#facilier x reader

@the-phony-king-of-england I am SO SORRY I didn't see this for the longest time, some good ol' Facilier X Reader below!

Facilier X Reader:

Ok real talk. The first time you meet him is going to be the culmination of A Lot of Nerves and several sleepless nights on his part

He's had his eye on you for weeks, not that you've known, but he's been desperately trying to figure out what makes you tick so as to make his intro smooth as possible

Since a romantic partner technically counts as 'something for himself' he can't get his Friends to help, which is probably for the best.

Shadow is the first to make introductions, catching your shadow as you trip and setting you straight with a twirl. He swooshes back to Facilier with an exaggerated point back at your stunned figure

"Get in there I've broken the ice now TALK"

Poor thing is sick of the pining

Once he manages to unstick his tongue and lay on that charm, it's on THICK

You're going to be escorted, complimented, assisted in every way he can think of. Pet names out the wazoo. Every nook cranny and piece of shade in the city is going to know that he's into you.

Likes to appear out of shady corners and alleyways with a stolen gift and a smile for his darlin'. It'll take you a long time to convince him the gifts aren't necessary, that his presence alone is enough.

Masterlist - Animated movies / series masterlist

Words: 1639

Summary: what if the Shadow Man meets his light?

Reader: female reader in mind but no pronouns or descriptions used (if I missed any let me know)

Chapter 1

He learned to listen before he learned to speak, because in a servant’s house, silence kept you employed. He grew up polishing floors he would never own, carrying trays past laughter that never paused for him. Because New Orleans sparkled nearby, its music slipping through open windows like a tease, bright and loud but it was never meant for boys like him. There were whispers, too, that he came from stronger stock than his circumstances suggested, that somewhere in his bloodline lingered the legacy of a woman who once spoke to spirits and was answered but gave away one of her one. Raised poor and close to candlelight, charms, and whispered Voodoo passed down in kitchens and back rooms, he learned early that power answered only to those bold enough to ask for it. By his teens, he could read people like music, pausing just long enough before playing the note that made them lean in, and by his twenties, wit and charm had begun to open doors that once stayed firmly shut. He took that as proof that he was finally being heard. Still, when the music faded and the rooms grew quiet, there was the lingering sense that something more, something of his legacy, was waiting for him, just beyond the light, listening carefully for the right moment.

He met you first on a warm evening when the city seemed to hold its breath between one song and the next. You were not looking for answers, and that alone set you apart. You stepped into the candlelit glow, glanced at the cards laid out before you, and gave him a look that suggested you were indulging the moment rather than believing in it.

“So”, you said, tapping the table lightly, “did these promise true love, sudden fortune, or simply confirm that tomorrow would still require work?”

He paused. That was not how these sessions usually went. Then his smile returned, slower, more curious than practiced. He told himself it was only refreshing to be challenged.

“Ah, the cards are very honest”, he said gently, “but they do appreciate a good sense of humour.”

“Good”, you replied, “I’d hate to be the only one.”

You asked questions that had little to do with fate and everything to do with choice. Not where life was going, but what one did when it refused to cooperate. He answered with charm at first, his voice smooth and familiar, but you met him with quick wit and quiet observations that nudged him off his well-worn path. When you finally stood to leave, you offered no promises, only a small nod before stepping back into the night, leaving behind the faint impression that something had begun without either of you quite naming it.

When you came back, it was not for predictions. You took your seat as if it had always been yours, glancing around the room with open curiosity rather than reverence. There was no ceremony to it, no expectation, and that unsettled him more than disbelief ever had.

“I was nearby”, you said easily. “thought I’d see if the future had made up its mind yet.”

He laughed, softer than he intended.

“It’s been considering its options”, he replied, his smile gentler than the one reserved for strangers, “but it did ask after you.”

You lifted an eyebrow, amused, “did it now? I hope it was polite.”

“It tried”, he grinned genuinely, “the future has manners. On good days.”

You got caught up in a genuine conversation, not in declarations but in drifting threads. About work, about small, stubborn hopes that required effort rather than spectacle. He spoke of where he grew up, the music that had followed him through narrow streets and open windows, and how the coat and hat were no costume at all, but something he had assembled carefully, piece by piece. You listened the way he had learned to listen himself, attentive, lightly amused, never impressed by the wrong things.

Your humour was quick and unguarded, his charm answering with a smooth, playful counterpoint, and the conversation found a rhythm too natural, almost familiar. He caught himself wondering when it had begun and decided it was better not to ask. Ease, after all, was not something he trusted.

“You don’t really believe all this”, you said at last, nodding toward the cards and candles.

“Oh chère, I’ve seen plenty,” he replied lightly, a small chuckle passing his lips, “enough to know what matters. I just don’t waste time on the wrong questions.”

You smiled, and the candles flickered, not dramatically, just enough to feel like a quiet acknowledgment.

He listened. Truly listened. And for the first time in longer than he could remember, he was neither performing, nor measuring his words for effect. His voice softened, losing its practiced rhythm, settling into something closer to truth. It should have felt dangerous, and perhaps it did. Yet he could not quite understand you, the way you met him without fear or expectation, curious and kind in equal measure. Neither of you named what hovered between you. Only the feeling lingered. A pull. A question left deliberately unanswered. Like a story that had just begun to realise it was being told. Later, when he was alone, the room grew quieter rather than colder, as if the walls themselves were listening. The shadows did not stretch toward him; they lingered, patient, respectful, almost thoughtful. A presence brushed the edge of his mind, not a voice exactly, more like a suggestion he might have arrived at on his own.

The third time you met in a low-lit dance hall near the river, the kind of place where the air stayed heavy with brass and perfume and the floor remembered every step it had ever been asked to carry. He had gone there with intention, cards resting easy in his pocket, eyes already scanning for loose smiles and looser wallets. A few readings, a few promises shaped just right, and the night would pay for itself.

Then he saw you. You stood near the edge of the floor, not waiting, not watching, just present. When your eyes met his, something quiet passed between you, recognition without explanation or expectation. He excused himself from his table with a flourish he barely registered and found himself in front of you instead.

“Let me guess”, you said, lips curving, “you were about to tell someone unexpected fortune was right around the corner.”

He laughed, genuinely this time.

“Careful, chère. You keep that up, I’ll be out of a job.”

The band slipped into a song that moved like warm smoke, slow and deliberate, each note curling around the next. Before either of you decided anything, your bodies answered it. Without thinking too hard about it, he offered his hand. You took it just as easily, as if the decision had been made somewhere else first. He drew you in, not with force, but with certainty. His hand settled at your waist, firm enough to be unmistakable, thumb pressing just where your breath caught. You stepped closer, the line of your body fitting against his as if the music had measured you both first. The first brush of hips sent a spark skittering up your spine. The world narrowed and every movement fed the pull. Your thigh brushed his again. His chest pressed closer, the steady beat of his heart suddenly something you could feel. The music dipped low and you followed it instinctively, bodies moving as one, the spark no longer subtle, bright and insistent where you touched.

“You’re doing that on purpose, chère”, he murmured, close enough now that his words brushed warm against your skin.

“You’re not stopping me.”, you smiled, slow and dangerous.

His laugh caught, soft and breathless. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he drew you into the turn with practiced ease, guiding you until there was no space left to pretend this was anything else. The contact lingered, undeniable, heat threading between you, bright and alive, like something newly awakened. For one suspended moment, the attraction flared so bright it felt inevitable. Like gravity remembering its work. Like the beginning of a fall.

And in that heat, the shadows stirred, delighted, whispering promises into the spaces where his restraint thinned.

They stretched along the walls, lengthening where the light faltered, their whispers slipping between heartbeats.

You feel it, they breathed. It comes easily to you. It always has.

His hand tightened, just enough to betray that he was listening.

Blood remembers, they murmured, low and knowing. You were never meant to live small. There are voices that once answered your name… or hers.

The suggestion lingered, careful, reverent, invoking stories half-heard in childhood kitchens, of a woman who spoke and was obeyed, whose legacy had not vanished so much as gone quiet.

You could keep this, they coaxed. Claim what was always waiting. Make it simpler. Safer. Something fast that lasts.

They brushed his thoughts with fleeting impressions. You laughing freely, unburdened, looking up to him at your side. Doors opening before you had to ask. A life shaped not by endurance, but by command.

Just a little-

Then you shifted closer, unaware of the whispers, solid and present, your thumb brushing his hand in an absent, intimate gesture that anchored him right back where he stood.

“You alright?” you asked softly, “you went all quiet.”

He looked down at you, at the warmth he could feel, the pull that asked for nothing but presence. His smile returned, different now, less polished, more true.

“More than alright, chère”, he said.

The song ended too soon. You stayed close a heartbeat longer than necessary, breath mingled, eyes locked.

The shadows fell back, patient and smiling, as the night carried on and the future waited, listening for the next step.

Chapter 2 maybe...?