Literally doesn't matter

Leon can and WILL manhandle you - picking you up bridal style, pulling you into his lap, throwing you over his shoulder

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Rating: General (Fluff, Public Cuddling, Inner Circle Reaction)

Summary: You are too tired to care about the "no public affection" rule. Surprisingly, Azriel doesn't mind either.

​The unwritten rule between you was simple: behind closed doors, Azriel was yours, and you were his. But out here, in the sprawling sitting room of the River House, amidst the chaotic banter of the Inner Circle, there was a boundary.

​Azriel wasn’t a man of public affection. He was the Shadowsinger. He stood apart, observed, and kept his walls high. You respected that. You understood that his shadows needed space and that his stoicism was armor, not a lack of love. Usually, sitting on the opposite end of the couch or simply exchanging a knowing glance across the room was enough.

​But today had been brutal.

​Your bones felt like lead. A headache throbbed behind your temples, a dull, rhythmic reminder of the grueling training session with Cassian and hours spent poring over logistics with Amren.

​You were sitting on the plush velvet sofa, trying to listen to Feyre and Mor laugh about something happening at the studio, but the sound felt distant. Across the room, Azriel occupied his usual solitary armchair near the hearth. He had one leg crossed over the other, his face unreadable as he listened to Rhysand discuss a border patrol report. His shadows were quiet, lazily curling around the wings of the chair.

​You looked at him. Just looked.

​You missed him. It was a physical ache, sharper than the soreness in your muscles. You didn't want to talk. You didn't want to be the polite, composed partner sitting three feet away. You wanted home. And right now, home was the solid, silent warmth of the male in that armchair.

​Before your brain could remind you of the "no PDA" agreement, your body moved.

​You stood up. The room was loud—Cassian was shouting something about a bet he’d won—so no one immediately noticed you crossing the Persian rug.

​Azriel noticed, of course. His hazel eyes flicked to you the moment you shifted your weight. He watched you approach, his expression neutral, likely expecting you to ask for a drink or tell him you were heading to bed.

​You didn't speak. You reached his chair and, without a single hesitation, you sat down.

​You didn't perch on the armrest. You didn't sit at his feet. You sat directly across his lap.

​The movement was clumsy with exhaustion. You settled sideways, your hips resting on his thighs, your legs dangling over the side of his leg. It was an intrusion, a breach of his personal space that would have made anyone else lose a hand.

​Azriel went rigid.

​Beneath you, you felt every muscle in his body lock up. His shadows flared instantly, spiking in surprise, creating a sudden, dark halo around the chair. The conversation in the room cut off as if severed by a blade.

​The silence was deafening. You knew Cassian’s jaw had probably hit the floor. You knew Rhys was probably grinning like a chaotic feline.

​But you didn't care.

​You let out a long, shaky breath and collapsed against him. You dropped your head onto his shoulder, your cheek pressing against the rough, familiar texture of his leathers. Your arm draped lazily over his other shoulder, looping around the back of his neck to anchor yourself.

​You inhaled deeply.

​He smelled like mist, cold stone, and cedar. It was the cleanest, most grounding scent in the world.

​"Y/N," Azriel’s voice was a low rumble in his chest, vibrating against your ribs. It was a warning tone, tight with self-consciousness. He was painfully aware of the five other people staring at him.

​"I'm tired, Az," you mumbled against his neck, your eyes fluttering shut. "Just... let me be here for a minute."

​You felt him hesitate. His hands were hovering in the air, unsure whether to push you away to maintain his reputation or to give in. His stillness was absolute. He was a statue, terrified that moving would either encourage you or hurt you.

​Then, you felt the change.

​It started with his shadows. They stopped spiking and softened, rushing over your tired limbs like cool, heavy velvet, shielding you from the prying eyes of the others.

​Then, his body relaxed. The stone-hard tension left his thighs.

​One of his large, scarred hands came to rest tentatively on your waist. The other moved up, his fingers sliding into the hair at the nape of your neck. He didn't push you away. He pulled you closer.

​You sighed, the sound vibrating through the silence of the room.

​Across the room, Cassian opened his mouth to make a undoubtedly crude joke.

​Azriel didn't even look up. He simply stared at the Illyrian General with a gaze so dark and lethal that Cassian snapped his mouth shut with an audible click.

​Azriel rested his chin on the top of your head. He held you there, in the middle of the room, openly claiming you, openly comforting you.

​"Sleep," he whispered, his voice for your ears alone. "I’ve got you."

---

"Yessah?" She came as she was requested to.

Though with Mistah Vox she never really knew what to expect. It all depended on his mood.

He didn't bother using words for now...it was all hand signals and gestures.

Come here.

As was expressed with a hand motion toward him and a zapping finger in motion.

So she came.

Next came his usual man spread and a simple pat pat on his lap.

All without bothering to look up.

She rolled her eyes but... didn't argue. She knew better

It was all a matter of mood and this mood wasn't giving the "okay to banter" vibes...

Pairing: Negan x Reader

Rating: Teen (Public Display of Dominance, Lap Sitting)

Summary: Meetings at the Sanctuary are boring, so Negan decides to make himself more comfortable—by using you.

​The air in the conference room is stale and thick with tension. Simon is pacing the length of the table, his voice rising as he argues about a shortage in the latest drop from the Hilltop. Dwight is staring at the table. Regina is cleaning a knife.

​You are standing awkwardly by the wall, trying to blend into the grey paint. You shouldn't be here. Meetings are for Lieutenants, not for... whatever you are.

​Negan sits at the head of the table, leaning back in his leather chair, Lucille resting ominously across the paperwork. He looks bored. His eyes aren't on Simon; they are tracking you.

​"Enough," Negan says. He doesn't shout, but Simon stops mid-sentence.

​Negan swivels his chair toward you and pats his thigh. A simple, commanding rhythm. Pat. Pat.

​Your stomach drops. You shake your head slightly, a silent plea.

​"Don't make me ask twice, darlin'," he warns, his voice low but carrying effortlessly in the silent room.

​Trembling, you walk over. Before you can hesitate, his hand snakes out, gripping your wrist and yanking you down. You land hard on his lap, your back pressing against his chest.

​The room is dead silent. Simon looks away. Dwight shifts uncomfortably.

​You try to sit straight, to maintain some shred of dignity, but Negan’s arm wraps around your waist like a steel band, pulling you back until you are completely flush against him. His hand rests possessively on your thigh, his fingers digging in just enough to claim.

​"Comfortable?" he murmurs against your neck, the scruff of his beard grazing your skin.

​You nod stiffly, unable to speak.

​Negan looks up at the table of terrified Lieutenants, a shark-like grin spreading across his face. He enjoys their discomfort. He enjoys seeing them avert their eyes from his prize.

---

"Hey Doll face could ya do me a solid?"

Pardon her little hop up into the Doll's lap. She pulls her hair forward to the front as she asks.

"Could ya check the back for me, sug? My dress is feelin'kinda loose~"

An excuse to sit in her lap?

Perhaps ~