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idkyetxoxo

Eight | A Light in the Dark | Fallow

Pairing - Azriel x reader

Word count - 2.4k

Warnings - Childbirth

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Everything in our lives was unexpected.

Of course that meant the day I went into labour was unexpected too.

I was standing in the kitchen with a bowl of fries balanced on top of my very large stomach, sipping a strawberry milkshake and occasionally dipping fries into it much to Cassian and Rhysand's absolute horror.

"I may actually get sick watching you," Rhys said, grimacing as I dipped another fry into the pink drink.

"It's good," I argued. "Salty and sweet. You should try it."

"I would rather fight another war," Rhys replied.

I held a fry out toward Cassian instead. He narrowed his eyes at me. "If I hate that, I'm blaming you," he said.

"Just try it."

•18+ Adults Only

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emriorson

🌙 acotar boys as how i think they’d confess their feelings to you ✨

rhysand: after a grand gesture— he just seems like the type. you have been friends for a relatively short time, but it feels like decades. in just a couple of years he has been able to open you up and know you in a way nobody ever has before. you never expected to fall for your best friend’s brother, and yet here you are. neither of you says anything for a while (even though you both feel the same), too afraid to ruin the most beautiful friendship either of you has ever had. but one day, rhysand decides to take the leap. there’s music, dancing, delicious food, a night under the stars— a lovely party just for you. “just because,” he says with a soft smile. and when it’s just the two of you, slow dancing under the stars to a song only you can hear, he finally tells you.

cassian: a bit clumsily— he’s never really been good with words or with feelings. but with you he feels things he’s never felt before, sees things in a completely different light. his feelings for you catch him so off guard he finds himself at a complete loss for words anytime you’re near. you think something is wrong— suddenly he’s so different around you, almost withdrawn. when you get a job offer out of the city, you decide to take it. as soon as he hears, he’s knocking at your door, desperate. “it’s two in the morning, cass, is everything okay?” “i just, i—”. he stumbles through a blurted confession at your doorstep and gives you the sweetest kiss you have ever had in your life.

azriel: a little shy— azriel has never really been shy. quiet, yes, but never shy. that is until you came into his life. you are all smiles and sparkling eyes, soft words and friendly teasing— he finds himself blushing often around you (though he plays it off coolly (he thinks)). he has always been one to listen more than speak, he likes to observe, but with you he wants to speak. he wants to but… he finds it hard to focus on anything other than your lovely eyes and dazzling smile. he is the first to make a move. he confesses his feelings to you shyly at first and then confidently as he sees you blush a pretty pink at his words for a change. his shyness melts away, though, and your first kiss is something of a dream.

lucien: spontaneously— his feelings for you came out of nowhere. what started as a fiery rivalry that melted into a tentative friendship suddenly became so much more. as he became more comfortable around you, he realized just how wrong about you he had been— you were nothing like the idea he had made up in his mind. you won him over without even trying. he found himself looking for excuses to be with you, reasons to brush his hand against yours, anything to be close to you. when the thought hits him, that he might be in love with you, he says it. he turns to you, suddenly, and “i think i love you.” you’re surprised for all of a second before your lips pull up at one corner, your voice playful, “you think?”. you never thought you’d ever be friends with lucien when you first met him, much less that you’d be the one to kiss him first (but you are).

eris: desperately— i just want him to beg ok? betrayal always hurts— but it hurts so much more when it’s your lifelong best friend that does it. when you heard about it, you first wanted to believe it was a lie. and then you wanted to burn him to the ground. you confront him, “tell me it’s a lie”, “i can’t.” he never meant to hurt you (how could he ever?), but you hurt him first. it’s a whirlwind of emotions— yours and his— and in his frustration and desire for you to just listen and understand, he kisses you. you’re both stunned for a moment before you push him away from you and he blurts out his feelings. he wanted to do this a different way, but he is losing you. in his desperation he tells you right there. he tells you everything.

idkyetxoxo

Seven | Hope | Fallow

Pairing - Azriel x reader

Word count - 2.8k

Warnings - Pregnancy anxiety, panic

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It was unhealthy to live like this. I knew that.

To wake up every morning already afraid. To go to sleep every night wondering if everything would still be okay when I woke up. To never let myself imagine the future, never let myself picture a face, a laugh, a life.

But fear had carved itself into me, and I didn't know how to live without it anymore.

There was a constant, nagging voice in the back of my mind that whispered the same thing over and over again.

You're going to lose this baby too.

It didn't matter that I had made it past eight weeks. That had been the milestone in my head, the point we hadn't made it to before.

idkyetxoxo

Six | The Slow Return | Fallow

Pairing - Azriel x reader

Word count - 2.6k

Warnings - Fear, emotional vulnerability

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Months passed a little slowly.

Grief didn't disappear the way stories always said it would. It didn't vanish one morning like mist in the sun. It stayed. It settled into the corners of my life, into quiet moments, into songs that reminded me of nothing and everything at once.

But it changed.

It wasn't as sharp anymore. It didn't feel like I was being torn open every time I thought about it. It was more like a bruise now, still there, still tender, but not bleeding anymore.

I started leaving the house again.

At first only with Azriel. Walks along the Sidra at night when fewer were around. Sitting on the balcony with a book I didn't really read while he worked beside me. Small steps. Quiet steps.

shadowdaddiesclub

The Rescue - pt 3

part 1 - part 2

Courage finally found your way, but you weren't entirely ready for the truth waiting at the end of the hallway.

You hadn't left the room in three days. You couldn't. The only person you trusted right now was Madja, the healer. Something about her made you feel safe, the way she tended your wounds, the way she was always there, but also never truly. You didn't want to face the outside, hell, you didn't want to face the people living in this house.

The one named Azriel knocked on your door from time to time, announcing himself, but you never answered. You only stood at the window, looking at the starry night, trying to put back together the pieces, trying to solve this puzzle your life had become.

Sometimes, you caught a glimpse of a familiar feeling here, like you knew this place, but it quickly went away the second after. It was like your mind was clouded, like someone had put a veil there, making you unable to access your own head.

Something was off. You could tell.

The nightmares were getting worse. You refused to sleep because of them. You often woke up crying in the night, back there, tortured again. Every time you jolted awake you swore you saw a shadow curling under your door.

Madja was sorting vials, prepping formulas to heal your skin. It was still scorched in certain areas. She had been really quiet this morning, as quiet as she could be. You surveyed her, eyeing her every move.

"When you were younger, you used to come to my cabinet and watch me heal the patients," she said softly, clearly aware of being observed.

You tore your eyes from her, not answering.

"You would have made a wonderful healer," she murmured, sighing softly as she turned her back on you, grabbing another salve.

Healer? Did you want to be a healer? What were you, then. Here. In this court.

Hesitantly, chewing your bottom lip, you mustered the courage to ask her, "What, what am I here?" You lifted your eyes to hers.

She smiled softly. "Maybe you should discover that part yourself." You looked at her, confused. She got up and started to gather her medicine.

"You should get out of this room." She gave you a look of encouragement. "There are no beasts roaming free in this house," she added.

You stared at the door long after she was gone. Then you moved, fast, before your mind could catch up with your feet.

The hallway didn't feel unfamiliar. That was the strangest part.

Your feet knew the turns before your mind caught up with them, left past the window with the cracked latch, right at the second landing, down a narrow staircase you hadn't consciously chosen and somehow already knew would be there. The house was quiet at this hour, empty in a way that let you move without an audience, without anyone's careful, watchful eyes tracking your every flinch.

You didn't know where you were going. You only knew your body seemed to, some current pulling you forward that had nothing to do with memory and everything to do with muscle, with instinct, with a hundred small unconscious things your mind had lost and your feet apparently hadn't.

You ended up in front of a study.

The door was cracked, warm light spilling out in a narrow gold seam across the dark floorboards, and before you could decide whether to knock, whether to retreat, whether to do anything at all, you heard voices.

"—burn the entire camp to the ground, Rhys, I don't care what's left standing when I'm done, I want every single soul who touched her to know exactly what that costs."

Azriel's voice. Low, and viciously controlled in a way that was somehow worse than shouting, like something enormous being held down by sheer force of will.

"And then what?" Rhys, quieter, steadier, though you could hear the strain threading through it too. "You raze Hybern's camp and start a war we're not ready for, and she wakes up tomorrow not remembering any of it, not remembering you, and you're in a cell somewhere or dead, and what good does that do her, Az? What good does that do either of you?"

"I can't just sit here."

"You've been doing exactly that for a week and a half and it's the only reason she's still alive." Cassian's voice this time, rougher, but not unkind. "You want to be furious, be furious. Hells, I'll help you burn it down myself when the time is right. But not like this. Not off a cliff of rage with no plan behind it."

You crept closer, some old, careful part of you keeping your steps silent without any conscious decision to make them that way, until you could see through the gap in the door.

Azriel stood in the center of the room, wings half-flared, shadows boiling thick and restless around his boots, looking like something barely holding its own shape. Rhys stood in front of him, one hand braced firm on his shoulder, not gripping, just steady, an anchor thrown to someone who looked like he might come apart without it.

"I let this happen to her." Azriel's voice cracked clean through, all the fury draining out of it at once, leaving something much rawer standing in its place. "I wasn't fast enough, and now she looks at me like a stranger, and I don't know how to fix either of those things, Rhys, I don't know how."

"You didn't let anything happen," Rhys said, low, fierce. "You went into that camp and you tore it apart with your bare hands to bring her home. That's not failure. That's not something you get to carry like a debt."

"It feels like a debt."

"I know." Rhys's grip tightened slightly on his shoulder. "I know it does. But burning Hybern's camp tonight doesn't pay it. It just gets you killed somewhere she can't reach you, and I am not explaining that to her when she's finally strong enough to ask where you've gone."

Something in your chest twisted, sharp and sudden and entirely without explanation, watching a male you didn't remember come apart over you in a room you'd never consciously seen before.

That was when you felt it.

A cool brush against your wrist, faint, deliberate, like a current of air that had no business existing in a still hallway. You looked down. A thin tendril of shadow curled loosely around your skin, there and then gone, retreating back toward the study door like it had simply been checking, making sure you were real, before slipping away.

Azriel's head turned.

His eyes found yours through the gap in the door, and for one suspended second neither of you moved at all. You watched the fury and grief both drain out of his face at once, replaced by something startled, almost stricken, the look of a male caught entirely unprepared.

Silence fell over the room for a few seconds. Then Azriel crossed to the door and opened it fully.

"You're out of your room." His voice was careful, but underneath the care was something rawer, genuine concern that hadn't had time to arrange itself into anything more composed.

You froze.

He didn't crowd you. He never did. "Are you all right?" His voice was low, soft, careful in a way that did something strange and unwelcome to your heart, something you had no name for and no memory to explain. "Do you need anything? I can get Madja, if—"

For once, you weren't retreating from him. That was new. You hadn't seen any of them, not since the last time you'd all been in a room together, and you could feel the tension still clinging to the air, thick enough to touch.

You didn't answer him. No words formed in your throat. You just stared at the wall behind him.

There, hanging, a painting. You, with the three of them, and a few other people, opening presents beneath a tree. Solstice, maybe. You recognized the names now, tossed around often enough to stick, Rhysand, Cassian, Azriel, matched to the faces in the frame. Two beautiful women stood beside them, one small and brunette, one mesmerizing and golden-haired. The faces all looked so young, so unguarded. And there you were, right in the middle of them, a present in your hands, smiling so widely it looked like it might have hurt.

Your brows furrowed. Slowly, you stepped past him into the office, drawn toward the painting the same way your feet had known the stairs without asking your mind first.

You rose onto your toes, fingers brushing the edge of the frame, and murmured, mostly to yourself, "What…," the word dying somewhere in your throat before it could become anything more than that, no sentence behind it, nothing but the shape of a question you didn't have words for.

The three of them exchanged a look, none of them moving, none of them speaking, all of them clearly afraid that a single wrong word might be enough to break whatever fragile thing was happening in front of them.

It was Cassian, in the end, who moved first, slow and careful, the way you imagined a person might approach something wild and easily spooked.

"That was a few Solstices back," he said, quiet, nodding toward the painting without quite closing the distance between you. "Feyre painted it. She does that, sometimes, when something feels worth keeping."

"Feyre." You tried the name out loud, the way you'd tried Azriel's, searching for a shape underneath it and finding nothing but the general, aching sense that it should have meant something.

"The blonde." Cassian's mouth curved, small and careful, like even a smile felt risky right now. "Mor. And the small one, that's Amren. Don't let her size fool you, she's older than most things in this room combined."

Your eyes moved back to the painting, to your own face, so unguarded it barely looked like something you could have made. You didn't recognize the joy in it. You didn't recognize any of it, not really, but something in your chest pulled toward it anyway, insistent, wordless, like your body remembered even where your mind had gone dark.

"You threw a snowball at Az's head about ten minutes after this was painted," Cassian added, a little too casually, watching for a reaction. "Hit him square in the face. Mor nearly fell off the table laughing. Thought you should know you weren't always this quiet around him."

Something in you wanted to laugh at that, an odd, unfamiliar tug at the corner of your mouth that felt almost like muscle memory. You didn't, not quite. But you noted it, filed it away next to everything else you didn't understand yet.

"I was happy." It came out barely above a whisper, more observation than confession, like you weren't sure you'd earned the right to say it out loud yet.

You felt Azriel move closer, a step, no more, careful not to close the last of the distance between you.

You didn't turn around. Some old caution kept you rooted where you stood, even as something in your chest strained toward the warmth of him behind you. You simply looked at the painting a moment longer, then took a small, deliberate step back, putting a little more air between yourself and all three of them.

Rhys, still by the door, cleared his throat softly, something gentler than his earlier urgency now threading through his voice. "For what it's worth, that dress you're wearing in the painting is still in your closet. Third door on the left, upstairs. In case that's a place you'd like to start."

You looked back at the painting once more, at the woman smiling like nothing in the world could touch her, and felt the strange, hollow ache settle deeper into your chest instead of fading.

You didn't answer Rhys.

Azriel stepped closer instead, careful, unhurried, and offered his arm, palm turned up, an invitation rather than a demand. "I can show you," he said quietly. "If you'd like to."

You stared at his open hand for a long moment. Long enough that you saw the exact instant he braced himself for you to refuse, the careful stillness that came over him whenever he expected to be told no and had already decided he'd accept it without complaint.

Hesitantly, you reached out and took his arm.

You swore, faint and almost silent, that he sighed. Relief, maybe, or something close enough to it that you felt it more than heard it, a small give in the tension that had been sitting in his shoulders since the moment you'd appeared in the study doorway.

He led you up the stairs slowly, matching his pace to yours without seeming to think about it, and stopped in front of the third door on the left, exactly where Rhys had said it would be.

The room beyond it felt familiar in a way that ached.

Not the sharp, disorienting familiarity of the hallway downstairs, your feet knowing turns your mind didn't. This was softer, quieter, a sense memory more than a real one, the particular slant of afternoon light through the window, the low, warm color of the walls, a scent that lingered faintly beneath dust and disuse, something like citrus and old parchment that felt, inexplicably, like yours.

You stepped inside on your own, Azriel a careful distance behind you, and let your eyes travel the room. A wardrobe. A desk. A shelf of books you didn't recognize the titles of and somehow already knew the order of.

That was when you saw it.

Sitting on the desk, half tucked beneath a stack of unopened correspondence, was a small wooden box, carved with a pattern of vines curling around its lid. You crossed to it without deciding to, some magnetic pull drawing you across the room, and lifted it into your hands.

Behind you, Azriel had gone very still.

You didn't notice it, too absorbed in the weight of the box in your palms, but if you'd turned around you would have seen something flicker hard and fast across his face, recognition, and beneath it something rawer, older, a memory he didn't offer and you didn't think to ask for. His jaw tightened. His hands, loose at his sides a moment ago, curled slightly, like he was resisting the urge to cross the room and take the box from you, or perhaps to simply watch you hold it a little longer.

It was the same box from the painting. The same gift you'd been holding, mid-unwrapping, smiling so widely it looked like it might have hurt.

Your fingers traced the carved vines, and something in your chest went very still, very quiet, a held breath with no name and no memory attached to it, just the overwhelming, wordless certainty that this small object mattered, had always mattered, long before you'd lost the reason why.

You didn't say anything to Azriel. You didn't know how to shape the feeling into words yet, didn't trust yourself not to shatter something fragile and half-formed by speaking too soon.

You only looked around the room instead, slow and searching, cataloguing every object like it might hold the next piece of you.

Azriel didn't ask. He simply stood in the doorway, watching, something quiet and aching and endlessly patient in his face, and let you look. His eyes drifted, once, to the box still cradled in your hands, and something that might have been longing crossed his face before he caught it and smoothed it carefully away, offering you nothing more than his silence and his patience, whatever it cost him to give you both.

You stayed in that room until the light outside went gold, then gray, then dark enough that Azriel quietly lit the lamps without being asked, careful and unobtrusive, like he'd done it a hundred times before in this exact room and knew precisely where every match and wick lived.

You set the box down eventually, though you didn't let it go far, keeping it within reach on the corner of the desk like something you weren't ready to lose again. You sat on the edge of the bed instead, and found Azriel still there, still patient, settling slowly into the chair across the room rather than crowding the space beside you.

"Can I ask you something," you said, into the quiet.

"Anything."

"There's someone you mentioned once. Helion." You turned the name over carefully, the way you'd turned over every unfamiliar word these last few days, testing it for a shape you could hold onto. "You said his library might know what's wrong with me. Why haven't we gone?"

Something crossed his face, hesitation, or maybe guilt. "I wasn't sure you were ready. Or wanting to go there, honestly."

"I want to go."

He studied you for a long moment, something unreadable moving behind his eyes, hesitation warring with whatever else sat underneath it. Then, slowly, he nodded. "Then I'll take you."

The Day Court hit you like a change in pressure the second you crossed the border, the sun-warmed air, the golden light so different from Velaris's cool violet dusk that it felt almost like waking a second time.

And something in your chest, for the first time in days, eased.

You didn't understand it at first. You thought it was simply the flight, the relief of movement after so many days confined to that house. But by the time Helion's palace rose gleaming on the horizon, marble and gold catching the light like something out of a dream you couldn't quite place, the strange, suffocating fog that had sat behind your eyes since the moment you woke had thinned, just slightly, just enough that you noticed its absence.

You didn't fully understand the lightness settling into your chest, only that it was there, and that some small, buried part of you didn't want to question it too closely in case naming it made it stop.

The palace doors opened ahead of you, gold catching the afternoon light in a way that made the whole entryway seem to glow, and then he was there. Helion. High Lord of Day, tall and radiant and utterly unhurried, moving toward you both with the easy confidence of someone who owned every inch of the ground he walked on.

The second his eyes found yours, you gasped.

It came out of you unbidden, sharp and involuntary, like surfacing from underwater after holding your breath too long, air rushing back into lungs that hadn't realized how starved they were.

"I know you," you breathed.

Helion's mouth curved, slow and knowing, something warm and wicked in it all at once.

"Yes," he said, quieter now, something old and knowing settling beneath the charm. "I imagine you do."

He surveyed you with curious eyes. "The question is: how much of me are you allowed to remember?"

---

a/n : yes yes part 4 is cooking, don't worry guys 🤭 @crybabyhaunting @chamoymangos @marrfil @alittlelostalittlefound @pageezy45 @sjejejjej @theyouthfullmoon @maplesdapperthoughts @jaziona92 @lilah-asteria @chillinini @spookypersondinosaur @sunmoonsweets @angel-graces-world-of-chaos @narcissanarcissa @strange-and-unsual4 @ivy-34

•18+ Adults Only

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dollface619

workplace romance ii

pairing: spencer reid x f!reader

wc: 3.6k

cw: talks of a mass shooting event, death, blood/guns/drugs, typical cm content, swearing, private-not-secret relationship, awkward!spencer reid/confident!reader, nosy coworkers, derek morgan being a natural flirt, a little bit of jealous!spencer, this is also 1000% early season spencer (there’s no other option), again proofread late at night

a/n: okay, so i woke up to a bunch of notifications to p1 of this! first off, thank you so much to everyone who liked, commented, and reblogged, it means so so much to me. and thank you to those who just read! now about the actual fic, i’m not from the DC/Virigina area so i’m googling all of this (along with random statistics) so please bear with me if something is incorrect! preemptively, so sorry about how i nerded out… I really love forensic psychology and chemistry

mastertag: #writtenbydoll

cm tag: #writtenbydollcm

“There’s been another mass shooting in the DC-Metro area. This one in the Tyson Corner Center, 13 miles out of the city.” JJ says, pictures flash on the screen of bodies: the victims who were shot, broken glass on store fronts, the mall in disarray.

Spencer sits at the round table, case file splayed in front of him. Victim photos, details, and medical reports staring back at him.

Physically, he’s here, in the conference room, but his mind can’t help but linger on you. He feels like he can still smell your perfume from when you hugged him. He’s knows that it’s unlikely, you don’t wear a strong perfume and your contact would have had to been longer and more intense for a scent transfer, but he secretly hopes he smells like you.

Hotch stands behind the table, arms folded over his chest. Spencer feels the man’s eyes on the back of his head— your hug from earlier raising many questions.

“This is the third mass shooting event in the area in the past month. This one crossed jurisdictional lines, so we’ve been called in to help catch the bastard.” Hotch supplies.

“Only this one doubled the victim count. The first shooting at Capital One Arena had three deaths. The second at The Wharf, two deaths. Eight people died at the mall.” JJ says with a sad note in her voice. Garcia makes a sad noise at her words, always empathizing with others.

The victim’s photos all line up on the screen, thirteen people who lost their lives to a serial shooter.

And now the BAU was called to help stop it.

Spencer knows it’s his job— and he loves it, truly. Doing this, catching all these bad people, makes him feel like he has a purpose outside of academia.

But, right now, when it crushes his weekend plans with you, he hates it.

You both were supposed to have the weekend off, no cases, no planes, no tests to run. Just the two of you, in your apartment, watching Star Trek and shitty romcoms with takeout and board games. Together.

“I called Metro and told them to send all the evidence here. Our lab will handle it all and consult us if there’s anything suspicious.” JJ adds in a blasé manner, like it’s some small fact that doesn’t matter.

Spencer’s head snaps over to her, back straightening. “Here?” He squeaks out, “Do you know which lab is handling it all?”

Hotch, Morgan, and Prentiss all give him a look, all having seen different pieces of the earlier interaction.

“I don’t know…” JJ hums, giving him a strange glance, “I can call and check, but it’s probably the main lab. They cover ballistics, toxicology, and DNA analysis.”

“No, no, it’s okay.” Spencer mumbles, gaze dropping down to his fidgeting hands.

Morgan’s eyes linger on Spencer before he turns back to the screen, “How do we even know these shootings are connected? With the increase in gun violence across the country, these could completely separate unsubs.”

“Because of this,” JJ says, clicking again to reveal written notes.

‘They deserved this. You have to stop them.’

‘You didn’t help. I had to do this.’

‘Stop me them. They need to be stopped.’

“It’s the same handwriting.” Prentiss murmurs. “These are down in the forensics lab?”

JJ nods in agreement, “Yep. They’re being analyzed down there with the rest of the evidence. We should hear from them in a couple hours. In the meantime, we should start working on victimology.”

Spencer swallows thickly as he pictures you down there, surrounded by piles of evidence and giving it out orders. It’s your element, he knows you’re thriving.

By the time you got back downstairs to the lab, the evidence had already arrived. Boxes sat full with dozens of blood samples, stray bullets, and papers.

Thankfully you already had your lab coat still on, googles over your eyes, when you get back downstairs.

“I’ve already had them clear out the machines and start prepping. The police want results as quickly as they can.” Your assistant, Maggie, tells you as you walk in. She hands you the evidence log for you to sign.

Maggie has been working here before you came in. She knows the place and the people in and out. You two have grown close in your two years here, so much so that it feels like she can read your mind sometimes.

“Okay, let’s focus first on identifying how many individual blood samples there are. We know there’s at least eight, probably more when those injured are factored in.” You say, turning to the analysts under your command. “I know we’re held back by the pace of the machines, but let’s prep as much as we can and get ahead.”

The analysts easily listen to you, having warmed up to you nicely in the years you’ve been here. They respect and like you.

You disperse the samples out as evenly as possible, loosing count after the fifteenth. The busted bullets get put into magnifiers to identify the striation marks and the gun that fired them. The papers in the bin are handwritten notes.

“Alright, check these first for prints and then I want a handwriting expert to check these out. We need to confirm they’re written by the same person.” You order, handing it out.

Once things have settled and the hum of a dozen machines fill the quiet, you go back to Maggie for details.

“Metro got these here quick. The shooting was this morning.” You hum, flicking open the file.

She chuckles quietly, turning to you, “Yeah, because they called the BAU in to help them catch the guy.”

Your face falls at that, remembering Spencer having a case being presented just before she called.

“What?” You sputter, your brain instantly imagining him going after a mass shooter, someone clearly trigger happy by the extensive amount of bullets currently being processed. “Oh my god…”

“You didn’t know?” She murmurs, looking at you in shock. “I assumed your BAU boyfriend would’ve told you.”

You shake your head, running a gloved hand over your face. “No, he didn’t… I mean- he didn’t know. He was just getting called for a case consult.”

You were promptly freaking out. You knew Spencer handled cases worse than a mass shooter, but you never had to see the evidence build up. Being elbows deep in all the blood soaked scraps and bullets, seeing it all, it makes you scared for your boyfriend.

“Hey, you know he’ll be alright.” She hums, gently rubbing your arm. “Go take a sample, get yourself lost in the chemistry before the briefing.”

“Briefing?” You squeak, eyes widening.

Maggie shakes her head at you, “Yes, sweetheart. The briefing you’ll report to the BAU with our findings. The number of victims, type of gun, and the handwriting. I type it up, you speak it. You’re in charge of this place.”

You groan, making a faux-annoyed face before moving into the belly of the lab.

Taking Maggie’s advice, you let yourself get lost in the evidence. Prepping slides, test tubes, clearing out machines and refilling them takes up an hour and a half.

You get pulled away at one point when one of your analysts has trouble with a tainted blood sample. You take it over, working to isolate the issue, running it through tests. The result says that it was two different blood sample, mixed together and both showing high levels of drugs.

That small win is enough to take some of the stress away from you.

You move on to helping Maggie finish up the report so you can deliver it to the BAU.

This time, you remember to take your lab coat and googles off when you head to the elevator, file in hand. You fidget the whole way up, smoothing your hands over your hair, clothes, and face.

Part of you wonders if Spencer knows you’re coming up.

A blonde woman meets you outside the elevator, a kind, but tired smile on her face.

“Hi, I’m Agent Jennifer Jareau, but please call me JJ.” She says, shaking your hand. She guides you towards a conference room, talking along the way, “Thank you so much for clearing your day to handle this. We know how busy your lab can get and appreciate it.”

“Oh, of course. Anything to help.” You insist, smiling kindly. “We’ve managed to get through most of the evidence from the shooting this morning. There’s a couple more blood samples being finished up, but I’m not expecting anything we didn’t already find.”

She opens the door and guides you inside.

Six people sit at the table, all with their own case files in front of them. All looking professional, and borderline terrifying— except for one.

You recognize Spencer easily as you step in the room. He’s sitting back in the chair, fidgeting with a pen.

His eyes flick to you instantly, and that half-second of eye contact makes your heart race. He tears his gaze away, looking back down at his papers.

“Hello,” You say, introducing yourself as you walk up to the table. “I lead the main forensics lab downstairs.”

The serious looking man that called Spencer earlier stands and introduces himself, shaking your hand. “I’m Agent Hotchner. You’ve already met Agent Jareau. This is Agents Prentiss, Morgan, Gideon, Garcia, and… Dr. Reid.”

You notice the way he stalls on Spencer’s title, but do your best to ignore it.

“Nice to meet all of you, though I wish it was under better circumstances.” You say professionally, eyes looking to each of them briefly.

“What did you find?” The older man says— Gideon, Agent Hotchner said.

You delve into the details easily, reciting the findings.

“There’s eighteen individual blood samples, eight of which belong to the ones who died. We’ve already cross checked with the hospital, all but two are accounted for.” You say, “The two unaccounted for also gave some issue. Both have high levels of a synthetic drug, an amphetamine type, mephedrone. It causes a euphoria similar to one that cocaine gives, only with a whole host of other effects.”

“Effects?” Prentiss asks, perking up at the mention.

You nod, “It’s a N-Alkylated Cathinone. That family is known for causing the central nervous to speed up, paranoia, and… violent behavior. There’s two samples that have similar amounts, and further analyses said that they came from the same batch. The chemical compositions were identical.”

“Did you get an ID on those samples?” Morgan asks, looking hopeful.

“Negative, but, if it’s any help, mephedrone isn’t easy to get off the streets. No one will sell it to you as a one off, and it’s not exactly cheap.” You add, shrugging slightly.

As they’re taking in your words and jotting some notes down, your eyes can’t help but drift to Spencer, who’s staring at you.

He can get away with it while you’re presenting, he’s supposed to be looking at you while you talk! It’s weird for him to see you in his environment, in the conference room surrounded by his coworkers, but even so, it fills him with this warm feeling to see his favorite people all in the same room.

A small smirk pulls at the corner of his lips at he holds your eyes and he drops his gaze, making sure you see him checking you out since you can’t do anything in front of his coworkers.

You clear your throat abruptly, giving him one last fleeting look. “I had my handwriting expert examine the notes. They were definitely written by the same person, most likely a male. As for the ballistics, there was two individual guns of the same make: Beretta 92FS. Each gun holds 15 bullets.”

“Eighteen out of thirty bullets hit someone?” Spencer says, brows pulled together, “That would be incredibly hard to do once the shooting started unless the individuals have some type of training or experience with guns.”

“Yeah… and fingerprints weren’t discernible, given that it’s at one of the largest malls in the area.” You say with a disappointed sigh.

They thank you for the report and you offer yourself for any other questions they may have before wishing them good luck and taking your leave.

Once the door clicks shut behind you, Morgan gives Prentiss a mischievous look. He has a theory of who you are to Spencer based on what he saw earlier and the looks Spencer was comfortable enough to give you.

He whistles lowly, muttering, “She’s beautiful. Shame they keep her down in the basement.”

Morgan’s words have their desired effect on Spencer as his shoulders tense and he shoots the other man a sharp look, clearly holding something back.

“I don’t know what her looks have to do with the case.” Spencer bites out, tone unusually stiff.

Garcia and JJ toss him confused looks while Morgan grins, having gotten exactly what he wanted.

“What does it mean to you, pretty boy?” Morgan goads, hoping to get more out of him.

“Enough.” Hotch says, cutting the conversation off before Spencer can get riled up too much. He may not be as visibly muscular as Morgan, but he’s still an FBI agent, and a damn good one.

Luckily, mostly for Hotch, the rest of the case goes relatively smoothly.

With the information from your report, cameras, and witness statements, the team had no trouble coming up with a profile.

Two white men in their mid-to-late twenties, probably the social reject type who have never really fit in. They would’ve gotten into drugs during high school or college, if they went, and would have a record for possession.

The profile helped them catch the men, twin brothers, before they could get to their next target, another mall a couple days later.

You’re informed they caught the men by Maggie, who also lets you know when they’ve returned from the police precinct.

At the end of the work day, you make your way back up to the sixth floor to meet Spencer before you leave, excited for the weekend off and hoping he doesn’t have too much work left.

This time, though, he doesn’t see you immediately when you step off the elevator so you can walk to him.

You see him hunched over his desk, writing something down as he periodically glances at something next to him. A soft smile pulls your lips at the way his soft curls fall with his head down. He looks every bit the dorky man you love like that.

Again, you’re interrupted before you can make it too far into the bullpen. Morgan, you believe it’s him if you’re remembering correctly from a couple days ago, stops you with a sly smile.

“Well, hello again, beautiful. What brings you out of the basement and up to our fine floor?” He says, tilting his head to the side. His words are easy and it’s not hard to tell he’s a natural flirt.

“I just came to see how the case wrapped up.” You say, eyes darting to Spencer. “I heard you guys caught the men responsible for it.”

Spencer’s head shoots up as he hears your voice, like a dog hearing its owner come in the door after work. He looks between you and Morgan, assessing the situation.

Morgan grins at you, “Well, we wouldn’t have been able to do it without you. If we didn’t know they were doing drugs, we would’ve been clueless on where to start.”

Before you can even respond, Spencer is at your side.

“Hey,” You say softly, smiling up at him. It takes everything in you not to grab his hand or hug him, wanting that physical contact with him.

“Hi.” He mumbles, neck flushing under your gaze.

Morgan, watching you two, let’s out a small chuckles. “Alright, so what’s the deal between you two?”

Spencer sputters, the blush spreading up to his cheeks at the attention called to you two, “W-What? Why would there be anything going on between us?”

A soft laugh leaves you as you bite your bottom lip and look down to hide the rosiness on your own face.

“Reid, really?” Morgan deadpans, folding his arms over his chest, “I know you. This—“ he points between you two, “—isn’t normal for you, pretty boy.”

“It’s perfectly normal!” Spencer squeaks out, his voice going up an octave.

“Spencer,” You hum, putting your hand on his bicep, “I think he probably already knows…”

He looks at you like you’ve betrayed him, an offended noise leaving him. “No, he didn’t—“

“Yes, I did.” Morgan cuts in, “Why’d you keep her a secret? I’m happy for you, my man.”

Spencer raises a hand as he begins to speak, always one to talk as much with his hands as his mouth. "Actually, she's not a secret. You simply never ask me about the people I choose to associate with outside of work."

"I didn't know I needed to." Morgan says playfully, pulling Spencer into his side.

You smile easily at the interaction.

Spencer always talks about his coworkers and gave you a pretty clear idea of Morgan's personality, so much so you felt as if you knew him personally. But, seeing it in person? It's something different.

The bond between the two is as plain as day.

Spencer, always one to avoid unnecessary physical contact with pretty much everyone, doesn't immediately pull away. There's as ease in the way they act around each other, the brotherly dynamic long ago established.

It warms your heart to see, and to see this side of Spencer.

"Obviously, you do." Spencer says lightly, eyes flicking between you and Morgan, lingering for a second longer on you than the other man.

"Experts say that the separation between personal and professional lives actually reduces burnout and increases one's productivity. Focus is improved and it keeps from interfering with career goals." Spencer recites.

"Is that why none of us know about your special lady friend here?" Morgan jests.

Spencer lightly shoves him off, huffing, “She’s not my ‘special lady friend’…”

“I’m not?” You scoff, raising your brows at him. You’re always quick to tease him, showing your love and comfortability through it. “What am I then? A friend with benefits?”

Morgan tsks lowly and hums out a quiet ‘trouble in paradise, pretty boy’.

“No— don’t say that!” Spencer groans, rubbing a hand over his face. “You’re my girlfriend. Don’t encourage him. You know you’re my girlfriend.”

You grin at Spencer triumphantly, patting his arm, “I know. I just wanted to hear you say it.”

He grumbles and gives you a pouty look, “I’m eating your ice cream tonight.”

“You hate blue moon.” You say dryly.

Spencer wrinkles his nose and Morgan’s laugh echoes through the room, the man clearly deriving some joy from seeing his friend get teased by his girlfriend, the girlfriend no one knew about until now.

After a brief moment of pause, Morgan breaks the quiet and the caring look between you and Spencer

“I can’t believe none of us realized this was going on.” He murmurs, shaking his head, “Especially when you look at her like that.”

Spencer’s brows pull together and he sounds almost offended when he answers, “Like what?”

“Like a lovesick teenager, Reid.” Morgan answers, clapping him on the shoulder. “I never thought I’d see the day.”

“It’s actually been 404 days.” Spencer corrects shyly.

Prentiss, who was just walking by, throws you a slightly confused look at seeing you up here and cuts in, “What’s been 400 days?”

“Pretty boy’s relationship.” Morgan says.

Her eyebrows jump up and she look between you two, “You’re— so you two are dating.”

Spencer’s cheeks burn a bright red between the sudden attention called to him and the manner of your relationship being unexpectedly brought to light. He sends you a desperate look, looking like a frightened puppy.

“I didn’t mean to cause a whole intervention by coming up here.” You say. Your hand goes to Spencer’s arm, “I was just coming to see if you were almost ready to go?”

He nods quickly, ready to be done with the workday and the conversation. “Yes! Uh— I mean, yeah. I’ll just go grab my bag.”

Spencer doesn’t waste a second before he scurries back to his desk.

“Gosh, I am so happy for you guys.” Prentiss says, pulling your attention back to her. “I’ll be honest, I thought something may have been up the other day when you guys were up here talking, but I would’ve never guessed a year of dating! That’s amazing.”

“Ah, thank you. We keep it pretty lowkey, if I’m being totally honest.” You say with a small shrug, “Neither of us are into big displays.”

Morgan gives you a meaningful look, something protective of Spencer deep in his eyes. You know that look well; it was the same one you gave your overbearing family when they met him.

You send him a tight smile as Spencer hurries back.

“Ready?” He chimes, parking himself next to you. It takes everything in him not to drag you into the elevators and all the way back to your apartment.

“Mhm!” You hum before glancing back to Morgan and Prentiss, “It was so nice to see you guys again. Congrats again on the case!”

They each said a similar goodbye that you could barely catch as Spencer laced his fingers with yours as soon as you finished talking and led you to the elevator.

a/n: again, sorry for nerding out about the case stuff, i had the idea for the case first and made the fanfic around it :) i really like this reader and would be so open to writing more set in this universe if anyone has ideas! and sorry for the rushed ending, i had no idea where to take this without it being eight years longer.

taglist: @aureliacalista @aseafullofstars @moonz33 (please lmk if you would like to be added to my taglist, general or spencer reid!)

gaptoothluv

When We're Thirty - Part One

summary: you'd fallen in love with your best friend, Steve Harrington, in 1982. but you'd suppressed your feelings, bottled them down until the night before you left for college when the two of you made a deal - if we're both single when we're thirty, we'll get married. but neither of you could wait around for twelve years, right? pairing: steve harrington x fem reader cw: explicit, 18+ (MDNI!), fluff, bit of angst, swearing, mentions of sex & virginity loss, kissing wc: 19k an: i'm so sorry that this is so long... i had to split part one into two parts.. i have absolutely fallen in love with them and @cuddlydrew99 thank you so much for all of your help and your amazing ideas and for listening to my crazy ones <3 i hope everyone enjoys this chapter because i really loved writing it i love them thank u!!!!!

March, 1982

You weren’t sure what changed. You weren’t sure exactly when you fell in love with Steve Harrington, but by the time you were fifteen, you were smitten.

Maybe it was because you spent every day together, and this day in particular was no different.

shadowdaddiesclub

The Rescue - pt 2

Part 1

As the days pass, Azriel unravels standing at your bedside. He's got more questions than fate is willing to offer. Something isn't right, and he knows it. Then your eyes finally open, and the answer is worse than the silence ever was.

Five days.

Azriel had started counting somewhere around the second one, not because counting helped, but because it gave the terror something to do besides simply consuming him whole. Five days since Hybern's camp. Five days of your chest rising and falling under his palm, steady enough to torture him with hope, shallow enough to never quite let that hope take root.

You hadn't woken once.

He'd watched you change in ways that terrified him more than blood ever had. The color had gone out of you slowly, day by day, your skin taking on a grayish cast no amount of lamplight could soften. Your lips had cracked despite the water Madja dripped patiently past them every few hours.

Your hands, when he held them, no longer felt like your hands so much as some cooling, borrowed thing. Every night he pressed his mouth to your knuckles just to check. Just to feel that warmth was still there at all.

Madja came twice a day now instead of once, her calm fraying by degrees each visit. She checked your pulse. Your pupils. The healing wounds at your wrists, mending exactly the way a body was supposed to, which somehow made the rest of it worse, not better.

"There's no fever," she said on the fifth morning, mostly to herself, mostly to keep from having to look at him while she said the rest of it. "No infection. Her body is doing everything right." A pause, heavy enough that he felt it land before she said anything else. "I don't have an explanation for why she isn't waking up, Azriel. I've never seen anything like this."

"Then find someone who has." His voice had gone hoarse days ago and hadn't recovered. His hand, wrapped around yours, shook without his permission. "I don't care who. I don't care what it costs. Ask Helion. His library knows more about old workings than anyone else in Prythian."

"I've already sent word to three healers outside Velaris, and I'll have someone reach out to the Day Court about Helion's library, if you think it will help." Madja set down her instruments, and something in the careful way she did it made his stomach drop before she'd said another word. "But I have to be honest with you, Azriel. I don't understand what I'm looking at. Her body is healed. Whole. There's no reason at all, by any measure I know, that she shouldn't be waking up."

"Then why isn't she."

"I don't know." It came out of her plainly, almost helplessly, an admission that clearly cost the healer in her something to make. "I've sat with dying fae. I've sat with fae in comas from blood loss, from head wounds, from grief so heavy it stopped their hearts. This isn't any of those. Whatever is keeping her under, it isn't happening anywhere my hands can reach."

Rhys, who had been standing at the window with his arms crossed through all of it, turned slowly, something sharpening behind his eyes.

"What did she say," he said slowly, each word deliberate, "right before she went under."

Azriel's jaw tightened so hard something in it audibly clicked. He'd replayed it a hundred times already, a thousand, the words worn smooth from repetition inside his own skull, the last true thing you'd said to him before everything after had become silence. "She said she didn't break. That she didn't tell them anything."

"Nothing else?"

"That's all there was time for." Something raw and dangerous moved behind his eyes, shadows gathering thick and restless at his feet without his permission. "Why does that matter."

"If it's not her body," Rhys said slowly, "it's something else. Something laid on her mind." He turned from the window fully now, violet eyes gone sharp, the High Lord surfacing hard over the brother. "Which means this wasn't punishment for talking. It was punishment for staying silent. That takes preparation. Intent. Someone anticipated she might resist, and decided exactly what would happen to her if she did."

The room went cold in a way that had nothing to do with temperature.

"What in the void were they trying to get out of her," Rhys said, quieter now, almost to himself, "that silence alone was worth doing this to her."

No one had an answer. The question sat in the room like something with teeth, and Azriel, staring down at your still, graying face, felt something inside him go past fury and into a kind of icy, focused dread he had no name for at all.

"Find out," he said finally, voice flat, final. "I don't care what it takes. I want to know who did this to her, and I want to know exactly what has to be undone to bring her back."

By the seventh day, Azriel had stopped pretending to sleep at all.

He'd stopped eating unless Cassian made him. Hadn't shaved in a week. Someone had gotten a clean shirt onto him at some point, though he couldn't have said when, or how. His hands trembled now, constant, nothing to do with cold. Madja had stopped saying she's stable and started saying nothing at all, which was worse.

Rhys had stopped trying to talk him into sleep hours ago. He'd left sometime after midnight, and the house had gone quiet around the two of you, nothing left but lamplight and the small, endless proof of your breathing.

It was somewhere in the deepest hour of that night, alone, that Azriel felt it.

Your hand, cold in his for seven days, twitched.

He went rigid, every part of him snapping to alertness at once. "Sweetheart?"

He leaned in close, watching your face with a desperation that bordered on violence, and there, behind your closed eyelids, so small he almost convinced himself he'd imagined it, your eyes shifted.

Once.

He would have sworn it on his own life.

"Come on. Come back. I'm right here."

Nothing else came, not for a long while. Your breathing stayed slow, your face stayed slack, and the room held its breath around you both, waiting for a sign that had already, finally, terrifyingly, begun. He didn't leave your side, refusing even now to loosen his grip on your hand, until exhaustion finally won and his head dropped, just once, just for a moment, chin to chest at your bedside.

He didn't feel himself drift. He only felt the jolt of waking to sound, sudden and wrong, your voice tearing through the quiet in a register he had never once heard from you before.

You jolted awake to darkness and the smell of tallow smoke.

Your body knew before your mind did, lungs seizing, heart slamming against your ribs, every instinct screaming the same single word: tent. You were back. Somehow, impossibly, you were back, and any moment now the flap would open and he'd come in to finish what he'd started, and you hadn't broken, you hadn't told them anything, but it hadn't mattered, had it, it had never mattered, they were going to hurt you again regardless.

"Don't hurt me." It tore out of you, thin and cracked, barely a voice at all. "Please. Please, I didn't tell them anything, please don't—"

A shape moved at the edge of your vision. You scrambled back, your spine hitting something solid, a headboard, your mind supplied dimly, though it made no sense, there was no headboard in the tent, and you didn't have room to wonder about it because the shape was still there, close, too close, and every part of you had gone into the kind of animal panic that didn't leave room for thought.

"Hey. Hey, it's me, you're safe—"

"Don't touch me." Your voice cracked wide open, raw with a terror that had nowhere left to go but out. You pressed yourself harder into the headboard, chest heaving, eyes wide and unseeing in the low light. "Don't, please, don't touch me."

The shape went still. Whoever it was, whatever it was, didn't come any closer, and slowly, achingly slowly, your eyes began to adjust, began to make out details that didn't fit the tent at all. Soft sheets. A window. Lamplight instead of torch smoke.

None of it made sense. None of it felt real.

"You won't be hurt." The voice again, low, careful, trembling in a way voices in that tent had never trembled. "I promise you. Nothing is going to happen to you. You're home."

You stared at the shape now resolving into a male, kneeling a careful distance from the bed, hands raised, palms open, dark hair, a face carved from grief and fear in equal measure. Something in you, some small, buried, exhausted part, wanted to trust the sound of that voice. The rest of you was still standing in a tent that smelled like copper and smoke, and it didn't know how to let the wanting win.

And yet. There was a strange familiarity to the shape of his hands, the particular scarring across his knuckles, something your eyes kept returning to even through the panic, as if some part of you that wasn't afraid at all had already decided those hands meant something, long before the rest of you caught up.

"Where," you managed, voice shaking, "where am I?"

"Velaris," he said. "Home."

The word meant nothing. You searched it and searched it and found no shape underneath it at all, no memory to hang it on, just the same suffocating blankness you'd have felt if he'd spoken in a language you'd never learned.

He watched your face change. You saw the exact moment he understood, something in him going gray and hollow all at once, like the floor had opened beneath him too.

"Do you know who I am?" He asked it slowly. Carefully. Like the answer might be the thing that finally broke him after everything else hadn't managed to.

You hesitated. You wanted, more than almost anything, to say something that would fix the look on his face. You searched every corner of yourself for his name, his shape, anything at all, and came up with nothing but a terrible, echoing absence where something should have been.

"No," you whispered.

Something in him didn't just crack. It caved.

"I just," you started, and the sob broke loose before you could stop it, ugly and raw, "I just want to go home. Please. Please, let me go, I just want to stop being here—"

You were sobbing in earnest now, folded in on yourself against the headboard, and the male in front of you didn't move to comfort you, didn't reach for you at all, just knelt there with his hands still raised and something shattering visibly behind his eyes, watching you fall apart and unable to do a single thing to stop it.

It was the sound of it, raw and unrestrained, tearing through walls that had never once muffled the sounds of this house's grief, that brought the door bursting open before either of you had a chance to brace for it.

Two more figures filled the doorway, one enormous and winged, one dark-haired with violet eyes gone razor-sharp the second he took in the scene, your scrambled retreat, the male frozen at your bedside, the raw wreckage of the room.

"Az." The dark-haired one took a single step forward. "What happened?"

"She doesn't remember." Azriel said it like he still didn't believe it himself, like saying it out loud might somehow make it true in a way it hadn't been a moment ago. "She doesn't know who I am. She doesn't know where she is. She looked right at me and she didn't, she didn't know me at all."

Rhys froze in the doorway, something in his composure genuinely cracking for the first time, like whatever he'd braced himself for on the way up the stairs, it hadn't been this. "I didn't think it would go this far." He recovered himself with visible effort, calculation slowly overtaking the shock in his face. "Let me try. If I can get into her mind—"

"No." Azriel was on his feet before Rhys had finished the sentence, putting himself between you and the door with a speed that startled even you, some old instinct in your battered mind recognizing, if nothing else, the shape of someone trying to protect you. "She's terrified, Rhys. She doesn't know you. You are not going into her head right now."

"She's awake for the first time in a week." Rhys's voice sharpened, urgency breaking through the careful diplomacy he usually wore, stepping closer despite the warning written across every line of Azriel's body. "This might be the only window we get. If there's something in there keeping her from remembering, I need to see it while she's conscious enough for me to find the edges of it."

"I don't care if it's the only window in the world!" It tore out of Azriel loud enough that you flinched, shadows exploding off him in every direction, swallowing half the light in the room. "You are not going anywhere near her mind while she's shaking this hard, do you understand me? You are not going to be one more thing that happens to her without her consent, not while I am breathing."

"And if this is permanent, Azriel?" Rhys's own temper finally cracked through, violet eyes flaring bright, voice rising to match. "If I wait and the window closes and we lose whatever chance we had, is that better? Would you rather she stay like this forever than risk one uncomfortable hour?"

"Don't you dare put that on me." Azriel's voice had dropped into something low and lethal, the air around him gone thick and cold, shadows coiling like something with teeth. "I have watched her disappear for seven days. Seven days, Rhys. I have sat in that chair memorizing her heartbeat because I was terrified it would stop while I blinked. I am not letting you walk in there and treat her like a lock to pick just because you're impatient for an answer."

"I am not impatient, I am trying to save her life—"

"Then find another way." Azriel's voice had gone hard and contemptuous, nothing brotherly left in it at all.

"I don't care what title you carry, Rhysand. If you take one more step toward her mind while she's this frightened, I will put you through that wall myself." His wings snapped open behind him, filling the doorway, a solid wall of shadow and membrane between you and the rest of the room. "You wait until she says yes. However long that takes."

Something flickered across Rhys's face, not fear, exactly, but a kind of startled recalibration, as if some part of him hadn't quite believed Azriel would actually turn on him until this exact moment.

He didn't back down. But he didn't push forward either, and for a long, taut second neither of them moved at all.

The room had gone dangerously still, the kind of stillness that came right before something broke.

"I'm trying to help her—"

"Then help her by staying the hell out of her head until she isn't terrified of every shadow in the room!" It came out as close to a roar as Azriel had ever let himself get inside these walls, shadows snapping out across the floor hard enough to douse the nearest lamp.

Cassian, silent until now, stepped fully into the room and put a hand flat against Azriel's chest, not shoving, just steady, an anchor. "Az. Breathe."

Azriel didn't breathe. He turned instead, and the fury in his face dissolved the second his eyes found you again, huddled and shaking and staring at all three of them like they were strangers, because to you, right now, they were.

"I'm sorry," he said, to you this time, voice cracking entirely. "I'm sorry. No one is going to touch you. No one is going to do anything you don't want, not while I'm standing here." He didn't move from between you and the others, shoulders squared like he'd plant himself there for a hundred years if that's what it took. "I don't care what I have to do, or who I have to keep out of this room. You are safe. I swear it to you on my life. Nothing will happen to you ever again."

Something in his voice cracked again on the last of it, fierce and unbearably gentle all at once, like the two things had never once been separate in him where you were concerned.

Rhys held his gaze a long moment, something not quite anger and not quite hurt passing over his face. He didn't argue further. He simply stepped back and turned for the door, his shoulder brushing hard past Azriel's on the way, deliberate, not quite forgiving.

Cassian lingered half a second longer, glancing between the two of them, then followed his brother out. The door clicked shut, and the silence that came after it was not the same silence as before. It had teeth in it now, something unspoken sitting between two males who had never once, in five hundred years, drawn a line like that between them.

Only once the footsteps had faded down the hall did the shadows around Azriel finally begin to settle. Slow. Reluctant. Like a storm choosing, grudgingly, to pass.

His wings folded back against his shoulders. The height and fury that had filled the doorway a moment ago folded down with them, and he lowered himself, slowly, deliberately, back onto his knees at your bedside, the same careful, unthreatening shape he'd held before Rhys and Cassian had ever burst through that door.

It should have frightened you more than it did, watching a male who'd just threatened to put his own brother through a wall settle so easily back into something gentle. Instead, something in you simply filed it away: whatever he was to you, he fought like that for you.

He didn't ask if you were all right. He didn't ask what you remembered, or what you'd overheard, or whether any of it had changed how afraid of him you were. He just knelt there, quiet, careful, giving you back every inch of space he'd taken up a moment ago, as if the only thing left he knew how to offer you was room to breathe and the promise not to take it.

You didn't know him. Not really, not the way the two who'd just left clearly did. But you'd heard them say his name enough times now, Az, Azriel, thrown back and forth between them like something familiar, something worn smooth from years of use, and some part of you had already started holding onto it without permission.

Something in you resisted the space he left anyway. A certainty that had nothing to do with memory at all. Some small, stubborn part of you, utterly unconvinced by your own fear, already wanted him to close that distance again.

---

a/n : 🤭 is all I have to say lmaooo

@pageezy45 @sjejejjej @theyouthfullmoon @maplesdapperthoughts @jaziona92 @lilah-asteria @chillinini @spookypersondinosaur @sunmoonsweets @angel-graces-world-of-chaos @narcissanarcissa @strange-and-unsual4 @ivy-34

crescentalice

girl with ptsd voice: hey, so something really bad is gonna happen, right? you guys are picking up on that too, yeah? The other shoe is about to drop, I just know it.

certaimromance

⊹ ࣪ ˖ Positive in Love & Wine ─ Spencer Reid.

Hiding your pregnancy is getting harder and harder, especially when you agree to go to a dinner party and Spencer has to drink every glass of your wine to keep the secret.

୨ৎ ──── fluff. 5,4k. fem!reader. drunk reid. english isn't my first language. main masterlist.

•18+ Adults Only

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moonstoneandmoonlight

a sweet treat | steve harrington

fluff, firefighter!steve, baker!reader, meet cute, female reader, no use of y/n, she/her pronouns for reader | request by @violatedvibrators (greatest username of all time)

wc: 1.1k

Steve Harrington had been kicking himself for almost a whole week for not asking for your number when he had the chance. In his defence, he had been working at the time and since he was making sure that your building didn't burn down after a baking recipe gone wrong, asking for your number hadn’t been too high on his priority list.

But man, he really regretted not asking for it anyway.

Because he knew there had been something between the two of you that night—that it wasn’t just gratitude for putting out the fire you had accidentally started in your eyes.

He wanted nothing more than to go back to your apartment and ask you out but he knew how insane and deeply inappropriate that was and so, Steve had decided to leave it in the hands of fate. He told himself—if it was meant to be, you’d find each other again.

And fate intervened one rainy Saturday morning just before his shift.

thememedaddy

hotchreiid

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

𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼

Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader

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

wc-875

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

warcrimesimulator

moonstruckme

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

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

Thanks so much, angel!

cw: pg-13 smut (mdni please)

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

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

"Uh, hey."

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

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

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

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

•18+ Adults Only

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Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.

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Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming

yeah-iveheardofbears

melt with you

pairing: steve harrington x curvy!reader

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

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

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

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

masterlist | consider buying me ko-fi | join my taglists

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

moonstoneandmoonlight

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

hot in here | steve harrington

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

wc: 942

𑣲 the roommate collection

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

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

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

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

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