You Were The First

holy shit i need more

au influenced by backrooms

thank you endlessly :)))) I've just sent you the link!!

hey! I'm only curious and hope this doesn't come off as rude or demanding! just wondering if you ever take requests to read other people's work? kinda like beta-reading but i've already posted it lol, i just really admire your writing style and was interested in knowing if you'd share your tips :) I'm super new to like aCTUALLY creating on tumblr so it's a little nerve-racking. also, please don't feel pressured at all, I know you're probably super busy and I wouldn't feel offended if you said no!

hi darlin!

I'd be happy to read whatever it is you posted! i know how nerve wracking it can be to start posting stories on here, trust me, i've been there. the best thing is to just be patient <3 in regards to writing and waiting for feedback or traction, sometimes it just takes time

but if you want to send me the link to the story you posted, i'd be happy to read it <3

rereading my favorites <3

Cold, Cold Water

summary: While on a stakeout in the heart of Russia, Bucky learns that touch can bring something more than pain and he will willingly give himself over to the ice if it means keeping you alive. pairing: Bucky x reader word count: 10.5k warnings: SMUT (18+), 🎶stake-me-out tonight🎶, some violence, near drowning, hypothermia, that good ol’ we-gotta-share-body-heat-or-you-might-die trope a/n: this was written for @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan​‘s follower celebration! My prompt was “have you been crying?” This clearly took on a whole life of its own…

Bucky didn’t care much for the cold. It always seemed to be more of a challenge to his mind than his body. It took him back to darker memories of enclosed spaces and lapses of time, to handlers barking orders and the electricity of the chair. Whenever a chill swept up his spine, he had to remind himself of who he was, had convince himself he was safe and not about to lose another decade under ice.

The serum pumping through his veins aided in keeping the shivers to a minimum and allowed him to tolerate more than most when it came to freezing temperatures but it didn’t make it any easier to sit in an unmarked car, deep into central Russia, watching as his breath left his lungs in small, isolated fogs.

He started to wonder why he ever agreed to take on a reconnaissance mission in a place where the icy cold of the air stung in his nose with each inhale. That was, until he heard the soft rustle of your jacket beside him as you yawned, readjusting your position, and he remembered.

He went for you.

Keep reading

heart eyes for real

you talked about bartender!sirius in a previous post and omg i can't stop thinking about it!!! could you do a fic with costumer!reader and him being all flirty and stuff (maybe even angst where reader is really drunk or has come to drink all her problems away or someone icky is hitting on her or smth?? idk i trust your judgement<3)

litterly giggling and kicking my feet just thinking about it😭🤭

Thanks for requesting gorgeous <3

cw: alcohol

bartender!Sirius x fem!reader ♡ 1.4k words

There are three people working the bar, and you have basically no hope of ever capturing one’s attention. You’re not as assertive as the other patrons vying to get their orders taken, not willing to lean across the bar or shout like they are and perfectly willing to let yourself be pushed out of the way when one of them decides their cause is more prevalent than yours. It probably is. This pub is noisier and more rowdy than you’re accustomed to, and you’re not much of a drinker to begin with, only trying to pay your tax to sit with the friend that invited you here. You’re considering abandoning the endeavor entirely when the next man shouldering you out of the way gets waved off by the bartender nearest. 

“Oi, she was here first.” 

The bartender’s gaze fixes pointedly on you, which is kind of a lot. He has sharp gray eyes paired with superblack hair—like, the kind of black no light can penetrate—and a crooked smile, a handsome and somewhat menacing combination. He leans across the bar, lowering his voice as if he can tell that’s what you’d prefer. 

“What can I get you, doll?” 

You fumble for your tongue. “Um, can I have a citrus spritz, please?” 

He grimaces. “Wish you could,” he says, “but we just ran out of that gin. Got a second choice?” 

“Oh, uh...” You’d only found your first choice after perusing their menu and asking your friend what each thing was, so no, you do not. You take a step back from the bar, yielding your time. “Sorry, I’ll have to—” 

“No, come on, it’s alright.” The bartender doesn’t move, but his voice is loud enough that it reaches you, gets you to turn around. He’s on you with that smile again, one hand beckoning you towards him. “We’ll figure something out for you, sweetheart. Come back here.” 

You step up to the bar stiffly, more than aware of the irritated looks being shot your way by other patrons. 

“What do you like?” he asks you. 

You feel your eyebrows pinch, shaking your head helplessly. Your face feels like it could heat a small home. “I don’t—I’m not sure, sorry.” 

“You’re alright,” he promises, grin vanishing for a moment as he cuts a glare towards a man trying to talk over you. It’s back before you can miss it. “A sweet kinda drink, yeah? Fruity? D’you want something else with citrus?” 

“That sounds good,” you manage.

He winks and pushes off the bar. “Stay put, babe, I’ve gotcha.” 

You do your best, keeping your front pressed to the bar even as everyone else moves around and into you. You feel like a rock in a stream. With no one else to talk to, you watch him work behind the bar. He grabs a bunch of bottles at once, pouring without measuring or counting or hardly even looking, and when he starts shaking it all in a metal cylinder you have to look away from how his tattooed biceps bulge from the short sleeves of his shirt. You’re scanning the rows of liquor behind the bar when he gets back, trying to will the warmth away from your face. 

“Give this a try.” He sets the drink down in front of you. You notice it’s got a bit of dried fruit on top, and then he sets a small shot glass of something bubbly and transparent down next to it—you wince. A garnish and a side; probably not as cheap as you were hoping for. “If you don’t like it,” he says, glancing between you and the drink expectantly, “don’t tell me. Just bring it to the bathroom and flush it. My ego can’t take the rejection.” 

You press your lips together into something you hope approximates a smile and take a careful sip. It is sweet. You can barely taste the alcohol. You rub your lips together as you set it down, hoping you haven’t gotten foam on your mouth. 

“It’s really good,” you tell him honestly, and he grins in response. You raise it to your lips for more. “What is it?” 

“A pornstar martini.” 

You nearly spit foam right at him, somehow reversing at the last moment so you take in a hearty sip instead. His grin widens, showing canines, like he knew the effect the name would have on you. It should make you feel childish, but he doesn’t seem like he’s laughing at you so much as with you. 

“It’s good,” you say again, taking out your card. “Thank you.” 

He holds up his hands, stepping away from your credit card like it’s a weapon. “Put that thing away,” he says. “You’re insulting me, dollface.” 

You let your card hover in the air between you, unsure. “I can’t let you—”

“Sure you can. You have to,” he insists, setting both hands on the bar and leveling you with a significant look. You can’t look back for more than a second before your gaze flees downward. “If I can’t comp a pretty girl’s drink, what am I doing here?” He lowers his voice, leaning across the bar so his face is just a few inches from yours. “And if I can’t add a pretty girl’s drink to a tosser’s tab—” he flicks his gaze over to the man who’s been especially persistent in trying to get his order in over yours since you’ve come up “—then I may as well quit.”

You press your lips together, trying desperately to keep from looking as flattered and flustered as you feel. 

“You don’t want to leave me without purpose, do you?” 

“No.” You smile down at the bar, privately rolling your eyes. When you glance back up, there’s a waggishness in his eyes that suggests he saw. “Thanks.” 

“Thank you. Have a good night.” 

“You too.” 

You turn, starting back for your table, but stall a couple of steps in. Your seat’s been taken by a man around your age, all smiley and nodding as your friend talks. They’ve both got their elbows leaned on the table, eyes locked like they’re in some sort of competition. And you may not spend a lot of time in pubs, but you know enough to stay away when two people are looking at each other like that. 

You stand awkwardly on the fringes of the bar crowd, looking around for another empty table, but it’s too crowded tonight; there are none. You consider dropping by to tell your friend you’re leaving, but now you’ve got this full drink in your hand. Maybe if you finish it quickly…

“Hey!” You pivot, and the same bartender is looking at you again, craning his neck to see you over the crowd. “Hey,” he all but shouts to be heard, “come here.” 

You’re nothing if not obedient, working your way through the crowd with murmured apologies and your eyes on the ground to ensure you don’t step on anyone’s toes. When you get up to the bar, he’s waiting for you, holding up a hand to pause the man—the tosser, he’d dubbed him—trying to talk to him. You wonder if he’d halted his order halfway through. 

“What’s going on?” he asks, eyebrows twitching together. “You looked lost over there, babe.”

“Sorry,” you say, though you’re not sure what for. “I just—my seat was taken, so I was just trying to figure out—”

“You can sit here.” 

You blink, and he motions to the stools tucked under the bar in front of you, the ones nobody’s using. “I mean, you don’t have to,” he says, the closest thing to hesitant you’ve seen from him yet, “but you’re welcome to. I could use some good-looking company. We’re severely lacking over here.” 

“Fuck off,” says another bartender, skimming behind him to grab a bottle off a shelf. 

“Not counting you, Marls.” He shoots a sharp-edged grin towards the blond woman before fixing it back on you. His eyebrow twitches slightly in question. 

“Okay.” You pull a seat out. “Okay, thanks.” 

“Don’t thank me, doll, you’re doing me a favor.” He sets his forearms on the bar, leaning towards you like you’re having a far more private conversation. “I’m Sirius.” Something about him softens when you tell him your name in response, and you get the sense he’s been waiting for it. He repeats it back to you like it’s something special. “Alright, y/n, enjoy your drink, and I’ll try to be as decent company as I can while dealing with these pricks.” He makes no effort to keep the man beside you from hearing, then turns to him with an extremely false-looking smile. “Hi, what can I get you?” 

Even as the man starts giving his order, Sirius’ eyes flicker your way to see if he made you smile. He did.

are you kidding me this is everything i have heart eyes

Marry Me

His question is so obstinate that he almost sounds angry about it, “Marry me?”

The five times you turn down Silco's marriage proposal. And the one time you say yes.

Tags: Silco x Reader | One Shot | 5 + 1 things | Romance | Love Story | Childhood friends to lovers | Young Revolutionaries | Time Skips | Hurt/Comfort | Power Couple

Wc: 4.3K

SFW (but includes pillow talk), Gender of reader never mentioned, Blood and canon-typical violence

Two Gutter-Babies; paths entwined in fate.

Innocents in a corrupted world, at the tender age of eight.

The partially deflated ball smacks against the outer wall of the deserted building; causing dust and mortar to crumble from its mouldering surface.

Victorious shouts from the winning team ring through the air. The innocent sounds of children at play contrast sharply against the sombre, grey world in which the game is staged.

Your own smile is wide and bright on your face as you laugh along with your friends, but it falters just a little when you spot the familiar figure that’s perpetually lurking on the sidelines of your childhood.

He started showing up about a month ago.

Every single day, without fail, he manages to seek out where you and your friends play, and he watches from a distance, staring longingly at whatever game you’re engaged in. And at you.

He’s kinda weird looking.

His features are stark and pointy, with none of the rounded softness that youth is supposed to afford. The hair which hangs in unkempt waves around his long face is as dark as soot, and his ears are just a little too big for his head, as though he hasn’t quite grown into them yet. All the children in the Undercity are much too thin, but he seems dangerously so; sporting limbs that are stringy and gangly. He would be easy to dismiss at a glance.

Were it not for his eyes.

They’re the most vibrant aqua green you’ve ever seen, and remind you of the turquoise gemstones that are sometimes mined around these parts, and then sold across the river to be made into fine jewellery. Not only is the colour arresting, but they hold an intensity that’s well beyond his years. Adults may look upon him with a knowing hum, and label him an “old soul”, whatever that means. But to his Undercity peers, who are much too young to understand such cryptic idioms, they simply mark him as an outcast.

Your friends have taken to calling him Ratty – for the elongated features, the slight overbite, and the way he’s always scurrying around in the shadows.

But you’ve taken to sending small, kind smiles in his direction whenever you catch his eye, despite the taunts you receive for doing so. A part of you does it simply because you feel bad for him. But mostly it’s because you find him as interesting as he seems to find you. Perhaps, with all your childhood innocence, you harbour hope that small, consistent shows of kindness might encourage him to approach one day. That you might offer him the friendship he so clearly seeks. But your smiles only ever seem to spook him, and send him flitting away until he next reappears.

But there’s a resolution in his face today when you catch his eye, and his hands are clutching something behind his back, out of sight. The vivacious smile from your game softens into something a little sweeter, and the resolve in his eyes sharpens.

He marches his way out onto the pitch of your game, making a beeline directly for you. All the other children stop and stare, or snicker behind their hands at the determined pout of his lower lip, and the adamant line of his dark brows.

He stops directly in front of you, and thrusts his hands out.

The daisy is wilted so badly that it folds pathetically over his spindly fingers; unable to support its weight despite missing half of its white petals. And those that remain are crumpled and soot stained.

His question is so obstinate that he almost sounds angry about it.

“Marry me?”

Several children around you burst out laughing.

The determination in his blue-green eyes is so fierce and unyielding that it renders you speechless. Your mouth opens and closes uselessly like a fish out of water.

The other children haven’t lost their tongues though.

“Give us a squeak Ratty.”

“Freak.”

He’s entirely undeterred by their cruelty, and behaves as though he doesn’t even hear them. His focus is solely on you, while he waits stubbornly for an answer.

“Go back to the gutter.”

“Rat boy.”

Your skin itches with embarrassment, and you squirm on the spot.

And still he stares.

You shake your head shyly, turn on your heel, and run away.

Leaving him standing in the dust-cloud of your retreat, with only his wilting token and the harsh jeers of the other children for company.

Two Revolutionaries; young, wild, and free.

Burning with a reckless dream, and just turned twenty-three.

“I didn’t sign up for this.”

“And by this you mean…?”

“This,” you emphasise the single, bitter word by holding up the sodden underwear you’re washing in the bathtub. The apartment is so small that Vander can easily see what you’re waving from his chair in the main living area. He merely laughs at you; a booming sound that riles you even more.

“I signed up to fight.”

“And to fight, we need clean clothes.”

“So wash ‘em yourself you schmuck.”

“I’m busy doin’ inventory.”

“Yeah, funny how there’s always inventory to be done on laundry days,” you gripe, flinging the garment through the open doorway. Your aim is perfect, and it makes a satisfying wet slap as it wraps around his head.

And now its your turn to laugh as Vander struggles to disentangle himself from the soaking fabric. The muffled sounds of his displeasure are accompanied by a key in the lock, and the light, clipped footsteps which enter the apartment.

“Being bullied again, Vander?”

You smirk to yourself at the deep, sly voice of your other roommate; three of four now safely home. The first-born Children of Zaun. A revolutionary unit that had been formed of four toiling gutter-babies who had decided enough was enough. Who had shucked the back-breaking weight of the stones they’d been mining together since their late teen years and had begun to forge a new path. One that will bring freedom and justice to the oppressed citizens of the Undercity.

But beyond the dreams you share, and the work you do to achieve them, the four of you are a family. You love all three men you live and work with, despite how you all irk each other at times in such close quarters. However, there’s no denying the teams of two that comprise your household.

Vander and Benzo have always been close; cut from the same cloth in too many ways to count. Their friendship is as strong and solid as their mountainous builds. Likewise, you and Silco share a slyness that’s much too subtle for the other two to truly understand, and have been thick as thieves since long before the mine in which you’d all joined forces.

Silco pinches the wet fabric between thumb and forefinger and peels it from Vander’s head. The larger man shoots you a glare once he’s free, before wiping his face dry on the hem of his shirt.

Silco stalks his way over to the bathroom, and his slender body fills the frame and casts a tall shadow over the poorly tiled floor.

“You know, you can be very cruel,” he teases, holding out the dripping fabric.

You scoff, taking it from him and tossing it back into the bathtub with the other clothes, “I’m the nicest of the lot of you.”

“That isn’t really saying much.”

You chuckle to yourself and turn back to the task at hand. You sense him lingering in the doorway behind you, and feel the electric prickle of his eyes on the back of your neck as he watches. A pleased smile tugs at your lips at the soft rustle of clothes as he enters properly and sits himself on the floor next to where you scrub at a bloodstain in one of Benzo’s shirts. His back rests against the tub, and you notice from the corner of your eye that one hand is hidden down by his side.

“Coincidentally, I was remembering just today how mean you were to me the very first time I spoke to you.”

You lean your elbows on the edge of the bathtub and cock your head at him, “Still holding a grudge?”

There’s nothing but playfulness in the crease of his mouth and the lilt of his voice. He knows how guilty you still feel about that very first interaction, even though you’d only been children, and even though you’d sought him out the very next day when he hadn’t returned to watch you play. You’d found him chucking rocks into the filthy waters by the Gorge, and had tentatively approached. It had taken a bit of coaxing, but the suspicious, narrow-eyed “It’s Silco” you’d finally received had been worth it. And in the span of a few hours the two of you had become best friends in the easy way that childhood grants. Inseparable ever since.

Which is why you’ve been resistant to his ever increasing flirtations over the years. Despite the ever mounting inevitability that brews between the two of you.

“Perhaps a little.”

“Will you ever forgive me for it? Or am I doomed to hear you bitch about it forever?”

His lips pull into a smarmy little smile that sets your pulse quickening.

“Perhaps I’ll forgive you if I get the answer I want this time.”

You raise your eyebrow, and he uncovers his hidden hand to offer out a single daisy; in much better condition than the last one, and so achingly small between his long fingers.

“Marry me?”

“Fuck off.”

“It’s going to happen one day. Might as well get it over and done with now.”

“How romantic.”

His smirk widens, and he leans forward to tuck the small flower behind your ear. Your stomach flutters at the way his fingers brush through your hair as he does, “How about a date instead then?”

You empty your lungs wearily through your nose, “No.”

“Why not?”

“You know why.”

“Remind me.”

Silco’s eyes are sparkling with mischief, and you find yourself momentarily lost within their green waters. It’s becoming ever harder to shoot down a man whose so adept at dodging the bullet of your rejection. And who makes you feel the way he always does. Invincible. Special. Beautiful.

“Because we’ve only just begun, Silco,” you say earnestly, turning more fully towards him, “The Sons and Daughters of Zaun is still just a fledging. It wouldn’t be wise to muddy the waters with romance. It could jeopardise the group. If things didn’t work out—”

“Who says things wouldn’t work out? We already make such a fantastic pair, don’t we?”

His lips quirk in response to the twist of your own – the way you’re unable to stop your amused smile. His fingers reach out and lace with yours, still wet and slippy from the bathwater. Silco is hardly ever sincere. It’s a defence mechanism, borne from a childhood of ridicule in order to protect himself. And so the openness that suddenly blooms on his face like an unfurling flower gives you pause.

His thumb skims along the grooves of your knuckles, and your heart skips.

“There’s only one way to find out.”

You gnaw on your lip, and he waits patiently. You huff a short, sharp sigh.

“Dinner, at Jericho’s. One chance, and no promises.”

The cockiness sweeps back across his handsome features, and he raises your soapy knuckles to his lips, “A fighting chance is all I ever need, darling.”

Two Freedom-Fighters; in anarchy they thrive.

Chaotically dismantling the peace, at only twenty-five.

The adrenaline rush of the chase courses through your veins and fuels your pumping limbs. It makes you want to tip your head back to the smog filled sky and laugh.

It always does.

And you always do.

Your own laughter is joined by the familiar, husky peal of another’s; the man who runs beside you, and has for years.

True to his word, Silco had taken his fighting chance with both hands and had refused to let go. And so one dinner at Jericho’s had been the tipping point into a romance that had begun with a single battered daisy, and a child with nothing to lose.

It’s been two years since Silco had swept you off your feet, and your toes have yet to touch back down.

The heavy pounding of the metal-toed boots of your pursuers have long since faded. But still you run. Perhaps simply because you can. Simply for the joy of it.

The pair of you burst from the alley you’d been careening down, and turn left onto the main strip of the Lanes, heading in the direction of the The Last Drop; the new head-quarters of the revolution. An upgrade that was needed to house the ever-growing ranks of the Sons and Daughters of Zaun.

You and Silco slip in amongst the nighttime crowds that bustle up and down the neon-lit street, and finally slow your sprint to a speedy stride. Not that there’s any chance of being inconspicuous when you’re both sporting clear evidence of a fight.

You’re both out of breath, but still riding the intoxicating rush of the conflict and subsequent pursuit, despite your injuries. The packs slung over your backs are heavy with enough stolen medical supplies to last a couple months if you ration carefully.

Van and ‘Zo are gonna be real pleased.

But it came at a cost. Namely in the form of Silco’s two front teeth.

You look over at him; covered in blood and still smiling like a fool.

“Stop grinning would you? You look fucking ridiculous.”

“Is it bad?”

“Let’s put it this way, you’ve got a lovely new place to rest your cigarettes when you smoke.”

He pokes experimentally at the newly chipped teeth with the tip of his tongue.

“And that’s going to need stitching,” you berate, indicating the sharp upward gash above his lip, “it’s gonna scar for sure.”

He grabs your hand to stop you from poking at it, and laces your fingers together, “One more won’t hurt.”

“It’s on your face, Silco,” you whine, “Your beautiful face.”

He flashes you a roguish grin, “But do you still love me?”

You snort a laugh, “Yes, I still love you.”

There’s a fierce passion in Silco’s heart, and it’s the driving force behind everything he does. Most mistake it for ruthlessness, because they only witness it directed into the fight, the cause. And he is ruthless. But behind closed doors, when it’s just the two of you, that passion is channeled into something purer. The fierceness of his love is a cleansing fire, and it purifies any wounds inflicted by the harsh, unforgiving world in which you both live.

Silco also has a flair for the dramatic, and the two sometimes go hand-in-hand, much to your chagrin.

He sweeps in front of you and drops to his knee right in the middle of the street, grasping your hand in both of his. You roll your eyes to cover your rising embarrassment as people stop and gawk at the pair of you.

“Marry me?”

His shit-eating grin displays his newly chipped teeth; stained vibrant crimson. His chin too is covered in blood from his busted lip. He looks like a wild animal who’s been ravaging a carcass.

“You think I’m gonna settle for an idiot that can’t duck a punch?”

“Yes,” he grins wider, “If not now, then you will.”

You smirk and click your tongue in dismissal.

He tugs sharply on your hand as he stands – upsetting your balance and using the momentum to scoop you up in a bridal pose.

Your shriek of surprise turns into bright, joyful laughter as he begins to carry you down the street, pack and all. You wrap your arms around his neck and lean up to press fleeting kisses to the uncut corner of his mouth, heedless of the blood that smears your lips as you do.

He turns his face more fully to you, hungrily returning what you’re offering, and yelps as his split lip pulls.

You chuckle, and flick the end of his nose, “Idiot,” you scold lovingly, “Now put me down. People are staring.”

“Let them,” he says obstinately, “You’re mine, and I’ll carry you if I wish to.”

You quirk an eyebrow, “I’m yours, am I?”

“That’s correct.”

“And does that make you mine too?”

He pushes out his lower lip and weighs his head side-to-side in contemplation, “I’ll have to think about it.”

You smack his chest playfully, but hard all the same, “Bastard. Remind me why I ever agreed to go out with you?”

“Because I pestered, darling,” he croons with a lopsided smirk, “that, and the fact that I always get what I want… in the end.”

Two adept Warriors; drawing closer to the line.

The world’s become more dangerous, still young at twenty-nine.

Your skin is slick against Silco’s, and your legs are tangled with his beneath the sheets as you bask in the afterglow of his love. It’s as much golden light as you’ll ever get down here; in the ever-darkening depths of the Undercity.

The too-thin blankets that do little to warm you in the winter are wrapped around your waists, and he cradles your head to his chest like you’re something precious. Like you don’t bare just as many scars as he does. The steady beat of his heart drums a comforting rhythm beneath your cheek, and his fingers card through your hair – each tender stroke adding to the invisible weight upon your eyelids.

Until he stirs you with a gentle, reverent whisper of your name.

“Yes, Silco?”

“Marry me?”

You huff a quiet laugh, and push up onto your elbow. His hair curls gently at the ends, fanning out on the pillow like raven rays of night, and his lagoon eyes swirl with blissful contentment beneath heavy lids.

“That’s the orgasm talking.”

“If that were the case I’d have asked you innumerable times by now.”

“You’ve asked plenty. This is the fourth time.”

“Keeping count are we?”

Your lip pulls into a small smile before you can help it, and you dip your mouth to his in a deep, rolling kiss. You flick your tongue playfully along the scar he’d received the night of his last proposal, and he shivers beneath you at the sensitivity.

Neither of you comment aloud on the real reason he’s asking you – the undeniable charge in the air that’s been brewing. The kind that precedes a catastrophic storm. Things are changing in the Undercity. The Enforcers are becoming more brutal, and it seems each day brings with it a violent and unwarranted raid on yet another business along the Lanes. Seeds of unrest are being planted and continuously watered by mounting fear.

Even Vander and Benzo are loosing momentum. They’re being cowed by the Topsiders, and it’s infuriating to watch.

It seems these days that you and Silco are the only ones left who are willing to fight anymore.

“You’re going to run out of excuses to turn me down one of these days.”

“Today isn’t that day.”

“That’s okay,” he murmurs, smoothing his hands along your spine and pulling you closer to his warmth, “I can be patient, darling.”

Two Battle-Weary Veterans; bloodied, broken, done.

Sporting scars of conflicts lost, at barely thirty-one.

It’s been months since the incident.

And yet Silco still wakes screaming most nights.

His animalistic wails shatter the air, thanks to the nightmares which plague him, and the unremitting pain in the eye that refuses to heal. The eye that’s steadily wasting away due to the toxic pollutants that refuse to be purged.

Singed, the disgraced academy doctor and your one remaining ally, is close to a breakthrough on a treatment that will slow the necrosis. But until then, Silco must weather the pain, and you must bear witness to it. You must listen to the sounds of your love in unending agony night after night while you can do absolutely nothing to help.

It’s torture. Each cry rends at your soul until it’s nothing more than tattered bloodied ribbons.

You’d switch places in a heartbeat. You’d do anything to ease this for him. The strongest painkillers you can get your hands on never seem to even touch the surface of his suffering. They offer no true relief. And so all that’s left is to hold him while he thrashes and cries. To whisper reassurances to him until exhaustion finally drags him back into merciful unconsciousness.

“Please— please—”

“Silco,” you hush, smoothing back the sweat soaked hair from his brow, “it’s alright, my love.”

“Please don’t leave me.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Please.”

“I’m right here. I’m here darling.”

It’s always like this. Once the wordless wails of pain have passed, he begins to beg. Desperate, delirious pleas to remain at his side. Like you’d ever leave him. Like you’d ever betray him like that bastard, son of a bitch who you’d both called Brother.

Tears and blood mix and stain your top, leaking out from beneath the bandage that’s taped over his ruined left eye. You hold him tighter, and rock him gently as his screams at last die down to soft, despondent weeps. Wrecked, and so, so tired.

You press you mouth against his brow and hum a common Zaunite lullaby which you’d grown up hearing, and which soothes you both with its simple, familiar tune. Silco’s hands flex and clutch at you a little tighter.

His voice is quiet and ragged, the best his ravaged throat can offer.

“Marry me?”

You kiss his temple, “Why are you asking?”

“Because I need you. I need you by my side.”

“You’ve got me,” you brush the tears from his cheeks with the backs of your knuckles, “You don’t need a piece of paper to tie me to you Silco. I’m yours. I’ll always be yours. It’s you and me against the world.”

“Promise? Promise me?”

“I promise, Silco.”

He lets out a shuddering sigh, and his body seems to melt into you a little more – boneless with sheer exhaustion. You continue to cradle him; to sing softly, to stroke his matted hair, and to press featherlight kisses to his skin.

“You’re all I have left.”

His muffled words stoke the simmering hatred inside you. The hatred you both share. You hold him a little tighter and whisper your next words into his hair; the words that in a not too distant future will be drawn upon and repeated to the daughter you’re both yet to know.

“We’ll show them. We will show them all.”

Two hardened Monarchs; with endless work to do.

Surveying their kingdom from self-made thrones, and suddenly forty-two.

“Jinx is asleep,” you say as you slip through the door into your shared office space; the domain of the two de facto rulers of the Nation of Zaun. The Empire you’ve built from the ground up, hand-in-hand.

Silco hums from the high-backed chair behind the desk, but doesn’t stop reading through the paperwork in front of him.

“You should be too, darling,” you say pointedly.

“In a little while.”

You huff a small laugh and make your way over. You switch off the lamp at the corner of the desk with finality, and he looks up at you with just an edge of irritation.

He’s never been quite as good humoured as he once was. Not since Vander. It’s one of the many things you’ll never forgive your dead brother for.

But you’re not as carefree either.

The years have hardened your edges, leaving you both jagged and jaded. But you’ve grown together. Two roses upon the same trellis; so thoroughly interwoven that there is no way of knowing where his stem begins and yours ends. There’s no prising apart the two sets of entangled roots which run so deeply beneath the ground.

“Don’t look at me like that. You know I’m right.”

He hums again, this time in appeasement as you turn his chair slightly in order to sit yourself sideways in his lap. His hand hooks beneath the outside of your knee, and the other rests on your waist where he draws idle circles with his fingers. You've sat in this position too many times to count; working through reports and numbers and maps and plans together on your shared desk.

“Have you seen this? A new trade agreement between Piltover and Palclyff for the import of raw steel. It’s going to directly undercut business for the foundry workers down here—”

“Silco,” you interrupt with a finger upon his lips. You caress his jaw and turn his face towards you, away from the paper, before brushing your nails through the silvering strands at his temples in the way you know he likes so much, “You’ve worked enough.”

There’s almost twenty years worth of labour referenced within those three simple words. And there’s more unvoiced beneath them yet. You’ve been soul-bonded for so long that silent conversations are a common occurrence between you, and you can see from the way his face softens that he hears all you’re saying.

Look at all we’ve achieved. Look at what we’ve done, together.

You press your mouth to the crows feet at the corner of his ocean eye, the lines which match your own, and you brush your thumb along the grooved scars below the obsidian inferno on his left.

He leans into your touch, and turns to press a loving kiss into your palm, before looking up at you with an adoration that’s reserved only for you and the daughter that has graced your lives.

“Marry me.”

It’s been almost ten years since he’d last uttered those two words, and thirty-four since the first time. And somewhere in the span of three decades it’s lost the curled line and dot which once concluded it. No longer a question, but a demand.

You give him the answer he’s been seeking regardless.

You whisper it against his lips.

“Yes.”

there's just something about 40s bucky man

Come back to you

Bucky x pregnant!reader 

What happens when a time travel mission ends up with a version of Bucky from the 40′s standing on the time travel platform. 

Warnings: FLUFFFFF, sweet charming 40′s Bucky, time travel, teensiest bit of angst. 

-

“Buck, are you sure about this” You shuffled nervously by the platform Bucky was standing on, his latest mission requiring him to travel through a time portal. It wasn’t something he hadn’t done before but time travel was still tricky and the last thing you wanted was something happening to Bucky. 

Especially now. 

“I’ll be fine doll” Bucky assured you, holding onto a device Tony had made to gather information, the time stamp on the portal set to 1943. All he had to do was locate the coordinates he was given, scan a few documents and return to the present. Ever since you found out you were pregnant, Bucky pulled himself out of high risk missions but this seemed easy enough and he was the only one familiar with the location. “Promise I’ll come right back to you in just a few seconds babygirl” 

Keep reading

more bucky brain rot

Pretty Baby

Bucky Barnes x Reader

18+ ONLY.

Summary: I had this slutty little thought about Bucky's leg over your shoulder while you suck his dick...so here's a quick drabble about it.

A/N: This is my first attempt at writing something short and sweet. I see other authors do it all the time and it's not something I'm 100% comfortable with yet. I still spent way too much time on this, edited it, and had to force myself to cut it short. But I hope with practice, I can get more drabbles like this out!

Warnings: subby Bucky, blowjob, mention of prostate massage, Bucky being insecure

I'm imaging your evening starts with Bucky being nervous about an event you both have to attend. And once there, some asshole agent makes a snide comment about Bucky and his arm in front of a lot of people. Despite how much he tries, Bucky can't let it go. He spends the rest of the evening spiraling, desperately wanting to escape the room. So when you finally get home, you notice immediately that he's not okay...

"Buck?" You called to him from the bathroom doorway, and the look on his face when he turned to you made you frown.  

The stress and anxiety manifested in the form of a red flush over his chest and neck. His eyes were far away. 

"What can I do, babe?" You quickly joined his side, touching his cheek gently. 

He sighed and nuzzled against your hand. "I'm okay," he mumbled. "Just need to clear my head." 

"Come on," you led him back to the bedroom, gently guiding him to the bed. "Let me help." 

Bucky started to protest, but you kissed his neck delicately while you began to work on the knots in his shoulders. He shut up quickly, letting you help. 

You knew how these massages usually ended–with Bucky between your legs for hours if you let him. But you were determined to flip the script–take care of him this time. He could be a pillow princess for once…maybe he would discover how good it felt to let go. 

You pushed Bucky's shoulder, laying him back on the mountain of pillows piled on the bed. 

"Let me–" Bucky started. 

You shushed him gently and kissed his lips. "No, let me." You kissed both his eyelids, tasting the lone tear Bucky had let slip. The taste of it broke your heart. You kissed his cheeks and his nose before finding his lips again. "Let me show you how beautiful you are, baby. So fucking perfect." 

Your lips moved to kiss the dimple in his chin and then made a path across his strong jaw and down his neck. 

Bucky swallowed hard; this was not how he had expected the rest of his evening to go. After spending hours being mortified, he had just wanted to come home and hide. Maybe crawl under the comforter with his headphones until he could forget everything. But you were having none of it. Your hands gently slid under his shirt, and he tensed. 

"Shhh, it's okay, baby. Do you want me to stop?" 

Bucky bit his lip; it didn't make sense. He had moved past being ashamed of his body with you. He hadn't been anxious to shed his clothes in front of you in months. It wasn't fair that one asshole could change that and put that pit of anxiety and fear back in his belly. 

"Don't stop," he finally whispered because no one was going to take you from him. 

You slowly pulled his shirt over his head, and your lips went to work, touching every inch of his bruised and scarred skin. With each kiss you gave, he felt a little more like himself. No one had been so gentle with him, not before you. By the time your lips finished trailing down his vibranium arm, the evening's events were far from his mind. And when you wrapped your lips around two of his metal fingers, all thoughts flew out of his head completely. 

"Doll," he groaned, "can I taste you?" 

You shook your head. "After I'm done taking care of you, lay back down." 

Bucky hadn't even realized he had sat up in an attempt to get closer to you. He listened and flopped down against the pillows as you unbuttoned his slacks. You took your time, but Bucky didn't mind. Every touch, every kiss, every swipe of your warm tongue was a blessing to him. You hadn't even taken his cock out yet, but he didn't care. He would gladly live suspended in this euphoria, basking in your attention forever. 

For once, he let his mind go blank, focusing only on the pleasure you were giving him, on the whispered praise you gave against his skin. He didn't notice you had completely undressed him until suddenly something wet and warm was wrapped around his cock. He squeezed his eyes shut and groaned quietly. 

Your hands moved over his thighs and lifted his knees, so his feet were planted on the bed. But he didn't use the leverage to thrust. He let you remain in control, focusing on the way your movements were controlled and slow, but your lips remained tight, tongue never missing a swipe over his sensitive head. 

Your hands massaged the backs of his thick thighs, and Bucky was only vaguely aware of you slowly pushing his left leg up and over your shoulder. Before he realized what you had done, your shoulder pushed into the back of his thigh, lifting his leg higher as you took his cock deeper into your throat. 

"Oh fuck!" Bucky snapped out of his trance, his hand flying to the back of your head and his heel digging into your back. 

You moaned around him, and he hissed as pleasure shot through every nerve ending in his body. Even then, he realized his leg was over your shoulder and attempted to put it back on the bed. But you gently slapped his thigh, pulling your mouth off his cock. 

"I said, let me take care of you, pretty baby." 

You looked at him with heavy lust-filled eyes, and all Bucky could do was whimper as he nodded his agreement. 

You grinned big before quickly hoisting his other leg up over your shoulder. 

"Oh fuck me," Bucky whispered. 

"That's the plan," you kept eye contact with him while you ran your tongue up and down his cock before sliding it back into your throat. 

Bucky squeezed his eyes shut; he swore he was even deeper than before. "Oh–" his words were lost in a deep groan as your finger started stimulating his prostate. 

His head dropped back, his back arched, and his hands scrambled for purchase in the sheets. He knew he must be quite the picture, mouth dropped open in a silent scream, his legs starting to shake as his heels dug into your back. His cock throbbed, and he couldn't help but start thrusting in your mouth. All his anxieties were long gone; the only thing he could focus on was the consistent throbbing in the head of his cock, and the slick tightness of your throat every time he slid down it. 

When he came, white-hot pleasure coursing through him, you swallowed every drop. Your throat contracting around him prolonged his orgasm until he was teetering between pleasure in pain. He could have stayed in limbo forever—head empty–only you–but you slowly pulled your mouth off him and placed his legs back on the bed. 

You gently pushed his hair out of his face as you cuddled against his heaving chest. "See, you should let me take care of you more often." 

Bucky nodded, finally gathering himself enough to pull you closer to him. "Thank you–you didn't have to–"

"I wanted to, pretty baby. I love you."

Bucky pulled you up to his lips, searing his love for you on every inch of skin he could reach.

okay but the symbolism behind removing his face paints i'm so normal about this i—

Camellia: Copia x f!reader - Chapter 5

Camellia: n. - A flower which symbolizes a deep desire or longing.

Summary: When it rains, it pours, but the drops wash away the uncertainty swimming in your mind.

Word count: 4.4k

A/N: Thank you all for your patience!! I usually try to keep updates going every 10 days or so, but this one's a little late, so I apologize. Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoy this chapter!! <3 If you want to be added to the taglist, let me know!!

Warnings: possible descriptions of anxiety, you and Copia being idiots, mutual pining.

AO3 / Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4

You hadn’t known it was supposed to rain this morning. But now that you tilt your face up towards the gray-blanketed sky, you remember that it had been rather dark when you and Copia stepped out of the kitchens. The breeze around you feels sharp and the birds have gone quiet since you emerged from the flower labyrinth. The leaves—small and sparse after having just budded for spring—turn over to reveal their pale undersides. A sure sign of a rainstorm. 

As you hold your finger in front of your face to observe the rain drop that had landed on your nose, another falls on the top of your head. Beside you, Copia also lifts his head to look at the sky. He squints and flinches a bit when a drop lands in the middle of his forehead. “Ah, cazzo,” he mumbles, and uses his free hand to swipe it off. The raindrops are fat and heavy, and they scatter the tiny stones of the gravel path under your shoes when they fall. 

Another drop lands on your shoulder. “Should we go inside?” you ask. Immediately you realize that it is a stupid question. Of course you should go inside, crétin. It’s about to rain and you have no idea how long you’ve been outside for. 

That nagging thought tugs at the back of your awareness. The thought that you shouldn’t be taking up so much of Copia’s—Papa’s—time. He’s a busy man, and he probably doesn’t have time to walk the entire garden path during working hours. 

But… he had offered. And if you could, you’d walk the entire loop just to spend more time talking with him. 

“Yes… that is probably a good idea,” Copia answers with a small smile. 

He doesn’t want to go inside. He wants to keep holding your hand, keep walking on the secluded garden path until the sun goes down and it grows too cold to stay outside. And even then, he wants to take you back to his office, light a fire, and share a kettle of tea with you and talk some more. Maybe kiss you once or twice, if you’d be willing. Satan knows he would be. 

But you can’t spend what could very well be your last full day at the Abbey just killing time. He knows he should take you back and walk with you to the library. Copia knows he should encourage you to keep trying with Elizabeth’s diary until Sister Imperator is literally pushing you out the door, but he wants more time. He needs more time with you. This can’t be over yet, it can’t. It hasn’t even started, this thing that exists between you. 

The trees begin to shift a little more, a soft whooshing sound blowing with the breeze as the leaves and coniferous needles brush together. 

You blink once, twice, and then it’s pouring. 

“Diable ci-dessous!” you curse, swiping your free hand over your face as if that would help keep the water out of your eyes. The rain very quickly soaks through your habit and the wind bites at your skin. 

Copia squeezes your hand. “Sorella, come, come!” He tugs you into a run along the path. The gravel crunches and moves under your feet, making you both stumble every few steps. Your hands clutch together like a lifeline. 

Through the sound of the ever-growing rainstorm, you can hear the shouts of Siblings working in the garden who had also been caught in the weather. You can’t discern any words. The wind and the rain and the sound of your soaked shoes drowns out anything else, except for the bright laughter bubbling up from the man beside you. 

The rain falls in sheets, and you find yourself laughing with Copia. It’s ridiculous, this situation you’ve found yourself in. Like the sky had heard you speak to each other about your less-than-ideal childhoods, and decided to provide you with the clouds over your heads in a more literal sense. 

It takes you a moment to realize that Copia isn’t leading you back up the path towards the Abbey. You’re still running on the gravel past the greenhouses, which are teeming with Siblings hiding from the storm. Looking up through rain-soaked lashes you see the approaching silhouette of the tiny, sort-of-abandoned chapel in the far corner of the Abbey grounds. You can’t make out any details through the rain except for the small spire with its inverted cross. 

Your heart jumps at the thought of being cooped up in the small space with Copia until the rain subsides.

“Here!” Copia calls. He surges forward to the door of the chapel and almost loses your hand in the process. It takes him two tries before he can shoulder the door open, and then he’s practically dragging you over the threshold. His leather gloves are soaked and slippery, but his grip on you tightens until you’re both inside and safe from the rain. He closes the door behind you and it slams against the threshold with a creak and a loud rap of the ancient brass knocker. 

Then, you’re alone. It’s quiet inside the chapel, save for the storm pelting against the old, warped panels of stained glass along the side walls and the frantic beating of your heart in your ears. 

You wonder why a chapel has a knocker. 

You also wonder why such a pretty, quaint little chapel isn’t used anymore. The inside is lined with dark wood pews on either side of a carpeted aisle. The door is made of the same wood, as is the modest pulpit stationed at the front of the room. It stands on a raised platform, and behind it is another, higher platform with what looks to be a long table sheathed in a black cloth which reaches down to the floor. On either side of the pulpit are elaborate iron candelabras empty of any candles. 

The windows on either side of the chapel aren’t elaborate like that of the main Abbey. They each depict a single inverted cross of clear glass, with red stained glass filling the negative space of the arched windows. The walls are thick and built of stone, and each window lines up with a pew. Several books, which you infer are unholy prayer or hymn books, are perched on each windowsill, and you’re very suddenly reminded of Marseille. The stone walls, the tall, narrow windows, the old wood, the books on the sill. 

For a moment, you’re home and you’re very near to tears. 

“Cara,” Copia says softly from behind you. In your reverie you’d turned around to take in every little detail and your back is now facing him. His hand still holds yours, although you’re sure the soggy leather must be making your (and his) fingertips prune. 

Copia had watched you, watched your eyes flit around the chapel as you turned on the spot. He remembers what you told him about your home and realizes that this little building must remind you of it. He had watched your face alight in unrealized comfort and he had watched as your eyes grew glassy when you made the connection. He calls out to you. Cara, he says, and he means it. You are dear to him and it surprises him just how quickly you’d managed to become that way. 

You turn back to him, trying very hard not to let the tears building in the corners of your eyes slip down your already-wet cheeks. But then you see his face. Oh, your poor Papa, his face. 

One might think, for a Ministry with worldwide influence and many, many resources, they might be able to afford waterproof, smudge-proof paints for their esteemed leader, but they hadn’t. 

“Oh, no,” you giggle. It bubbles up in your chest and escapes your lips without your intent. And then your giggle turns into a rather unattractive snort and a full laugh, because your poor Papa looks like Hell. His paints are running down his face and dripping onto his leather vest. The black rings around his eyes have been tracked down his cheeks so that he looks like an overdramatic actress with terrible mascara. The pigment on his lips and beside his mouth have smudged so badly with the rain that he looks as if he’d drank a gallon of black paint. The white paint has almost completely run off, except for where it settles in the creases beside his mouth and between his brows. 

All together, he looks like a rather soggy zebra. 

Copia pouts at you. “What?”

You wish you had a mirror to show him. Part of you feels horrible for laughing at Papa, but you know that the man behind the paint will also find it rather funny. Slightly embarrassing at worst. “Your–” you try to stifle your giggles. “Your paints, they’re…” 

Copia’s eyes widen in realization. “They’re… not waterproof, no,” he says flatly. “Satana, devo sembrare uno stupido.”

He peels his sodden gloves off his hands and stuffs them in the front pocket of his pants. He swipes a finger under his eye and brings it back to find that his fingertip is gray and patchy. 

“No, you don’t look like an idiot,” you try to soothe him, although you’re still slightly laughing. “You simply… look like a man who was caught in a rainstorm with a full face of paints.” “Sì, so, like an idiot.” 

Copia begins trying to wipe his face with his sleeve. It does nothing to actually remove the paint, instead just smudging around his damp skin. Though, you’re beginning to see that his cheeks burn a pretty red through the streaks of whitish-gray paint, and his ears are nearly completely red. You guess that his face might feel just as hot as your own. 

He huffs in frustration, flicking his wet sleeve and causing water droplets to smack against the stone floor. “Dannazione,” he mutters to himself. “Shitty paints making me look like a…”

You remove your veil and bandeau—which are nearly plastered to your head from the torrential downpour—and wring them out. “Sit,” you command gently. Gesturing to one of the pews nearby, you fold your veil into a neat square. 

When Copia continues mumbling to himself and fruitlessly wiping his face, you reach out and tug his sleeve away. “Copia,” you say again, “Asseyez-vous.”

Copia reluctantly obeys. He knows his face is completely red now, for multiple reasons. It’s cold, for one—the rain had felt like tiny daggers of ice even through his shirt, and now that the two of you are in a drafty little chapel with soaked clothes, the air feels even colder. He’d also made a complete and total ass of himself, thanks to the rain. He’d spent so long this morning leaning against his mirror, going over and over the black paints to make sure each line was crisp and clean and perfect in the off-chance he might see you today. It had made him late arriving at his office, but it had led him to bump into you just minutes after his paints had dried, which is when they look their best, in his opinion. 

But the primary reason his face is practically glowing is because you’d commanded him in French. The language sounds sinful on your tongue. And spoken in that gentle but insistent tone… oh, he could come apart from just your words. You could string him along forever if you only speak like that. 

He sits on the edge of a pew with a sigh. Copia knows he’s being ridiculous—it’s only paint—but he’d spent an embarrassingly long time on it in the hopes it might impress you, and here he is, looking like an idiot. 

You approach him. You’re taller than him like this, so he has to tilt his face up to meet your eyes. Before you can overthink, before you can begin to question yourself, you gently reach out to place a finger under his chin and lift his head up a bit more. “Let me,” you say, almost a whisper. Your finger remains on his chin, keeping his head in place as you place your damp veil against his brow and begin to wipe. 

Surprisingly, the fabric of your veil is much more effective than his shirt, and the paint comes off easily. “Oh,” you say, lifting your brows in mild surprise. “It’s working.” 

You notice that Copia’s eyes slid closed at some point. “It feels nice,” he tells you softly. 

“It’s French,” you say with a little huff of laughter, which Copia echoes. 

Yes, he had meant that the fabric of your veil feels nice against his skin. But mostly he had meant that your finger gently tipping his head back feels like so much, all at once, and he doesn’t have words for any of it. It feels like it belongs there. He wants to touch you back, but where? And would you be okay with it, his hands on your hips or your waist or the backs of your thighs? 

So, he settles for shutting his eyes and clenching his hands on his knees to resist pulling you closer. You’re standing between his knees, which are spread wide enough to accommodate you without touching the sides of your legs.

He wants something. Something innocent, not presumptuous, because he really doesn’t know how you feel about him at all. He lets his legs fall closed a bit more, until the bends of his knees just barely brush against your legs. His pants and your habit are absolutely soaked but he can feel the warmth of your skin through the fabric, and oh, he’d never guess that leg-to-leg contact could feel so intimate. 

Copia opens his eyes when you gently drag your finger over his hairline to brush back the hair stuck to his forehead. You’re so focused on your task, as you always are. Your hands are cold and gentle as you wipe away his ruined paints. He wants to take your hands and kiss every finger until they’re warm again. 

Slowly, carefully, you uncover new expanses of Copia’s face with each pass of your veil. You press a little firmer into the lines along his forehead and between his brows to completely clear his skin. His eyes are closed again, and you’re partially grateful because if he had looked at you like that any longer, you might have leaned down and kissed him. His freckled cheeks or his strong nose or his lips, you don’t know. 

Somewhere between wiping the paint from his mustache and chuffing your veil under his chin, you begin to shake. 

“Tesoro.”

“Hm?”

“You are cold,” Copia says, his voice barely above a whisper. You can feel his warm breath on your fingers as you drag your paint-ruined veil over a spot of white you’d missed. 

“I’m alright,” you say. It’s partially true. Yes, you’re cold, but you don’t want to think about it or else you’ll really be cold and there’s nothing here to warm you up. Realistically you know it’s your habit; it’s soaked through and so are your socks and shoes. But it’s also the realization coursing through you that you have feelings for this man. 

Lucifer, they had developed quickly. It had been so easy for him to push past the barriers you’d set up around your heart and mind. He’d just walked right in, lit a cozy fire within your soul and asked you to call him Copia. And you let him. He’s carving a place in your life that you’d gladly have him occupy, and it scares you. 

He makes you forget why you try not to get attached. He looks at you and you forget the pain of leaving everything behind when you were eleven, which you are deathly afraid of having to do again. 

You’re brought out of your thoughts when Copia’s ungloved hand gently takes yours. You cringe at how clammy your hands must be compared to his warm ones, but you don’t pull away. “Sathanas, tesoro, your hands are like ice,” he says. His other hand comes atop yours to sandwich it between his own. 

You feel like you need to run. Your heart kicks against your sternum as your eyes meet his own. 

Copia’s face is bare now. His freckles stretch across his cheeks and over the bridge of his nose, with a few scattered on his forehead and chin. You want to rip your hand out from between his own and tumble out the door into the rain. You want to bring him closer and trace little patterns into his freckles. Satan, you don’t know what you want. 

You want to protect yourself from hurting again. 

Copia, on the other hand, knows exactly what he wants. But he can practically see your mind working, churning back and forth between whatever turmoil is going on inside your head. As he sits in front of you, he can see the exact moment when you begin to panic. He can feel your hand begin to shake in his. He knows you’re not blind, or ignorant. He knows that you both know there is something happening, that it has been happening since you met, that it’s big. And he knows you’re scared of it, what it could become, what it could mean. Darling, he knows.

So, he stays silent. If he says anything or does anything, you’ll flee. This thing between the two of you is delicate, so delicate and new and foreign that any sudden movement will shatter the careful balance you hold in the little chapel. Anything but silence will cave the roof in and drench you all over again. Copia stays silent and holds your hand through your own tempest, and lets your eyes explore his face in search of answers he hopes you’ll find.

“I don’t want to go,” you whisper after another moment. “I want to stay and figure it out.” 

Copia doesn’t know if you’re talking about Elizabeth’s diary, or this thing between you and him, or both. Honestly, neither do you. 

He squeezes your hand tenderly. “Let’s get you back to the Abbey then, eh?” 

“It’s—” your eyes dart to a window, “it’s still pouring, Copia.” Copia simply smiles at you, leaning in as if to tell you a secret. “What’s a little rain going to do, cara? Ruin my paints?” 

~~~

By the time you make it back up the hill, to your dorm, to the shower, and into dry clothes, the lunch hour is long gone. You hadn’t realized how long you’d spent with Copia that morning. It had been just past nine when you left Sister Imperator’s office, and now it is well past two in the afternoon. Somehow it felt like only minutes had passed in the cozy little chapel, and in that chapel you made the terrifying realization that no matter how long you spend with him, it will never be enough. 

You can’t think about that right now. 

Right now, you need to get to the restricted room. You’re halfway out the door of your temporary dormitory, slipping on your only spare pair of shoes as you desperately hold onto the idea you had when you and Copia were about halfway up the hill. 

With your shoes already soaked through, you and Copia had struggled to find traction on the sodden grass. With each step you found yourself slipping backwards, hands flying through the air until you regained your balance, or until Copia firmly grasped it in his own and didn’t let go. The two of you trekked your way up the hill, slipping and sliding and giggling at the absurdity of it all. Your hand would find his own whenever it would slip from his grasp, like they were magnetized. It felt natural, seeking his hand. Even if it was only for balance. 

As you slowly made your way up the hill, soaked and shivering, one thought prevailed in your mind. You only have today, you kept thinking. If you don’t figure out the diary, you’ll only have today. 

It was true of two situations. You have one word of the diary—Today—and you have only today if you can’t decipher the rest. 

You took a step forward, and slid back slightly. Copia’s hand steadied you. 

Only today. Elizabeth. Today. Copia. Today. 

Today. 

You’d stopped completely, just standing in the near-freezing rain. Copia had looked back at you like you were insane (which you might be), and tugged on your hand again. “What is it?” He’d shouted over the rain. 

You’d begun to climb the hill with a renewed vigor. “Today!” 

Copia had no idea what you’d meant by today, but he couldn’t question it when you were pulling him up the hill. It was like you’d suddenly found your footing in the wet grass, and he was glad of it. His shoes were completely drenched and he was shivering nearly as violently as you were. He didn’t need to understand what you were talking about right now. All that mattered was getting you (and himself) out of the cold. He can ask you later. 

Later, he’d thought. Would there be a later?

Yes, there would. As he watched you climb the hill towards the kitchen door, still clinging to his hand and helping him up, he’d decided there would be a later. Sister Imperator may control every other aspect of the Abbey and his life, but not this one. Not you. 

The Siblings working in the kitchen had looked at the two of you like you were crazy when you burst through the door, sopping wet and dripping onto the tile. Perhaps it was a mix of confusion and surprise—you’d wager that none of them had seen Copia without his paints before. You feel immensely privileged that you’d been the first, that you’d been the one to take them off. You’d been the one to strip away Papa. 

“Eh,” Copia had said, looking back and forth between you and the Brother who had smiled at you earlier, “We— I— sorry. We’ll be going, yes—”

He’d grabbed your hand again and pulled you through the kitchens the way you came that morning. Once you both had stepped out into the refectory, which was thankfully empty at this time of day, Copia stopped again. The sounds of his ruffled shirt and your habit dripping on the floor echoed in the large room. “Be honest with me, cara. How bad is it?” 

You’d struggled to hold in a laugh. “It’s… not as bad as you think,” you’d told him. In truth, it wasn’t. But you realized then that you’d missed a spot of paint in his hairline, which now trailed down his forehead in a distinct white line. Without thinking twice, you reached up to swipe it away with your thumb. “I can’t imagine I look any better.” 

Copia huffed a laugh through his nose. “We… should probably go get cleaned up,” he’d said. “I wouldn’t want you to catch a cold.” 

“You either, Papa,” you said, and Copia had mourned the loss of his name on your lips. He understands—within the walls of the Abbey, he is Papa and you are Sorella. But perhaps he could make an exception for you. 

You and Copia had parted ways then, to wash up and resume your duties. All the way back to your dorm and through the time it took to shower and change, you’d recited the word today in your head like a prayer. Even now, as you quickly walk through the corridors on the path you've taken every day for the past week, you repeat today, today, today as if you would lose the thought if you didn’t.

If Elizabeth is the key to the first word, perhaps today is the key to the second. Two steps forward, one step back. The hill in the rain. You must look back before you can forge ahead.

With practiced ease, you open the diary’s lockbox and place it onto your usual desk. Having donned the pristine white gloves again, you unfold the linen and the gold embossment on the cover catches your eye. You smile. Soon, you promise to Elizabeth, you will live again in these pages.

The familiar string of letters greets you as you open to the first page of writing. You write the sequence again on a blank sheet in your notebook, the letters flowing from your pen with ease after having written them hundreds of times already. 

LzlhelzhkxbgwfqmnJkcfolBfbalBoiovtsheq.

You already know that the first five letters translate to today, so you cross them out. Underneath the next letters, you write hodie again and again, as you’d done with the word Elizabeth the first time. Your hands are shaking. Please, please, please…

You trace your finger over the letter grid, quickly mapping each letter of the cipher to its partner in the key. L of the cipher and the H of the key map to an E on the grid. You jot down a messy E. Z of the cipher, o of the key, l on the grid. And so on, until you’re confident you’ve found the next word when the deciphered letters stop making sense. 

The second word in the line reads electus. Chosen. 

Without translating the whole sentence, hodie electus could mean a number of things. Word order does not matter in Latin—hodie could be the subject of the sentence, or the object, or an arbitrary time frame. 

Your heart is beating hard in your ears. You continue, using electus as the new cipher key. 

The next word is sum. The Latin word for self, or I. 

Hodie electus sum. Today I was chosen. 

Sweet Satan, you think. Your breath comes shallow and quick. Holy Hell, I’ve figured it out.

You continue, your hands flying back and forth between the corresponding letters of each new key and the grid, double and triple checking to make sure you map the correct letters. Your head feels light, your chest heavy. Like if you dared to look away from the diary or your notebook or the grid, you’d find that you were wrong. You must translate this first sentence before it shifts and your idea doesn’t fit anymore. 

It’s easy to find where the first sentence ends, because it is isolated in its own paragraph in the diary. That also tells you that it’s an important statement; important enough to be separate from the rest of the text, which is a continuous flow of letters down the page. 

The final word of the cipher confirms your suspicions that Elizabeth wanted to keep her diary a secret for a long time. The final word deciphers as Papae, the Latin possessive form of Papa. 

Hodie electus sum ut Primus Motor Papae.

Today I was chosen to be Papa’s Prime Mover.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tag list: @bonelessghoul @gbatesx @the-did-i-ask @leah-halliwell92 @archive-obsess @rosacrose @nikkyatyourservice @sodoswitchimage @portaltothevoid @lightbluuestars @thesoundresoundsecho @stephnthangss @enchantedbunny @jackson5611-blog @copiasprincipessa @kadedoesthings @justheretoreadleavemealone

UGH PLEASE THIS IS ALL I NEED

lessons in touch

pairing: azriel x f!reader

summary: azriel’s curiosity and penchant for spying reveals exactly why you’ve been more…enthusiastic in bed lately

word count: 5.8k :0

warnings: smut (not super detailed)!! 18+ mdni pls, az being nosy

a/n: this is one of my faves so far :’) i have this persistent silly headcanon that az is the biggest busybody of them all and that’s why he’s so good at his job

masterlist

banners by @/cafekitsune <3

Sex between you and Azriel was far from boring. It was a well known secret that Azriel had a predilection towards kink and experimentation, so your adventures with him between the sheets never left either of you dissatisfied. Far from it, actually.

Being with him was always pleasurable, wonderful, and unrivaled by any you’d had before him. During girls night, you had always attested to his prowess, said that his skills of observation extended past the battlefield and very much into the bedroom. And his wingspan…you would neither confirm nor deny whether the theory around Illyrian males and their wingspan was true, much to their chagrin, but the mischievous smirk that curled your lips was all they needed to confirm their suspicions.

Azriel was a skilled lover; he knew your ins and outs, understood almost innately how to coax pleasure from you with a simple, well placed brush of his fingers. More often than not, Azriel had you in a puddle on the floor before he could even take his pants off. Which, ordinarily, was a more than welcome skill — you loved how well he knew you, adored how he loved you so much that his brain was like a file cabinet of information about things you liked.

But you’d grown frustrated lately, more and more desiring to reduce Azriel to the same pleasure filled putty that he so often did with you. His composure was infuriatingly ironclad; you knew he felt the same primal, overwhelming desire that you did — such was the nature of the mating bond — but he was much better at masking it.

In short, you wanted to know what made him tick, what made him beg and whimper and plead with you to touch him. You’d been mated for a year now, and while his desire for you never waned, you had yet to find the one thing that made him sink to his knees and beg the way he so easily coaxed you to do for him.

It was no secret that your mate had a bold competitive streak. But your own stubbornness rivaled his own, leading to long, long card game nights and sparring matches — much to everyone else’s entertainment.

Though you knew you had no reason to feel such competitiveness when matters of the bedroom were concerned, you couldn’t help but feel a twinge of annoyance that Azriel had so easily figured out how to make you squirm in a multitude of ways — with all your cards on the table — while you were still somewhat in the dark about his most favored bedroom inclinations. Azriel kept the secrets of his hand close to his chest.

So you vowed to yourself that you’d figure it out, test his composure to see how exactly to make that beautiful, calm countenance crack. It was like a game, but one you were more than willing to play and even more determined to win.

Ever the observer however, Azriel caught on to the changes in your excitement beneath the sheets, amusement and adoration coursing through his veins as he reveled in your sudden vigor, never shying away from a challenge.

You had been more experimental in your bedroom endeavors as of late, asking him to bend you this way and that, introducing things that he never thought you’d be interested in — not that he was complaining in the slightest. Though your differences were strikingly obvious, Azriel would be lying if he said he wasn’t curious about where your sudden interest in various sexual niches had sprung from.

Initially, it was all fun and games; if you wanted to explore then so be it — he’d match you stroke for stroke every time. But eventually, his nosiness had wedged its way deep into each crevice of his mind until he was all-consumed, curiosity devolving into a burgeoning anxiety.

Was something wrong?

Azriel was positive that if you were bored you would tell him. Had you heard something from one of the others that spurred you to want to explore more? Had you felt as though you had to introduce novelty every time to please him?

You had to have known that was far from the truth; no matter your state, Azriel had always made it clear to you that you were the most exquisite creature he’d ever had the privilege of knowing, let alone laying with. He didn’t think there was anything wrong…at least not for him. Maybe you felt like something was missing.

“Penny for your thoughts, brother?”

Rhys’s voice snapped him out of his anxious musings. Azriel hadn’t realized that he was pacing so furiously he could have worn a hole through the floor. Both Rhysand and Cassian had been watching with amusement glinting in their eyes. After all, it was a rare sight to see their ordinarily calm and stoic shadowsinger so worked up.

The same poker face Azriel had worn to win countless games of cards against his brothers masked his features now, but the twitch in his brow and the near missable ruffling of his wings were tells that Cassian and Rhysand were well acquainted with.

The shadowsinger had never perfected his stone faced indifference when he was thinking of you.

Cassian ventured a guess, “Have you upset Y/N?”

Cassian had meant to tease, but the way Azriel stayed silent had his eyebrow arching in question. Azriel ignored the curious glance from his brother as his mind ran in circles once more.

Had he upset you? Was your sudden experimentation in bed some roundabout way of telling him that he had done something to hurt you? No, no…that didn’t make sense, he was being illogical.

Or…Had he somehow missed picking up on something that you liked?

Your sudden interest in sexual exploration was far from a problem, but he got the niggling sense that you were up to something, playing a game that he wasn’t privy to. And he wanted in.

Azriel was private by nature, never revealing more of his relationship with you than absolutely necessary to his brothers, not wanting to overshare in fear that he’d fall victim to their incessant teasing. But this…maybe it would be useful to get their opinions about your sudden change in interests? Cassian and Rhys were both mated males afterall, and maybe there was something Azriel was missing. He would never admit it to anyone but himself, but he fell victim to his crippling neuroticism more times than he’d like to. Curiosity and anxiety were two sides of the same coin.

So he indulged and told his brothers of your sudden vigor in bed, enthusiasm to try something new every single time. You’d been insatiable as of late and he didn’t know why; nothing had changed that he knew of and it was concerning him, he couldn’t stand not knowing.

“So,” Rhys started tentatively, narrowing his eyes in confusion, not quite grasping the issue that Azriel was so hesitant to endorse. “Y/N is trying new things in bed.”

And elsewhere, Azriel thought with a ghost of a smile on his lips. He’d leave that part out, though; Rhys probably wouldn’t appreciate knowing the details about the going-ons in the dining room of the townhouse. And the gardens. And the hallways.

“And you’re complaining?” Cassian asked, incredulous, similarly at a loss for his brother’s concern.

“I’m not complaining, Cass,” Azriel groaned and slumped unceremoniously into a chair (much like an irritated school child who’d been caught doing something they weren’t supposed to), immediately regretting his poorly thought out decision to confide in his brothers. “I’m just confused. I don’t know what she wants.”

“Have you considered asking her?” Rhys inquired, infuriatingly teasing smile curving his lips.

Azriel deadpanned and clicked his tongue, not believing that Rhys would assume he was so inept at communicating with his lover, “Of course I’ve asked. She just says nothing’s changed. I believe her, but it’s still bothering me and I don’t know why.”

Both Cassian and Rhys resisted the urge to laugh, mentally conversing about how Azriel’s affections for you often reduced him to an adolescent-like lovesickness, begging and willing to please. Az had been this way since they were children; fiercely competitive and subsequently pouty if he didn’t have the upper hand, always wanting to know and learn everything he could.

This side of the shadowsinger was one that did not make an appearance often, reserving itself until he was around the few he trusted wholeheartedly.

The past couple of centuries saw even less of this endearingly childish and competitive Azriel – even around his closest friends – as Night Court duties and his identity as Spymaster overshadowed most opportunities to be vulnerable in his relationships.

But when you came around, light began to spark beneath the shadowy depths of Azriel’s countenance as you slowly coaxed him to trust and love as fiercely as everyone knew he was capable of, with the reckless abandon that his childhood self so easily embodied.

“Maybe check her nightstand,” Cassian teased with a wink, only half joking, as a quiet happiness bubbled within him at the small glimpses of Azriel’s vulnerability. “Some of Nesta’s best kept secrets are hidden there.”

Before Azriel could furrow his brow and chastise his brother for snooping through his mate’s belongings, a realization hit him.

Nesta.

You had been spending an awfully large amount of time with the eldest Archeron sister in the library lately, choosing to hole up there in lieu of your other hobbies when you weren’t training or engaging in your various other Night Court duties.

But Nesta would be a dead end. There was no way he could approach her without tipping you off to his secret sleuthing. Though he and Nesta were friends, her loyalties laid with you; there was an unexplainable female camaraderie between you – a chosen sisterhood, if you will – and if he asked if she knew anything about what was going on, she’d go running to you, mischievous twinkle in her eyes.

The conversation with his brothers was about as helpful as he initially thought it would be, and he let himself succumb to their jokes about how wrapped around your finger he was. Azriel had endured it graciously, knowing better than anyone that they were right, that he was indeed wrapped so tightly around your little finger that he was unsure of where he ended and you began. That he would gratefully stay in the palm of your hand for as long as you would allow.

But that night, after you had told him not to wait up for you because you’d be having drinks with Feyre and Mor, Cassian’s voice reverberated insistently in his mind.

Check her nightstand…best kept secrets…

Azriel resisted the urge to snoop for all of ten minutes before his inherent nosiness clouded his judgment and got the better of him; afterall, his love for secrets is what made him such an effective spymaster. Before he knew it, he was rolling onto your side of the bed, inquisitive hands pulling open your bedside drawer.

Hidden among the small stack of books he had given you was a thick novel with a cover he recognized, but gave no second thought.

It was a book you said Nesta had lent you. When he asked if you liked it you said it was “only okay” and that you’d let him know if he should read it when you were finished. Despite your lukewarm review, however, it had never left your side, and he had found you on more than one occasion cozied up with it in your hands, cheeks dusted with a heat he knew all too well.

Azriel was well aware of the content of the books Nesta favored, often lending a reluctant ear to a whiny Cassian whenever she paid more attention to her books than him.

But there was no way your sudden excitement for novelty in the bedroom could be inspired by Nesta’s smutty recommendations…right? He leafed through, assessing hazel eyes quickly skimming the paragraphs, catching glimpses of the prose that had you so enraptured.

Azriel felt the back of his neck heat.

It was smut, as he assumed. But this was truly…filth. Pure, unadulterated, filthy smut.

Azriel was a lover of all books, never having been one to categorize or judge them by popular opinion. And, to be completely fair, he had read a decent amount of books filled with sex and romance.

But…he was sure that the acts detailed in this one would make even the Court of Nightmares’s debauchery look saintly. Even Azriel, who had been correctly assumed to be the kinkiest of the Inner Circle, felt tame in comparison to the words flickering across the pages of your book. How did you read this with such impassivity on your face?

Azriel snapped the book shut with such force the pages blew a cool, gentle breeze onto his heating face. He tried – and failed – to not picture you in the position the main character in your book was described in, unintentionally sending a soft hum of his burgeoning arousal down your bond. He was beginning to understand your desire to replicate the more salacious scenes detailed in your novels.

Having fun without me, Az? Came your teasing inquiry in his mind, as he meticulously replaced all of your belongings into your nightstand.

Don’t be nosy, he quipped back, extremely aware of the irony of his statement. And then after a beat he added, answering your question with a sincerity that never failed to grip your heart, Never without you, love.

You left him waiting for a response a little bit longer than you normally would as you attempted to control the thundering beat of your heart in your chest. You were convinced that no amount of time could ever diminish the effects that Azriel’s blatant display of love had on your composure. As much as he was wrapped around your little finger, you were just as tightly wrapped around his.

I take back what I said earlier, wait up for me.

Azriel smirked to himself, feeling a flare of triumph, It’s a date, then. Maybe I’ll find something interesting to read in the meantime.

If you caught on to his sly insinuation, you did not let on, just continued bantering with him for a few moments before returning your full attention to your friends, who were no doubt attempting to extract morsels of information from your obviously lascivious exchange with your lover.

But that night – even after Azriel had promptly fucked you into a blissful oblivion – had yielded no more information about your recent proclivity for finding a new kink, so Azriel did what he did best and spied.

He kept a watchful eye on the books you read, and tracked the times you asked him to try something new. He spent more time in the library than necessary under the guise that Rhys had put him up to some research.

Which was only half of a lie. He was in there to do reconnaissance, yes, just not for Rhys.

Azriel scanned the bookshelves for anything that seemed like it had been recently replaced, pages still clinging to the sweet scent of your skin. A title he recognized caught his eye and he slotted it out of place, flipping through the pages to confirm his suspicions.

This book was shorter than the others he’d seen you carry around, but certainly no less obscene. A smirk pulled at Azriel’s lips as he read a dog eared chapter that you had clearly marked for inspiration, recollections of your most recent tryst in his office flooding his awareness.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

You had sauntered into his small, private study at the House of Wind, short dress skimming the curves of your thighs as you bent to greet him with a kiss to his cheek. He’d been distracted at the time — surveying maps and cross referencing with ancient textbooks — and barely tore his attention away from his work long enough to squeeze your hand in greeting.

But you didn’t seem to mind, opting to make yourself comfortable and purveying the books neatly organized on his shelves. When you’d found a book you thought would be interesting enough — though probably not quite as interesting as the one you’d just finished, per Nesta’s recommendation — you settled into the armchair across Azriel’s desk, shoulders against one armrest as your legs draped over the other.

Azriel looked up at you then, soft smile curving his lips. He loved when you kept him company while he worked; somehow, whenever you were around, work never seemed nearly as daunting or overwhelming.

You met his gaze with your own grin, silently communicating your support of him in the way that only mates could, tugging gently on the bond before winking at him and resettling your attention back to the book in your lap.

The both of you worked in that wonderfully comfortable silence for a while before Azriel caught you fidgeting out of the corner of his eye. The sun had begun its routine descent below the horizon, cool breeze stirring the sheer curtains framing his windows. Though summer had plagued the days with heat and humidity, the nights were still cool as the last dregs of spring eked away.

He looked up, intending on asking if you needed anything — a blanket, maybe — but the words died swiftly in his throat when he eyed a flash of bare skin as you swung your legs to stand, showcasing just enough for him to clue in to the fact that you were indeed not wearing underwear. Or anything else under your dress, if the peak of your nipples beneath the silk was anything to go by.

Selfishly, for a brief moment, Azriel decided that maybe keeping the windows open wouldn’t be so bad.

He pried his eyes away from your form making its way back to his bookcase, and instead attempted to tamp down the raging lust stirring in his belly so he could focus. But the mental picture of what he knew lay beneath the barely there fabric of your dress coupled with your scent made the lines on the map he was studying blur into nonsense.

Though intelligent and compassionate at heart, Azriel often found himself a slave to his baser male instincts when it came to you. There was little – if anything – you could do to quell the raging need to touch you, kiss you, be near you at all hours of the day; his desire for you was a constant hum belying his daily routine. He had not one iota of self control when you were involved, much to his simultaneous thrill and chagrin.

Inwardly, he cursed himself as he stole another glance at you as you stretched onto your toes to reach a book on the top shelf.

Beauty incarnate, truly, he thought. Azriel’s eyes tracked each slope and valley of the lines of your body, taking his time to commit each curve to memory, the way he should have been doing with the maps sitting now uselessly on his desk.

You looked at him over your shoulder, small pout on your lips, “Az, can you help me? I can’t reach.”

Azriel’s heart leapt. It’s like you were doing it on purpose, and in hindsight you definitely were. But despite the gnawing adoration encouraging him to fall to his knees and worship at your feet, he stood with the cool grace of someone unperturbed by their mate’s subtle seduction.

Azriel obliged you, coming up behind you, one hand curling around your hip to steady himself as the other reached easily to the top shelf to grab the book your fingertips skimmed. As he leaned forward, you could feel the hard planes of his chest against your back and you wanted to abandon all your plans to slowly seduce Azriel into a puddle on the floor, but you remained steadfast in your decision. Nesta had pushed a book into your hands and said she tried this once with Cassian and that the resulting hours were pure heaven, and you wanted to test the theory, curiosity rivaling that of your mate’s.

You barely registered Azriel putting the book in your hands, too lost in the warmth of his familiar touch. But you composed yourself quickly, leaning back into him to kiss him in thanks, not so subtly pushing your ass back into his hips. A feeling of revelry settled in your chest when you felt him already half hard beneath his pants, his fingers curling tighter around your hip.

Oh so reluctantly, you pulled away, perfect picture of obliviousness as you plopped back down on the armchair you were occupying previously.

Azriel thought he would collapse in on himself when you went to sit back down. You had him so tightly ensnared it was like he was still in the midst of the initial mating frenzy. He briefly wondered if the mind-boggling need for you would ever go away, though part of him knew hoped it never would.

He took a moment to compose himself — if that was even possible when one’s mate was clearly playing a dangerous game of seduction — bracing himself with one arm steady against the bookshelf.

Despite how much Azriel so greatly wanted to shirk his responsibilities to bend you over his desk, he wouldn’t. Not yet anyway. The work day wasn’t quite over, and the plans he was making for you would surely last too long to finish his research afterwards. So he steeled himself and took a deep, steadying breath, willing his blood to fill his head again so he could think with some semblance of clarity.

Though at baseline, he always found it difficult to think rationally when you were around.

While Azriel was trying — and failing — to regain his composure, you were feigning extreme interest in the book you had selected at random: The History and Systems of Fae War Treaties.

If Azriel had been paying any attention to what you were reaching for, he’d have caught on to your ploy, but luckily for you the mere sight of you was enough to render him at least somewhat incapacitated.

You took a peek at him over the back of the chair, triumphant satisfaction crooking your lips into a mischievous smile. Maybe this would be the day he finally cracks, you think to yourself.

But as the sun dipped lower beneath the skyline of Velaris below, and as Azriel stubbornly worked away at his desk, you felt the tiredness of the day settle into your bones, pull you deeper into the plush leather of Azriel’s loveseat. Cassian had run you ragged with training this morning, and Rhys and Amren had your mind working tirelessly as the three of you attempted to draft a peace treaty in a meager four hours.

But you wouldn’t sleep, not yet, not until you had reduced Azriel to a beautiful, orgasmic mess in his chair. Not until the hazel of his eyes were blown dark with desire and pleading as you straddled his hips.

The next hour was a fight to stay awake as the words on the pages in your lap began to blur into obscurity, mind muddling with theories and questions — though the book was an off handed choice, you couldn’t deny that the information was coincidentally incredibly pertinent to the discussion you were having with Rhys and Amren earlier in the day.

The telltale sigh of a day’s work completed pulled your attention away from your book, gaze settling on your mate. His hair was mused in a way that told you he had spent the last however long skating his fingers through it, but as always it fell perfectly across his forehead in defiance of the tiredness creeping up his neck.

Azriel’s eyes met yours and apparently your coy seduction earlier still held his body in a vice, evident in the way he stood and stalked to you. There was a cool, domineering edge to his movements and you knew your plan had worked to a degree, but the determination you had to break him down had leeched out of you the same way the night had stolen the day’s heat.

You hummed in satisfaction as he leaned down to kiss you, the pressure gentle and so, so sweet. A stark contrast to the dark and tempting storm of desire Azriel flooded your senses with down the bond.

Never once breaking the contact of your kiss, he’d wedged a knee between your legs as one hand braced against the arm of the loveseat while the other danced at the hem of your dress, endearingly asking for permission.

Your mouth curved against his and you guided his hand up to your hip, gasping delightedly when his hand tracked further up your waist, bringing the hem of your dress up with it as he slotted your hips more comfortably against his leg.

His lips traced a scalding trail of open mouthed kisses against your jaw, your neck, a chuckle rumbling deep in his chest that had your hips rolling against him.

“So bold for me,” he said, his hand skating across your unclothed skin while he urged your hips to grind a little harder against his thigh. You gasped, the pressure so wonderfully perfect against your cunt.

Though your initial intention was to get Azriel all hot and bothered, you couldn’t deny that the game you had set yourself up in had the same effect on you; the lingering, almost lazy path his eyes swept over your body every time you shifted across from him left heat singing between your legs, untamed longing for you dancing down the golden thread between you.

“Az…” you rasped, arching your hips up to meet his still clothed body, the top of your dress pushed languidly down to your waist as Azriel played slow music on the skin of your breasts. The loveseat was a cramped fit at best, but Azriel’s surprising flexibility and dexterity made it work despite the general largeness of his wings and frame. He’d made even the smallest corners of the House work for your sexual escapades.

The memories of all the scandalous little happenings you two have been partaking in the past few months flitted across your mind’s eye like an erotic slideshow, and you groaned. Legs tightening around his in desperate search for more friction, more contact, more of him. His name on your lips again was a wanton plea, a sound so wonderfully obscene Azriel almost came in his pants.

“Hmm?” He hummed, closing his lips around your nipple, teeth gently tugging before his tongue was quick to soothe the ache. The way your hips were grinding so shamelessly against him had his head spinning with a swirling mix of lust and love, and he clung to the last shreds of self discipline he had. It was all he could do to not tear both of your clothes off and sink himself deep into your brilliant warmth.

Azriel had always been patient, mastery over his desire was a skill he’d honed meticulously over the past few centuries — though you had a way of quickly unraveling his self control with one flutter of your eyelashes. But he wanted to make this last for you, wanted to draw out your pleasure for as long as possible. So he pressed his thigh more firmly between your legs, his own hips slotting against the side of your body.

You gasped at the feel of him, of how hard he was against your hip, and you tried to reach him, tried to get him to release some of the tension you knew coiled in his belly. He groaned deep and breathless when you pressed insistently against him, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment before he continued his ministrations on your body.

Azriel’s hands were everywhere, trailing paths around your breasts, up your neck, into your hair, and between your legs the way he no doubt was doing with the maps on his desk earlier.

It was infuriating how close you were already, how swiftly the tables had turned (though you half blamed the sudden onset of your fatigue the day had cursed you with), how with one well placed touch you were on the brink of collapse at Azriel’s mercy yet again.

He was urging your hips faster now, his fingers and lips making quick work of all the places he knew would have you keening. And before you could even register that he was still fully clothed, hard cock still straining against the confines of his pants, you were falling, breathless and dizzy with release.

The night had been far from over. You came twice more in that godsdamned loveseat – once with his fingers buried inside you and another time with his head between your legs – before he whisked you away to your bedroom where you finally, finally felt the delicious stretch of him inside you.

By the time the sun was making its appearance over the horizon once more, you had lost count of how many times Azriel had you begging.

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Though your spicy little rendezvous in his office – and encore in the bedroom – wasn’t quite an exact replica of what played out in the book you had apparently just read, Azriel had thought your coy seduction had its intended effect. He’d been so fucking desperate for you that he couldn’t wait until you were out of his study to have you coming for him.

But, as he skimmed the pages of the chapter you marked, he couldn’t help but think that maybe he wouldn’t mind being fully at the mercy of your whims, wouldn’t mind submitting to the pleasure that you so easily coaxed from him. He was already always so eager to please you, so willing to crawl to the ends of the earth for you if you had so much as suggested you wanted him to.

“Azriel?” Nesta’s voice dripped with wicked amusement, effectively pulling him from his erotic reverie. “I never thought I’d see you in this section of the library.”

Fuck.

He hadn’t anticipated that he’d run into Nesta, a severely idiotic oversight on his part considering the House’s library was something akin to her own personal sanctuary. Azriel turned slowly on his heels to face her, mind working in overdrive to come up with a viable excuse for him being there.

“Nesta,” was all he came up with. Pathetic.

Her smirk turned deadly when she realized he was floundering. Arms crossed over her chest, chin tilted ever so slightly upwards, she looked the very portrait of smug amusement; he would expect nothing less of his friend who moonlighted as Lady Death.

Nesta’s eyes dropped to the book he forgot he was holding, and her eyebrows shot up in understanding, “Ah, I just recommended that one to Y/N. She gave it a hefty five stars. Said it was…intriguing.”

Nesta’s sly comments were enough to confirm Azriel’s suspicions that you were taking bedroom inspiration from the arsenal of smutty books the House stocked. And, with the way Nesta was biting her tongue, he could tell that she knew exactly why he was there.

Cassian, that fucking mouthy bastard.

Before Azriel could open his mouth to tell her that it wasn’t what it looked like – even though they both knew it was exactly what it looked like – Nesta stalked past him, pulling books off the shelf with striking precision. With a stack of five books balanced on one hand, she took the one Azriel was holding and reshelved it.

“These are Y/N’s favorite,” she said, this time with a little bit more softness and understanding as she placed them gingerly in his arms. “I’m sure she’d love if you read them.”

Azriel scanned each cover, a fond smile working to tilt the corners of his lips. You did love these; he had been familiar with these covers long before you were even mated, always keeping a lovingly watchful eye on the things you enjoyed, filing the knowledge away in his mind for later.

“Thanks, Nesta,” he said sincerely, adoration for you filling his chest with warmth as he remembered the excitement lighting your eyes while you read these books, cute flush radiating off your cheeks.

Nesta only nodded, giving his shoulder an encouraging few pats as she stalked off to another aisle, no doubt scouring the shelves for a new read.

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Azriel told himself that he’d only read a few chapters — for research — but he hadn’t realized that he’d spent the better half of his day off lounging on the loveseat in his study.

Despite his previous reservations around the smutty books you’d so lovingly treasured, he found he was enjoying them — and not just for the well written, detailed sex scenes that you were pulling ideas from. He was two-thirds of the way through the second book, in the midst of the big climax, when you snuck up on him.

“It seems you’ve discovered my dirty little secret,” you said coyly, arms coming up behind him to snake around his shoulders.

Azriel jumped at your sudden appearance, inwardly cursing himself for teaching you how to sneak up on someone so effectively. He closed the book swiftly, feeling a flustered blush creep up his neck.

You pouted and rested your chin on his shoulder, “Aw, you were just getting to the best part! Don’t stop reading on my account.”

Azriel groaned but gave in, leaning back into your touch, “Don’t tease me.”

“I would never tease you, my love,” you said mockingly before kissing his cheek. “It is really the best part, though. The paint scene—“

Before you could regale the details of the main characters’ sexual escapades, Azriel took your chin in his fingers and slotted his lips over yours in a silent plea to stop your innocent tormenting. He reveled in the way you kissed him back without pause; he didn’t think he’d ever get used to the way you loved him as eagerly as he did you.

“Dirty little secret, huh?” He quipped, lips brushing yours as a bemused smirk lifted the corners of his mouth. You rolled your eyes as you made your way around the back of the chair, gesturing for him to uncross his legs so you could settle yourself on his lap.

Your weight was a welcome comfort as he continued prodding you, “Is this why you’ve been so…eager lately?”

“I didn’t think you’d notice,” you admitted, winding your arms around his neck as he scoffed in mock disbelief.

“Give me some credit love, I notice everything when it comes to you.” Came his quick response.

You pursed your lips, half in childish dissatisfaction that your little game was over, “I just wanted to know how to get you to beg for me. I needed ideas.”

Your nonchalance belied the wicked sensuality of your words and he chuckled, wrapping his wings around you both before mapping a scathing trail of kisses up your neck. The pillowy feel of his lips brushing your ear made you shudder, his teeth nibbling playfully at your earlobe as he hummed deep in his chest, “We have a lifetime together, there’s no rush. But since you want it so badly, shall I show you how well I can beg for you?”

Azriel’s offer sent an exhilarating shiver down your spine, and you so desperately wanted to give in, wanted to watch him come undone beneath you as he pleaded with you to touch him. But you shook your head despite yourself, competitive stubbornness the only barrier between you and what you wanted.

“I want to earn it, make you want me so bad you can’t help yourself.”

Your words were a breathy murmur that nearly had Azriel flipping you over right there on the too small lounge chair, but he resisted, prioritizing his assurances that you were the only thing he wanted every second of every day.

“That’s the thing, beloved,” he whispered in your ear, deep voice doused in honey reverberating in your bones as your desire flared so wildly it made you lightheaded. His hand, calloused palms rough against your skin, skated beneath the hem of your dress to grab hold of your hip and move you so you were straddling him.

This was the image you played over and over in your mind. The unbridled, unrestrained look of pleading in his eyes that blew his pupils wide, that had his hips shifting against yours in a display of just how much he wanted you.

“I always want you,” he continued. “I’d beg for you like I am dying of dehydration and you are my oasis. Just ask, and I’ll do exactly as you say.”

You were mesmerized, finger tracing the sharp contours of his jawline before ending at his chin, tilting his gaze up with the same practiced dominance you’d seen him slip into countless times before. You savored the way he shuddered at your touch, pretty lips parting as his chest heaved.

The corner of your mouth quirked, your breath a ghost over his lips, “Show me, then.”