daeron had never known his true mother. alicent had sent him to ward in oldtown when he was too young to hold memories. he had not looked to replace her role, but it had happened nonetheless. she was the one he would always returned to, ormund's wife. she had sons of her own, children she shared blood with, and yet she treated daeron no different from them.
he remembered little of being an infant, only the warmth of her embrace and the comfort of her gentle lilt. daeron had been taken under her wing and into her arms, raised like her very own child. she sat by his sickbed even when the maesters of the hightower advised against it, she sewed him small trinkets and handkerchiefs with tessarion embroidered in blue thread, she praised his high valyrian when everything he had been taught of himself warred against it, she drew him into hugs and kissed his temple and cheeks despite ormund's disgusted scoldings about how unbecoming it was for a woman of her station to coddle a boy that was not hers. but daeron was hers, in the ways that mattered the most. blood was a thin thing, he had learned, and if there was one person in the whole seven kingdoms that the prince could rely upon, it was her.
so when daeron came to her, that agonizing night in tumbleton, she quickly rose from her spot by the hearth in her chambers, her jaw set heavily. daeron knew he looked an utter mess; with his cheeks wet and eyes still red. he had not noticed he had wept until his eyes began to burn anew at the sight of her. his feet had become planted to the cobble floor, his fists clenched by his sides. "mother," he had said, his voice scarcely above a trembling whisper. not my lady, not lady hightower, not even her name - but the most precious title of all.
before daeron could fix his mistake, she took him into her arms without a second thought. she accepted the name naturally, no comment made to scold or berate as ormund may have done. her hold was firm but not unkind, her touch gentle and grounding, and he melt into her embrace like a chick seeking warmth. "what has he done?" she questioned in a sharp whisper. daeron would tell her then, the words sticking in his throat, of what lord ormund had made him do. he spoke of how the man's hands cradled his face, proclaiming him a claimant to the iron throne. he had held vigilance in his own two hands, and drove sword into flesh with the outcome of death.
daeron heard her breath catch, even above the sounds of his shaky crying. his own hands clutched at her back, feeling the rigid lining of her corset beneath green silks. her grip tightened, body growing tense like a lioness prepared to strike for the sake of her cub. "daeron," she pulled back just enough to look into his watery eyes. "my sweet boy, what has he done to you?" it sounded less like a question and more of a threat to the man she called husband. her hands, smaller and gentler than ormund's, cradled his face with a somehow violent tenderness that only a mother could conjure. "do not fret," she said, wiping his tears and he had no choice but to lean into her touch like a kitten, "i know... the burdens of a king are too heavy for a boy. you are still a child, still meant to be protected. whatever ormund may do, whatever ormund may say, you must believe in me when i say we shall bear the weight together. you would make a good king, for you are noble and honorable and kind, but you are not meant to travel this path with him. you are deserving of guidance, not commands. ormund is a volatile man and he hides much from me, but you are mine. no harm shall come so as long as you return to me."
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MORE BAT BOYS X PLUS SIZE READER (smut!!) PLEASE xxx
Cautious | Bat Boys
ACOTAR Bat Boys x Plus Size reader
It's just as Cassian said: the bat boys were young and dumb… and fucked females in the same room as each other. Y/N’s in for one hell of a surprise.
Warning: Mature themes (18+), swearing, fluff, and smut.
MASTERLIST - 1 and 2
PART TWO
"Rhysand" I giggled, the sound drowned out as he slammed the oak front door shut and pushed me up against it.
He pressed his lips to mine, capturing my laugh within that soft, sinful mouth of his.
I gasped, back arching against the cold wood as his tongue swept in, the faint taste of wine invading my senses. My fingers clawed up his armoured chest, scratching and admiring the lean muscle he had gained training here at Windhaven.
He caged me in, taller and broader than I had expected, especially for a male of only twenty years. But his experience with females was more than evident as he kissed me, one hand gripping the flesh at my hip while the other curved around my jaw to keep me just where he liked.
A moan slipped free as his lips plucked back from mine, an insatiable hunger in his violet gaze as he dipped his head down and began suckling wet, needy kisses against my throat. I felt his smirk against my skin at the sounds he wrenched from me.
"Rhy-Rhysand," I couldn't form proper sentences, not as he nipped and sucked against the sweetest spot at the base of my throat. He hummed absentmindedly. "We'll get caught – "
"Rhys," He corrected, voice like melted chocolate. I bit my lip as he kissed up neck and jaw, before pulling back to smirk at me.
Gods he was beautiful.
"Call me Rhys, darling," He brushed the tip of his nose against mine and my eyes fluttered. "And no one's going to catch us. My mother is at the town hall, gossiping with your mother."
I giggled again and his lip quirked at the corner. A flash of sweetness behind the charm.
Again, his lips met mine, a collision of teeth and tongues and enough need that all my protests disappeared. Washed away by the feel and taste of him, by the way, his hands now brushed up my stomach, long, ringed fingers teasing under my aching breasts.
So many noises escaped me as that hand lifted higher, and I felt a charge of power course through me as Rhys cupped my breasts in his palm, a rough sound rumbling from him as he pinched my pebbled nipple between his thumb and forefinger.
"I don't – " Words failed me again, every sentence melting into a moan as he toyed with my breasts, grinning as he did so. "I don't think this is what your mother meant when she said to make me feel welcome."
He snorted and braced a hand over my head, the other moved to tilt my chin to meet his pleased smirk. I could smell the salt and jasmine on his tan skin, could make out the few Illyrian tattoos peeking out from under his leathers.
"I disagree, darling," Again that smooth term of endearment, and the smile he gave me as my thighs clenched shut told me he knew what it did to me. "I'm doing exactly what I was told – creating long-lasting allies, a friendship to withstand centuries."
"Is this how you treat all your friends then?" I quirked a brow, desperately ignoring the way his thumb swooped back and forth at my jaw.
"Don't be jealous," His smile broadened a breathtaking sight. My lungs constricted tighter when he leaned down closer, and I felt the unmistakable imprint of his hard length against my stomach. "I'm sure I'm not the first friend you've ever made, Y/N darling."
A glint of challenge in those midnight eyes.
"Now who's jealous?" I teased and satisfaction filled me when shadows eclipsed his eyes, the hand at my jaw tightening when I rocked my hips forward to rut against him. He growled as I did it again. And again.
"You are trouble," He chuckled, and I was molten in his hands as he pressed one long, indulgent kiss against my mouth. The kind that promised a night I wouldn't easily forget. "I'll take your lack of a denial as a personal challenge, to be the best friend you've ever had – "
I opened my mouth to laugh, but then Rhys clamped a broad, calloused hand over my lips. Silencing me.
His mouth pressed against his knuckles, violet eyes warning me to stay quiet.
And then I heard it - footsteps crunched outside, a gentle patter against the stones leading to the cabin.
"Let me just grab my shawl," A light, feminine voice called out. Rhys and I weren't breathing. "The weather's turned for the worst."
My heart lurched. That was Rhysand's mother and the look in his eyes told me she would not be pleased to find him here, find me here. This was definitely not the kind of welcome she had meant.
It all happened in a blur.
One second, we stood there, pressed against each other, his hand over my mouth and knowing we were absolutely fucked. And then the next, a cloud of dark mist erupted through the room and then Rhysand had gripped my small hand in his – and winnowed us.
It was a flurry of darkness and shadows, warping and twisting our bodies as we moved through time and space. He gripped my soft body tight, hands keeping me protectively close.
And then we were in a room.
I gasped as my feet once again met solid ground, the world spinning around me, my guts coiling in tandem with it. Rhys yet against pressed a finger against my lips, and I found myself cemented to another cold, oak door.
His bedroom door likely, though I couldn't see over his towering, broad form.
I gripped his wrist, staring into those wide violet eyes and straining my ears. I froze as the front door creaked open, those soft footsteps pattering into the living room, muttering as she moved. My nails carved half-moons into his flesh, a mixture of fear and excitement taunting me as we both silently listened for his mother's steps.
I might have been crazy, might have utterly fucking insane for how my body was reacting. But with him so close, being able to feel every hard inch of him and not being able to touch him for fear of being caught... it made my core soak.
Rhys's eyes flashed down to mine, surprise and mischief in them as he caught the scent of my arousal. I felt my cheeks heat and I swear he seemed to shake with the restraint it took to keep waiting, looked as if he wanted to devour me at this moment.
But we waited. Even if it killed us.
We waited, listening in suffocating silence as Rhys's mother waded through her home, items rustling and clattering as she searched for her shawl. It might have been a few minutes or a lifetime before she sighed, finding it.
I rubbed against Rhysand's cock again as her footsteps padded toward the door, getting quieter.
And the second that door closed shut – the male snarled and then was upon me.
My back slammed into the wood behind me, hard enough that the breath knocked from my lungs. Rhysand gave me no time to get down air before his mouth clashed with mine and his tongue forced my lips and teeth apart.
He moaned into my mouth, and I felt alight as every inch of him cemented against every inch of me. My hands gripped his shoulders, exploring and feral as I touched my way along the hard, lean lines of him, desperate to just feel him.
He seemed to feel the same, his mouth tearing from mine to bite and kiss against my throat again, his face slotting into the crook of my neck and mouth teasing the already bruising flesh there. I whimpered, eyes rolling as his mouth descended lower, my dress yanked down enough for my breasts to spill free.
"Fuck," Rhys swore, his gaze pitch black. My body burned at that look.
His head dipped and his lips found purchase around one taut nipple, drawing it between his teeth and sucking. He hummed and the sound travelled through my whole body, mixing with the desperate sounds wrenching free from my parted lips.
Rhys enjoyed my breasts, smearing spit along them as he toyed from one to the other, biting and kissing and worshipping them.
It was dangerous for us to do this still. Stupid even. Knowing Rhys's mother could come back at any point, knowing my own mother would likely start looking for me soon, that if they came here, saw us, even smelt us –
"How- how did your mother not know?" I managed to choke out, fisting Rhys's midnight hair. He continued twirling his tongue around my sensitive nipple as if he hadn't heard me. "She must have smelt it – "
"Why are we talking about my mother?" Rhys groaned, lips curling into a disgruntled frown. I yanked at his hair, forcing his face back up to mine, and he sighed at the persistence in my doe eyes. "Magic – that cloud of mist? It's a little trick to make sure none can sense me, sense us."
I hummed in understanding, opening my mouth to ask another question. But then his hand curved down my stomach and my breath hitched as he slowly pulled my dress higher, exposing my legs to the cold air. I shivered as his hand traced my bare skin, closer and closer to where I needed him.
"Did that placate your curiosity?" He teased, fingers trailing in and out, until my core was clenched with need.
"Don't be an ass," I scowled, hips shifting, trying to force some contact. But Rhys just smiled, drawing faint circles at the apex of my thigh. "We nearly got caught, I'm being cautious – "
"Cautious? Is that what it was?" He arched a thick brow at me, and my back curved when he ran the pad of his thumb over the front of my panties, feeling the dampness there. "Do you always get this wet when cautious?"
Any smart retort I had died on my lips as Rhys pressed his thumb against my clit and began slowly rubbing circles over the thin cloth. I moaned, and his grin was victorious, his dark gaze half-shielded by the strands of his hair tousled forward.
He seemed no longer in the mood to tease me, and I was glad for it as I dragged his mouth back to mine. A grumble of approval from him as he lazily rubbed at my clit, his mouth moving just as lazily against mine.
"Rhys," I pleaded, hips grinding down against his palm needing more friction. And he obliged me, no, he more than obliged me.
I watched as this half-Illyrian, half-High Fae male, the next High Lord of the Night Court, possibly the most powerful High Lord to ever be, dropped to his knees before me.
He looked up at me through thick, dark lashes, that mischief and desire in his eyes enough to make me climax alone. But then he lifted my soft thigh and hooked it over one broad shoulder and growled as he pushed my dress back and revealed my white underthings, a wet spot painfully obvious in the centre.
The wooden door handle dug into my spine, but I couldn't do anything but lean against it, my chest rising and falling in waves as I stared down at him before me.
His low position exposed the Fae light in the room, and it glistened over his tan skin and feral smile as he brushed his thumb over the thin material again. I bit my lip hard enough to bleed as he slipped a finger under the material and tugged it to the side.
"Cauldron," Rhys groaned, a low, appreciative noise as he eyed my exposed, wet core. "Look at you."
My cheeks heated, a mixture of arousal and embarrassment, suddenly feeling very exposed. Rhys kissed my inner thigh, playfully nipping at the flesh there, forever able to calm any raging emotions within me.
My nails cracked against the wall as his soft lips trailed higher, closer and closer to my centre. I couldn't contain my breathless moan when his mouth met that forbidden spot, and he dragged a slow, deliberate lick up my core.
"Rhys," I could barely hear my voice over the pounding in my heart. Could barely hear it over the soft, sensual growl Rhysand emitted at the first taste of me.
And as if that taste was better than he could imagine, he went back in for another. And then another. And another. Until he was licking and suckling his tongue back and forth against my sore clit, wrenching sounds that were unmistakably lewd.
"Careful, darling," Rhys chuckled, pulling back from between my legs just far enough for me to see his dilated pupils and the wetness coating his smile. "If you moan any louder, we'll definitely get caught."
I didn't have the chance to respond before Rhys plucked my clit between his lips again, all thoughts eddying from my mind as pleasure knitted through my core, painfully tight. My head thudded back against the door, my hips grinding down against Rhys's tongue, chasing that familiar high.
My fingers laced through his hair and Rhys hummed as I tugged at the strands, my body acting of its own accord, now riding his face, riding his tongue. I felt something tauten within me, and my legs began to shake as my climax approached faster and faster.
"Rhys," I gasped, back bowing. "Rhys, I – "
"I know, I know," He purred, the vibration running through me. "Just let go, darling."
He flicked his tongue hard and fast, and my mouth parted in a desperate cry as my release slammed into me, knocking the air from my lungs. My body stilled, thighs closing around his head instinctively, and I was near sobbing his name as I fell apart.
Rhys kept going through it. Held me like he wished to make this moment last an eternity.
The stars exploding across my vision dimmed, fading as I sagged back against the door.
I giggled, half-gasping as I pushed at his head, my body writhing as I forced his mouth off me. Rhys laughed, low and sultry, before eventually relenting, plucking back and licking the moisture from his lips.
I peered down at him, sweating and dizzy. The male was a sight for sore eyes, grinning up at me, as he watched me catch my breath.
“That wasn’t very cautious of you, darling,” Rhys smirked, stars twinkling in his eyes. “It’s a miracle no one heard you.”
I bit my lip, laughing as I stared down at the male, my orgasm fogging every sense and making it impossible to retort anything nearly witty enough back.
“Oh, you were heard,” A rough voice drawled the words. Yet Rhysand’s mouth didn’t move. “It’s a good thing we’re so good at keeping secrets, eh Rhys?”
My heart stopped as I lifted my head, following that smug voice.
And saw two Illyrian males before us.
Watching us. Watching me.
------------------------------------------------
Comment to be added to the tag list!
Taking requests for all SJM men x plus size reader!
hi I luvvvv your writing. could you do azriel with a plus sized reader, it could be NSFW or just pure fluff. It’s okay if not though ☺️❤️
oh my gosh, yes. i don’t know why i haven’t done this sooner.
“stop it, az.” you whined, your knee coming up in attempt to block his hand from squishing you.
the action made a disapproving frown appear on his beautiful face. “you stop it.”
his larger hand pressed into the plush flesh of your thigh, lightly squeezing it.
“come one, baby. let me touch you.” he said lowly, a silent plead in his eyes as he stared into yours.
you hesitantly removed your raised leg, setting it back down to it’s spread out place, now on full display for only him.
azriel sucked in a breath at the sight of your soaking pussy laid out for him, the scent filling up his heightened senses.
“you’re so pretty, baby doll.” he cood.
his hand remained on the top of your thigh, as the other continued to squeeze at the plush of your tummy. he marveled over the way it felt underneath his fingers, the way it plushed for him.
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You and Tucker breaking the bed would be hilarious
Tucker girls, this one is for YOU. And for the non-book girlies, Tucker is not the innocent guy you made him to be
Summary: You and Tucker break the bed
Warnings: 18+, smut, nipple play, p + v, dirty talk,
Unlike Dean or Garrett, Tucker didn’t take girls into his bed. It wasn’t that he didn’t have sex — he did. Just not there. For reasons none of the guys fully understood, Tucker’s bed was off-limits. Almost sacred. Malone’s bathroom, a girl's dorm room, even his truck if he was desperate enough, but never his bed. That space was reserved for something more than a casual night. Something real.
So when he took you upstairs during a post-game party, you couldn’t help but feel special.
You and Tucker had been seeing each other for a few weeks of heavy flirting at Malones. On a downpour night, he kindly offered to drive you home…which ended with you riding him in the driver seat of his truck. Since then, you’ve been making out at parties you happened to be both at and snaking hands under clothes.
There was also that one blowjob in Malone’s bathroom.
Tucker’s mouth was sucking on your nipple, teasing as you pulled at his curls. He was good at this. Playing with your breasts and busying his mouth on them. He knew exactly how much to bite and suck and kiss — how to make you feel good.
You pushed your hips against his hard cock, still hidden by the boxers he had yet to take off, silently directing his attention to where you needed it most. Foreplay was nice, but your pussy was aching for him right now.
‘’Come on, Tuck. I need you.’’
You did it again, grinding against him needily, and he lifted his head. ‘’You in a hurry tonight or something?’’ Tucker asked, raising an eyebrow.
‘’No. I’m just really horny, so get naked and fuck me,’’ you ordered, reaching down his back and pulling down his boxers mid-ass. ‘’Please.’’
Tucker laughed and crawled up to your lips, kissing you as he reached for a condom in his nightstand. ‘’Yes, ma’am.’’
After rolling it on, Tucker positioned himself between your legs and sank himself into you in one go, filling you and making you gasp. You wanted him to be quick, so he did.
For the next ten minutes, the only sounds echoing in the room were your and Tucker’s moans of pleasure mixed with skin slapping and the creaking of the bed at every deep thrust. Sex with him was much dirtier and hotter than I thought it would be. At first glance, Tucker doesn’t look like he’d be this way, but isn’t it always the quiet ones?
‘’Ahh, fuck—’’ you cried out after a particularly hard thrust, quickly bringing your hand over your mouth. There’s people in the house.
But Tucker grabbed your hand and held them both above your head. ‘’Let me hear you, baby,’’ he whispered against your lips. ‘’Tell me how it feels.’’
And you did exactly that, back arching as he drilled into you, causing the headboard to hit the wall over and over and—
Crack.
For one suspended second, neither of you moved. What was that?
Then, the bed gave a pathetic groan as the wood splintered beneath you and collapsed on the top left side.
‘’Are you fucking kidding me?!’’ Tucker grumbled, pulling out to go and look at the wreckage. The condom was still on, the mood thoroughly ruined by splintered wood and pure structural betrayal.
He exhaled through his nose — half laugh, half groan — and dragged a hand down his face.
The bed was definitely broken.
The one time he takes a girl to his bed, it breaks.
𓏲⋆ TELLING THE OFF CAMPUS BOYS TO GET ON THEIR KNEES WHEN THEY ASK FOR SOMETHING
( cw: suggestive/explicit dialogue & topics, no smut )
DEAN DI LAURENTIS
“Babe,” he whined, “Baaaabe.”
You turned around from the stove, facing your annoying boyfriend.
He knew it got on your nerves when he stood behind you while you were cooking. Especially when he whined the whole time.
So when he asked, “Can I taste test it?” you didn’t immediately shut him down like you normally did.
No, instead you said, “If you get down on your knees and ask, maybe I’ll consider it.”
Why you didn’t expect him to actually do it? Who knows.
He was down on his knees within seconds, his hands pawing at your hips. “Please, baby. Can I please taste test it?”
You had to hold in your laugh, but you felt like he earned it.
Putting your hand on his head and petting him like a dog, you said, “Yes you can, for being such a good boy,” in a very mocking tone.
It didn’t phase Dean one bit though, if anything, he seemed to enjoy it. He pushed his head into your hand like a cat and then stood up with an expectant look on his face.
You rolled your eyes and pulled out a piece of pasta, dropping it directly in his open mouth. He moaned when he tasted it, then gave you a quick kiss on the lips.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” he murmured against your shoulder, already standing right behind you again.
GARRETT GRAHAM
Garrett had been annoying you all day.
You convinced him to go shopping with you, leaving out the details of where you were going and how long it would be.
He knew it could take a while, but 3 hours? After the first hour he was complaining at every store. You offered to leave early, but when he saw the small pout on your face he changed his mind.
But that didn’t mean he was going to stop groaning and moping.
When you stopped to look at two different tops, he took it as an opportunity to rest his head on your shoulder, pressing a soft kiss to your neck.
“Garrett...” you trailed off, a subtle warning to do too much in terms of PDA. He hummed, his free hand—the one not holding all of your shopping bags—coming up to rest on your hips.
“I have an idea,” he mumbled, pressing another soft kiss to your shoulder. “Let’s get you some new stuff from Victoria’s Secret. I’ll buy.”
You rolled your eyes, deciding on the black top instead of the white one.
“If you want me to go try on lingerie for you, you’d better get on your knees and beg,” you joked, walking further into the store.
When you stopped to look at a pair of pants, you saw Garrett drop to his knees in the corner of your eye.
“Please, gorgeous. Let me buy you some new lingerie. I’ll be so good from here on out,” he pleaded, his hands pressed together in a praying motion.
Your eyes darted around, seeing the mostly empty store. “Stand up, oh my god.”
He shook his head, “not until you say yes.”
“Garrett.”
“Princess.”
You sighed, “Fine. Now stand up.”
JOHN TUCKER
“Let me eat you out, sweetheart,” Tucker mumbled against your neck, reaching behind you to lock his bedroom door.
“Uh-uh.”
His lips formed a pout, “Please?”
“If you really want to...” you trailed off, seeing the glint of hope in his eyes, “Get on your knees and ask again, then maybe I’ll let you get a taste.”
For a moment he looked surprised, but he did as you said.
He dropped to his knees, pressing feather-light kissed to your bare stomach and thighs. “Can I get a taste of you, gorgeous?” His hands ran up the backs of your legs. “Please.”
You sighed, your fingers playing with his dark curls. “Okay, fine, but hurry up. I wanna feel you inside me as soon as possible.”
“Yes ma’am.”
JOHN LOGAN
“Come with me,” Logan asked as he pulled on his sweatpants, “The gym is so boring when I’m alone.”
You were already standing, putting on lotion as you listened to your boyfriend try to reason with you to go to the gym with him.
“I showered just last night. You want to make me shower again in less than 12 hours?”
He looked up at you and shrugged, a suggestive smirk on his face. “I’ll help you out?”
“Of course you would.”
Throwing his head back, he groaned. “Why does my girlfriend hate me?”
You rolled your eyes and sighed, “Tell you what. You get on your knees and beg me to come with, and maybe I’ll go and let you ‘help me out’ in the shower later.”
He was on his knees in front of you within seconds.
“Please come with me, gorgeous. The gym is so much more enjoyable with you there,” he pleaded, begging with the way his big brown eyes were looking up at you.
You clicked your tongue, “Fine. Only because I didn’t actually think you would do that.”
He smirked, standing up and pressing a ‘thank you’ kiss to your cheek. “You underestimate me, baby.”
includes: garrett graham, dean di laurentis, john logan & john tucker! ✾
𝄞 GARRETT GRAHAM
exam week was finally at its end. what’s better than celebrating your freedom with a good nap with your boyfriend?
“you’re too hot,” you mutter into garrett’s neck, his woody smell swirling in your nostrils. his arms are wrapped tightly around your waist whilst you pull the covers over your entangled bodies.
“i know, baby,” he smiles, teasing tone evident in his voice. you huff, of course he’d make a comment like that. you dig your chin further into his chest, almost as if you’re trying to crawl under your boyfriend’s skin. “missed you.” he presses a soft kiss to your forehead.
that’s why you love garrett— that under the star hockey player, he can melt down to something so soft. cuddly. gooey, like a chocolate heart. his warmth surrounding you completely, leaving a sweet taste behind.
“you haven’t seen me in two days, garrett.”
your boyfriend pulls you impossibly closer. “yeah. two days too much.” his voice is sleepy, but he sounds somewhat resolute. one free hand snakes over your back, clenching the fabric of your hoodie in his hands. “not gonna let you go anytime soon, baby.”
𝄞 DEAN DI LAURENTIS
“did s’good for me, my love,” dean pushes a chaste kiss to your lips. his loose tee falls perfectly over your naked frame from your previous activities. “perfect for me.”
your body feels like jelly, adrenaline still bolting through your veins like lightning. his big hands clasp around your hips to pull you right on top of him. your eyes are on the verge of fluttering shut as dean presses wet dots of kisses to the inside of your wrist. “i fucking—” he presses a kiss to each of your knuckles, kneading the fat of your waist with his free hand. “love every part of you.”
“love you too,” you mutter, a floaty feeling swirling around in your belly again. “‘m tired.”
the quaint, mellow noise dawns on your shoulders. “eat something for me, love,” the blond whispers, breaking the silence, gripping a bowl of apple slices in his free hand, sitting up with you on his lap.
dean shares the apple slices with you. well, you eat most of them, and dean stares at while you munch on the fruit, whispering sweet nothings to you while your head rests against his bicep as you chew.
𝄞 JOHN LOGAN
today was not it. your lecture was too difficult, the words for your essay weren’t completely flowing, and it just felt like you were stuck. as the cherry on top, the customers at your part-time job were rude as hell, completely knocking you off balance.
the only solution? crying your heart out in your boyfriend’s arms, in your boyfriend’s bed. with his jumper on.
as soon as logan sees your pouty lips and your glassy eyes, he tackles you in a bear hug, pulling you with him on his bed. “tell me what happened, baby,” he says immediately, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, already knowing you want to rant your heart out.
his heartbeat calms you down as you snuggle into his chest, eyes still wet and nose still runny. he listens attentively to your problems, lightly carding his thick fingers through your hair to soothe you.
all the way until you’re completely relaxed, your breath evening out. “i got you, my love. always.” logan whispers to your sleeping figure, peppering light kisses all over your face as he tightens his grip around you.
𝄞 JOHN TUCKER
the room smells clean as you open your eyes, the brightness only mornings can bring piercing through your retinas. you have a busy day today, two long lectures, and you need to finish an essay you’ve been working on for the past few weeks.
you try to get out of your boyfriend’s bed, but the moment you lift your weight off of the bed, tucker’s strong forearm pushes you back down again. “don’t go, baby,” he mumbles into your neck, his voice still heavy with sleep.
“have to—” you grumble out, trying to lift your weight again. and of course, you fail again. “gotta meet up with my friends.”
tucker pushes his face into the crook of your neck with some sort of magnetic force before he presses a chaste kiss to the skin there. “just— ditch ‘em,” he proposes, pulling you closer into his chest without opening an eye. “‘m more important, right?”
you giggle melodically, voice still a little raspy. “please? snuggling with your boyfriend? i’ll make you a breakfast sandwich after, pretty.”
he pushes a disgustingly wet kiss to your cheek. “what do you say, huh?”
They trust you to rebuild their homes, sharpen their weapons, tend their gardens, and stand beside them during diplomacy.
But every formal gathering comes with another gentle suggestion.
Maybe a dress next time.
At first, you don't think much of it. Until one day you realize you're no longer getting dressed for yourself.
And Azriel finally decides he's heard enough.
Huge thank you to @chessebookgirl for this request! 💙 I had so much fun writing this one, and it honestly ended up taking on a life of its own.
I really hope this is what you were thinking of! 😂 I definitely ran with the idea a little, but I hope I did it justice. Thank you so much for trusting me with it, and I hope you enjoy!
It was well past noon by the time Cassian joined you on the River House roof.
“You know you could have waited for me!”
You looked up at the male, a smile already on your face.
“And wait another hundred years for help? Not a chance.”
Cassian rolled his eyes as he lowered himself onto the exposed beams beside you.
“I was busy.”
“Snogging your mate is hardly being busy, Cassian.”
The male simply huffed before reaching for the loose section of roofing you had already pried away.
“You know,” he said, straining as the wood finally gave beneath his hands, “I think Elain is gardening tomorrow.”
You nodded before turning your attention back to the roof.
Elain was, in fact, in the garden bright and early the following morning.
“Hey, Elain!”
She jumped, nearly dropping the basket of seeds balanced against her hip before turning toward you.
“Oh my, you scared me.”
You chuckled, gesturing toward the small vegetable garden in front of her.
One corner had sunk deep into the soil. Another board had cracked through its center. A third appeared to be held together by stubbornness and a particularly determined climbing vine.
You nodded slowly.
“All of them?”
Elain winced. “Most of them.”
The day was filled with Elain’s laughter and the steady rhythm of your hammer.
Well, mostly your hammer.
Elain directed, held boards steady when needed, and provided an endless stream of snacks and lemonade. By lunch, the first bed had been rebuilt. By sunset, you had replaced nearly every rotted board in the garden.
Elain stood beside you with her hands on her hips, surveying the results.
“They’re beautiful.”
“They’re boxes made of wood.”
“They’re beautiful boxes made of wood.”
You bumped your shoulder against hers.
“I’ll take it.”
Over the next month, you solidified your reputation as the Night Court’s resident handy lady.
Rhysand’s desk was repaired after it mysteriously collapsed beneath the weight of several decades’ worth of neglected paperwork at least he claims that’s what broke it.
You installed three new bookshelves for Nesta, only for her to ask how difficult it would be to add a fourth.
You fixed the warped cabinets in Feyre’s art studio and redesigned the storage shelves after she admitted she had no idea where half of her paints had gone.
Cassian appeared at your door carrying an armful of dulled blades and a smile he seemed to believe was charming.
You sharpened the blades. You charged him lunch for the labor.
Even Mor came to you when the clasp on one of her favorite jewelry boxes snapped, dropping the broken thing into your hands with complete confidence that you would return it better than it had been before.
No one seemed bothered when you hauled lumber through the River House.
No one questioned the leather tool belt that hung from your hips or the trousers permanently marked with sawdust, oil and paint.
No one minded when you joined Cassian and Nesta in the training ring, your hair tied away from your face and your sleeves pushed to your elbows.
Nesta even preferred sparring with you saying that while Cassian was stronger, you fought differently. You were faster, less predictable, and far more willing to use the training ring itself against your opponent.
You belonged among the sound of hammers and steel. Among dirt-stained gloves and half-finished plans scattered across the dining table, laughing with Elain in the garden, trading insults with Cassian on the roof. You belonged with your friends.
You belonged tucked against Azriel’s side whenever the two of you found a rare moment when he wasn’t gathering information from one court or another and you weren’t halfway inside a broken piece of furniture.
It was during one of those rare evenings that he mentioned the upcoming celebration.
“So, you’re telling me we’re throwing a party for Amren’s not-birthday birthday?”
Azriel laughed softly from his place beside you on the sofa.
“That is more or less what’s happening.”
You turned toward your mate.
“Why?”
“Mor decided Amren has never had a proper birthday celebration.”
“Because she doesn’t have a birthday.”
“Mor considers that a minor obstacle.”
You smiled, resting your chin against Azriel’s shoulder.
“Guess I’ll have to figure out how to braid my hair.”
It took three days of consistent attempts to settle on a style that felt right.
The first evening, you somehow created a knot so elaborate that Azriel had been forced to help untangle it.
The second night, one side had looked perfect while the other stuck out at a strange angle.
Azriel had insisted it looked lovely, while you simply rolled your eyes and huffed.
By the third evening, your arms ached from holding them above your head, but the braid finally rested neatly against the back of your skull before trailing down between your shoulders.
You turned your head from side to side, examining it in the mirror.
“There.”
Azriel leaned against the doorframe behind you.
“There,” he agreed.
Finding the right attire had been easier.
It wasn’t a secret that dresses weren’t your thing. You didn’t hate them. You had seen Mor in gowns that looked as though they had been sewn from flame and starlight. Feyre’s dresses were often pieces of artwork in their own right, and Elain could make the simplest fabric look delicate and elegant.
Azriel had suggested that the two of you visit the tailor together, and the finished suits complemented each other without matching completely. His was black with subtle blue stitching. Yours was made from similarly dark fabric, with silver embroidery curling along the cuffs and lapels.
Your jewelry was understated, but each piece had been chosen carefully.
You adjusted one cuff link before examining yourself from the side.
“Stunning.”
You found Azriel’s eyes in the mirror behind you.
“You say that no matter what I wear.”
He crossed the room and wrapped his arms around your waist, resting his chin briefly against your shoulder.
“Because it’s always true.”
“You’re terribly biased.”
“I am.”
His hands settled over your stomach.
“But I’m also right.”
You rolled your eyes, unable to keep the smile from your face.
“If you’re finished fiddling,” he murmured, “we should join the others.”
The main dining room had been transformed.
Deep crimson fabric draped from the ceiling. Golden candles floated above the table, illuminating enough food to feed half of Velaris. Jewels had been scattered across the dark tablecloth as though Mor had attempted to recreate Amren’s collection herself.
It was beautiful and dramatic. It was also unquestionably Mor who decorated for the occasion.
Amren stood near the center of the room, staring at a towering cake with the expression of someone considering whether it might be less insulting to leave or set the entire table on fire.
Mor turned at the sound of your footsteps.
“There you are!”
She swept toward you, crimson skirts trailing behind her.
Her eyes moved appreciatively over Azriel before settling on you.
“Oh.”
Your hand moved instinctively toward your jacket.
Mor smiled.
“You should let me take you shopping before the next event.”
You glanced down at yourself.
“These are new.”
The words came out more confused than offended.
Mor blinked.
“No, I only meant” She waved one hand vaguely, searching for an explanation.
“Something different. We could make a day of it.”
You smiled, unwilling to let the moment become uncomfortable.
“Maybe.”
Mor’s attention was quickly stolen by Cassian, who had decided Amren needed a pointed hat to complete the celebration.
The evening moved on. So did you.
It was one comment. One that Mor hadn’t meant anything by it. You knew that.
Azriel knew it too, although his shadows whispered around his shoulders as he watched you smooth a hand down the front of your new jacket.
It was during dinner that Nesta and Elain were talking that you were pulled into the conversation.
“Do you guys have the same dances here as we do on the other side of the wall?”
You turned to Elain. “I believe so, Nesta didn’t have any issues with keeping up with Eris in the Hewn City, so a few must be the same.”
Mor cut in before Nesta could respond.
“Believe it or not, she’s actually a good dancer.” She made a gesture in your direction before turning back to whatever Cassian was saying.
“Interesting, I suppose we’ll have to see for our selves at some point.”
Elain nodded at Nestas comment.
The rest of the night continued without any fuss.
Allowing for a night a peace in a world of seemingly constant chaos.
—
The next event that required formal attire was held in the Dawn Court.
You chose a slate-grey suit embroidered with pale golden thread. Having spent nearly an hour weaving small ornaments through your braid after Feyre mentioned that the metalwork matched the Dawn Court’s traditional jewelry.
Azriel watched from the bed as you redid the final section for the third time.
“It looked fine before.”
“It was crooked.”
“No one would have noticed.”
“I would have.”
You eventually joined the others in the hall, arriving just as Rhysand finished explaining the purpose of the gathering.
Amren looked you over.
Her eyes lingered on your braid, the polished boots, the gold worked carefully into the fabric.
“You would clean up nicely.”
You glanced at the pristine sleeves of your jacket.
“I thought I had.”
Cassian coughed into his fist. Amren rolled her eyes.
“You know what I mean, girl.”
You didn’t. Or perhaps you did and wished that you didn’t.
Azriel’s shadows twisted abruptly around his shoulders.
You reached for his hand before they could drift toward Amren.
“It’s fine,” you whispered.
His hazel eyes dropped to yours.
You smiled.
After a moment, his fingers closed around your hand.
The meeting passed without incident.
You represented the Night Court well.
You spoke when you had something worth saying and remained silent when you didn’t. You remembered names. You recalled details from discussions held months before. You noticed when one of the delegates attempted to quietly alter the language of a proposed agreement.
No one questioned whether you belonged beside Azriel then.
They only seemed to notice your clothes before and after.
—
The heat in the Summer Court was nearly unbearable.
Even Azriel had abandoned his usual leathers in favor of lighter fabric during one of his assignments there.
You had accompanied him partly because he wanted the company and partly because the River House roof no longer required your immediate attention.
Tarquin noticed you studying his jacket during lunch.
He looked down.
“Is something wrong?”
“No. Sorry.” You gestured toward the pale material. “You wear suits year-round, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“How?”
Tarquin’s expression changed instantly.
“What are yours made from?”
“Usually wool.”
He stared at you with open horror.
“You wear wool year round?”
“Not happily.”
What followed was nearly an hour-long discussion about fabric.
Tarquin explained enchanted linen, cooling silk and a finely woven material produced along the southern coast that allowed air to pass through without becoming transparent beneath the sun.
He summoned bolts of fabric. You inspected the stitching inside his cuffs.
Azriel sat quietly beside you, a faint smile on his face as Tarquin explained how different cuts affected airflow.
By the time you returned to the Night Court, you had several swatches, the name of Tarquin’s tailor and enough information to fill half a notebook.
The finished suit was beautiful.
Pale blue fabric skimmed your body without clinging to it. Silver thread curled along the shoulders, mimicking sunlight on water. The jacket was slightly cropped in front while two long panels flowed from the back, nearly touching the ground.
It was still unmistakably a suit. But when you stood still, the long fabric behind you created the elegant silhouette of a gown.
It felt like a compromise without feeling like a costume.
Azriel circled you slowly when you first tried it on.
“Well?”
“I’m deciding whether Tarquin is allowed to see you in it.”
You laughed.
“He helped design it.”
“That doesn’t answer my concern.”
At the Summer Court garden party, Feyre complimented the silver embroidery.
Mor ran her fingers over one sleeve, openly admiring the fabric.
Even Rhysand asked whether Tarquin’s tailor could make something similar for him.
Elain joined you near the refreshment table later that afternoon.
She looked beautiful in a soft pink gown, her loose hair moving slightly in the sea breeze.
“Are you not terribly warm?” she asked.
You smiled.
“Not at all. Tarquin helped me find a cooling fabric.”
Her eyes widened with interest.
“Oh. I only wondered whether a dress might be cooler than a suit in this weather.”
Your fingers tightened around your glass.
“This is the same fabric Tarquin’s wearing.”
Elain glanced toward the High Lord.
“I suppose it is.”
There was no cruelty in her voice.
Only innocent curiosity.
Still, you found yourself looking across the garden.
Tarquin’s pale suit had received compliments from nearly everyone upon his arrival.
No one had asked whether he might be more comfortable in something else.
“That coat is beautiful, though,” Elain added.
You looked back at her.
“Thank you.”
She smiled before asking about the Summer Court flowers growing near the palace walls.
The conversation changed.
The feeling did not.
—
You began experimenting, not for the any other reason than for style. That’s what you were telling yourself at least.
At the next gathering, you wore wide-legged trousers made from enough fabric that they resembled a skirt when you stood still.
Mor’s eyes lit up when she saw you.
“There we are.”
You stilled.
“What?”
“The trousers.” She touched the flowing fabric. “They’re lovely. Much softer.”
You smiled.
“Thank you.”
At another dinner, you chose the long formal coat from Summer, pairing it with delicate earrings and a thin silver chain that rested against your collarbone.
“You’re getting closer,” Mor said warmly.
You laughed because you didn’t know what else to do.
Closer to what?
You did not ask.
The comments were never cruel enough to justify the weight they left behind.
Mor offered to take you shopping.
Amren said you would clean up nicely.
Elain wondered whether you might be more comfortable in a dress.
Feyre once mentioned that she had several gowns you were welcome to borrow if you ever wanted to try something different.
Even Nesta, after admiring your newest jacket, asked whether you had considered pairing it with a skirt.
Each comment was small.
Reasonable. Forgettable.
Until they weren’t.
Azriel noticed the changes.
He noticed that your choices took longer.
That you stood before the wardrobe with your arms crossed, studying the clothes that had once felt like home as though they were pieces of an unfamiliar puzzle.
He noticed the abandoned sketches.
The fabric swatches. The trousers you wore once before pushing them to the back of the wardrobe.
He noticed when you began tugging at your sleeves during formal meetings. When you smoothed your lapels again and again.
When you checked your reflection before entering a room, not with excitement but with uncertainty.
He said nothing at first.
He told you that you looked stunning.
You accused him, as always, of being biased.
But your smile no longer reached your eyes.
One evening, he found the long-tailed coat draped over the back of a chair.
He lifted it carefully, running one scarred hand over the silver stitching.
“I thought this was your favorite.”
You were seated at the desk, attempting to sketch a new shelving design for Nesta.
“It was.”
“You haven’t worn it since Summer.”
You shrugged without looking up.
“Didn’t seem to make much difference.”
The shadows along the floor became still.
“Difference to whom?”
Your charcoal paused.
You stared down at the page.
“No one.”
Azriel set the coat down.
He crossed the room and crouched beside your chair, but you did not meet his eyes.
“You know I love you in anything.”
“I know.”
“And you don’t need to”
“I know, Az.”
The words came out sharper than you intended.
You closed your eyes.
“I know.”
He did not push.
He only rested one hand against your knee.
After a moment, you covered it with your own.
The final gathering of the season was held at the River House.
Every High Lord had been invited, along with dozens of advisers, emissaries and lesser nobility.
You should have been excited.
You had helped repair the roof above their head, reinforced the balcony railings, had built the long table now covered in silver place settings and midnight-blue flowers.
Yet you stood in yours and Azriels bedroom staring into the wardrobe, unable to choose what to wear.
Azriel watched from behind you.
“What do you want?”
You frowned.
“To get dressed?”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
You turned toward him.
He was already prepared, his black jacket fitted perfectly over his wings.
His expression was gentle.
“What do you want to wear?”
Your gaze returned to the wardrobe.
You reached past the flowing trousers and the long-tailed coat. Past the softer fabrics and delicate embellishments.
Your fingers closed around the first suit.
The one you had worn to Amren’s not-birthday birthday.
Dark fabric. Silver embroidery. Clean lines.
“This.”
Azriel’s shoulders relaxed.
“Then wear it.”
You spent forty-five minutes braiding your hair.
Not because anyone had asked.
Because you liked the way it looked.
You polished your boots and chose your favorite earrings. You fastened the cuff links yourself before turning toward Azriel.
He stared.
You raised an eyebrow.
“Biased?”
“Hopelessly.”
You smiled.
The gathering was already underway when the two of you descended the stairs.
Music filled the River House. Light from hundreds of candles shimmered against the windows, beyond which the Sidra reflected the city’s glow.
You were greeted warmly.
Rhysand thanked you for repairing a loose hinge that morning.
Elain asked whether you could help her design another raised garden bed once the diplomatic season ended.
Cassian cornered you long enough to ask when you would have time to sharpen the blades he had once again neglected.
Nesta wanted to spar the following morning.
They loved you.
That was the worst part.
They loved every piece of you until the room filled with strangers and expectations.
Mor approached while you stood beside Azriel near the dance floor.
Her crimson gown swept around her feet.
“You wore the original one.”
You looked down at your suit.
“I did.”
She smiled, although something uncertain moved behind her eyes.
“It’s lovely. I only thought you might wear the blue coat tonight.”
Mor glanced toward the dancers.
“Maybe next time I can convince you into a gown”
Your chest tightened.
Before you could answer, Azriel held out his hand.
“Dance with me.”
You looked at him.
His expression revealed nothing, but his shadows had gathered tightly around his shoulders.
You placed your hand in his.
The crowd faded once he led you onto the floor.
Azriel’s hand settled against your waist. You followed his lead as the music swelled, moving through each step with practiced ease.
He spun you.
The silver embroidery along your cuffs caught the light.
Your jacket flared around you.
The braid swung behind your shoulders.
Azriel watched you as if there were no High Lords, no courtiers and no expectations surrounding you.
Only you.
When he guided you beneath his arm, you caught a glimpse of the others.
Feyre was smiling.
Elain watched with open admiration.
Nesta stood beside Cassian, her expression softer than usual.
Mor’s eyes followed the movement of your jacket.
For one song, you felt seen.
The final note faded.
Azriel lifted your hand and pressed his lips against your knuckles.
Applause followed.
Your smile was real when you left the dance floor.
It lasted until you heard one of the visiting nobles speak.
“Such a lovely dancer.”
You turned slightly.
An older female from the Dawn Court stood near Mor and Elain, watching you over the edge of her glass.
“It is almost a shame,” she continued. “She would look exquisite moving in a gown.”
Mor laughed lightly.
“She would. I’ve been telling her that for months.”
The words struck harder than they should have.
Elain smiled.
“I think she simply hasn’t found the right one.”
“Perhaps,” Amren said from her place near the table. “She is stubborn.”
They were speaking about you.
While you stood close enough to hear every word.
Something inside you went quiet.
Mor noticed your expression first.
“Oh, we don’t mean anything by it.”
“I know.”
Your voice sounded distant.
She stepped toward you.
“We only think you would look beautiful.”
“I know.”
“You already do,” Elain added quickly. “That isn’t what we meant.”
Your fingers closed around the edge of your sleeve.
“I know.”
Feyre joined the group, confusion pulling at her brow.
“What happened?”
“Nothing,” you said.
Mor reached for your arm. You stepped back.
“We were only trying to help.”
The quiet inside you fractured.
“Help with what?”
Mor blinked.
“No, I only meant”
“What are you helping me fix?”
The music continued around you, but the nearest conversations had begun to fade.
Mor glanced toward the others.
“No one thinks you need fixing.”
“Then why does everyone keep trying?”
Silence.
You laughed once. There was no humor in it.
“I rebuilt half the garden. I repaired the roof over this room. I fixed Rhysand’s desk, built Nesta’s shelves and sharpened enough of Cassian’s weapons to arm a small country.”
Cassian’s expression fell.
“You come to me when you need something done because you trust me to do it.”
Your eyes moved across each of them.
“Nesta chooses me as a sparring partner. Elain asks me to help in her garden. Mor brings me everything she breaks because she knows I’ll make it work again.”
Your throat tightened.
“And none of you have ever had a problem with who I am then.”
Mor’s face had gone pale.
“That isn’t”
“But every time we enter one of these rooms, you look at me like I arrived unfinished.”
No one answered.
“I spent three nights learning how to braid my hair for Amren’s celebration.”
Amren’s silver eyes shifted toward your hair.
“I had that first suit tailored to match Azriel’s.”
Your voice trembled despite your best efforts.
“I traveled to Summer and learned about their fabrics because Elain was right, it was hot. I had a new suit made. I wore softer trousers. I tried different jewelry. I designed a coat that looked like a gown from behind because I thought maybe that would be enough of a compromise.”
Azriel stood completely still beside you.
His shadows did not move.
Neither did anyone else.
“I tried.”
The words broke.
“I kept trying to be myself in a way that you might finally decide was acceptable.”
Mor shook her head.
“We never thought you were unacceptable.”
“Then why was I never enough?”
The room fell silent.
You looked at the people you loved.
At the people who loved you.
“Did you ever actually see me?”
You glanced at each of them before noticing that at some point everyone else had been escorted out of the room.
Multiple of your friends attempted to speak at once, they were quickly cut off by shadow.
During the exchange Azriels shadows had begun covering the room.
Now however, they seemed to be the room.
The glowing of Azriels siphons flaring being one of the few light sources in the room.
Cassian moved instinctively toward Nesta.
Rhysand’s power rose in response, pressing against the room as well.
Azriel stepped in front of you.
“Enough.”
His voice was quiet.
It carried farther than a shout.
No one moved.
Azriel looked at Mor first.
“I watched my mate prepare for that celebration.”
Mor swallowed.
“I watched her spend three nights learning that braid because she wanted to show that she had made an effort.”
His gaze moved to Amren.
“I watched her choose every piece of jewelry. Every stitch of fabric. Every detail.”
Amren said nothing.
“I watched as my mate returned from Summer excited, because Tarquin had helped her find something beautiful and practical. I listened to her explain every enchantment woven into the thread.”
Azriel looked each of your friends in the eye before continuing. His shadows only seeming to grow more angry with each look.
“And all you saw was that it wasn’t a dress.”
Elain’s eyes filled with tears.
“I didn’t mean….”
“No.”
Azriel’s voice cracked through the room.
Elain flinched.
“You do not get to tell them what you meant as though that changes what you did.”
Rhysand took one step forward.
“Azriel”
Every shadow in the room turned toward him.
Rhys stopped.
“Did any of you ever actually see her? Or did you only see what she could fix for you?”
No one answered.
Azriel stepped forward, his shadows thickening around him.
“I don’t understand why this is such a problem.”
His gaze snapped to Cassian.
“For Cauldron’s sake, Cassian wears fighting leathers half the time.”
Then Nesta.
“You wear trousers to train.”
Elain.
“You wear them in the garden.”
His jaw tightened.
“All of you wear trousers when the situation calls for it. When they make you more comfortable. No one questions it. No one decides it means something is wrong with you.”
The room had gone completely still.
“But the one time everyone else happens to be wearing a dress, my mate is more comfortable in a suit, and suddenly it becomes something all of you think needs to be corrected.”
His siphons flared.
“There is nothing wrong with that. Nothing.”
Rhys opened his mouth.
“No.”
The shadows at Azriel’s feet snapped toward him.
“What is so wrong with her being comfortable?”
His voice dropped.
“Are you going to start telling me to cover my hands next because they make you uncomfortable?”
No one moved.
“No. You wouldn’t.”
His scarred fingers curled at his sides.
“Because you know that is already something I struggle with. You know better than to look at something that makes me feel exposed and decide it should be changed for your comfort.”
His eyes moved across the room.
“So why was she not given the same kindness?”
Mor’s face crumpled.
“There is absolutely nothing wrong with the way my mate dresses.”
His wings flared behind him.
“Just because it is not what you are used to does not mean it is something that needs to be fixed.”
“Az.”
Your voice cut through the darkness.
Everything stopped. Azriel turned.
The fury vanished from his face the instant he saw you.
Not entirely. It remained in the tight line of his shoulders and the harsh rise of his chest.
But his shadows retreated from the walls. The chandeliers stilled. The blue light of his siphons dimmed.
He stepped toward you.
“I want to go home.”
“You are home.”
You looked at Mor who had spoke.
At the people watching you with grief and guilt written across their faces.
“No,” you whispered, before looking at Azriel “Our home.”
Azriel understood.
His arm wrapped around your waist.
The shadows gathered around both of you.
Before they carried you away, Mor spoke again.
“I’m sorry.”
You looked at her.
Her face crumpled.
“I know I wasn’t trying to hurt you,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean I didn’t.”
You did not forgive her then.
You did not tell her it was alright.
It wasn’t.
But you nodded once before the shadows swallowed you and Azriel whole.
The apologies came slowly.
Not because the others were reluctant to give them.
Because, for once, they understood.
Elain arrived first.
She stood outside your door holding a small basket filled with pastries and a folded piece of pale-blue fabric.
“I spoke to Tarquin,” she said. “He explained how the cooling enchantment works.”
You stared at her.
Her cheeks flushed.
“I should have asked you about it instead of assuming I knew better.”
You let her inside.
Nesta did not offer excuses.
She sat across from you in the library and said, plainly, “I saw what you could do in the training ring and still failed to understand that you knew yourself better than I did.”
Cassian had arrived with nothing but a simple apology for not correcting the others when they had made such comments.
Rhysand apologized for remaining silent.
Feyre apologized for offering you gowns without asking whether you wanted one.
Amren arrived last.
She entered your workshop without knocking and placed a velvet box on the table.
Inside rested a pair of silver cuff links shaped like small flames.
“I was an ass,” she said.
You stared at her.
Amren scowled.
“Do not make me say it twice.”
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
Her expression softened.
“I saw what I expected to see,” she continued. “That was my failure. Not yours.”
Mor took longer. Not to apologize but to find the words.
She sat beside you on the workshop floor where she found you.
“I thought I was inviting you into something I loved,” she said. “I didn’t realize I kept suggesting that what you loved wasn’t enough.”
You ran your thumb along the edge of a wooden plank.
“I know you didn’t mean it that way.”
“I should have listened before you had to explain.”
“Yes.”
Mor nodded, accepting the answer.
After several minutes, she looked toward the jacket hanging near your workbench.
“The embroidery is beautiful.”
You followed her gaze.
“Thank you.”
—
The next diplomatic gathering came months later.
You stood in front of the wardrobe.
This time, you did not hesitate.
You chose the dark suit with silver embroidery.
You braided your hair because you wanted to. You polished your boots because they needed polishing. You fastened Amren’s cuff links at your wrists and wore the earrings Elain had given you.
Azriel waited beside the bedroom door.
When you turned, his expression softened.
“There you are.”
You smiled.
“Here I am.”
The House of Wind was already crowded when you arrived.
Conversation paused briefly.
Your shoulders tensed.
Then Rhysand gestured toward your sleeves.
“Are those Amren’s cuff links?”
“They were mine,” Amren corrected from across the room. “I gave them to her.”
Cassian leaned closer to inspect your jacket.
“Who tailored that?”
“You’ve seen this suit before.”
“I know, but I want one.”
“You would tear it within an hour.”
“Probably.”
Elain complimented your braid.
Nesta asked whether the boots were comfortable enough to spar in.
Mor crossed the room.
Her crimson gown flowed behind her.
She looked you over.
For one terrible second, you waited.
Then she smiled.
“You look lovely.”
You thanked her before you and Azriel found a quiet place to sit for the evening.
“It seems they’re trying.”
You looked at your mate, “I just don’t understand why the pants were the problem, Cassians in fighting leathers.”
Azriel chuckled “I’m not sure that he can wear anything else my love.”
You both laughed at the comment, continuing the night with small conversations, and absolutely no mentions of why you shouldn’t be in the suit.
A/N: wowowow this is my first post on this account. is it bad that it’s literally abt the worst character in obsession? he’s so hot im sorry </3
Warnings: SMUT, duh, selfish Bear
Being in a relationship felt..so foreign to Bear. He rarely had luck with girls..take Nikki for example? He had gathered up the courage to tell her how he felt after Trivia and she had smiled sadly at him—telling Bear ‘you’re like a little brother to me’.
And then, he met you. You were so sweet, so kind..you didn’t seem to mind his awkwardness or the tics he had that usually made people think ‘man, what a loser’.
You were perfect, Bear was obsessed.
As if you couldn’t get anymore perfect..you had asked Bear if he wanted to have a sleepover full of junk food and trash TV. The perfect night for him, much better than going to some dingy loud bar like usual.
Bear was sitting on the couch, lazily flipping through channels as he waited for you to come back from showering. When you had stepped out, you were wearing one of his oversized shirts that practically swallowed you whole. When Bear’s eyes fell on your form, he tried to ignore the raging surge of possession that came over him.
It wasn’t long before you were bent over the couch beneath him, soft whimpers leaving Bear’s lips as he rutted into you.
“F-Fuck..you’re so fucking perfect..” Bear moaned, his cock sloppily thrusting in and out of your pussy. His fingers grasped at your hips, pulling you back onto him over and over again. The feeling of your tight walls gripping him had him cumming embarrassingly fast.
Bear tried to resist and he began to mutter panicked apologies as his speed turned frantic. It felt too fucking good to slow down, he was selfish, chasing his own pleasure.
“Shit! Oh my—i-i’m sorry, oh fuck..!” Bear shuddered, his hips slamming forward as he forced his cock in as deep as he could go. His cum spurted out, a look of pure bliss on Bear’s face as he emptied himself inside of you.
He slumped forward, panting against your shoulder..
Bear was never going to let you go, whether you liked it or not.
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Just something random I've come up with.. enjoy :)
The old Smurl house had been empty for nearly a decade when Seraphina Hale, twenty-five years old, stepped across its threshold. Her long blonde hair caught the evening light like a pale flame, and her blue eyes swept over the dusty interior with a strange, inexplicable fondness — as though she’d been here before.
The air shifted.
A faint rustle, colder than any breeze, curled around her ankles.
Far below, in the dark of the basement, Abner heard her.
The Axe Man — lingering spirit, fractured mind, loyal in the only way a broken soul could be — lifted his head from the shadows. For years he had been silent, dormant, almost forgotten. But now, he felt something warm and bright move through the house.
Her.
He drifted upward, unseen, his silhouette rippling like smoke along the walls. When he reached the top of the staircase, he saw her unpacking a box in the living room.
Seraphina paused.
“Hello…?” Her voice was soft, uncertain. She didn’t know why she spoke. The house had creaked all day, but this felt different — like someone was standing just behind her shoulder.
Abner leaned in, inches from her golden hair. He remembered love — or what he thought love was — jealousy, devotion, the need for someone who would never betray him. And this woman… this radiant creature who stepped into his home with innocence, untouched… she stirred something deep and possessive in him.
Mine, his mind whispered. She would never betray. She would stay.
He brushed a cold touch along her arm.
Seraphina gasped and spun around. No one was there. And yet her heart fluttered — fear mingled with a strange pull, like the house itself was beckoning her deeper.
She whispered, “Why do I feel like you’re watching me?”
The shadows tightened, listening.
Seraphina’s gaze drifted toward the hallway, where the darkness thickened, forming the faintest outline of a man with broad shoulders and an old-fashioned lantern. She blinked, and the shape melted away, but she felt a tug beneath her ribs — an instinct urging her to follow.
Come to me, Abner urged silently. Come, wife.
Instead of fleeing, Seraphina stepped forward. The draw was irresistible, as if quiet fingers threaded through her thoughts, guiding her deeper into the house.
“I don’t know who you are,” she murmured, touching the wall, “but… I don’t think you want to hurt me.”
Abner hovered behind her, his presence coiling around her like a vow.
He would protect her.
Claim her.
And this time, no one would take his chosen bride from him.
Night pressed heavily against the old house as Seraphina finished her tea in the kitchen. The floorboards groaned softly beneath her bare feet, as though something beneath the wood shifted in response to her movements.
She felt watched again.
Not in the way that made her skin crawl — this sensation was different.
Attentive. Focused. Present.
She turned toward the hallway.
The lights flickered once… twice… and then steadied.
“Is someone here?” she asked softly. She didn’t know why she expected an answer.
She walked forward, the faintest chill kissing her arms. Halfway down the hall, she stopped. There — at the very edge of her vision — a dim glow shimmered. A soft, amber light, swaying gently, like a lantern carried by an unseen hand.
Seraphina held her breath.
The glow moved away from her, gliding down the corridor toward the basement door.
Abner watched her approach the door he once knew so well. She walked slowly, unafraid, drawn by a connection he had not felt since before his anger had consumed him, before the axe, before the blood.
Come, his voice echoed through the boards. Come to me, Seraphina.
Her hand hesitated on the doorknob. “Why… why do I feel like you know my name?”
The lantern light brightened.
She turned the knob.
The basement door groaned open. Cold air breathed up the stairs, smelling faintly of old earth and burnt wood — the scent etched into Abner’s memory from the fire that ended his life.
Seraphina stepped downward, her heartbeat slowing rather than quickening, as though a calming presence wrapped around her. Shadows danced across the stone walls. She followed the lantern glow deeper until the basement widened into a cavernous room.
Then the light stopped.
She saw him — not clearly, not yet. A tall, broad shape standing at the far end. Just an outline. A man with the weight of centuries in his posture, shoulders bowed beneath sins he couldn’t name aloud.
A faint metallic glint caught her eye — the curve of an axe blade at his side.
Seraphina swallowed. “You’re… Abner.”
The shadow shifted. Shock rippled through the cold air, as though he hadn’t expected her to speak the name.
“I don’t know how I know,” she said softly, “I just… do.”
The lantern glow brightened, revealing more of him — a gaunt face carved with sorrow, eyes empty but watching her with a fierce hunger not of the body, but of the soul.
He stepped forward.
Seraphina should have run. She knew this. Her instincts whispered danger, whispered death. But something deeper — older — whispered back.
He’s lonely.
Her chest tightened. “You’ve been here a long time.”
A slow, deliberate nod.
“Why me?” she asked.
The air trembled. His outline flickered into clearer shape — rough clothes from another century, a lantern in one hand, the axe hanging from the other as if it were a memory he couldn’t release. His voice, when it finally reached her, was not heard by her ears but felt inside her bones.
“You came back.”
Seraphina’s breath hitched. “Back? I’ve never—”
“You have.”
The voice shuddered through the air, aching with longing. “I waited.”
Her fingers twitched toward him before she realized she was reaching. She caught herself. “This is crazy. I shouldn’t be here. You’re—”
She hesitated. The word dead felt wrong. Too cruel. Too small.
Abner drifted closer, close enough that she felt a cold tremor sweep across her skin. He raised his hand, as though to touch her cheek, but stopped inches away. The lantern flame flickered violently, caught between yearning and restraint.
Seraphina whispered, “What do you want from me?”
The lantern dimmed until only the outline of his face could be seen.
Then, in a voice cracked with devotion and obsession, he answered:
The days after Seraphina’s arrival settled into a strange rhythm.
By morning, the house was quiet.
By evening… he was awake.
Abner’s presence thickened the air like a scent: old pine, iron, and smoke. Seraphina felt him before she ever saw him. A gentle cold at her back when she washed dishes. A flicker of lantern-light in the mirror behind her. The whisper of something heavy being dragged far below the floorboards.
He was courting her.
Not with roses or gifts — Abner remembered none of those earthly rituals. His gestures came from another age, another understanding of what it meant to claim someone’s heart.
But to him, they were acts of devotion.
On the third night, Seraphina awoke to a faint metallic ringing. She sat up, heart thudding softly.
There, on the bedside table, lay a necklace.
A simple silver chain.
The pendant was old — impossibly old — fashioned into the delicate shape of a lantern. The metal was tarnished, cold to the touch, but beautifully crafted.
Seraphina whispered into the dim room, “Abner… you brought this?”
The room answered with a soft glow. His lantern-light flickered from the corner, swaying gently as though bowing.
A courtly gesture from a man who no longer breathed.
Seraphina touched the pendant to her chest. “It’s… lovely.”
A tremor of warmth — his warmth, impossibly — stirred through the cold.
And though she knew she should be afraid, her eyes softened.
When she walked the house at night, doors opened before her — never slamming, never startling her, only guiding, ushering her as though she were royalty.
When she stepped too close to the loose stair on the back porch, the wood snapped before she could place her foot. A warning. A shield.
When a stray dog wandered onto the property, growling low, something in the shadows moved with a single, thunderous intent. The dog yelped and bolted into the night. Seraphina saw nothing but swirling darkness… but she knew.
Seraphina sat in the parlor that night, the lantern-necklace resting against her throat. She felt him behind her — always behind her — a presence tall and silent as a pine tree.
She closed the book in her hands.
“Abner… I don’t know what you expect.”
The room grew colder, but not cruelly so. More like an embrace around her shoulders.
“You can’t…” She swallowed. “You can’t love someone who’s alive.”
The lantern-light at the far wall flickered, dimmed, then flared in what felt like anguish.
She felt a whisper at the edge of her mind:
“Alive. Dead. You came back.”
Seraphina stiffened. Her pulse quickened — not from fear, but from the weight of recognition that she did not understand.
She turned toward the darkness.
“Why do you keep saying that? I’ve never been here before.”
The axe in the shadows shimmered faintly as if caught by memory, not malice.
Abner stepped into clearer view.
A translucent figure, shaped by longing more than flesh, with eyes shining like lantern glass. Not violent. Not monstrous.
Devoted.
He lifted one hand toward her face, stopping inches from her cheek. The cold radiated from him in slow, gentle waves.
Seraphina did not pull away.
“Why me?” she whispered.
His answer trembled through the walls, as gentle as a vow:
“Because you are the first light I’ve seen since death.”
Her breath caught.
For a moment — a dangerous, fragile moment — Seraphina felt herself lean into that cold, spectral warmth.
“Abner…”
Her voice broke, soft as falling ash.
“I don’t know what you want me to become.”
The lantern behind him blazed.
His reply was a whisper wrapped in centuries of longing:
Rowan is the first to notice your scent change one morning when you're all laid in bed together. You are snoozing between him and Aelin, and he feels the slight change in you, usually, you smell of fresh strawberries with hints of lime and berries, but now there is a new scent intertwining with your own. It's soft and new, like fresh cotton. He thinks nothing of it as he shifts in bed, rising earlier than you and Aelin after agreeing to a morning run with Aedion and Fenrys. He notices there is a new glow to you, and you seem to be in a deeper slumber than usual, but with him being short on time, he gives you both a light kiss and is out the door. Something nudging at the back of his mind but not quite registering what this meant.
You and Aelin rise a little later, deciding on a slow breakfast with both your schedules being clear for once. You're in the dining hall, Lysandra having just arrived as you stare at all the food laid out so beautifully. Aelin has the biggest sweet tooth you've ever known so mounds of pancakes fill the table, with jugs of chocolate syrup, blueberry muffins stacked in dishes, whilst a selection of the freshest fruits sit to your side. Lysandra moans into her bites of a muffin, unashamedly dipping into the chocolate sauce.
"I swear I only come here for the breakfasts," she says between bites, as Aelin laughs. "How rude you are Lysandra, surely we have more to offer than our delicacies," you giggle as you stare at the table. Usually, your appetite in the morning is as large as Aelins but this morning you can't shake a nauseous feeling creeping up on you. You try to pass it off but the swirling motion Lynsandra makes with the chocolate makes you feel more than green.
"Are you okay my love, you look a little pale?" Aelin frets over you as you shake your head, passing off the feeling and reaching for a glass of water. "I'm okay, please-"
"Well, this truly is the only reason to come here isn't it?" Aedion shouts as he barges into the dining hall, Rowan and Fenrys following behind.
"I mean look at all this food, and what is everyone else having Aelin?" Aedion teases his cousin, eyeing Aelin's 8 pancake stack.
"Har har Aedion, ruling a kingdom is tiresome work and builds up an appetite," Aelin says as she pats at her belly. "You might know about it if you stop stealing my mate for runs and rule that army of yours" Aelin tutts, throwing a berry his way. Aedion catches the berry in his mouth and grins, taking a seat next to Lysandra whilst stacking his own plate full.
Rowan gives Aelin a kiss on the lips before coming to sit next to you, noticing your pale complexion he pulls his chair a little closer. "You look green sweetheart, what's wrong?" Rowan asks quietly to not disrupt the rest of the table as Fenrys also begins to throw berries Aedions way.
You sip on your water giving Rowan a smile that doesn't quite meet your eyes. The smell of the food now sitting heavy in your stomach, maybe you just need some fresh air. Your hands feel clammy and Rowan takes a hand to your forehead, staring intently, almost trying to read your body to find the problem so he can fix it at once.
"I'm okay Ro, really I just feel a bit queasy. I'll be fine in a second. " You say as you take his hand guiding it to rest on your waist, his chair pulled close to yours. Rowan's hand grazes your stomach, his thumb stroking slowly and then he feels a slight swell and it dawns on him, his entire body goes stiff at once as everyone at the table seems to notice the interaction. You shift into Rowan, not realising his stiffness until you look up to see all the eyes on you both, and Aelin looking very worried. Aelin and Rowan have a silent conversation in their head, with Aelins eyes turning watery. You pale even further not understanding what is happening.
Aelin then turns to the three guests and says "I need some alone time with my mates, I'll see you all in the gardens shortly." as her gaze never leaves you. "Faes and their needs.." Lysandra mutters as everyone starts to leave and Aedion makes a quip about finishing his breakfast this time. Having it not been the first time Aelin has announced everyone should leave to have alone time with you and Rowan. But this was for an entirely different reason..
The water now long forgotten, you look between Aelin and Rowan as feel yourself get warm. If Aelin wanted you right now, it was terrible timing as you felt you may just vomit all over the beautiful breakfast. Aelin grabbed your hand as Rowan pulled you closer his hand now resting fully on your belly. "My love, you have no idea do you?" Aelin smiled, a small laugh parting her lips as tears welled in her eyes.
"What is going on, please tell me," You begged, confusion setting upon your own face as you looked to Rowan. Rowan simply smiled and looked down to the hand over your belly, and it began to click within you. “I thought your breasts looked bigger, I was beginning to get jealous.” Aelin clicked as her gaze fell to Rowans.
Your hand moved to rest on top of Rowans, you wasn’t sure he’d even let out a breath in the last 5 minutes. “A babe..” he whispered, his lips grazing your shoulder. It dawned on you then, you were pregnant.. Tears welled in your own eyes now as you looked down, imagining the invisible bump that would soon grow.
“Are you okay?” Aelin asked Rowan, understanding how big this was for all three of you but another layer of emotion sat with Rowan after the loss of his unborn child.
Rowan nodded his head and cleared his throat, the wave of emotions catching the usually stoic fae off guard. He pulled you into his lap and grabbed Aelins hand as you all slowly grinned at each other.
A new stage of your lives was about to begin, and you all couldn't wait.
This has been sat in my drafts for awhile as I've been unsure to post, so hope you like this. I'm working on a lil smut with these two as well for Rowans birthday hehe
Title: “The Bride of St. Carta”: The Conjuring Saga fanfiction
Pairing: Valak ( the Nun ) x Reader Female
Genre: Dark Romance | Horror
Warnings: Arranged marriage, Mentions of abuse and family violence, Blood (minor injury), Psychological manipulation.
Summary: A young bride flees her arranged marriage on her wedding day, pursued by her furious family and fiancé. With nowhere else to turn, she crosses into forbidden ground—the ruined abbey said to be haunted by a demon nun. Trapped between her family’s cruelty and the abbey’s darkness, she discovers that salvation may come not from God, but from the demon who claims her.
The lace dug into your skin. The corset was too tight. You could barely breathe beneath the weight of silk and expectation.
"A dutiful daughter does not argue."
"You will marry him, for the family’s honor."
"He is wealthy. You should be grateful."
The words of your father echoed in your skull as you sat before the cracked mirror, lips painted red, hair coiled like a crown. You were seventeen—eighteen by the week’s end—and they were binding you to a man twice your age, his smile yellowed, his hands already lingering too long on your wrist during the engagement feast.
You had not cried when your mother cinched your gown. You had not screamed when the priest blessed the union. But now, standing at the threshold of the chapel, your hands cold in your fiancé’s grip, something inside you snapped.
Your feet moved before your mind did. A gasp rose among the guests as lace and satin swept the floor. You tore yourself free, the veil snagging on wood, the priest shouting your name.
“Come back here!” your father’s voice roared.
But you were already running.
----
The forest swallowed you whole, the hem of your gown ripping on brambles. The night air was wet with fog, heavy with silence. Somewhere behind you—footsteps, male voices cursing, branches snapping.
Your lungs burned. You stumbled, palms scraping against damp earth, until you saw them: the crosses.
The ones every child in the village whispered about. Dozens of them, jutting from the ground like skeletal fingers, each turned at an odd angle. Guardians, they said. Boundaries.
Beyond them—the abbey.
Your pulse spiked. The ruined monastery loomed in the dark, its windows like hollow eyes, its spires broken, leaning against the sky. Every story you had ever heard about the demon inside screamed at you to turn back.
But behind you came another voice.
“There!” It was your fiancé, breathless with rage. “Ungrateful little whore! You think you can shame me? You think you can shame your family?”
The sound of pursuit drew closer, too close. His shadow stretched across the trees.
You staggered forward, slamming into one of the tilted crosses. Splinters tore into your palm. Blood welled. You hissed in pain—yet the sting was grounding.
And then, when you lifted your eyes, you saw her.
Through the cracked glass of a chapel window, a figure stood watching. The white veil, the black habit. A face pale as bone, lips curled into something like a smile, eyes burning yellow in the dark.
The Nun. The Defiler. The Demon.
Your body froze, terror rooting you in place.
“Please…” you whispered, though you weren’t sure if you were begging God, or her.
Your fiancé’s voice was behind you now, the snapping of twigs only feet away. His fury was a living thing, ready to strike.
You looked back once more at the abbey window. The figure had vanished.
No time to think. No time to fear.
You made your choice.
You ran.
----
The air inside the abbey was cold, colder than death. Candles guttered though no one lit them. Shadows clung to the stone walls like ink.
Your heart pounded so loudly you almost didn’t hear it—the sound of the great wooden doors slamming shut behind you.
You whirled. Your fiancé had been only steps behind, his hand outstretched, his face twisted in fury. But now—the doors were sealed, as if no mortal strength could pry them open.
“Wh-what is this?!” you heard him cry from the other side. Fists pounded against the wood. “Open it, you wretched girl! OPEN IT!”
You backed away, gown dragging across the dusty floor.
The silence pressed in again. Heavy. Expectant.
And then—she appeared.
Not from the doors. Not from the shadows. But from everywhere at once. A ripple in the air, a shift in the dark. One blink, and she was there: the nun, her veil trailing like smoke, her eyes fixed on you with unnatural intensity.
Your knees buckled.
“I—” your throat was raw. “I didn’t mean—”
A clawed finger pressed against your lips, cold as iron.
“Hush.”
Her voice was not a voice. It was a chorus—mocking, seductive, endless. It crawled beneath your skin.
Tears pricked your eyes. “You’ll kill me.”
Her lips curved, close enough to feel her breath brush your cheek.
“If I wished to kill you, little lamb, you would already be ash on the wind.” Her hand slipped to your jaw, tilting your face upward. “No. You are different. I smelled it on you the moment you bled on the cross. Defiance. Desire.”
You trembled beneath her touch, but you didn’t pull away. Couldn’t.
“I—I only came because I had no choice.”
“There is always a choice.” Her grin widened, sharp teeth glinting. “And you chose me. Instead of him. Instead of them. You ran to me.”
The pounding on the abbey doors grew frantic. Your fiancé screamed threats, your father’s voice rising in fury.
But here, in the shadows, the nun only leaned closer.
“They would have broken you,” she whispered. “Bent you into obedience. I…” Her hand lingered against your throat, the claws just grazing your pulse. “…will make you mine instead.”
A shiver of terror. A spark of relief.
And for the first time in your life, you weren’t sure if you had been damned—or saved.
So, I just watched The Nun II last night, and now I can't stop thinking about being a poor lonely soul in a boarding college with a chapel that happens to be haunted by a literal demon. Not only is this crumbling old building possessed, but the cursed fiend seems to have taken an interest in you.
What could you possibly tell the other students? That you're being fucked by an entity nearly every night, or that it loves toying with you thorough the day? You can see its blasphemous face during Sunday prayers, eyeing you mockingly: there's nothing holy going through that pretty little head of yours. Whatever words of forgiveness come out of your mouth will be soon replaced with shameless moans as it defiles you once more.
Oh, what a terrible sin! The worst of it, really, is that you've come to enjoy it. The school has always been strict, and you hardly see anyone beyond these prestigious walls. You would've never guessed just how needy you are. The creature grins every time you willingly sprawl underneath it, begging to be filled.
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Scenario: What if you were in a relationship with not only one but both of them? How did this happen . . . 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐇𝐎𝐖?!
𝒱𝒶𝓁𝒶𝓀 x Reader x 𝐌𝐚𝐥𝐭𝐡𝐮𝐬
Warning ⚠️: Cursing and demonic tendencies
_______________________________________________
-------------------------------
_________ 😈
That’s the biggest question it seems…. 𝐇𝐨𝐰?!
How could these two powerful, bloodthirsty, horrible beings be with someone? Let alone a human. But it happened
Even though these two are demons, they both are totally DIFFERENT
Malthus is a black ram demon, an Earl in hell
Valak is a fallen Angel. They fought in the rebellion in heaven alongside Lucifer, Raking as the president in hell. A snake demon
(٥⁀▽⁀ ) How you all meet . . .
𝐌𝐚𝐥𝐭𝐡𝐮𝐬
You were great friends with Ed and Lorraine Warren, which lead to how you meet them
You were one of the first to have a tour of the Warrens museum when they first started to collect demonic items.
You walked around the museum carful not to touch anything like Ed instructed. You feel eyes on you but one was more intense. Your head turned to a direction like begging for you to look
It was the Annabelle doll, looking straight into your soul
Ed told you to not touch or interact with the Annabelle doll by absolutly NO means. But, he wasn’t the one that felt Annabelle’s eyes follow him intently. Surprisingly you didn’t noice the doll’s head tilt deepen when you left the room.
𝒱𝒶𝓁𝒶𝓀
You went on an investigation with the Warrens. You were involved with the case of the Hodgson family
It was that night of chaos and demonic possession everything was dark. Janet Hodgson screaming out the bedroom window while a tree that was strangely struck by lightning turned to a sharp point waiting for Janet to fall on top of it. Ed Warren held onto Janet, trying to pull her back in the room but a force not letting go of Janet nor Ed.
You ran with Lorraine making hasty ways to the bedroom. A baby pink dresser flew fast to block the door but Lorraine and you moved out of the way before being caught by the dresser. Getting in, your eyes found a dark corner twirling in black, gold dying ember eyes meet yours in that darkness, Valak
When Lorraine defeated Valak along with your help, it was thought and relief that that demon would be gone for good….that wasn’t true obviously.. 🙄
Relationship stautes
They don’t feel love or other mush stuff like in normal relationship. But there is two traits that a demon and a human have in common, Possession and obsession
They don’t speak outright. Like, at all. The most your going to get is faint growls and breathy whispers in the wind that you can’t understand
Demons don’t share, they take. That DEFINITELY go towards these two. So getting jealous was a common theme 
If you decide to give one more attention then the other, your now basically asking for a brawl
Having two very powerful demonic being partners has pros and cons, but one con is the power trip. They both fight for dominance not only for you but for each other. They both are in a battle and neither is going to lose without a fight. 
That’s when you would have to step in and try to calm the situation
Good news is you don’t have to worry about intruders, they would die before they even got to the front porch
They both have ONE thing in common, scaring you. They both love to see that terrified look in your eyes and smell of fear. that’s what got them in the first place, they were addicted to it.
They are addicted to you
Not just you as a person, your soul
It was clear that your just a weak human under there powerful claws, they make that known. What is also known was how unique your soul was.... they don't have a problem sharing that
.
For now
(Author: thank you for reading this. I feel they both in the slasher world get enough credit and plus l have problems 😂 I am open to any and EVERY request for these two or more. I hope you all have a great afternoon, morning, and night my little warriors!)
just a bunch of fairly sfw thoughts i have of mr. Abner. i hope you enjoy! (i say shakily for i feel very self conscious about my ways of interpreting characters as well as my writing)
▪︎ Will leave marks on your body. Unexplainable bruises at first - when you are not yet quite aware of him. But once you notice his presence and acknowledge it, those marks become something more.
Bruises, bitemarks, very visible hickeys in your neck, just to make a point out of the fact that he claimed you. That you are his. Wheneither that is within your own knowledge or not...
▪︎ Likes to take in your scent. Bring your hair to his nose. Getting awefully close to you to breathe in your lovely aura.
▪︎ Makes use of pet names, although they're rather basic ones; good girl, lovely woman, sweet thing. Of that sort, he'll equally use degrading names depending on his mood. Sometimes, it's hard to distinguish if he's praising or insulting you.
▪︎ Speaking of mood, his wife's affair sure did leave a scar, so much so that Lorraine called him insane. As such, his mood easily switches without a visible indication. He can be rather unpredictable, which makes him dangerous.
▪︎ Being a ghost, his touch naturally is cold. His aura, however, is notably warm. Whenever you feel his presence your body seems to heat up without any explanation. Even if you can't see him, that warmth might be a sign he's stalking you.
▪︎ Will absolutely perk his ears and grow even more possessive over you once learning that you've never had a (living) partner in your life. So pure and untouched... You were meant to be his. Someone like you would never betray him and he is never going to leave you.
▪︎ Very posessive and dominant. Very.
▪︎ He likes to corner you, tower above you, make you feel like his prey. That fearful look painted on your face activates something primal inside him, makes the illusion of his dead heart racing a little faster. The chase is exciting, wheneither he actually commits on attempting to harm you or wheneither it's just play.
▪︎ He's a big tease. He likes fucking around with people's minds, but he also likes to harmlessly tease and toy around.
▪︎ Perhaps it comes as a surprise, but he's quite gentle with animals. Abner never harmed the Smurl's pet dog, despite it continuously barking at him to warn its family members. Maybe, in a time long gone, he used to own a herding dog to help around on the farm.
Now, however, if you've been good to him, he might even consider occasionally giving you a moment with the spirit of your dear pet. (I'm sure spirits can invite other spirits, right?) Just you, him, and the memory of your beloved passed animal companion. A ghastly little family.
