#And I might write a one shot here and there | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

erodasfishtacos · 2 days ago

Text

Honest Lies ||FWB||

prompt: yn tries to avoid, Harry won't let her

word count: 3.7k

warnings: angsts, cheating, bad relationships

an:

I upload a piece of writing every 1-2 days.

This will be updated this month.

I recently started a second tier called The OG Tier where 2

one shots (2-5kish) are posted a week.

There are currently 375 + pieces available to read

Tier I - $3 USD where you get access to main stories, everything except the mini one shots.

Tier II - $5 USD where you get access to every piece of writing!

you can check it out HERE

YOU CAN GET 70% YOUR FIRST MONTH OF MEMBERSHIP!

first TWENTY to click here can get a free $5 membership for a month!

💕💕💕

Harry had slipped out before the footsteps on the stairs reached the bathroom door.

No moment to acknowledge what they’d just done.

Just the echo of the door clicking shut behind him and the silence that felt deafening.

YN stood alone in the bathroom now, fingers gripping the edges of the sink like it might somehow ground her, like it might give her answers.

Her gaze flicked up to the mirror, but she could barely look at herself.

Her reflection didn’t look different—if anything she had a post-orgasm glow, her lips swollen, and her eyes wet.

She should be gutted, disgusted with herself.

She waits for it, actually—for the guilt to tear through her, to reduce her to nothing but regret and horror and that sick, hollow ache in her stomach that comes from knowing you can’t undo something awful.

But it doesn’t come, at least not in the way she expects.

Instead, what comes is the memory.

It replays in her mind like a favorite movie scene she’s watched too many times—his mouth on hers, the way he touched her like he couldn’t get close enough, like he’d been starving and she was the first taste of heaven.

The sound of his voice when he spoke to her, praised her, called her honey.

The way her body had arched into his without hesitation liked they'd done it many times before.

The way she’d wanted it.

And that was the most damning part of it all.

Because YN doesn’t wish she could undo it.

She would do it again.

She wants to do it again.

She isn’t sorry for the act—she’s sorry for the implications.

She used to think cheating was a hard line.

A clear boundary.

A dealbreaker to any relationship.

And now here she was, standing in the aftermath of her own choices, wondering how she’d ever believed in that kind of moral.

She can’t go back out there.

She can’t sit next to Ben like nothing happened, like the last twenty minutes hasn't rattled her entire being.

She can’t make eye contact with Lauren either—especially not Lauren.

So instead, she locks the bathroom door and gets into the shower.

The smell of Harry—his cologne, his skin, his mouth clings to her like the campfire smoke, and she scrubs and scrubs until the scent is gone and the grief sinks in.

Because it is grief, in some strange way.

The awareness that she can’t unknow what it feels like to be wanted like that.

Cherished like that.

Touched like that.

She turns off the water but doesn’t get out immediately. .

Her nipples are tender from where his mouth had claimed them, a dull throb where he’d nipped too hard, too eager.

And then she sees it—a faint bruise just beneath the curve of her breast, dangerously close to her nipple, something she hadn’t even registered in the heat of the moment.

She presses a thumb to it, and it aches, and somehow that small, physical confirmation—proof that it really happened undoes her more than anything else.

She sleeps better than she expects.

There’s no tossing and turning, no dramatic spiral.

Instead, her dreams blur into the feeling of his hands on her waist, his voice in her ear.

The next morning is a new challenge.

YN doesn’t know how to act around him.

Her body stiffens when he walks into the room, embarrassingly enough, even in the morning she gets this gut punch of arousal from merely seeing him.

She isn’t overtly avoiding him—she tells herself that again and again but she’s curbing everything.

Her gaze, tone, presence because she knows.

No one else knows but it feels like they could.

Any second now, someone will say something or see something—some flash in her eyes, some tension in the way she shifts when Harry enters a room.

It feels like she’s wearing it.

And when she looks at Ben, really looks at him—she feels nothing.

It’s like she’s looking at a man who spent years tearing her down slowly, carefully, without ever raising his voice.

A man who made her feel like her body was an inconvenience, something to be tolerated or criticized but never worshipped.

The memory of Harry’s hands, the admiration in his touch, feels like a slap in the face when she compares it to the way Ben used to sigh before touching her, like he was doing her a favor.

She can’t look at him the same way.

But it’s not Ben that’s aching in her chest.

It’s Harry.

Harry, who’s sitting across the room while Lauren loops her arm through his and laughs at something he says.

Harry, who doesn’t pull away from her touch but doesn’t exactly lean into it either.

Harry, who’s pretending like nothing happened, who keeps trying to catch YN’s gaze like when his fingertips were pressed into her backside to guide her cunt to his mouth.

And YN hates how it affects her.

How something green and ugly coils in her stomach every time Lauren brushes her hand over his thigh or leans her head against his shoulder.

She has no right to feel possessive.

She knows that.

But she does.

She wishes she could say it didn’t matter, that she wasn’t keeping score, but when Harry sits beside her on the couch and she immediately stands to go get something from the kitchen, she feels his eyes track her the entire way.

When she comes back and settles cross-legged on the floor instead of beside him, his eyes narrow ever so slightly.

She tells herself it’s about privacy, about timing, about not having this conversation in front of a house full of people.

But deep down, she knows that’s only part of it.

The rest is fear.

Harry doesn’t seem as concerned about timing.

She can feel it—the way he keeps drifting closer, like he’s just waiting for the moment she can’t dodge him anymore.

And she was right.

He’s strategic, calculated, in that quiet way of his—subtle, but deliberate.

She has to give him credit for that, even if it makes her want to scream.

He waits until everyone’s seated around the living room coffee table, shuffling cards, casual as ever.

It’s some complicated game that YN doesn’t know how to play—one with too many rules and not enough explanation and no one’s really offering to teach her, either.

Harry, suddenly, claims the same ignorance.

“I don’t remember how to play either,” He says with a shrug, grabbing his coffee from the side table and sipping it like he hadn’t just lied.

Niall frowns, confused, “Didn’t we play this last summer at your place? You got way too competitive and lost a bet to Trist—”

Harry cuts him off with a low chuckle and a casual wave of his hand, brushing the memory away like it’s irrelevant, “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

It’s a lie.

A lazy one.

YN knows it immediately, the same way she knows how Harry’s hands felt on her thighs just hours ago.

Niall accepts it with a laugh, already distracted, but YN's stomach twists tight.

She recognizes exactly what Harry’s doing.

He’s making out space or more accurately, he’s isolating them.

Creating the moment.

And then he says it, “Will you help me start bringing supplies down to the boat?”

He doesn’t look at her when he asks—not fully.

His tone is neutral enough to pass as casual to anyone not paying attention, but the weight behind the words leaves no room for misinterpretation.

It’s not a suggestion.

And something in his eyes flickers—annoyance?

Frustration?

He’s never looked at her like that before.

“Sure, Harry,” She says, pasting on a smile on her face.

She catches it—that tiny shift in his expression- relief, surprise, maybe even a bit of softness that slips through before he masks it again.

He didn’t think she’d go quietly.

But she does.

Fuck.

----

No one blinks when they leave.

It’s natural enough to be brushed off.

Then they’re gone—out of the house, down the back path, through the screen of trees that shelters the dock from the house windows.

Out of sight.

Harry doesn’t speak at first.

Just moves methodically, stacking folded towels in his arms, grabbing a few lifejackets, nodding at her to follow as if this is all normal like they’re just doing chores together.

Her legs feel like lead, heavy and awkward, and she hates how badly she wants to reach for him, pull him down to sit beside her on the dock, press her mouth to his and pretend that nothing else exists.

Instead, she scolds herself for even thinking about it.

She shames herself for wanting.

And when Harry finally speaks, it’s not what she expects.

“Are you angry with me?” He asks, voice measured and cautious as he kneels to shove the lifejackets under the storage bench.

His shoulders are so broad in his T-shirt, and the veins in his arms flex as he pushes the last one into place.

He crosses his arms as he stands, looking at her fully now, and the air around them feels dense, charged, thick.

She blinks.

“What? No,” She answers quickly, a bit too quickly, her voice almost defensive with how startled she is.

And really, how could she be surprised?

She’s been acting like he’s got the plague by avoiding eye contact, dodging proximity, stepping around him like her own guilt.

Harry’s mouth twists.

His brow furrows just slightly, and there’s something vulnerable flickering there beneath the frustration.

“Then why are you avoiding me? You’ve done it twice now,” He says, and it’s not just irritation—there’s hurt threaded through it, too, “You’re making it really fucking hard to not feel like you regret all of it.”

She lets out a breathless laugh, dry and brittle, “I don’t know, Harry. Maybe because what we did was fucked? What did you expect? That we’d skip out and hold hands ?”

His jaw clenches.

He doesn’t rise to the sarcasm, but he doesn’t shrink from it either, “I don’t understand, YN.”

Because he thinks this is about attraction, about chemistry about lust igniting but for her, it’s always been so much more.

The way he looks at her.

The way he listens.

The way he makes her feel seen, not judged.

She’s spent years pretending it was nothing.

She can’t pretend anymore—but she’s also nowhere near ready to say any of it aloud.

“We’re both in relationships, Harry,” She says stiffly, redirecting, deflecting, desperate to drag the conversation back to safer, more reasonable ground, “That’s the issue, isn't it obvious?”

Harry rolls his eyes.

And it’s not playful—it’s exasperated, disbelieving.

“Come the fuck on.”

Her mouth drops open, “Excuse me? What does that mean? I think it’s a pretty big fucking issue.”

“I’m not saying it’s not,” Harry replies, biting down on his inner cheek to control his tone, “But let’s not pretend like those relationships are solid. You and I both know they’re not, clearly not after last night.”

“I didn’t say that,” YN snaps, defensive without even thinking—because she hates the idea of him painting her so spot on.

Harry scoffs out a humorless laugh.

“Right. Okay,” He steps a bit closer, his voice lower, tighter, “You want to pretend like everything’s fine in your relationship? Go ahead. But I’ve known for a while that Lauren and I should break up. At least I can admit I’m not happy.”

“Well, that’s your relationship. You don’t know anything about mine.”

He stares at her for a moment, then shakes his head, lips curling into a bitter, knowing smirk, “I know enough to make some educated guesses.”

She can’t think of a retort.

She wants to scream, wants to cry, wants to kiss him.

Instead, she huffs out a sharp breath, “Okay, Harry.”

But he doesn’t let it go.

“I know your relationship is bad enough that you let someone else touch you. That you let me touch you,” He says, and now the heat in his voice is unmistakable, blistering, “Bad enough that you came on my tongue without a second thought.”

The words slam into her, vulgar and raw and true.

“It was a mistake,” She spits, even though it’s the biggest lie she’s ever told.

Harry recoils slightly, like she’s slapped him.

It’s subtle—but she sees it.

The flicker of pain.

The shift in his jaw.

The blow lands, and for a second, it feels like she might throw up.

“You regret it?” He asks quietly, and it’s not just hurt—it’s devastation laced with disbelief.

Her heart stutters.

Of course not.

Not even a little.

It was the first time in so long that she’d felt alive.

But none of that makes it out of her mouth.

“Of course, I do,” She lies again, her voice barely above a whisper,“You should too.”

And even to her own ears, the words sound like bullshit.

Harry’s eyes search her face, like he’s looking for the truth behind the performance.

YN and Harry had never argued like this before.

Not even close.

Their connection had always been unspoken and easy.

They never needed to raise their voices, never needed to defend themselves—until now.

And this?

This didn’t feel like a disagreement.

It felt like the beginning of a wedge.

Harry’s face had shifted fully into something she wasn’t used to seeing from him—emotionless, cold, his jaw locked, and his gaze hard in that way that made her feel suddenly very small.

He spoke with calculated calm, each word weighted and clipped, like he wanted her to feel them down to her bones.

“I know the choices I made last night,” He said, voice low and deliberate, “And no matter what you think, I stand by them. Because I know my relationship. I know the hurt and I don’t feel enough for her to care anymore. The only reason I’d even begin to regret what happened is because of how you’re acting right now.”

Her stomach dropped.

The words landed like heavy bricks on her chest.

She wasn’t validating him.

She was pushing him away.

And worse—she was lying through her teeth to keep herself afloat, to not drown in the weight of her own fear.

But still, something in her ached at the thought that he could reject her over this.

That she could drive him to indifference.

That she might ruin something that meant so much more than she could bear to admit.

It wasn’t fair—none of this was fair.

But she didn’t stop.

Because what terrified her more than losing him… was wanting him this much.

She couldn’t even admit that she was falling, that she had already fallen—and that the idea of him not being on the same page would gut her beyond repair.

So instead, she twisted the blade deeper.

“It was just sex,” She said flatly, the words hitting the air like poison.

It wasn’t even a good lie.

It cracked in her tone before it fully left her lips.

Harry’s brow lifted slightly, his arms crossed over his chest, and she hated how defined his biceps looked, even now.

He tilted his head, voice low, incredulous.

“Really?” He asked, with a slow, sharp edge, “You’re telling me that’s all it was?”

She knew that if she opened her mouth, her voice would shake so she just nodded instead, eyes dropping to the dock between them.

Harry wasn’t buying it.

“You didn’t feel anything?” He pushed, clearly trying to drag the truth out of her, desperate or angry—she couldn’t quite tell.

She didn’t know what answer he was even looking for—because she couldn’t tell the difference anymore between physical want and the deeper, dangerous longing that had been rooted in her for so long, growing quietly in the heart of her miserable relationship.

Her throat was tight.

The back of her neck prickled with the warning of tears, and she swallowed hard to push them down.

She couldn’t cry so she shrugged.

Harry scoffed, a sound that was both offended and exhausted, as he shook his head.

His voice was rough when he replied, “Whatever. I know what I felt.”

“And what was that?” She asked, voice barely recognizable as her own, hollow and hoarse.

“No,” he said sharply, pointing a finger at her, “You don’t get to do that.”

“Do what?” She shot back, confused and defensive and unraveling.

“You don’t get to shut down on me and then ask me for vulnerability like it’s owed,” Harry growled, “You don’t get to lie to my face and then demand honesty from me.”

His anger was simmering, not exploding—but controlled.

YN’s cheeks flamed, stung by the truth because he was right.

She was asking him to lay it all out while she built walls and hid behind them.

She felt like she was being scolded, called out on the kind of behavior she usually hated in other people.

“Did you feel anything?” Harry asked again, stepping closer now, voice quieter, but still intense.

The question felt too big, too overwhelming.

What did it even mean?

Anything?

“Don’t ask me that,” YN pleaded, shaking her head, her voice shaking too, “I’m… I’m in a relationship.”

Harry’s lip curled with frustration, his voice getting sharper again, “Not a good enough one that you wanted to be faithful.”

“You don’t—”

“He’s a fucking prick, YN,” Harry interrupted, not letting her finish, “No one will say it to you, but I will. We all hate him. No one understands what you’re doing with him. And last night just proved it even more—when you flinched about your own goddamn body, when you told me the shit he says to you.”

Harry was fired up now, his voice louder but not threatening.

Just emotionally charged.

“It’s fucked up, YN,” He seethed, stepping forward again, “That he talks to you like that, that he’s made you feel like that. And if you ask me, no—I don’t feel a fucking ounce of regret over last night. Not even a little. The only thing that’s goddamn disappointing is that you are acting this way.”

Her heart was pounding so loudly she could hear it in her ears, and for a moment, she didn’t know what her body was going to do.

Collapse? Vomit? Hyperventilate?

But in the end, it was tears.

The tears broke first.

They spilled over faster than she could stop them, as her mouth trembled and her shoulders sagged.

Her hands lifted in a weak attempt to hide it, to save face, but Harry saw.

And the shift in him was immediate.

His anger faded in an instant, his body moving without hesitation toward her, hand reaching out—gentle now.

“Honey—” He said softly, voice breaking on the nickname, his expression unraveling into concern, into guilt.

But then—

“Everything good?” A voice cut through them.

Niall.

His voice was awkward, his body half-turned as if he was unsure whether to approach or retreat.

“I, uh… just came to tell you we switched to Monopoly,” He said, glancing between them with a raised brow, clearly trying to figure out what he’d walked into but smart enough to know not to ask.

YN’s face burned, and she wiped at her cheeks quickly, shoving all the pieces of herself back into place.

“Yeah,” She said, voice too chipper, too fake, “All good. I’ll play.”

She moved before Harry could stop her, before he could say anything else.

“YN—” He called, ignoring Niall entirely, voice rough with urgency.

But she turned to him, her gaze hard, final.

“You can set up the rest, right?” She asked, and though her words were polite, the look in her eyes was not.

It was a warning.

Harry’s jaw clenched.

His eyes flashed something like irritation and desperation but he didn’t push.

“Yeah,” He said quietly, gaze locked to hers, “I’m good. Go have fun.”

And she left him there—alone on the dock, in the sun, surrounded by supplies they were supposed to carry together.

Ignoring the tension that transferred onto Niall.

I have so much planned for these two! I'm going to try to do smutty angsts which I haven't done a lot of!! If ever really!

#harry styles writing #harry styles #harry styles fluff #update #harry styles x reader #harry styles x you #harry styles fic rec #harry styles masterlist #harry styles x y/n #harry styles smut #harry styles glastonbury #harry styles one shot #fanpic harry #louis tomlinson #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fiction #writing updates #writing

169 notes · View notes

suppose-i-was-worm · 1 day ago

Text

Marzipan Boy part 5

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64048147/chapters/173345350

“So your siblings live in Star City?”

Danny nodded absently, inspecting the parts laid out on the desk in front of him. Tim had invited him to Wayne Industries to look at trial components for his gaming setup- apparently Wayne Electronics was looking into custom computers, and Tim needed a test dummy.

Danny was happy to stress test free tech. Tucker would be ecstatic.

“Yeah- Jazz and Dante are in college there- Jazz has custody of Ellie.”

“Why did you choose Gotham?”

“Sam and Tucker, really. I mean, I’m currently sleeping on their couch, but two years of free rent isn’t something to shake a stick at.”

Tim made an inquisitive noise, and Danny looked over to see the CEO writing some notes on his tablet.

“Long story. In any case, I’m here for college- Gotham U’s Intergalactic Relations program is second only to Metropolis U, and we can’t afford Metropolis.”

“Intergalactic Relations?”

Danny put down the SSD he was toying with and picked up a different one.

“Yeah, figured it would be useful. I don’t like it much, but with my positi- I mean- Well, can’t get to space otherwise.”

“Because of the nerve damage?”

“Exactly. Can’t do a normal spacewalk.”

With a laugh, Tim put down his tablet and wandered over to stand next to Danny- Danny intentionally leaned a little closer to his crush, but not too close as to crowd him.

“I’m sure you’ll do great at Intergalactic Relations.”

“I’m passing so far!”

Danny grinned down at Tim, who handed him a motherboard component.

“Try this one, it’s probably the best for gaming.”

The two of them smiled at each other for a second before they were interrupted by a cough from the door.

“Excuse me, Mr. Drake-Wayne, you’ve got an appointment in fifteen. I’ll give you two time to kiss goodbye.”

Tam winked at Tim as they sheepishly turned toward her, and then closed the door to the office again.

“Sorry about her.”

It was surprising to see Tim flush so deeply, so Danny decided to shoot his shot.

“We can, you know? I wouldn’t be opposed. Unless I’m reading this wrong.”

“I’ll be rude, then.”

“Rude?”

Tim reached up and grabbed the back of Danny’s neck, pulling him into a sweet kiss, which Danny returned enthusiastically. He could survive a little ‘rudeness’, as a treat.

~~~

Phantom wrapped his skeletal form around Phantasm, staring down at the assembled Justice League with an unreadable expression on his gaunt features. Phantasm had her arms crossed, looking belligerent. Bruce resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“Welcome, Phantom of the Frozen Citadel. Might I ask why you joined us on the Watchtower?”

Phantom’s great hollow eyes turned to Diana when she spoke. He was much larger than anyone in the room- smaller than when Bruce had first encountered him, but still towering.

“Phantasm forgot her lunch.”

The young ghost in question threw her hands up in exasperation, a gesture Bruce often saw from his own children.

“We would have appreciated prior warning before your arrival- no offense, but you caused great alarm with your approach.”

The surrounding heroes lowered their weapons as Phantom swung his head around to view them.

“Ah. I see- my apologies. I will send warning prior to any future visits.”

Phantom reached inside his chest and pulled out a lunchbag that looked tiny in his hands, balancing it carefully on Phantasm’s head despite the fact that she was covering her face with her hands.

“Do not leave your lunch at home, and I won’t have to visit you at work.”

“Daaad!”

The massive ghost smiled, and Bruce would almost describe the expression as smug.

“If you came to visit more often, I wouldn’t embarrass you in front of your friends.”

Phantasm snatched the lunchbox off of her head.

“Just you wait, I’m gonna crash your next date with your boyfriend.”

Bruce couldn’t help but exchange glances with Diana and Clark- what sort of power might the significant other of such an imposing figure have?

Phantom’s smile grew warmer, the star freckles across his sunken cheeks standing out more and more against his pale green skin.

“I would love that.”

With a shriek, Phantasm shot out of her father’s embrace, dropping her lunchbox as she brought her hands up to cover her mouth.

“You’re actually dating him now?”

The stars got brighter- Bruce surmised a blush, before Phantom blinked out of existence. Phantasm growled and landed.

“Damn him, now I have to visit.”

“Where would you be visiting, Phantom?”

Bless Diana, sneaking in a question about the Infinite Realms while Phantasm was distracted.

“Oh, Gotham. Dad spends most of his time there, after all.”

What.

~~~

Tim donated a few hundred to Danny- He’d been doing it quite often since the kiss, so much so that he had to program a shortkey into his phone so that it only took a few taps. His phone rang shortly after.

“Hey boo!”

“Hey Danny- was just thinking about you.”

“Lucky for you, I was thinking about you too- do you drop money every time you think about me? Is that what that is about?”

With a chuckle, Tim answered the affirmative.

“Of course. I love thinking about you, and I think you deserve good things.”

Danny was silent for a moment.

“Am I your sugar baby?”

“By definition, no,” Tim had looked up the definition. “You’d have to be younger than me for that- aren’t you a few months older?”

His boyfriend started laughing, and Tim grinned smugly. He loved Danny’s laugh.

Said laugh was cut off by Tim’s phone ringing through the call.

“Gotta go, babe, Bruce is calling.”

“Work thing? Knock ‘em dead!”

Tim sent another hundred as his call with Danny hung up, and then answered Bruce’s call.

“Hey B, what’s up?”

“The Voice of the Crown lives in Gotham.”

“Isn’t that a little… He’s a ghost, how can he live anywhere?”

“Tim.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll do some research. Do we have a general area, or?”

Bruce grunted a negative, and Tim sighed. Looks like his workload just doubled. Again.

“Send me the info you’ve got, and I’ll start looking.”

#dp x dc #dp x dc fanfic #dp x batman #dpxdc #tim drake/danny fenton

97 notes · View notes

tovibeornottovibe · 21 hours ago

Text

Broken Things

Azriel x Fem!OC (Sereyna)

this is based on this request! thank you, anon, for being so patient with me, i hope this is worth the (month long, i'm so sorry) wait and that you enjoy it <3 (if not, i can always write you a different version, i have about five drafts all with different plot points lmao)

After a terrible night in the Day Court, one where he feels more lonely than ever, one where his heart won't stop fucking shuddering in his chest, Azriel unexpectedly meets his mate. The problem? She wants absolutely nothing to do with him and rejects him in all but name. He goes to Rhys for answers, and doesn't like what he hears. [8.5k words]

warnings: we're dealing with Under the Mountain here so abuse, implied sexual assault, canon typical violence, Amarantha, but also angst, fluff, suggestiveness, horny azriel, angry azriel, protective azriel, drinking, smoking, swearing, protective rhysand, asshole rhysand, az is also kind of an asshole at the start of this, but he's a sweetie at the end

masterlist | Prefer Ao3? [down at the minute, will upload the link when it's back]

So they’re in a club. Him, Rhys, Feyre, Cass and Nesta, Mor and Helion, all in the Day Court. Rhys had called it a diplomatic mission. Everyone else is in agreement that it’s an excuse to drink all of Helion’s wine, play some games, dance a little.

It’s called letting loose, Az, Cass had told him. Have you heard of it?

Az had said nothing, had done nothing. He let his brother primp and preen and enjoy calling him a killjoy. Tonight, he doesn’t feel like snarling or snarking. He thinks everything will be easier if he just waits out the night alone, quietly, letting everyone get cosy and coupled, too drunk—even Nesta—to wonder if he isn’t doing the same. Maybe tomorrow, when they’re back home, his chest will stop feeling so fucking heavy.

It’s like his heart is working to claw out of his chest and his ribs are tightening and tightening and tightening to try and stop it. The music’s loud and his shadows hate the lights; they keep hissing at him to go outside, curling around his ears and ducking under his wings. People keep bumping into him. He’s remembering why he hates clubs. The female next to him at the bar is eyeing him like she wants to ride him like a horse and thinks he’s hung like one too.

Suddenly, he’s feeling sour and he’s dying for a drink that’ll make his head go quiet. He catches the bartender’s attention, asks for a shot of something stupid expensive and strong. Necks it in one. The female next to him chuckles.

“Rough night?” she asks, her voice dipped, sweet like honey, raspy, sultry, practiced.

He glances at her and motions for another shot (it’s all on Helion’s tab, so why not?). She’s pretty in the same way that all High Fae are pretty. Long legs, long lashes, tanned and toned in places meant to please. She’s blonde, wearing red. Az scoffs at the sight, thinking of Mor, then, resentfully, of Elain, while his fifteenth shot of the night runs down his throat and beats down his heart trying to crawl up his gullet.

“Worse now someone’s talking to me,” he says. Rude, his shadows bark. So what, he thinks. Still he tucks in his wings, keeps his gaze firmly uninterested, and tries not to look like he’d punch her in the mouth if she said the wrong thing. Which he wouldn’t, but he’s seen it happen. Character building, that’s what Devlon used to call it, until Azriel held him over the side of the cliff which marks the edge of Windhaven and threatened to drop him. They’d bound his wings first, of course.

Anyway.

If this female would kindly leave him alone and let him do another shot, he’d be much happier.

Instead, she whistles low and takes a sip of whatever cocktail she ordered, placing it back on the bar with a clink. A martini, maybe. She seems the kind, and his shadows trill to confirm it. “So it’s true,” she says. “The famed Shadowsinger is a mean son of a bitch.” His mother aside, she might be right. “I’m Rhona.”

Az turns his back on the bartender and leans against the bar, scanning the crowd. Rhona glances at his forearms braced against the side. So, Cassian had it right for once—he says ‘The Forearm Effect�� is part of Az’s strategy to pick up lovers in bars, even in spite of the scars.

He asks, “Is there something you want from me, Lady Rhona?”

She laughs. Gets closer. Touches his upper arm as she does. He clenches his jaw and stills, but his shadows spike. “I’m not a lady,” she says, “but I appreciate you saying so.” He stares. She gets the idea. “To answer your question, yes, Shadowsinger, I do want something from you.”

Again, Az doesn’t talk—he’s good at waiting, and people hate silence. Rhona’s no different.

She leans in. Her chest brushes up against his bicep and she starts to stroke his forearm, tracing the uneven skin with the pad of her thumb. Az can smell liquor on her teeth.

Her lips graze his earlobe.

“I want you to fuck me until I can’t remember my own name,” she murmurs. “Can you do that for me?”

Hm…

He can.

On a different night, he probably would. There’s nothing wrong with Rhona. In fact, Az would say the only thing she has to improve on is picking who she wants to go for in clubs. Plenty of males are capable, and if Rhys and Cass weren’t mated, he’d send her their way in a heartbeat.

Gently, Az places his hand on hers, barely touching, and moves it off him. “Not tonight,” he says, and his heart thunders again to the point of pain.

To her credit, Rhona takes it on the chin. She shrugs and moves away completely. “Pity.” And for a moment, she just looks at him, assessing if perhaps she could persuade him otherwise, then she picks up her glass and drains it with a grimace. All the grain spirit had settled at the bottom, Az guesses. “See you around then.”

“Sure.”

With a playful little wave, she turns and stalks into the crowd. If she sways her hips when she walks away, Az doesn’t have the inclination to notice.

His shadows smoke and fizzle in his ears. Outside, they seem to say. Go now. Now. Now.

Why? he asks, catching sight of Rhys and Feyre in a booth. She’s draped over his lap and he’s looking at her like she’s the only person in the world, like she hung the moon and stars just for him.

Go, they repeat in a whisper. Outside, outside, outside. There’s distinct urgency in their tone but no threat, it’s not life or death. Just important, somehow.

Az takes another look at his friends. Cass and Nesta are dancing hip-to-hip, smiling, laughing, to the thumping music. Mor and Helion are talking quietly by the band, but it’s not particularly amorous—they look serious, involved, and decidedly aren’t looking in his direction. Feyre and Rhys are kissing slowly, his hand snaking up her thigh and rucking the hem of her dress beneath his fingers, until she pulls away, peppering his jaw and his neck with glittering marks of her lip gloss. He sees Rhys sigh, his throat bob when he surely makes a noise that causes Feyre to smirk down at him, shifting on his lap carefully, positioned just right to feel what she can do to him. She coaxes his mouth open. Trails her hand up his neck. Sticks her tongue down his throat and—Az snaps his gaze away, swallowing harshly, appalled, less than he should be, by the growing heat starting to flood through him at the sight.

By the Mother, he needs air. And maybe a tab of mirthroot or two, though he hasn’t smoked since Rhys got back and he shouldn’t break his streak. Still, he’s drunk enough to want it, and turned on enough to think he might need it.

So.

The crowd parts for him, but not in a way that draws attention. It’s glances behind them, sudden realisation, and shuffling to give him room. When he slips out the front door, his hearing is dull and muffled and that annoys him. He hops the barrier before the bouncers can even think about moving it for him. The queue to his right makes sounds of excitement, thinking that now he’s leaving, they’ll be able to get in, but Az is walking away and tuning them out before he can see if they do.

Away from the club, the street is quiet. It’s narrow, would be shaded even in the day, and lined with rows of townhouses with cafes and family businesses on the ground floor. The soles of his black leather shoes clack against the cobbles. He rubs at his ear, hoping to regain some of what was lost in the blaring music, and his hearing slowly gets replaced with high-pitched ringing, which might be worse, honestly.

He doesn’t know where he’s going; he doesn’t have a plan or a goal, only places he knows he doesn’t want to end up: the palace; back at the club; any of the libraries; nor the tavern he visited once with Rhys and Cassian when they snuck past the wards of the city and ended up running half-naked from the barmaid’s father down the street. Az is simply moving, one foot in front of the other, letting himself get pulled in whatever direction seems the right one. No one is following him, nor does he have Rhys or Feyre tapping against his mental shields, so he’s in the clear.

His shadows chirp contentedly while the buzz of the alcohol starts to drain from his body in the cool night air and it settles in his blood, slightly jittery, but pleasant enough. Eventually, he finds himself down by the river banks, faced with the boardwalk by the water, and the view.

Az remembers it—or, rather, what it used to be. Over the other side of the wide water, right up against the banks and lined with piers and boats, there were hundreds of buildings. Libraries mostly, but houses, restaurants, all manners of shops too. He always thought that of all the places in Prythian, that stretch of Helion’s city was the only one which could rival Velaris.

Every building intersected. You could walk from one end to the other and never step foot on the street, and if you wanted a taste of the outdoors, all you needed to do was find one of the terrariums. The largest collection of ancient relics, books, and scholars had made it their home.

Now, it’s flat. Utterly, completely razed to the ground, replaced with a park, littered with grey stones, names etched onto each one. A memorial for those who were killed when Amarantha and, Az reminds himself bitterly, Rhys tore through the city. Rhys had been earlier that day, quietly, without the rest of them in the first hours of the morning. Az knew, but didn’t follow.

Thousands of years of knowledge had been destroyed when she had those libraries burnt. Yet more souls were lost. It looks different at night, faintly lit up so anyone can visit at any time. Something about it is so intensely lonely.

At the edge of the river, a little ways away, a plume of smoke catches his eye.

With her legs swung over the side, dangling just above the calm water, a female sits, staring out at the park. Then it hits him, that woody, earthy scent—mirthroot. By her side, she has a case, glinting gold under the faelights which brighten the street, with rolled tabs inside it. One hangs from her mouth, half smoked.

Would she share? he wonders.

Oh, but he shouldn’t.

No, really, he shouldn’t. It always makes him feel like shit the morning after in a way that alcohol and sex and blood on his knuckles can’t give him. If he goes back and Mor sees him high, she’ll look at him with such disappointment. Cass might smack him. And Rhys will either get worried—Az was always the one to turn down a smoke before—or ask him if he smoked everything he bought.

He almost turns away. Almost. But he looks at her again, this lone female by the river, and he watches the way her hair moves in the gentle breeze, trails the dip of her spine that he can see where her top leaves the smooth skin of her back exposed. She’s leaning back slightly, resting on one hand while the other pulls the tab from her mouth. On her neck, there’s a scar, cut from the bottom of her ear and disappearing at her shoulder.

And just doing that… well, his head goes quiet. His ears stop ringing. His shadows too have stopped chattering. In fact, they’re curling beneath his shirt and in the black of his hair as though they wanted to hide, or at least be unseen. His heart though, that throbs.

It stutters against his ribs, clenching, lurching painfully and he fights the panic starting to flood to his brain. He’d thought it was just anxiety, just the club, the people, the noise, but that’s wrong.

And he realises.

It’s her, isn’t it?

Gods, it’s her.

Azriel knows this feeling. He’s read about it, seen it in his brothers and in Feyre, in Nesta, even in Elain, even when she doesn’t want it. He’s longed for it. He’s wanted it for so many years that now it’s actually happening he thinks maybe he isn’t ready for it after all.

That thread in his chest, something shaky but alive, unfurls in his chest. It wraps around his ribs, tugs and pulls like it can’t help it, and the pain sputters to a stop, replaced with… calm.

Go, his shadows insist, skittering back as soon as they can.

Of course. They knew. Of course, of course, of course.

He should talk to her—or, at least ask her for a tab—but he can’t find the words. Actually, he’s not sure he even knows any words. Is it enough, he thinks, just to know it’s her? Does he have to speak? Or can he just be content in the knowledge she exists and she’s his and that’s all?

His shadows creep up to his ears slowly. Like they used to when he was a kid, they whisper to him, telling him words for him to fit together, and then they vanish again.

And Az looks at her again.

And his feet move.

And suddenly he’s standing too close for her not to notice but not close enough to be strange, even though he is strange, isn’t he? For the love of the Mother, he’s a single, drunk Illyrian in a foreign city, approaching a single female in the dead of night with no one else around. If she doesn’t run at the sight of him, she might be a fool.

Gentle and quiet, she says, “You can have one.”

What?

She glances up at him, a brow quirked, and a soft smile turns her lips when he says nothing. Then it disappears. Wordlessly, she pushes the case of mirthroot tabs towards him, sets down her lighter, and goes back to watching the other side of the river.

Right. He sits, his wings splayed out enough to be comfortable but not large enough to intimidate, with the case between them, untouched.

The words spill out of his mouth before he can stop them.

“You’re my mate,” he says. He can’t bring himself to regret it when he does. It feels better this way, the weight in his chest lifting a little. It’s hardly romantic, but he’s never been the type for that anyway.

She flicks ash off the end of the tab and looks at him again. “I know.” Fuck. Okay. “I saw you in the club earlier.”

And he hadn’t even noticed. Azriel didn’t see his mate when she was right in front of him.

“You—you didn’t say anything,” he replies, because there isn’t much else he can do but wonder why.

Her brow furrows. Her eyes turn sad. She looks away.

“You’re part of Rhysand’s entourage, aren’t you?”

It’s not an accusation. Her voice doesn’t shake or fill with emotion. No anger. No hatred. Nor any love or even pity. It’s just a statement, a question asked when she already knows the answer and dislikes it.

He says nothing. What is there to say? She has every right to take issue with it and—Rhysand, the word, it strikes him. Not Rhys, but not High Lord either, and not any nickname or insult that’s been thrown at him.

They’re familiar.

She knows him, but Azriel doesn’t know her. A horrible sinking ache spreads through his bones as he casts his gaze out across the water.

“Aren’t you?” she repeats, this time with enough weight behind her voice that he has to speak.

He swallows thickly. “He’s my brother.”

A bitter-sounding huff escapes her, half a laugh, half incredulous.

“Then I’m sorry,” she says, “but I don’t have anything to say to you.”

It probably makes him look insane, but his lips twitch into a dark smirk and he doesn’t have the decency to hide it.

What a cruel, clever joke of the Mother to give him a mate who all but rejects him before he can even get to know her. She’s good at that, the Mother. He supposes his brothers got lucky so She has to balance it out with giving him some misery. As though I haven’t had enough, he thinks fleetingly, but the self-pity is pathetic, so he purges the notion.

It’s fine. His mate has her reasons, Az is sure, and that’s okay. Who is he to question it? If he were her, he’d probably have been meaner about it. So, it’s fine, because it has to be. He just wishes it didn’t feel like getting stabbed right in the heart. Honestly, he might prefer the real thing.

But, it’s actually a little bit funny, isn’t it? That he’s just destined to be alone?

Or is he just delusional?

Or is he starting to overthink the fact that he has nothing to do with it and that the only male name that’s come out of her mouth is Rhysand?

Its end burnt down to her fingertips, she stubs out the tab of mirthroot on the stone beside her. Looking at him, she waits in the silence between them.

He looks back.

“I’m sorry too,” he says. For whatever it is, I’m sorry.

That doesn’t seem to satisfy her, but nor does it displease her either. She just nods, a muscle ticking in her jaw, and, with a murmured sigh, she stands, right on the edge of the bank.

This is it. She’s leaving. Az’s heart squeezes like it might stop beating if she never looks at him again.

“Your name,” he blurts, entirely not ready to see her go. “Will you at least tell me your name?”

She stops. Hesitates. Opens her mouth. Shuts it again. Then, blissfully, she says softly, “Sereyna.”

Sereyna. His mate is called Sereyna. It sounds like a song.

“Azriel,” he offers back, even though she doesn’t ask and probably either already knows or doesn’t want to.

It doesn’t seem like it matters, because she smiles at him again, a weak, tiny thing, but it’s there. “You can keep the case, Azriel,” she says.

And then she turns, and she walks away without looking back, and Azriel watches until she rounds a corner and he can’t anymore.

His shadows start to wrap lightly around his wrists and wind through his fingers but he bats them away, wanting the quiet.

He picks up the gold case of mirthroot, a little piece of her in his hands. On the back, engraved, recently, sharply, are her initials: S.C. Sereyna… something.

Az plucks a tab out of it and flicks on her lighter. It’s a clever contraption right out of the Dawn Court—powered by a conduit of elemental magic that has to be replaced every so often—the flame a perfect teardrop shape. Against the scars of his hands, the fire flickers, and though Azriel hasn’t been afraid of fire for centuries, having it so controlled right in front of him makes something uncomfortable settle in his chest, right next to the glowing, gaping absence of his sweet, quiet, soft mate by his side.

He lights the tab, smokes it until his lungs can’t take any more, and savours the taste on his tongue while he looks across the bay.

It’s early morning when he makes it back to Helion’s palace, his head hazy and Sereyna’s case empty, tucked into his pocket with her lighter.

You see, over these past few hours, Azriel has formed a plan. One that his shadows don’t know because he hasn’t told them. One that makes absolute, total sense to him just about now, five tabs of the strongest mirthroot he’s ever smoked down.

One that involves dragging Rhys from his bed and pummelling him until he tells him what the fuck he did to his mate.

He passes through the palace like a whisper, careful to keep out of sight of the guards and servants, feeling anxious that they might somehow know his plan and try to stop him. The door to their guest wing clicks shut behind him. Az listens for any signs of movement—but there are none. Unsurprisingly. After last night and without interference, it’ll be a miracle if any of them wake naturally before noon.

Rhys and Feyre have the biggest chambers, but not ones with wards that can keep him out. In here, it smells like sex and power, sweet, stale arousal mixed with the metallic tang of High Fae magic. His High Lord and Lady are asleep, tucked into one another, Rhys’ wing cocooning them from the outside world.

He doesn’t give himself time to feel guilty.

In fact, he feels a pleasant amount of abject rage. It’s better than nothing at all.

He approaches silently.

In one jutting movement, he grips Rhys by the back of the neck, firmly, enough to hurt, enough to wake him, and closes a fist around the top of his wing. By the time he can do anything to respond, Azriel has already yanked him upwards, and the darkness that explodes through the room is left behind as Az winnows him into the main living area of their quarters and smashes his face against the wall, keeping him there, paying no mind to his state of undress.

He’s taller than Rhys. Stronger because he hasn’t let himself go soft. It’d be even easier if he had his siphons. Against his bucking, Azriel holds well. The domination clears his head a little.

It’s true that Rhys could kill him with a thought, rip through his mental shields like he’s trying to do now, but he won’t.

They’re still brothers, after all.

“Explain,” Azriel snaps, unbothered by Rhys’ order to let go, now, despite all the roiling in his stomach that tells him to obey, thinking that a refusal probably amounts to treason and that he doesn’t much care.

Rhys splays out his wings in an attempt to break Azriel’s grip and knocks at a painting on the wall, causing it to crash down and smack against the floor. The others will hear and come in, expecting a fight. He’s a little shocked Feyre isn’t in here already. He wrestles Rhys to stop him moving, all too aware that his patience will run thin and he’ll use everything he has to get him off him.

“Cauldron, Azriel, what the fuck is wrong with you?” he fires back, trying to get a grip on his belt buckle to yank him away.

A mirthless laugh escapes him. “Answer me.”

“It might help if you tell me what I’m supposed to explain to you!”

“Sereyna,” he hisses, the word heavy on his tongue while the bond lashes in his chest at the sound, “explain whatever it is you did to her to me and I’ll decide if it’s worth letting you keep Feyre’s favourite part of you.”

Rhys lets out an exasperated sigh and Azriel’s irritation joins his anger.

“Let go of me, Azriel.”

“Give me a reason to.”

And that’s the exact moment Cassian and Mor decide to open the door.

Wanting to avoid getting pulled across the room by Cass, Azriel lets go of his brother, and Rhys uses the split second where he’s looking between them to throw his fist directly into his gut. Cassian swears when he doubles over, bracing a hand against the wall to stop himself from bringing up bile and whatever alcohol might be left in his stomach, while Rhys flicks a wrist and dresses himself.

“Will someone please explain what’s going on?” Mor asks, glaring daggers at her cousin, who sets himself down on one of the sofas like nothing happened.

“Azriel,” he says, his nostrils flaring, “is acting like a child.”

He whirls, ignoring how his stomach protests. “Fuck you, you—”

“Gods, Az,” Mor says, drawing closer to him, her brows furrowing as she looks over him, “are you high?”

Ugh, here it comes. That look. Pure disappointment. Mor counted how many days clean he’d been more than he had. And now it’s back to zero.

He sags back against the wall, his head pressed against it. “A little,” he says, refusing to look anywhere but at Rhys, who’s staring at him with something in his eyes he infuriatingly can’t place.

Cassian shuts the door. “Azriel…”

“Don’t,” he snaps, cutting him a look, but, as ever, he persists.

“You swore—” he starts, but Az interrupts.

“I lied,” he says, pushing himself up and locking eyes with Rhys, dismissing Cassian entirely. “Sereyna, Rhys.”

He doesn’t miss it when Mor stiffens, her mouth set. So she knows too—and the one thing Mor knows about Rhys more than either him or Cassian is Under the Mountain. That horrible sinking ache returns.

“You’ve met her then,” Rhys drawls. “Is that who you disappeared with last night?”

The insinuation makes a feral rumble bubble in the back of his throat. “She’s my mate,” he snarls, pushing closer. “Explain to me why my mate won’t even talk to me because of you.”

Silence cleaves through the four of them, but the utter shock on all of their faces almost makes it worth it. Rhys’ quickly deteriorates to complete devastation, before it’s gone in a blink. He rubs a hand over his face, either in frustration, or for some impending headache.

Cassian dares break the quiet. “Cauldron, you pick your moments, Az,” he says, sighing, sitting across from Rhys, and pouring a glass from the decanter of whiskey that someone has presumably left out from the night before. Mor, her face tight and looking between them, joins him, taking a sip from his glass when he puts it down.

“Where’s Feyre?” she asks, ignoring it when Az scoffs.

“Asleep,” says Rhys, “I told her everything was fine.”

“You always were good at bullshitting,” Azriel says. “Did you use that much Under the Mountain?”

He feels a kind of coldness washing over him, thick with terrific fury, not caring that Cass and Mor are in the room. Let them see, he thinks, let them see.

“So you know,” Rhys says, “and you ask me to explain for what? Punishment?”

“I don’t know shit,” he shoots back, his voice so, so hard, “but I can figure it out. Don’t make me think the worst of you.”

“Because you’ve always struggled with that, haven’t you? I did what I did for us—”

“I’m aware. And I’m grateful. Aren’t we all?” Az asks drily. “I’m certain my mate knows exactly what you did—!”

“She was a child!” Rhys roars, before his tone softens and goes quiet. “She was a child and I tried to protect her from the worst of it. You weren’t there, Azriel.”

“Then start at the beginning.”

“This is totally unnecessary,” Cassian mumbles into his drink.

“If it were Nesta,” Azriel says, “you’d want to know too. If it were Feyre, Rhys…”

And he waits, knowing how low he’s going, knowing how much it’s going to hurt, but needing an answer, needing to know because if he doesn’t he might go mad with guilt.

Rhys squeezes his eyes shut, sighs, and talks.

“Amarantha,” he starts, the name coming out of his mouth ruefully, like a curse, “ordered the destruction of the libraries in the city, and the extermination of the scholars here who were publishing condemnations of her Court. Just because she was petty and she could… Sereyna’s parents were two of those scholars, and they lived in the riverside commune, so they were on the list, as well as any of their family. Old, young, ill, it didn’t matter to her.

“I found Sereyna hiding from me in a closet in their bedroom, and I was going to leave her there.” His eyes had gone blank, like he was lost in the memory of it. “I told her to be quiet and to wait, but she was scared and she begged me not to hurt her, that she was the one that had encouraged her parents and that it was her that Amarantha wanted, not them. She’d heard me, in the other room, with her parents, you see. She was lying, of course, but if anyone had heard, they’d have dragged her out to Amarantha in public. She—I don’t know—she couldn’t have been more than nine or ten, too clever for her own good, and she just kept pleading with me and by the time I’d slipped into her mind to get her to stop, Amarantha had come into the room and seen. So I bargained with her. I knew that she’d have me kill her if I didn’t, and she agreed to have her come Under the Mountain if she ‘earnt her keep.’

“She used to do little tricks for her. She was known for it. The rest of the fae from the Day Court called her a prodigy, a future genius. She could remember things exactly, like they were printed in her brain. She did spellwork far beyond what a child should be able to. And Amarantha made her use all that extraordinary power to turn wine into blood and make people dance until their ankles gave when she got bored of using me to do it. She’d make her sing for hours on end until her throat bled and at first she wouldn’t let me heal her, but she gave in when she realised there was no chance of her doing it on her own.

“She grew up in that fucking place. Had her childhood wasted and there was nothing any of us could do about it. You think you can picture the worst, Azriel? Well, you can’t. The things that bitch made her do when she came of age would make even you sick.

“I tried to help her. I promise you, I did. And when we all got out I asked Helion for permission to see her, to talk or apologise or something. And she declined, rightfully so. Apparently she just said she wanted nothing to do with any of it. She didn’t need anyone to say sorry or to get involved.

“So,” he says, his voice harsh, “when I tell you to say the fuck away from her, I mean it. Don’t look at me like that. You aren’t entitled to her and she owes you nothing. She told you she didn’t want to talk to you, so you don’t. That’s an order.”

It should stun him like it’s knocked Mor and Cassian out of their thoughts.

The audacity of it. Of pulling rank like that.

But it doesn’t. In fact, it’s exactly what he’d been expecting. They’ve been here before, but it worked then, and it won’t now.

Az holds onto his rage, keeps it tucked away, rage for the sake of his mate and at his brother, but mostly at a dead female he wishes he could resurrect so he could kill her again.

He laughs wryly.

“Is that everything?” he asks. “Not gonna tell me to go to a pleasure hall this time?”

Rhys sits back, any sign of anguish vanished from his face, replaced by a High Lord who doesn’t like being tested. “You still resent me for that? When it turns out I was right all along?”

“Go fuck yourself, Rhys.”

Az straightens, sets his jaw, and goes to leave.

“Stay,” Rhys orders, and he ignores him, even though it takes everything he has to keep walking.

When Az turns the door handle and opens the door, Rhys tries to get Cassian to stop him.

Just as he shuts it behind him, for the first time maybe in centuries, Az hears Cass tell Rhys, “No.”

Sereyna wakes up with the dawn, but then, she hadn’t really slept.

She strips out of the clothes she had on the night before, still smelling faintly of mirthroot and sweat, and takes a damn long time in the bath, running over her skin in places where she can still feel someone else’s hands. It doesn’t really help.

Out on her balcony, she takes dandelion tea from a pot made for two and sips it slowly while she watches the city breathe. People pass by on the street below, carrying produce to sell, sometimes with children on their shoulders, chattering innocuously.

The world keeps spinning, Sereyna, no matter what happens to us.

Rhysand had said that to her, so long ago that it feels like yesterday. He’d been healing bruises on her thighs, but had to leave the ones on her neck; Amarantha enjoyed seeing marks.

The thought makes her stomach swoop like she might throw up, but a faint warmth spreads throughout her chest, almost like an accident, and for the briefest moment, she lets herself enjoy the comfort.

Then she shuts it out.

Drinks her tea.

It had to be, didn’t it? The Mother isn’t fond of letting her catch a break.

Just when she was getting better, when she could stand to be in crowds, to wear clothes that didn’t make her skin crawl when it was exposed, to drink and kiss and fuck because she wanted and was wanted by another. Just then, when she was considering talking to her High Lord about taking up her mother’s old post, or at least working up to it, to actually use her magic for something worthwhile after years of letting it fester, then a mating bond snaps. The idea of being involved in anything that might remind her of being there and her and him looking down at her cowering from him at nine-years-old sent her spiralling.

She’d broken her streak of being nine months clean and found the stash of mirthroot she hid in her apartment and even that just made it worse.

Her parents were mated, you know, but they loved each other. They had been married for a century before it snapped, and all it was was confirmation of what they already knew.

But they’re dead, and her mate’s brother is the one who killed them.

The world keeps spinning, Sereyna.

The world keeps spinning.

The Spymaster, Azriel, she reminds herself, a pretty, old name. An angel—she remembers reading the stories as a child. He ferries the dead to the land of milk and honey. Some call him benevolent, others say he kills his victims himself just to give himself something to do.

But her mate doesn’t seem like either, or maybe he’s somewhere in between. She’s heard the stories of him too.

When she saw him in the club, in a huddle with her friends across the room, she had thought he was the most exquisite, most unfairly beautiful male she had ever seen. He had real, true, classical handsomeness. The kind the fae of old would start wars over. The kind that would make the gods jealous. He had these living shades peeking over his shoulders and sliding around his wrists like sworn protectors, and brutal scars, ancient, faded, but burnt into the skin like someone had doused them in oil and set them alight, and before she could stop it, her heart had ached for him. But most of all, his wings. Glorious, glorious things with sharpened talons and intricate membranes she knew took centuries of study to understand.

He had glared at his brother, another Illyrian, and she’d heard a laugh. Rhysand’s laugh. One she knew better than the back of her hand, one that had once been tipped in cruelty so often that it was hard to separate then from reality.

The bond snapped right there, at the apex of that laugh, stretching out her heart and cracking against her ribs.

She left before her friends could stop her. Before her mate could even see her.

She knows it could never work. He’s Rhysand’s Spymaster, for the sake of the Mother. He is a warrior, a war hero, a figure of nightmares and of dreams and she, well, she can barely get out of bed some mornings.

He would want her to know him, know his family, but she can’t. It would be an insult to their memory, a betrayal of everything she promised herself when she was scared and alone and Under the Mountain.

But when she saw him, when he stood next to her by the river, still so, so beautiful, but so sad, so angry, so tired, she saw something of herself in him, some reason for the Mother to join them like this.

She couldn’t reject him. Not officially. Not when everything had been screaming at her to touch him, to talk to him, to just lean against him and stay there for a little while.

It’s better this way, she thinks, finishing her tea, about to pour another. We’ll both be happier this way. She can’t give him what any male would want in a partner, let alone a mate, and he shouldn’t have to wait around for her to get her shit together. This way, she thinks, we can both move on, but something in her chest twinges, and it feels oh so very wrong.

Sereyna decides to make a plan for her day to stop herself crawling back into bed and doing nothing: finish the tea; put the pot away; stretch*; find all the mirthroot stashes and flush them; buy bread; eat lunch; see Carmella and apologise for ditching last night—no, scratch eat lunch, have lunch with Carmella; pay; then apologise; come back; write a letter to Melphalia and get a talking session tomorrow; finish book chapter; make dinner; start new chapter; bathe; bathe again; make sure all the stashes are gone; no drinking, none at all. Bed. Sleep—at a reasonable time.

She drains her mug. Her deck chair scrapes across the balcony tiles when she stands, but there’s no avoiding it. The basil plant by her door is sagging a little. *Add water plants to the plan.

Teapot set down, draining beside the sink, she takes a moment just to breathe.

The world keeps spinning, Sereyna, no matter what happens.

A knock comes at her door. Two hits, quiet, almost hesitant, and somehow, she thinks she knows who it is.

The thread in her chest goes taut, strung tight with anticipation.

She doesn’t want to talk to him. For his own good, she shouldn’t. She should leave him out there so there can be no confusion—they are mates only in name.

Yet the bond lashes out, tugging, pulling, and she wonders if it’s him doing that, or if it’s the Mother willing it so.

He knocks again, something final in it, and Sereyna realises this is the last chance she’ll have.

Her body won’t let her stay put.

She crosses her apartment in an instant, pulling open the door just to confirm—yes, it’s him, and the bond sings.

He’s standing there like he hadn’t expected to see her, and his pretty shadows skitter behind his wings when they notice her. A day has made him no less stunning, and he’s perhaps more so now, his eyes wide and his hands clenched nervously by his sides.

His lips, which look so soft, part. He scans her face, then the rest of her, and she can’t tell if he’s admiring or assessing, and she’s not sure it matters.

“How did you find me?” she asks gently, her voice just so because anything louder might startle him.

“Shadows,” he replies simply, his tone equally quiet.

Sereyna swallows thickly, frowning, looking him over again. The purple bruises under his eyes make it look like he hasn’t slept, maybe not for a few days. His wings are tight against his back as though he were trying to make them, and himself, look smaller.

“I know you said you have nothing to say to me—” I have a lot to say, I just can’t, “—and if you want me to go and to never see me again, I’ll make sure of it. Just say the word and I’ll leave. But… I have some things to say to you, if that’s okay?”

It’s not. It’s not okay because she wants to forget about everything else and hear him out. It’s not okay because she wants to touch him, wants to feel his hands on her and take away the memory of everyone else. It’s not okay because she wants to let him in.

Because she wants him.

“Okay,” she says, widening the door.

“Okay?” he repeats like he can’t really believe it.

She just nods. “You—you should probably come in.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” she cuts him off. “Just come in before I change my mind.”

So he does. He follows her inside, ducks his head to fit under the doorframe, and she fights the urge to pace by her sofa. Instead, she sits, her knee bouncing while he looks around her apartment, probably thinking it’s too small, too cluttered, and noticing that the floor is uneven and that her books aren’t kept in any order on her bookshelves. He stands awkwardly in the foyer, waiting. Despite herself, she thinks it’s endearing, if unnecessary.

“You’re allowed to sit, Azriel.”

The sound of his name seems to garner his attention, and they lock eyes for a moment. Hazel, she thinks, with flecks of gold.

He does as she says and sits in the armchair across from her, rearranging his wings as best he can in a chair not built for them, still not saying a word.

Right, she supposes she’ll have to coax it out of him.

“What is it that you wanted to tell me?” she asks, clasping her hands in her lap because she suddenly doesn’t really know what to do with them.

Sereyna sees as he runs his tongue over his teeth, chewing on the inside of his cheek, searching for the words.

“Rhys,” he says, the name almost making her flinch, “told me what happened—here, and Under the Mountain.” Some restrained kind of anger simmers the gaps between his words.

Her lips twitch. “That wasn’t his story to tell.”

“I know, and I’m sorry, but I asked him. I had to understand and I practically forced him to tell me.”

She sits back a little, her discomfort soothed by just his proximity, by the thought of him being in her apartment, surrounded by the scent of her. “So he knows,” she says, less a statement, more a question.

Azriel nods uneasily. “He does. He asked me—ordered me—not to come here. Not to talk to you.”

He ignored a direct order from his High Lord just to see her?

Fuck.

“Yeah,” she lets herself laugh, because she’s not certain of the alternative, “that sounds like him.”

That makes Azriel frown, before he schools his face. “You don’t hate him.”

“No,” Sereyna says, before she adds, “well, sometimes I do. He—I owe him my life, and I don’t blame him for what he did—I think it would make me a hypocrite if I did.” She forces herself to look at her mate when she continues; he deserves to know the kind of person she is. “We all did things we aren’t proud of down there. I did things I’m not proud of. But I’m alive because of them, and I can’t regret them or I think I’d go crazy with guilt.”

For a second, she thinks he might call her out, or leave, or tell her she’s a bad person. But he doesn’t. In fact, he gives her a look, one that no one else would catch, that says one thing to her, I understand. Then he gives her a small smile, the first one of his she’s seen, and says, “That wouldn’t be ideal.”

Oh, and a chuckle escapes her, and his eyes light up at the sound, and the bond jumps like it can’t contain itself.

And she has to tell him before it’s too late.

“Azriel,” she says seriously, “I—I don’t think I can be who you want me to be.”

He tilts his head at her. A curl of dark hair falls over his face, and her instincts yell at her to brush it off his forehead, maybe card her hands through his hair until he keens. “You don’t know what I want.”

“You want a mate,” she says. “Someone you can spend the rest of your life with. I can’t give that to you. I can’t go to the Night Court, I can’t live there or visit or even think about it without wanting to—to cry, honestly. I don’t have my life together, I drink too much, I have about seven different stashes of mirthroot hidden around this place so my friends don’t take them off me, sometimes I don’t get out of bed until three in the afternoon and—”

“Sereyna,” he says, stopping her spiral before she can tell him something stupid like how she still gets scared of the dark sometimes, “just breathe.”

Right. Air. Yes. That’s good. He’s good at that, at comfort, even if he doesn’t know he’s doing it.

She inhales, exhales, inhales, exhales, catches how his fingers move like he wants to touch her, thinks that she might quite like that, but he doesn’t, inhale, exhale, until her breathing evens out.

The world keeps spinning.

“Can I tell you what I think now?” he asks, not smugly, not arrogantly. It’s just a question, given without judgement. Sereyna thinks that if she says no, he would leave her be, even now.

She nods, so he talks. “I think that you’re my mate, so none of that really matters.”

“That sounds like you’re settling.”

He laughs, such a lovely thing. “If you think anyone is settling for you, you might like to reevaluate.”

A flush creeps up her neck and blooms high on her cheekbones.

He’s a flirt.

“I—was that everything you wanted to say?”

At the question, he turns coy, almost boyish. “I suppose so. I just—I just thought you should know,” he says.

Silence settles over them, but it’s comfortable, the kind of peace that comes when a weight has been lifted. In it, his shadows start to simmer around his shoulders, shyly peering at her as though they want to look but not to be noticed. She pretends not to, just to see if they’ll stick around.

Azriel, though, starts to brace his hands on his knees like he’s going to get up and leave, but Sereyna doesn’t want him to.

Absolutely, unequivocally, she wants him to stay.

If this is how it’s going to be with him, if he doesn’t mind her and everything that comes with that, if he can offer such understanding, if he can be alright with managing his expectations—though it seems he doesn’t expect much at all—maybe she can do the same. Isn't that fair? Doesn’t he deserve to be treated well, in the same way that he treats her? To be complimented and flirted with?

To be understood?

She can do that.

No, it’s worse. She’d like to do that for him. She wants to make him smile, laugh even. She could listen to his voice all day, even if he was spouting nonsense and nothing else. She wants to know every petty, little detail of his life and hoard the knowledge all for herself.

Most importantly of all, if she doesn’t prevent him leaving now, she might never see him again, and that fills her with such grief that she decides she has to stop him.

Fuck the plan.

“Tea,” she blurts, already wincing as the word comes out of her mouth, realising how stupid it sounds. But he stops moving, waiting for her to continue, so her strategy worked, she supposes. “I mean, do you want any—do you want to stay for tea, a cup of tea, is what I’m trying to ask. And breakfast, maybe? Not made by me, of course, for obvious reasons, but there’s a bakery down the street which has these pistachio pastries and those are really nice and—please, just say yes or no so I don’t have to keep talking.”

He smiles again, so making a fool of herself was worth it. “I’d like that,” he says, still grinning.

She narrows her eyes at him. “Were you enjoying me rambling like an idiot?”

“Maybe a bit.”

“You fucker,” she says, but she’s smiling too.

“If you want me to be.”

“Gods,” she groans, burying her face in her hands to hide the blazing heat on her cheeks, “let’s just go get breakfast before you get completely shameless.”

Sereyna stands before the world can come crashing down, before he can turn around and say that actually it’s all a lie and he doesn’t want anything to do with her, crosses over to him, and holds out her hand.

“Come on,” she says, wiggling her fingers.

His gaze drops to her hand, and tentatively, like she might spook if they touch, slides his hand into hers, standing too. The skin is rough, marred by the scars she’ll one day ask about, probably right after he asks her about the one on her neck, and a little cold. That’s okay, though. She’s always had warm hands. Gently, she interlocks their fingers and squeezes, only once.

He squeezes back.

As she leads him back to the door, he says, “I still have your case. And your lighter.”

She shrugs. “I told you, keep them. I’m getting rid of all my tabs anyway.”

He goes quiet for a bit, thinking, and she lets him. If he wants to say something, he will. And he does.

“The C on the engraving…” he starts, “your family name?”

Letting out a little hum of confirmation, she replies, “Yeah. Caerwyn. It’s one of the old names from before the Courts.”

As they leave her apartment and he shuts the door behind them, he says, “It suits you.”

“Thanks,” she laughs, “just don’t call me Lady Caerwyn. My poor mother would roll in her grave. Titles made her passionately aggravated.”

“Right,” he says, “so glare at anyone who calls you Lady until they get the idea?”

“You catch on quick. She’d have liked you. My father too.”

Ah, success. He blushes so sweetly.

“I’m glad,” he says quietly.

“Me too.”

And they go down the stairwell, hand-in-hand, content in the moment with no need to worry about what comes next. That’s all for after. He can sort out the fallout of whatever happened with his brother, and she’ll be there, supporting him how she can. And she can start actually getting her act together, and he can support her.

Sereyna thinks, gratefully, that this might actually work.

But for now, pastries and tea.

a/n: saw a typo? let me know! this behemoth of a fic is 8k words and they're easily missed :)

#azriel fic #azriel #azriel acotar #azriel fanfic #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x oc #azriel x reader #azriel x you #acotar fanfiction #azriel one shot #azriel angst #azriel fluff #azriel fic request #poor illyrian baby gets dunked on by the mother at every opportunity

91 notes · View notes

phoenixyfriend · 3 days ago

Text

Silks Hiding Beskar Steel

Satine Kryze did not grow up knowing she has the Force. She knows now. (And 'now' is too late to save quite a few people.)

Read on AO3

Heyoooo I brainstormed this on tumblr years ago, and finally got around to writing it.

Things I included:

Satine has the Force (AU)

Jaster and the Duke were a thing (AU), also here, and here.

Satine spent time with a covert during YotR (hc)

Tarre's haunting the saber (fanon) and approves of Satine the most of current contenders (AU)

She wore more traditional armor during YOTR but has so much ptsd attached to it that she swaps out for battleweave silks (Mandalorian space Kevlar) as soon as she can and refuses to turn back without good reason (hc) I held a poll once, too

This isn't a headcanon but Bo's age makes NO sense

Also, "distributing swords is no basis for a system of government. Supreme executive power derives from a mandate from the masses, not some farcical [...] ceremony!"

---------------------------------

It is three months, two weeks, and one day into her time with Obi-Wan Kenobi and Qui-Gon Jinn that Satine tells them, I have a bad feeling, and immediately dodges a blaster shot coming from behind her.

Satine has, since her early childhood, always been aware of things that try to kill her. Preternaturally aware, some might say.

It’s paranoia, plain and simple. Learned hyperawareness. People love to try to kill her.

The people in her life had shrugged and said, well, we all learn to trust our instincts. You probably heard something subconsciously or noticed a shadow move without realizing. Try to stay sane about it.

After they escape, Qui-Gon Jinn pulls out a notebook—the pad broke ages ago—and draws a few things on the other side of the fire. She doesn’t pay much attention. She is too busy gathering the dryest kindling and wood she can find for the fire as Obi-Wan hunts for their dinner.

(Is Bo-Katan alright? She’s far away, hidden in the core with their mother’s sister, but perhaps that’s not safe enough.)

(Satine worries.)

Jinn sits her down with an odd look on his face after they eat. He holds the notebook in front of him. He says, I want to check something. Can you try to guess what object I’m looking at in this notebook?

It’s odd, but whatever. She figures he’s trying to test how well she can pay attention, pick up on things when she’s otherwise engaged, that sort of thing. So she watches his face, tries to remember what was on the page, but nothing. She doesn’t remember a single thing that was on that page. She wasn’t trying to get a look, so she’s not sure she ever got more than a glance.

She throws out a few wild, random guesses. Qui-Gon nods along, and Obi-Wan gets a weird expression, and when they’re done…

Qui-Gon says, “hm.”

“What?” she asks.

“I want to check something the next time we encounter medical treatment,” Qui-Gon says. “Did you know you might be Force Sensitive?”

What.

Children from Mandalore rarely, if ever, go to the Jedi. They don’t even really get tested for that, aside from a handful of clans. Maybe it came up when Satine was a baby and too young to remember, but she did not know.

(There are children from Mandalorian space that go, sometimes, but not Mandalorians themselves. It’s a complicated subject.)

She lets the meddroid test her for it when they next see one.

“Mildly so,” Jinn tells her, looking over the results. “Bottom quartile of what we find among Jedi, but still enough that you would have been accepted had your family decided to give you to us. I don’t suppose you ever received any training?”

“I didn’t even know I had this,” she protests. Did Bo? Is it a family trait? Is it more common among siblings?

Her answer comes from Obi-Wan. He shrugs, and says, “that doesn’t mean you weren’t trained. Your parents could have kept it secret from you. It happens.”

Satine wants to protest that they wouldn’t, but she’s honestly not that sure. She understands operational security now, but she wouldn’t have when she was a child. She knows better than to do secret things without scanning each and every corner of a room for hidden cameras… but wouldn’t have been good enough to find everything just a few years earlier.

Most of Mandalore wouldn’t care. But there are pockets, often violent ones, that would have opinions.

Her mother died before she was old enough to be safely told. Her father…

Perhaps he thought she would need his full attention and several days to know. A vacation.

They haven’t had one of those since Jango died.

Well. ‘Died.’

“I don’t know,” she finally says. “I want to say they would have told me. But… I don’t know.”

Master Jinn nods. “Alright then. We can work on a few things when we have time that could help to keep you safe. Your instincts are already quite well-trained for short-term prescience, as with dodging the blaster bolts. We’ll see what else you show a talent for.”

“Okay,” Satine says, because she doesn’t know what else she could say. “That will likely be useful.”

(Continue on AO3)

#Satine Kryze #Obi Wan Kenobi #Qui Gon Jinn #Original Mandalorian Characters #the Darksaber #Tarre Vizsla #Pre Vizsla #obitine #mandalore #mentions of:#Bo Katan Kryze #Jango Fett #Jaster Mereel #Adonai Kryze #Duke Kryze #star wars #the clone wars #open seasons #phoenix files

118 notes · View notes

chaeuvy · 1 day ago

Note

hi! I wanted to request a Bakugou prohero x female reader! Prohero. Where the reader ends up very injured in a battle and Katsuki runs to see her at the hospital, seeing her face totally bruised! Please! ( that ends fluff)

⸝⸝ ＃┆ 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐘! ⎯ 𝐁𝐀𝐊𝐔𝐆𝐎 𝐊𝐀𝐓𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐈

summary: After a stupid argument over coffee, you leave for work without saying goodbye to Katsuki. Hours later, you face off against a Nomu to protect innocent lives—and barely survive. Katsuki rushes to the hospital, terrified you might not make it. When he finally sees you—bruised, broken, and bandaged beyond recognition—everything crashes down. Hurt, furious, and scared out of his mind, he confronts the idea of losing the love of his life over something as trivial as a fight. In the quiet of a hospital room, full of whispered apologies and trembling hands, you face the wreckage—together.

warnings: Pro Hero!Bakugou Katsuki x Pro Hero!Fem!Reader, Graphic injury descriptions, fluff, blood, bruising, Medical emergency / hospital setting, panic, guilt, fear of loss, Angst / hurt-comfort, swearing, yelling, near-death experience.

wc: 4.2k words.

anon: i loved this request sm! maybe I do love writing angst I hope i did well and it was how you imagined it <3

The call came through mid-fight.

Katsuki had just taken down the last villain on his side of the city when the screaming burst through his comm:

“PRO HERO NOVA IS DOWN — WE NEED BACKUP — FUCK! SHE’S NOT MOVING — HER FACE—HER FACE—WE NEED MEDICS HERE—NOW!”

And just like that, he stopped breathing.

Time warped. The rest of the city faded to ash. There was only your name.

He took off so fast he didn’t remember launching.

He found you on the gurney.

Unconscious. Bleeding. Barely alive.

Your face—his beloved face, the one he kissed every damn night—was a ruin of swollen skin, deep bruising, and bandages. Your lip was split. Your eye swollen shut. Dried blood stained your hairline. He didn’t know how many bones were broken.

He just knew he could’ve lost you.

And that would’ve been the end of everything.

You woke up in the hospital hours later.

Numb. Distant. The machines beeped like a heartbeat that wasn’t yours. Your ribs screamed when you tried to shift.

“Kats…?”

His head shot up from the side of your bed, eyes wide and red.

“Holy shit,” he whispered, grabbing your hand like a lifeline. “Baby—sweetheart—fuck, you’re awake.”

Your fingers curled into his. “You’re here.”

“Course I’m here.” He laughed—but it broke halfway. “You scared the absolute shit outta me, dumbass.”

Your lips trembled. “I—tried to hold out. Didn’t wanna let anyone else get hurt.”

His hand squeezed yours tighter.

“You think I’m not hurt?” His voice cracked—low, dangerous, like a storm barely held back. “You think watching them carry you in, hearing your name over the comm like it was some goddamn casualty report, didn’t rip my fucking heart out?!”

You blinked rapidly. “Katsuki…”

“I didn’t even say goodbye this morning,” he said, barely audible now. “We argued about coffee. Coffee. And then you—” He looked away, biting the inside of his cheek. His voice dropped to a whisper. “I thought I lost you.”

Your chest tightened painfully, far worse than the cracked ribs.

“I was scared,” you whispered. “Not during the fight. After. When I hit the ground. When I couldn’t feel my legs.”

His breath caught.

“I thought I was going to die,” you whispered, eyes burning. “And I wasn’t going to see you again. And that was the worst part. Not dying. That.”

He was around you before you finished the sentence.

Strong arms, usually so unrelenting, held you like you were made of glass now. He buried his face into your neck, fists clinging to the thin hospital gown.

“You idiot,” he breathed into your skin. “You absolute… stubborn… dumbass.”

You gave a weak laugh. “Ow…”

He pulled back slightly, just enough to see you, thumb brushing a tear from your uninjured eye.

“You’re still the same pain-in-the-ass woman I fell for,” he said softly, lips quirking despite himself.

You turned your head—the side of your face still heavily bandaged—away from him.

“Don’t look at me,” you whispered.

His hand didn’t ease.

“Don’t do that.”

You swallowed hard. “I’m not gonna look the same again. I should’ve waited. I should’ve called you. I just—I was so angry, and then we—”

He stood abruptly.

You flinched, expecting yelling.

But he didn’t yell.

He leaned over the bed, both palms flat on the railing, head hanging like gravity had finally caught him.

“You think I give a shit about that?” he said, voice shaking with raw, guttural emotion. “You think your face—your looks—whatever—that’s why I’m here?”

You couldn’t speak.

“I think I almost died,” you whispered. “And the last thing I said to you was ‘screw off.’”

His head dropped lower. You heard him exhale like he’d just taken a blow to the ribs.

“I know,” he said. “I’ve been replaying it since the call came in. Over and over.”

Silence hung between you for a beat.

Then, softly, tenderly—he knelt beside the bed.

“Look at me,” he whispered.

You turned back, slowly. Carefully.

He touched your hand again, feather-light. “You’re still beautiful,” he said, sure and steady. “Even if the world doesn’t deserve to see it.”

Tears slipped down your cheeks before you could stop them.

And he caught you, just like that.

Pulled you into his chest again, carefully, protectively, like holding you was the only thing keeping his own heart beating.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered. Over and over, a mantra. A vow. “I’ve got you. You’re safe now.”

You buried your face against him and sobbed. Ugly, wracking, breathless sobs. And he didn’t flinch. He didn’t rush you. He didn’t try to fix it.

He just held you.

His hand stroked your hair. His other cradled your ruined face with unbearable gentleness.

And when he kissed you—soft, slow, like you were made of starlight and scars—it wasn’t just a kiss.

It was a promise. A heartbeat shared.

“Next time,” he murmured once the storm of tears passed, “you wait. You call me, even if you think I’m still mad. I don’t care if we fight. I don’t care if we scream at each other about fucking toast—you don’t get to run off and almost die, [Name]. Not without me.”

You nodded weakly, breath shaky.

“I will. I promise.”

“Good,” he whispered, kissing your temple again. “Because I’m not fucking doing this again.”

He sat back on the edge of the bed, still holding your hand. His thumb rubbed circles into your skin like he didn’t know how to stop.

“I can’t lose you, baby,” he said, softer now. “You’re it for me. You’ve been it.”

You looked at him, your chest aching with guilt and grief.

“You really think I’m still… me?”

“I think you’re even more you now,” he said, like it was obvious. “You ran into hell to save kids. That’s exactly who you are. And that’s exactly who I love.”

Your voice cracked. “I’m sorry.”

He kissed your knuckles. “Don’t be sorry for surviving.”

“I’m sorry for leaving that morning. For walking out.”

“I should’ve stopped you,” he whispered.

“I should’ve kissed you goodbye.”

He leaned down again, resting his forehead against yours.

“You’re still here,” he murmured. “And I’m gonna spend every damn day making sure you stay that way.”

You closed your eyes.

“I love you, Kats.”

His breath caught.

“I love you too, sweetheart. So much it hurts.”

← MHA ┆ NAVI →

a/n : thanks for reading.. i lowkey love writing angst..

135 notes · View notes

l4ndoflove · 3 hours ago

Text

liked songs

🔀 ▶️

artists

@isaadore the sweetest angel with the prettiest blog ever 🩷🌸

@lvrclerc every single one of her oscar works is a PIECE. OF. ART.

@maxtermind may i introduce you to THE QUEEN OF TEXT FICS 💋💌

@norrisradio @tsunodaradio tumblr's poets (proceed with caution, you might fall in love with their writing)

@sharlsworld you will never find one bad smau here

@uglyducklingofthe2000s too many good works to pick a favorite

@vettelsvee amazing writing, even more amazing writer 🙂‍↕️��

one-shots

▶️ alta suciedad • @moviestarmartini [E]

DARE I SAY ONE OF THE BEST FC43 SMUT EVER!?

▶️ always been you • @sunsetcupid

oscar x "best friends to lovers" has me melting 🫠💞

▶️ bunny! • @leclerc-hs [E]

the chokehold this one has on me is VERY mildly concerning to feminism (i guess it's the lando effect)

▶️ butterflies • @inkandapex

"stream madness" might be more popular but lando crushing on the reader will ALWAYS be my favorite

▶️ cooldown • @mywritersmind [E]

the holy grail of landoscar™

▶️ greed • @cherry-leclerc [E]

IF YOU STILL HAVEN'T READ THIS OSCAR (...) WORTHY PIECE PLEASE DO IT'S LIFE CHANGING

▶️ let's get messy • @norristrii

it was incredibly hard to choose only one of her amazing works but lando angst always gets me 🤧💔

▶️ naked in manhattan • @piastriprincess [E]

F1 MOVIE PREMIERE LANDO SAVE ME OMG 🫡🛐

▶️ no babysitter needed • @theonottsbxtch

my comfort fic to say the least i literally fell in love with the writing and how wholesome lando is 🥹❤️‍🩹

▶️ vanilla and strawberries • @p1astr81

short n' sweet <3

series

▶️ but daddy i love him • @harrysfolklore

ok not really a series but i think it's one of her best works ever like the way she writes max??? perfection

▶️ it's nice to have a friend • @luvstappen

now this is THE oscar series. MASTERPIECE 🙏🙇‍♀️

▶️ little miss wingwoman • @everythingne

i love lando and p's dynamic irl so this is *chef's kiss*

▶️ walls are way too thin • @papayainsectorone [E]

SOUL CRUSHING LANDO ANGST my favorite ✌️😍

▶️ when it happened to me (we hug now) • @gr4cier4cie

THIS HAD ME BAWLING MY EYES OUT FOR SOME REASON IT'S SO GOOD (and i love teammate!lando)

smaus

▶️ 2 hands • @tsunomenom

10/10 AAA TATE AND OSCAR MY BELOVEDS 🥴❣️

▶️ you're dating him?! • @landoughnut

the chaotic summer vibes are absolutely immaculate

84 notes · View notes

alittlegiraffe · 2 days ago

Note

HEYYY i got an ideaaaa!

em thinks reader is cheating on him (due to a photo in the tabloids of a girl who LOOKED like her kissing another guy, but it wasnt her) so he dumped her. but, when he finds out the truth that she wasnt cheating and the pic was fake, he goes to her house in the middle of the night after a month of not seeing eachother and they make up (how cute ?? 🥹)

and maybe makeup smut idk 😭 ur writing is SOO good i love it i check ur page almost everyday

Title: “Not Her”

You never meant for it to become a thing.

The account had started as a hobby. Some light content—behind-the-scenes glimpses of the house renovations, your skincare routine, the occasional throwback of the girls when they were little. A new chapter for you, now that they were all mostly grown. Something of your own.

You never expected the brand deals to start rolling in. The way followers multiplied. The way your name—your actual name, not just Marshall Mathers’ wife—suddenly held weight online.

Marshall was proud. Protective, of course. But proud.

So when you got offered a partnership in LA, three days, full expenses paid, a glossy photoshoot, a press dinner, a seat at the table you never thought you’d be invited to—he told you to go.

You had kissed him in the hallway before your car came, hands around his neck, murmuring, “You’ll miss me like crazy.”

He’d answered without looking at you, his nose buried in your neck, “Already do.”

You didn’t know that would be the last thing you’d hear from him.

You come home to silence.

At first, it doesn’t register.

Your suitcase wheels thud against the tile. You call out—twice—your voice echoing through the big, still house.

“Marshall?”

The dogs are gone. So is his truck.

At first you think—errand? studio?

But then you reach for your phone. Open your texts. The most recent ones are still there. A sleepy goodnight from two days ago. Your photo from the shoot that he responded to with a flame emoji. But the bubble you type into doesn’t turn blue.

And your call goes straight to voicemail.

You frown, confused. Hit it again. Straight to voicemail.

You try FaceTime. Blocked.

You sit down at the edge of the bed like someone knocked the air out of you.

Something’s wrong.

Your heart knows it before your head catches up.

You open Instagram, then Twitter. Then you see it.

A blurry paparazzi shot. A woman with your hair. Your body type. Your outfit, even—nearly identical to the dress you wore to the brand dinner. And a man you don’t know. His arm around her waist. A kiss.

EMINEM’S WIFE SPOTTED KISSING MYSTERY MAN IN L.A.

Your stomach flips. You zoom in. The lighting is low. The resolution grainy. But it’s not you. It’s not you.

It doesn’t matter.

You feel the blood drain from your face.

You fumble with your phone and call the only person who might know where he is.

Paul answers on the second ring.

“Hey—” you start, your voice cracking, “Paul, I—I don’t know what’s going on. I just got home and he’s not here and he’s not answering me and—”

Paul sighs. And it’s a heavy, Goddammit, Marshall kind of sigh.

“I know,” he says gently. “I know. But he’s pissed.”

Your throat closes. “He thinks that’s me—? Paul, I didn’t do anything, that’s not—”

“I know it’s not you.”

You shut your eyes. “Then why—”

“Because he saw it before he heard anything else. Before anyone could explain. Because some asshole sent it to him and he was already halfway out the door before I could call him back.”

You press your palm to your mouth.

Paul continues, steady but not unkind. “He’ll come home when he realizes he’s being stupid. I’m working on it.”

Your voice comes out small. “He blocked me.”

“I know. He’s not thinking straight. Give him space, alright?”

“He left,” you whisper. “Over a photo. Over something that’s not even real.”

“He’s scared,” Paul says quietly. “He’s not mad at you, not really. He’s scared.”

That’s somehow worse. You nod, even though he can’t see it. You hang up soon after, because you can’t keep your voice from shaking.

You sit alone in the bedroom you built together, still half-dressed from your flight. And when you look in the mirror—you realize how close the resemblance really is.

You look like her.

---

You’re still in the closet, sitting on the carpeted floor where you’d slid down an hour ago, your back against his dresser. One of his hoodies is balled up in your lap. It still smells like him.

You haven’t moved.

You can’t move.

Your phone buzzes again—persistent now—and you see the name flash across the screen.

Hailie 💛

Your stomach drops.

You swipe to answer and try to sound normal.

“Hi, sweetheart.”

“Mom,” she says instantly, and there’s confusion in her voice, worry creeping just behind it, “what’s going on?”

You sit up a little straighter. “What do you mean?”

“I just talked to Dad,” she says. “Or tried to. He’s at a hotel downtown. He wouldn’t say why, just said he needed space for a few days. What—did you guys fight? What happened?”

You can feel your voice trying to shake again, so you pinch the bridge of your nose and exhale. “No. I mean—yes. Kind of. But not really.”

“Okay, well… now I’m freaking out,” she says. “Is it something with the girls? With Stevie?”

“No, no,” you say quickly. “Everyone’s fine. It’s just—it’s a stupid misunderstanding. A bad one. A really… public one.”

You pause, then sigh. “You didn’t see the headlines yet?”

“I saw something dumb on Twitter but I thought it was fake. That woman wasn’t even you, was it? Like, obviously not, right?”

You can hear her frown through the phone.

“Right,” you say, your voice hollow. “It wasn’t. But your dad saw it, and… he blocked me before I could explain.”

“Oh my god.” She’s quiet for a beat. “Seriously? Dad thinks you’d cheat on him over a press dinner in L.A.?”

“No,” you say softly. “I don’t think he really thinks that. But he saw it before he could ask me. And then it was everywhere. I guess somebody forwarded it to him.”

“Jesus Christ,” Hailie mutters, then after a pause, “Do you want me to go over there? Talk to him?”

“No,” you say, too fast, too desperate. “No, please. Don’t make him feel cornered. Paul’s already trying to talk him down.”

She’s quiet for a long second.

Then, “He’s gonna feel so dumb when he realizes. I mean—Mom, this is you. You’ve been with him since you were what, nine? Ten? You literally built him into a human. He’s just being… Dad. Dramatic, moody, stubborn.”

You laugh, but it’s thin. Fractured.

“I’ll be fine,” you lie. “I just—thank you for calling.”

“Don’t thank me. I’m not picking sides or anything, but… I know he’s wrong this time. He’s gonna figure it out.”

You don’t trust your voice enough to respond, so you just hum softly.

“And hey?” she says before hanging up. “Try to get some sleep. He’ll come back. He always comes back to you.”

The line goes dead.

You stare at the floor.

He’s always come back before.

But this time, it’s not just a fight.

This time, it’s the whole world watching, waiting to see if the woman in the photo is you.

If you are what broke Eminem.

---

It’s been nineteen days.

Nineteen days of pretending everything is fine.

Nineteen days of smiling through it for the brands, for the comments, for the girls who don’t need to worry that their father still hasn’t come home. That he saw a lie and believed it before he believed you.

Paul calls every few days. Always the same updates.

“He’s still pissed.”

“He’s not talking to anyone except me and Hailie.”

“Yes, I told him it wasn’t you.”

“Yes, he knows now.”

“No, he hasn’t unblocked you.”

The worst part isn’t even the silence. It’s how well you’ve managed to hide it.

You still post your content. Still go to the gym. Still film your nighttime routine and tag the serums and the silk pillowcase brands. Still smile when people ask in the comments, Where’s your husband? like you didn’t wake up alone again that morning, heart aching like a fresh bruise.

You keep it light. Keep it together.

Until one afternoon, sitting in your car after Pilates, a thought creeps in and sticks.

You open Instagram.

Click his name.

Still not blocked.

Your breath catches.

He’s watching.

He didn’t block you there.

And that changes everything.

The next morning, you post a mirror selfie at the gym. Hair up, makeup subtle but exactly how he likes it. The caption is just a single drop of sweat emoji.

Twelve hours later, your DMs are full, but not from him.

So you keep going.

The next night: a calm, softly lit routine video—your face clean, skin glowing, bare legs curled under you on the edge of the bed as you tie your hair up in a clip. The camera catches the oversized black tee that hits your thighs.

His shirt. One of the ones he thought you “looked too good in to be wearing around other people.”

No caption.

But the comments eat it up.

You post again two days later. Golden hour. A simple, flowy sundress—the one he always said made you look like summer and sin.

The hem hits high on your thighs. You angle the shot just so, a breeze catching the fabric, your smile sly.

The caption reads: “Might keep this on tonight. Might not.”

You lose five followers. Gain almost a thousand.

No message from him.

But late that night, your story shows “Seen by marshallmathers.”

Your stomach drops.

He’s watching.

Good.

Let him.

Let him see what he gave up. What’s still waiting here, soft and wanting, even though you’re angry. Even though you’re hurting.

It’s almost 2:00 AM when you hear the door.

You sit up so fast you nearly knock your water glass off the nightstand.

Keys. A familiar, halting step. Hesitation. Like he’s afraid of what he’ll find on the other side of this.

You don’t say a word.

Don’t breathe.

The bedroom door opens.

And there he is.

Marshall.

Rough around the edges. Hoodie pulled up, baseball cap low. Eyes bloodshot. A duffel still slung over one shoulder like he doesn’t know if you’ll let him stay.

He looks at you like he’s not sure if he’s dreaming. Or if you’ll throw him out.

Your voice is small.

“You forgot I still have your location?”

His mouth twitches—guilt or maybe a ghost of a smile.

“I never blocked you there,” he murmurs. “Didn’t block you on Instagram either.”

“No,” you say, standing slowly. “You just blocked me everywhere else.”

He winces.

You step toward him. Stop a few feet away.

“You saw a picture of someone who looked like me. And you left.”

“I know,” he rasps, voice thick. “I fucked up.”

You’re trying to stay strong, trying not to cry. But he looks wrecked. Like the time away hurt him as much as it hurt you.

“Why didn’t you just ask me?” you whisper.

“I didn’t know how,” he breathes. “It hit me all at once and I just—I didn’t think. I couldn’t think. I saw that guy’s hands on her and all I could picture was—was—”

He breaks off.

You take another step. You’re close enough now to see the scruff on his jaw, the way his eyes are shining.

“I missed you,” you whisper.

“I missed you,” he says fiercely. “Missed you so much it made me stupid.”

He drops the bag and pulls you in like it’s the only thing holding him upright.

And finally, after almost three weeks of cold sheets and lonely nights, of pretending and performing and aching in silence—you’re home again.

In his arms.

Where you never should’ve had to leave.

You don’t make it to the bed.

You barely make it three steps backward before his mouth is on yours—starving, reckless, like he’s trying to erase every single day he spent without you. Like kissing you is the only way he knows how to beg for forgiveness.

You gasp into it, your fingers already in his hoodie, dragging it off, not gentle. Not soft.

You’re not interested in soft tonight.

He grunts low in his throat when your nails rake down his chest and you hear it in the way his breath shudders—he’s been waiting for this.

For you.

“I saw everything,” he growls against your mouth, one hand buried in your hair now, the other already cupping your ass like he’s claiming it again. “Every fuckin’ post. Every little tease.”

You smirk, breathless. “Good.”

He laughs—dark and dangerous—and in the next breath, he spins you around, shoving you up against the bedroom wall hard enough that it rattles.

“You mad at me, baby?” he asks, mouth brushing your ear, his voice low and gritty.

“I should be,” you say, but your thighs are already pressing together.

“You are,” he says, nipping at your jaw, “but you still want me so bad you wore my shirt to bed and posted it for millions to see. That sundress? You knew exactly what the fuck you were doing.”

You don’t deny it.

His hand slips under the hem of your sleep shirt—his shirt—and when he finds nothing underneath, he growls so deep you feel it in your chest.

“No fuckin’ panties?” His mouth curls into a snarl. “You been sleeping like this without me here?”

You moan when his fingers drag up your inner thigh. “Wasn’t sleeping.”

He curses.

His palm flattens to your belly, holding you there while he pushes the shirt up, exposing you to the cool air, to him. You whimper, legs shaking, and that’s all it takes—he turns you again and lifts you clean off the floor, wrapping your legs around his waist like they belong there.

And they do.

He walks you to the edge of the bed, not bothering to undress fully. Your shirt’s off in seconds, tossed somewhere. His sweats are shoved down just enough.

The moment your skin touches his, your mouth finds his neck.

“I missed you,” you murmur against his throat.

He groans, fists the sheets beside your hips.

“I haven’t touched anyone else,” you say, needy and angry and desperate to be forgiven. “Even when you left—I didn’t—”

His hips snap forward and he’s inside you in one rough, punishing thrust.

“Don’t say that,” he snarls, biting down against your shoulder, his voice half-gone. “Don’t you ever think I thought you did.”

“You did,” you gasp, nails clawing at his back. “You left.”

“I know,” he pants, forehead dropping to yours. “I know, baby. I fucked up so bad—”

You drag him in with your legs, your body already shaking around him.

“Then make it up to me,” you whisper. “Claim me.”

Something breaks in him.

His grip on your hips tightens. He thrusts into you harder, deeper, a filthy rhythm that has the headboard slamming, the mattress creaking under you.

“You’re mine,” he hisses, every word a thrust. “Say it.”

“I’m yours—”

“Louder.”

“I’m yours.”

He kisses you so hard it knocks the breath from your lungs, his fingers sliding between your bodies to find your clit, rubbing rough and tight until you’re writhing under him, crying out his name like it’s the only word you’ve ever known.

He doesn’t stop.

Not after the first orgasm. Not after the second.

He takes everything you offer him—your forgiveness, your body, your anger, your love—and gives it back threefold, raw and aching and real.

By the time you’re both limp and boneless in the tangle of ruined sheets, the silence is different.

It’s not cold.

It’s not distant.

It’s heavy with everything he couldn’t say before.

You feel his fingers brushing hair from your face.

You hear him whisper, “I don’t care how dumb I look—I saw that photo and thought I lost you, and it killed me.”

You press your forehead to his chest, lips brushing his skin.

“I wore that sundress for you,” you say, quietly. “I wore your shirt because I missed you more than I was mad.”

“I’ll never leave again,” he promises. “I don’t care what it looks like. I’ll ask next time. I’ll fucking listen.”

You hum against his chest. “Damn right you will.”

His hand slides back down to your hip.

“Also,” he murmurs, mouth curling, “that sundress still isn’t safe.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” he says, already pulling you back beneath him. “You just reminded me why I like it best on the floor.”

---

He’s still inside you.

Still thick and hard and pulsing against your walls, both of you drenched in sweat, your bodies trembling with the aftershock of it all.

You feel him start to shift, like he’s about to pull out, and your body reacts before your mind can catch up—your legs lock around his waist tight, thighs clamping down, holding him right there.

His breath catches in his throat.

He freezes above you.

“No,” you whisper.

His eyes darken. “Baby…”

“No,” you repeat, firmer now, your nails digging into his shoulders. “Don’t move. Don’t pull away.”

He stares down at you, searching your face.

You can see it in his expression—that look of a man who thought he lost everything and still doesn’t believe it’s real that you’re here, letting him touch you like this again. Letting him have you like this again.

You tug him closer by the hips, forcing him to stay deep inside, your lips brushing his ear.

“I don’t want space,” you whisper. “I want you. Still. Again. Until I forget how it felt not to have you.”

He groans—low, wounded—and drops his forehead to yours, his hands gripping the mattress tight like he’s holding himself back.

“I’m trying,” he says, breath shaking. “I’m trying to slow down, baby. I hurt you. I fucked everything up and I need to make it right.”

Your lips part.

Your voice softens but doesn’t lose its edge. “Then do. Don’t stop until you fix it.”

That breaks whatever restraint he had left.

His hand slides under your thigh and lifts it higher, folding you deeper against him as he starts to move again—slow at first, long strokes that grind his hips against yours, every thrust a promise, a penance, a plea.

You moan, eyes fluttering, and he watches you like he’s memorizing it. Like he’s making sure you feel it.

“You want me to fix it?” he rasps, kissing you hard. “Want me to fuck the memory of all that bullshit outta your head?”

You nod, lips swollen, fingers tight in his hair.

“I’ll do it,” he growls. “I’ll fuckin’ bury it. I’ll make sure you only remember this.”

His rhythm picks up. Your breath stutters.

“Say it again,” he demands, his voice thick. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you gasp. “I’m yours. I never stopped being yours.”

His thrusts turn savage. Controlled, but bruising. Like he’s engraving it into you. Like every second he spent away from you is something he has to erase with his body.

You lose track of how long it lasts.

How many times you come.

How many times he shudders against you, forehead pressed to your neck, panting your name like a prayer he doesn’t deserve to say.

All you know is your body gives out before your heart does.

And still—you keep him close.

Even when he tries to roll off to give you space, you clutch at him again, dragging him with you, wrapping your arms and legs around him like you’ll never let him go again.

And this time?

He doesn’t fight it.

He just sinks into you, chest to chest, still joined, still inside you.

Silent. Breathing hard.

Only one word spoken in the dark between your tangled limbs:

“Mine.”

#eminem #marshall mathers #eminem x reader #marshall mathers x reader #gracie answers #reader requests #angst #eminem smut #smut

66 notes · View notes

thepinkpanther83 · 12 hours ago

Note

GIRLLLLL your older Eddie series is 🥵🥵 I’m leaking lmao I was wondering if you’d have the time to write an older Eddie one shot. And it’s just straight up porn. Filthy and hot and passionate. Like reader is out and she’s a homebody so it’s not her usual and her friends leave and in comes late 30s Eddie. She’s in her early 20s. And he goes up to her and gets her to his place and just rocks her world

Come Home With Me

Story Request: “Older!Eddie Munson Request”

Eddie Munson x Female Reader

💌 Author’s Note: Huge thanks to the Anony who requested this deliciously filthy concept! 💋 I loved stepping back into the “Grease and Honey” universe to explore older Eddie in his reckless, ruin-you era. You nailed the vibe, I hope it rocks your world as hard as he rocked hers. 😉

~Pinkie 🍒

Masterlist

Find me on AO3.

Read this story on AO3.

🎸🛠️ Summary: You're not the kind of girl who goes out. But one night, you do. And that's the night he walks in, older, rougher, all smirk and swagger. Mechanic Eddie Munson, with his big hands, filthy mouth, and eyes like trouble.

This is Eddie before “Grease and Honey” Before he settled down with his “Honey”. Tonight, he’s still a fuckboy. But tonight, he’s yours.

Click "Keep Reading" below the cut to read. 😘

“Come Home With Me”

Your boots were too loud. The hem of your skirt was riding up with every step. And your lip gloss, sticky and sparkly, felt like something that belonged to a version of you from someone else's life.

You weren't a nightlife girl.

But your friends had begged. And begged. And finally, they'd worn you down with promises of drinks, dancing, and “Just a few hours, babe, c’mon, you’re only 22… live a little!”

So now here you were, sliding into the bar just shy of ten, already bristling with regret and tugging at your sleeves. The music was low, ambient, not quite loud enough to get lost in, not quiet enough to make you feel calm. A half-dozen bodies floated around the place in various stages of tipsy relaxation, and your group was tucked into the corner booth like they owned the place.

They waved you over with cheers and playful jeers for being late. You offered a smile, the kind that felt glued on, and took the outside edge of the booth. Close enough to be counted, far enough not to be smothered.

You nursed a vodka soda like it might save you. Kept your phone face-up on the table, scrolling between texts and apps you didn’t really care about. Every now and then someone bumped your arm, or leaned in to shout something over the music, but your eyes kept drifting to the soft glow of the liquor bottles behind the bar, lined up like lonely soldiers.

It wasn’t that you hated spending time with your friends. You didn’t. But this kind of thing, the crowded air, the forced laughter, the edge of discomfort like your skin didn’t quite fit right, this wasn’t your zone.

This wasn’t you.

You crossed your legs, eyes flicking to the time on your phone. Twenty-three minutes. Was that enough time to leave without being rude?

The condensation on your glass had soaked into your napkin. You twisted it between your fingers absently and wondered if anyone would notice if you slipped out quietly and Ubered home.

Your bed. Your books. Your little mug of coffee with the chipped handle. No strangers. No noise.

Your gaze flicked to the exit.

I could be home right now. In bed. No shoes. No noise.

You sighed.

Your phone lit up with a flurry of messages, then a loud chorus of groans rose from the booth.

“Of course he got a flat,” someone huffed, already sliding out of the vinyl seat. “Third time this month.”

Another chimed in. “It’s probably karma for ghosting me last year.”

One by one, your friends started collecting their things, purses, jackets, half-finished drinks, and you sat up straighter, a little startled by how quickly the night was ending.

“Wait… are we really leaving already?” you asked, voice laced with the tiniest thread of hope.

“Emergency girlfriend duty,” one of them explained, pulling on a hoodie. “He’s stranded on 12th. We’re gonna pick him up and drop him at the shop.”

Another one looked at you, keys already in hand. “You wanna come or…?”

You glanced down at your glass, barely touched. Then up at the bar, where the lights were dimming a little more golden, a little more dangerous.

You thought about the tiny voice in your head that always told you to play it safe. To be polite. To go with the group. But you’d come out tonight for a reason, even if you didn’t quite know what that reason was yet.

“Nah,” you said, giving them a soft smile. “I think I’ll finish my drink.”

They exchanged glances, playful, a little teasing, but didn’t argue.

“Okay, girl. Be safe,” one said, leaning in to kiss your cheek. “Text us when you get home.”

You nodded and watched them go, the chill air briefly rushing in as they opened the door and vanished into the night.

Then it was quiet again.

Not empty quiet… just quieter. The kind that settled in your chest and made everything feel just a little more intimate. Like the bar had shrunk down to just you, your glass, and the hum of old rock music overhead.

You twisted your straw in the ice. Took another slow sip.

The buzz in your veins was mellow. Warm. You were still debating whether to order another drink or finally call it when it happened.

The door slammed shut behind someone.

Cold air blew in like a punch to the lungs.

You felt him before you saw him.

And before your eyes even rose to look… your body felt it.

Weight. Heat. A shift in the atmosphere like the moment before a storm breaks.

Leather. Smoke. Trouble.

He’d just walked in.

And you had no idea that your night had only just started.

That presence, loud in its quietness, electric in the way it cut through the air. He walked in like he owned the place, like he wasn’t there to be seen, but noticed him you would.

Boots hit hardwood. Heavy. Confident.

You looked up.

And there he was.

Older. Sharper. Roughened in all the ways that whispered dangerous but promised sinful goodness.

His hair was long, dark curls wild around his shoulders like he couldn’t be bothered to tame them. A black leather jacket clung to his frame like a second skin, open over a faded, sleeveless band tee that exposed lean arms and veins like roadmaps. Rings on every other finger. A silver chain resting low on his collar.

He looked like the kind of man your mother would warn you about, and your friends would dare you to take home.

Late thirties, maybe. Forty, tops. The kind of handsome that hurt a little to look at too long. Lived-in and cocky, like he’d seen shit and survived it, and maybe even liked it.

But it was the way he moved that got you.

The swagger.

Like he was a problem, and he knew it.

Your drink went still in your hand as he scanned the room once, disinterested… until his eyes landed on you.

And then he smiled.

Slow.

Like a match catching fire.

He didn’t look away.

Didn’t even pretend to.

And instead of heading to the bar… he came straight to you.

You shifted in your seat, heart thudding in your throat as he crossed the room with that effortless, heavy-lidded stride and stopped right at your table.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he rasped, voice low and rough around the edges. “You waiting for someone… or just making it easier for me?”

Your mouth went dry.

And then, like something cracked loose, your sass found its footing.

“Depends,” you said, tilting your head, one brow raised. “You always make a habit of hitting on girls alone at bars?”

He smirked, that lopsided, wolfish thing that said yes, and it always works.

“Only when they look like they’re thinkin’ about leaving,” he said. “Would’ve been a tragedy.”

You leaned back slightly, running a finger along the rim of your glass. “Flattery won’t work on me.”

“That so?” he said, and leaned down with one hand braced against the back of your booth, close enough for you to smell leather and something smoky-sweet and sinful on his skin. “Then maybe I’ll just have to talk dirtier.”

That pulled a nervous laugh from your chest. But your eyes didn’t leave his.

He was watching you like he was building a whole story in his mind, one that ended with your lipstick on his neck and your thighs over his shoulders.

You licked your bottom lip and gave in.

“I don’t usually do this.”

“Yeah,” he said, eyes darkening, “I fuckin’ hope not. Can’t have you handin’ that mouth to just anybody.”

Your heart stumbled.

You hated how much you liked that.

You hated how much you wanted to know what his mouth would feel like on your throat. Your chest. Your thighs.

And he knew it.

He knew.

“Names Eddie Munson, sweetheart, want to head outside with me and get some air?” he asked, voice low and unreadable.

You nodded before you had the chance to think better of it.

The bar was stifling suddenly. Too warm. Too much buzz in your veins. And the weight of him, just being near him, was pressing up against your self-control like a loaded spring.

He gestured with a tilt of his head. “C’mon.”

Outside, the night was crisp. Not too cold, just enough to raise goosebumps under your sleeves. You barely had time to register the change in atmosphere before Eddie was flicking a lighter to life, cupping it with one hand and shielding the flame with the other. The cherry of his cigarette burned to life. He exhaled slowly through his nose, jaw flexing as he watched the smoke rise.

You leaned back against the brick wall beside the entrance, trying to breathe normally. Trying not to stare at his profile, sharp in the amber glow of the flickering porch light.

He turned toward you slightly.

The air shifted again.

Eddie’s hand braced beside your head, and he stepped in close, so close you felt the heat from his chest soak through your clothes. One boot slid between your feet. Then his thigh was between yours. Pressed just enough.

Your knees almost buckled.

“Y’know…” he murmured, smoke curling from the side of his lips, “I could lie. Tell you I don’t do this much. Make it sound all poetic.”

You swallowed hard, barely able to breathe.

“But I’m not gonna lie to you, sweetheart. I’ve been lookin’ at you since I arrived. Tryin’ to figure out if you’re the kind of girl who wants to be handled soft…”

He leaned in, his breath against your cheek now, his voice just rough enough to scrape up your spine.

“...or the kind who wants to ride it real slow till it breaks her open.”

Your thighs squeezed together on instinct, his leg still between them, heat building in the pressure.

You stared up at him, heart hammering so loud you were sure he could hear it.

“You always this blunt?”

He chuckled, dragging from his cigarette again, then dropping it to the ground and grinding it out with the heel of his boot.

“Only when I want something bad enough.”

Then he really looked at you, and said it like it was just another breath.

“Come home with me.”

It wasn’t a question.

It wasn’t a command.

It was just... there. Real. Unapologetic.

You didn’t answer right away. The heat between your legs was molten, your body already deciding, even if your mind tried to stall. “I-I need to text my friends…”

Eddie watched you hesitate with that slow-burning smirk, then nodded toward your purse.

“Go ahead,” he said. “Text your friends.”

You blinked.

“What?”

He stepped back just enough to let you breathe. “Tell ‘em you made it home safe. That you’re curled up with Netflix and a snack. They don’t need to know you’re about to get fucked so good you’ll forget your damn address.”

Your stomach dropped.

So did your guard.

You pulled out your phone.

Thumbed out a lie.

“Made it home,” you typed. “Night was boring. Catch you tomorrow.”

You hit send.

Then looked up at him, breath shaky.

Eddie’s smile grew sharp.

“Atta girl.”

The Camaro was black, low, and mean-looking, like it belonged in the kind of movie where no one wore a seatbelt and everyone fucked like the end of the world was coming. It growled beneath you, low in its idle, matching the hum in your blood as Eddie drove one-handed through the quiet streets of Hawkins.

His other hand…

Firm on your thigh.

High up.

Fingers splayed like he was already claiming territory.

The warmth of his palm burned through your skirt, possessive, not gentle. Like he wasn’t just touching skin, he was saying you’re mine tonight. His rings glinted with each flash of the streetlights, catching your eye every time they twitched slightly… higher.

On the radio, some dirty, sludgy rock pulsed low and deep. Not mainstream. Something with weight and bass that throbbed under your seat and settled in your belly. It made you feel like something was coming. Something big. Inevitable.

You said nothing.

Neither did he.

You both just felt it.

His house was tucked back off an old road, too far from the streetlights, too quiet to feel safe, but you didn’t want safety right now. You wanted this. You wanted him.

He pulled into the driveway, cut the engine. Darkness swallowed the car.

For one long, suspended second, he didn’t move.

Then he turned toward you, eyes catching the moonlight, hungry and hot.

“Inside,” he said.

You didn’t wait.

Inside smelled like old vinyl, cigarette smoke, and something faintly spicy, like clove, or cologne long since soaked into leather and wood.

His place was cluttered but lived-in. Mechanical parts on the kitchen table. Ashtray beside a stack of records. Guitar propped against the wall by the couch.

It felt like him.

Dim. Gritty. Unapologetic.

And then, he stopped you.

Right there in the entryway.

Didn’t touch you yet.

Just looked you over slowly, like he was committing your silhouette to memory in the low light.

You stood frozen, chest rising and falling as he reached for the buttons of your coat.

Didn’t rush.

Didn’t speak.

Just undid each one slowly, fingers brushing your chest, the curve of your waist. Then he slid it off your shoulders and hung it on a hook like it was any normal night, and not the beginning of your undoing.

He stepped back, poured two drinks, whiskey, dark and clean, and handed one to you without a word.

You took it.

Sipped.

It burned.

So did his stare.

He moved to the record player and dropped the needle with a practiced hand.

A low, bluesy guitar riff crackled through the speakers. Slow and dirty.

Then, finally, he stepped in close again.

Voice low.

“You nervous?”

You shook your head.

“…N-no.”

His lips curled. He leaned in, voice at your ear.

“Liar.”

He took a long sip of his drink, never looking away.

And just like that, you knew… if you stayed any longer, there’d be no stopping this.

But you didn’t move.

Didn’t run.

Because you didn’t want to.

You wanted to know what kind of man tastes like leather, ash, and ruin.

You wouldn’t have to wait long to find out.

The whiskey glass barely hit the table before Eddie closed the space between you. No warning. No ask. Just took.

His hand found your jaw, fingers rough and callused, the silver of his rings cold against your flushed skin. He tilted your face up firmly. Like a command without words.

And then he kissed you.

Not soft. Not slow.

Like a fucking car crash.

Teeth and tongue and heat, his lips crashing down over yours like he meant to swallow you whole. Your breath caught, but you didn’t hesitate, you kissed him back just as hard. Mouth open, tongue sweeping into his, your fingers fisting in the front of his faded black band tee like you could anchor yourself there.

He groaned into it, low and hungry, then shifted, backing you up until your spine hit the wall with a dull thud.

You gasped.

He smiled.

“Fuckin’ knew you’d taste good,” he rasped, mouth dragging down to your neck. “Could see it all over you. The way you looked at me.”

He bit deep enough to make your knees wobble.

Then he gripped your hips, dragged you forward so your thigh slotted between his, and pressed.

You felt all of him.

Thick and hard and straining behind the zipper of his jeans, grinding slowly against your leg like he had all the time in the world.

Your breath hitched.

“You gonna be a good girl for me?” he murmured into your throat. “Let me ruin that pretty little outfit one piece at a time?”

You nodded.

Didn’t trust your voice to speak.

He chuckled, dark, delighted, and pulled back just far enough to look at you. His eyes were blown wide, pupils dilated, curls wild around his face. He looked like a man possessed.

And then he dropped to his knees.

You barely had time to gasp before his hands smoothed up your thighs, under your short skirt, pushing the fabric up around your hips and exposing your panties. They were already damp, you were already soaked… and when he saw that?

He groaned, low and guttural.

“Fuck me,” he muttered. “Knew you were wet. Didn’t know you were dripping.”

Your breath left in a shudder when he kissed your inner thigh.

Slow.

Then again, higher.

You whimpered when his tongue pressed against the wet spot in your panties.

He didn’t rush. Just licked a long, deliberate stripe up the center of the fabric before mouthing at it like it was candy he wasn’t allowed to unwrap yet.

You tangled your hands in his thick hair.

He moaned.

“Ohhh, fuck yes,” he breathed against you. “Pull on it, baby. Come on. Let me feel it.”

You tugged.

He growled.

Then finally, he hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties and slid them down your thighs, slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving your slick folds.

“Look at you,” he said, voice like smooth gravel. “Letting a man like me touch you like this. Daddy issues, or just that wet for me?”

“Shut up,” you hissed, breathless.

He grinned.

“Fair enough.”

Then he shoved one of your legs up over his shoulder, and ate.

There was no grace to it. No slow teasing.

Just devotion.

Tongue buried, lips parted, humming like your pussy was the only religion he believed in. He licked you with purpose, long swipes through your folds, circling your clit, then plunging in deep, groaning like you’ve fed him.

You cried out, nails dragging across his scalp, hips twitching as he held you steady with both hands locked tight on your ass.

“Jesus,” you whimpered. “Eddie-”

He looked up, eyes wild, mouth glossy with your slick.

“Don’t you dare stop saying my name like that.”

Then he went right back in, faster this time, messier, tongue fucking you so deep your back arched off the wall.

The sound of it filled the room, wet and obscene, his moans rumbling straight into your cunt, your own gasps climbing higher and higher as he worked you over.

You were close.

So close.

And he knew it.

“Come on, baby,” he rasped against your clit. “Give it to me. First one’s mine.”

And fuck it, he was right.

You came hard, thighs trembling, head thrown back against the wall, his name a broken sound on your lips as your body snapped.

He kept licking.

Licked you through it, held you steady, kept moaning like your taste was the answer to every question he’d ever asked.

By the time he pulled back, your knees were shot.

He stood slowly, dragging up your body, mouth peppering kisses along your ribs, your collarbone, your throat.

His breath ghosted your ear.

“Let me see you on your knees next,” he whispered.

Then he kissed you.

And you tasted yourself on his tongue.

You barely had time to catch your breath before he was cupping your face again, thumb sweeping your cheek, eyes flicking between yours like he couldn’t quite believe what just happened.

And then he murmured, soft and low, like a command dressed up in velvet:

“On your knees, sweetheart. Right here.”

Your stomach flipped.

Not from nerves this time.

From need.

You dropped without hesitation, knees hitting the hardwood with a dull thud, and he stood tall in front of you, towering, breathing heavy, the tension radiating off him in thick waves.

You looked up at him through your lashes.

He looked wrecked already.

Hair wild. Pupils blown. Lips parted.

You reached for his belt and he didn’t stop you, just watched, one hand bracing the doorframe above him, the other slipping into your hair as your fingers undid the leather strap and popped the button on his jeans.

“That’s it,” he rasped. “Fuckin’ -yeah, just like that.”

The zipper went down and his cock sprang free, thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip.

You blinked.

Swallowed.

Because… Jesus.

He caught your hesitation and smirked, voice turning into a low tease:

“I know, baby. Big guy for an old man, huh?”

You licked your lips.

He hissed.

And then you leaned in and tasted him.

Just the tip at first. Tongue teasing over the head. A flick, a suck, then a deeper pass of your lips over the top while your hand worked the base. You didn’t rush.

Didn’t dive in.

You savored it.

And he lost his fucking mind.

“Goddamn. Look at you.”

His hand fisted in your hair, pushing, guiding. Worshiping.

You hollowed your cheeks, took more of him, spit slicking your lips as he bumped the back of your throat and groaned deep and loud above you.

“You got no idea what you’re doing to me.”

You pulled off with a wet pop, hand stroking him slowly, gaze still locked on his as you licked a thick stripe up the underside of his shaft.

“Tell me,” you whispered.

He groaned.

“Fuckin’ -you’re so good, sweetheart. God, you’re so fuckin’ good.”

You moaned around him when he slipped back between your lips, and he shuddered.

His thighs flexed. His forehead hit the wall in front of him. He was barely holding on.

But he didn’t stop watching you.

Didn’t miss a second of how your lips stretched, how your hand pumped in time with your mouth, how your spit dripped down your chin.

“I should take a picture of you like this,” he groaned. “Put it next to my fuckin’ bed. Wake up hard every morning.”

You would’ve smiled if your mouth wasn’t full.

Instead, you took him deeper.

Let your throat flex around him. Let him feel it.

And that was it.

“Baby, stop. Fuck… stop, I’m gonna cum-”

You didn’t stop.

You sucked harder.

And Eddie Munson, big, rough, leather-wrapped Eddie, came with a ragged shout, hips twitching, and thrusting, fingers gripping your scalp roughly like he was afraid you’d disappear.

Hot.

Heavy.

All down your throat.

You swallowed.

Didn’t break eye contact.

And when you pulled back, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, he just stared at you like you’d walked out of his wildest, filthiest fantasy.

“Jesus Christ, sweetheart…”

His voice was wrecked.

“You just ended me. You fucking… goddamn.”

He hauled you to your feet with both hands and kissed you, deep, messy, grateful.

And then he groaned against your lips:

“I hope you’re not too tired. 'Cause I’m nowhere near done with you yet.”

He practically threw you onto the couch.

Not hard. Not rough.

Just eager.

Like his hands couldn’t keep up with how badly he wanted you stretched out beneath him. Your back hit the cushions, legs sprawled, and Eddie was already following, crawling up your body like a man possessed.

The weight of him. The heat.

You whimpered.

He swallowed it with a kiss, hot and wet, his tongue licking into your mouth like he was still trying to taste himself on your lips.

“You want me to fuck you now, sweetheart?”

It came out low. Gritty. Already breathless.

You nodded, fast, needy, and he grinned.

That dangerous, cocky grin that said you’re not ready for me.

But he gave it to you anyway.

He sat back just enough to grip your thighs, spread you open, and look.

“Fuck me…”

His voice dropped an octave.

“Look at this pretty little pussy. Still dripping for me.”

He spit in his hand. Stroked himself once, twice, then lined up and pushed in.

Slow.

Like he wanted you to feel every veiny inch.

You gasped, hands gripping his arms, eyes wide.

He was thick. Hot. Filling.

You felt full before he even bottomed out, and when he did, when your hips met and his pelvis ground flush against yours, you both moaned like sinners at the altar.

“You okay?”

His voice was raw. Tight.

“Y-yeah,” you breathed, wrapping your legs around his waist.

“You feel… fuck, Eddie, you feel so good.”

That broke him.

He set a rhythm that was pure sin, hips rolling slow and deep, making sure you felt every thrust, every drag of his cock against your walls.

“You like that, baby?”

He was panting now.

“Like getting fucked by an older man? That it?”

You dug your nails into his back.

“Yes- God, yes… don’t stop.”

He didn’t.

He fucked you into the cushions.

Fingers gripping your hips like vices, his thrusts getting rougher, messier. The couch was creaking, your bodies slapping together in a rhythm that felt holy and filthy all at once.

You clawed at him, arched up, gasped his name over and over again until he groaned-

“Say it again.”

“Eddie-”

“No. Say it. Tell me how good I feel.”

“So fucking good… please, Eddie… please-”

“That’s it. That’s my girl. You’re mine now, sweetheart. All fuckin’ mine.”

You came hard, back arched, body locking around him as pleasure ripped through you. He held you through it, kissed you through it, didn’t even let up as your body trembled and your mind blanked out.

And when you clenched again, overstimulated and gasping, that was what pushed him over.

“Ohh, fuck- fuck- gonna cum, baby, shit- I’m cumming… fuck-”

He buried himself deep and spilled inside you, grinding through every wave, groaning your name into your throat like a confession.

The whole world went quiet after that.

Just breath. Sweat. Trembling limbs.

And Eddie’s body collapsed over yours, heavy and hot, his face buried in your neck, still whispering things like “fuckin’ heaven,” and “you’re a fucking dream,” and “Jesus Christ, what the hell was that?”

You laughed, barely.

He pulled back just enough to grin down at you, lips swollen, eyes wrecked.

“I think you just rewired my fuckin’ brain.”

“All that just from sucking your dick?”

“No, baby…”

He kissed your shoulder.

“That was just foreplay.”

“Jesus.”

“Tomorrow?”

His voice went hopeful.

“Round two. Come naked. We’ll start in the bed next time.”

You weren’t sure how long you laid there, limbs tangled, breath shallow, skin slick with sweat and cum, but it felt like the world had stopped spinning just for the two of you. The only sounds were the ticking of the clock on the wall and the slow, uneven rhythm of Eddie’s breathing against your neck.

Eventually, he stirred with a grunt, arms flexing as he lifted himself off you with one final groan.

“Fuck… gonna need a crane next time,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. “These knees weren’t built for high-impact cardio.”

You were still catching your breath when he bent to press a lazy kiss to the inside of your thigh, slow and reverent, like a silent thank-you, before pushing himself upright with another theatrical groan and padding, buck-naked, down the hall.

You couldn’t help but stare.

That back… That ass… Yeah, you were definitely going to have flashbacks of them later.

He returned a moment later with a damp towel in one hand and a glass of water in the other. His brows lifted as he handed you the glass, like he was waiting for you to make a smart-ass remark.

You didn’t. Just took it with a sheepish smile and murmured, “Thanks,” before sipping.

Eddie knelt down beside you, the towel warm and rough against your sensitive skin as he cleaned you up, carefully, almost reverently, his fingers dragging along your thighs with the kind of touch that felt like a secret.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t rush.

Just… looked at you.

Looked at you like you were a fucking miracle.

His hand paused at your belly, palm splayed flat, thumb tracing an absentminded little circle just above your navel. His other hand settled against your calf, grounding you.

“You good, baby?”

His voice was quieter now, still gravel and smoke, but softer, more intimate. Like a postscript to everything his body had already said.

You met his gaze and smiled, flushed and exhausted and maybe still a little high on him.

“Aside from the part where I think you broke my hips?” You gave a weak shrug. “Peachy.”

That earned you a bark of laughter and a hiss of pain when he stood up and his back cracked loudly.

He winced. You wheezed.

“That your spine or your ego, grandpa?”

“Keep talkin’, little girl,” he rasped, settling down beside you. “See if I don’t break you again just to prove a point.”

But he didn’t sound threatening.

He sounded… content.

He leaned over to press a kiss to your throat, just above your fluttering pulse, a lazy smirk curling against your skin.

“And I’ll still fuck you stupid again tomorrow, baby. Age be damned.”

You giggled into his hair. Let yourself relax into his warmth, bones soft, brain fuzzy, skin still tingling.

He tugged a worn blanket off the back of the couch, rough-textured, smelled faintly of mechanic grease and something woodsy, and draped it over the both of you. His arm curled around your waist like a drawstring, pulling you in tight.

“Still breathing?” he asked after a moment, voice rumbling into your ear.

“Barely,” you whispered. “But yeah.”

He kissed your temple and sighed, all smug satisfaction and sleepy muscle.

The room went quiet again, except for the buzz in your veins and the way his fingers never stopped moving, slow strokes against your thigh, like his body just needed to keep touching you.

An hour later, you found yourself still curled up by his side on his couch, blanket draped over your body, your legs still tangled with his.

The air smelled like sex and cigarettes and the faint bite of whiskey. The lights were low. The record had stopped spinning, needle stuck in the groove, whispering static like the ghost of a song that wasn’t quite ready to leave the room.

Eddie was shirtless, sprawled beside you in nothing but boxers, a cigarette burning slow between two fingers, his other hand resting on your thigh like it belonged there.

And maybe it did.

He wasn’t looking at the ceiling. Or the wall. Or the smoke curling toward the light.

He was looking at you.

Staring, really, like he was trying to memorize the angle of your bare shoulder, the dip of your collarbone, the lazy little smirk curling your lips when you thought he wasn’t paying attention.

“If I show up at your place tomorrow,” he said suddenly, voice low and teasing, “you gonna pretend this didn’t happen?”

You stretched beneath the blanket, muscles humming in that delicious way they only do when you’ve been thoroughly, thoroughly fucked. Your leg brushed his, warm skin on warm skin, and you tilted your head with a playful arch of your brow.

“…Maybe.”

He let out a soft chuckle. Smirked around the filter of his cigarette as he leaned in close, close enough to steal your next breath with his own.

“Liar.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile betrayed you. He caught it. Of course he did.

Eddie put the cigarette out in a nearby ashtray, then leaned in again, not for a kiss, this time, but to rest his forehead against yours. His hand slid beneath the blanket and found your fingers, tangled them with his like it was second nature.

“You better leave the porch light on, sweetheart,” he murmured, lips brushing your temple, “’cause I’m not done with you yet. Not even close.”

He didn’t say anything else.

He didn’t need to. Because the look in his eyes said come home with me… and you already had.

Who loves Eddie Munson, show of hands! 😂 Let me know if you want to be added to my tag list! @justalotoffanfiction, @yorshie, @jackalope-in-a-storm, @v1per1ne, @daveythorntonslocker, @cokepowder55, @kelsiegrin, @ash-stardust, @meankenna, @kellsck, @chronicles-of-koystee, @micheledawn1975, @fckyeahlames, @cantstandya2000, @totallysocially, @exasperatedsighohmy, @marianaissocool, @boggerslide, @sheneedsrocknroll92, @n3lly-h3artz

Masterlist

57 notes · View notes

c00ki3sandcr3am · 3 days ago

Text

Lumiran Season

Rafayel x MC (Unnamed) | Smut +18

A/n: Heyy lads fans! My friend and I were talking about how in one of the cards it depicts Rafayel going trough some kind of heat. It got me thinking about a lot of different things so I made this one shot! Please don’t read if you are under 18, and I hope you enjoy as I don’t usually write smut.

Tags: Heat!Rafayel, (semi) submissive Rafayel, (slightly) teasing bottom MC, afab MC, female + male genitalia, multiple penises, dual penetration

Word Count: 3.5k

The night had fallen not too long ago, the breeze by the water cool as it wafts from the open balcony doors, pushing the thin curtains, though the cool air stung as it blew onto Rafayel’s skin. His cheeks were flushed, uncharacteristically dark, and the heat across his body was agony, like a fever but over every orifice of his skin. It was his time of the month, the dreaded day when he could barely contain himself, an unquenchable thirst filling him, his mouth salivating with need, and his body stiff in anticipation. He only envied humans for one reason: their ability to keep in control, never to have to feel as though stimulation alone is not enough.

Rafayel couldn’t do much; he couldn’t paint while his angry members pressed against his tight jeans, he could barely even walk without the slight friction of his clothes making his members leak. He spent all day in bed, the side of his face pressed against his plush pillows, body completely naked, yet dripping with sweat, and his hands working simultaneously on his members. It didn’t matter how many times, how long, if he used his hands or toys, or even how he jerked off, every release only made him harder. By night, he was desperate, practically crying into his pillows as he orgasms once more, his members still hard and standing tall. He’s an absolute mess, his lower stomach, pelvis, and the top of his thighs are covered in his cum, dried and wet. It was unsightly to him, but he couldn’t help himself. What was he supposed to do?

MC arrived at a terrible time, forced to pull Rafayel from his mansion to the art show he was supposed to be at. She thought that maybe he didn’t care enough, which is expected from him, but as she opened the front door with the house key he gave her, and she saw that all the lights in the house were off, she was confused. A bit of anxiety rose from her stomach to her chest, worried that something might have happened to him. Though the two aren’t exactly together, they are close enough that she worries about his well-being. She carefully closes the front door behind her and walks further into the house, her shoes discarded at the door, her light and calm voice calls out for him.

“Rafayel?”

Her voice echoed throughout the halls, but no answer.

Rafayel shot up slightly at the sound of her voice, though quiet beyond the door, it reached his ears. His hands stop, the warmth burning up his body once more as he stops the stimulation. Rafayel gulps, teeth gnawing at his bottom lip as he thinks for a moment, Why is she here? What do I do? I can’t let her see me like this. At a time, perhaps long ago, he would feel comfortable to let her see him like this, he would invite it actually, and she could help him. But this her is different; they aren’t as close as they once were, he couldn’t allow her to see him like this. Though he told himself to move, go into the bathroom so she couldn’t just bust in, his body was taut, practically a statue in bed. It wasn’t only because his heat has warped his brain temporarily, but deep inside himself he wants her to see him. Needs her to, actually. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could stand yearning for her. His senses were clouded by his own lust, unable to exactly gauge where she was in the house, but the anticipation thumped in his chest and tingled down to his toes, drool sliding down to his jaw from his open mouth, further presenting his thirst.

MC approached the door with apprehension. She had checked all the regular areas Rafayel would usually be at, yet he was nowhere to be found. She stood outside of his bedroom door for just a moment, trying to listen to see if he was in a compromising position, like getting changed, but all she could hear was his breathing. MC rolled her eyes, of course, he’s asleep. She thought. He didn’t really care about anything but himself most of the time it seemed like. With an exasperated expression and a deep sigh, she opens the door, ready to give him a scolding. She didn’t really react at first, still so convinced that he’s just sleeping, that when she saw his sweaty, messy, body completely spread on top of the strewn sheets, and members standing tall and leaking from the head, she stopped. MC stares at him for a second, her expression still holding frustration, but flattens slightly, shocked for a moment, before quickly changing to intrigue.

“Rafayel…”

Her mouth was open as she tried to say something else. It wasn’t that the scene was so obscene that she was shocked, it’s actually a rather pleasant sight, it’s the fact of what is there to say? Why speak at all when you can just act?

The sound of his own name spoken in her light tone, falling from the parting of those beautiful lips, nearly sent him to another orgasm alone. Rafayel’s purple eyes stared at MC, eyes dilated from the pleasure that the pink in the center was barely visible, his naked chest rose and fell with each heavy breath. He snaps to his senses for a moment, his head turns to the side, looking towards the open balcony as he lets a shaky breath escape him.

“MC…You-you shouldn’t be here…”

He spoke with a light, timid tone. It didn’t catch MC off guard at all, that timid, pouty tone is all too familiar to her, she notices that his fallen walls were building back up right in front of her. She steps into the dark room, the moon giving all the lighting needed, the shadows just as sensual as the atmosphere around them. She closes the door behind her, eyes watching Rafayel continue his timid act, as if it’ll make her go away. She slowly approaches him, her feet quietly padding against the hard floor, a small smirk on her full lips as she feels herself become hotter in her lower stomach.

“You are the one who shouldn’t be here…You know you have somewhere to be.”

Her tone is teasing, yet holds a matter-of-fact edge. She stops at the foot of the bed, tilting her head as Rafayel continues to deny her his gaze. She crawls onto the bed, the mattress dipping under her weight, causing Rafayel to blush and gulp, which doesn't go unnoticed by MC, a wider smile stretching across her lips. She sits on her knees, leaning down her hands lightly trailing up Rafayel’s bare legs, and her head hovers just over his left leg, ready to kiss across the skin. Rafayel’s shaved legs twitched, a gasp escaping him as just the mere touch of her cool hands brought him more pleasure than what he felt all day. Rafayel looks back towards her, eyes looking down, seeing her head press against his leg, lips kissing up from his ankle to his calf. His breath was taken from his as their eyes lock, MC’s tongue dragging up from his knee to the start of his thigh, her body moving in closer towards him.

“Is this why you didn’t come to the event?...Because you were being naughty? That’s pretty shameful of you.”

MC’s voice held a dominianting tone, one that is unlike her usual sassiness, it catches Rafayel off guard, a mix between another gasp and a moan vibrating in his throat and passing his parted lips. MC gives him a teasing look, her eyes dark and lusty as her body inches up further, her face now right next to his members. This is not the first time she’s come face to face with his…unique feature, even the first time it didn’t disgust her, it made her more excited. She had spent countless nights wondering what it would be like to have both inside her at once, the thought as tantalizing as it actually happening. MC could tell the Rafayel was a little gone, his body trembling against the mattress, one hand gripping the sheets as the other was over his head, gripping his pillow, mouth parted as he panted, and his purple eyes full of anticipation. He is abnormally quiet; by now, he would have made some sassy remark or would have found a way to make her go away, but not tonight. MC could tell that there was something special going on tonight.

If he doesn’t want to talk, then she won’t talk either. After all, there isn’t really much room for words anyway, only actions. She reaches a hand out, her head resting against his thigh, her fingers curling around both of his members. Though her fingers could barely hold onto both, it makes the two appendages press tightly together, and as her hand jerks up and down slowly, it makes the members rub together as well. Rafayel moans, high and desperate, as the feel of her hand on him, her fingers tickling the skin of his shafts, precum dribbling from the head down to her fingers. Rafayel’s body is pulled taut, his bucking up into her hand before buckling back down, the action repeating. Hot breaths escape him, his stomach tightening, as a few tears prickle in the corners of his eyes, brows arched up in pleasure, his sweaty hair sticking to his forehead, and his half-lidded eyes stare at MC as she works.

The pleasure that fills Rafayel is too great, toe-curling, as MC only works her hand faster at his response. Yet, it’s not enough. Why would it be? His thirst was so great, too great, that simply jerking off was not going to help him. He needed more. He needed to feel the warmth of being inside a woman, this woman in particular. Rafayel could feel something inside of him snap, while his body felt as heavy as an anvil previously, a surge of animalistic desire shot through him, a feeling he hadn’t felt in a long time. Rafayel sits up from his spot, the pillow dented from where he lay for hours, his hands reaching to grip MC’s wrist, pausing her ministrations on his members, his purple eyes looking down at her as she looks up at him, confused.

“What’s wrong? You’re obviously desperate enough for this.”

MC states. She holds her confused expression as she rises up to her knees, staring at him, face to face. She can see Rafayel huffing, his fingers holding her wrist tightly as his eyes look down to his lap. She notices that he’s trying to hold back, probably because they’ve never gone all the way before. She wonders how he can be so out of control, yet in control at the same time. Rafayel can feel his desire heating up faster than he can control, heating up his entire body once more, burning him, but he didn’t want to do anything without her consent. Taking what he wanted, regardless if she feels good, without making sure it’s okay first, didn’t feel right, especially since he will completely ravage her with no regard. He gulps deeply, his purple eyes looking back up into MC’s obvious lust in his gaze, his intentions not at all hidden.

“MC…I need help…Please, help me…”

MC can feel a smirk stretch upon her full lips for just a moment, before she puts on a fake sympathetic look, her lips pursing out ever so slightly. She pulls her hands from his grip and moves to lie back onto the bed, against the soft pillows, her hands grabbing his biceps and pulling him down on top of her. Her hands trail up from the lean, yet muscular, arms to his back, finger trailing down his spine, causing him to shiver ever so slightly.

“Oh, you poor thing…Of course I’ll help you…What do you want me to do?”

She spoke to him like you would to a hurt child, pretending to coddle him as her fingers continued to caress him. Rafayel lets out a shaky breath, his arms on either side of her head as he lifts himself up, his body hovering over hers. He looks down at her, his mouth still open as he lets out quick puffs, a yearning expression on his face.

“Just…Just let me have you…”

Rafayle’s voice is low, barely raised above a whisper. His purple eyes search MC’s, a silent plea as his hands curl up into fists against the sheets. MC let out a soft breath, her hands pressing fully against his back, her nails pressing ever so slightly into his pale skin, leaving small marks from under them.

“Of course. When did you think you couldn’t have me?”

At her words, Rafayel lowers himself closer, their noses touching as his head tilts to the side, taking her full lips against his. A soft, wet sound reaches their ears as their lips connect, Rafayel breathing into MC’s mouth as her lips part for him, his hot tongue sliding into her mouth. A soft moan vibrates in Rafayel’s throat as their tongues touch, the taste of her mouth across his taste buds. His tongue glides across every surface of her own, sliding and pressing the muscles together as heavy breaths fan across both of their skin, MC’s fingers digging a bit deeper into his back.

Rafayel, fully prepared to stay in that kiss forever, pulls away to allow her to catch her breath. MC’s cheeks slightly flushed, she breathes heavily, her chest rising and falling as her lust-filled eyes stare up and Rafayel as they open. She can feel her arousal growing, a heat spreading from her lower stomach to her between her legs, a familiar wetness slicking up the sensitive area. MC removes her hands from Rafayel’s back, her fingers gently pulling down the strap of her dress off her shoulder. Rafayel notices and quickly helps with the removal of her dress, one hand pulling down the other sleeve as his other hand holds his body up.

He pulls the dress down from her chest to her waist, her breasts covered by her bra, though a peek of her hardened nipples from under the thick fabric can be seen. Rafayel’s long fingers trail down her sides, continuing to pull the dress down past her waist and to her legs, where MC kicks the dress off her legs, the light fabric falling to the ground.

Rafayel gulps at the sight of her body, an image tantalizing to him as her supple skin waits for the touch of his hands and lips. Rafayel leans back down, eyes closing as their lips connect once more, the kiss full of hunger and desperation, the heat from his body flaying him, great enough for MC to feel. MC wraps her arms around him once more, fingering holding onto his skin tightly, causing the flesh to stretch under her strong grip.

One of Rafayel’s hands trails down her stomach, causing it to clench as his skin runs over the sensitive navel, to her panties. He had no patiences left to fully remove the thin fabric, instead moving it to the side, wedging it in the crease between her thigh and pelvis. He pulls his lips away, head looking down between them, trying to catch a glimpse of her wetness, though his position denies him the gaze, only furthering his desperateness.

Swallowing thickly, his hand grips one of his members, the head glistening with his precum, a small bead escaping the slit. He lets out a shaky breath, as he lines himself up, his hips snapping forwards with vigor, bottoming out completely inside of her. MC hisses in pain, her slick enough to allow him to go in so quickly, yet not quite prepared. Her thighs spread a bit wider, allowing his pelvis to press fully against her’s and giving his waist some room. Her heels press against his lower back, toes curling as she huffs, little moans escaping her parted lips as she looks up at him with half-lidded eyes.

“Can…I can move, right?’

Rafayel questions, his voice deep and breathy. The feeling of her heat and her wetness coating his cock was enough to cause his own toes to curl, his brows arched up in pleasure as his eyes search her’s. MC huffs, feeling herself get used to his size, her tight insides stretching around his, becoming more comfortable, her hot core slobbering on his cock coaxing his member to dive deeper inside. MC nods lazily, her eyes clouding over as she feels him start to thrust, his head hitting far inside her, soft squelching sounds filling the quiet noise, along with their moans. Rafayel moans desperately, his voice higher in octave as his moans pass him, his head hanging above MC’s, eyes closed. The pleasure he is feeling is good, by only half good, his other cock uncomfortably hitting against her skin, the air leaving a slight, unpleasant, tingling sensation begging to be put inside her wet core.

Rafayel pauses his hips, the squelching silencing as he huffs, his cocks twitching slightly in anticipation. He opens his eyes, looking down at MC, who looked like she could barely hold a thought, her face red with a deep blush and her full lips slightly wet with saliva.

“C-Can two fit?”

He questions, his voice slightly hoarse as he takes a deep breath. He knows they can, she’s been on the receiving end of his dual cocks and has taken them happily. But she’s not exactly the same person she was. What if it’s too tight? It feels too tight for him. Her walls are clamping down on his member, enough to squish it, and it’s only the one.

MC looks shocked at his question, flustered even, all of her air getting caught in her throat at the question. Of course, she has played with them both before, with her hands, but they’ve never been both inside her, anywhere. How was she supposed to know the answer?

“Mhm, yes, just put them in and…keep going.”

She answered, of course not confident at all in her decree, yet she was desperate enough that she would allow anything at this point. Rafayel nods as a huff of air escapes him, cheeks and ears red with a deep blush, somehow embarrassed of what he is about to do. His hand reaches down once more, other arm holding him steady, his fingers wrapping around his other cock, all the sensations on this one are heightened, more sensitive than the other one already buried deep into her,

Rafayel lets out a gentle whine, fingers trembling at the pleasurable sensitivity. He lines his other cock up, the appendage being slightly skinnier in girth, and wedges it between his other cock and the opening of her core. He uses his hand to keep either of them from slipping out, his hips pushing forward, MC’s opening stretching a bit more. MC takes a sharp breath, a mix between a cry and a moan leaving her lips a the stretch feeling slightly unnatural. Her nails dig into his back, clawing down the middle of his shoulder, her eyes slightly tearing up. Yet there is ecstasy on her face, a trail of drool sliding down from the corner of her mouth.

Rafayel moves his hips, snapping them forward and back, his movement becoming less sloppy once he insures both of his cocks will stay in, the appendages buried far into her. Rafayel’s hands clench at the sheets, his head leaning down to rest against her shoulder, whines escaping his lips as his hips continue to rock.

The headboard of the bed taps against the wall, the squelching noise filling up the sound once more, only a little louder. Rafayel moans along with MC, her wet insides clenching against him with each thrust, the dual penetration stretching her all the way through, and her g-spot rubbed against twice as frequent.

Rafayel kisses against her hot shoulder, his teen gently nibbling at the skin. He breathes heavily against her, hands pushing deeper into the bed as he snaps his hips faster, feeling his climax come quickly. Too quickly for his liking, yet he’s ready to let go. MC urges him to continue, the uncomfortable stretch now feeling better as if she molded herself for him, her hips pushing back against him, trying to get him as deep as possible. Her stomach clenches at the feeling of her heat rising under her navel, giving way for the oragams to come.

Rafayel works into her deeper, quicker, the king bed slightly trembling under the movements, his breathing only getting heavier as he feels the suffocating heat melt off of him. He lets out one last long whine as he releases, feeling MC clench against him squirting out her orgasm, coating his cocks and his pelvis. Rafayel completely lowers himself onto MC, his cocks staying nice and warm inside of her core, cheek pressed against her shoulder, feeling her chest rise and fall quickly.

“I can’t believe you saw me like this…”

He pouts softly, cheeks and ears bright red once more. MC was supposed to stay his Miss Bodyguard until the time was right…

#lads #love and deepspace #lads rafayel #love and deepspace rafayel #rafayel x mc #rafayel love and deepspace #rafayel #lads smut #love and deepspace smut #rafayel smut #smut #otome game #lads events

88 notes · View notes

lostintheljghts · 2 days ago

Note

sincaraz fic recs pls!!! xx

ohhhh i was waiting for this one!!

a couple of disclaimers:

i've read a lot of sincaraz fanfictions and i couldn't possibly include them all. I'll try my best, but if you see this post and think of a ff that wasn't included, please do share it!!

there are a lot of authors that have written multiple sincaraz ffs (the first that come to mind are @deliriouslyshipping and @n1mmue), I encourage you to read everything they've posted!! but as they are a lot I'll only include a couple here.

please be aware of the tags before reading the fics, I switch a lot between canon compliant and aus.

last but not least, you might notice an abundance of vers/bottom jannik here. this is a matter of personal preference, all I have to say is that the recent bbl he got converted me skjfddj but again, a lot of the authors included write both dynamics!!

This Is How You Love the Sun by nimmue -a post rg final angsty one shot. what can I say, I love angst. Over You, Only Me by nimmue -this might not be everyone's cup of tea, but it def is mine. listen, I might be projecting, but I love the concept of mean top carlos (especially bc it's so starkingly different from how he is outside of the bedroom). abo is also really controversial but honestly idgaf ksjdfhskjh we're here to have fun.

let down and hanging around by shayvrides -another post rg final fic. what can I say, it left us traumatized. this time it's more spicy than angsty tho. the winner takes it all by bangonoscah -aaaaaaand another one!! loved the dialogues here.

the more i try to get a grip on it, i slip into you by pinkcaraz (litenvitkanin) -this is the filth I love eheh. did I mention I love angst? yeah, that also includes loving when a character thinks their feelings aren't reciprocated. add all this in a spicty context where one of them is so horny he can't help but say the other's name when they think they're alone...yeah, loved it

Way Too Deep (But I'm Into It) by deliriouslyshipping -it's way too difficult to choose only a couple of their works but how can I not choose the uni!au, AND WHAT I JUST SAW THERE'S PART THREE POSTED NOW SKJDFSKJHFSD CAN'T WAIT TO READ. part one might not be everyone's cup of tea with the fact that there's a girl involved too, but I loved it.

yeah it's impossible i can't choose. they have wayy to many great fics. do yourself a favour and read them all here deliriouslyshipping.

If you wanted honesty that's all you had to say by Cassie (BADFalcon) -small hilarious one shot, loved darren here

umiltà by niccolos -please please please read this. one of my fav sincaraz fanfics ever, I think. carlos subtly flexing might be one of the hottest things ever. I wish I knew you (back when we were both small) by serve_cunt -i loooove f1!aus. like, I love them. Please writers feed me I need more sincaraz as drivers fighting for wc.

you pull my strings (and I like it) by liefde -this was a really interesting au. and honestly now that jannik singer became a reality with the bocelli feat, this is only more hilarious in how accurate it could be.

Can't you see that I'm melting by lostintheljghts -yeah im being shameless here...this one's mine. to be honest I haven't read it in a good month and writing it now i'd change a lot of things, but oh well...if you give it a shot lemme know what you think!

Flying In a Dream, Stars By The Pocketful by JujubeeJones -really light and fluffy one shot from when things were good and sincaraz fans were thriving :') I feel like im missing a lot of great fics, but my mind is blanking right now. I hope this will keep you sated for some time <3 Please people do add fics to this list if you want to!!

#sincaraz #sincaraz fanfic #sincaraz ao3 #fanfic rec #tennis rpf

40 notes · View notes

workanons · 24 hours ago

Text

Hurt dogs don't bite - Gribeans one shot

Another lovely au of the @ludolka I couldn't help but write about! This one shot comes with some warnings so please read them! Word count 10262

Warning ⚠️ mention of shooting someone, mention of taking someone hostage, mention of broken bones, mention of shooting animals, mention of causing someone harm and kissing!⚠️

Stay safe!

-💼

_____________

It wasn't fair, and he desperately wants to cuss out the entire Forest for his stupid mistake. On his hunt he was dumb enough to walk too close to the mountains, upsetting a bear family who recently had their cubs. He couldn't blame them for protecting the newborns but he didn't expect them to be this hostile and chase him through the mountain range. It was just his luck that he slit down loose rubble and sprained his ankle badly, squealing out his pain. In the first few moments where his ankle was stunned by the force of his fall he was convinced he broke it. But just laying there for a few minutes and taking mental notes of his body's status he was relieved it was just minor bruises and a few scratches that were bleeding.

Though the pain in his ankle was undeniable. With a huff he pulled out his wildlife map, checking quickly over where the closest outlook he could get to. To his luck one wasn't that far, normally it would only take a few minutes of walking but with his injured ankle he knew it's going to be a long walk. With a sturdy looking branch he found he heft his backpack back on, checking around him in case he dropped some and made his way to the outlook post.The walk was excruciatingly slow, having to stop for a few minutes to get his hurt ankle some rest. Joel wasn't a wimp and took pain like a champ, but the pain felt like he was actively stepping on glass shards again and again. When lifting his foot off the ground to give it rest it felt like it was pulsating, the pain getting so bad he had sweat bullets on his forehead and felt like he might pass out. However he made it to the outlook, and didn't care he crawled up the many steps on all fours.

Out of breath and sore hands he unclipped his heavy backpack. For a few minutes he just lays there getting his breathing back under control, choosing to ignore the throbbing pain in his ankle. Rolling onto his back he looks for a talky or a radio of some sort, he needs help there is no way he would walk back out of his hunting reserve with his ankle. After spotting one he scoots closer to it on his bottom trying his best not to jostle his leg too much, upon reaching for the radio he quickly unhooks it from its station and fiddles with the frequency. "Jimmy. Jimmy come in" For a few seconds he feared he selected the wrong one before a crackling static filled the silence. "Joel? What's up mate?" Biting his lip he hesitates. Sure he needs help but normally it was Jimmy who called for help and now he had to tug his tail between his legs and accept defeat. "I got hurt, I need you to get me from the outpost near pheasant lake..." For a few minutes there was silence before

"you're joking..are you actually?"

"I am not! I did not get chased by an angry bear and fall off a mountain only for you to accuse me of lying Jim! My foot hurts! So get your ass here! I did not crawl all the way from the mountainside to here to prank you!"

Briefly he felt guilty for losing his shit at Jim but the throbbing pain constantly reminding him didn't help stay calm. "Alright! Geez just stay calm I'm getting the pickup truck alright? Stay hydrated up there.." and with that he was left alone with his thoughts. Placing the radio back on the table he decided to at least do first aid on himself, leaning over to his backpack he pulled it closer with his healthy foot and looked for his med kid. Frowning at the contents of his own med pack he grabbed a bottle of almost empty disinfectant. Only he could blame himself for not stocking up his medpack, having procrastinated on restocking it for a few weeks now. Technically it was empty save for the small puddle of it left in there, despite it he took some gauze and drenched it quickly wiping away the dirt off his few scratches. It barely hurt assuring him that he wasn't too badly hurt save for his ankle, moving on from his wounds he made a move to remove his boot. Hissing in pain, despite having the entire boot untied, it was a painful progress almost making moving a mountain seem like a breeze. After he finally got the boot off he peeled away his sock, having to bite his jacket in pain and yep. There is bruising. Now Joel had a new dilemma. While he has swelling plus bruising, he was now unsure if he broke his ankle or just sprained it. Both outcomes suck but broken means being out of commission for a few months, meaning he had to rely on Jim to nurse him back to health...yeah right. He has to stabilize his ankle if he wants to avoid hurting it further, looking around there were not many options. A few empty crates, some cans, a pack of bottled water, a small kitchenette which has a portable stove. Praying that the kitchen had some wooden spoons he lifts himself up. Sitting down on a nearby stool and began rummaging through the drawers and cabinets. He was excited to find a wooden spoon in one of them and quickly placed it near his ankle and wrapped the gauze around it. Inspecting his work, he deemed acceptable for now before pulling his sock over it. Popping quickly some pain killers in the hope his ankles pain won't make his head spin anymore.

The wait for Jimmy to come quickly became boring and Joel had no other choice but to sit outside with his binoculars and scan the terrain for a light blue pickup truck. The Forest of course hid a few roads and he wasn't sure from what site Jim would come from, so he quickly changed his interest and tried to spot a few resting spots or feeding spots of the animals in the reserve. Happy he noted down on his map a few resting spots and even saw a group of fallow deer drink at the lake, noting down the time next to the location. However his mood soured a bit after spotting a red deer with an amazing rack, a work of nature. The fur is a nice brown with a reddish tint to it and antlers on its head that looked like wings sprouting from its head.

It would make a pretty mount for collectors and would give him a pretty good income. But at last, his ankle wouldn't allow him to track the animal and judging by the height and distance between him and the deer he was certain that his shot would definitely miss and only spook the animal. His rifles only could shoot a distance of three hundred and wile he managed to hit a target further than that he simply wouldn't risk fucking it up and making the poor thing suffer. However his thoughts came to a screeching halt when a voice sounded behind him. "What doing?" Joel's ears pulled back, his head turning quickly to the sound that he could have broken his neck. And truly a pheasant hybrid was sitting on the outlooks roof smiling at him in that annoying shit eating grin that makes him want to shoot him.

"YOU!" He barked, already pissed despite the hybrid barely having done anything yet. "Yes me~ what are you up to, puppy boy?" Oh he really came to rub salt into the wound. "Fuck off I'm not in the mood for your taunts." A chuckle sounded that made him want to blush, why was his laughter so beautiful? "I can see that, but don't worry I totally didn't hear your scream from the mountain range and definitely didn't see you get chased by a bear and absolutely didn't see you fall down." He laughed. That laughter only served to make his blood boil, but he knew he couldn't chase, couldn't engage in their usual fight.

Grian seemed to have noticed as well his teasing smile vanishing. "Are you badly hurt?" It was strange, the pheasant never showed this much concern for him before. "...not too bad, I have a friend pick me up here." His eyes scanned the other and he found himself lost in the shimmering feathers of the other, the sunset catching his frame in a golden light. Almost like an angel.

"I was worried when I saw you fall..." That did snap his attention back to the other's face. "And then I didn't see you... I didn't hear any shots... For a moment I thought you got eaten by the bear..." Silence sat heavy between the two, Joel wasn't a fool. He knew Grian worried about his only protection against other hunters. "Did you break your foot?-" "stop pretending, I'm fine and will gladly Chase you in a few weeks."

The pheasants' face twisted in confusion before it was quickly replaced with annoyance. "Typical for you hunters... All you care about is your next hunt. When you get to take another life!" The cheek feathers fluff up in defense and Joel couldn't help but feel like he had to defend himself. "That's not true and you know it. I hunt animals that have grown in population rapidly...like the red and fallow deer." The pheasant's gaze left him looking over to the Forrest line that was drowned in gold."I don't hunt for fun or to just shoot for the heck of it, these animals don't have natural predators here. You know Forrest as well as me." Joel was amazed at himself at how composed he was right now, normally conversations between them were short and quickly turned into threats, escalation close behind with physical attacks. Funny how a hurt ankle managed to keep him calm enough to have a conversation with the other. The silence stretched on between the two before Grian jumped down and approached him with caution, a lazy smile placed itself on Joel's lips as he leaned against the railing behind him. "Don't worry I won't bite~" he jokes, eyeing the bite mark on Grian's neck. The pheasant gave him an unamused look. "Yeah and I don't scratch, let me take a look at you.." he let the blond fuzz over him for a while, quite enjoying the attention, but was unamused when the focus landed on his main problem. "I wrapped it up pretty tight with a wooden spoon on it- OW." He squealed as grian touched his bandages. "Yeah and wrong let me redo it" hot white pain flashes in Joel's vision and all he could do was grip Grian's shoulder as he re-wrapped the spoon. It was over fast but the shock of the pain left him breathless.

Both men locked eyes and still high on adrenaline from the pain he crashes their lips together. It was messy, primal and just so them. With his other hand on the pheasant's shoulders he pushed him to the ground, getting on top of the bird hybrid, straddling his hips. Sharp claws were against his stomach slipping between the jacket and the shirt, he was aware of the danger he was in. One cut of those claws at his stomach and he would lose all his organs. His tail wags at the thought, grian was dangerous but so was he.

Breathless both separate, the yellow eyes sparkle of the Bird hybrid and in an odd sense it felt almost domestic. The moment was broken by a harsh slap to his cheek and a kick to his stomach, confused Joel got off the other and was met with a very mad and flustered grian. "What is wrong with you?! Don't touch me." 'back to chase and catch ' Joel thought before he decided to lay down on the wooden floor. "Alright, whatever..." Closing his eyes Joel listens to the sounds around him, the soft breeze rustling the leaves, the faint mating calls of the wildlife around them, his own calm breathing and Grain's labored breathing. 'but no car...' slowly the pheasant hybrid approaches him and he makes no move to grab or move and to his surprise the other actually lies next to him, draping a wing over him. The wing was soft and warm like the sun on his face. For a few minutes no one of them speaks until... "I'm sorry..." "It's alright." Joel knew Grian wanted to say more, hesitant "we are a mess...when you were on top of me I knew we were just kissing...but I got..." "Spooked? Yeah I have that effect on prey hybrids G." A look was shared between them both before grian leaned over giving him a kiss on the cheek before resting his head on his shoulder. "Get well soon Joel, this Forest is going to be boring without you." A snort. "You act like I'm dying, G" "who knows perhaps you are, your so mellow puppy. It's so unlike you." Rolling onto his back he took Grain's hand, pressing a kiss to the others knuckles. "Don't worry song bird soon I'm back to hunting you through the Forest and one day I will catch you and keep you in my home where no one can hear you scream~" the thought sounded too appealing but both of them knew that it wasn't what they wanted. Joel too much enjoyed the chase and grian to be free. This fantasy shouldn't become reality. "You best believe that I won't stop a day to get out of it." The pheasant teased back, leaning down again. This kiss was much sweeter and gentle. The constant thump thump thump against the wood floor from his tail was the only noise in their shared moment. Separating again felt worse than the lack of breath in their lungs, but the view of Grian made up for it. Ruffled feathers, a deep blush on his cheeks and freshly kissed lips.

"Then I will have to catch you again, such a pretty angel can't get away." Both basked in the evening sun some more, soon the sun will be behind the mountains and cast the forest in shadows. But the haze of soft kisses and touches was broken by Jimmy.

"Joel? Are you up there? Sorry I'm late. I accidentally went to the other viewpoint near the lake!" And with that his angel slipped away and he sadly had to watch the pheasant fly away. With a sigh he answered his friend. "Yeah I'm up here."

#gribeans #hermitshipping #WorkAnons #vizsla and pheasant #oneshot

32 notes · View notes

frickyeahfanfic · 3 days ago

Text

〉the enemy of my enemy

chapter 6 - collateral.

ethan hunt x f!reader 》 masterpost here - playlist here summary: You’re alone. Prague is the first real lead you’ve had on VANTAGE since everything went haywire—and you’re not about to let some fancy IMF agent ruin your shot. But when Ethan Hunt intercepts you mid-mission, everything spirals. word count: 3780 (hope it was worth the wait!) warnings: some violence. a/n: sorry there's a bit of jumping around this chapter. but i just wanted to get to the good stuff - i'm sure you all want to as well!!

MARSEILLE. IMF SAFEHOUSE VILLA, 07:17 HOURS.

Tomorrow will come too fast. But for now, you can rest.

Beep beep beep

The repetitive noise gets louder and more annoying coming from the other room. You open your eyes cautiously and see light pouring in from the windows. It’s daytime.

You sit up and look around the room, oblivious to your bedhead, trying to pinpoint that irritating noise. It’s coming from the bedroom where Benji’s setup was last night.

The moment you rise to your feet, the beeping stops. You wander to the room, rubbing your eyes to wake them up faster. You’re greeted with Benji and Ethan leaning over the computer, both of them with the same, focused expression on their face. They’re both in different clothes, all ready for the day. How come they didn’t wake me up earlier?

You rap your knuckles on the opened door. “Mind if I join? What movie are you watching?”

Ethan looks up at you. “We found the next server node.”

“It’s in Japan,” Benji chimes in, still looking at the computer screen.

“Oh, okay,” you say, voice somewhat croaky. “So what does that mean?”

“We have flights to Tokyo in about an hour. We’ll fly separately since Benji suspects that we might be on VANTAGE’s radar now, after Marseille. If we’re split up, we’re harder to target. We’ll all be in communication with each other and meet up at a rendezvous point once we’re all there,” Ethan says, moving away from the table and grabbing a backpack off the ground.

He tosses it to you, and you catch it, wobbling slightly. He raises an eyebrow.

“My ankle?” You huff. His lips tighten slightly. He must have forgotten.

“That’s your travel bag. Don’t lose it. Keep everything inside and zipped up in the airport. You’ll avoid chaos if you do,” Ethan says, nodding to the backpack.

“What? Like it’s got a bomb inside- oh.” You zip open the bag and see a small pistol and some tech gear. “Okay. Got it.” You figure the fabric of the bag is made of some sort of anti-X-ray material.

You tilt your head and smile. “You’re okay with all of this? All this… power?”

“It was my idea. We didn’t want to leave you defenseless, of course,” Benji says.

Your smile fades from your face. “I can handle myself just fine without a gun…” You mutter under your breath.

Ethan takes a few steps towards you, then stops just a couple feet away. “Which reminds me to ask, you’re not just a programmer. So how did you learn-”

“How to take care of things?” You cut him off.

“That’s one way to put it,” Benji chuckles.

Ethan gives you a look.

“You’re right. I’m not just a programmer. I had training. A sort of ‘special forces’ private agency. It was tactical and technical. VANTAGE recruited straight out of the program, said that we’d be behind screens, writing code.”

You pause for a second, debating on how much to tell them. “Soon we were in the field, gathering intel, running ops, and accomplishing… ‘tasks’”.

Ethan glances at Benji, then back to you.“Tasks?”

“Your version would call them missions. Ours didn’t come with much briefing. We were told to not ask questions. Just get the job done. I had been so caught up with trying to prove myself that I didn’t realize what I was enabling until it was too late.”

Your lip quavers, not with fear, but out of anger. “They manipulated us. I lost friends to VANTAGE and became someone I barely recognised. I advanced through ranks and became close to one of the higher ups. He liked me because I was efficient, and could program anything he needed. I started piecing together the bigger picture. What VANTAGE was really planning. And it hit me what that would result in for the rest of the world. I couldn’t let that happen. Not on my watch.”

You look down at the floor, unaware that your hands were clenched into fists. “I didn’t want to be caught in the fallout either. I was a coward. I obliterated my file. They tried to kill me. So I ran. And I’ve been trying to stop them on my own ever since.”

Benji rises to his feet. “They put a target on your back because you were the only one who could stop them, didn’t they?”

You meet his gaze. “I know too much. More than I should’ve.”

You turn to Ethan. “They trusted me. Gave me access most people would kill for. And I let them.”

Silence hangs through the air. You squint at Ethan. “Still think I shouldn’t have come back for you?”

He looks at you carefully, and you brace yourself for a sharp reply.

“No,” he says, voice lower than before. “You should’ve had backup a long time ago.”

You’re surprised by the softness of his voice. And you realize how badly you needed to hear that.

Someone who believes in you.

You take a deep breath and sigh. “I’ve never been to Japan.”

The tension is still thick in the air, like everyone is still thinking about what you just said about your history with VANTAGE. Only after a few moments Benji speaks up.

“It’s a beautiful country. But we don’t have a lot of IMF coverage there. We’ll have to be careful.”

He glances down at the computer screen. “We’ll need to get the next credentials from the relay server there, cross match them with the routing code that we pulled earlier. Once we have the second node’s credentials, we can move to the final relay location and intercept the activation sequence.”

Benji shuts the computer. “The activation requires multiple nodes to fire in sync. But since we already captured the Marseille credentials, and we’ll hopefully get the Tokyo ones, I can spoof that node remotely from wherever we are when we find the last relay location.”

“Anything to be worried about?” You ask with a dry scoff. You’re already calculating the odds, and they’re not in your favor.

“Everything.” Benji replies without missing a beat.

You nearly jump when Ethan puts a hand on your shoulder. “Let’s go. We’ve got flights to catch.”

His presence is calm, but confident. It’s enough to pull you out of your spiral. Despite everything you’re gone through with him, he’s proven to be consistent, strong…

And maybe that’s what unsettles you the most out of all of this. How much you’re starting to rely on him.

He leaves the room without another word. Benji busies himself packing the most critical pieces of tech. And for a moment, you just stand there, letting it all sink in.

Right now, you need Ethan Hunt.

Although you may have kept him alive, he's the one holding you together now. And helping you take down VANTAGE. He believes you. You’re not fighting your past alone anymore.

‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗

“Enjoy the flight, remember, stay in the Shinsen station at Shibuya. Ethan will arrive shortly after you and find you, then I’ll meet you both at the safehouse. Stay low and out of trouble.”

The three of you are at the terminal, and Benji hands you a boarding pass and a fake passport.

“No promises,” you wink at them, and then head for security.

“She’s a handful,” Benji huffs. Ethan watches you narrow-eyed as you disappear into the sea of people. It’s a huge risk, letting you go ahead. You could take a different flight, end up miles away from them. But he’s willing to take the risk. Something tells him that you’re going to stay loyal.

Maybe it’s more hoping rather than knowing.

“She’s a threat. But not to us anymore,” Ethan says back.

Benji turns, surprised. “You’re sure?” His nervousness is apparent on his face.

Ethan avoids facing him. “She’s not going to split. She thinks that she can’t do this without us. That’s enough surety for me.”

Benji nearly snorts. “You’re not wrong. She does need us. But I think you need her just as much.”

This gets his attention. Ethan faces him, jaw tense. “We happened to cross paths with her. We got lucky she chose to stay.”

Benji shrugs, letting it go with a small smirk. “If you say so.”

Ethan doesn’t reply. His eyes are back on the terminal, analyzing, observant as always. But the way his gaze lingered on the crowd you disappeared into…

Perhaps Benji was onto something.

TOKYO, JAPAN, 18:01 HOURS.

Tokyo was electric, different, and busy. You had no worries about staying hidden from any followers. By the time your flight landed and you got to Shibuya district, you were high on adrenaline, carefully watching for any trouble. Head down, backpack on tight, scanning each building, each face that passed yours.

You wanted to leave the underground station and explore the neon city, but this wasn’t a vacation. There was no time to be a tourist now. And you had to be ready for Ethan’s arrival.

You pulled a wallet out of the bag Benji had given you and found some cash. Traveling made you hungry. In the station, there’s small restaurants lined up, and you duck inside one, ordering some hot ramen. After the waiter brought your food, you downed it in minutes, leaving none of it to waste. Who knows when your next meal is going to be.

As you start leaving the restaurant, someone grabs your arm from behind.

“Hey! You shout, turning to see who the offender was. You sigh of relief, realizing it was Ethan.

“Do you not know how to use a phone?” He lets go of your arm.

“What? Oh, I-” You squeeze your eyes shut for a second. You hadn’t even taken it out of the backpack. You look back at him. “You got here quick. Also how did you find me?”

He ignores your questions. Those were all easily explained by the fact that he was an IMF agent. “Let’s hurry. Benji’s flight lands in half an hour. We don’t want to waste any time here, the more time we’re stagnant, the greater chance of VANTAGE closing in on our location. Benji suspects that because VANTAGE is already deep in some servers, it wouldn’t be difficult to track us down. We’ve covered our tracks well so far, but who knows.”

You nod and follow him through the station. It takes about twenty minutes by subway and walking to get to the safehouse, a good distance from the busy hub of Tokyo.

Once inside, Ethan starts laying out gear and some weapons. You can’t help but notice how small the safehouse is, cramped, furniture all nearly touching each other.

You awkwardly stand and watch, trying to figure out how to help. You approach him at the table he was working by, set your backpack down and grab a pistol.

“Don’t touch anything.” Ethan mutters, pulling out a jacket from a tiny closet.

You put the gun back down on the table, letting it hit just a little too hard.

Ethan turns and glares at you.

You throw your hands in the air. “Come on! If you want me to be part of the team, then act like it! You’re acting like you have to babysit me or something,” you say, annoyed. “I thought you were starting to trust me,” you add under your breath.

In a moment, Ethan steps forward, and he’s closer than you expected. His green eyes are sharp, unreadable, and there’s something else behind them. Not anger. Not exactly.

“I do trust you.”

Your lips part, but no words come out.

“But don’t make me regret it.”

You’re frozen to the ground. His gaze lingers on yours like he’s waiting to see if you’ll push back or step away. You do neither.

Without warning, the door swings open.

Benji strolls in, completely oblivious. “Okay, good news, no one followed me. Bad news, I lost my spare change to a vending machine-”

He stops mid-sentence when he sees the space between you and Ethan. The tension is high. And you’re both suddenly pretending to look anywhere but at each other.

“Did I… miss something?” Benji blinks, a bag of chips crinkling in his hand.

You step backwards, hitting the wall behind you. “Ugh, this room is tiny!” you complain, trying to diffuse the moment.

Benji says something quietly to himself and shrugs.

Ethan goes back to prepping gear. You turn to Benji and watch as he shuffles around the room, putting his bag and chips down. He grabs a laptop out of his bag and gets straight to business.

“So. The node is tucked away in a high-rise data center, sixty floors, just north of Shibuya. Ethan will go in as a third-party auditor doing a spot check on their physical security protocols, and you’ll get in through the roof. Is your ankle okay?”

“The roof? Do you expect me to fly?” You ask incredulously.

Benji looks up and smiles at you. “In a way, yes. The building is a bit smaller than a few of the ones next to it, so you’ll get to the top of a neighboring building, use a wire, and just zip over to the roof.”

You turn to Ethan, then back to Benji. “Can’t he do that? I thought you both wanted me off the ground.”

Benji shakes his head. “Unfortunately, only authorized personnel with verified credentials can move freely through the lower floors. Ethan’s cover gives him access to most of the building, yours doesn’t. You’re the only one small enough to make the roof jump clean. Sorry. Besides, the zipline’s a fun ride. You’ll get to see more of Japan than either of us.”

“Fine. Roof access. Then what?”

“Then, you’ll make your way downstairs after planting an uplink. This will only give us access to the security personnel’s comms feed. On the 43rd floor is where the servers are. We’ll give you another drive that overrides the system and gets you the credentials again. Ethan will disable and keep the security systems offline so you can move around without getting caught. Unfortunately I can’t do much on the outside since they’re using a system I’ve never seen before, so you’ll have to wait for him to get in.”

You fold your arms. “Then we get out.”

Benji nods stiffly. “Hopefully it won’t be as bad as the last time. I’ll mute the security guards’ comms with the uplink so that they won’t be able to talk to each other. You’ll go back the way you came, though to a shorter building, and Ethan will leave the way he came through.”

Ethan clicks a magazine into a pistol. “Any questions?”

You quirk an eyebrow. “When do we start?”

He drops the pistol into a holster and tosses it towards you. “Right now.”

‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗

The Tokyo air seemed to have cooled down a bit in the middle of the night. Or maybe it’s just because you’re on top of an extremely tall building in the city, and the wind is whipping through your clothes.

Is now a bad time to say you’re afraid of heights?

“Benji, talk to me,” you say, crouched down on the roof, a grappling hook in your right hand. “How in the world am I supposed to shoot this straight?”

“You’ve literally killed people, you know how to aim,” Benji’s voice crackles over your earpiece.

You look at the grappling hook, eyes trailing on the thin metal wire behind you that you secured to a small ladder.

“I know, this is just… different.”

There’s a pause, then Benji’s sweet British voice comes back on.

“Ethan’s just about to head in. It’s time. Just aim for the middle of the roof and shoot. It just needs to catch onto the ledge, which there’s plenty of.”

“I’m entering the building,” Ethan’s voice says lowly. Your stomach turns. You’re not used to hearing his voice on comms.

You shake your head, vision going somewhat blurry out of nerves. “Here goes nothing.”

You press the trigger, hook shoots out, and the wire follows. Within seconds it’s attached to the target roof.

“Perfect. Now, attach yourself to the wire, and jump.”

You clip on your small hardness to the wire like you had practiced a few times, and stand on the edge of your current building. You try to not look down, but you can’t help it.

You’re certainly seeing much more Japan than the rest of the team, but not in the way you’d like.

Holding your breath, you jump. The hardness cinches tight around your hips and suddenly you’re flying through the air. The neighboring building gets closer, faster than you anticipated, and suddenly you’re crashing onto the roof.

“Ow.”

“You alright?” Benji asks.

You quickly get on your feet and brush yourself off, ignoring the slight pain in your ankle.

“Never better.”

“Perfect. There’s a vent just a few meters to your left. Open it and get in.”

You follow his instructions as they come through.

“Alright inside, place the uplink. Okay, turn it on. Now move forward till you can turn right. There should be a vent opening. But wait. We need Ethan’s signal.”

You linger in the vents for what seems like an eternity, then Ethan’s voice comes through.

“It’s all offline. Continue.”

Exhaling, you open the vent with a small tool. You drop down effortlessly, making sure to not put too much pressure on your recovering ankle.

“Now what?” You whisper.

“Find the elevator, it should just be down the hall,” Benji replies.

Thankfully, there’s no security personnel on the top floor. You find the elevator and it opens without you pushing any buttons. Ethan must be controlling it remotely.

You step inside and the doors shut and quickly descend to the 43rd floor. Your heart is nearly beating out of your chest as you recall the last breach, and how you had to save Ethan from being killed by guards.

You swallow dryly. You’ve made it so far. Imagining doing all of this alone genuinely terrifies you.

Don’t die, Ethan. I need you.

Hand ghosted over your pistol, you step out onto the server floor room. It’s dim lighting, but you can make out the rows of server racks, and you head towards the last one, walking briskly now. The breach flash drive is hung around your neck with a small chain. Just like clockwork, you open the racks, take the chain off, and stick the drive into a port.

Ten armed men burst into the room.

They’re shouting in Japanese, and from what you can tell, they’re angry. One starts shooting in your direction, and you duck down, hiding behind a server rack.

“It’s an ambush!” You scream into your comms.

“Get out of there quick!”

You shoot a guard that comes around the corner and he falls. “That’s a great idea!”

“They must have known we were coming. Or something didn’t go right when Ethan shut the system down.”

“I didn’t make a mistake,” Ethan huffs. He’s out of breath, but why?

I’m gonna die! How am I supposed to take them all down?

Thinking fast, you get up and run to the other side of the room. If you could start a small fire in one of the server racks, it would blow up. You open a server rack and wait till the guards get closer to you, then,

BOOM.

With one shot from your gun into the rack’s wires, it explodes, sending several men, and yourself backwards. Sirens start blaring and the overhead sprinklers blast on. It’s a mess of fire, smoke, water, and bullets.

You run back towards the main rack where you left the drive. To your dismay, it’s gone.

“No! I lost it-”

You’re cut off by more gunshots ripping through the air. You turn around and shoot down two more men, ducking in the process to avoid any fire. Your breath is ragged from the smoke in the air and it’s getting harder to breath. The fire you set is spreading quickly to the other server racks, lighting the room in an orange glow that flickers off the metal and blood.

You hear more orders in from the guards to each other, and they’re getting closer to your hiding spot around a cable box.

Suddenly-

A pair of hands grabs you from behind.

You nearly react until a familiar voice speaks low and close to your ear.

“Easy, it’s me.”

Ethan.

“What? How-?” You stammer.

He pulls you backwards, basically throwing you out of the way, then in a flash of grey and black tactical gear, he raises two guns. In two swift shots, he drops the closest threats to you, clean.

You exhale sharply, somewhere between a laugh and sob. Relief floods your chest, but it’s not over yet.

“You really know how to throw a party,” he shouts over the sprinklers, sirens, and incoherent shouting.

“A little late, don’t you think?” You gasp.

He looks at you, checking for blood. “I’m just fashionably late. I actually got here three minutes ago.”

We’ll look at who's getting some sass. You must be rubbing off on him.

“You could have told me!”

“I just did. Come on, it’s not over yet, Benji’s rerouting the elevators,” he says as another burst of gunfire rains down. Ethan stays close, shielding you as your duck through the flaming corridor and reach the elevators just as they slide open.

“Get in!” He shouts, beating you to the doors.

You dive to make it inside, then-

BANG. A shot cracks the air.

The pain is sharp and blinding.

Your knees buckle and Ethan catches you just before you collapse to the ground.

He drags you into the elevator and hits the close button. Bullets slam into the metal as the doors shut.

“Benji!” Ethan barks into the comms, voice raw. “We need an exfil, now!”

The elevator lurches downwards.

Ethan tears off his jacket and presses it into your side. You gasp, clutching his arm.

“Look at me,” he breathes, voice thick with panic. “Just-just hold on, alright? Stay with me.”

You’re trying to make out his face as stars dance across your vision, but for a split second you see a chain glinting on his neck.

The drive.

He already had it.

Of course he did.

Already done what you came here for. And yet…

He’s here. Holding you like losing you isn’t an option.

Like you’re the most important part of the mission.

‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗

~ % TAGLIST: @sarahskywalker-amidala @mirrorballbb @angstylittleb1tch @allthespecificity @knowledgefulbutterfly @napplenapple @glittergellyric @solareclipse4 @sdrose93 @ninihunt @klriggs07 @theresirin @anima-patronos

#ethan hunt x reader #the enemy of my enemy #ethan hunt #mission impossible #ethan hunt fanfic #tom cruise #ethan hunt x you #ghost protocol #mission impossible 8

27 notes · View notes

gerardsbest · 1 day ago

Text

Our Lady of Sorrows

Previous | Next

Chapter 1

Relationship: Gerard Way x Reader. Frank Iero x Reader

Tags: love triangles, slow burn, meet-cute, angst, fluff, falling in love, unrequited love, love confessions, hurt/comfort, eventual smut, awkward flirting, love at first sight

Summary: Gerard goes to a venue hosting local artists on a whim one day and sees you. Completely enamoured, he makes it his mission to see you again.

You see him, too. And you wonder what made him stand so close to the stage.

Frank sees the both of you.

(or the formation of mcr but you're there, and you have a special bond with gerard. frank is your long time friend, and the reason you got into music)

2.4k words | ao3

It all started with a gig.

There was an event held for up-and-coming artists held at the local theater. Everyone who had even the tiniest bit of footing in the world of music was to attend. You were no different, and you and your band were giddy with both excitement and nerve. Since it would be your first ever real gig.

Like, one with an actual crowd. At an actual place that was meant for concerts instead of the parks and basements you were used to. And more importantly, with people who had actual connections to people in the industry.

A chance to make it.

"Nervous?"

You turned to the side, "What do you think, Frank?"

Frank offered you a sip of his water, which you respectfully declined because even water felt like it would just regurgitate out of you at that moment.

"You have got to relax."

"Easy for you to say..."

"Look, you act like i'm some kind of fuckin'... master at this or something. But I'm not. I've only been at this band thing for two years now."

"And I've been at it for barely seven months now. This is our first real shot, don't you get it, Frankie? Mess up and we might as well be done."

Frank had switched out his clean bottle of water for a cigarette, you had to fawn the smoke every now and then as the two of you sat in that cramped dressing room, "So what?" He said after a while.

"What do you mean?"

"So what if you lose your chance here? It's not like the world is gonna run out of shitty studio execs dying to dig their nails into any piece of fresh meat with an inkling of talent - which, trust me, you guys have got way more than an inkling."

"You think so?"

"Take it from the pro."

You scoffed, "I thought you said you're not a master in this."

"I'm a master at some things in this." He prefaced as he blew smoke right into your face.

"Asshole." You laughed, shoving him as you coughed and tried to waft the fumes away.

"Frank? We're on in five."

A bandmate of his, Pencey Prep's other guitarist poked his head in for a moment and Frank got up right away after smushing the cigarette into the tray, which looked like a disgusting hodgepodge of ash and black.

Frank slung his guitar over his shoulder, "Wish me luck?"

"Good luck, Frank."

"Not gonna watch me?"

"You kidding?" You got up as well, making a show of going over to the door and opening it for him all dramatically, like this was the first date and you were the stereotypical "man".

And like a stereotypical "lady", always one to play along with your bits, Frank did a curtsey, "Thank you." As he walked out.

You cackled, which made him break character and cackle even harder.

"What songs are you guys gonna play tonight?"

"Well, we only have a twenty minute set, so we had to be real decisive. All of our greats. P.S. Don't Write, Yesterday, Trying to Escape the Inevitable..."

"Oh, please tell me you're gonna perform The Secret Goldfish."

Frank stopped walking and made a full turn towards you, "You actually like that song?"

"Totally! I thought I'd told you before?"

"You didn't..." He trailed off, then began walking again. "Why that song?"

"I dunno. The lyrics are nice. They're personal. Relatable but also poetic, y'know?"

Frank didn't talk for a bit, and you looked over to see that he was making one of those faces he made when he was deep in thought. Usually, Frank made this face when he was in the middle of practicing or writing something. It was a combination of slightly pursed lips and a light narrow of his eyes, he could hold this expression for dozens of minutes at a time which you found fascinating. You wondered for how long he'd keep the face this time.

He broke it quite early, though, and started talking again like nothing happened, "Sorry to disappoint, but we won't be including that in out setlist tonight. The guys thought it was too mellow. And I must agree," Frank shrugged, your shoulders drooped slightly and he took notice of that. "Don't be so sad about it. If you like it so much, I can just play it for you on my own time."

You smiled, "That sounds nice, Frank."

"Tonight, then? I don't think this thing is gonna last too long. Unless you wanted to go to the after party."

"You know parties aren't my scene."

He chuckled, "Right, right."

The two of you were at the edge of the door which led to the stage now. There were people rushing all around you; other bands, some staff members, even fans who'd been given the lucrative chance at going backstage with their favorite micro celebrity. The pure excitement on their faces were a sight to behold, especially as they were dressed in homemade merch to show just how deep their admiration went.

I want that, The thought echoed. Someday, I'll have it.

You turn your attention back to Frank, "Break a leg, Frankie."

"With the way I play? Maybe I will."

You give him an awkward side hug and send him off before immediately rushing back to find the exit and find your way into the crowd. Pencey Prep was small but had a loyal and rowdy fanbase, and you wanted to get at least close enough to be able to both have a good view while also not getting crushed in the moshpit.

Which was a hard rope to balance.

So, you'd better hurry.

Pencey Prep was amazing.

And you'd gotten out of the moshpit without any injuries this time! Well, your skin did get caught on the spikes of this one girl's jacket, which caused a scratch, but it was so minimal you wrote it off as nothing. Plus, she apologized profusely so all was well.

"Holy fuck, Frank, that was crazy good." You exclaimed once you made it backstage.

Frank was still sweaty as all hell, and he kind of reeked, "Really?"

"It was one of the best sets I've seen from you guys!"

Frank held a smile, the kind of smile where it was small but reached his cheeks so it was obvious that he was smiling. You loved that smile.

"You guys are gonna be big one day, I know it. I mean, god, your songs are played with such... fervent passion, y'know? And not to sound biased, but your guitar playing is just freakin' brilliant! Like, you play so well, of course, but it's the way you play. All crazy and high energy. Makes me wanna be a guitar player, too! And—"

"Alright, alright, you can stop with the praise fest, I get it," Frank held his hand up to you. "But thanks. Seriously. I mean, I'm Mr. Confident onstage, but I'd be lying if I said that things don't get at me."

You sat down beside him, "Things like what?"

"Like... is this really the right path? I've been at it for two years and I started this damn thing at seventeen for fun. Now, I'm nineteen and attending a pretty good university, but i skip so many classes and barely learn shit to pursue this," He gestured to his guitar. "And sometimes, when i'm here, on my feet and not flying around on some sweat-soaked stage, I ask myself - where do I go with this?"

There was a moment of silence. A long one which lasted at least fifteen seconds as you formed your thoughts on how to respond.

"Well, like you said, you're nineteen. Still a teen, technically. And someone with his entire life still left to live."

Frank snorted, "That's the corniest thing I've ever heard in my entire life."

"It's corny because it's true," You retorted, and he shrugged at that. "Anyway, you didn't let me finish."

With a firm grip, you held onto Frank's shoulders and made him look at you, "Go at this gig for a bit more. Attend school, too. If it falls out and you decide this ain't the life you wanted, then great, at least you took the leap and tried to do something. Tried to pursue your passion in a way that was meaningful; if not for others, then for yourself. You're brave for that."

Frank didn't answer you. In fact, he cracked a smile and began chuckling to himself, which led to a full on half-hysterical fit of laughter, which made your cheeks all red.

You crossed your arms, "What a way to thank someone who was trying to comfort you. Ungrateful prick."

"Sorry, sorry..." He wheezed. "Sorry, I... no, I... it was great advice. Awesome, even. And exactly what I needed if I can be, well, frank. It's just that it's so weird to see you this serious, and it's kind of jarring to see this side to you after you were pissing yourself from nerve earlier." Snorts and giggles followed this explanation, but at least he was genuinely smiling now.

"Whatever, then," You said under your breath, allowing a few moments to pass as Frank caught himself. "And, by the way, there was something untrue about what I said just now."

"What is it?"

You bit your lip slightly, then parted them slightly, to signify you wanted to continue, a detail Frank caught.

Yet, you couldn't say it, so you just stood and paced around instead.

"Hello? What is it?" Frank interjected quickly, standing now, too. "C'mon, tell me! You can't just leave me hanging like this, the hell?"

"Give me a second, would you?" You hissed, blurting all the letters out at once.

Frank leaned against the dresser, playing with the strings of his guitar which laid flat against a wall. No stand or anything, just on the floor because Frank was just that kind of guy.

Eventually, he let out an exaggerated sigh as he raised his eyebrow, beckoning you to continue.

"Okay, well. What I was trying to say was that, this whole... thing you're doing. You can know that it was at least look back on it like ten, twenty years from now if you decide to stop and know that meaningful to one other person besides yourself."

Being an emotive guy, Frank immediately raised both eyebrows and came all close, his eyes big and asking "what do you mean?"

You pushed past him and went to the door because the next part was too embarrassing to say when he was close like this, "That person is me," You put your hand on the doorknob. "And I'm about to go onstage in front of an actual crowd and actual scouts for the first time because of you. Keep that in mind, okay?"

🦇

"Wow, those guys were frickin' amazing."

"They really are a stand out amongst everyone we've seen so far. That guitarist is something else, don't you think?"

"Definitely," Gerard sighed, blowing out the cigarette fumes. It was stupid, but he just couldn't stop smiling. This. All of it was so exhilarating, so thrilling. The energy was so palpable and he so dearly needed it. "Hey, who's next?"

Mikey reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled up wad which unfolded into a colorful poster. His eyes scanned it for a moment.

"Oh, someone I don't recognize. They must be new."

"What're they called?"

"Mercy."

Gerard pursed his lips, nodding along, "Cool. Simplistic yet says the right message. I like it."

Mikey put the poster back, "Actually, now that I think about it, I think I have heard of them. On campus, maybe...? I swear I heard someone throwing around the word."

"Uh, maybe 'cause mercy's an actual word?"

"You know what I mean."

Did he? Gerard was sure he didn't, but didn't feel like pressing him further. Plus, the show was starting, and with a name like Mercy, he was pretty interested to see what sort of performance they'd come up with.

Since they were new as Mikey said, there weren't many who were too interested in being at the moshpit. People hung back, some left, there were definitely a visibly fewer number of people compared to the other sets. Gerard hoped it wouldn't discourage the band too much.

The lights dimmed, he saw five figures come onstage. Three with instruments— two guitars and a bass if he had to guess— one going to the back for the drum kit and one coming right to the middle where the mic was. It was too dark to see anything, so facial features were amiss.

They took a bit to set up, then everything came back on and Gerard could finally see the group for who they were.

Two guitarists as he'd predicted, one guy and one girl. The bassist, a guy, was at the back. So was the drummer, also a dude. And finally, the vocalist was a girl.

Gerard gulped.

A really pretty girl.

A really, really pretty girl wearing this cute little white slip dress with tiny rhinestone decals, clearly sewn on by hand, slightly falling apart, but resembling a floral design. It was gorgeous and Gerard wondered if it was made by her hand specifically.

He was so enamoured by this detail that he was nearly blown away when the guitars boomed through the speakers and full blast. The girl guitarist began, riff heavy as hell, nearly deafening. the dude guitarist was quite a ways calmer, but still not "calm". He was also loud as hell.

When the drums came in, Gerard swore he felt the whole place fucking shake. And the bass, which he always considered an underrated instrument came in, steadily placing itself as an obscure but needed backbone to this whole song,

Then, the vocalist began singing and Gerard thought to himself, Oh, that's why they're called Mercy.

Because she was angelic.

Despite the loudness, the near crassness of all the instruments, her voice, and its seraphim hue lay gently on top of it all, like an embrace.

Gerard found himself inching closer to the stage. Lost in a siren's song.

No, not a siren. An angel.

The spotlight above her looks like a halo.

Gerard was at the edge, the closest he could get to the stage. His eyes were wide and looking up; at the band, at her and her covenant grace.

#mcr #my chemical romance #gerard way #frank iero #gerard way x reader #frank iero x reader

25 notes · View notes