Brookeᓚᘏᗢ @littlefairybrooke - Tumblr Blog

please read before requesting ⊹˚.🍓

body positivity ⊹˚.🍓

my name is brooke ☽ twenty-three ☽ i write sometimes but it is mostly headcannons & most of my posts are gifs and photos with my silly thoughts ☽

#ghostslittlegf #simon riley x reader #kyle garrick x reader #john mactavish x reader #john price x reader #farah karim x reader #alex keller x reader #alejandro vargas x reader #rudy parra x reader #valeria garza x reader #phillip graves x reader #roach sanderson x reader #captain mactavish x reader #keegan russ x reader #könig x reader #nikto x reader #sebastian krueger x reader #141 x reader #soapghost x reader

kymawrites

it's nice to have a friend (4)

pairing: Azriel x Reader

content warnings: hangover (nausea, headache, difficulty remembering), unknowing consumption of a recreational drug (mirthroot, past), suggestive themes, language

word count: 9.1k

synopsis: Azriel was always meant to be yours.

trope: childhood friends to lovers

part 1 ~ part 2 ~ part 3

my masterlist

~ ~ ~

Azriel was on the floor.

And he was shirtless.

And drooling.

The light beaming in through the window felt like an axe against your skull, the pain nearly cleaving you in two before you ducked your head under the pillows.

Pillows that were definitely not yours.

You flew up into a sitting position again, leaning over the bed to take in the male below.

Azriel was not wearing pants.

He was wearing underwear, thank the Mother, but it didn’t stop the panic that was rapidly climbing up your chest. Not when you were wearing only a too large shirt that smelled like him, and had nothing underneath.

plumstainedcurtains

Truth Be Told (SMUT 18+ Minors DNI)

Pairing: Azriel (ACOTAR) x F!Reader

Word Count: 2.9k

Description: After days away on a mission, Azriel returns home, desperate for you. Lucky for him, Azriel finds you just as desperate.

Warnings: Porn no plot, p in v, oral sex (m receiving), knife play, gags, choking, hair pulling, rough sex, inappropriate use of Truth-Teller, multiple orgasms, dom!Azriel, sub!reader

A/N: This was a request from a very dear friend of mine, the one who put me on ACOTAR in the first place. To my dear Sugar, eat it up girl. This was so fun to write I’m almost embarrassed. Feel free to send in some requests! Enjoy!

Everyone in the Night Court understood that the High Lord’s shadowsinger worked hard. Azriel knew everything about everyone, everywhere. He spent his days soaring through the skies of Prythian learning what he could and reporting back to the High Lord. No one understood how hard Azriel worked better than you, though. His wife. His mate.

You were the one who waited up on the nights he came through the doors of your bedroom with bags beneath his eyes. You were the one who sat with him when he saw something that made him want to uproot the entire political system of Prythian. You were the one who kissed his scarred hands when they shook in the dark hours of the early morning, when the dreams were too much even for a warrior like him.

shadowdaddiesclub

Uninvited - The End

Part 1 - Part 2

Azriel x Reader

Azriel finally has a chance, and he won't let it go. No more fake injuries. No more excuses. Just one night at the River House, the people who already know him best watching closer than usual, and a male finally done pretending he doesn't want this.

You had been getting ready for the better part of two hours, which was, by any reasonable measure, absurd.

You'd started with the green dress, decided it was too much, changed into something simpler, decided that was somehow worse, and were now standing in front of your mirror in the green dress again, having circled back to your first instinct after exhausting every other option in your wardrobe. Your hair had been up, then down, then half up in a manner you'd immediately undone out of pure indecision. You'd redone the same strand of hair behind your ear four separate times.

It was dinner. You had stood at that table more times than you could count, usually with someone's blood still drying under your fingernails, but you had never once sat at it. You did not need two hours to decide what to wear to dinner.

Except tonight wasn't a house call, and you knew it, and your reflection clearly knew it too, judging by how long you'd spent frowning at it.

You gave yourself one last look, smoothed a hand down the front of the dress you'd apparently decided on an hour and forty-five minutes ago and simply refused to admit to, and told yourself, firmly, that you were only nervous because you'd skipped lunch.

You did not believe yourself. You went anyway.

You raised your hand to knock, your foot barely settled on the top step, and the door opened before your knuckles ever touched wood.

You sucked in a breath. "How—"

"I just know," Azriel said, before you could finish, a smile tugging at his mouth like he'd been waiting behind that door for the exact sound of your footsteps on the stairs. He opened his mouth like he might actually explain it, the shadows, the listening, something, then visibly thought better of it and let the mystery stand instead, ears going faintly warm at his own nerve.

You felt suddenly, uncharacteristically shy under the weight of him actually looking at you, and reached up without quite meaning to, tucking a loose piece of hair behind your ear. It didn't go unnoticed. His gaze followed the movement, then dropped, slow, tracking the line of the deep green dress, down to where the hem brushed your ankles and back up again, in a way that made the hallway feel considerably warmer than it had a moment ago.

He caught his bottom lip between his teeth, like he was choosing his next words carefully, or like he simply couldn't help himself.

"You look beautiful," he said, voice low, rougher than usual, and he didn't stop there. He stepped closer, one hand coming up to rest against the doorframe beside your head, boxing you in without ever quite touching you, close enough now that you could feel the warmth radiating off him in the cool night air. His other hand found your cheek instead, light at first, testing, like he half expected you to step back, and when you didn't, his fingers curved in slightly firmer, thumb tracing an absent line along your cheekbone.

"Azriel." It came out quieter than you meant it to, more breath than voice, something caught halfway between a warning and a plea you weren't ready to name.

"Mm." He wasn't really listening. His gaze had dropped to your mouth and stayed there, slow and unblinking, the same way it always did right before he made you forget every clever thing you'd meant to say. He leaned in, slow enough that you felt every inch of it, his breath warm against your cheek, close enough that his nose brushed yours, close enough that the whole hallway seemed to narrow down to the small, charged space left between his mouth and yours, every nerve in your body lit up and waiting for something you didn't have a name for yet.

"Thank you for coming," he murmured, the words landing right against your jaw instead of your ear, low and rough enough that you felt them more than heard them, a current running straight down your spine before he'd even finished speaking.

Neither of you moved for one long, suspended second, the hush before something good stretched out until it ached. You looked up at him and he looked down at you, both of you breathing harder than the moment should have warranted, like the air between you had gotten thinner somehow.

Then Cassian's voice cracked straight through it like a thrown rock.

Azriel pulled back, slow and clearly reluctant about it, like every inch of distance cost him something, his hand lingering against your cheek a beat longer than the retreat really allowed for.

"Oh, hi, sunshine!" Cassian appeared in the doorway behind him, grinning wide enough to split his own face. "I'm relieved to find you both still wearing clothes, we weren't sure you could stay off each oth—"

"Cassian." Azriel cut him off flat, voice low and edged, the particular tone that made grown Illyrian warriors reconsider their life choices. "Finish that sentence and see what happens."

Cassian, wisely, did not finish the sentence. "Anyway. You just made me lose that bet, so, credit where it's due, congratulations on your restraint." He clapped Azriel on the shoulder, entirely too pleased with himself. "Truly heartbreaking work."

Azriel had gone thoroughly red by the time he turned back to you, jaw tight, the particular expression of a male recalculating every choice that had led him to this exact family.

"Excuse my dysfunctional family," he muttered.

You laughed, unable to help it, and some of your own nerves finally eased loose in the process.

"Are you two coming in," Cassian added, already retreating back inside, "or is this the part where I give you privacy and pretend I didn't see any of that?"

Azriel shot him a look sharp enough to have Cassian raising both hands in mock surrender, still grinning the whole way as he disappeared further inside. Then he turned back to you, all that edge melting straight back into softness, and reached for your hand instead, lacing his fingers through yours, easy and certain, guiding you through the door like he had absolutely no intention of letting go anytime soon.

The dining room was already loud by the time you stepped in, warm gold light and the smell of something good simmering, and every familiar face turned toward the two of you at once like they'd been waiting for this exact entrance.

"There he is," Mor said, not even bothering to look up from the wine she was pouring, "the male who spent the entire afternoon pacing the front hall instead of doing anything useful."

"I was not pacing," Azriel said, crossing his arms in a way that did nothing to help his case.

"You wore a groove into the floorboards. Rhys nearly had you reassigned to sentry duty just to give the rest of us some peace." Feyre didn't even try to hide her grin. "You opened that door before she'd even reached the top step. We were placing bets on how long you'd actually last."

"That's an invasion of privacy."

"It's a shared house, Azriel. You chose to have your crisis in the front hall."

"To be clear," Cassian announced, dropping into his seat and raising his glass before anyone had so much as picked up a fork, "I would like it on record that I called this months ago. I said, and I quote myself directly, 'that man is going to fake an injury to see her one of these days,' and everyone laughed at me. No one believed me. It was very hurtful, actually, and I don't think I've fully recovered."

"Aww, poor big baby," Mor cooed, patting Cassian's cheek without looking up from her wine. "Being right is not your forté."

"I resent that," Cassian said, swatting her hand away, undeterred. "I have excellent instincts. I just don't always get the details right."

"You once diagnosed yourself with a punctured lung because you sneezed wrong, or possibly too loud," you said, before you could stop yourself, and the whole table erupted, Cassian included, delighted that you'd had the receipts ready and waiting.

Azriel, beside you, had pressed his lips together, fighting a losing battle against his own smile, valiantly hiding it behind his wine glass.

"She's laughing! At my expense! In my own home!" Cassian pointed his fork at Azriel. "This is what you've done. You've turned my own healer against me."

"She's not your healer tonight," Rhys said mildly. "Tonight she's our guest."

The table quieted for half a beat, the kind of quiet that had weight to it. You'd stood at this exact table more times than you could count, elbows deep in someone's wound, running through casualty counts while blood dried on your hands, but you had never once sat at it. Never eaten a meal here. Never been handed a glass of wine instead of a roll of bandages. You'd been a fixture of this house for years without ever once being a guest in it.

Azriel's hand found yours under the table, brief, grounding, thumb moving once over your knuckles like he'd felt the shift too.

"You okay?" you murmured.

"Better than okay." He glanced at you sideways, some of the earlier nerves still lingering at the corners of his mouth, though there was nothing sheepish left in the way he was looking at you now. "I've watched you stand at this table more times than I can count, stitching one of us back together. I don't think I've ever gotten to just sit across from you at it before."

"You're allowed to just say you're glad I came," you said, looking at him over the rim of your glass, eyebrow raised, thoroughly enjoying making him work for it.

"I'm glad you came," he said, plain and unguarded, glancing around at Cassian mid-reenactment of some story only half the table was still listening to, Mor cackling, Rhys topping off everyone's wine with the satisfaction of a man who'd engineered the whole evening on purpose. "This room's never once felt small to me before. Not until you were sitting in it like this."

You didn't have anything clever to say to that. You just looked at him instead, something soft and open slipping loose in your own expression before you could think to stop it, the kind of look that had nothing left of banter in it at all. He noticed. Of course he noticed. His hand found yours again under the table and simply stayed there.

One by one, they drifted off. Feyre first, tugging a still-protesting Rhys away under some thin excuse neither of you believed for a second. Mor not long after, blowing you a kiss on her way out the door and promising, with real menace, that she'd be seeing you again soon. Cassian lingered longest, naturally, until Azriel gave him a look that finally, mercifully, sent him off toward his own wing of the house with a parting comment about thin walls that made you choke on your wine.

And then it was just the two of you, the dining room gone quiet and gold around you, candles burned low, the whole house settling into the particular hush that came after everyone else had gone.

Azriel led you through to the sitting room without a word, one hand light at the small of your back.

You drifted instead toward the hearth, where a fire had been banked low and steady for hours, throwing soft amber light across the room, your wine glass still cradled loosely in one hand as you watched the flames for a moment, the noise and warmth of the whole evening still humming pleasantly through you.

"That was a really nice dinner," you said quietly, mostly to the fire. "I mean that. All of it. Even Cassian." You turned the glass slowly by the stem, watching the firelight catch in it. "I could get used to it."

Something shifted in Azriel's chest at that. He crossed the space between you without a word, took the glass from your hand and set it on the mantel, fingers brushing yours a beat longer than necessary on the way. His hand found your waist, then slid slow up along your side to rest at the curve of your neck, before he turned you gently to face him fully, the fire warm at your back and Azriel warmer still in front of you.

He wasn't smiling. Not exactly. There was something far more open than that sitting behind his eyes, dark and steady and entirely undisguised, the look of a male who had run out of banter and games and careful distances and had nothing left standing between the two of you at all.

"Say that again," he said, low, thumb stroking slow along your cheek.

"Which part."

"That you could get used to it." His hand settled at your waist, fingers spread firm and warm through the fabric, like he needed something to anchor them while he said the rest. "Because I intend to make sure you do. Every version of it. This house, that table, all of it, for as long as you'll let me. I keep waiting for the part where this stops feeling like too much to hope for."

Your chest went tight, warm and aching all at once. "Azriel."

"I mean it." His gaze didn't waver from yours. "I have spent months inventing reasons to be near you. And tonight, watching you sit at that table like you belonged there, because you do, I don't have a single excuse left. I don't want one."

"You don't need one," you said, barely a whisper. "You never did."

"I know that now."

He reached up and brushed a strand of hair back from your face, slow and careful, nothing at all standing between the two of you except the small, charged inch of space he was closing.

He opened his mouth, then stopped, jaw working, the same unguarded flicker from the doorstep crossing his face again before he let it stay this time instead of retreating behind a smirk.

He exhaled, long and slow, like he was letting go of something he'd been holding onto for months.

"I am in love with you, y/n," he said, quiet and certain, like it was the simplest fact he'd ever stated, like he'd been carrying it so long that saying it out loud was almost a relief. "I think I've been in love with you since the first time you pulled an arrow out of my arm and didn't so much as flinch, just scolded me for waiting too long to come to you. I just didn't let myself call it that until now."

Your eyes stung, unexpected and sudden, and you didn't bother trying to hide it. "I love you too. I was so scared, every time you showed up, that I'd find you in pieces one of these days. Even when you weren't. Especially then."

Something in him broke open at that, gentle and complete. He didn't move right away, just looked at you, that same dark, unguarded intensity from before pinning you in place, like he was memorizing the moment before he let himself have it.

"Can I?" he asked, low, though you both already knew what he meant.

"Yes," you breathed, before he'd even finished asking.

He closed the last of the distance like a man finally allowed to stop holding himself back, one hand sliding into your hair, the other splayed firm against the small of your back, pulling you flush against him like months of restraint had simply run out all at once. The moment his mouth met yours, something deep in your chest gave way, sudden and searing, a thread you'd felt before but never let yourself name, pulling taut between the two of you like it had always been there, simply waiting for permission to snap into place. Azriel went rigid for half a heartbeat, breath catching hard against your lips, like he'd felt it too.

"Did you feel that?" he murmured against your mouth, barely a whisper, more breath than words.

"Yes," you managed, dazed, chest still humming with it.

He kissed you again before either of you could say anything more, like he'd rather feel the answer than talk about it, and you let him, both of you too far gone to want to stop and examine something that already felt this certain. It was not careful this time. It was searching, deep, a slow-building ache finally let loose, his mouth moving against yours with a hunger that had clearly been banked far longer than either of you had let on, and you answered it just as fiercely, fingers curling into his shirt and dragging him closer, chasing the feeling of finally, finally having this.

He groaned low against your mouth, the sound vibrating through you, and his hand at your back pressed you in tighter still, like there wasn't a single inch of space left he was willing to allow between you anymore. There was something almost helpless in the way he kissed you now, control fraying at the edges, like whatever had just snapped into place between you had loosened something he'd spent centuries keeping leashed.

His mouth grew more insistent, less careful, chasing you deeper into the kiss every time you tried to catch your breath, like the taste of you had become something he physically could not get enough of. You felt it in the way his hands trembled faintly where they gripped you, in the low, wrecked sound he made every time you pressed closer instead of pulling away.

You lost track, for a while, of the fire, the room, the rest of the house, aware of nothing except the drag of his mouth and the desperate, relieved way his hands kept moving over you, your jaw, your waist, the curve of your spine, as though he needed to memorize every part of you now that he was finally allowed to, now that some ancient, wordless part of him had decided you were his and had no intention of being reasonable about it.

When he finally broke away, both of you gasping, he didn't go far, forehead dropping to rest against yours, his hands still tangled in your hair like he couldn't quite bring himself to let go yet.

"This," he murmured against your hair, voice still rough, "went considerably better than I let myself expect."

You laughed softly, burying your smile against his shoulder as he wrapped both arms around you properly, tucking you into him like he intended to keep you there for a very long time.

"You were nervous about tonight?"

"Terrified. I've faced down enemy encampments with less dread than I felt on your doorstep this afternoon." He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "Worth every second of it."

He didn't let go after that. He simply held you there instead, arms wrapped fully around you, chin settling into your hair, content in a way you'd never once seen from him, not even in all the quiet moments you'd shared before tonight. You let yourself sink into it, into him, in no hurry at all to be anywhere else.

The fire burned low and steady beside you, and somewhere upstairs, very faintly, you were fairly sure you heard Mor's triumphant whisper of finally drift down through the floorboards.

---

a/n: Sooo this is the end, thank you for reading, it was so fun to explore this side of Az 💙

@sjejejjej @theyouthfullmoon @maplesdapperthoughts @jaziona92 @lilah-asteria @chillinini @spookypersondinosaur @sunmoonsweets @angel-graces-world-of-chaos @narcissanarcissa @marrfil @topaz125

shadowdaddiesclub

Uninvited - pt 2

Azriel x reader Fluff / banter / slow burn

part 1

Azriel's out of excuses, which leaves him with the one thing he's never actually tried: showing up with no reason at all

Cassian told the story exactly once before Rhys made him repeat it three more times, purely for his own entertainment.

"So he flies in," Cassian said, wheezing, one hand braced against the war table like he needed it to stay upright, "looking like death itself, ribs supposedly cracked, the whole tragic I might not make it routine—"

"I don't sound like that," Azriel said flatly, from the window, arms crossed, wings mantled tight in the universal posture of a male deeply regretting every choice that had led him to this exact conversation.

"You absolutely sound like that. And then." Cassian held up a finger, savoring it. "Nothing. Not a scratch. She checks him twice. Twice, Rhys. Nothing there at all. Turns out our terrifying, unreadable Shadowsinger flew across half the territory and lied to a healer's face because he wanted an excuse to see a pretty girl."

"Shut up, Cassian."

"I have never respected you more in my entire life."

"Shut up, Cassian."

Rhys, to his credit, did not laugh outright. He had the grace to press his knuckles briefly to his mouth, shoulders shaking with the effort of it, before settling into something almost dignified. Almost.

"That's remarkably poor tactics," he said, "for a spymaster."

"I'm aware."

"You could have just told her."

"I'm aware, Rhys."

"I'm only saying. There are easier ways to get a woman's attention than inventing structural damage to your own skeleton."

"If you'd like a real reason to fly to a healer," Cassian offered, entirely too pleased with himself, already rolling up one sleeve, "I would be happy to provide one. Free of charge. Consider it a gift."

Azriel did not dignify that with a response.

"I mean it. One good hit. You'd barely feel it, you're very durable, everyone says so—"

"You should invite her here," Rhys said, cutting neatly through whatever Cassian had been building toward, the picture of reasonable, unbothered helpfulness. "Dinner. Properly, this time. No fabricated injuries required."

Azriel's jaw ticked, the closest thing to hesitation he ever let show in front of either of them. "No."

"Why not."

"Because Cassian would be there."

"I would be delightful," Cassian said, deeply wounded. "I would be on my absolute best behavior."

"You brought up the rockfall four times in the last ten minutes."

"That's different. That's just good material. I can't be expected to sit on good material, it isn't natural." Cassian spread his hands, entirely sincere now, some of the teasing dropping out of his voice. "Come on. You know I love the girl. In the platonic, deeply respectful way one loves someone who single-handedly caught you in the most embarrassing lie of your very long life. I'll behave."

"You will not."

"I will try."

Rhys, watching the two of them with the particular fondness of a male who had, several centuries ago, given up trying to referee this exact friendship, took a slow sip of his wine.

"For what it's worth," he said, "I think she'd say yes. To dinner. Even with him there."

Azriel didn't answer right away. He looked back out the window instead, toward the lights of Velaris scattered gold below, toward the general direction of a small candlelit room that smelled like chamomile and clean linen, where a cat that liked him more than she liked her own owner was probably curled by the hearth right now.

"I'll think about it," he said, which both of them correctly understood to mean yes, and I've already thought about nothing else for days.

Cassian grinned like he'd won something. "I'll bring wine."

"You will not be invited."

"I'll bring wine anyway."

You were still sorting your vials when a hesitant knock came at your door. At this hour, you weren't expecting any patient. Odd, you thought.

As you opened the door, you heard a slow exhale, then—

"Azriel?" The surprise was written all over your face. For once, he wasn't wearing his armor. He simply stood there, dressed all in black, siphons gone. It was such an odd sight, compared to every other situation you'd seen the male in.

There was an awkward silence for a few seconds. He looked nervous. His scarred hand went through his hair, then dropped, then found its way back up again like it hadn't quite settled on a decision. Then your eyes drifted to his other hand, knuckles white, holding a small bouquet of flowers. His grip on the stems was so tight you half expected them to snap.

"Hi," he said, his gaze burning into yours.

"Hi," you answered, smiling. "So… You did come without any injuries this time," you teased.

The corner of his mouth shyly lifted, and something warm crept up the column of his throat before it settled high on his cheekbones, faint but unmistakable against his tan. "I did," he answered. "I—uh." He started, then stopped, jaw working, the hand not currently strangling the flowers dragging through his hair again. "These are for you," and he handed you the flowers, crushed at the stems, to be honest. It made your heart clench a little harder, thinking about how nervous he was.

"Sorry… rough flight." His mouth flattened, and that made you smile even more.

"Why are you bringing me flowers in the middle of the afternoon, Azriel?" you asked, almost mischievous. The sight was too delightful, and you were not going to pretend otherwise. You crossed your arms and let yourself simply enjoy watching the unshakeable Shadowsinger shift his weight from one foot to the other like a boy called up in front of a class.

"Right, I—uh." You couldn't believe the spymaster of the Night Court was actually nervous enough that he couldn't find his words. He cleared his throat, once, then again when the first attempt clearly hadn't done the job, and asked, "I'd like to invite you to dinner. At the River House." He almost spoke too fast, the words tripping slightly over each other on their way out.

"Rhys is hosting a small gathering tonight, and we, I mean— I would love to have you with us," he said sheepishly, one hand rubbing the back of his neck now, the other still hovering awkwardly at his side, unsure what to do with itself now that it no longer had stems to occupy it.

"Tonight?" you asked again, checking the clock behind you; it was already mid-afternoon.

"Yes, tonight." He seemed to realize the invitation came a little late. "I know it's short notice. I should have asked days ago. I've been meaning to. I just—" He stopped, jaw tightening, visibly annoyed with himself for fumbling something he'd clearly rehearsed better in his head, shoulders drawing up toward his ears like he could physically shrink away from his own awkwardness if he just tried hard enough.

"You've been meaning to for days," you repeated, watching him with the same delighted, narrow-eyed attention you usually reserved for catching him mid-lie.

"Cassian accelerated the timeline. Threatened to ask you himself if I didn't." He looked, for one unguarded second, like a little boy holding himself up straighter than he actually felt, chin lifted, shoulders squared, entirely undone by the whole effort of it. "So, here I am."

"That does sound like something he'd threaten to do, indeed."

"So. Dinner. Tonight, if you can." He exhaled, long and slow, and something in his shoulders eased slightly now that the worst of it was out, though his hands still hadn't quite settled on where to rest. "If you can't, I'll find an excuse to ask you again tomorrow, though I'm told I'm no longer permitted to invent injuries for that purpose."

"You're not," you agreed. "Precedent's been set."

"Cruelly."

You looked down at the flowers in your hands, crushed and a little wilted and somehow more convincing than anything smooth he could have said instead, and then back up at him, still watching you with that same careful stillness, hands now empty and clearly unsure what to do with themselves now that they no longer had stems to hold onto.

"Yes," you said. "I'll come tonight."

Something in him loosened all at once, the whole careful architecture easing, like he'd been holding his breath since he'd landed on your doorstep. His hands finally stilled.

"Yes," he repeated, like he needed to hear it a second time to trust it.

"Obviously yes. You flew here in the middle of the day, out of armor, holding flowers you clearly fought a hedge for. I wasn't going to say no."

"I did not fight a hedge."

"Azriel. There are leaves in your hair."

He reached up to find it, patting blindly at the wrong side of his head entirely, and you huffed out a laugh and reached up yourself before you could think better of it, fingers brushing through the dark strands until you found the offending leaf and plucked it free. He went very still under your hand, breath catching audibly, and you were close enough now to feel the warmth coming off him, close enough to watch his throat work around a swallow he clearly hadn't planned on.

You didn't step back right away. Neither did he.

"There," you said, quieter than you meant to, the leaf forgotten between your fingers. "Fought bravely."

His eyes had gone dark and unhurried, tracking the shift from your fingers still tangled faintly at his temple down to your mouth and back up again, slow enough that you felt it everywhere. The tips of his ears had gone faintly red, you noted, delighted, filing it away for future use.

"I'm aware," he said, biting the inside of his cheek, gaze dropping briefly to the ground before dragging back up to yours like he couldn't quite help himself.

Your cat chose that moment to appear, winding around his ankles with her usual traitorous enthusiasm, and he looked down at her, then back up at you, making no effort at all to hide how pleased he was with how this had gone, even with his hands still faintly restless at his sides.

"So, I'll see you tonight then?"

"You will," he agreed, and the way he said it made it sound like the furthest thing from simple he'd ever attempted.

He lingered a moment longer on your threshold, the way he always did, like leaving still cost him something even now that he had an actual reason to come back.

"For what it's worth," he said, "that was considerably harder than flying into an ambush."

"Oh, I believe you." You laughed it off, and reached out on impulse to smooth the collar of his shirt where it had gone slightly askew, an entirely unnecessary correction that had nothing to do with the collar at all. His hand caught yours before you'd finished, not stopping you, just holding it there against his chest a moment longer than the gesture required, warm and solid under your palm. "I'll see you tonight, Azriel."

"Yes." He pressed something that was almost a kiss to your knuckles instead, brief and deliberate, before finally letting your hand go. He held your gaze a beat too long to be casual about it, something warm and unguarded still sitting behind his eyes, before he finally stepped back off the threshold, wings shifting to catch the afternoon air.

You stood in your doorway long after he'd gone, a crushed and slightly wilted bouquet still cradled in one arm, and thought that for a male who talked his way past entire enemy encampments for a living, Azriel had never once managed to make a clean exit from your porch. You found, watching the last of him disappear over the rooftops, that you rather hoped he never learned how.

---

part 3

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a/n : I'm so sorry it took so long to update yall on part 2 guys, life has been really busy lately (and a little chaotic 💀)

Thoughts ?? part 3 ??

@sjejejjej @theyouthfullmoon @maplesdapperthoughts @jaziona92 @lilah-asteria @chillinini @spookypersondinosaur @sunmoonsweets @angel-graces-world-of-chaos @narcissanarcissa @marrfil

shadowdaddiesclub

Uninvited

Azriel x reader Fluff / banter / slow burn

Azriel has a favorite healer when it comes to treating his injuries. The problem is, sometimes he doesn't know what to say to show up. A fluffy, banter-filled one-shot about bad excuses, and a confession that slips out before either of them means it to.

The knock came well past midnight, not that it was really a knock. It was more of a scrape, three shadows dragging themselves against your door like they weren't quite sure they were allowed to ask.

You knew before you opened it who it would be. You always did. Your magic had a way of humming low in your chest whenever he was near, a warm little pulse that had started months ago and never quite stopped.

"You're late," you said, opening the door to find Azriel leaning against the frame like the wood was the only thing holding him up. Which, to be fair, it might have been.

He didn't answer right away. He just looked at you, the particular way he always did in that first unguarded second before he remembered himself, like the sight of you undid something he'd spent the whole flight over trying to keep tied down.

"I wasn't aware I had an appointment."

"You always have an appointment. You just never bother to schedule it." You stepped back to let him in, and your eyes did the quick, practiced sweep: shoulders, ribs, the set of his jaw, the way he was favoring his left side by approximately nothing at all. "You're not even bleeding."

"It isn't bad."

"You say that every time. Last month you said that with an arrow still in your leg."

"It was a graze."

"It was lodged in bone, Azriel."

He had the decency to look faintly sheepish about that one, shadows curling around his shoulders like they were trying to hide him from the memory. You loved, you were fond of, you corrected yourself, fond of, that was all, the way his shadows behaved around you. Skittish with everyone else, prone to whispering secrets and slipping away before anyone could catch them.

But here, in your small candlelit room that smelled like crushed chamomile and clean linen, they draped themselves over the back of your chair. Utterly at ease. Utterly unbothered by you rifling through your case of tinctures two feet away.

Traitors, all of them.

Your cat was no better. A sleek black shadow of her own, she uncurled from her spot by the hearth the moment Azriel stepped through the door, abandoning you entirely to wind herself around his ankles, purring like he'd personally hung the moon. His shadows, delighted, promptly wove themselves between her paws, and the two of them commenced their usual game, dark tendril and darker cat chasing each other in lazy circles across your floor.

"She likes you more than she likes me," you said, not for the first time. "And I feed her."

"She has excellent taste. Just like her owner, it seems," he said, with the shameless, easy smile of a man who knew exactly what he was doing and had no intention of stopping.

You sighed, fighting a smile you refused to let him see. "Sit," you said, nodding at the low table you kept for exactly this purpose, Azriel-shaped emergencies at ungodly hours.

He sat. He always sat.

That was the part that unraveled you most, if you were honest: Azriel, who took orders from no one, who Rhys himself had to ask rather than tell, folded himself onto your stool without a word of protest, every single time, like it had never once occurred to him to do otherwise. Cassian had made a comment about it once, something about a leash and a good boy, and Azriel had thrown a knife close enough to part his hair.

"So," you said, kneeling in front of him. "What is it this time."

"Ribs. Rockfall, northern border. I think one's cracked."

"Did you at least win?"

"I'm the one sitting in a healer's chair at two in the morning. What do you think?"

"I think," you said, letting your magic uncurl from your palms, warm and gold and slow, "that you came here anyway, even though Madja's closer to the border camp than I am."

Something shifted in him at that, subtle, the kind of thing you'd have missed a year ago, before you'd learned to read Azriel the way you read wounds. A stillness. A held breath.

"Well, what can I say." He shrugged, unbothered. "Madja doesn't make tea."

"Seriously, that's your reason?" You raised an eyebrow, not quite believing him.

"It's a good reason," he said, entirely too serious for how absurd it sounded.

"I know you hate my tea," you shot back, fighting a smile.

"I never said I did." He said it too fast to be convincing.

"You don't have to. You make a face everytime you drink it." You said it standing, towering over him for once, arms crossed, thoroughly unimpressed.

"Someone is very observant," he teased, his hands settling soft at your hips like they'd been waiting the whole visit for an excuse, thumbs pressing absent, distracted circles into the fabric there.

"Show me where it hurts," you said finally, stepping back, magic already gathering warm at your fingertips, "before you distract me into forgetting why you're here at all."

He reached for the hem of his shirt instead of answering, pulling it over his head with unhurried ease, far slower than the task required, leaving himself bare-chested in your candlelight and entirely too aware of exactly what he was doing and exactly how long he was taking to do it. You swallowed, and hated yourself for it, and hated him more for noticing.

He guided your hand to his side, low along the ribs, and hissed, right on cue, a beat too early to be entirely convincing. You pressed two fingers there and let your magic unspool further, gold light sinking beneath skin the way it always did, reading bone and muscle like a book you'd long since memorized.

You waited for the telltale snag. The place where healthy tissue gave way to something torn or fractured.

It didn't come.

You pressed again, harder this time, right where he'd flinched. Nothing. No bruise. No hairline crack. Nothing but warm, unmarked skin over perfectly intact bone, and a heartbeat under your palm that was going faster than it had any business going for a man in genuine pain.

You sat back slightly, frowning. "There's nothing here."

"It's a deep bruise. Sometimes those don't show right away."

"I've pulled arrowheads out of muscle by feel alone in the dark. I think I can find a bruise, Azriel."

"Healer's magic isn't infallible."

"Mine is, actually."

He just held very still, the particular stillness of a man doing rapid, silent math on whether brazening it out was still a viable strategy.

"You flew across half the territory," you said slowly, "for an injury that doesn't exist."

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to. I just told you." You crossed your arms, watching him with the same narrow-eyed patience you usually reserved for actual wounds. "So. What is it this time. And don't say nothing, because we've already established that whatever it is, it isn't your ribs."

Silence, for a long moment. His shadows had drawn close around his boots, quiet in the particular way they only went when he was about to say something that cost him.

"It's late," he said instead, which was not a denial, which was somehow worse than a denial. "I should let you sleep."

"You are not leaving this room until you tell me why you actually flew here at midnight and lied to a healer's face to do it."

Another silence. Longer this time. You watched something war behind his eyes, the same careful calculation he probably used on interrogations, except this time he was the one being read, and he knew it.

"Fine. I didn't have a reason to come," he admitted finally, quiet, like the words cost him something to hand over. "So I made one up. Happy?"

You opened your mouth. Closed it again.

"You faked an injury," you said, "because you wanted to see me?"

"When you say it like that, it sounds significantly more pathetic."

"It is significantly more pathetic."

"I'm aware." He had the grace to look almost chastened about it, shadows curling tighter around his shoulders like they were trying to hide him from his own confession. "You could pretend not to enjoy this quite so much."

"I could," you agreed. "But I won't."

He exhaled, something in his shoulders finally, finally dropping, the tension of a man who'd been caught and found, against all odds, that the world hadn't ended because of it.

"So," you murmured, more to yourself than him, magic settling back into your palms, unused and faintly amused. "No fracture. No bruise. Just a Spymaster with terrible instincts for lying to the one person who can literally feel the truth under his skin."

"You sound really smug."

"I earned it. You've lied to me in this exact chair eleven times. This might be the worst one yet."

"You're counting."

"I'm a healer. Documentation matters."

He watched you while you knelt there, which he always did, dark eyes steady in a way that should have felt clinical, and never, ever did, not even now that there was nothing left to treat.

Your hand was still resting against his side, entirely unnecessary at this point, warmth long since finished doing nothing at all. You caught yourself and pulled back before it became something worth commenting on, though not quite fast enough to miss the way his jaw tightened, the way his throat worked around something he didn't say.

"You nearly convinced me you were in pain."

"I nearly convinced myself." He said it lightly, but something underneath it wasn't light at all. "Didn't plan it. Just happened, somewhere over the mountains, once I'd already decided I was coming."

You busied your hands capping tinctures you didn't need to cap, giving yourself something to do that wasn't reaching for him again. The candle had burned low enough now that his shadows had gone soft and half-transparent in the dim, still curled loose and unbothered around the cat's tail by the hearth.

"Why," you said finally, not quite looking at him, "do you need an excuse at all?"

The silence that followed lasted long enough that you almost regretted asking.

"I don't know." He said it low, the words coming out rougher than he meant them to, like he hadn't planned on saying them at all. "I just... I wanted to see you."

You looked up at that.

He was watching you with an intensity that had nothing to do with tactics, nothing to do with the careful games he played with everyone else in his life, and for a moment neither of you said anything at all, both of you caught in the kind of quiet that usually came right before something changed, like he was still deciding whether he regretted letting that slip out at all.

"Oh," you said, which was not eloquent, but was the only thing that made it past your throat.

"Yes. Oh." A ghost of dry humor crept back into his voice, like he was using it to climb back to solid ground. "Feel free to never bring it up again."

"You're impossible," you said instead.

"You're the one who let me in."

"I let injured people in, it's my job."

Something flickered across his face then, quick and unguarded, gone almost before you could name it, like he'd nearly said something even truer and swallowed it back down at the last second. When he spoke again his voice had smoothed back into something safer. "I'll think of a better excuse next time."

"There won't be a next time."

"Good," he said. "Next time I won't need one."

"Azriel." It came out as half warning, half something else entirely, and he had the audacity to look pleased about it.

"That tone," he said, "is new."

"Don't get used to it."

"Too late." The almost-smile again, small and real and aimed only at you. "And by the way, I like startling you." A beat. "The noise you make is my favorite part of the visit."

"I do not make an undignified noise," you said, folding your arms like that settled it.

"You squeaked last time." A ghost of a smirk.

"You came through the window," you said, narrowing your eyes, "because you didn't want to wake Cassian, not because it was tactically necessary."

"Cassian gossips."

"So you'd rather startle me," you said flatly, though you couldn't quite keep the corner of your mouth from betraying you.

"Considerably rather." His thumb moved, slow, deliberate, against the back of your hand, scarred skin against yours, and he watched for your reaction the way he watched everything, cataloguing it. "You're very easy to unsettle."

"I'm not unsettled."

"Your pulse says otherwise, sweetheart." His gaze deepened. "I can feel it. Right here."

His shadows had gone quiet around your feet, watching the two of you the way an audience watches a game neither player will admit to playing, and the space between you had somehow, without either of you moving, become smaller than it should have been.

"You should go home," you said. "You clearly don't need me here."

"Are you asking me to leave?"

"I'm telling you to."

You held his gaze a beat too long to call it professional, and broke it a beat too late to call it nothing.

"Get out, Azriel."

"Why don't you make me," he said, voice dropping low, and didn't step back. If anything he stepped closer, close enough that you had to tip your head to hold his gaze, close enough that you felt the words more than heard them.

Neither of you moved for one long, suspended second. His eyes dropped to your mouth, unhurried, deliberate, and didn't immediately come back up.

"I have a very sharp needle," you said, voice not quite as steady as you wanted it, "and no patience left for a man who's already wasted my night on a lie."

You strode past him and hauled the door open to make the point for you, and nearly walked straight into Cassian.

He was doubled over on your doorstep, one hand braced against the frame, wings heaving like he'd flown the length of the continent in under an hour, which, judging by the state of him, he might have.

"You absolute bastard," Cassian wheezed, glaring past you at Azriel like you weren't even there. "You flew so fast I nearly clipped a mountain trying to keep up. What in the seven hells was the emergency, I thought you were dying—" Cassian stopped for a second.

You looked him over anyway, out of pure reflex, and found nothing worse than windswept hair and deeply wounded pride.

"Are you okay, Cass?" you asked.

"I am not okay, I nearly had a heart attack watching him dive off like the world was ending—" Cassian froze mid-sentence, one hand still raised in the air, and you watched the realization dawn across his face in slow, glorious stages: confusion, suspicion, and finally something like pure, radiant delight. "Wait." A beat. "Wait." He rounded on Azriel with the look of a man who'd just found gold. "Mother above, you made it up."

He put his hand over his mouth, wheezing. "You made up an injury. To come here." Cassian looked between the two of you, grin spreading slow and merciless. "Oh, wait until Rhys hears about this. He is never going to let it go."

"Rhys hears about this," Azriel said, very evenly, "and you lose a wing."

Cassian did not look remotely deterred.

"Alright, both of you, out," you said, which didn't really solve anything, but effectively ended the conversation.

You shooed them both toward the door eventually, one significantly more amused than the other, and Azriel lingered on your threshold the way he always did, like leaving cost him something he wasn't willing to name.

He looked at you, slow and unhurried, and for one unguarded second his mask slipped, something raw flashing behind those dark eyes before he banked it, buried it the way he buried everything, leaving only the smirk, giving nothing away except that he knew exactly what that look was doing to you.

"Next time," he said, "I'll come up with something more convincing."

"You won't need to." You said it before you could think better of it, quieter than you meant to, though you didn't take it back. "Next time, just come."

He held your gaze a moment longer, something burning low and unhidden behind those hazel eyes, then stepped back over the threshold, wings cutting the dark as he went. "Goodnight, y/n."

"Goodnight, Azriel," you answered.

You stood in your doorway long after he'd gone, arms crossed, telling yourself the warmth in your chest was irritation at being lied to, and knowing, with the particular clarity healers reserved for diagnoses they didn't want to make, that it was not irritation at all.

Part 2

a/n : I had so much fun writing this one, I just love when Az is already gone for reader 🤭

MAIN TAGLIST : @sjejejjej @theyouthfullmoon @maplesdapperthoughts @jaziona92 @lilah-asteria @chillinini @spookypersondinosaur @sunmoonsweets @angel-graces-world-of-chaos @narcissanarcissa

sorakaguyaaaaa

You falling asleep on them

Characters included: Soap, Ghost, Gaz, Price, Roach, Nikolai, Alejandro, Rudy, Valeria, Keegan, Konig, Nikto, Krueger, Graves, Farah, Hadir, Alex, Laswell, Makarov

John Soap MacTavish You’re mid-sentence when your words trail off and your head tips forward-straight into Soap’s shoulder. He freezes. Completely. Like someone hit pause on him. Then slowly, very slowly, a grin spreads across his face. “Well, look at you,” he murmurs softly, barely above a whisper. He adjusts his posture so you don’t wake, one arm sliding around your waist to keep you steady. He doesn’t move for ages. Doesn’t check his phone. Doesn’t breathe too hard. If anyone tries to talk to him, he shushes them aggressively. You’re warm, heavy, trusting-and he treats it like the highest honor imaginable.

Simon Ghost Riley You lean against him casually at first. Then your breathing changes. Slows. Your weight settles fully into him. Ghost notices instantly. He glances down at you, eyes softening in a way no one else gets to see. Without a word, he shifts slightly, angling his body to support you better. His hand comes up-hesitant at first-then rests firmly at your back. Protective. Steady. If someone comments, he levels them with a stare sharp enough to end the conversation. He doesn’t wake you. Doesn’t tease you later. He just stays there, letting you sleep on him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Kyle Gaz Garrick Gaz is mid-laugh when your head drops onto his chest and stays there. He blinks. “Oh.” His voice lowers instantly. He carefully wraps an arm around you, the other hand brushing your hair back from your face. He tries not to move too much, but he absolutely takes a picture for blackmail later—soft, sweet blackmail. He keeps talking quietly if others are around, like he’s narrating in nature-documentary voice: “And here we observe Y/N in their natural habitat…” But his hand never leaves your back. He’s ridiculously pleased. You trusted him enough to fall asleep. He’s not letting that go unnoticed.

John Price You were sitting beside him, close but not clinging. Then your head tilts against his shoulder and your breathing evens out. Price pauses mid-thought. He glances down, expression softening immediately. “Long day, hm?” he murmurs quietly. He shifts just enough to make you more comfortable, sliding his arm around your shoulders and pulling you gently closer. His thumb traces slow circles at your arm, absentminded and grounding. He doesn’t wake you-not even when his tea goes cold. If anyone asks him something, he answers in low tones so you stay asleep. He wears the faintest, proudest smile the whole time.

Gary Roach Sanderson Roach is bouncing his leg absentmindedly when your head lands on him-and he panics, immediately freezing like he’s holding a bomb. “Oh no-don’t move-don’t breathe-” he whispers to himself. He very slowly slides an arm around you, looking wildly proud and mildly terrified at the same time. If you shift closer, he beams like he just won an award. He keeps glancing down at your face with the softest smile, barely containing his happiness. The second someone makes noise nearby, he shoos them away dramatically. You’re asleep. On him. That’s it. That’s his entire personality now.

Nikolai You barely warn him before you slump sideways and fully collapse onto his chest. Nikolai laughs softly at first-then notices you’re actually asleep. His large hand comes up instinctively, cradling the back of your head with surprising gentleness. “Ah,” he murmurs warmly. “Little one is tired.” He leans back slightly so you’re more secure, basically turning into a human couch. He doesn’t mind the weight. If anything, he seems pleased. He hums under his breath-low, soothing-and stays exactly where he is until you wake. If anyone tries to move you, he waves them off. “Let them rest.”

Alejandro Vargas Alejandro notices the second your eyelids droop. When your head tips onto his shoulder, he smiles immediately, hand sliding to your waist to keep you steady. “Descansa,” he whispers, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. He shifts so you’re more comfortable, letting you lean fully against his chest. If someone interrupts, he answers quietly without moving you. He looks impossibly proud, like this is a victory of trust. Every so often he glances down at your sleeping face, brushing a stray hair away with tender fingers. You wake up still wrapped in his arms, exactly where you fell.

Rodolfo Rudy Parra Rudy goes completely still the second you fall asleep on him. He barely breathes, afraid to wake you. His arm hovers awkwardly for a second before gently wrapping around you. He adjusts carefully so your head rests more comfortably against him. He smiles down at you-soft, shy, almost disbelieving. If anyone teases him, he blushes instantly but doesn’t move you. He might lightly rest his cheek against your hair, just for a moment. When you stir, he whispers softly, “It’s okay. I’ve got you.” And he means it in the gentlest way possible.

Valeria Garza Valeria pretends not to notice at first when you lean against her. Then your weight fully settles and she realizes-you’re asleep. She smirks faintly, sliding an arm around you with possessive ease. “So trusting,” she murmurs softly. She adjusts you against her side, fingers resting at your waist, thumb tracing slow lines absentmindedly. If anyone comments, she silences them with a look sharp enough to cut glass. She doesn’t wake you. Doesn’t tease you about it later-at least not too much. But there’s something undeniably satisfied in the way she holds you. You chose her shoulder to sleep on. She won’t forget it.

Keegan Russ You slump against Keegan mid-conversation, your head landing squarely against his shoulder. He goes completely still, like any movement might break something delicate. His hand hovers awkwardly before finally settling at your waist to keep you steady. He adjusts just enough so you don’t strain your neck, movements careful and precise. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t joke. Just sits there, eyes softening in a way almost no one ever sees. If someone tries to wake you, he shakes his head once. Firm. Protective. You wake later still leaning on him-and he pretends he didn’t stay frozen for an hour straight.

König You fall asleep against König and he nearly short-circuits. You’re small in comparison, fully relaxed against his chest, and he’s suddenly terrified to move. His big hands carefully wrap around you like you’re made of glass. He shifts slightly so you’re more secure, one hand supporting your back, the other resting gently over yours. His breathing slows to match yours. He doesn’t dare speak above a whisper. If anyone makes noise nearby, he glares them into silence. He looks down at you like you just handed him something priceless. He will absolutely refuse to move until you wake up on your own.

Nikto You don’t even notice yourself drifting off until your body leans fully into him. Nikto feels the shift immediately. His hand comes up to steady you without hesitation, fingers firm at your side. He studies your sleeping face quietly, almost analytically-then something soft flickers behind his eyes. He adjusts you so your head rests more comfortably against his chest. His thumb traces slow, grounding lines at your hip. He doesn’t allow anyone near. His presence becomes territorial. Protective. You wake still tucked against him, and he simply says, “You needed rest,” like that explains everything.

Krueger Krueger notices the second your voice fades. When you collapse gently against him, he smirks at first-then realizes you’re fully asleep. The smirk softens. He wraps an arm around you, surprisingly gentle, guiding you into a more comfortable position. “Well… this is new,” he murmurs quietly. He stays unusually still, letting you rest without teasing. If anyone approaches, he stares them down until they back off. He may press a light kiss to your temple when no one’s looking. When you wake, he acts amused-but there’s pride in the way he says, “You trust me that much, hm?”

Philip Graves You nod off mid-sentence, head falling against Graves’ chest. He goes silent immediately, one arm wrapping around you instinctively. “Well now,” he whispers softly, grin fading into something warmer. He shifts so you’re fully supported, careful not to wake you. He absolutely enjoys the fact that you’re asleep on him. If someone comments, he answers quietly but doesn’t move. His hand rests steady at your back, thumb stroking absentminded circles. He stays put until you stir, then pretends he didn’t just spend half an hour staring at you like you hung the stars.

Farah Karim Farah feels you relax against her and immediately adjusts, guiding you gently into a more comfortable position. She cradles your head against her shoulder, one arm wrapping securely around your waist. Her thumb moves slowly along your arm in calming strokes. She doesn’t say much-just keeps her breathing steady so you stay asleep. If someone gets too loud nearby, she silences them with a look. There’s a quiet tenderness in the way she holds you-protective, steady, reassuring. When you wake, she smiles softly and says, “You needed it,” like she knew before you did.

Hadir Karim Hadir is mid-complaint about something when your head drops against him. He pauses, confused, then realizes you’re asleep. His tone softens immediately. “Seriously?” he mutters-but there’s no annoyance in it. He shifts carefully, pulling you closer so you don’t slide. One hand rests firmly at your waist, the other brushing lightly against your hair. He keeps pretending he’s not affected, but he absolutely is. If someone teases him, he snaps quietly for them to lower their voices. You wake to find him still there, arm secure around you, like he never moved.

Alex Keller You fall asleep mid-lean and Alex freezes like he just got handed fragile cargo. “Oh-okay-okay,” he whispers to himself. He gently adjusts you, making sure your neck isn’t at a weird angle. His arm wraps around you comfortably, thumb tracing lazy circles on your side. He looks ridiculously pleased, like he won something. He doesn’t stop smiling the entire time you’re asleep. If someone tries to take a photo, he shoos them away dramatically. When you wake, he grins and says, “Best compliment ever.” And honestly? He means it.

Laswell Laswell notices your breathing change first. When you slump gently into her side, she adjusts seamlessly, wrapping an arm around you and angling you so you’re supported properly. She doesn’t comment on it. She just continues whatever she was doing-quietly, carefully-so you stay asleep. Her hand rests steady against your back, grounding and warm. If anyone makes noise, she gives them a look that ends the conversation instantly. You wake still nestled beside her, and she simply says, “You looked exhausted.” No teasing. Just quiet care.

Makarov You drift off without warning, leaning fully against him. Makarov goes still. Very still. His arm wraps around you with firm certainty, pulling you closer so you don’t slip. His chin rests lightly against the top of your head. He doesn’t speak, but his hold tightens slightly-possessive, protective. If anyone approaches, he doesn’t even look at them. The warning is implied. He remains there without moving, as if guarding something valuable. When you wake, he studies you quietly and murmurs, “Comfortable?” His tone is calm-but there’s unmistakable satisfaction in it.

bumblebee5514

You bitches liked suffering for some reason.

So here you go. Go fucking smile.

PS: For the sake of entertainment, I've made all the men in their 20s.

Little shit behaviors the CoD men do when they want your attention

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Simon is a fucking piece of shit that weaponizes inconvenience and baits you.

Simon’s flavor is: make it impossible for you not to react.

Examples:

1. Stands in doorways while you’re trying to pass. Doesn’t move. Just looks down at you like:

“What?”

(Translation: you must initiate contact to proceed.)

♡

2. Takes something you need (phone, keys, pen), holds it just out of reach.

If you glare:

“You’re taller when you’re mad.”

He’ll only give it back after a kiss or a hug.

♡

3. Leans his weight into you when you’re sitting. Not fully on you, just enough that you feel him and can't escape fully.

If you don’t react? He increases pressure like a calibrated menace.

♡

4. Pretends to misunderstand your words on purpose.

You: “I’m busy.”

Him: “Busy… missing me?”

Smirk. Waits.

♡

Simon likes making you chase him because once you do, he knows he’s wanted.

♡♡♡♡♡

sorakaguyaaaaa

You kicked them off the bed in your sleep

Characters included: Soap, Ghost, Gaz, Price, Roach, Nikolai, Alejandro, Rudy, Valeria, Keegan, Konig, Nikto, Krueger, Graves, Farah, Hadir, Alex, Laswell, Makarov

John "Soap" MacTavish Soap lands on the floor with a dramatic thud and a yelp that echoes down the hall. "What the bloody hell-?!" He sits up, rubbing his back, blinking blearily in the dark. Then he looks up at the bed, sees you still snoozing like a cherub, and mutters," Unbelievable." In the morning, he's limping around dramatically with a fake cane made out of a broomstick. "I've been wounded in the line of cuddling," he laments. You feel terrible, but he milks it for attention until you threaten to kick him off again. "Noted. Respect the sleeper."

Simon "Ghost" Riley The loud thump is followed by complete silence. You wake up in the morning to find him sitting on the edge of the bed, arms crossed. "So," he says flatly. "Wanna tell me why I got roundhouse-kicked off the bed like I owed you money?" You're half-asleep, confused, then horrified. "Oh my god, did I-" "Yup." You apologize endlessly, but he won't let it go. "I thought you loved me. Turns out I'm disposable." He eventually forgives you... but now wears extra gear to bed "for protection." Literal shin guards.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick Gaz wakes up mid-air. "SHI-" BAM. He lands on the floor with a groan. "Was that a dream or did I just get yeeted?" The next morning, you wake to a tray of breakfast beside you, and Kyle grinning. "Good morning, Princess of Pain. Here's your apology breakfast you're definitely making me." You burst into laughter and promise to make it up to him. He teases you the whole day. "I just didn't know you were a trained assassin in your sleep. Impressive, terrifying... kinda hot"

John Price The loud crash rouses even the neighbors. Price lies on the floor, blinking up at the ceiling like he's processing the war flashbacks. "Did I just get tossed?" He gets up, dusts himself off, and chuckles. "Damn, Y/N, what are you-kickboxing in your dreams?" He slides back into bed and kisses your forehead. "Next time, aim for the pillows, yeah?" He's good-natured about it, but you catch him placing a pillow barricade the next night. "Just in case," he mutters, eyes narrowing with faux suspicion.

Gary "Roach" Sanderson Roach doesn't even get mad. He just lays there on the floor for a solid five minutes, wondering how someone that cute could be so deadly in REM sleep. When you wake and find him sprawled out, blanket-less, he gives you the saddest puppy eyes. You immediately apologize, but he signs "I forgive you" and crawls back under the sheets with you, clinging like a limpet. You wrap your arms around him and whisper, "I'll tape myself to the bed if it helps." He signs: Please do.

Nikolai CRASH. "Agh—Y/N!” Nikolai groans, half tangled in the sheets as he tries to get up. He blinks, disoriented." What...? Was that a tactical takedown? He shuffles back into bed with an exaggerated limp, pulling the blanket away from you like a pouting child." Tonight, you sleep on that side. I will stay on the floor where it is safe." The next morning, he presents you with a handmade "Danger Zone" sign and puts it on your side of the bed. "Fair warning, darling."

Alejandro Vargas Alejandro hits the floor and just lies there in shock."....Am I dead?" You wake to see him flat on his back, eyes wide open, muttering in Spanish. "You kicked me off, mi amor. In your sleep. With both legs. Like I was an intruder." You feel horrible and crawl to the edge of the bed to apologize. "You fight in dreams, huh?" he laughs, then pulls you down with him, arms tight around you. "If I die, I die in love." Next night, he sleeps in full tactical gear as a joke.

Rodolfo "Rudy" Parra Rudy wakes up in a heap, more confused than angry. He peers up at the bed, sees your peaceful, innocent face, and sighs. "I can't even be mad at that." When you apologize in the morning, he gently cups your face and smiles. "Your legs are dangerous weapons, cariño." He's so sweet and forgiving, but you do catch him doing some late-night yoga stretches before bed from then on." Just limbering up.... in case you launch me again."

Valeria Garza You boot Valeria off the bed and she lands with a growl. She gets up like a vengeful demon. "You did not just kick me off." She climbs back in, grabs a pillow, and smacks you upside the head before rolling over with a dramatic huff. "We are at war." For the next week, she installs motion- detecting cameras to capture your sleep karate. She shows you the footage. "Look at this! That's a perfect roundhouse!" She's annoyed... but secretly impressed.

Keegan Russ You kick Keegan off and he lands like a cat-silent and brooding. He sits up, looks at you, and just mutters, "Wow." When you wake up and find him sleeping on the floor, he glares dramatically. "Didn't realize sharing a bed meant playing Mortal Kombat at 3 AM." You apologize endlessly, but he stays cold for three more hours. Then he silently crawls back into bed, wraps you in his arms, and mutters," Try that again and I'll drag you with me next time."

König Poor König lands with a THUMP that shakes the entire apartment. You wake up to his enormous frame curled up in a pathetic heap on the floor, blanket half- draped over his head. "Did I... fall?" he murmurs sleepily. You rush to help him back up. "Did I do that?" "It was a powerful... launch," he says kindly, trying not to make you feel bad. Later, you catch him placing extra pillows as " shock absorption." "I still love you," he reassures you. "Even if you're.... strong sleeper."

Nikto Nikto hits the floor hard, swearing in Russian before going ominously silent. You wake up and see him sitting upright, staring at the wall like a cursed doll. "You kicked me." You gulp. "I was asleep-" "I noticed. "You try to apologize but he throws the blanket over your face. "Your punishment is suffocation." He doesn't actually stay mad, but he's definitely smug about it. "You want to wrestle in your dreams, зайка? I'm ready."

Krueger The thud wakes him up-and so does the pain. He sits there, one eye twitching. "I knew you were secretly dangerous." You're mortified, but he's already pulling out a notebook. "I've been mapping your sleep patterns. This proves it-your 3AM kicks are fatal." He gives you a deadpan look. "I might need a helmet." You nervously laugh, but he actually buys one. "For science," he insists. You get revenge by tickling him the next night.

Philip Graves Graves yelps as he hits the floor with a loud crash. "WHAT IN THE TORNADO OF HELL " He rubs his elbow and looks up at you sleeping like a baby. "Unreal." The next morning, he plasters the bedroom with caution signs. "You are now entering a combat zone." He even draws chalk outlines on the floor for future casualties." When you feel bad, he kisses your forehead. "Don't worry, sweetheart. I'll always crawl back to you -even if I need a helmet."

Farah Karim Farah lands hard but rolls like a pro. She's up in seconds, staring at you in disbelief. "Seriously?" You blink awake to see her arms crossed, pacing. "That was a full-blown mule kick. Have you been training?" She's teasing but also impressed. "You could take down a grown man in your sleep." You apologize with pancakes, and she laughs. "Fine. But next time I'm bringing a sleeping bag... and riot gear."

Hadir Karim Hadir hits the floor and moans. You wake to find him dramatically sprawled like a fallen prince. "Why must you hurt me this way?" You gasp and try to help him, but he grabs your hand, whispering, "Let me suffer... in peace." You're panicking, apologizing, but he suddenly smirks. "Just kidding. But you owe me breakfast in bed." You groan and throw a pillow at him. "Fine, Your Majesty." "Don't forget the orange juice."

Alex Keller Alex wakes up mid-air. "NOPE-" He lands hard, then groans. "Why me?" He crawls back into bed like a wounded soldier, kissing your forehead with exaggerated sadness. "I trusted you." You apologize and cuddle him close. "You know I'd never do it on purpose, right?" "Sure. Just remind me to wear armor next time." He starts jokingly duct-taping pillows to himself the next night. call this... sleep defense mode."

Kate Laswell Kate doesn't fall. She gracefully descends-sort of. You kicked her, she bounced, and now she's sitting on the floor, blanket over her shoulders like a grumpy owl. "You're lucky I like you," she mutters, climbing back into bed." Otherwise, I'd file a full report." You cling to her, full of guilt. "You were sleeping diagonally, you menace." You two compromise-she sleeps with a " safety buffer" pillow wall between you now. For your own protection, of course.

Vladimir Makarov Makarov hits the floor with a growl. "Did you just kick me?" he hisses. You wake up groggily and flinch. "I was asleep!" " You launched me like a grenade!" He storms off dramatically. You find him on the couch, surrounded by ALL the blankets. "Are you sulking?" "I'm exiled. "Eventually, you bribe him back with coffee and kisses. He warns you ominously: "Kick me again, and I'm gluing your side of the bed to the ceiling."

loveandcomplications

user921353 viewed your profile!

the notification pops up for the 4th time that day. you lost track of how many times it's been this week that the username has been in your notifications.

on the first day, they followed you and then spammed liked everything you posted. after that, anything you reposted was immediately liked by that account. when you lurked on their profile, there was nothing on there. no posts, no followers, and no following—other than you, of course.

you're both flattered and creeped out by the attention. social media isn't some huge thing for you, so it's not like you have a big following or loyal fans; you post for yourself and whatever friends that have you added. you're unsure what it is about your silly profile that has them so hooked that they visit it multiple times a day.

opening up the app, you head to your drafts, filled with videos and photos that you've decided won't see the light of day until the time is right. landing on a cute video of you from a few weeks back, you figure that this is one of those 'right times'.

moments after you hit post, your phone lights up.

user921353 liked your video.

social media is for stupid people and nikto stands by that belief.

he's seen enough of the bullshit that's on those apps from krueger showing him and has wanted no part of it. there's no appeal to sitting there scrolling through a phone, looking at the ridiculous things people want to say or do; he deals with enough of that around base.

it's not often that krueger shares any links with him through messages, but nikto hates clicking on them because they always open up to something that tries to prompt him to make an account and follow krueger.

no thanks.

but when you sent over a link to a video, nikto suddenly found himself more interested in having an online presence.

"oops meant to send that to someone else! sorry!"

he hadn't responded to your text, but had clicked the link and rather than seeing sebastian's page for the nth time, he was redirected to yours. trying to click on any of your posts just prompted him to make an account, so begrudgingly he found himself signing up, hurrying through the process so he could see what kind of stuff you were posting.

nikto doesn't understand the appeal still, but he greatly enjoys having a way to watch your face without having to stare you down in person. now, he can look at you as much as he wants with no issues.

chimera-dreams

part 1 - part 2 Butterflies In Blood Months.

It had been months since your mission went to shit, leaving you a near-literal husk of a being, bled almost dry, eyes just this side of clouding over.

Somehow, by some stroke of (horrid) luck, you survived. Got dragged out like a useless mattress to be discarded, thrown into a bin so its former owner may dust their hands free of you. Except, that’s not what happened.

Months ago, you had woken up in pain, bedridden, your body wracked with infection and fever. Almost didn’t make it due to sepsis. Almost.

And now, you sat here, watching some guy in a mask that reminded you of… someone else, though you couldn’t put your finger on it. This man, Nikto, was busy shaving slices of wood off a large chunk he’d scrounged up from seemingly nowhere, though you weren’t sure what his intentions with it were yet.

“Who do you fight for?” He asked unexpectedly.

You paused. Froze, buffered for a moment. “Uh. Crown and country?”

“Нет. Try again.”

His immediate shutdown of your answer threw you for a loop. That… was what you were fighting for, wasn’t it? To protect the people, take down the bad guys so that citizens could sleep easy at night? If not, what else could you have been fighting for?

When you didn’t respond, he glanced up at you, hazel eyes sharp enough to make you sit up straighter. Nikto was not a patient man, you came to learn that quickly. The recent addition of your brain fog, unfortunately, didn’t make interacting with him particularly easy when your thoughts began to stutter and lag.

“I fight for… for people. To. Protect them.”

“Не правильно,” he hissed out. You winced. “One more try, котенок.”

Your mouth opened, then slid shut. The loose ideas you had in your head of what he might be searching for scattered like dandelion seeds blown from their root, flying out of your grasp before you could form them into images. “I don’t know.”

He grunted, his knife getting caught for a split moment before he forced it through the wood roughly. “Yourself,” he answered. “You fight to stay alive.”

“Alive.”

“If you do not fight,” he stopped, turning his head to nail you into place with his glare. “You die.”

You nearly had.

You weren’t sure if your continued survival, the fact that you came out the other end of that hell still walking and talking and breathing, could have been considered as you fighting to stay alive. If anything, you actively wanted to die. Whenever you had the strength to fight back, you’d put up a fuss, refusing to eat from the spoon that the Big One held to your lips, to drink the medicinal tea he brewed. He’d sigh and put the mug down, giving you the false belief you’d won.

Then, he was pinching a bit too close to one of your wounds as punishment, scolding you in accented English. You learned quickly to simply take the bitter medicine he slipped down your throat and suckle on the orange slice afterwards, accepting his bizarre sense of praise.

“What. If I don’t want. To?” You asked.

Nikto hummed, rotating the wood in his hand to observe his progress. “Then you find reason to.”

“I don’t have…” You trailed off, spacing out before you regathered yourself, “reason.”

“We will find reason for you,” he assured. Promised. Threatened. “Revenge is always good reason.”

Whoever this stranger was, for whatever reason, he’d taken a liking to you. A soft spot, maybe, given he hadn’t put a bullet in you himself. It wasn’t his first time suggesting revenge. Justice for some crime you couldn’t remember. Didn’t know if it existed at all. He wanted to punish a crime neither of you could name. Well, it’s not like you had anything better to do. No name, no home, no nation. All you knew was that you worked in the British army before you were… ‘rescued’ by a group that called themselves KorTac.

So, you let them take you. You had few complaints on the matter. They were fine people, good company. Trained you at your pace.

It was clear you wouldn’t be able to go back on the field, not like you previously could. Your body was broken, maybe not beyond repair, but it’d be a good, long time before the thick band of scarring on your stomach and head trauma would stop holding you back. Therefore, it was determined that you’d take up the job of being overwatch. KorTac could use an eagle, somebody to watch their back without needing to return the favor, carry the extra weight.

You didn’t mind. It was peaceful, comparatively. Of what you could remember, you knew that having your boots on the ground was never peaceful. You never had a moment of rest, a chance to recuperate. Your heart was always pounding, always on alert. Eyes always bloodshot from how little you blinked so that you wouldn’t miss anything, body aching everywhere, muscles eating themselves when you ran out of MREs.

If anything, you preferred to be back at the temporary bases they would occupy during each job. The various screens would inevitably give you a migraine, but you could snack in peace, and piss when you needed to. All you had to do was map a route for them, track enemy surveillance, clear paths. All significantly easier from a monitor than in person.

KorTac benefitted, too.

Their jobs went by faster, cleaner. Information was tracked down and passed onto you, and you examined it, sent in what was relevant, easily forgot what wasn’t. More than once, you had Krueger mutter things in German in your ear, low and sultry. It frequently earned him a smack upside the head from König. You figured he was thanking you for making his life easier, given he’d slide a mug of tea to you, place a souvenir in your palm whenever they returned.

Horangi, too, seemed delighted by your addition to their team. He took to you like a moth to flame, enamored by your oddness. Teasing. He asked questions, then asked again the next day to see if your answer would change. Encourage you to make your answers longer, then recite them. It took you a while to realize that he was trying to help with your speech impediment and ailing memory. Nikto claimed you had tamed the tiger by being stupid. Horangi didn’t argue the matter, so you didn’t either, letting him coddle you and assure that you weren’t stupid.

Just a fluffy little kitten in need of a guardian to teach you how to hunt again.

König preferred bunny. Krueger preferred cub. Regardless, you were the pup of the pack they needed to protect and take care of. At your beck and call, though you rarely called. König hated that, the way you’d try to power through your bad days, when your head ached and vision blurred and stomach felt as though its scar had been torn right open.

“Need I always remind you to ask for help, häschen?” A gentle flick to your forehead, then he was herding you to the couch in the common room of the safehouse, laying you down to nap like a babe. You rarely fought against it anymore, knowing it’d be fruitless. Besides, a nap sounded wonderful.

In the spaces of rest between jobs and illness and fatigue, you sought for meaning. Reason, like Nikto suggested. Maybe revenge wasn’t a bad idea, but against what was the question. You didn’t feel particularly aggrieved by anyone. You were sure having your memories would be a significant aid to finding your reason, but… this wasn’t so bad. Simply existing, following orders, letting your team lead while you breathed freely after what feels like being submerged underwater your entire life.

This was alright, you decided.

Until it wasn’t.

It was one of the few times you accompanied them on the field. You could still aim, still shoot, though your job was mainly extraction. The getaway drive.

You’d only wanted to step out of the car for a chance to breathe outside the vehicle, fresh air when the leather seats of the car stank enough to get your heartbeat pulsing behind your eyes. But the moment your feet touched the damp soil, there was a hand on your arm yanking you to the side.

Your back pressed against someone’s chest, their vest and gear digging uncomfortably through your jumper. Fear and panic didn’t quite catch up until there was cold metal pressed against your throat and a masked face directly in front of your own.

For a few long, staggering seconds, there was only silence.

Then–

“Bloody hell,” the person in front of you muttered, gutted. “Tales?”

…What? Tales? What was this man–

The blade suddenly left your throat, and you were spun around to face the person behind you.

A skull. Half of one, plastered to the behemoth’s head, lower jaw torn off. Dark eyes, darker than the pitch of night you stood under, stared into your soul, pried you apart, ripped you to shreds. He inhaled sharply, said a name, your name.

And you were screaming.

masterlist - part 4

cucusainte

Having a kid with Nikto is some experiences. Imagine your child minding their own business and Nikto just start rambling and awe at the kid.

"Do you think that's my nose? Or your nose.. That could be mine.. Look crooked enough.. "

"Does my lips look like that?"

"She's just 3 Nikto.."

"I mean.. Does it still?"

Sometimes he would stare at the kid when they're at sleep admiring the facial features that he had lost that now laid beautifully on the little gremlin of a kid (he would take the credit for the stubborn genes AND the nose. That he's proud of)

Or maybe sometime you - his wife. Kissing at your daughter/son nose and cheek before bedtime and Nikto would make some flex or remark about giving one to the creator too (him and his non/ flatten nose and fuck up face) which you gladly kiss away just so he's could come to bed n rest for once

codnasties

Request some delicious Nikto based links. Know that man fucks likea madman. Full on mating press, mouth to neck leaving bites drool, going at till he is the one overstimulated. Feel like he is in second place after konig for the most mess. Also see em as a munch with a preference from behind or with em upside down face shoved to is lap/choking on his cock.

nasty nikto 🔪 (🌽 link)

alternative link (bsky)

there are some words that become too small to encapsulate the essence of a person. especially if that person is built-like-a-tank nikto, war criminal nikto, rough-around-the-edges nikto. everything is too small for him.

that's why saying that he fucks nasty doesn't do him justice. it's better to say he fucks filthy. his built frame pinning you against the soft bed. hands bunching up the bedsheets under you as you brace for his madman-like fucking.

only the loud plaping of skin, your moans, and his groans can be heard in that room. hands roughly grabbing your hips, making yo change from prone bone to doggy. his hand finding your hair an pulling on it slightly, making you arch your back.

slumping forwards from how good he's fucking you when he lets go of your hair. hand sitting on your ass to guide you back, making you meet his deep harsh thrusts. walls pulsing around him as he beging to lick every crevice of skin he can and marking you until he makes a mess out of your body.

you look so pretty when your head is empty and you pussy is full

bumblebee5514

I love me a lil fantasy where I get picked up and kissed against the wall, or maybe it escalates to more.

But the physics make it nearly impossible for this to last longer than a few seconds, even if the guy is super fit.

So here is the prompt:

Would the CoD men kiss you/fuck you against the wall? (Realistically)

Simon

Odds are medium, but mostly low.

As kinky as this guy likely is, he also thinks about the logistics and comfort.

What is the height difference? Do you have any core strength to hold yourself? Would it be uncomfortable?

He likely would kiss you against the wall during a very heated moment, but it would be temporary, before he takes you somewhere more secure, like the bed or couch.

He would have sex against the wall, but only if you suggest it with curiosity. And it will be good for 2-4 seconds before you likely decide it's too much for you anyway.

Simon is willing to try new things so long as they're not dangerous.

Non-traumatized Nikto

Yes.

To both it's a yes.

Nikto is a very physical person. His stoicism causes him to show affection through doing things, and having sex is what he finds grounding and bonding.

He is the most likely out of all the guys to do it without you needing to ask, because he's instinct driven, and doesn't hold back once in a secure relationship.

Also it's likely that he has a CNC kink, which would cause him to just pick you up and fuck you against the wall randomly, so long as you've admitted you want that, and you've been dating for at least 1.5-2 years.

Important note: the wall kissing/fucking would still not last long. It is just physics. But the act itself serves as a bridge to the next step.

enkel-even

Just when you thought Nikto was done for fucking you, he switched personalities. (Should we do it a few more times?)

König is much taller than you. The day you wear a pretty little dress out, he glances down and sees your cleavage.(Liebling.... I suddenly want to stay home.)

Keegan is a sniper, so his eyesight is extraordinary. When you choose to turn off the lights during sex because you're shy, his blue eyes have already captured your every expression.(Tsk, tsk.... Look at that. All blushing. All mine.)

liliacsdelight

Untitled No.6

Masked Man x BlkFem!Reader

୨९▪︎2.5k+ words, smut/explicit sexual content(18+), mentions of murder, blood and grim, missionary-> doggy, no condom (wrap the willy), creampie, kissing, he's non-verbal, dirty talk, choking, pain/pleasure mix, size kink, you don’t finish (don’t kill me),etc▪︎୨९

💌Thank you to that one anon who provided me with character dynamics for horror erotica. I love you so much.

▪︎18+ 𝓜𝓲𝓷𝓸𝓻𝓼 𝓓𝓸 𝓝𝓸𝓽 𝓘𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓪𝓬𝓽 ▪︎

The house is too still. Quiet in the way that feels wrong, like the silence after a scream.

Outside, it’s raining. Not loud—just that soft, needling drizzle that seeps into your bones. The windows are fogged. The streetlamp outside flickers, casting slow-moving shadows across the walls.

Your bedroom is dim. One bedside lamp glows low, casting everything in honey-colored light. Music playing low. You'd lit a candle earlier—amber and sweet. It still burns, barely, the scent thick and heady in the room like perfume and rot.

The sheets are slightly rumpled from where you’d been reading before your shower. The book’s still open on the nightstand, spine broken. There’s a half-empty glass of wine beside it, crimson and still.

And him?

He’s a wrongness in the space.

The knife gleamed when he walked in. The door was never kicked in. He picked the lock. Quietly. Like he's done so many times before.

The creak of the floorboard is a kindness—he wanted you to hear him.

fernsdelight

Nikto x reader

Finding a good price for a hitman nowadays was hard.

You contemplated hiring some random crackhead off the street for a couple hundred bucks, but you were a little worried it might track back to you. That's how you found yourself at some shady bar on the south side of town at 1 o'clock in the morning on a Saturday.

Some of your friends were telling you that you're acting dramatic, to just get over the fact that your boyfriend had cheated on you. Take some time and heal from the hurt. But this was your way of healing.

It was dingy and dirty inside the bar. The cheap paint was peeling off the walls already, the scent of booze that's probably moonshine, and cigarettes was like a haze assaulting your poor senses and stinging your eyes, and there were creeps everywhere crawling around like maggots. But one man in this establishment was different apparently.

You slid into the booth with a stranger, his face fully covered with a mask except for his overly intense blue eyes that had an almost empty gaze which came off quite threatening and a little chilly. And the fact that he was built like a brick house wasn't making you feel any better.

"you have the money for us?"

Nikto's voice sounded like he smoked a pack a day, like he needed a cold glass of water to soothe that rough, deep voice of his. You fumbled with the money, your hands a little bit clammy from the nerves getting to you.

"We will charge you half price, just because you are pretty." He grunts as he waves his large, scarred hand at you dismissively, only taking half of the cash. How could he ever say no to such a sweet little thing like you, even in a stupid circumstance like this.

That was all the conversation led to. He left moments later, disappearing like a ghost in the night as if he was never here in the first place. You felt a little silly, maybe he'd just scammed you pretty bad, adding insult to injury about the whole boyfriend situation.

That was the thought process until he showed up at your door a few weeks later. Nikto could never leave a sweet girl like you hanging, he needed to inform you personally that he'd completed the job. He couldn't help himself, the voices in his head all bickering with one another, anger and hatred, possessiveness and obsession splitting his skull in two before it all went hush when you opened the door.

Nikto was standing a little too close for your comfort, staring at you for far too long to be considered normal. He's much scarier in the daytime, big broad shoulders taking up far too much space in your doorframe while he used his burly body to push his way inside your cozy home, brushing off his touches as 'just passin by' when his huge scarred hand finds itself dangerously low on your back.

"We took pictures, just for you, Любимая" Nikto grunts, voice rough as ever and tinged with a thick russian accent. He pulls out his wallet to show you, which you politely decline, feeling a bit squeamish at seeing a dead body, even if it was your fault.

"Anyone else? We'll do it for free, two for one deal. It's exclusive, just for you." He murmurs, and instead of stepping back, he seems to lean into your space more. Nikto can't let you leave, the voices finally quieted when you were around.

This was the tradeoff of hiring a cheap hitman, you were stuck to him like a magnet, his heavy clothed cock now pressing against your hip, his hands squeezing at your plush hips. You couldn't deny that his low, growly voice coaxed out a certain warmth in your tummy that you know shouldn't be there.

Maybe your head isn't screwed on straight. You should be afraid of him and running for the hills, not flustered and getting a little bit horny because of the way his voices sounds. You weren't very good at being subtle when you thighs clenched together, trying to shuffle away from him, but nothing is safe from Nikto's vigilant eyes, he notices.

Nikto isn't the nice and helpful hitman you think he is. The reality of the situation sits in your chest like a stone when his heavy hand curls around your nape, holding you in place for him so he can rut against you, the heavy musky scent on his clothes impossible to ignore.

I guess the hitman service wasn't half priced after all. Maybe if you let Nikto bully his fat cock into you and fill you with his thick seed, he'll get rid you that annoying boss of your's next :)

.˚⊹. ࣪𓉸 ࣪⊹˚.

a/n: for the one person that wanted Nikto, this is for u

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