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hotchreiid

⋆.˚ The four times you shot your shot with Spencer Reid, and the one time it worked.

𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼

Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader

⋆.˚ ellie talks- entirely based on this one image I saw on pinterest yesterday and had to write something.

wc-875

cw- s1!Spencer, whole lotta fluff, basically you keep buying socks for Spencer until he gets that you have a crush on him.

warcrimesimulator

moonstruckme

hi Mae!! I just have to say I loved the peter aftercare oneshot sooo much! I swear you are like the queen of soft smut, which sounds so hilarious but it really is true! you just absolutely have mastered writing things that are so comfy while still being equally so steamy that I'm just always melting into a puddle.

anyways I have a request (if you like it) for peter, specifically roommate peter and reader where one of them is getting up in the middle of the night to go to their kitchen for water, or because they can't sleep, or had a dream, and the other is already there. maybe there's been some previous tension between them or something or other, and things get smuttyyy in the kitchen, what do we think!

Thanks so much, angel!

cw: pg-13 smut (mdni please)

roommate!peter parker x fem!reader ♡ 1.1k words

Peter appears in the kitchen like a mirage. Damp hair, a loose sweatshirt, silent footsteps that falter when he finds you leaning against the counter with your glass of water. His eyebrows go up.

"Uh, hey."

"Hi," you say back, startled too and lightly mortified to have come across Peter in the apartment you share with him. "Did you just shower?"

"Yeah." Peter reaches past you, and the kitchen is illuminated for a moment in white light from the fridge. He grabs a takeout container. "Yeah, I went for a run, so."

You wrinkle your nose, as much at the idea of running as doing it at two in the morning. You didn't even hear him leave.

Peter grins at your face. "Are you just standing here in the dark?" he teases.

yeah-iveheardofbears

melt with you

pairing: steve harrington x curvy!reader

summary: during a summer of heatwaves, arguing, and a chance encounter with your high school bully, your least favorite coworker ends up being your biggest supporter. in more ways than one...

wc: 17.5k (promised you guys a long one)

cw: coworkers to enemies to friends to lovers, curvy!reader, bisexual!reader, good ally (but slightly oblivious) steve, slight homophobia, talks of queerbaiting and bisexual fetishization, college burnout, feelings of inadequacy from both parties, TENSION, slowburn, maybe too many inner thoughts about steve in that slutty little uniform, making out, dirty talk, teasing, body insecurity (on both parts tbh), oral (f recieving), bigdick!steve, grabbing that mans ass because we need more of it, p in v sex, fluffy ending, cuddling

love notes: yet another long curvy!reader x steve harrington fic because i love him so very much. off the bat i want to make it clear that this reader is bisexual and its a large part of the story. i've always dealt with a lot of these struggles as a hyperfemme curvy queer woman and this was really cathartic to write about. i hope you all enjoy it as much as i did writing it, even though it took me forever. i'll just say half the reason is because sometimes its hard to think about writing when you have to picture him in those stupid little shorts... (⸝⸝♡﹏♡⸝⸝) (also, not a face reveal but the photo on the banner is me in my Robin cosplay since pinterest was a failure on finding anyone curvy in the scoops cosplay. when in doubt, be self indulgent i guess!)

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A small bead of sweat started to roll from Steve's forehead to his brow as he slumped into one of the backroom chairs. He could see you grimace as he wiped it away with that stupid hat before dropping it on the table.

"What?" his exasperated tone was laced with heat exhaustion, "Am I not allowed to sweat in front of you?"

"No, by all means, sweat all you want," your fingers twitched around the straw in your drink, the plastic crinkling under the pressure, "Just try to get more on your uniform. It adds to the… aesthetic."

He rolled his eyes in that bitchy way you'd come to almost admire.

"Yeah well maybe if I get sweat stains all over the hat, I won't be forced to wear it anymore."

You give a fake pout after taking another sip. "And the heats already ruining that perfect hair, your life is so difficult."

He leaned forward, propping his chin on his hand, the blue of his uniform making his hazel eyes look impossibly more brown, "You have no idea."

The door swung open, letting in a blast of mall air that did little to cool the room.

"Eugh!" Robin practically wretched from the doorway. "Can you guys get rid of that rancid trash? I'm pretty sure there's kiddie puke in there and the heat is not helping."

moonstoneandmoonlight

Roommate Steve walking around shirtless bc it’s summer & it’s hot! So you retaliate by walking around in a bikini top that makes your boobs look fantastic and denim shorts that have your bum peaking out the bottoms <333 Steve trying to hide his boner etc etc

hot in here | steve harrington

18+ smut!! steve fantasying about reader, roommate au, female reader, no use of y/n, she/her pronouns for reader.

wc: 942

𑣲 the roommate collection

Steve Harrington was beginning to piss you off. Not because he was a bad roommate because of course, he was the best roommate that you could have possibly asked for. He always cleaned up after himself, he did his fair share of cooking, cleaning and he never left an empty milk cartoon in the fridge like your last roommate had.

But what was beginning to piss you off about Steve? It was the fact he hadn’t worn a shirt all fucking week.

You can’t exactly blame him, not really. Your AC had stopped working just before the heatwave had hit and there was no escape from the sweltering heat. You had bought a fan but all that it seemed to do was blow hot air around the living room. And the heat itself? It was unforgiving. The only thing worse than the heat itself was the torture of seeing your stupidly hot roommate without a shirt everyday.

You told yourself that it was fine. That you could deal with it. That seeing Steve shirtless all the time was just a nice treat. But then he came back to the apartment after washing his car one Saturday afternoon—soaking wet, water dripping down from the hair that covered his chest and looking like a fucking god and you had finally decided that enough was enough.

shadowdaddiesclub

The Rescue

Azriel x reader Hurt/comfort - Angst

When you go missing behind Hybern's lines, Azriel doesn't need the word to know what you are to him. The shadowsinger goes full rage mode to bring home what belongs to him.

Azriel hadn't slept in two days.

He wouldn't have called it sleep even if he'd tried. Not with your scent going cold on a jacket he refused to let anyone move from the war table. Not with the shadows themselves seeming restless, curling and snapping at his heels like they, too, couldn't settle.

Somewhere behind Hybern's lines, in a camp his spies had barely confirmed and couldn't yet locate, you were his one unbearable thought, over and over, a wound that wouldn't close because he didn't know how deep it went.

"You need to eat something," Cassian said, for the third time that hour, sliding a plate toward him that Azriel didn't look at.

"I need a location."

"We're getting one," Rhys said, calm in the way that meant he was working very hard to sound calm. "Az. Look at me."

Azriel didn't. He couldn't. If he looked up he thought something in him might come apart in front of both of them, and he didn't have that to give right now, not when every piece of him needed to stay sharp enough to be useful.

"You're no use to her half-mad," Rhys said, quieter now. "You know that better than anyone. Going in blind gets people killed. Gets her killed."

"Don't you think I know that." Azriel's hands curled into fists on the table, knuckles white. "You think I don't feel every second she's out there? It's not just worry, Rhys, it's wrong, something in me is wrong, like a piece of me is missing and I can't—"

He cut himself off, jaw clenched, but it was too late. Rhys and Cassian exchanged a look over his bowed head, quick and wordless, the kind neither of them would have bothered hiding a year ago.

Neither of them said anything else about it. The silence stretched a beat too long, taut with everything unsaid, until Azriel couldn't stand to sit inside it any longer.

"Then find her!" The words tore out of him, sharp enough that Cassian actually flinched, his fist coming down on the table hard enough to crack the wood beneath it. For a moment fury was the only thing holding him upright, black and consuming, aimed at everything and nothing, at Hybern, at the map, at his own uselessness standing here instead of out there.

Then it broke, just as fast as it had risen, and what was left underneath was worse. "I can't. I can't sit here and do nothing while she—" His voice cracked clean through, low and raw, nothing like him at all, and he didn't finish it. He didn't have to. No one in that room could remember Azriel unraveling out loud about anything, and yet here he was, hands braced on the splintered table, shaking too hard to hide it, saying more with his silence than he ever had with his voice.

Cassian's hand landed on his shoulder, heavy and steadying, and said nothing more. There was nothing left to say.

Azriel didn't answer that. Couldn't. He'd never said the word out loud, not once, not even alone in the dark where no one could hear him say it, and it was clawing its way up his throat now regardless of whether he wanted it to.

He barely registered the next hour. Fragments only: Mor's voice near the door, the map dissolving into hurried coordinates, his own shadows dragging themselves back to him at last, reeking of stone and rust and the copper tang of your blood. They whispered a place to him, finally, a name scratched into the corner of Hybern's territory, and it was enough. It had to be enough.

Rhys caught his arm before he could vanish into the dark, and for once there was nothing calm left in his face at all.

"Bring her home, Az." Rhys said it quiet and fierce, every year of their friendship packed into three words.

Azriel didn't answer. He didn't need to. He was already gone.

The camp reeked of tallow smoke and wet stone, Hybern's banners hanging limp somewhere above the earthworks. Azriel came down out of the dark like something the night itself had been dreading, and for one suspended second he simply stood in the doorway of the holding tent and looked at you, and something in his chest didn't break so much as stop.

You were slumped against a post, wrists bound above your head, one eye swollen shut, your shirt torn and dark with more blood than a person should lose and still be breathing. Your skin had gone pale under the bruising, lips cracked, head hanging like it cost too much to hold up.

But your chest still rose. Still fell. He fixed on that, on the rise and fall of it, because it was the only thing keeping him upright himself.

He hadn't even crossed the threshold when he heard boots approaching from the path behind him, unhurried, almost bored. A soldier shouldered past him into the tent without so much as a glance, chain looped over one fist, already reaching for something laid out on the table, a blade, a brand, it didn't matter what. He was already reaching for the next thing he meant to do to you.

Something in Azriel simply gave way.

He didn't remember crossing the tent. He remembered the man's skull under his bare hands, one on either side, and the sheer animal need to make it stop, make it end, wringing every ounce of restraint he'd ever built right out of him.

Shadow poured off him faster and darker than he had ever let it move, lashing around the soldier's throat and wrists and ankles, dragging him down and pinning him there. Then it was just his hands. No blade. No weapon. Nothing between him and the reason you were bleeding but his own strength and his own fury.

It was over in seconds. It felt like it took an hour and no time at all. When he came back to himself the man was dead on the ground, skull broken beneath his palms, blood slicking his fingers and dripping steady onto the dirt, and his hands were shaking again, for an entirely different reason.

You hadn't made a sound the whole time. Not one.

He was in front of you before his pulse had slowed at all, and everything about him changed the instant he reached for you, the same hands that had just broken bone going impossibly gentle, like you were something that might come apart if he moved too fast.

Blood still clung to his knuckles, drying tacky between his fingers, and some distant part of him hated that it was the last thing to touch you before he could get you clean. He cut the bindings with Truth-Teller, angling the blade away from your skin with a precision that had nothing to do with skill and everything to do with fear of hurting you further.

When the ropes fell away he didn't pull you to him. He gathered you instead, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other sliding beneath your knees. He lifted you like you weighed nothing at all. Like you were the most fragile thing he'd ever held in his long, long life.

"I've got you," he murmured, easing you against his chest by degrees, watching your face the entire time for any flinch, any wince, adjusting his hold instantly at the smallest change in your breathing. He smoothed the hair back from your bruised temple with two fingers, barely a touch, reverent in a way no one alive had ever witnessed from him, not Rhys, not Cassian, not even Mor in four centuries of friendship. "Slowly. I'm going slowly. I won't hurt you, I promise, I've got you."

The male who moved through the world like a blade himself was holding you like porcelain, like something sacred, every motion measured down to the smallest fraction he could manage.

The second he had you settled fully against him, safe, held — you broke.

Not loudly. You didn't have the strength left for loud. Just silent tears, spilling fast and endless down a face too bruised to show much else, your whole body shaking with the effort of holding them in even now, even safe, like some part of you still didn't believe it was allowed to stop being strong.

"I'm here," he said, voice wrecked, pressing his mouth to your hair, to your temple, anywhere he could reach that wasn't hurt. "I'm here. I got you. I'm not letting go."

You turned your face into his throat instead of answering, and he felt every silent sob against his skin like a blow.

"I didn't tell them anything, Az," you finally whispered, so faint he had to lean in to catch it. Your fingers found the front of his jacket, closing around the fabric with what little strength you had left. "I didn't break."

He pulled back only far enough to look at you, at the pride flickering somehow through the wreckage of your face, like that was the one thing you needed him to know before anything else, more than the pain, more than the fear still shaking through you.

"Oh, sweetheart." The words came out rough, worn thin, entirely too soft for a male whose hands were still slick with what he'd just done. "I know. I know you didn't. You never would have."

"I wasn't scared," you breathed, though the tremor in your voice said otherwise, said everything.

"My brave girl," he murmured, voice splintering on the words, and pressed his forehead to yours, shadows curling tight and close around you both like they could shield you from the memory of the last hours if they just held on hard enough.

You just held on, fingers still fisted in his jacket, forehead still pressed to his, as he rose in one smooth motion, already scanning the tent flap, already listening for boots that weren't his.

He didn't have long, Hybern's camp would notice the silence soon enough, and he moved fast even as he held you like glass, shadows sweeping ahead of them to smother torchlight, to muffle sound, clearing a path out of the dark before either of you had to think about it.

Twice he froze mid-stride, shadows flattening against the earthworks as a patrol passed close enough to hear breathing, and both times he angled his body between you and the open air without seeming to decide to at all, like it wasn't a choice so much as instinct. By the time the wards of the camp fell away behind them and he finally broke into open sky, his heart was still hammering, though nothing in the world could have made him admit that out loud.

"I'm taking you home, love," Azriel murmured against your hair, voice rough with everything he wasn't letting himself say outright. "Wherever I am, that's where you belong now." The words came out low, unguarded, more than he meant to give away, and neither of you was steady enough yet to call him on it.

Somewhere over the tree line, your grip on his jacket went slack, and he knew, without needing to check, that you were gone under.

The townhouse door didn't open. It exploded inward, torn off one hinge as Azriel didn't so much land as crash through the threshold, wings still half-spread, shadows boiling off him in every direction and swallowing every lamp in the front hall at once. A vase shattered against the wall. Wood splintered underfoot. He was already moving, already shouting, before the door had even finished swinging on its ruined hinge behind him.

"MADJA!" His voice tore through the quiet halls, raw and cracking, nothing like the male who moved through this house on silent feet, who never raised his voice for anything. "MADJA, NOW! I need her now!"

He didn't wait for the echo to die before he was shouting again, a second time when no answer came fast enough, a third when he still didn't hear footsteps, some ragged, unraveling part of him convinced that if he stopped shouting for even a second, it would mean he'd given up.

Rhys and Cassian came down the stairs at a dead run, half-dressed, Cassian's shirt still hanging open, and neither of them slowed at the sight of Azriel with you in his arms, they just moved faster. Cassian was shouting orders before he'd even reached the bottom step, barking for hot water, for linens, for someone to send word to Madja now.

Rhys crossed the hall in three strides, gripping his shoulder hard, steadying him, though nothing about the moment felt steady at all. Mor was already gone, winnowed out to fetch the healer herself.

The rest of the house erupted right behind them. A door slammed open somewhere above, more feet pounding down the stairs two and three at a time. Nuala came flying out of the kitchen with a lit candle still in hand, wax spattering the floor behind her. Somewhere a glass shattered. Someone was shouting for towels, someone else for water, voices overlapping and tripping over each other in the dark, the whole household jolted awake and moving at once.

"Someone get her, NOW," Azriel snarled, to no one, to everyone, shouldering his way into the nearest bedroom without waiting for an answer, still cradling you, limp and unmoving, your head lolling against his chest with none of the strength left to hold itself up, like you might shatter against his own urgency, the whole house in motion around him, doors banging, feet pounding, his family scrambling to keep pace with a fear that had no shape yet, only speed.

He laid you down on the bed like it cost him something, like every inch of distance between his hands and your skin was a small betrayal, and even once your head was settled against the pillows his hands wouldn't stay still, hovering over you, touching your jaw, your throat, your wrist, as if he couldn't decide which part of you needed him most and so tried to hold all of it at once.

"Stay with me," he said, low, urgent, voice fraying at the edges. "Stay with me, sweetheart, come on, look at me, come on—"

You didn't answer. You hadn't answered in longer than he wanted to think about, your face slack and pale against the pillow, your breathing shallow but steady, at least, steady enough that he clung to that single fact like a lifeline, repeating it to himself under his breath, steady, she's steady, she's still breathing, like it might stop being true the moment he stopped saying it.

Madja swept in with Mor close behind her, already rolling her sleeves, already assessing the damage with the practiced eye of someone who'd seen far worse than this and survived worse still. "Azriel. I need room to work."

He didn't move.

"Azriel." Sharper now. "I can't help her with you hovering over every inch of her like a wall."

"I'm not in your way."

"You are exactly in my way." Madja's eyes flicked, not unkindly, to where his hand was still fused to your jaw. "Let me see her ribs. Let me see what they did to her wrists. I promise you, I am not going to hurt her worse than she already is."

His jaw worked. For a moment it looked like he might actually argue with a healer three centuries his senior, might plant himself at your side like a second spine and refuse to be moved by anything short of a direct order.

That order came in the form of two sets of hands.

"Az." Cassian's voice, low, careful, right before he and Rhys took an arm each and hauled him bodily back from the bed. Azriel fought it, snarling, shadows lashing out toward both of them before some last shred of reason clamped down and stopped him from actually hurting either of his brothers.

"Let her work. Let her work, you're going to break her ribs worse holding on like that."

"Get off me," he snarled, teeth bared, shadows spiking off him in every direction, nothing left in his voice but raw animal warning.

"Listen to me." Rhys's grip didn't loosen, arm locked hard across Azriel's chest, voice low and even despite the effort it clearly cost him to hold on. "I know you're not thinking straight right now. I know. But you have to let Madja touch her, Az. You have to let her work. You can hate us for it after."

Azriel strained against them for one more heartbeat, every muscle in him screaming to get back to your side, and then, all at once, the fight went out of him. He sagged between his brothers like something had been cut, chest heaving, eyes never once leaving your face even from three feet away.

When he finally spoke his voice had gone somewhere Rhys and Cassian had never heard it go before, cracked open, stripped of every wall he'd ever built, nothing left to hide behind. "I can't lose her. I didn't have time with her." It came out small, almost childlike, nothing like a warrior who'd just crushed a man's skull with his own hands. "Not enough time. I needed more time."

Something wet caught in his throat, and he pressed the heel of his hand hard against his eyes, furious with himself for it, unable to stop it either.

Rhys and Cassian exchanged a look over his bowed head and eased their grip, though neither of them stepped far.

Madja, wisely, didn't waste the opening. She worked fast, probing your ribs with careful hands, checking your pulse, lifting one eyelid and then the other with a frown that deepened by the second, while Azriel stood frozen between his brothers, hands opening and closing at his sides, aching to be back at your side and not trusting himself yet to go there gently.

"Two ribs broken, maybe a third," Madja murmured, moving to your wrists next, tsking softly at the raw, rope-burned skin beneath the deeper marks scored into it. "That, I can fix. That, time and salve will handle." She straightened, wiping her hands on her apron, her expression giving nothing away yet. "Let her rest. Sleep is the best thing for her right now."

"Why isn't she waking up?"

"She's been through a great deal, Azriel. Give it time." Madja glanced past him to where Rhys, Cassian, and Mor still hovered in the doorway, none of them having moved an inch since they'd first crowded in behind him. "The rest of you, out. She needs quiet." Her eyes flicked to Azriel, still hovering close, and something in her expression softened, understanding written into it in a way she didn't bother explaining to the others. "He stays."

Rhys didn't argue. He gripped Azriel's shoulder once, wordless, and steered Cassian out ahead of him before he could protest. Mor lingered a moment longer in the doorway, something soft and worried in her face, before she too slipped out and pulled the door most of the way shut behind her, leaving it cracked just enough that none of them would be far.

Then it was just the two of you.

Azriel didn't move from that spot at your bedside, not once, not even as the hours bled past and your breathing stayed shallow and even and your eyes stayed closed. He just sat there in the low lamplight, watching you breathe, memorizing the rhythm of it like he was terrified it might stop the second he looked away.

"I'm here, love," he said quietly, to a room that couldn't hear him. "I'm staying. Just, please, come back."

The hours passed like that, in silence, in lamplight, in the small, endless proof of your breathing. Somewhere past midnight Nuala came and went with fresh bandages and a look she didn't voice. Somewhere after that the candle guttered low, and Azriel didn't move to relight it, content to sit in the dark with your hand in his.

Sleep never came for him. He didn't want it to.

Azriel simply watched the night bleed slowly toward morning, waiting for a sign that didn't come.

---

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

idkyetxoxo

Five | What Remains | Fallow

Pairing - Azriel x reader

Word count - 2.3k

Warnings - Emotional Distress

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Solstice had always been loud.

Loud with laughter, loud with arguments over stupid games, loud with music and too much wine and Cassian trying to outdrink everyone and failing every single year.

Solstice meant warmth and family and too many presents and Mor decorating everything in sight whether anyone wanted her to or not. Solstice meant happiness. Solstice meant us.

Which was exactly why I didn't want to go.

"I'm not going," I said quietly, not looking up from where I sat at the edge of the bed, twisting the fabric of my sleeve between my fingers.

Behind me, I heard Azriel stop moving. "What do you mean you're not going?" he asked.

hotchreiid

She asked you to leave.

𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼

Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader

Spencer steps in when your ex shows up at your new apartment. word count- 2.4k content warnings- fluff, a bit of angst, neighbour!Spencer, reader's ex cheated, controlling ex. ellie talks- i pictured season 1 Spencer when i wrote this so... yeah! first Spencer fic kinda nervous

Spencer liked where he lived. It was quiet, he liked the way that his mind was able to run as fast as he let it without interruptions. His neighbour on the right hand side was a sweet older lady, the only noise that drifted through the walls was the occasional laughter from whatever tv show she had playing whilst knitting or the whistling of the kettle a few times a day. The left hand side had sat empty for most of his residence, eerily quiet. Until you moved in.

moonstoneandmoonlight

THE FAVOUR | steve harrington

Steve Harrigton needs a date to his cousin's wedding and unfortunately for you, you owe your sister a favour.

pairing: steve harrington x mayfield!reader words: 8.5k contains: fluff, frenemies to lovers, (sort of) fake date, mention of precious king!steve behaviour, steve’s dad being a little awful, grief, guilt, mention of death of a sibling, female reader, no use of y/n, she/her pronouns for reader.

author's note: ah so this one was so fun to write! i have never written a wedding guest fic before and oh, i just loved it! please enjoy

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Steve Harrington could not believe his luck—or lack thereof.

The day before cousin’s wedding, Juliet had called Family Video to cancel on him and so, Steve had naturally begun to panic.

He knew how much the wedding was costing his aunt Edith—the only family member who he actually really liked—and so he knew how a last minute cancellation like this would stress her and his cousin Daisy out. Especially as he had already begged his aunt to allow him to bring Juliet with him in the first place.

He had called Robin but she was unfortunately sick with the flu. He had called his last ten dates but they were all either busy or flatly refused to go out with him again. He had even debated asking Nancy but shook the thought, she was his ex-girlfriend after all.

“Wow,” Max Mayfield grins in mild amusement as Steve rattles off the list of girls he had asked to be his emergency plus one. “You really need to find a hobby.”

ellecdc

Okay this is kind of a broad request, and plz feel free to take the parts you like (if you want ofc) and run with them.

I’m like an ABSOLUTE sucker for an injured reader. Exhausted reader. Reader who absolutely needs to be cared for. Reader who is physically unwell to the point that those around her are mentally unwell, and then reader that’s upset she made others upset and she’s a mess. If you’d be interested in writing literally anything along those lines for any acotar guy or any poly acotar ship I would eat it right up.

I was read your requests for high stake hurt/comfort and I think this should be good? If not plz ignore lol but sometimes I just love a damsel in distress.

Love you!! MWAH

one damsel in distress coming right up 🫡

Azriel x fem!reader found in the snowy Illyrian forest [1.4k words]

CW: hypothermia, discussion of near-death/dying, possibly incorrect treatment of hypothermia, mating bonds, hurt/comfort

Azriel will find the time to be ashamed about his actions later, but right now his steps falter as he tries and fails to understand what he’s looking at.

He knows exactly what you are though, knows exactly what the violent burst of golden warmth that rattled in his chest the moment he laid eyes on you means; it’s a feeling he’s been praying to experience for centuries.

You’re his mate.

What his faulty, ill-equipped brain is having trouble comprehending is what you’re doing here and how Azriel came to stumble—almost literally—upon you in the dense, snow-covered forest in the Illyrian mountains on the brink of death.

You’re not Illyrian; Azriel doesn’t even think you look like you’re from the Night Court at all.

But you’re his mate.

helloitshell

The Quietest Kind of Love

Pairing: Azriel x Archeron!Reader (she/her)

Summary: You were always the quiet Archeron sister, the one who watched instead of spoke, loved without asking for anything in return. And from the outside, it seemed painfully obvious where Azriel's heart belonged.

If only someone had told you that shadows aren't always pointing in the direction of the person they're following.

Warnings: Friends to lovers • mutual pining • misunderstanding • comfort • fluff with a little angst

notes: just a short sweet azriel one shot

masterlist

One shot

harringtonsb1tch

Being Obsessed with Steve’s New Body | Steve Harrington x reader

Thank you, everyone, for sending in Fred and George requests!! Currently working on the Oscar Piastri x reader PR relationship fic and brainstorming the requests. In the meantime, here’s Steve and his pudgy tummy that I’ve been obsessed w lately!

snoopyharrington

hockey!steve who after the whole "thin walls" debacle sees you wearing his number in the stands during the next match and has a Hard Time about it.... hockey!steve who thinks its a sign and comes up to you afterward only to get the cold shoulder because you're playing ultra hard to get and you know he doesn't do boyfriends.... hockey!steve who you keep calling "buddy" just to piss him off..... sigh

😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫

hockey!steve who won’t give up or take a fucking hint because you keep showing up to hockey parties and wearing his jersey and every time he approaches you about it, you’re just like, “and what about it?” (it’s actually driving him to the brink of insanity)

he calls you sweetheart and angel, thinking those pet names will really woo you, but they just make you laugh in his face, especially the night you show up to a party with some random baseball player in tow.

“okay angel, I get it, you’re trying to make me jealous,” steve says with a dry laugh, sidling up next to you when ben (brad? bobby?) headed off to the bathroom.

“were you dropped on your head as a baby?” you ask, turning to face him. steve visibly gulps, and your lips upturn in a smirk. “or have you just taken too many pucks to the forehead?”

“I mean, I haven’t gotten a concussion in my career yet, if that’s what you’re asking.”

you roll your eyes. “I’m not sure who told you what about me, harrington, but I’m not some kind of athlete stress toy you can just use and abuse at your leisure,” you take a long sip of your shoddily mixed drink, wincing at the liquor-heavy taste. “I’m not just gonna fuck you because you’re good at hockey. and you may have had a chance a few weeks ago, but the whole begging look isn’t really a good look on you.”

idkyetxoxo

Four | Muted | Fallow

Pairing - Azriel x reader

Word count - 2k

Warnings - Emotional distress, guilt

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Life continued like it had any right to.

The sun still rose over Velaris every morning, spilling gold across the river like nothing in the world had changed. Fae still laughed in the streets. Shops still opened. Music still drifted through open windows at night.

The world kept moving.

Like my heart hadn't been ripped from my chest, torn apart, and left somewhere I would never find it again.

Weeks passed. I knew they passed because the light outside the windows kept changing and because Azriel kept gently reminding me what day it was when I seemed to forget.

But time didn't feel real anymore. It felt thick and slow and distant, like I was watching my life from underwater instead of actually living it.

Some days I didn't know if I had slept. Some days I didn't know if I had eaten. Some days I wasn't even sure I was really alive.

Azriel was beside me always. I knew that much.

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

levanswrites

𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐞

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: steve harrington x reader 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: old money!steve, waitress!reader, slow burn, enemies-ish to lovers, idiots in love, mutual pining

♡ · · · ♡ · · · ♡

The card room is full of men old enough to be your father.

Some are old enough to be your grandfather.

They all call each other by their last names and gamble away more money in a single hand than you make in six months, all while finding the time to tell you you'd look prettier if you smiled.

The tips are obscene, though.

So you smile.

You refill glasses before anyone has to ask and laugh politely at jokes that haven't been funny in thirty years.

You pocket your tips. You move on.

Until one Thursday, someone new walks in.

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