#and everything else is just...solid liquid

[brb-on-a-quest]

oh no my hubris

[higgs-the-god]

consider

[yapandnap]

‘Our Routine’

Spencer Reid x Smart!reader

WC: 1538+ (that’s when I looked last)

Summary: Cozy routine you’ve adopted with your boyfriend.

CW: Fluff. NOT EDITED! Reader is LOVESICK!! LOVES HER MAN. Maybe ooc Spencer. Maybe autistic/autistic tendencies!Spencer. Im trying to to write him as accurate as i can. (First time writing a kissing scene sorry if it sucks) (could be read as an extension of ‘Breathe for yes, backflip for no’ and ‘Save The Date’)

The first rays of morning light filtered through the window, warming the blankets as you blinked awake. Rubbing the blur from your eyes, you turn over and squint at the clock at Spencer’s bedside table.

It blinked, 5:30 AM, in blocky red letters. Looking closer your eyes blearily find your boyfriend of 6 months, Spencer Reid. He’s laid on his back, His curls unruly against his pillowcase. an arm thrown over his stomach, as his breaths softly puff into the air.

Slowly you shuffle from beneath the sheets and comforter, trying your best to make as little noise as possible. Once free, you stalk over to his side of the bed. A traitorous panel creaks under your barefoot. You wince as he shuffles further into the bed. Waiting until he settled once more, you reached the alarm. With a few soft clicks Spence’s usual alarm for 6:00 am was canceled.

Minding the creaky floor, you shuffle into the bathroom. Getting ready for the day. After finishing your shower, choosing your outfit, brushing your teeth, and finishing your skin care routine it was 6:10. You sighed in relief. Spencer had been too tired last night to set a second alarm.

Smiling at your small victory, you shut the door softly, before releasing the handle. Putting the kettle on and turning on the stove, you turn towards your other task. Assembling lunch. After trial and error, you found a solid meal to keep your boyfriend healthy and fed.

You split your time between heating up the leftover soup, and beginning to assemble Reid’s sandwich. You had learned pretty quickly that making Spencer a sandwich the “normal” way was a waste of time.

The first time you had packed one, he’d thanked you, eaten it, and insisted everything was fine. But you’d notice. You always did. The lettuce was pushed to the side, tomatoes untouched, and little rips of soggy bread left out.

While he never complained, he’d also never looked particularly happy to eat it. So, you adapted. Every morning, as if you were a professional food scientist, you tried something new. Concocted a new formula to keep the food just as he liked it. Eventually you made what you’d jokingly called your “Make-it-your-own” sandwich.

The bread went into one sandwich bag, the turkey and provolone into another. Lettuce into a small container, tomatoes into their own small tub to keep them and their moisture away from everything else.

The strawberries’ tops cut off and washed along with blueberries, before being put into their own small section. Two small condiment packets of mayo and one of mustard. You’d wrapped the ice pack in paper towels before placing all your cold items into the small insulated box.

Finally you added your finishing touch, a small container of grape jello. Prepackaged because, apparently no matter how hard you tried, you’d never beat the original recipe.

With the sandwich done, soup steaming, and thermos prepped and ready. You ladled the soup into the thermos. It was slightly dented, but you knew Spencer would never trade it for the world. These little things and small work around others would find burdensome filled you with purpose.

Every day you continued to learn, and every time you fell in love as if putting pieces into a puzzle, one little bit of information at a time.

Tightening the lid to the thermos, you moved the kettle before it started to scream, the bubbling clue enough that it was finished. You grabbed his favorite mug, chipped on the lip, but his all the same. Pouring the liquid you allowed it to steep as you began to clean up.

Giving the tea enough time to bloom, the scent slowly unfurls throughout the apartment. Bergamot rises and swirled with the deep aroma of black tea leaves. Lavender a soft whisper, and beneath it all, the cedar of your shelves lining your apartment.

You focused on the table first. The case files he had been going over scattered around the small rounded surface. You gathered them up, careful to keep them coordinated to his notes. Grabbing both his lunch and the corrected and fixed files, you put them into his messenger bag sitting next to the door.

Milo, your Angora ferret, has decided that today’s mission is to jump around your feet as you begin taking care of cleaning up around. You only got to finish his litter box before you checked the time. Swiping the wriggling noodle of fluff up, you set him into a box filled with his favorite toys. It would keep him entertained for awhile, you smiled at Milo. You continued your journey, carrying the mug of tea into the bedroom.

Spencer had shifted while you were busy. Curling in on himself away from the sunlight. An arm out and reaching into where you had laid. Without a doubt the warmth had left, however it was still a cute sight to see.

A fond smile tugged at your lips. Setting the steaming tea carefully on the bedside table, you sat on the edge of the mattress. Spencer didn’t stir.

Whispering his name and when answered with nothing, you smiled. Suppressing a laugh, you leaned down. Pressing a gentle kiss against his forehead. Then against his temple. Then his cheek. The tip of his nose. His jaw. The last one got his eyes to scrunch and his jaw to clench. The tic in it announced his reluctance to wake up.

“Wake up honey,” you whispered. He sighed, a groan escaping him. He opened one bleary eye to look up at you. leaning down to plant a kiss to his closed one. His smile that greeted you was so sweet. It made you wanna punch him. But instead you stroked the darkness beneath his hazel eyes. They were your favorite even if they were closed.

Even if you knew it wasn't normal, or romantic, you couldn’t help yourself. Dipping your fingers into the corners of Spencer’s eyes, you swipe the crust and whispered a small, “eye boogies.”

which caused him to release a soft startled chuckle and softly push your arms away. He turned his head with a moan of, “Rheum.”

You smiled, you could listen to his voice after he woke up for hours. It didn’t matter what the subject was. You were always entranced. It was rough, a little scratchy. You began to settle back into the bed to stare at him, the alarm blinking 7:30. Your smile faded into a frown and you leaned into him. After a few moments of silence. Spencer’s arm suddenly snatched you and with a startled shriek you were violently pulled into his chest.

You groaned as you looked at his smug smirk and his still closed eyes.

“Spence.” You petulantly sighed. He had an eye open a moment ago. When had he closed it?

“I have to go. I wanna kiss before I leave” As much as you hated to admit it, you did have to leave in ten minutes if you wanted to be on time, and you haven’t even looked at traffic yet.

For a moment, silence. Then he opened his eyes and simply stared at you, still half asleep, one arm wrapped securely around his waist. “One kiss?” He asked.

”one kiss.” You confirmed. You smiled and leaned in. The second you did, his grip tightened. Something dangerous, mischievous flashed across his face. “Spencer—“

before you could even finish, he buried his face against your neck and blew a loud raspberry. You shrieked his name.

after wrestling free (he let you go) you started pressing sloppy, spit-slicked kisses all over his face, in retaliation. Laugh filled breaths intermingling. Shoulders shaking as you exact your revenge on the man who you adore but betrayed you just a moment prior.

Even when he let you go, dragging over his face dramatically, he couldn’t wipe the smile from his lips.

Before you could run even more late you leaned in. Lips slotting against his.

Spencer smiled into the kiss. A soft hum escaping and vibrating gently against your lips. There was something genuinely unfair about how quickly he could make you forget about everything as soon as your lips connected.

You felt his hand slide up your arm, gripping softly against your skin as it made its way to rest on your shoulder. He tilted his head slightly, chasing your lips as you started to pull away. You planted your hands against his jaw, and gave him a quick peck.

While his big hazel eyes looked so sad and wet from sleep, you couldn’t help but give him a few more while stroking his jaw. “I gotta go honey” you murmured into the last kiss before leaving his warmth. The smell of him clinging to your nose.

You wished you could bottle the smell and turn it into a candle. You love him. As you left the bedroom, you heard a sleepy, “Drive safe”

You signed ‘I love you’

and his tired face lit up.

“You’ve been practicing,” his voice chased you as you went to the door. Wistfully you looked back, wishing you could spend more time with Spencer and Milo, who currently jumping in his basket, and would without a doubt forget your existence when Spencer got up to start the day.

You wished you could stay, but work called. Grabbing your tote bag, filled with case files, PPE, and an assortment of necessities for your job at the forensics lab. You slung it over your shoulder before, stuffing your keys into your pocket.

Today would be a good day, because you got a cute man and a cute moment to replay over and over again. Playing behind your eyelids when they closed, and spinning in your head as you worked. You’re excited to see him after work. To get all of his attention and see his reaction to his favorite treat you deed to today’s lunch. You sure do love your boyfriend.

Tag-list:

@khxna @arayajasmynee @lacecam @sixvin @hiddentattooodyssey

Read more of my Spencer x Reader

[illyrianbitch]

Are We Still Friends?

Pairing: Reader x Azriel

Summary: Worried about how his new relationship seems to be changing him, you talk to Azriel about your concerns. Things take a turn when he refuses to listen.

Warnings: some wine sipping, gossiping, angst, miscommunication, friend fighting, jealousy (but no one realizes), az being defensive and blind

Word Count: 5k

(Completed) Series Masterlist | Part Two

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

“It’s not that I don’t like her.”

The words tasted as false as they were, and you grimaced the moment they slipped out, already bracing for the look Mor would throw your way. True to form, she didn’t disappoint, her expression halfway between amusement and exasperation.

A defeated sigh escaped as you accepted the glass of wine she offered, watching as she filled her own nearly to the brim.

“You’re better than me, then,” she hummed, settling back onto the couch across from you. “Because I don’t like her.”

You raised a brow. “You don’t like many people nowadays.”

She shrugged, casual as ever, though a smirk tugged at her lips. “True. I’m not exactly lining up for any peace medals, am I?”

You chuckled softly, leaning back in your chair. “I just… have this odd feeling about her, you know?”

Mor tilted her head, letting out a noncommittal hum. “Oh, I know. She drags Az around on a leash.”

You were tempted to say something about the irony in her words—remind her, in a loving manner, that she might've been guilty of that once upon a time, too. But you decided against it. She wasn't wrong.

You swirled the wine in your glass, watching the dark liquid move in slow, mesmerizing circles. The feeling wasn’t new; it had been there since the first time you’d met her. Azriel’s new girlfriend Selene was perfectly fine—charming, even. But there was something else, something you couldn’t quite name. Like a faint hum in the background of a quiet room, just irritating enough to notice but not enough to prove anything was wrong.

“Why don’t you talk to him?”

You glanced up, finding Mor’s bright brown eyes sharp and focused on you, the lazy humor of a moment ago gone.

“I doubt he’ll listen,” you admitted, resting the bottom of your glass on your thigh. “He didn’t listen to you.”

“That’s different.”

“It’s really not.”

Mor raised a brow like she wanted to argue, but she only sighed in response. “He’s been so weird about his love life. Gwyn didn’t work out. Elain’s probably the happiest out of all of us. Maybe he’s treading lightly.”

“Maybe,” you murmured, though you weren’t convinced.

Azriel had changed in small, almost imperceptible ways since everything had settled—since everyone had paired off and fallen in love. Everyone except you. And him.

You were fine with your situation, content in the quiet steadiness of your life. Azriel wasn’t. You knew it. He knew it, though he’d never admit it. So much of his self-worth was tangled up in whether he believed himself worthy of love. And the absence of it—of a solid, undeniable love in his life, of a partner, of a potential bond—seemed to weigh on him. To him, it wasn’t just an empty space; it was a failure.

You’d almost go as far as to say he’d become desperate, living in the shadows and watching his brothers experience loves so profound they might as well have been plucked from stories meant to inspire poets and dreamers.

Mating bonds were rare. You reminded yourself of that often. Your family was just an anomaly, their luck skewed impossibly high. But logic wasn’t enough to soothe Azriel, and it certainly wouldn’t stop him from chasing it. He was obsessive. Stubborn.

Nothing you said or did could change his perspective.

Mor’s voice pulled you out of your head again. “Speak of the devil,” she sang out. “Hi, Elain.”

Your gaze snapped up to the doorway, finding Elain standing just beyond the archway. She looked like a spooked deer, frozen in place with that polite smile you’d come to recognize as her default around company she hadn’t fully warmed up to yet.

“We were just talking about Azriel’s unfortunate romantic history,” Mor said smoothly. You glanced at Elain for her reaction.

It had taken time for that particular history to fade. Maybe it was appropriate to joke about now, but you personally would’ve waited a few more years before bringing it up so flippantly. Mor, however, had little patience for such niceties.

Elain’s expression didn’t shift beyond a faint flicker in her eyes, and you realized how much her composure had improved over the years. Then again, it had been a while since she and Lucien had found each other for good—long enough for their bond to solidify and for them to leave for the Day Court after their mating ceremony.

A twinge of jealousy sparked in you before you brushed it aside.

“We’re just gossiping in general. Want to join us?” you asked, gesturing to the chair beside you. Plush and inviting, it mirrored the one you sat on. “Unless Lucien is waiting for you upstairs?”

Elain’s cheeks flushed crimson. 

“Lucien’s still with Feyre, catching up,” she said, stepping further into the room. “What are you drinking?”

Mor reached for the bottle on the table, plucking it up and turning it in her hand to read the label.

“Something good and expensive,” she replied, with a half-hearted air of indulgence, before tilting her head at Elain with a faint grin.

“It’s from Rhys’s rather gluttonous collection,” you said, sensing Elain’s hesitation. “It won’t be missed at all.”

She smiled at that. “I’d love some.”

“There are a lot of glasses in that cabinet,” you said, pointing to the wood door with ornate carvings. “Grab whichever one you’d like.”

Mor sat up straighter, scooting herself back into the pillows behind her. You hummed, impressed, at her ability to hold both her full wine glass and the bottle without so much as a wobble.

You hadn’t spent much time with Elain one-on-one. Emissary duties had kept you busy during the years the Archeron sisters had adjusted to their new lives. But you liked Elain, from what you’d seen. She had a kind heart. She also had a sharp humor that surfaced at the oddest moments, usually when she and Lucien were whispering in corners, conspiratorial before seamlessly rejoining whatever social event they were at like they’d never left.

Elain returned and sat down with her chosen glass—a delicate crystal piece that gleamed in the soft light. Mor went to fill it instantly. 

“Can I ask why you were discussing Azriel’s romantic life?” Elain asked. Her voice was smooth, certain. No hesitation.

It didn’t faze her anymore, you realized—being such a strange, pivotal turning point in Azriel’s past experiences. She’d made peace with it, the way immortality seemed to demand. Time softened the edges of even the messiest situations, turning them into stories you could recount with startling detachment. Almost humorous, really.

Because how else could you explain being casual about the fact that your best friend had almost allowed his pride—and arrogance—and, somehow simultaneously, his insecurity—to lead him into a blood duel over Elain’s affections? A blood duel.

But now, it was just… something to write off. A distant memory, softened by the years and Lucien’s easy confidence. Lucien was better than you. You would’ve held that grudge against Azriel for many more years—long enough to make it a point of pride. But then again, Lucien had won everything he wanted in the end. He had the girl, the bond, the certainty that whatever lingering rivalry Azriel might feel was entirely one-sided.

It wasn’t important enough for Lucien to waste any more energy on.

You exchanged a glance with Mor, who arched a brow, clearly just as amused by Elain’s openness.

“Y/n doesn’t like his new girlfriend,” Mor said.

Your mouth fell open. “You don’t either.”

“True,” Mor agreed easily. She looked to Elain. “We don’t like her.”

“For clarification,” you said firmly, “I never said I didn’t like her.”

Mor laughed, sipping her wine with an amused grin.

Your face fell flat. “What?”

“Nothing,” she replied breezily. “But if you get a bad feeling about someone, that’s usually dislike.”

You resisted the urge to scowl, already turning over the guilt in your mind. You didn’t want to be that person—the kind who dismissed another female off the bat. Maybe your gut was wrong this time. Maybe her smile had reached her eyes, and you’d been too preoccupied to notice. Maybe her tone hadn’t been as assessing as you remembered, and you were projecting. You wanted to like her. You wanted to be happy for Azriel.

But he didn’t seem happy. He seemed distracted. Busy. Not himself.

And not the kind of busy you’d seen before—the methodical, obsessive focus he funneled into work or training. This was different, scattered in a way you couldn’t quite pin down. It had made sense in the beginning, when things were new and exciting, but now it was starting to feel uncomfortable. He’d started missing things—small things at first, like sparring sessions or those late-night conversations you, Mor, and him would have when you couldn’t sleep. Then came the bigger things. He’d stopped being able to review external court updates with you, even when those meetings were critical for your diplomatic roles.

Azriel had always been the one you could count on. Out of everyone, you considered him your closest friend—even more than Mor, though you’d never admit it out loud. But now it seemed like every time you made plans, Selene needed him more.

And then there was how fast it was all moving. Too fast. At a recent family dinner, she’d casually mentioned that she and Azriel could move in together—offhand, like it was the most obvious next step. Something about leaving the townhouse behind, creating a space with décor that matched her aesthetic. Azriel had just stayed quiet, looked at her like she’d just proposed the most brilliant idea in existence.

You noticed he did that. The way he looked at her. The way he’d looked at Elain and Gwyn back when they were seeing each other. It weirded you out—that tendency to put the people he saw as romantic interests on a pedestal, as though they were flawless. As though they were something he didn’t deserve.

You knew where it came from. That deep-rooted insecurity that even centuries hadn’t managed to erase. He didn’t see it, the way he wore himself down trying to prove his worth to people who, for the most part, had already accepted him. But you saw it. You always had.

And it made it harder to like Selene. To trust her intentions. Maybe that was unfair, but you couldn’t help but feel like she was just taking—taking all the parts of Azriel that used to be all of yours to share, and twisting them into something else. Something that didn’t include his family.

Still, you wanted to try. To let go of the gnawing irritation in your chest and convince yourself it didn’t matter. If she made him happy—truly happy—then none of it should matter. You were adamant on ensuring that you didn’t turn into the stereotypical overbearing female best friend.

Elain tapped her glass lightly. “Lucien doesn’t like her.”

You blinked back into reality. “Really?”

She nodded, a beat passing before she added, “To be honest, I’m not sure I do either.”

Mor leaned forward, grinning like she’d been handed a stack of gold. You almost wished Amren was here to bask in the moment. Amren didn’t like Azriel’s girlfriend, either. Maybe your family really was as unwelcoming as people claimed. Or maybe Selene simply brought out another level of scrutiny. The thought of either option made you feel bad— gross. 

“Why?” Mor asked.

“She was dismissive toward Lucien. And,” Elain hesitated, her brow furrowing slightly, “She seemed… entitled, I suppose. Especially with Azriel. Like she expected him to accommodate her every whim.”

You frowned, turning over her words. “I’m sure she was just nervous. We can be an intimidating group. Maybe she just needs time to settle in. We just want Az to be happy, right? So, if she makes him happy, then I’m absolutely fine with her.”

The silence that followed was thick. For a moment, you wondered if you’d said something wrong. Something weird.

“Are you?” Elain asked, her tone sincere.

“Are you?” Mor echoed at the same time, voice dripping with sarcasm.

You shot Mor a glare, but she only raised her brows and sipped her wine again, infuriatingly unbothered. Exhaling, you willed yourself to meet Elain’s gaze.

“I am,” you said, trying for conviction. “Really.”

Elain pursed her lips. Her gaze shifted to Mor, lingering longer than you liked, and then back to you.

“Alright,” she hummed. “I guess I was wrong.”

You stilled. Elain reclined deeper into her seat, accepting a refill from Mor. Her wine glass remained only half-full compared to yours and Mor’s.

Curiosity burned. You leaned forward. “What do you mean?”

Elain furrowed her brows. “What do I mean about what?”

“You said you guess you were wrong. What does that mean?”

Mor’s gaze bored into the side of your face. Any second now, you were sure she’d make some quip about how bothered you were. But you weren’t bothered. Just curious.

Elain swirled her wine, watching the light catch the liquid. “I’m not sure. Things feel off. Like something’s coming. Az needs help with it, I think.”

You froze. “Off? Like—how?”

She hesitated, thoughtful. “It’s hard to explain,” she murmured, her voice quieter now. “But I feel it. In my chest. My visions sometimes do that. That’s why I asked.”

Well, that unsettled you. You glanced at Mor, whose amused grin had fallen into something more contemplative.

It seemed you might need to have a conversation with Azriel after all.

“I don’t like that,” you admitted, your nose crinkling. 

“I think I heard him get back earlier. Go talk to him,” Mor said, her tone gentler now, though a hint of mischief lingered in her eyes. You didn’t read too much into that. Mor’s eyes tended to be expressive. She also tended to be mischievous when her blood was primarily red wine. 

“Okay,” you said. “Maybe just to check in.”

Elain nodded. “Just to check in,” she echoed, almost reassuring.

“Have fun,” Mor added, her grin returning just enough to be annoying, but not enough to distract you from the unease curling in your chest.

You didn’t respond, instead taking another slow sip of your drink. The glass clinked softly as you set it down on the table before you made your way upstairs.

After a moment of comfortable silence, Mor turned to Elain. “Did you really feel something that unsettling?”

Elain let out a laugh. “No,” she said lightly. “I completely made that up. But she doesn’t need to know that.”

Mor’s lips curled into a slow, wicked smile. Seconds later, her head tilted back in a laugh just as vibrant as it was unapologetic.

“Genius,” she declared, raising her glass in mock salute.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

The walk upstairs was quiet.

The townhome, in general, was quieter nowadays. Aside from the times others came to visit—like Lucien and Elain—only you and Azriel lived here full time.

When you reached Azriel’s bedroom door, your steps faltered for a moment. There was a hesitation in you that hadn't existed before. You raised your hand to knock, but the action felt more awkward than usual. It made you sad, momentarily, that you hesitated. You never second-guessed yourself with Azriel. You wanted to tread carefully in this new era of his life, though. You didn’t want to overstep, to become a nuisance. But whatever this was—whatever had unsettled Elain enough to mention it—you needed to know. Azriel had always been a constant for you, and if something felt “off,” you wanted to understand why.

Your knuckles rapped lightly on the door. “Az?” 

Inside, you heard the shuffle of movement, followed by his low, familiar voice. “Come in.”

You didn’t see Azriel immediately, but the smell of soap and the damp air told you that he recently showered. Shadows slithered across the floor, comfortable and excited, exploring the familiar confines of his room.

You greeted the tendrils as you usually did, letting them brush against your legs as you flopped onto his bed. The bed, like everything else in his room, was simple: plain black sheets, no extravagant pillows, just the bare necessities. It used to drive you mad, the emptiness of it all.  But what was in his room spoke volumes—— bare walls except for a dagger mount on one side, a small uncluttered desk with a well-worn sharpening stone. 

Azriel exiting the bathroom pulled your attention, your eyes settling on him as he rubbed his wet hair thoroughly with a towel. He shook his head slightly, wet curls bouncing onto his forehead, and met your gaze. His eyes flicked to where you lay, scanning your body. He nodded toward your feet.

“C’mon,” he almost whined. “No shoes on the bed.”

You looked down at yourself, grimacing as you realized that your shoes were, indeed, on his clean comforter. A simple set of house slippers, so nothing entirely too dirty, but it had completely slipped your mind. Very comfortable shoes, you noted, maybe you’d get Feyre a pair as a solstice gift.

“Oh whoops,” you said with an apologetic smile. “My bad, clean freak.”

He rolled his eyes, but you caught the quirk of his lips anyways.

For a moment, the old sense of comfort settled over you. But then, a thought crept in—the thought that maybe you shouldn’t lie on his bed like this anymore. It had been fine before, but now… now it felt different. He had someone else in his life. It wasn’t weird, exactly, but it was a little inappropriate.

You sat up straighter.

“Did you and Mor grow tired of rehashing the same centuries old gossip?” He teased.

You snorted, watching as his shadows flitted above his shoulders. They were amused, laughing in their own way. “Never,” you responded, pushing yourself off his bed. You were drawn to the otherside of his room, to the simple dresser against the wall. “Elain joined us this time.”

Your back was to him, but you had a feeling that the momentary silence, the stillness that you felt, was a knee-jerk reaction from Azriel—something reminiscent of embarrassment, shame, or guilt at her name. But all he responded was, “Oh?”

“I like her,” you said, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “I kinda wish I spent more time with her…”

You paused, your words trailing off quietly as you took in the small details before you. 

Azriel’s dresser had always been the one surface he decorated, not because he cared for decoration, but because it was the only surface large enough to hold anything. Over the years, it had become a quiet testament to the things that mattered to him: a mix of Solstice and birthday gifts, trinkets you’d both collected on missions and trips. You liked seeing what had changed, what had been added. It gave you a glimpse into where Azriel had been, who had been with him. 

Lately, there had been more—more trinkets, more oddities that stood in stark contrast to the weapons displayed elsewhere, the ones mostly hidden away in his closet. A macaroni necklace from Nyx. A horribly made clay version of him you’d created during a drunken pottery night with Feyre, Mor, and Amren.

But now, the dresser was foreign. The once familiar surface had been wiped clean, replaced by delicate perfume bottles, jewelry that looked too fine to be his, and a candle that smelled—oddly—like the puke of a flower faerie. Some of it was new. Most of it was hers.

Azriel’s presence had vanished from his own furniture entirely.

“Huh.”

“What?” Azriel asked.

You glanced over your shoulder. “I see you’ve decorated more.”

Azriel tilted his head, and a few of his shadows slithered down his body, crossing the room to pool around your ankles. “I guess,” he said. “Selene said my room needed more life.”

You leaned forward, brushing your fingers along the ceramic jewelry dish, the cool surface sending a strange chill through your skin. The shadows flickered over your hand, almost as if they were inspecting it too. They moved with purpose, then slowly obscured it, hiding it from view.

You frowned, confused.

Azriel, still silent, was rifling through his closet. You could feel the weight of his eyes on you as he moved, but he said nothing. The shadows returned to his side as you turned to look at him.

"Are you going somewhere?" you asked, trying to break the silence.

Now, Azriel barely spared you a glance.

“Yeah. Meeting Selene,” he replied simply.

After a few seconds of silence, Azriel turned his head and properly held your gaze. “Why? Everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” you responded with a casual wave of your hand, but Elain’s words echoed in your mind. You cleared your throat. “Well, actually, no. I was hoping I could talk to you.”

He frowned, standing up straighter, his wings flexing with the motion. “Is it something serious?”

You paused, carefully filtering through your words. “No, just something that’s been on my mind.”

Azriel studied you, doubt flickering in his hazel eyes. It was the kind of look that always made you feel like he was reading you too easily. He probably didn’t believe you, not entirely—but he nodded anyway. His lips curved into a small, apologetic smile. “Raincheck then?”

You mirrored his smile, though it felt thin. “Yeah, sure. We can talk tomorrow, once we’re back from the Hewn City.”

Azriel stilled. The way his gaze dropped to the floor and lingered felt like a guilty dog, an animal caught in an act forbidden. “Shit,” he said, his tone cautious. “I can’t go.”

You blinked, the words taking a moment to settle. “Seriously? Az, Rhys is expecting an update.”

“I’m sorry.” He sounded sincere enough. It didn’t matter. “But you can handle it on your own, you know this.” 

“Are you serious?” you said, the hurt slipping out before you could stop it. “I don’t want to deal with Keir alone.”

Azriel sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I’ll talk to Rhys, but Selene’s been wanting to—”

“Never mind,” you cut him off, shaking your head. You forced a smile. “Have fun tonight. And tomorrow.”

Azriel scanned your face. After another moment of silence, he sighed.

“Okay, what is it?” He asked, crossing his arms over his chest. “You clearly have something on your mind. Tell me.”

You hesitated, holding his gaze. “I actually wanted to talk to you about Selene.”

Azriel’s jaw tightened instantly. He looked away, his tongue running across his teeth as he shook his head. “Not you too. Don’t be like this.”

Your frown deepened, offended by the immediate shift in tone. “Be like what? I haven’t even said anything yet.”

He met your eyes again, his stare almost challenging. “We both know what you’re going to say.”

“Do we?”

“First Mor, then Nesta, and now you.” His voice was sharp, but not loud. “Should I be concerned that the females in my life are so quick to rally against my girlfriend?”

You scoffed, crossing your arms to mirror his pose. “Well, yeah, Az. Maybe you should be.”

He rolled his eyes, the shadows at his feet flickering with the motion. “Fine. What do you want to tell me, then?”

For a moment, you hesitated, the words lingering on the edge of your tongue. Azriel had always been good at looking through you, unraveling thoughts you hadn’t fully formed yet. And now, under the weight of his sharp gaze, you felt exposed.

“I just want to make sure you’re happy.”

Something flickered in his expression, quick and fleeting—too fast for you to decipher. For the first time in a long while, Azriel felt unreadable, like he’d drawn a curtain between himself and you. “Really?” he asked, his tone tight, almost incredulous.

You faltered, a small thread of doubt weaving its way through your resolve. Was he happy? Would he even tell you if he wasn’t?

“Yes, really,” you replied, a defensive edge creeping into your voice. “You’ve been distant lately. Running around at her beck and call. None of us know her. I want to understand what’s going on with you. I want to understand her.”

Azriel’s wings shifted again, his gaze hardening.

“I want to make sure this is the kind of relationship you want,” you finished, quieter now.

The room fell into silence, heavy and still. Azriel watched you as if he was turning your words over and over in his mind. You waited, unsure of what to expect—if anything at all.

“I wouldn’t be in a relationship I didn’t want. Can we drop it, please.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. What a strange, dismissive answer. It bothered you— bothered you more than anything he’d ever told you before. 

“Az, I just don’t want you to change who you are for someone. You don’t need to cater to her every whim.”

His expression darkened, shadows curling tighter around his boots. “I’m her boyfriend. I do what she asks.”

You raised an eyebrow, unable to stop the scoff that slipped out. Azriel had never been so clipped with you. “That’s not the definition of a boyfriend. That’s the definition of a bitch.”

Azriel’s jaw clenched, his wings flaring in irritation. “Excuse me?”  His voice cut through the room. “Do you really think I’m some incompetent love-sick loser?”

“I think you stop seeing flaws in the people you love.”

The words hung between you, heavier than you’d anticipated. A small part of you wondered if “love” was the word Azriel would use to describe his feelings for her. Another part worried that he didn’t correct you.

“That’s not true.”

“It’s not?”

“No,” he snapped. “I can clearly see that you’re being unfair. Quick to judge, much like Mor. That’s a flaw.”

“Oh, please,” you shot back, “You know what I meant. The people you’re infatuated with—”

“Where is this sudden concern coming from?” he interrupted, his shadows now beginning to curl between you like restless mediators, unsure where to settle. “Are you trying to cause issues?”

Something ran hot through your body.

“Seriously? I’m talking to you about this because I care. Because Elain had some cryptic feeling about you—”

“Elain is involved in this conversation, too?” His voice dripped with frustration now. “Gods, Y/n, should I send word for Gwyn while we’re at it? Get her opinion?”

“What the hell has gotten into you?” You took an authoritative step forward.  “I’ve never judged you. I’ve always tried to support you and your messy love life, no matter how complicated. Don’t you trust me, Azriel? As a friend?”

Azriel didn’t respond immediately, his shadows flickering uncertainly, still deciding whether to retreat or rise.

You gestured around the room. “Look at this place. You’ve erased all traces of your family—of you, of us. Where did you even put—”

“Oh, gods.” Azriel’s voice broke through, and for a moment, you thought he might crumble. His wings folded, and his hand dragged across his face, the weight of his exhaustion sinking in. “She was right.”

You froze. “What?”

Azriel met your gaze, his eyes hesitant for a heartbeat before turning sharp. “About you. Selene said you were jealous. That you had feelings for me.”

The words hit like a slap, and your world tilted on its axis. “What?” you asked again, your voice breaking on the word. Maybe you had misheard him. Maybe he had misspoken.

“I told her she was wrong. But now…” He let the sentence hang in the air, searching your face for something that maybe wasn’t even there.

“Now, what?” Your voice rose, tinged with anger. “You think I’m here because I’m jealous? Because I have some… crush on you?”

His wings flared slightly at your tone, but he didn’t back down. “I don’t know. It’s just—why else would you care so much about this?”

Your stomach twisted, a deep, cold ache settling there. “Why else?” you repeated, the words bitter on your tongue. “Because I care about you, Azriel. Because you’ve been my friend for centuries. Are you seriously confused about this?” 

For a moment, Azriel’s expression faltered, but he didn’t apologize. Instead, he said, “I didn’t ask you to care about my love life.”

“You didn’t have to,” you snapped, stepping closer. “That’s what friends do. But you’re standing there, letting her perception of me—someone who doesn’t even know me—warp your judgment. You’ve known me longer than that. Or at least, I thought you did. And the fact that you’d entertain this—” You stopped, shaking your head. “It’s insulting.”

Azriel said nothing. He just stood there, shadows now curling tighter around him. 

You had no idea how this conversation had gotten away from you, no idea how it turned into this—where this defensiveness, this anger, had come from. This wasn’t Azriel. Loyal, overly so. Impulsive. Protective. 

Or maybe it was. Maybe that loyalty was directed at someone else now—someone who clearly saw you as something threatening. You’d never been on the other side of Azriel before. Never thought you’d see the day. The realization hit like a slap to the face, leaving you shocked, stunned, a pit opening in your stomach that felt too deep to climb out of.

“You know what? Forget it.” You stepped back, the fight draining out of you all at once.

Azriel’s brows furrowed. “Really? That’s it?”

You glanced at him over your shoulder, your lips curving into something that might have been a smile if it weren’t so bitter. “Yeah,” you said, your voice flat. “That’s it.”

You turned for the door, hand on the handle, but paused. The words were out of your mouth before you could stop them, sharp and pointed, a petty jab that felt equal parts satisfying and hollow. “Make sure to lock this door when you leave—I’d hate to accidentally stumble back in and throw myself at you.”

Azriel stiffened, his wings snapping taut behind him. For a brief second, you thought he might say something, anything. But he didn’t.

You closed the door behind you with a heavy thud.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

authors note: no one tell them they probs have feelings for each other bc they’ll probably fight you (also elains moment is so self indulgent bc i would totally be making shit up based off my powers. like yeah actually you can’t be mean to be :/ powers are saying you’ll die if you are)

Part Two

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[woncheolisms]

𝖋𝖊𝖆𝖑𝖙𝖞. - prologue.

you have known your entire life that your existence is political. second born to the Throne, a daughter no less, your only purpose is to be wed to a prince to strengthen alliances. but you still hope to mean something to your new husband, despite the intentions behind your union.

you are sorely mistaken.

you realise quickly that you are as alone in your new home as you were in your childhood one. this is the fate that has been written for you, the reality you must live. but one knight might change it all when he swears an oath of fealty to you, and means it with every piece of his heart.

pairing: knight!choi seungcheol x princess/queen!reader

genre: medieval au, royalty au

word count: 1.8k

warnings (for this chapter): infidelity, smut, nsfw, oral (f receiving), angst, forbidden love, feelings of inadequacy, hurt/no comfort.

series masterlist

You like him best when he is stripped to his bare bones. No chain mail, no armor, only him.

There’s a certain scent of calla lilies that always hangs in your chambers, drifting sweetly in the air. You prefer it to any other flower, because it’s not dense and it doesn’t sting your nose. It’s fresh and green, like cut stems or morning air, just enough to be pleasant, not enough to encompass your other senses. It is the same as your hearing, which picks up not only the sound of your lush silk sheets rustling gently together and over your bare skin, but also the sound of your soft sighs, a mix of relief and rolling, curling pleasure. Below them is the whisper of lips and tongue as he laps over the heat between your legs.

You can hear it, wet surfaces colliding, and exaggeratedly more than that, you can feel it, like ripples over a still water surface, traveling in uniform waves to the very ends. That’s how it feels, sensation rolling from your center, all the way to your fingertips. Your eyes are closed, the one sense you choose not to use in this moment, so you can amplify everything else. Your fingers reach down, winding through soft tresses of dark hair. Another sound joins the rest, a deep, raspy hum that originates from his chest.

You gasp at the feeling it elicits, again infiltrating the nerves running through your body. There’s no urgency in his actions, not like there often is. You are certain that tonight, no one will disturb you. And he knows it too, which is why he takes his time, really, truly worships you, tongue swirling and slurping over every nook and cranny, every crevice, places only he has explored, parts of you only he has touched.

His hands run over your heated skin, large palms, calloused, worn from years of yielding a mighty sword crafted especially for him. Your contrast to him is stark, waist and sides covered in skin so velvety because of years of pampering, lathered with the world’s most expensive scents and balms. The products your maids carefully smear your body with are one of a kind, sourced from the most far away, exotic lands for your explicit use. But his pale, scarred and rough skin feels glorious against your own, the only man in the world you will let dig his hands into your flesh. He loves doing this, just kneading, pinching, caressing every inch of you while his mouth explores your insides. He often says it too, that he can’t believe how soft you are.

“Pliant.” He whispers. “To be handled with so much care.”

And he does. His very touch is ardent, admiring. Even as you start to squirm over the sheets, legs tensing when the knot in your core tightens, his grip remains solid, not too harsh, because he knows you have time today. He moves as you move instead of holding you down, letting you fall apart on his mouth as he coaxes you through it, keeping his pace just the way he knows you like, the way that prolongs your peak as much as possible.

You’re breathing hard by the time he surfaces, running his tongue over his bottom lip. He does not even bother to wipe the signs of your release from his face, letting the shining liquid cool on his skin as he kisses a trail up your body to your face. He stops when his lips brush yours, eyes darting over your expression. You know how you look, pupils blown, the thinnest layer of sweat glazing your temples. Your maid would never let you get hot enough to sweat, always there to blow wind your way with the large canvas fan in her hand, a soft handkerchief to dab your skin when needed. Only in moments like this, your body trapped under him, are you ever even close to looking like this. Because he makes you sweat, and you admit you love it.

When he enters you, your opening already thoroughly prepped from the time he spent down there, you barely feel any resistance. But the stretch is still there, that full feeling only he can give you when he lays claim to your body like now. He groans, a sound that lights a fire in your chest when his hips are flush against yours. You watch the flit of various emotions on his face, overlying the base feeling of beautiful pleasure. Someone of his caliber, his stance, doesn’t dare break composure in any situation. Except this. Except when his body is connected so deeply to yours.

You love watching him fall apart like this. You want to see more. You tighten your body, his own jerks.

“Please, don’t.” He grits. “I will not be able to hold back.”

His words make your body heat, a sizzle under your skin that nearly has your eyes rolling. When have you ever heard the stable baritone of his voice break? Never. His very nature doesn’t allow it. This outlier, that exists only in the darkness of your chambers and in the late whispers of the night as moonlight filters through the window and falls on your intertwined bodies, it thrills you to bits.

“I don’t want you to hold back.” While his voice drops deeper, yours rises to the heights of pleasure. “Please. Take me like you mean it.”

His eyes, the warm earthy brown that has always grounded you, always been your salvation, flicker. He bites the plush of his bottom lip, face pinching. He knows how you like it. Red hot, fiery, the aching summit of emotion and passion. So his hands hook under your knees, pulling them up to fold your legs. He holds you down with his own weight, his forehead pressed to yours, before he sets a deep, steady, strong pace.

No one can see you like this. No one but him. No one can dominate you except the man who kneels before you every day, pledges loyalty to you and your Crown. You submit only to the one who would bleed for you, die for you, kill for you. Only him.

You let only him into your body like this. You let only him hold you down and fuck into you, chasing his own pleasure while he brings you yours. And only he leaves a part of himself in your most intimate depths, your back arching with your peak as his seed infiltrates your insides, coats you in his essence. His breaths hit your ear, his hands dig into your hips, careful not to be harsh enough to leave marks that your maids might see. His voice cracks as he releases, the most beautiful noise you have ever heard.

The grey stone ceiling swirls in your vision. You blink sharply, trying to take deep breaths to ground yourself. He pulls out slowly, carefully, not too harsh unless you demand it in the throes of pleasure, and never after it. You feel him straighten your body enough that he can clean you up, quick and efficient as he is in everything he does. You’re still catching your breath. You’re not particularly physically fit, not like he is. Your only strenuous activity happens during your weekly rendezvous with him.

Once he’s done, he gently tugs your body up so you can sit. You whine in protest. You can hear his amused huff.

“We need to clothe you, Your Majesty.” He murmurs, voice stripped of all of his usual guards, a tone reserved exclusively for you.

He tugs your silk nightgown over your body before laying you down again, finally leaving you stationary. You hear shuffling, and it makes your eyelids flutter open. You eye the muscles of his back, shifting under the smooth expanse of his skin. There’s a smattering of freckles over his shoulder blades, ones you have traced with your fingers before.

“You won’t lay with me?” You ask as you watch him pick up his discarded clothes and shake them out. He turns to you, giving you a soft smile when he sees the almost petulant downturn of your mouth.

“I cannot, my Queen.” He murmurs. “We risked it once, and I barely made it out without being caught by your steward. It was too close a shave.”

You sigh and melt into the mattress, closing your eyes. He is correct, you remember the fearful pounding of your heart all too well on that fateful night. You were so certain it was all over. So he is right to leave now. But your chest twists regardless. This is the most painful part of the night, watching him pull his clothes over his body, tunic first, then pants, and finally his padded jacket. His leather boots are thrown haphazardly somewhere in the room, and he quickly locates them, tugging them on. He runs his hands through his hair, taming it. Finally, he turns to you.

You’re still pouting. He chuckles.

The mattress snags a little under his weight as he plants a knee on it. He leans down to brush his lips softly over the apple of your cheek.

“Sleep.” He whispers. “I will see you in the morning.”

You sniff, indignant. Of course he catches it. He knows you inside and out. No one understand you like he does, physically and mentally.

“Do not be upset with me, Your Majesty.” He breathes. “It hurts me.”

You sigh. You are not really cross with him, but rather with your circumstances. That Seungcheol has to make sweet love to you, and leave immediately afterward. That your body has to turn cold on this bed instead of having his bare skin press to your back, keeping you warm.

“I’m not upset.” You mumble, your voice carrying a tone of resignation. He watches for a few more seconds before brushing another sweet kiss on your cheek. You can see the soft, curling pain in his gaze, and it pains you to meet it, so you look at the blank, gray wall instead. You hear him sigh.

“I must leave now. Your husband might be returning soon.”

Something bitter curls in the back of your throat. What nonsense, as if your husband wants anything to do with you during any part of the day. He would not give you a morsel of attention even in a crowd of the castle’s most important officials, let alone when it is just you and him. You are more alone in his presence than you are when left entirely to your own solitude.

You close your eyes so you don’t have to watch Seungcheol slip out of the heavy, oak doors.

🏷️: @picheolin-17 , @lovelylonelinesssvt , @shad0wcast , @iluvhosh , @jimzk , @lucis-noctiana , @hannieweee , @xh01bri , @ilseamamuchoamingyu , @bleudandelion , @markoplolo , @moondustmemories , @kaitieskidmore97 , @hocidust , @missaoki , @cheolwoo , @isaltedcarameows , @huiimoon , @tranquillitysoul , @weasleytwins-41 , @igetcarriedawaywithyou , @ateez-atiny380 , @piratekingateez2001 , @k4trinabluu , @sunnysidesins , @embrace-themagic , @escoupsue , @hxsxxk-180294 , @wxnderingthoughts , @meanieislife , @jiminie-08 , @w0nw0es , @lostinfakescenarios , @secret1234505 , @redemptions , @haoxiaoba , @junnhuisworld , @gojominn , @peachy-writings, @dreamingofpcy , @woozidreams , @booscafe , @tiffanylstrobel , @sannidokki , @evemds , @bramos91 , @cottonfluffclouds , @olympiacosplay , @parkthothwa8 , @cloudflowerbookmarks

[sillygoose067]

Almost Made It

Sammy Bryant x Reader

Um so I wrote this on a whim and kinda sorta forgot a lot of the details about Dorian (please tell me his name WAS Dorian omfg I will kms if I got the name wrong too) and Sammy and basiclly everything that went down in that episode. So if I got shit wrong, please don't kill me :)

The smell of burnt espresso and cheap floor cleaner always hit you the same way every morning. You were a regular at the local spot, usually tucked in the back corner with your laptop, your fingers flying across the keys as you drowned out the world.

Sammy Bryant was a regular, too. You’d noticed the uniform, the tired blue eyes, and the way he looked like he’d rather be anywhere else on earth. He usually sat alone— or sometimes with who you gathered was his partner, nursing a black coffee, staring at the street with a thousand-yard stare that suggested he’d seen things that didn't belong in a quiet neighborhood cafe. But you stayed in your lane, and he stayed in his. Until that Tuesday.

You were deep in thought, your mind racing through a complicated project, a small, frustrated crease forming between your brows. Balancing a fresh, piping-hot coffee, eyes still glued to your phone as you tried to finish a thought, you turned the corner near the sugar station and—thud.

It was like walking into a hard, solid wall of muscle.

The plastic lid gave way. The coffee didn't just spill; it geysered. It splashed up his chest, soaking into the dark fabric of his uniform and dripping down his badge.

"Oh, god—no, no, I’m so sorry!" you stammered, eyes wide, hands hovering in the air like you could somehow pull the liquid back out of his shirt. You looked up and realized just how much taller he was than you. "I wasn't looking, I was so deep in my head, I’m—let me get napkins, let me... I can pay for the cleaning, please..."

Sammy didn’t blow up. He didn't even flinch. He just stood there, looking down at his chest with this heavy, exhausted sigh. He looked at the stain, then back at you, and for a second, you thought he might arrest you just for being a nuisance.

Instead, a dry, lopsided smirk pulled at his mouth. "Don't sweat it," he rasped, his voice sounding like he’d been shouting all night. "Honestly? Glad I finally got an answer to why the hell these uniforms are black. This is the best thing that’s happened to me all shift. At least it smells better than the back of my cruiser."

He reached into his pocket and handed you a card. It was his LAPD business card, the edges slightly worn. "Here," he said, his eyes lingering on yours for a beat too long. "In case you feel like reporting any suspicious behavior. Or, you know, if you just needed anything."

The dates that followed were... awkward. Sammy was out of practice. He’d spent years in the trenches with Tammi, and he acted like a guy who expected a fight or a manipulative comment at every turn. He was jittery, almost like a pubescent teen, tripping over his words and looking down at his shoes when he tried to be charming. You found it cute—this big, tough detective reduced to a stuttering mess because he was worried about what you thought. You smiled, taking him up on the offer of dinner, and watched the tension slowly bleed out of him.

---

Present Day

The kitchen was humming with the sound of the stove and the "clack-clack" of Nate’s plastic toys. The kid was in his high chair, looking focused as he "diced" a piece of zucchini with a neon-blue, toddler-safe knife. It was a far cry from the life Sammy had before; it was peaceful.

"Good job, Nate. Very professional," you encouraged, stirring the pasta sauce. "You want to help me mix the peppers into the bowl?"

Nate babbled a "Yeah!" and enthusiastically stirred the air with his plastic spoon.

The sound of the front door unlocking caught your ear. You scooped Nate up, the toddler immediately reaching out his arms. "Daddy!"

Sammy walked in, and the air shifted. He looked rough. His jaw was tight, his brow furrowed in that deep, angry line he got when the precinct was breathing down his neck. He looked like he was still wearing the weight of the city. But the second he saw Nate, he patched his expression up.

"Hey, buddy," Sammy murmured, taking the boy from you. He buried his face in Nate’s neck for a second, just breathing him in. "How’ve you been? Been good for (Y/N)? You being a big helper?"

Nate bounced in your husband's arms and launched into a long, rambling story in broken English about a dog he saw out the window and his "cooking." Sammy nodded, murmuring "No way" and "Is that right?" at all the appropriate times, his eyes softening as he looked at his son.

"Okay, let's give Daddy a break," you said, crossing your arms with a smile before gently taking Nate back. "Let’s let him take off his shoes and freshen up, hmm? C'mon, you wanna help me with the pasta?"

You turned back to the kitchen, settling Nate with his "work" before returning to the living room. Sammy was still standing there, leaning his back against the door, eyes closed. That stoic, serious expression—the one that looked almost like he was mad at the world—was back. He looked like he was vibrating with a silent, internal tension.

You approached him slowly, as if trying to coax a baby deer without scaring it off. Sensing your presence, he cracked open his eyes, but he didn't move. He just watched you with that intense, frustrated stare.

"Hi," you said softly, almost in a whisper.

He just gave a low, tired "Mhm."

You reached out, gently placing your hands flat against his chest. You felt him let go of a deep, ragged sigh, as if he’d been holding his breath since he clocked out. You leaned in, pressing your forehead against his, and his eyes drifted shut. You moved your hands up, cupping his face, your thumbs rubbing his cheeks soothingly.

Sammy was never angry or volatile at home. Not with you. He never raised his voice, a stark contrast to the screaming matches he’d endured with Tammi. But you knew him well enough to know when to greet him as if you were defusing a bomb—not because you were afraid of him, but because you wanted to help him shed the armor.

"You wanna talk about it?"

"Not now," he whispered against your lips.

You looked into his eyes, biting your lip, searching for the man you knew was buried under that stress. "Ok baby. I’ll wait. You know you can tell me anything, right? That’s why I’m here, with you."

Sammy finally connected his lips to yours, a slow, deep kiss that felt like a commitment. It was his way of saying he was back, that the street was outside and this—you, Nate, the smell of dinner—was the only thing that mattered. When you parted, he kissed your temple. "Thanks sweetheart. You always know how to make things easier. Lemme go get changed."

Soon after dinner, the house was dark. Nate was put down and out cold, and the two of you were finally in bed. Sammy was pressed against your side, his head near your chest, his thumbs absentmindedly playing with the skin at your ribs. The silence went on for a long time before he finally spoke.

"I had to cuff him today," Sammy said, his voice barely a ghost of a sound. "That kid, Dorian. The one I went to the movies with just this morning."

You felt a chill. You knew how much Sammy had invested in that kid, checking in on him, trying to show him there was more to life than the neighborhood gangs.

"He had a piece on him the whole time we were in the theater, (Y/N). We’re watching a cartoon, laughing, and he’s got a 9mm in his waistband. Two hours later, he’s in an alley, shooting at a car. I was the one who had to put him in the back of the wagon and send him to juvenile."

You felt his shaky breath and then the warm trail of tears on your skin. Sammy wasn't sobbing, but he was broken.

"I really thought he was doing good," he choked out. "I loved that kid. He was smart. He read books. He had a future."

You turned to him, lifting his jaw so he had to meet your gaze, your fingers wiping the tears away. "Sammy, you can’t save everyone. You know how it is here. The most you can do is try."

"I KNOW," he whispered, the frustration bubbling up before he caught himself. "I just... I thought I made a difference."

"You did," you said quietly, holding him closer, stroking his curls. "You tried, but you know this place. It swallows people whole. I think... by cuffing him today, you did him a favor. He’s alive, Sammy. Who knows what he had to go through every day just to feel safe, feeling like he needed a gun. He knows how much you cared. You’re so kind, Sammy. You did all you could."

He didn't say anything for a long time. He just leaned into you, his weight heavy and honest against your shoulder, his breathing finally beginning to level out. The house was quiet, save for the hum of the refrigerator and the distant, muffled sound of a siren somewhere blocks away—a reminder of the world he’d just stepped out of.

He stayed like that, anchored to you in the dark, until the tension finally left his hands. He didn't need a grand epiphany or a miracle; he just needed the floor to stop shifting under his feet. He exhaled a long, tired breath against your skin, closed his eyes, and let the silence of the room finally be enough.

[leclerc-hs]

romantic chocolates - cs55

pairing: carlos sainz x fem!reader summary: in which you and your ex-boyfriend take aphrodisiac chocolates at the same party OR you and carlos fuck after not seeing each other for months warnings: smut smut smut!!! spit kink, language, ex-boyfriend!!!, slight jealousy, p in v, unprotected! NOT PROOFREAD (prob typos and might not make sense), angst, hot hot hot word count: 2.8k author's note: hi hi! so sorry this is late and hope y'all still like this!!! I was gonna make it longer but my brain has been a little fried from all the writing I've been doing so sorry if you think this is trash. TRIED MY BEST xoxo

ln4 cl16 mv1 op81 cs55

◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤

You swore you’d never see him again.

Not at this party, not in this city. Especially not after what he did. You hadn’t seen Carlos Sainz in nearly seven months. Not since he ended things in the most heartless way imaginable. A half-shrug and the words this isn’t working anymore.

No softness. No chance to ask why. Just a door shutting behind him as he left.

So seeing him now. Casual, jaw sharp, in a white shirt with the top two unbuttons done and a amber liquid in a short glass in his hand…is enough to make your stomach cave in.

You were doing fine. Laughing, sipping your drinks. Picking at chocolate from one of those ridiculous little tray’s one of the host’s friends handed you. 

“Supposed to be spiked,” She said. “Like, aphrodisiac spiked.”

And you laughed. Popped one in your mouth. Moved on.

Forgot about it. 

Until now.

He’s leaning against the bar, sleeves rolled up, in conversation with someone. 

Your heart lurches.

He wasn’t supposed to be here. You even checked. Avoided his circles and favorite places like the plague. Blocked his number, deleted his socials. Haven’t even said his name in months.

Not since he left you shaking in a hallway with mascara running down your face.

You’re careful not to look in his direction again.

Not toward the bar. Not to his tanned forearms. Not to the curve of his throat.

You don’t even know who he’s talking to…and you won’t give yourself the chance to find out either.

Instead, you disappear into another group of people. Let someone refill your drink. Let someone else laugh into your ear. 

And suddenly everything starts to feel a little too sharp. Your dress clinging to your skin in places it didn’t before. And the insides of your thigh’s feel damp.

Your stomach tenses and suddenly you can’t stop thinking about the fucking chocolate. The stupid little square. The way it melted so easily on your tongue. Tasted good too.

And your nipples are hard beneath your dress. Can feel the ache low in your belly. 

So you excuse yourself to the bathroom. Walk into a darkly lit hallway. It’s pretty quiet except for the hum of music behind the wall.

You turn the corner. Not watching where you’re going. Just trying to breathe. Cool off.

And then you collide with him.

Hard chest. Solid. Familiar scent. And that body. The body you used to know with your eyes shut.

You breathe in sharply. 

And your hands press into his chest before you can stop yourself. Trying to brace for a fall.

His hand shoots out quick, steadying you. Fingers hot against the strip of skin at your side. And you jolt.

He’s already looking at you.

Like he knew this would happen. Like he was waiting for it.

“Careful, cariño,” his voice is smooth. Low. Thick with something you don’t want to acknowledge. “Didn’t see you there.”

You step back quickly. Almost stumbling away from him.

“Jesus,” you snap. “What the fuck are you…”

“Walking,” he shrugs his shoulders. Cocking his head. “Relax.”

You straighten. Glare at him. 

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“Didn’t know this was your party.” He grins.

“It’s not,” you cross your arms along your chest.

“Then I guess I’m allowed to be here,” His voice low. “Sorry to disappoint.”

You glare. But the heat building between your legs makes it hard to hold your ground. Your skin is fucking burning. Pulse pounding.

And he’s close. Too fucking close.

You hate him. You hate how he left. You hate the fucking smirk on his face. You hate that’s he’s the only person who’s ever made you come so hard that you couldn’t speak for minutes after.

And he’s looking at you with those dark eyes like he knows. Like he can see the flush in your cheeks. The tremble in your hands.

“You’re flushed,” He mutters.

You roll your eyes. “So? It’s warm in here.”

“Mmm.” His gaze flicks down, lingers at your stomach. “I’d believe that…y’know?…If I didn’t see you eat one of those chocolates earlier.”

Your stomach twists.

“What?”

You try to take a step back, but he follows. Lazily. Easily. Cutting off your exit without even lifting a hand.

“Tell me,” he mutters. “How long have you been feeling it?”

His voice is low. Slow. The kind of tone he used to use when his hand was already slipped in between your legs.

“Fuck off, Carlos.”

“You’re already fucking yourself in your head,” He says. Taunting.

You narrow your eyes. “You’re disgusting.”

“And you’re flushed.”

His gaze drags over you. From your eyes, down to your mouth, pausing for a few moments, then down to your chest.

“Just look at you,” He says. “So fidgety. Breathing as if I’ve got my fingers shoved up in you already.”

You want to slap him. But you don’t. Every word lands directly between your fucking legs.

“You always got like this whenever I touched you. So fucking easy.” He laughs. “One hand on your throat and you’d fuckin’ melt for me, yeah?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

He tilts his head, eyes gleaming.

“You used to beg me to talk like this…remember?”

Your knees are weak.

“Used to get so fuckin’ dumb for me.” He whispers. “All I had to do was say a few things and you’d be soaking.”

Your stomach clenches and you breathe hard. Trying to swallow the whimper in your throat. But he see’s it. Of course he does.

“Still like that, huh?” He grins. “You’re squirming, baby.”

“Carlos…”

“No. Don’t say my name like that.” His voice is sharp. “Not unless you’re gonna say it while you’re moaning and begging again.”

You take a step back. But he follows. Again. Cruelly. Like he’s savoring the way you’re falling apart. Slowly.

“Used to talk to you like this while I fucked you from behind, yeah?” His lips hover by your ear. “One hand in your hair. One on your hip. And I’d say the filthiest shit…just to feel your pussy clench around my cock.”

Your fingers curl into the wall behind you.

“I’d tell you how tight you were. How fuckin’ wet. How you were made for me.”

You clench your jaw. Body fuckin’ buzzing.

He brushes a hand near your jaw. Hovering. Not touching.

“Bet if I put two fingers in you, you’d come instantly.”

Your thighs are pressed so tightly together it hurts. But you don’t move. 

“I hate you.”

“No.” He grunts. “You hate that no one else can get you off the way I can.”

You flinch.

“Want me to remind you how good you were?” His voice is dark. “How you used to ride my fingers like a good fucking slut while I spat in your mouth?”

Your legs nearly give out.

“Still got that pretty moan?” He breathes.

“Fuck you.” You shove him back. Hard.

He doesn’t expect it, and stumbles back. Catches himself quick.

And you adjust your dress. Lift your chin.

“You haven’t changed.” You say, voice full of disgust.

You push past him. Don’t even look over your shoulder as you say, “I’ll go find someone else. Someone who isn’t a fucking coward.”

And that’s when you hear the scrape of his shoe against the floor.

“What the fuck did you just say?”

You feel it before you turn. Him storming up to you. Something unhinged in his presence.

You turn your head. And his face? 

Grin gone. He looks furious.

“Y’think I’m gonna let you walk out there and let someone else fuck you?” He grunts. “Let some idiot put his hands on you?”

You blink. “I’m not yours.”

“The fuck you’re not.”

And he’s in front of you again. Shoulders tense. Chest heaving.

“Y’think I didn’t see it? The way your thighs were rubbing together like you couldn’t stand a single second without my cock shoved up there?”

He steps closer. “You can pretend all you want. But you walk out there, and I swear to fuckin’ God…”

He stops. Fists clenched.

“You want someone else? Go ahead.” His voice is sharp. “Let them try to fuck you the way I did.”

You swallow.

“Let them try to make you come with nothing but their hand around your throat and two fingers buried in that needy cunt.”

And you see it.

The edge in his eyes. The small flush in his cheeks. Chest rising. Vein in his neck.

You narrow your eyes.

“You took one too.”

And he laughs. Shaky.

“Yeah.” His voice low. “Didn’t think much of it, til I saw you…and now I can’t fucking breathe.”

His hands are clenched.

“Been hard for an hour,” He groans. “Every time I close my eyes I picture you on your knees.”

He laughs again. Bitter. 

“I’m gonna say this once,” His voice cracks. Feral. “No one else gets to touch you.”

You glare. “You don’t get to say that. You left..”

“I know,” He cuts you off. Snapping. “I know I did. And I fucking hate myself for it.”

His forehead drops to yours. Body trembling.

“But I swear…I swear if anyone else touches you tonight…if anyone gets to learn how fucking wet you are..”

He groans. Like he’s in pain.

“I’ll lose my fucking mind.”

And his hips roll toward you once. And it sends a zap of heat straight to your core.

His cock is fucking hard. Straining. Throbbing.

“Fuck,” He mutters. “Y’feel that? Feel what you do to me?”

Your hands find his chest, but not to pull him away. Just to feel him. His heartbeat beneath your fingertips.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” His voice is wrecked. “Haven’t. Even when I tried to fuck someone else…I’d have to close my eyes and picture it was your cunt squeezing me.”

You whimper. Lips trembling.

“Yeah,” He groans. “That sound. Fuck..that’s the one.”

You don’t even have time to process it before he’s pulling you down the hall. Shoulders tense. And you stumble to keep up. Until he shoulders a door open and yanks you in after him.

A bathroom.

He kicks open the first stall. Slams it shut behind you both. 

Locks it.

And then his hands are on you.

And his mouth crashes into yours. Hot. Hungry. Teeth scraping your bottom lip like he wants to bite it. You gasp into him, and he groans like the sound alone might make him come.

“You still hate me?” He mutters against your mouth, dragging your dress up. Bunching the fabric.

“I do,” you whisper. “I fucking do.”

“So why the fuck are you this wet for me?” He cups you through the thin fabric of your panties. “Hm? Why’s your pussy begging for me if you hate me so much?”

You whimper. Grind against his hand. And all hell breaks loose.

“Fuck this.” He yanks your panties to the side.

Fingers slip through your folds and he outright groans. Loud. Like you’re ruining him.

“You need me this bad, baby?”

You nod. Desperate. Delirious.

“Say it.”

You hesitate.

He presses two fingers against your clit. Rubbing slow circles. Mean. 

“Carlos…”

“Say you need me.”

You’re breathless. “I need you.”

And that’s all it takes.

He’s undoing his pants, dragging them low enough to free his cock. Thick. Flushed. Leaking. Perfect. 

“I’m not gonna last,” he admits. Voice wrecked. “You feel too good. Look too pretty. M’gonna fuckin’ lose it.”

He grabs your thigh, hooks it over his hip.

And pushes in. All the way.

You cry out. Nails digging into his back as your pussy clenches down on him. 

He chokes on a gasp, forehead dropping to your shoulder.

“Fuck, fuck…fuck…still so fuckin tight.” 

He doesn’t move. Breathing hard against your skin.

“No one else gets this. No one.” His voice is harsh. “Y’understand me? Say it.”

He starts moving. “Say it while I fuck you.”

And he slams back in. Hard.

“Yours,” you cry out. “I’m yours.”

And that’s all he needs.

Then he’s fucking you hard. Relentless. The stall doors shaking with each thrust. 

“Dirty fuckin’ whore.” He pants. “This pussy missed me, hm?”

His hands slip between your bodies, rubbing your clit.

“C’mon make it quick.” He mutters. “Cunt is choking my cock. Know you’re there.”

And you do. 

Your entire body snaps, clenching as you cry out his name. He grunts.

Groans, loud as he spills inside of you.

“Fuck, baby…” His neck is flushed. “Take it all.”

He’s still inside you. Still hard. When he presses a kiss to your throat.

“I need more.”

You nod without thinking. And you’re barely breathing before he slides out of you. Pulls up his pants. 

Grabs your wrist. 

Pulls you out of the stall. His come leaking down your thighs.

“Where are we going?”

He doesn’t answer, just drags you down the hallway. His grip on you is strong. 

He finds the first empty door. Shoves it open. Slams it shut.

And the second you turn to face him, he’s on you.

Hands in your hair. Mouth on yours. Kissing you like it hurts. Dress ripped off in one swipe. Pants unbuttoned and shoved down. Shirt stripped off.

He walks you backwards until your knees hit something.

A mattress.

And then he shoves you down. Climbs over you. Dragging you to the edge of the bed like he owns you.

“Never should’ve let you go.” 

And he slams back into you.

You both moan.

“Still so perfect.” 

His hips move. Slow. Filthy.

He drops his head to your chest. Hips slamming into you harder. Losing control. 

“I’ve thought about this every fucking night.” He breathes. “My cock inside you. You coming all over me. Every single fucking night.”

You arch into him. And he snaps.

Slams into you. Again and again.

“You blocked me,” He grunts. Pushing in deeper. “Everywhere.”

He’s holding your wrists down on the bed, hips grinding into you.

“I fuckin’ tried, y’know that?” His voice is harsh. “Open.”

You do.

And he spits right onto your tongue. You moan. Shaky. Breathless.

“Swallow it.”

And you do. Instantly.

“I called. Texted. Showed up. And you just disappeared on me.”

His voice rough. Cracking. Eyes locked on you.

“Blocked me on every fucking thing,” he fucks you harder. “And now?”

He leans in closer. “Now you’re letting me back in with this pussy before you even let me apologize…before I even explain myself.”

You whimper. And he laughs. Mean.

“So fuckin’ easy.”

He splits you wide open, cock driving into you.

“Dios mío,” He breathe against your skin, voice cracking. “This fuckin’ body…” His hands slide against your skin. Possessive. 

“You were the best thing that ever happened to me.” He grunts. Voice hoarse. “And I ruined it. I know that I did.”

His hand slips down to rub your clit. Eyes never leaving yours.

“Mi puta,” He whispers into your ear. “Mía.”

“Come again,” he whispers. “One more time. Wanna feel you fuckin’ squeeze me and tell me you still want me.”

And when you do….

He follows.

“Fuck…fuck, I fucking love you.”

You’re not sure how long you stay like this.

Chest pressed against you. Legs tangled. Cock still buried in you.

Twitching like he doesn’t want to let you go.

And then he’s moving again. Slow. Deep. Mean. Hand tangled in your hair, holding your head against the mattress as you arch.

And then he spits into your mouth again.

“Swallow it, mi amor. Like a good girl.”

You do.

“Buena chica,” He grunts. “Always were. Always knew how to take it.”

And then he’s pushing your thighs up to your chest, slamming into you harder.

And you scream. 

“You still hate me?” He asks. Voice ruined.

You look at him. Eyes glassy. Breathless.

“I don’t know,” you whisper.

And his hips slow. But he still hits you deep.

“No mientas,” He exhales. “Don’t lie.”

Your nails dig into his back. “I hate how much I missed this. Missed you.”

And he groans.

“Say you’re mine.”

“Soy tuya.” You breathe.

And then his mouth is on yours. Claiming.

And his hand circles your clit.

“Hazlo,” He hisses against your lips. “Come for me. Again. Vamos, mi amor.”

And you do. Gasping his name.

And he falls apart with you. Spilling inside you again.

And this time he collapses onto you. Slipping out.

His come leaking onto the sheets below you.

“I was scared,” He breathes. “Didn’t deserve you. Still don’t.”

You blink. Dazed.

“Didn’t even let me say sorry.”

You exhale. “You didn’t fucking try.”

He goes still. 

His eyes search yours. “What do I do now?”

You don’t answer. 

Just brush your fingers against the back of his neck. And you feel the way he shudders.

Just holding each other.

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[warmsatoru]

when did you get hot? | gojo satoru x reader

sfw but suggestive ⟡ childhood friend!gojo ⟡ best friends to strangers to ??? | 1.4k

let's all say thank you sabrina carpenter for writing this plot, but let's be real tho gojo didn't really have a glow-up, he just grew into the features he's always had (>ᴗ•)

You’ve known Satoru since your knees were permanently covered in Band-Aids and your biggest argument was who got the last piece of kikufuku. He was the boy next door, the one who saw you cry when you fell off your bike, and the one you once dared to eat a spoonful of hot sauce for 800 yen. There was a version of you that knew the exact sound of his shoes hitting the linoleum. There was a version of you who knew his hiding spots and his mom's birthday. Back then, your lives were a blur of grass stains and shared jokes. You assumed he’d always be there, a permanent fixture in your life.

But then came the moving truck.

You watched him pack his life into cardboard boxes, promising to call every day. Calling every day turned into every few days, eventually into months, which in turn became years. By then, the calls got shorter, the texts turned into only "hbd" messages, and then... nothing.

His silence had been a long, echoing stretch of years. You grew up, changed your hair, and you stopped re-reading your text threads with him. You assumed that if you ever saw him again, it would be awkward, a polite nod at a grocery store, maybe. You didn't expect this.

You’re standing in a crowded, low-lit kitchen, the bass of the music thumping in the floorboards. You’re nursing a lukewarm drink in a red plastic cup, navigating through a sea of familiar faces and generic cologne. The frat house, a maze of sweat and flashing lights, and for a second, you wonder why you even came. But you remember that Shoko spent three hours convincing you that "missing the first big frat party of the semester is social suicide." She’d practically pushed you into your outfit and dragged you through the front door, promising that tonight was about new beginnings. But there was nothing new about the air being so thick with humidity that it feels like you're breathing in someone else’s lungs. It’s the same old party: the floor is a permanent layer of sticky mystery liquid, the walls are sweating, and the air is a nauseating cocktail of cheap tequila, spilled beer, and the sharp, acidic tang of someone who couldn't make it to the bathroom in time. Every corner you look into, people are pressed against each other, making out with a desperate, messy intensity that makes you want to look anywhere else. 

So, you do look somewhere else. You turn your head toward the back of the room, near the sliding glass doors, where a draft of cold air is fighting the humidity, and that’s when you see him.

Your brain doesn't immediately catch up to your eyes. You just see a guy– a guy who stops your heart mid-beat. You recognize the eyes first. They’re the same deep, familiar blue, but everything else is... different. He’s standing with his back half-turned to you, talking to someone, and the first thing you register is the sheer physical presence of him. The way his white button-up pulls across shoulders that have doubled in width since you last saw him. The way he stands, grounded, relaxed, and completely unaware of the frantic, sweaty energy of the party around him.

The Gojo Satoru you knew, who was all lanky limbs and awkward smiles, is now gone. In his place is someone solid and striking. His jawline is sharp enough to be a weapon, and there’s a new, effortless confidence in the way he carries himself. Then he turns his head and scans the room, and when his gaze lands on you, the air leaves your lungs, and the red plastic cup in your hand feels like it’s about to slip through your fingers.

He says something to the person he’s with and starts walking toward you. He weaves through the crowd, never taking his eyes off yours. Every step he takes closer feels like a countdown. A slow, knowing smirk spreads across his face, the kind of look that says he knows exactly why you're staring. Satoru moves differently now; there’s a weight to his steps, a quiet confidence that makes the crowd seem to part for him like water.

By the time he’s standing in front of you, you can feel the heat radiating off him. He’s taller than you remember; you literally have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes.

"Hey," he says. His voice is deep, a low rumble that you feel in your toes. It’s a stranger’s voice with an old best friend’s cadence.

"You're here," you say, and you hate how breathless you sound. You’re looking at the way his hair is styled in a messy, wind-swept cloud of white that looks impossibly soft to the touch, catching the strobe lights in a way that makes the boyish fluffiness feel suddenly, devastatingly intentional. It’s truly unfair. The way his silver chain catches the light and draws your eyes straight to the sharp line of his collarbone, framed perfectly by the few unbuttoned buttons of his shirt. The way he looks like he stepped out of a movie and into this crappy frat house. It’s a ridiculous thought to have about the boy who once helped you dig for worms in the backyard, but you can't help it. 

When did you get hot? You wanted to say. The friend version of him is being overwritten in real-time by this devastating reality.

He leans in, his sleeve brushing against your arm. "I'm here," he murmurs, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips. 

You look at him, your brain scrambling to find a trace of the kid who used to share his dumplings with you. You want to be annoyed that he’s just here, after years of radio silence, but it’s so hard to be mad when you’re busy wondering when his hair got so fluffy, a mess that looks like it was made for you to run your fingers through. You feel the heat climb up your neck. It’s a total distraction, the way he’s looking at you, the way his voice has a new, gravelly edge. You want to ask him if he did this on purpose, if he spent every day he was gone trying to turn into a person that could make you forget how to speak.

"You've got a lot of nerve," you say, your voice dropping to match the low hum of his. You finally pull your eyes away from his hair to look him dead in the eye. "Showing up like this after you left my texts on read for years. I figured you'd forgotten how to use a phone."

The smirk on his face doesn't falter, but something in his expression shifts, a little more honest, a little more dangerous. "I didn't forget," he murmurs, his gaze dropping to your lips. His hand finally moves, his fingers ghosting against the side of your arm, barely a touch but enough to make the air feel electric. “Every time I tried to text back, the distance just felt heavier. I knew if I kept up that halfway version of me, I’d never actually move on, or I’d never actually get the courage to come back."

"I stopped responding because I was busy making sure that when I did see you again, I could actually handle the way you’d look at me." He leans in, his lips hovering just past the shell of your ear, his voice a gravelly silk. "Though, looking at you now, I think I still underestimated the situation."

He pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes, a challenge dancing in his dark pupils. "I spent three years wondering if the version of you in my head was better than the reality," he says, his thumb finally tracing a slow, deliberate line over the skin of your wrist. "Turns out, my memory didn't even come close."

He doesn't say anything else, just tilts his head toward the door, leaving the next move hanging in the humid air between you. He catches the way you’re still looking at him, wide-eyed and a little overwhelmed by the man standing where a boy used to be. He lets out a soft, huffed breath of a laugh, his expression melting into something much more tender. "You can keep staring," he murmurs, his eyes crinkling in that way that finally, finally reminds you of your childhood friend in your backyard. "I don’t mind. I’ve been waiting a long time to have your attention again."

author's note: what a flirt. So disgustingly flirty my knees would give out. a little shorter piece i wrote instead of packing for uni (//▽//) as always let me know what you think!