not, honestly. I shouldn’t have spoken to you the way I did.”
Yeah, good point.
“I know,” You squeezed his hand reassuringly. “But you said that you're sorry and next time we’ll learn how to manage these things a little more efficiently.”
You quickly pulled his arm over your body and scooted forward, too tired to dwell in an emotionally exhausting conversation, nuzzling your face into his neck while his arms instinctively tightened around your frame. “We’ll get the hang of this, okay?”
There was silence after that. One that could’ve been filled by anything, honestly.
Those three words were all you wanted to say right then and there. It had been on your mind a lot recently, how Spencer was making you feel a ton of scary and big and complicated feelings— all amazing but terrifying. And those three words felt the most accurate when it came to telling him how you felt about him.
You really wanted to tell him at that moment. You don’t know where the necessity came from but it hit you like a tidal wave. Strong and capricious. Uncontrollable almost.
But then the fear settled in and you’d obstruct yourself from doing so.
So you didn’t say it, even though you may have wanted to.
Instead you just held him tighter and nuzzled into him as close as you physically could, hoping that somehow the message would get across. He placed a kiss onto the crown of your head. “Okay.”
The third time
You smiled into the kiss, tugging at his hair as you leaned back, supporting yourself solely on his grip around your lower back. Your legs rested on either side of him, sitting in his lap while his hands raked across your back in a way that made you feverish.
His lips moved swiftly across yours. He squeezed your hips, fingertips slipping just slightly underneath your shirt. You shivered at the contrast of his cold fingertips against your blazing skin. Spencer pulled away, voice breathy. “Is this okay..?”
“Yes,” You whispered back before pulling him onto your lips again.
Your relationship with Spencer was something that made your heart feel so light and airy— something so pure and easy. It made you grow dizzy just thinking about his hands on you and all the sweet things he’d whisper in your ear constantly. How he was always so considerate and sweet and perfect.
You were staying the night at Spencer’s apartment, too tired to drive back to your own apartment after work. But some things lead to others and well— yeah.
When having to restrain so much physical contact at work, strictly wanting to remain as professional as possible, you could merely blame yourself for needing him like this once back at eithers apartment.
You hummed against his lips, raking your hands slowly through his hair. The kissing hadn’t stopped for the past half hour or so— honestly you lost track of time.
Spencer pulled away breathlessly and placed a few messy but calculated kisses on your jaw and neck. You smiled almost stupidly. He pulled away, looking at your dozy face and feeling his chest tighten.
Your lips were slightly pinker than usual, and puffier. Your hair was just slightly tousled while your cheeks glowed a beautiful red hue. Your fingers remained tangled in the locks of his curls.
“You look pretty,” He was saying that as if it was another one of his scientifically proven facts, as if no one could say or believe otherwise. You tucked a small curl that had slipped onto the side of his face behind his ear, humming passingly. However, you never found his eyes, only focusing now on the curls that sat comfortably framing his face.
Spencer’s eyes narrowed, fiddling with the hem of your loose shirt. “You do that often,”
You look down at him, questioning him with a hum. “Do what?”
“Overlook the things I say when I compliment you,” He remarked. “Like you don’t believe me.”
You still didn’t move your attention from his curls. You didn’t believe him most of the time.
You weren’t an insecure person, not entirely anyways. You put a lot of focus on your physical appearance, always maintaining your clean look intact to the public eye. To many, you were considered extremely attractive. But unlike popular belief, you had many insecurities that you always tried to overlook. Sometimes it was hard though.
It was just hard for you to understand how he saw you so perfectly, like you had not a single flaw. ‘Beautiful’ and ‘breathtaking’, just like he always says when he sees you at work or back at your apartments. How he’s able to litter you with a million compliments
“I don’t overlook your compliments,” You let out an airy laugh, pulling back slightly to look at him properly, hands resting on his shoulders.
“Yes, you do.”
“I don’t..!” You laughed, cupping his cheeks and pulling him into a long kiss. He drew away, only by a few centimeters, desperately trying to get his point across because god forbid Spencer keep his thoughts to himself.
“You’re deflecting,” He whispered over your lips before you laid another feather-like kiss into his lips. You hummed dismissively, assuring him that you weren’t avoiding anything.
But god, if you didn’t stop kissing him so softly and so painfully slowly, if you didn’t stop shifting around on his lap the way you were and if you didn’t stop your hands from wandering their way across his shoulders and chest— he was going to have a hard time remaining composed.
“You’re—“ A kiss.
“trying to—“ Another kiss.
“distract me,” It was as if you were a magnet he was so desperately trying to detach himself from, but failing miserably. Gravity itself pulled him towards you, he couldn’t help nor control it. He couldn’t blame himself either.
“Is it working?” You whispered, voice dangerously close to a taunt. Your hands began fiddling with the buttons of his dress shirt, popping the first two undone.
Spencer found himself growing dizzy as his hands dug into your hips. “Unfortunately,”
You kissed his jaw, and Spencer let out a stifled groan. With the willpower of the gods themselves, he reached up and grabbed your hands into his own, stopping their mission at undoing his shirts buttons. You pouted with a glare, pulling away from him as his thumb gilded affectionately across your knuckles.
“So wait,” You pulled back. “Is this your way of saying you don’t want to sleep with me.?”
Spencer choked. “What?— No!”
Spencer groaned as you stifled a giggle. Oh, how you loved teasing and getting him all flustered. “That’s not— No.”
You tilted your head. His hands rested on your hips, as he sighed looking up at you. “Do you know how beautiful you are?”
You blushed. “You tell me often,”
“I know you’re beautiful,” He shook his head and sat up, trailing his hands across your back. “Do you?”
“People tell me often,” You smirked and when he glared at you all you could do was kiss it off him. “But I only like hearing it from you,”
“I asked you something,” He let out.
“Sort of,” You admitted meekly, finally responding to his question. His hands came back to the hem of your t-shirt, tugging at it as his lips found yours again.
“You’re probably the most beautiful person I know,” He whispered above your lips matter of factly.
“Probably..?”
“Definitely,” His hands gripped at the plush flesh of your hips in a way that was making you want to fall to the ground and melt into a puddle of goop. It was so gentle yet there was a specific urgency to it.
He pulled away, kissing your cheek immediately after. “You’re also so smart and kind,”
He kisses traveled across your cheek, to your temple, towards your jaw and that damn spot on your neck that he knew drove you crazy. All while whispering sweet nothings into your ear. Your witt was slowly melting away with any trace of self control you had left in you as you closed your eyes, arching yourself into his addictive touch. ”And funny,”
“Spence..” You warned.
“Can’t believe you’re mine,” He looked back at you, reaching up and cupping your cheek in his hand. “I—“
His words failed him as they whipped all the way back into his throat, daring not to leave his mouth. He wanted nothing more than to say it, there wasn’t anything else he wanted to say to you, because no matter how much he’d wash you in compliments, those three words were the closest thing to allowing you to understand just how much you truly meant to him— hell, it didn’t even feel like enough sometimes.
And that scared the shit out of him.
Which is why he quickly thought of the closest thing to those three words and spat them out, avoiding any growing suspicions. “I love the way you make me feel.”
You weren’t gonna lie, the first two words had gotten your hopes up in ways that were too pathetic to admit out loud. But his words had other intentions, so it seems, and you had to force yourself from slouching your shoulders foward in disappointment.
Beside, it’s not like the things he was saying weren’t causing a wonderful heat to pool in the pit of your stomach— and among other places.
You watched him, for a second or two, trying to maybe tell him with your eyes what you couldn’t tell him with your words. But it still wasn’t enough, and if you didn’t release the neediness that was starting to take shape within you, you'd quite literally explode.
You tangled your fingers within his hair and pulled his mouth onto yours in a steady but desperate kiss. He responded pretty well, given since his hands found your waist instantly and tugged them towards himself in a feverish manner.
He began pulling at the bottom of your shirt, signaling he needed it off of you and pulled away, whispering breathlessly. “Can I?—“
“Please.”
The fourth time
“Ouch,” You hissed as Morgan dabbed a piece of gauze onto the now stitched up cut on your head. “Are you trying to give me another concussion?”
Derek deadpanned at you, slightly relieved that you still found the energy to pick on him after being whacked in the back of the head with a pipe by the Unsub.
The team was searching for a local Serial Killer that targeted young women around the area, per usual. You and Morgan were put in charge of entering the Unsubs apartment since Garcia had been able to track it down while you and Morgan were on call.
It wasn’t anything past ordinary. This was your job, you had done this more than a thousand times before— much less carelessly and it wasn’t like you to be so careless. But sometimes you get so comfortable and cocky with your job that you forget about the actual risks of it.
Eventually that cockiness would have turned around and bit you in the ass.
When you and Morgan busted down the door, guns in hand, you split up, each directioning yourselves into different rooms of the apartment— in hindsight that was a horrible idea.
When you walked into what seemed to be an empty room, you stupidly failed to check the back of the door. Which was why a second later, when you opened your mouth to inform Morgan that the room was clear, something solid and cold wacked you across the back of the head, knocking you out unconscious.
You weren’t aware of what happened after that, given how the blunt force had knocked you out profusely and you really couldn't recall anything prior to the attack when you regained consciousness. All you knew is that you were alive and the Unsub had been caught, which was all that mattered honestly.
Derek was now wallowing in the self inflicted guilt of not knowing better. But to be completely fair, you didn’t know better either— you were as much to blame as he was.
But Derek was convincing himself that because of his lack of observation, you had ended up with a concussion, six stitches and a bruised cheekbone.
“Derek—” You pleaded, watching him dump the ice pack onto the counter of the back of the ambulance with an angry toss.
All he was doing right now was huffing in anger. “Come on,”
He turned to look down at you. Shot him a stiff thumbs up and a smile, signaling that you were more than okay. Sure, your head was throbbing, but you weren’t dying.
“Stop doing that,” You rolled your eyes and squashed your eyes shut, attempting to relieve your headache.
“Doing what?”
“The sulking,”
“I’m not sulking,” Derek scoffed. Now it was your turn to deadpan him. He opened his mouth, intending to jump instantly to his defense.
“Where is she?” A panicked voice from the depths of the crowd caused you to grimace, immediately recognizing it to be Spencer’s. Derek suddenly felt dread when realizing he now had to face him.
Spencer could be rather ardent when it came to you and your safety— you knew you were fine, but having to convince Spencer that you were fine as well was a tougher job.
Spencer pushed through the vast amounts of people, finally breaking through the last line of them and finding you sitting placidly in the back of the ambulance. The panic Spencer felt coursing within him was something he wished upon no one.
When Hotch told the team that you were down, Spencer couldn’t help but freak out. He hid it well, knowing he had to stay focused on the case, but god was he slowly crashing. His usual sharp intellect was fogged, and he couldn’t concentrate on anything but your wellbeing. His head was flooded with questions and worries and he needed to know that you were okay.
He strided over to you, quickly crouching and taking your cold hands into his own. His distressed eyes flew all over your face, scanning it as his hand came up to cup your cheek. His thumb gilded gently over your bruise and the deep furrow in his brows was enough to tell you that his mind was going haywire.
“Hey you,” You said, humor glistening your tone while smiling sweetly and oblivious to the gravity of the situation. Spencer forced a weak smile to spread across his own face.
“Hey,” He cooed. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine actually,”
Spencer straightened himself out, turning to Derek. “What did the paramedics say?”
“They gave her six stitches for the superficial cut on the crown of her head and some ice for the bruised cheekbone,” He crossed his arms. “They say it’s probable she has a concussion.”
Spencer felt his blood run cold. “A concussion?!”
You could tell Spencer was trying his hardest to remain calm. It was evident in the deep breaths he was taking and the tapping of his fingers against the side of his leg. He was doing a horrible job at it though, although you wouldn’t tell him that because he’d just freak out some more. His voice was getting all pitchy and his shoulders shook feebly. He sucked in a deeper breath, closing his eyes and attempting to regain his composure.
“Spencer,” You didn’t need him panicking more than he already was. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, probably to scold you or maybe even defend himself, Hotch's stoic voice cut through.
“We need to deliver a statement. Morgan, Reid,”
Spencer looked down at you. But you pushed him to head over to wherever your chief needed him to be. “Go. You can—“
“Hotch, I’m going to stay,” He told the chief, almost finally.
“For the first 24 hours after the injury, it’s important for someone to stay with her to keep an eye out for any new symptoms that develop.”
You clamped your mouth shut and looked at Hotch, who remained neutral watching the two of you. You offered him a shrug, and the two of you knew there was no getting through to him. Hotch hesitated momentarily, but knew Spencer would be more of use if he wasn’t with him worrying about you.
Spencer was as smart as they came but god could he be stubborn.
With a final nod from Hotch, he and Morgan pushed through the group of press. You followed Spencer’s movements with a sweet smile glued onto your face. He sat next to you, close enough so that you could feel the side of his thigh warm against yours.
“How are you feeling?” Spencer asked again, voice small, worrying that if he spoke too harshly or too loudly it would hurt you further.
“Surprisingly good for someone who was smacked in the back of the head with a metal pole,” You shrugged indifferently. Spencer, however, did not find your humor amusing.
“How sleepy are you on a scale from one to ten?” He asked urgently. You pulled back, pursing your lips quizzically.
“Like three? I slept like shit last night—”
“How about your neck? Does it feel stiff?” His hands reached up, cupping the sides of your neck as his thumbs traced your jaw.
“No,”
“Are you unable to move any part of your body?” His questions were spewing out of him uncontrollably, and it was getting hard for you to keep up.
“I don’t—“
“What about your pupils? Did the paramedics check them?”
“Spence,” You whined, slumping your shoulders forward while your face still rested in his hands. “The bright lights and harsh noises are giving me slight headaches, but that’s it.”
He stared at you. Long and hard, he just looked at you and wondered what he wanted to say out of all the things swirling around in his head.
“What were you thinking?” He asked finally. You stared at him and his eyes hard with annoyance, but still shining an amount of concern. His voice was barely above a whisper. You let your shoulders fall, licking your bottom lip.
You reached up, grabbing his hands steadily from your face and lacing your fingers with his. “We weren’t,”
“We jumped in head first and didn’t think coherently,” His frustration was rational, but to a certain extent. You really wanted to validate his concern, but he was not allowed to get mad at you. “Spencer.”
As you called his name firmly, he only looked away, jaw and shoulders tense and constricted. You sat there, silently waiting for him to react however it is he needed to in order to process.
“I should’ve gone with you, I should’ve—” His head ducked low. His voice was full of frustration, at himself mostly. It didn’t have to be because this was not something he could have prevented.
“Spencer,“ You gave his hands a firm squeeze and tugged on them slightly. “What did we talk about when it came to personal prevention?“
He remained silent. “I’m serious, there isn’t anything we could’ve done to prevent this.”
Spencer couldn't call to mind the last time he had felt this strongly about someone. Maybe Maeve, but he knew deep down it wasn’t the same. He was almost positive he really hadn’t ever felt this way about someone— he’d been in love, but never like this.
Your entire existence ameriolated his entire being. There wasn’t a moment in the day where he didn’t think of you, where he didn’t wonder what you would think of things, where he wasn’t excited to see you every morning for work. A life without you didn’t exist to him anymore— he didn’t want it too.
That could be the main basis as to why Spencer felt so implausibly terrified at the idea of losing you.
His hand left yours, replacing it with a cold emptiness. His free hand flew up to his eyes urgently, pinching them simultaneously to get rid of the minor tears that had welled upon them. He ducked his head low, not wanting you to notice that he had started tearing up.
Immediately, your whole face softened at the realization that he was crying. It tugged on the strings that held your heart up and made your stomach churn in the worst way possible. “Spence…”
Seeing him cry, possibly because of the fear of losing you, made you feel— funny. It gave you this airy feeling in your head that caused you to feel lightheaded and filled your chest with blithe. You weren’t sure if it was your concussion or the affection you felt towards Spencer that made you feel this way.
You smiled meekly, fondness across every one of your features. Spencer cleared his throat and spoke, voice wobbly and unsteady. He sat up, trying to recollect himself. “Sorry, I— I don’t know what i’m crying for—”
You looked into his eyes, eyebrows swooped downwards. At that second a million thoughts ran through your head, but only those three freaking worlds were the only ones that felt adequate enough to say in that moment.
“I—“ You started.
It was right there. It sat in the back of your throat irksomely. You were ready to jump off the edge, to slip into the abyss— to say those words that you’ve been holding off for the past weeks, months even. Spencer watched you, simultaneously growing nervous because he could tell by the way you swallowed thickly that you were about to say something.
“I think I’m seeing double,” You opted. Just the way his eyes blew wide was enough to make you giggle.
Next time.
“What do you mean?! Like actually double or are you—“ His voice died down at the sound of your snort and soon enough you began laughing. He blinked a few times before he glared at you.
“That is not funny.” It irked him massively how you had the capacity to always joke when he wasn’t at all in the mood to. But it also unraveled the itching anxiety that had grown in his chest and replaced it with a deep affection that surged throughout him entirely as he watched you laugh. “I’m serious.”
“Did you know that you look so cute when you’re mad?” Your hands reached up, cradling his face in your palms. You leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his lips.
When you pulled away his frown was still present. The pads of your thumbs rested on both corners of his lips, pushing them upwards and creating a makeshift smile.
“I’ll let you baby me these next few days all you want,” Your voice was soft and sweet, making his head spin as you hovered your lips over his, placing another slow kiss there. “But right now, I’m promising you that I am fine, okay?”
His jaw clenched, eyes flying down to avoid your prying one’s. “Spence.”
You were saying his name one too many times that he was finding it increasingly hard to compose himself. He glanced up at you, nodding weakly. “Okay.”
The fifth time
You leaned forward in the mirror of Spencer bathroom, poking at the scarring on the crown of your head. “It feels weird,”
“It’s scarring tissue, it’ll feel weird for a bit, love” He watched you silently from his seat on the edge of his bed.
“Do you think it’ll leave a scar?” You mumbled, voice tight with concern. “The bruising on my cheek is fading but god help me, if this leaves a weird bump on my head I’ll physically seek this psycho out in jail and give him his own bump to worry about,”
Spencer stopped himself from laughing, finding your pouting adorable.
“After an injury, the inflammatory process signals fibroblasts to lay down new, protective tissue in the form of scars,” Spencer quipped. “But it won’t be noticeable since it’s hidden underneath the rest of your hair.”
You huffed, poking at the bruise on your cheekbone and admitting. “It’s hard to feel pretty when I’m all busted up.”
“You always look pretty,” You continued to poke at your cheekbone to which Spencer stood up, walking into the bathroom and planting himself behind you.
“Stop poking at it like that,” He scolded, reaching behind you and grabbing your wrist. You focused on your face, huffing a breath of frustration.
This past week has been utter hell for Spencer. A newfound persistent anxiety managed to find him after your injury and sink its teeth into him, claiming him victim. You've been staying with him since your concussion, ensuring him that you were safe, but he noticed he’d grown more vigilant to his surroundings when he was at work, more possessive when it came to you and your wellbeing and more conscientious.
You didn’t obtrude, since you understood it was a perfectly normal reaction for him to have.
But he hated it. He hated this clawing anxiety he was having. He hated having the persistent fear of losing you. He tried to decipher whether it truly was all related to the recent events or if there was something deeper. But he knew for sure that the thought of you getting hurt was making him sick to his stomach.
He wrapped his arms around you from behind, burrowing his face into the crook of your neck. You grabbed his arms, rubbing soft circles onto it with the soft pads of your thumb.
“Bruises make me feel ugly,” You miffed. “Except the ones you give me, I love those,”
Spencer looked up from your neck, catching your gaze and watching your mischievous smile lighten up through the mirror as he cocked a brow at you. You giggled out a laugh.
Spencer zoned out. He just looked at you, watching your pretty eyes latch onto his through the mirror, seeing your body safe and warm and alive in his arms. His throat tightened and as much as he hated it, his mind immediately thought of Maeve.
Not because he was comparing, of course not. He could never— the two of you meant very different things to him and they were very different relationships.
But he could remember how he wasn’t able to tell Maeve that he loved her— he wasn’t given the chance.
And it made him think about your recent accident, and all the times he'd been stopping himself from telling you. Fear, worry— whatever it was, he had been stopping himself time after time from telling you how he felt.
The thought of him losing you before he could ever tell you how he truly feels is something that made him want to throw up.
“Hotch said I could go back to work on Monday,”
“I love you.”
He said it because he could, he said it because he meant it, and he said it because he didn’t want to live a second longer without you knowing how he felt despite its reciprocity.
He won’t ever forget the way your face just fell. Just stopped moving, mouth hanging open and eyebrows shooting upwards. How your mind just went blank. God, his heart was in his throat and your silence wasn’t helping.
“What did you just say?” You asked, mostly in disbelief— entirely in disbelief.
“I love you.” He’d repeat it for you as many times as you wanted him too. He’d do anything for you.
You turned and his grip around you loosened. Now facing him, your eyes shot around every fraction of his face to determine that this wasn’t a lie or a joke or something cruel he was planning.
“Say that again,”
“I love you.”
And it definitely wasn’t.
You pushed yourself onto the tip of your toes, leaning up and wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him into a suffocating kiss. One that was desperate, and urgent and full of passion and all over the place.
He pushed you against the marble counter, quickly hoisting you up onto the cold tile as your mouth moved along his perfectly. Your hands dug themselves into his hair, your legs wrapped around his waist, tugged at his body, pulling him impossibly closer to your own.
He pulled away breathing over your lips. “I love you,”
He kissed you again before pulling away and whispering once again. “I’m in love with you.”
He rested his forehead onto you, reaching up and tangling his hands in your hair. The two of you heaved. Your chest was hammering against your rib cages, the oxygen wasn’t fully reaching your head or lungs and you were pretty sure you were going to faint. It was too much. “You are?”
You both peered your eyes open, looking at each other deeply. He whispered, voice crackling slightly. “How could I not?”
You kissed him, this time slowly and softly, wanting to show him how much you loved him back— needing to tell him how much you loved him back.
“I love you,” You said, wavering an unsteady laugh. He opened his eyes and pulled away, looking at you and infatuated with every part of your existence.
“Really?”
“Spencer..!” Your voice cracked in a protest, ludicrously referring to such a stupid assumption— you’d love him till the day you died. You pulled him closer. “It is physically impossible for me not to love you. Don’t act so surprised.”
He smiled. A big, wide and stupid smile that probably made him look like a kid on christmas morning. He kissed your forehead. “You have no idea how much of a relief it is to say it.”
You perched up, hands falling onto his chest. “How long have you wanted to say it?”
He cringed bashfully, letting his hands fall to your waist as he shook his head shamefully. “Too long,”
“Well that makes two of us then,” You leaned forward, placing a relaxed kiss on his jaw. “Was there a point you realized?”
He shook his head. He’s pretty sure that after a month of going out on dates and seeing you consecutively outside and inside of work, he knew he’d fall in love with you. How could he not? “My breaking point, however, was the day you were wearing your new shirt,”
He kissed your neck, giving your hips a tight squeeze. “Which by the way, looked absolutely incredible on you,”
“Is that so?” You mumbled, lips curving up in a smirk.
“I love how it looked on you,” He admitted. “I love you.”
You let out a shaky breath. “I’m never going to get tired of hearing you say that,”
“I’m never going to get tired of saying it,” He responded. “When did you realize?”
“It was either that time after our first big fight or on that night on the couch when we,” You shot him a sneaky look, to which his cheeks turned pink, recalling the events of that night. You shrugged. “You know.”
You were going to be the literal death of him.
He kissed your jaw twice more. He loved you and you loved him. It seemed like something too good to be true. “I think I’m going to need you to jog up my memory,”
You giggled at the reference, heart doubling in size at the amount of affection you were feeling towards him at that moment. He wrapped his arms tightly around your waist, emitting a loud shriek followed by a string of laughter as he hoisted you up and carried you over to his bed.
Summary: For work experience, you take a job working the cameras on a porn shoot, but after becoming suddenly attracted to a new coworker, you shortly find yourself as a fluffer, the person whose job it is to keep the "talent" aroused between takes.
Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, Porn AU, College AU kinda, exhibitionism, oral sex (f receiving), consensual voyeurism, masturbation (male), blow job, deep throating, messy orgasm.
A/N: Well, look at where we are. I think this actually counts as my first Alternate Universe fic, which is crazy all things considered. I'm really enjoying the Kink Bingo Challenge as it's leading me to so many new ideas for fics!! I hope you all enjoy this one 🥰
Masterlist || Bingo Board
Being a college student still at age 25 meant many things, but mostly, it meant you had friends at many different stages of their lives. Some were fresh out of high school halls, enjoying their first taste of freedom, some were enjoying their first drops of alcohol. Some were giving up alcohol for good and starting families.
Some of them were successful porn stars who'd funded their own start-up porn production company. It certainly was one way to use a film degree. You knew a professor or two who would enjoy her work more than half your syllabus as well.
Candi Rapper had become famous doing cam shows in her first year of college and had gone all-in after graduation. You'd shared a few classes in the early days, before you took a break from college for financial reasons, of course. By the time you'd gone back, she was a big time and now in the position to offer you a job.
“One of my crews is down a cameraman this weekend. If you're open to it, I pay a fair wage?” she'd offed at your weekly brunch.
“Will you be the star?” You joked back with her.
“You wish.”
You took the job, of course, along with a ride from Candi (her name was Kate, but you'd let her pretend) and pulled up on site bright and alert at 7am.
The set was a large mansion - typical, Candi said - and you'd be mostly shooting in the living room - typical, Candi said. You'd had to tell her after her second typical that you were, in fact, an adult and had seen at least one porno before until she cut out pornsplaining everything to you. She introduced you to the key staff and the director, and they got you set up at your camera.
“The shoot today is going to be around 5 hours. You'll be on camera three. The papers in front have your cues and directions. You can have some free time until we start. There's a breakfast spread in the kitchen, help yourself.”
Not one to turn down free food, you bee-lined there and stood awkwardly in line for the coffee with the dozen or so other crew members, eyeing up the take-out pancakes organised across the granite surface.
“Your first time?” An older man asked from behind you, smiling in a friendly manner.
“You can tell?”
“You're thinking about eating the pancakes, and the rest of us are remembering the scene filmed there last weekend," as if on queue, a shiver ran down his spine. "Yeah, we can tell.” You laughed along with the man's joke and finally grabbed your coffee.
Luck just wasn't on your side, though, as you turned and immediately ran into someone immediately sloshing the coffee onto your shirt.
“Oh my god, I am so - I'm so sorry, I need to watch where I'm going.”
You'd run into 6’3” of lanky, awkward male perfection. He looked young, your age or younger most likely, and was fidgeting as he stood, the most obviously uncomfortable person in the building.
Your first thought was “Is he lost?” closely followed by “Can I beg him to get lost in a linen closet somewhere with me?”
He grabbed a handful of tissues from the counter nearby and began attempting to wipe away the coffee you'd spilt down yourself, completely unaware that he was fondling your breasts in his haste to do so.
“Slow down there, tiger, shoot doesn't start for another half hour,” you said, winking at him as you took the tissues from his panicked hands and dried yourself as best you could.
“I know, I memorised the call sheet. Who are you?” His question was blunt, but you weren't taken aback at all, your smile even deepening as you enjoyed his subtle attention.
“I'm Y/N. It's my first time.”
He spluttered, coming up with an answer to that, and you immediately cursed yourself for the slip.
“My first time on set, not my- I'm 25. Not that age determines experience per say but-”
“I'm 22. And my name is Spencer,” he said, grasping your hand and shaking it.
“So, it's your first time on set?” He asked, relaxing more into the conversation as he stepped closer to you, letting the other staff members come and go from the kitchen.
“Yeah. My friend offered me the job, you know Candi?”
He nodded but didn't speak, so you continued.
“She thought the experience would be good for me. And the cash. Gotta put myself through college somehow, and it was this or stripping.”
He laughed, and you felt a flash of warmth in your stomach, a familiar hunger spreading across your lower body. Maybe it was just the atmosphere of the set, but the air was charged with arousal.
“Well, you're certainly attractive enough to do both jobs. I'm sure the camera is going to love you,” he said, sounding so genuine and enthusiastic that you almost felt bad you had to correct him.
“Oh! Oh, no, Spencer, I'm not - I'm, uh, I'm going to be behind the camera. Behind camera number two.”
His face instantly flushed, and you thought you saw a pang of disappointment there for a second, too. The thought of him being disappointed made your skin heat, that he'd been looking forward somehow to watching you get fucked? Your cunt throbbed and suddenly, you found you did wish to display yourself, to let everyone see if it meant that he got to.
“I am so sorry. I didn't - I thought… No, I didn't think, I… I'll shut up now, please excuse me-”
“No, Spencer, wait-”
You tried to call after him, but he sent you an embarrassed smile and walked off in haste, leaving you behind as the director called people to their places.
You were still flushed with arousal as you moved to your station, getting your camera ready for filming. You were distracted even as the scene started, and the female actress came on set, already stripped down to her underwear and touching herself, teasing the camera.
Surprisingly, you found the work easy enough, too busy focusing on the settings and the gaze of the camera to even care about what was going on down the lens. She was moaning and writhing and gasping sure, to the benefit of the cameras, and although strangely intimate, nobody in the room seemed bothered, so neither did you.
Or neither did you until the actual scenario started, and your actress got ‘caught’ doing the dirty by the needy boy next door. You hadn't looked at the call sheet closely enough as Spencer peeped through the door to the bedroom, entering the scene not by accident but as a scripted part of the show.
Your eyes bulged out of your head as you immediately looked down to your prompt sheet to find his name there.
LEAD ACTOR: SPENCER REID
His stage name was scribbled next to that, but you paid it no attention as you steadied your camera again and got to filming seriously again.
The actress had pulled his glasses off and led him to the bed, letting him keep on his sweater vest and tie as she pulled his head between her legs, and he started doing his job.
Even from your view to the side of him, you could tell this wasn't his first time doing that. His tongue spread across the expanse of her heat, first, letting her grind into his face, getting comfortable before he snaked a hand up to her stomach and held her in place for as long as he so desired.
Then, he rolled her clit into his mouth and sucked. The fake moans and whimpers suddenly became real as you saw the sheer skill of his tongue ripple through the woman's body.
You couldn't even be jealous at this point, despite how much you sorely wished that were you on the bed. Surely no girl had resorted to porn out of pure horny desire before, right?
After a while of letting her gasp and moan under his tongue, Spencer's fingers curled inside the other woman as well. The director called cut, and he kept his fingers there, even as they walked him through the next few shots, and instructed him to unzip his pants in the next few clips.
“Shit,” you muttered to yourself as the cameras started rolling again, and he did finally free himself from his tight khakis.
You knew you'd probably sign up for whatever was on offer at this company next to see that gift again. Spencer wasn't an impressive size or girth, nothing so alien or out of the ordinary that it only belonged in porn. It was just that his cock looked so… pretty.
He was an inch or two longer than any man you'd ever been with, you were sure, but his cock seemed to have an air of dignity about it.
You had to stop yourself at that thought. Dignity? Really? You were working part-time on a porn set, and there was suddenly dignity involved?
You rolled your shoulders back and tried to find your earlier unbothered attitude. But with his cock in his hands and his face slick with female arousal, you really couldn't bring yourself to think about anything less than his fingers roughly finger-fucking you.
You tried to close your eyes to it, to be blind, but the wet, sticky sounds only distracted you and you found yourself soon swaying, swaying, swaying until you had to catch yourself before the camera dropped.
With a shout of “yes, baby, yes,” the female star came on his face, sending up a furret of fluids as he just kept diligently stroking his cock, only stopping at the director's final yell of “CUT.”
“Perfect guys, let's get her up and drinking water again. You need to stay hydrated after all that,” he joked, a PA walking over to pass the actress a robe and a bottle of water as she walked off set.
You relaxed for a second, trying to find your quickest route out of the room so you wouldn't have to drool over the man's cock so obviously any more.
“FLUFFER? Where's the fluffer?” The director yelled, looking around for someone who obviously wasn't there yet.
“Well?”
Still, no one arrived to do whatever job they needed doing, and you felt desperate for escape.
“New girl, would you mind?” Some crew member called out from the sidelines, nodding at you.
“Oh, uh, sure,” you said, hoping that whatever job you agreed to would get you far enough from this room and the heat between your legs as possible. You were not a prude, and you would not bolt from your very first film shoot.
“Great, get on the bed and keep the boy company,” the director said before exiting the room.
You were absolutely on board with becoming a prude and bolting the scene as fast as your legs could carry you. Unfortunately, eight people still sat around, monitoring equipment and chatting on their breaks, and so you were forced to comply with the task.
“We meet again,” you greeted the man stiffly as you found him on the bed, an apprehensive, tight smile on his own face.
“You don't have to do this if you're uncomfortable, I can keep myself… occupied.”
You noticed then that his hand was still wrapped around his cock, giving it slow strokes, not enough to tip him over the edge, but just enough to maintain the erection.
“So the fluffer….?”
“Prepares the actors for the next scene? I need to stay- let say in shape.”
His face flushed crimson as your gaze slipped down to his cock in his hand.
“So you want me to-”
“NO. No, I usually only talk to the Fluffers. Look at them, you know?”
You nodded and found yourself suddenly going still, watching his face contort with pleasure as his eyes raked over your chest and legs.
You couldn't help but let your eyes dart south again, and fuck did you wish you hadn't. His spare hand fisted the sheets as he stroked himself gently, practically taunting himself with the light touch.
“You do this often?” you asked, trying to pretend you were open to having a normal conversation even while your brain begged you to climb into his lap and sink down as fast as you could.
“You mean maaturbate or the porn thing?”
“Porn.”
“No. No, I come in for a shoot every few months. One of these shoots tends to fund another semester of my PhD, so-”
Somewhere in the back of your mind, you were impressed by that admission, but your predominate thought was still “shit, shit, shit, shit.”
“That's impressive,” you said, only catching your words as they tripped out of your mouth. “THE PHD! The PhD, I mean not your… penis? Not that it isn’t appealing, or- or-.”
You tried your hardest to use the most clinical word you could, distancing yourself from the honeyed words you so wanted to drop in his ear to get him to crawl further up the bed and entice him to make his own scene with you.
“Thank you. It's my third,” he said, slightly more relaxed now that you were the flustered one.
“PhD that is. Not cock. I only have one of these.”
“One is enough,” you say, unable to stop the words tumbling out as your eyes again find themselves following each pump of his hand up and down his cock. Inwardly, you curse your friend for starting up her stupid business and paying you to simply exist in the same hemisphere as this man without being able to ride him.
“Do you want to touch it?” He asked, blurting the words out suddenly. As if God had answered your prayers, your heart leapt up into your throat, your pussy clenching around nothing as you shifted your hips closer to him.
You'd thought then that you'd quite enjoy bouncing on that thing yourself, but a handshake would have to do.
“So you have to stay hard, but-”
“But it's best I don't cum, yeah.”
“Okay. Noted.”
Slowly, you reached out a hand and gently wrapped each finger around the tip of his cock. He released himself and wrapped his now free hand around yours, setting the pace for you quickly as he engaged you in conversation again.
“So, where are you from?” He asked, as inept at small talk as you felt in that second.
You answered him without a fuss and returned the question. Las Vegas. That seemed to check out with how easily he'd broken into porn. There was always something happening in that city.
"How'd you get into the business?"
"Well, Vegas, you know. A producer saw a group of... street ladies offer me a freebie and gave me his card."
You went back and forth on questions like that for a few minutes before you noticed he was coughing every few seconds to mask moans and groans, evidently too into this to request you stop.
“Is it okay to…Can I touch you?” He asked, sounding very afraid of rejection at that second.
“Oh, um, yes. That'd only be fair, right?”
He ran a hand up your waist to the curve of your breast and pressed his fingers into one, digging into the skin as though it were a pillow, and he was testing it before he fell head first into it.
Maybe that was just wishful thinking, though.
Temporarily, you let go of him, popping the front buttons of your blouse until he could freely see all of your black and red bra, and feast on the tops of your dusty nipples, peaking out just above each cup.
You heard him inhale sharply, even as he tried to hide it, but you didn't care, too transfixed on the precum decorating his tip.
“Would you mind-” You started, but cut yourself off quickly, biting your lower lip.
“Mind?”
“Can I suck it?”
You didn't know where it came from because there were probably half a dozen other people still in the room, and mostly men. But dear god, he looked delicious, and you wanted just a little sample.
“Fuck yes,” he said, finally giving in and letting out a whole gust of breath as he slumped down a bit further, no longer holding himself rigid. “No, no, actually, please do. I'm begging, I'll beg-”
You cut him off by pushing yourself to your knees and crawling in between his, and seconds later, you were licking the length of his cock from the base of his balls all the way to that precious drop of precum.
Hard, but no cumming. You could do that. You'd never done it before, preferring to fully pleasure sexual partners any chance you got, but there was no time like the present to start learning.
Slowly, you wrapped your lips around his tip and sank down, taking one inch, then another, and then another. When you reached the base of his cock, you pushed that little bit further down, calming yourself and going slowly so you didn't gag, nose pushing into his neat public hair before pulling away just as slowly and doing it again.
You took him as deep down your throat as you could manage, and suddenly, it was like everything that kept your conversation casual and civil earlier had flown out the door. He threw his head back, fisted his hand in your hair, and moaned deep.
The sound shook you so much you almost pushed a hand into your own underwear and started fucking yourself, needing to prepare yourself for him like a good girl.
Around you, you could hear signs of the shoot starting back up again, people finding their places, still all but ignoring you deep-throating a porn star.
Spencer's breaths grew more rapid as you sucked him, hips becoming restless as he tried to lift up into your mouth, hand in your hair tightening as you realised your mistake.
You pulled off his cock and grasped it again, stroking it slowly, but it was too late. With a sharp moan and a twitch of his hips, Spencer so prettily decorated your chin and chest. His cum dripped down your face, hitting your cleavage and pushing further down to stain your nice black laced underwear white.
“Fuck! Sorry, I wasn't meant to do that, let me get some - Can I get a towel please? A baby wipe? Some tissue, anything?” His voice was panicked, but his hand on your head relaxed, and he brushed your hair gently behind your ear, as if comforting you.
He was panicked, for sure, but the crew calmly handed him everything he needed, as if they'd been in anticipation of just this thing happening. You supposed they probably were, this being a porn set. You were sure you were supposed to clean yourself up, but instead, he grabbed a wet tissue, leaving the pack just out of your reach.
He managed to clean your face off a bit before the director returned to the room with a laugh. Running a hand through his hair and messing it up slightly, the director turned back to you.
“We're five minutes out from shoot time,” he said, shaking his head. You started to apologise, but he stopped you with a hand.
“New girl, work whatever magic you just did and get him hard again. Five minutes.”
“W-What?” You spluttered, trying your best to rise from your knees, but ultimately failing. You were either stiff from the position or just weak with arousal.
“He just came, I don't think I can-”
“10 pictures I've done with that kid, and I haven't seen him cum that quickly ever before in my life. And certainly not just for some kitten licks. Do it.”
You turned back to Spencer, his cum still trickling down your chest, creating an almost uncomfortable stiffness as it dried up.
“Pleasure working with you?” You said, not-so-secretly ecstatic that you got to sample him once more.
“I'll be in your care,” he replied, as you begin softly kissing the head of his cock again, tipping his head back again and losing himself in the pleasure or your tongue.
