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buckysleftbicep · 6 days ago

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bent and bruised (1) 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avengers!bucky barnes x fem!ex-hydra!reader

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, dark themes, winter soldier!bucky, coercion, dub-con/non-con themes (flashback), HYDRA abuse, unprotected sex, creampie, ptsd, a whole, whole lot of angst (tw: sexual violence)

summary: you were built by HYDRA to please the soldier—then left for dead. years later, bucky sees your face again. but no amount of time can erase the way you once whispered his name through tears. inspired by this request

word count: 4.4k

author's note: hi my loves! i am finally back with another series! it took me a whole day to get this up and i hope you guys will love it as much as i do! i am so excited to do up this series and i would love to hear your thoughts! i love ya guys and please stay safe out there! ❤️

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The room hummed with stale tension and recycled air, the kind that clung to your skin no matter how long you’d been inside.

It was too clean, too sterile—like the whole place had been scrubbed raw of personality. No windows. Just steel, flickering monitors, and the faint tang of ozone bleeding from exposed wires somewhere in the walls.

Overhead, the fluorescent lights buzzed in that maddening, uneven way, stuttering against the matte black of the long conference table. Weapons were laid out in clinical precision—pistols, serrated knives, a few modified explosives lined up like surgical instruments.

The projection screen threw ghostly glows across their polished surfaces, and somewhere in the corner, a feed flickered with static before cutting back to drone footage of the mission site.

Unnerving silence settled between Valentina’s clipped sentences, the kind of silence that had weight behind it. Anticipation. Or maybe dread.

The compound was quieter than usual, Yelena wasn’t talking. Ava wasn’t pacing. Walker hadn’t cracked a joke in at least five minutes, which was practically a record. Even the air felt heavy, like it knew something the rest of them didn’t.

Bucky sat at the far end of the table, half-shadowed, arms folded tight across his chest.

He looked relaxed. He wasn’t.

The leather of his jacket creaked faintly every time the fingers of his vibranium hand twitched—just enough to betray the restlessness he didn’t bother to show.

He hadn’t spoken yet. Didn’t need to. He could feel it—like static crawling beneath his skin. Whatever Val was leading up to, it wasn’t just about the mission.

It was something else. He never liked waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Infiltration’s scheduled for 0400,” Val said finally, breaking the silence with a sharp tap of her pointer against the digital display. A red dot blinked, pulsing like a heartbeat on the map.

“You’ll drop half a click from the perimeter, make entry through the north access shaft here. It’s still mostly underground—remnants of an old HYDRA stronghold, retrofitted for black market manufacturing. Radiation cloaking, signal dampeners, camo tech. Nothing simple about it, but manageable.”

The map shifted, highlighting the tunnel system in pale blue.

“You go in quiet, plant charges along the assembly line, tag the shipments, get out clean before the buyers show up.”

“And what exactly are they shipping?” Ava asked, her tone clipped. Her fingers tapped against the armrest, but not out of nerves—calculated.

Val lifted a brow, pleased by the question. With a click of her remote, the schematic changed. A plasma rifle rotated slowly in high-definition detail—sleek, brutal, and unmistakably advanced.

“Reverse-engineered Stark tech,” she said, voice razor-edged. “Plasma rifles, miniaturized arc pulse grenades, destabilizers. It’s genius work, honestly. Someone in there knows what they’re doing. These prototypes could down a jet with a single discharge. They’re selling to buyers who make AIM look like a fucking Etsy page.”

Yelena let out a low whistle. “And here I thought tuesdays were boring.”

John leaned back, tossing a small knife between his hands with lazy disinterest. “So we blow it to hell. Make it loud.”

Val shot him a pointed look, all warning and no warmth. “Clean,” she said again. “Surgical. No mess, no headlines. We’re not making a scene.”

That was when it happened.

Her mouth curled, just slightly. A new edge slipped into her voice.

“And,” Val continued, drawing the word out just enough to shift the air in the room, “you’ll be joined by a new agent.”

That got everyone’s attention.

Yelena arched a brow and leaned forward on her elbows. “Oh god, Don’t tell me it’s Walker’s twin.”

Walker snorted. Didn’t even glance at her. Just flipped her off mid-spin of the blade.

Val chuckled. “No. She’s one of mine. Freelance up till now. Ex-mercenary. Former ghost. One of the best I’ve ever worked with, she's efficient, lethal, tactical as hell. I’d say she rivals even you, Barnes.”

The room tilted—just a little.

Bucky didn’t move at first. Barely a reaction. Just a subtle shift in the line of his shoulders. His jaw ticked. Nothing more. But his eyes locked on Val’s, a flicker of something unreadable burning deep beneath the surface.

“Okay, now I curious,” Alexei said, reaching for a protein bar from his jacket pocket like the team wasn’t just a fucking step from a horror movie.

Val didn’t say anything.

The screen changed. And time fractured.

Name: (Y/N) (L/N) Gender: F Born: 1941 Recruited: 1963 (HYDRA OPERATIVE) Status: Cryo Recovery — Completed Subjected to: Experimental Super Soldier Serum (1963, Switzerland, Geneva Facility) Current Role: Active Operative

Your file blinked across the screen in clean, bureaucratic lines. But it was the photo that struck like a bullet to the ribs.

You. Alive.

Not the way Bucky remembered you—not exactly. You looked older now, as you should’ve. But it wasn’t the years that aged you. It was something else. Something far worse. Your expression was empty—neutral, professional, cold.

But your eyes… Fuck. Your eyes.

They were still the same shape, glassy, still the same damn colour, still framed by lashes he remembered fluttering closed against his jaw, his throat, the cold table beneath you as you had locked your legs around him.

But they were different too.

Sharper now. Harder.

Like glass that had been shattered, then put back together without the intention of being whole. A reconstruction, a warning.

You’d seen the worst of humanity. He knew you had.

Because you’d seen him. You had seen the soldier.

Bucky’s throat dried, his pulse thudded loud in his ears. For a second, the rest of the room faded. No Val. No briefing. No mission.

Just your face, twenty feet tall on a screen that didn’t understand the weight of what it displayed.

His vibranium fingers clenched into a fist against his thigh.

Because before the blood, before the years, before everything—

He remembered you being shoved into his cell. He remembered what they made you for. Him.

Geneva, 1963

The restraints clicked loose with a mechanical hiss.

The sound echoed like a countdown, bouncing off the concrete walls of the cell—sterile and dim, soaked in shadow and the sharp tang of metal. The air in the room was cold, almost painfully so. It reeked of antiseptic, dried blood, rusted bolts, and fear.

It was always cold, always humming, always watching.

He sat motionless in the center of the room, body lit by the faint glow of overhead lights buried in steel mesh. His breathing was even. Controlled. Programmed. Like the rest of him.

There were voices still murmuring in the back of his mind—Russian syllables sharp and precise like scalpel cuts. Orders etched into the bone.

The Soldier didn’t blink.

Didn’t move.

Not until the door opened.

It wasn’t loud—just a low, hydraulic groan—but it might as well have been an earthquake. The room shifted with it. Tensed. And then you stumbled in.

Barefoot.

A paper-thin robe hung off your shoulders, barely tied, the cheap fabric fluttering like the wings of something dying. Your skin was pale beneath the harsh light. Translucent and cold.

You had been trembling—not dramatically, not childishly, but with a quiet, contained sort of fear. The kind that sat behind your eyes like a scream you weren’t allowed to voice.

Your breathing was shallow. Your arms wrapped tight around your middle like maybe you could still keep something for yourself. Dignity, perhaps. Sanity.

He could hear your heart skipping.

Thud. Thud. Skip. Thud.

The Soldier's head tilted slightly.

You didn’t speak. You weren’t supposed to. He of all people knew that.

Another set of footsteps followed behind you. Louder. Confident. Casual in that way only men who enjoyed this part could be.

Your handler stepped in, gloved hands tucked behind his back, expression amused—like this was just another thursday night for him. He smelled of aftershave and smoke and arrogance.

“She’s new Soldier,” he said, like he was introducing a piece of meat. “Fresh out of the chair. ты полюбишь ее (you'll love her)."

The Soldier’s eyes tracked him, no reaction. Just coiled stillness. The quiet before a storm—or before something breaks.

The man stepped behind you, took a fistful of your hair, tilted your head back with casual cruelty. His other hand held a gun. Not raised yet—just dangling. Just there.

He pressed the barrel to your chin.

“You were modified, my dear,” he said, voice slick, smiling like this was a joke between old friends. “Tailored just for him”

You blinked back a tear and Bucky remembered how you tried not to move, tried to not let the tears slip.

But he saw it, god, he always saw it.

“Our Soldier here,” the handler continued, “is very effective when he’s satisfied. But lately—” he leaned in, lips brushing your ear, “—he’s been a little… what do you say? wound up.”

He dragged the pistol slowly down the column of your throat.

“Don’t worry. You’ll do just fine,” he whispered, then slapped your cheek—not hard, but just enough to make your teeth clack. Just enough to remind you that your body didn’t belong to you anymore.

It belonged to him.

Your lip trembled. You flinched. But you didn’t cry out.

The handler smirked, pleased with himself. Then he shoved you forward. Hard. You stumbled toward the metal table in the center of the room, hands catching on the edge. It was freezing beneath your fingertips.

“Strip,” he said.

You froze.

There was a pause—barely two seconds—before he raised the gun again, pressing the muzzle to your throat.

“Я сказал, черт возьми, разденься.” (i said fucking strip)

Your hands moved without your permission. Wooden. Shaking.

The knot on the robe came loose in one tug. The fabric slipped from your shoulders like it had been waiting to betray you. It crumpled around your feet.

The cold hit instantly. Like knives.

You stood there—naked, spine taut as a wire—while the handler looked you over like you were nothing. Just skin. Just parts. A means to an end.

Behind you, the Soldier stood.

The restraints had fallen from his wrists minutes ago. He hadn’t moved until now.

But he did now.

Silently. Predatory. Like a tiger stalking its prey—measured, patient, deadly in its grace. There was no urgency in the way he moved. No rush. Just inevitability.

Each step echoed, booted and deliberate, closing the space between you until the scent of steel and gun oil and winter settled over your skin like a second prison.

You turned, barely.

Your eyes met his—wide, glistening, pleading. A silent cry for mercy, for recognition, for something human. But what stared back at you wasn’t mercy.

His eyes were cerulean—stunning, almost unnaturally bright. A shade of blue that might have once held the sky, the sea. But now, they were stripped bare. Cold and hollow. Like frost on glass, beautiful only because of how dead they looked beneath the surface.

There was no spark behind them. No flicker of recognition. No trace of the man he’d once been almost twenty years ago before HYDRA wiped him clean.

As if the color remained only to mock you—brilliant, vivid, human—in a face that had long since forgotten how to be.

You made a sound. Soft. Fractured.

“I-I… please—”

The door behind you slammed shut.

The locks engaged. One by one. Click. Click. Click.

You were alone.

No—worse. You were with him.

The Soldier said nothing. Not a grunt, not a breath—just a slow, deliberate advance. Each step was measured, silent, lethal. Until his chest hovered a hair’s breadth from yours, the heat of him a violent contrast to the chill in the room.

Up close, you could see it—the constellation of scars across his chest, old and precise, carved into him like tally marks. Not injuries. Not history. Inventory.

His metal hand rose, unhurried, as if pre-programmed, the plates catching the light in glinting, surgical flashes. It wasn’t a caress—it was an assessment. He gripped your jaw with cold, steady fingers, tilting your face as if cataloguing you.

Not a woman. A directive.

Then, without a word, he shoved you back.

Your spine struck the edge of the table with a dull, metallic thud. The bite of cold steel sank into the soft flesh of your thighs, shocking enough to draw a gasp from your lips.

His hands were on you in the next breath—both of them now. Flesh and metal. One rough, the other unfeeling. They clamped around your hips, dragging you into place with bruising force.

His hand moved with the cold precision of routine—sliding down your waist, between your thighs, parting you like it was nothing more than protocol. A function, a command.

There was no softness in the touch, no pretence of seduction. Just the calloused drag of flesh and steel against trembling skin, searching for an opening, finding it.

He didn’t pause. Didn’t kiss. Didn’t whisper.

He just pushed inside.

No warning, no mercy.

You gasped—loud, broken—your back arching sharply as the brutal stretch hit you all at once. He was thick, unforgiving, too deep in a single thrust that tore a cry from your throat before you could swallow it down.

It had hurt, not in the way pain was supposed to make you feel alive. In the way it emptied you. In the way it made your eyes burn.

The air left your lungs in a ragged choke as your hands scrambled along the table, trying to hold onto something, anything solid.

But there was nothing to brace against. Just cold steel and the shuddering rhythm of your body being rocked by a man who wasn’t a man anymore.

He groaned low, a sound scraped from the chest of something feral. Not passion. Not need. Just release. His hips snapped forward, brutal and mechanical, burying himself deeper with every thrust—hard, fast, relentless.

The table beneath you scraped against the concrete floor, metal screaming in protest, matching the ache building between your legs where he kept driving into you without care.

You clenched around him without meaning to—instinct, panic, maybe some misplaced hope that it would ease the burn.

It didn’t. If anything, it made him move faster, more ragged, like your body’s reaction was fuel. His pace stayed wild, uncalibrated. There was no rhythm, no escalation. Just motion, just violence, just function.

Your nails dug into his back. Deep. You clawed without thinking, dragging jagged lines down skin that didn’t bruise, didn’t bleed. You needed to feel something. Needed him to feel something. But he didn’t even flinch.

Still, he didn’t look at you, he didn’t speak, he didn’t stop.

He took you like he was built to, like this was your only purpose. His grip bruised your thighs. His hips slammed into yours over and over, until your sobs bled into the sound of flesh hitting flesh, too soft to echo, too raw to ignore.

Your body had given up on resisting—it simply endured. And the worst part was that he never lost control. Not once. Every movement was calculated. Efficient.

When he came, it was with a final, forceful thrust, burying himself as deep as you could take him, hips stuttering with brutal impact.

His breath flared hot against your neck—shallow, sharp—but he didn’t make a sound beyond that low, choked groan. His release filled you in waves, thick and unforgiving, and he stayed there, seated inside you, unmoving.

You expected him to pull out.

He didn’t. Instead, he just stayed.

You blinked up at the ceiling, dazed, your body aching in too many places to name. And then, something shifted.

He moved—barely.

The fingers of his metal hand rose, brushing your hair back from your damp, tear-streaked face. It wasn’t kind. It wasn’t deliberate. It felt… automatic. Like some trace echo of the man he’d been, long before all of this, had flinched to the surface. A reflex. A ghost of care where none should have existed.

You didn’t think. You just leaned forward, lips trembling, and kissed him.

Soft. Desperate. Human.

It wasn’t about affection. It wasn’t about desire. It was survival. The kind of kiss you gave a weapon in the hopes it might remember it once had a heart.

He didn’t kiss you back. But he didn’t pull away, either.

Bucky jerked back to the present like he’d been shocked.

A breath caught in his throat, too late, too loud. His fists were clenched beneath the table—metal fingers biting into flesh, the cool of vibranium digging into his palm.

For a second, he couldn’t remember where he was. Not really. Everything around him had gone flat. Colourless. The voices around the room blurred into a low, warbling hum, like sound underwater. Just static and noise. White walls and ghosts.

His jaw was locked so tight it ached. Sweat beaded along the nape of his neck, cold against the collar of his shirt. He could feel it rolling down his spine in thin, uncomfortable rivulets. His skin itched like memory.

No one had noticed. Not yet.

Val’s voice kept going, sharp and indifferent. She was pacing in front of the screen now, still debriefing. Her heels clicked against the floor, a rhythmic metronome against the pulse pounding in Bucky’s ears.

“She went off-grid for years,” Val was saying, her tone too casual, like she wasn’t talking about someone’s stolen life. “Cryo-freeze probably scrambled most of her memory—hell, we barely know what happened to her during that period. The files are a fucking jigsaw puzzle. But she’s clean. She’s loyal.”

Loyal.

He nearly laughed. Bit down on it so hard his tongue pressed into his molars.

She didn’t know. None of them knew.

Val tapped her remote again. The screen dimmed, your face fading into black. The mission map reappeared. But he could still see you—burned into the back of his eyes like an afterimage.

Every line of your face. That expression. The way your mouth had been pressed flat, neutral, like you hadn’t been torn from time. Like you weren’t a bleeding wound in his memory.

Val turned back toward the table.

“And she’ll be joining your team,” she said smoothly, “starting tonight.”

Silence.

Then her gaze found him—pinning, expectant.

“You okay, Barnes?”

He forced himself to move.

Just a blink. A breath. He straightened his spine with mechanical precision, muscles flexing against the weight in his chest. His lips parted, but the words didn’t come right away. They stalled. Caught. Died somewhere in the back of his throat like smoke.

He swallowed it down.

“I…” he cleared his throat, low and quiet. “Yeah. No issue.”

No issue.

The lie settled bitter on his tongue. Metallic. Like blood.

There was every issue.

Because the girl he had once touched without mercy—the one who had gasped beneath him, shaking, cold, silenced by fear and force—was alive. Real. Breathing in the same air he was. Walking somewhere above their heads in this building.

And if the universe had any cruelty left in it—and it always did—you remembered.

God, maybe you remembered everything.

Maybe you remembered the cold metal table. The way he’d gripped your hips like you were something disposable. Maybe you remembered the weight of his body bearing down on yours with no tenderness, no humanity.

Maybe you remembered the sharp sting of the floor against your knees. The sound of your own breathing hitching against his shoulder. Your name reduced to nothing. Your voice swallowed by silence. The tears that had trailed down your cheeks when you thought no one was looking—except he had been. He always had been.

Maybe you remembered the way he hadn’t stopped.

The way he hadn’t spoken.

The way he hadn’t cared—because HYDRA had taken that part of him and burned it until only the weapon remained.

He’d fucked you like you were a tool to be used, like you were part of the mission. And when it was done, when his seed was leaking from between your thighs and your fingers had gone limp against his skin, he hadn’t pulled away.

He had just stared. Like he couldn’t understand what had just happened. Like part of him—some distant, buried part—could.

And maybe that was the worst part of all.

But… there had been one night.

One fucking night.

Late, in the middle of another mission cycle. He wasn’t fully reset. Not yet triggered. Just… quiet. Breathing. Blinking. Human, for a few stolen hours.

And you had touched him—not because you were forced to, but because you chose to.

Your fingers slid into his hair like you were anchoring yourself to something real—something still breathing beneath all that silence.

The strands were damp with sweat, thick and soft between your fingers, and you clutched them not with control, but with need. Gentle, but trembling. A desperate touch dressed up as tenderness.

You pulled him closer. Not rough, not forced—just certain. Like your body knew something your mind didn’t have the courage to say aloud.

His face hovered just above yours, his breath hot against your cheek, uneven now. Slower. Like for one stolen moment, the programming had fractured and something human was leaking through the cracks.

You tilted your head, lips barely brushing his ear—featherlight, sacred. Like a prayer.

And you whispered it.

Not Soldier. Not Asset. Not the name HYDRA had soldered into him like metal to bone.

You whispered, “James.”

Soft. Breaking. Yours.

Like you knew him. Like you remembered. Like some piece of the man still buried inside him might crawl toward the sound of it and stay.

He had cum that night too. But not because HYDRA told him to.

Because he wanted to.

Because you were soft, and you had kissed him, and for one second, the world had felt quiet. Real.

And fuck—

Some part of him wanted to believe that you remembered that.

That buried beneath all the violence, beneath all the tears and orders and years of cryo and blood, you remembered that there was one moment—just one—when he wasn’t a monster.

When you had invoked that one emotion he thought was long gone. Love.

Even if he didn’t know what the hell love was supposed to feel like anymore.

The meeting dissolved slowly.

Chairs scraped against the floor in discordant, screeching notes as the team stood. Screens powered down with mechanical hums, one by one, the mission data fading into darkness.

Someone cracked a joke—probably Alexei—but Bucky didn’t hear it. The sound passed through him like wind through a ruined building. His gaze lingered on the now-empty monitor, as if your photo might flicker back to life one last time.

But it didn’t.

You were gone again. Until you weren’t.

Val was already talking to Ava, pulling her aside, issuing last-minute adjustments. Walker yawned and stretched like they were heading to a sparring match instead of a black ops infiltration.

Yelena glanced over her shoulder at Bucky, something in her look almost—almost—curious. But she didn’t press. No one did.

He hadn’t moved.

He waited until the room cleared out.

Until the buzz of the briefing dulled into silence and the last bootsteps disappeared down the hallway.

Only then did he breathe.

It came out shaky. Shallow. Wrong.

His now vibranium hand flexed at his side, joints creaking softly in the cold air.

The adrenaline had faded, but the weight in his chest hadn’t. It was heavier now. Anchored deep. He rubbed the back of his neck with his flesh hand, dragging his fingers through his hair like maybe he could dig out the thoughts still looping in his mind.

But they stayed. They always did.

He finally stood.

The chair groaned beneath him, echoing in the empty room like a warning.

Bucky moved on autopilot, one boot in front of the other, out the door and into the corridor. The halls were narrow, dimly lit, the walls humming faintly with the energy of the facility.

Security cameras tracked his movement, but he didn’t care. He knew these halls well. Too well. They never changed—no matter the country, no matter the decade. Metal walls, low ceilings, air that smelled like oil and old wiring.

It reminded him of HYDRA. Everything did tonight.

He walked past the tech lab, the weapons vault, the intel room—every step tightening something behind his ribs. And then he reached the gear room.

Inside, it was quiet. Cold. The lockers were lined in rows, half-open, half-forgotten, each one a sealed little coffin of someone's war.

He opened the locker slowly. The door creaked on its hinges. Inside: his gear. Gloves. Boots. Custom tactical vest. The knives he preferred—weighted, balanced, perfect for close-quarters.

The gloves were folded carefully on the top shelf. Next to them was a file folder someone had left—probably more mission data. Or maybe your file again. It didn’t matter.

He didn’t touch it.

Instead, he sat down on the bench beside the locker, elbows resting on his knees, head bowed forward like he could hold himself together with posture alone.

And for a moment, just one moment, he allowed it to crack.

His eyes fell shut. His hands trembled. Not violently. Just enough that he had to lace his fingers together to keep them still.

You were alive.

After all these years. After all that pain. After cryo, after war, after HYDRA, after everything—they’d kept you frozen, tucked away in some forgotten chamber while the world moved on without you.

He wondered if it had hurt you to know what year it was. He wondered if it would hurt more to see him again.

Because what was he now?

Just a reminder of everything that had ever gone wrong. Of every scar on your body you hadn’t deserved. Of every night you’d cried into a concrete floor, trying to convince yourself that the Soldier wasn’t a real person. That he didn’t feel it. That he didn’t want it.

But he had.

He had wanted you. Not in the way HYDRA demanded. In the way that made his hands softer, just once. In the way that made him linger too long inside you, not because he was ordered to—but because he couldn’t bear to leave.

That was the part he never forgave himself for.

That flicker of love that bloomed in the middle of a crime scene.

It wasn’t pure. It wasn’t good. But it was his. It was the only real thing he’d felt in decades that he was tortured. And it was with you.

He opened his eyes. Swallowed hard.

Somewhere upstairs, you were being debriefed. Checked. Cleared. Suited up in your new uniform, maybe. Maybe Val was smiling that smug little smile of hers as she handed you your new orders.

Maybe you were asking about the team. Maybe you’d asked who was leading it.

And maybe, just maybe, Val had said his name.

James Buchanan Barnes.

And maybe that name meant something to you.

Or maybe it didn’t.

Maybe you’d look him in the eye tonight and feel nothing. Maybe you wouldn’t recognise him at all.

But Bucky had the feeling—deep, raw, gut-level—that when your eyes met his again, something would break. In you. In him. In both of you.

And whatever broke… it wouldn’t be fixable.

Not this time.

He stood. Slowly. Gathered his gear without ceremony. Buckled his knives to his thigh holster. Pulled on the gloves.

Every movement felt heavier than the last.

The next time he saw you, it would be face-to-face. On mission. Under pressure. With blood in the air and history in the room like a second skin.

He didn’t know what would happen. He just knew it had already started.

a/n: i am starting on chapter 2! and gosh, i am so excited already! i hope you love it and if you do, please drop a comment or a reblog, i am forever grateful for your support <3333

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velarisdusk · 3 months ago

Text

Drunk on You

Azriel x Reader

summary: You and Azriel were just friends. Then came the dancing. The kiss. The night you stopped pretending. word count: 11.1k content: [ explicit sexual content (piv), oral sex (f receiving), grinding in da club (do i need to warn abt that??), explicit language, alcohol, VERY irresponsible consumption of alcohol, vomiting from drinking, FUI (flying under the influence) ] author's note: FUI arent i so funny lmfao as per usual with these, i know prythian doesnt have speakers/subwoofers , and prob also doesnt have strobe lights, but i write what i want so its ok yall can deal ✦ . 1k Celebration Apothecary . ✦ shadowed elixir infused with a dash of blaze enhanced with lover’s knot stirred thank you @wildfloweroutlaw for the request!! i've never written a fic specifically having friends to lovers in mind so my mental block gave me a bit of trouble with this but i had a lot of fun writing it! <3

Velaris hums with life around you, the midday sun painting golden ribbons across cobblestone streets. The air is thick with the scent of spiced cider and honeyed pastries, threaded through with the briny whisper of the Sidra. Laughter swells and fades between vendors calling out their wares—bolts of silk that shimmer like liquid light, books with gilded spines that promise adventures, trinkets that glint like they’ve been kissed by starlight.

“It’s the pacing that makes it brilliant,” you say, sidestepping a wobbly cart stacked with jars of something dark and suspiciously jiggly. “You’d love it if you gave it a chance.”

Azriel walks beside you, hands tucked into the pockets of his dark-wash jeans, his only accompanying shadow slinking along sun-warmed stones like it’s sulking. He’s a strange silhouette in the golden light—too dark for a day like this, like the night followed you out of habit. But he listens, quiet and steady, nodding at the right moments as you ramble about the last book you read. You’ve learned to hear the shape of his silences—how they stretch or shorten, the weight of them, what they hold back.

“I’m telling you,” you press, dodging a knot of children weaving through the crowd, “if you actually gave it a shot, you’d love it.”

Azriel huffs a soft laugh. “You say that every time.”

“Because it’s true every time. You’re just too stubborn to admit I have impeccable taste.”

The corner of his mouth lifts—barely. “You bought a book last month because the cover had a dragon making out with a sword.”

You gasp, scandalized. “That’s called intuition.”

“No. That’s called a gamble.”

You bump your elbow against his arm, grinning when he exhales through his nose. That small, hard-won sound. This—this is easy. Has always been.

As the crowd thickens, your attention snags on a jewelry stall to your left—slim chains catching the sun, gemstones winking in their delicate settings. At the same moment, Azriel’s gaze strays to a weapons vendor on the right, where a gleaming dagger is being turned over in calloused hands.

You both hesitate. Then look back at each other at the same time.

Azriel raises a brow.

You smile. “Meet you in a minute?”

He dips his chin in a slight nod, already angling toward the stall, fingers twitching like they’re itching for the weight of the blade. You drift toward the jewelry, drawn in by instinct more than intent. Your fingers trail over thin rings and polished charms, the glint of metal catching the light just right.

A pair of dangling earrings stops you—stones that shift hue in the sun, subtle and soft. Pretty. Eye-catching without being too much. The kind of thing that might go with the dress you picked up earlier while wandering the boutiques, half-killing time before the market. The one you hadn’t planned on trying, but slipped into just for fun. A little more daring than your usual. Soft in all the right ways, with a neckline you kept pretending not to think about.

You’d stared at yourself longer than you meant to.

And walked out with your first shopping bag of the day.

You curl your fingers around the earrings, already halfway through justifying the purchase in your head.

It doesn’t take long to browse. After paying and a few lingering looks, you glance across the street to find Azriel still at the weapons stall, turning the dagger over in his hands. His expression is unreadable—calm, analytical, like he’s weighing something only he understands. The single shadow drifts across his back, restless beneath the unrelenting sun.

Your gaze finds him without thought. A habit carved over time. Familiar, even after everything, in that quiet, unconscious way habits become part of you.

You blink and turn away just as he looks up. He’s already moving, steps unhurried, wings tucked in close, hands slipping into his pockets again as he falls into stride beside you.

“Anything good?” you ask lightly.

Azriel shrugs. “Steel’s folded differently—strong but light. Good balance. Sharp edge.” He huffs at himself. “It’s a good blade.”

You roll your eyes. “Careful—Truthteller’s going to get jealous.”

His mouth twitches. “There’s no one like her,” he murmurs, and his hand brushes the small of your back as he steers you out of the path of two shrieking children.

He nods toward the bag in your hand. “Let’s see it.”

You fish out the black velvet box and flip it open with a grin. “For the dress!”

Azriel snorts. “You mean that napkin you bought earlier?”

You snap the box shut a little too forcefully. “It’s a nice dress.”

“It’s barely a scarf.”

“Azriel.”

The full name earns you another twitch of a smile. His voice lowers, amused. “I still don’t know where you plan on wearing it. I’ve seen you more hesitant to leave the House in sweaters.”

Your cheeks warm. “Well, I didn’t feel as confident in those.”

His brow rises slightly, like he hadn’t expected that answer. Your voice is lighter when you add, “Maybe you’re just nervous you won’t be able to handle seeing me in it.”

“I’ll manage,” Azriel says dryly. “It’s your delusion I’m worried about.”

You bump his shoulder again, and this time he lets the smile break free. The two of you fall into easy conversation—Cassian’s most recent baking disaster (“explosive,” Azriel says without inflection), café gossip, a gentle debate about whether Velaris even needed the twelfth coffee shop to begin with.

At the townhouse, Azriel steps ahead to hold the door open, shadow trailing in behind him. The antechamber hums with warmth—laughter echoing from the next room, spices lingering in the air.

“I’m telling you, I found it just sitting there,” Cassian insists as you enter. He’s pacing like he’s testifying in court, hands gesturing wildly. “Brand new bottle of amber whiskey. Uncorked. Untouched. In a bush.”

“In a bush?” Mor deadpans from the couch.

Cassian gestures wildly. “In a bush! Behind the stables! What are the odds?”

Mor narrows her eyes. “Any chance you’re feeling lucky enough to gamble?”

They lock eyes, Cassian’s grin curling at the edges.

Feyre perks up from her place on the sofa. “If gambling means Rita’s, I’m in. I haven’t gone out in weeks, and I plan to be very irresponsible tonight.”

All three turn to you with matching looks—expectant and conspiratorial, like they’ve already know your answer but want to hear you say it. Feyre’s smile is the worst of them—sweet and smug and knowing.

You glance at Azriel. He’s already sighing, two fingers pinching the bridge of his nose like he can feel the impending headache.

“Guess we know when—”

“Yeah, alright,” Azriel mutters.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You lean in toward the mirror, smoothing a final sweep of gloss over your lips. Then you take a step back, letting your eyes rake over your reflection. Hair styled just how you like it—precise where it matters, undone where it doesn’t—and your makeup? Soft, glowing, and just sharp enough to slice. The kind that shines when the light catches your cheekbones and mouth.

Behind you, Feyre whistles low. “He’s going to eat his words.”

Mor, sprawled on the bed in a pose that screams practiced indifference, smirks. “And probably choke on them.”

You snort, reaching for the earrings you bought earlier. “It’s not for him.”

Feyre slides up beside you, linking her arm through yours as she catches your eye in the mirror. “Maybe not. But you wouldn’t mind if he looked.”

She’s not wrong.

Mor rises in a stretch, her plum dress catching every sliver of light as it hugs her curves like a secret. The hem’s scandalous, the neckline worse—and with her golden hair cascading over one bare shoulder, she looks like she could topple empires with a single breath. Feyre’s in a slate blue that borders on silver, cool-toned and backless, the color making her blue eyes even more piercing beneath artfully smudged liner. And with her soft waves pinned just so, she looks like smoke made woman.

You fasten your earrings with a quiet click and smile at your reflection. You feel good. Confident. Not just in the dress, but in your skin.

There was a time when what you felt for him lived quietly in your chest—soft, persistent, and patient. Over time, it faded into something else. Something easier. You let it go long before anyone knew you were holding on.

But it never disappeared completely. Not really. Not in a way that matters. Not in a way that would stop you, if he ever hinted at wanting something more.

Downstairs, the low murmur of male voices curls up the staircase from the sitting room. That deep, familiar hum threaded with laughter. It’s comfortable and easy. The kind of sound born from long nights, drinks shared, and old stories retold—brothers teasing one another into comfort.

Cassian’s laugh is unmistakable—loud and unrestrained over the clink of glass. Rhysand’s is more of a drawl, lazy and pleased with itself. And then there’s Azriel. Low, steady. A quiet current that runs beneath them all, silk wrapped around steel.

The sound of heels on the stairs draws their attention—Cassian’s first. He whistles, low and appreciative, as Mor appears at the top step, her dress catching the light with every step. Rhysand gives an exaggerated bow from where he’s perched on the arm of the couch. Even Azriel lets his gaze linger, just a touch longer than polite, before returning it to his drink.

Then comes Feyre, laughing at whatever wicked comment Mor whispered over her shoulder. Rhysand is off the couch and moving before she’s even halfway down, reaching for her hand like gravity’s got nothing on the pull she has on him. He murmurs something low against her ear as he takes her hand, earning an eye roll and a muttered warning that sounds suspiciously like a threat. He grins like a male entirely too pleased with himself.

And then—

You.

The last to appear. Not intentionally, of course. But you’d be lying if you said the timing didn’t work in your favor.

There’s a pause—just a breath—but enough. Enough to feel it.

Cassian is the first to recover. “Damn,” he says, voice a little rougher than before.

Mor beams, smug and delighted, as if she’s taking personal credit. Rhys gives a low hum of approval, already spinning something cocky to say—but whatever it is goes unheard.

Because Azriel’s gaze is already there, fixed on the landing, like he’d been watching the space just waiting for you to step into it. And when you do, he doesn’t look away.

His stare lands heavy—enough to steal the air from your lungs.

You wait for the usual—some sharp, clipped remark, maybe a too-smooth deflection. But instead—

“...Huh.”

That’s it.

A single, unimpressed syllable that cuts through the air like a blade dipped in ice.

You blink. Huh?

He doesn’t elaborate. Just turns back toward Cassian, nodding at his shirt—half unbuttoned, chest on shameless display as if confidence could count as tailoring. “Bold of you to challenge her like that. One of you’s going to end up hypothermic.”

Cassian grins like he’s been handed a gift. “At least I’m not stuffed into those jeans you’re trying to pass off as comfortable. One wrong move and we’ll be calling a healer.”

Azriel’s lips twitch, barely. He doesn’t rise to the bait. Just takes a slow sip of his drink.

Your eyes drop of their own accord. Those jeans are unforgivable. So is the way they fit him.

You force your gaze away, descending the final step with all the poise you can muster.

Cassian, with a mischievous grin, offers his arm like it’s second nature. “Guess we’ll be whores together tonight.”

You loop your arm through his with a grin that could make the Mother herself blush. “Fine. But I’m the classier whore. More expensive.”

He barks a laugh, delighted. “High-class whore. Got it.”

“That’s the spirit,” Mor teases, stealing the rest of Rhys’ drink without a shred of remorse (he mutters a tight ‘Hey’ through clenched teeth, swatting at his cousin as she ducks away).

Feyre checks the time with mock exasperation. “Stay any longer and we’ll miss half the night.”

“Then let’s go,” Mor cheers, grabbing you and Cassian like a female on a mission.

And then—chaos. Magic coils, wind rushes, the floor disappears beneath your feet.

A heartbeat later, you’re outside, blinking against the lights and noise of Rita’s.

Your stomach flips—like it always does. It never gets easier.

Music pulses from the open doors, thick in the night air, and faelights paint the pavement in deep gold and violet. Mor’s fingers slip from your wrist; she’s already halfway to the entrance, weaving through the crowd like it’s parting for her.

The cool night clings to your skin, but the heat radiating from the club ahead makes it all feel alive, electric with possibility. The air is saturated with cologne, alcohol, and the faintest hint of smoke as you approach the bouncers. The low hum of the waiting crowd blends with the deeper thrum of bass that threatens to crack open the night.

The moment you step inside, the atmosphere hits—thick and heavy with energy. The music is deafening, the bass a living thing that thrums through your chest, infecting your limbs with a restless kind of excitement. Faelights strobe in wild streaks—purple, blue, red—and for a second, it feels as though you’re in some kind of dream.

Feyre pulls you into the crowd first, her grin wide and wicked as she leads the way toward the bar. Mor follows close behind, laughing, already calling out to familiar faces. The guys trail after—quieter, maybe, but impossible to miss in the way they cut through the crowd.

Drinks are ordered. Jokes fly. Within minutes, your group claims a half-circle booth just off the dance floor. It doesn’t take long for the music to pull you all in. Cassian downs half his drink and drags Mor out first, the two of them already moving like they’ve danced together a thousand times—and they probably have. Feyre loops her arm around your waist, eyes glinting beneath the lights. “Come on,” she yells over the music.

You don’t need convincing.

Rhys just waves you off with a smirk, already settling into the booth like he plans to stay there all night.

The next stretch of time blurs—song bleeding into song, breathless laughter and clinking glasses, the bass settling into your chest like a second heartbeat. The lights cast everything in hues of violet and electric blue, cutting shadows across flushed skin and gleaming teeth. You’re dancing with Feyre, the two of you falling into easy rhythm. Mor and Cassian egg each other on nearby, reckless and unbothered, like children left unsupervised.

At one point, Mor grabs your hand and twirls you fast enough to make your head spin. You stumble into her, both of you breathless with laughter, alcohol making everything weightless.

Feyre slips between you and Mor, twirling with abandon, her hair catching the light like strands of liquid gold. Off to the side, you spot Cassian mid-charm offensive, working a pair of females with that lethal grin—the kind that guarantees more than they can handle. Judging by their reaction, it’s going well. Rhys lounges nearby, nursing his drink and watching Feyre with a crooked grin, content to let her shine.

But a few beats later Feyre drifts away from you both, drawn by something only she and Rhys can hear. Across the floor, Azriel leans against a column in the shadows, arms crossed, the picture of cool disinterest. You throw him an exaggerated beckoning gesture—all wide eyes and mouthed dramatics. Mor mirrors you, adding a pout for effect.

He doesn’t move, just shakes his head, unimpressed.

You and Mor exchange a look—then stick your tongues out at him, childish and triumphant.

You think you catch the ghost of a smile.

Then Cassian appears beside him, clapping a hand on Azriel’s shoulder, mischief written all over his face. “Her friend’s cute,” he shouts over the music. “Be a good wingman.”

To your surprise, Az lets it happen.

As he moves past, his arm brushes against yours—barely a touch, but enough to feel. He angles toward the other female—tall, elegant, with dark eyes and a laugh that rings above the music. She’s beautiful in a way that turns heads.

Still, some stubborn part of you insists she’s not that pretty. Not compared to you.

The thought surfaces unbidden—and you shut it down just as fast. Jealousy doesn’t suit you. And this? This isn’t that.

To anyone watching, Azriel looks engaged. His smile is easy, even bordering on smug, and he leans in like he means it. But you know better. That’s your best friend. You see the signs: the tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes skim past her, too fast and too often.

Which is probably why you keep catching him glancing your way.

Or maybe you’re reading too much into it. Maybe it’s the alcohol, the lighting, the way this dress hugs your curves like a second skin. Still… you’d swear his gaze lingered. And not just on your face.

The music shifts—louder, dirtier, the kind that grabs your spine and doesn’t let go. Mor’s gone to get drinks, and for the first time tonight, you’re alone. But with the alcohol warm in your veins, you don’t mind. You let the beat carry you, movements fluid and loose, like your body already knows the song by heart. The crowd thickens, lights blur, and everything becomes a haze of motion and heat. The tempo rises. You drift closer to the center, caught in the music, untethered.

Then, during a rare lull between songs, you glance back toward the booth—

And spot Feyre in Rhys’ lap, flushed and breathless. Her hair sticks to her forehead as she lifts a tiny glass with exaggerated flair. Rhysand just raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed, as she tries to coax him into a shot.

He refuses. She pouts. Then she steals his beer instead, chugging it right there in his lap. He fumbles for the glass, shouting something you can’t hear. But she just twists away, triumphant, dodging him until the glass is empty. With a dramatic gasp, she slams it on the table and struts off—slightly wobbly—leaving Rhys with nothing but the small shot of dark liquor.

You laugh—can’t help it.

But the sight of Azriel freezes your grin halfway between amusement and something more. Because he’s still talking to the female—who, from what you can tell, is more than happy to let him steer the conversation. But even as his words flow smoothly to her, his eyes are locked on you—piercing and intense, like he can’t look away, even if he’s supposed to be.

And that gaze… it cuts straight through you.

Warmth blooms low in your belly. Not from the alcohol. Not entirely. You hold his gaze, and the rest of the room fades. The music, the lights, the crowd—they’re distant noise now. Because though the space between you is still wide, it feels like a wire pulled taut, vibrating with something that isn’t the music.

Maybe it’s the buzz. Maybe it’s the bass still pounding in your chest. Maybe it’s the fact that his gaze is still on you.

The music shifts again, and your body follows without a thought. You let the music guide you, every slow roll of your hips deliberate, every look daring him to match you. You aren’t sure why you’re dancing for him (because it is for him, isn’t it?), or why your eyes haven’t left his once, but the rush is intoxicating.

His expression doesn’t change. Not at first. But then something flickers in his eyes—brief and unreadable.

For a heartbeat, you wonder if maybe you’ve imagined it all.

But then he claps a hand on Cassian’s shoulder, leans in to say something. He nods once at the female—goodbyes, maybe? You can’t be sure.

And then Azriel steps through the crowd. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t smile. He just starts toward you, weaving through the crowd with that unhurried, measured stride you know by heart.

He doesn’t say a word.

He doesn’t have to.

When he stops in front of you, the music swells again—and this time, it feels like it’s for you. Drunk enough not to overthink it, you don’t hesitate—you just reach for him, pulling him into your orbit.

And just like that, you fall into step with him.

Effortless. Unspoken. Like your bodies had been waiting for this moment—like they remembered each other from another lifetime. There’s no need for words, not when the music does all the talking. Not when the bass pulses through your spine and Azriel’s warmth curls in your blood like smoke.

His hands settle low on your hips—too low, maybe—and the contact short-circuits something in you. Through the thin fabric of your dress, his palms burn. You swear his grip tightens as you move, subtle but unmistakable, like he’s testing how far he can go. Like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

You move in tandem, one body split in two. Every step aligned. Every breath shared. The sway of your hips becomes a silent conversation, and even as the crowd surges around you, none of it touches you. All you feel is the slow drag of his hand, the brush of his chest when he leans in too close. All you hear is the rasp of his breath in your ear.

Somewhere in the haze, you wonder where Mor is with your drink. You hope—fervently—she’s seen you like this and decided to give you space. You don’t want to be saved.

Then Azriel catches your hand. Twines his fingers through yours. Wordless, he spins you out, guiding you around him with a kind of reverence that feels like worship. The fabric of your dress strains, hugging every curve as you spin. His palm stays anchored to your waist, steady and possessive. And when you slip behind him, your gaze catches—hungry—on the curve of his ass in those sinfully tight jeans. The stretch of cotton over his back. The muscles shifting under his shirt like a promise.

By the time you return to face him, breathless and hot-faced, he’s already watching you. And he knows. Cauldron, he knows.

His hair sticks to his forehead, dark strands damp from the press of bodies, the heat. His collar’s still loose, open just enough to hint at skin, at the strong line of his throat. A silver chain catches the light where it rests against his collarbone, the cobalt glint of his siphon nestled low—one of the simpler siphon pieces you’ve seen him wear, reserved for nights like this when the full set would only get in the way.

And then there are his eyes.

Not friendly. Not protective. Nothing safe. They’re molten—dark and slow and unapologetic as they trace the length of you. They leave scorch marks in their wake. And when you meet that gaze, something primal shifts inside you. Something ancient and aching.

He pulls you in, flush against him, his hands spanning your back, scarred fingers grazing bare skin. The contact is searing. Your breath falters.

Still, you manage to play it cool—or try to. “What’s wrong, Az? You’re staring.” It’s meant to be teasing. Light. But it comes out quieter than you intended. Softer. As if even your voice can’t help giving you away.

His breath stutters. Just enough. “Don’t tease me right now.” His voice is low and rough, his eyes now dark enough to drown in. “It’s not the dress.”

And then—then—his thigh slots between yours and he drags you close enough to steal your balance. The dance shifts—slower now, hungrier. There’s something dangerous uncoiling between you.

The pressure of his thigh is subtle, maddening. The friction sets a slow-burning ache deep inside you, and without thinking, you move. Just enough to chase it. Just enough to make yourself feel something. He notices. Of course he does. His fingers press firmer at your back, holding you there, and you wonder—ache to know—if he feels it too. This tension. This current humming under your skin, magnetic and irrevocable.

Your hips move in time with his, a rhythm that no longer has anything to do with the music. You brush against him, again and again, and each pass stokes the fire curling low in your belly. His hand steadies at the small of your back—firm, coaxing, guiding the rhythm of your hips until you’re moving in time with him. Until you’re grinding slow and sure against the solid line of his thigh. He watches every flicker of reaction like it’s a secret he’s been aching to unearth.

His shadows brush your skin—light as breath, bold as fingertips. They slip under the hem of your dress, past the dip of your neckline, exploring, learning, teasing. It’s not enough to satisfy, but it’s enough to tempt. To make you dizzy.

Your breath stutters, and for a moment, his gaze dips to your mouth.

You barely manage a smile. “Still not about the dress?” you murmur, your voice low, throat dry.

Azriel’s eyes flicker—then settle on you like a storm about to break. “Not even a little.”

And when his nose grazes yours, it isn’t a kiss. But it could be. It’s the moment right before—the breath, the space, the choice. A thread pulled taut, ready to snap.

You don’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s you. But the song changes, the spell snaps, and suddenly the room exists again. Someone bumps into Azriel from behind, and his hand drops to your ass to steady you. A reflex. But it brands.

You both laugh, too breathless, too wired, too aware of what just almost happened. And his hand is still on your ass.

You need a second—a buffer, a breath of air before you do something you can’t undo.

“I need a drink,” you murmur, voice hoarse.

His hands linger but eventually fall away. Slow. Reluctant.

You glance up at him, give him a look you hope says this isn’t over, and slip through the crowd toward the bar.

The bartender slides a drink your way before you can even remember ordering one. You catch it on instinct, fingers curling around the chilled glass just as the condensation begins to bead. It slicks your grip slightly, grounding you in the present—the weight of the glass, the sting of alcohol, the echo of Azriel’s touch still humming beneath your skin.

You barely have time to take a sip before an arm braces beside yours on the counter—long, inked, and annoyingly familiar. Then the rest of Rhysand follows—tall, rakish, and far too smug for someone clearly on the brink of losing his balance.

“Well, well, well,” he drawls, voice syrupy and just loose enough at the edges to toe the line between charming and concerning. “If it isn’t our little heartbreaker.”

You blink at him over the rim of your glass, your mouth still parted mid-sip. “How drunk are you?”

“Moderate,” he says, with the blind confidence of a man absolutely not moderate. Then, solemnly: “I think I just tried to winnow to the moon. Cass said no.”

A laugh bursts out of you, sharp and surprised, catching you off guard. “You were supposed to be the responsible one tonight.”

Rhys makes a sweeping gesture with one hand that nearly sends a nearby cocktail crashing to the floor. “Fuck responsible. Do you know how hard it is to stay sober when everyone around you is glowing and half-delirious? Mor and Feyre have been spinning like drunk ballerinas for the last twenty minutes. Cassian challenged a table of strangers to an arm-wrestle for ‘honor and glory.’ And Azriel—”

He cuts off, lips twitching. That grin, slow and sly, curls like smoke.

You narrow your eyes. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything,” he sing-songs, turning away to steal a sip from someone else’s drink before grimacing and abandoning it.

Gods, you’ve never seen him like this. Loose. Unfiltered. Unbothered by image or control. You make a mental note to corner Cassian and Azriel as soon as possible, if only to demand every humiliating story they’ve ever collected on him.

“You were going to say something,” you groan, watching him closely.

Rhys gives you a beatific smile that practically screams I’m lying. “Me? Never.”

You take another slow sip of your drink, trying—failing—to will the heat from your cheeks. But Rhys, of course, is infuriatingly perceptive. Even through a haze of liquor, he clocks you immediately.

“Oh no,” he breathes, voice gone delighted and a little too loud. “Oh no, it’s happening.”

You arch a brow. “What is?”

“You’re falling in love with my shadowsinger.”

The words land like a match dropped in dry grass.

You choke, spluttering into your drink. “I’m not—”

“Sure, sure,” he says, cutting you off with a patronizing pat to your arm. “And neither is he. You two are just dry-humping in the dark, panting like—like you’re seconds away from devouring each other. All very normal friend behavior, I’m sure.”

You groan and let your head fall forward, forehead thunking against the bar top. The cool wood offers no relief from the mortification burning behind your eyes.

“Go away.”

Rhys props his chin on his palm, utterly content. “Can’t. Too drunk to move.”

You turn your head just enough to peer at him, face still pressed to the bar. “Do I need to find Feyre?”

His expression shifts to something like panic. “Please… do not.”

“Right.” You sigh, dragging a hand down your face and letting it rest there. “You’re impossible.”

Rhys smiles lazily, lashes low and smug. “And you’re glowing. All flushed and starry-eyed. It’s disgusting.”

You flip him off without looking.

That’s when the night starts to blur.

At some point, you find yourself curled under Cassian’s arm, both of you howling over a story he refuses to finish because he keeps laughing too hard. He smells like sweat and cologne and a bad idea—not that you haven’t entertained the thought once or twice. When you reach for your drink, he snatches it just out of reach with a devilish grin.

“You’ve had enough,” he slurs—then immediately downs his own.

You wait until he’s distracted, then snatch your drink back and down it in one go.

Across the room, Mor is spinning Azriel in a slow, ridiculous waltz to music that’s far too fast. Her head is thrown back in laughter, one heel discarded, and Azriel’s grinning wide and unrestrained as she twirls herself dramatically beneath his arm. One of his shadows retrieves her fallen shoe and dutifully returns it. He pretends not to notice.

Rhys, for some reason, decides the whole place needs another round—again. He’s at the bar holding up fingers in rapid succession—four, five, seven—gesturing to absolutely no one. When the bartender ignores him, he levitates a bottle of amber liquor off the shelf with a flourish and begins personally pouring shots into the mouths of nearby patrons like some deranged, drunken Father Solstice.

Cassian finds Azriel in the crowd and immediately throws an arm around his neck, dragging him close with a sloppy grin. “My brother,” he declares, far too loud, smacking a kiss to Azriel’s temple before pulling him into a one-armed hug that rattles both of them. “Do you know—do you know—how much I love you?”

Azriel just blinks. “Unfortunately.”

“Shut up,” Cassian slurs, already halfway into his next declaration. “You’re the best of us. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Except me. Sometimes. But even then—”

“I’m going to kill you,” Azriel says—quiet and deadly. But he doesn’t move to escape. If anything, he leans into it.

Later, you, Feyre, and Mor vanish into the bathroom, which starts as a mission of necessity and ends in chaos. The line’s too long. The floor’s sticky. You all start yelling about how no one cleans the stalls in this place. And somehow, ten minutes later, Mor’s knees are on the tile while you and Feyre crouch beside her, holding her hair back and cackling as she curses Rhysand’s name for “making” her take that last glowing green shot.

“You’ll live,” Feyre says, patting her back with the resigned affection of someone who’s done this before.

“Probably,” you add.

Eventually, the three of you stagger back to the booth—giggling, disheveled, makeup slightly smeared but still beautiful. Because drunk girls in packs always are.

You collapse into the cushions, and for a moment, everything just is—a tangle of warm limbs, laughter, glitter. Cassian’s still trying to tell a story no one can follow. Azriel is methodically peeling an orange he must’ve stolen from the bar. Mor keeps interrupting to dramatically rehash her brush with death on the bathroom floor.

Somewhere between the fourth retelling and a new round of drinks, Feyre bumps into your side, giggling as she climbs— climbs—into Rhysand’s lap.

“Oh my gods,” she breathes, burying her face into his neck. “You smell like night and sin and trouble.”

Rhys hums, stroking a hand up her thigh. “And you, darling, are my favorite sort of trouble.”

You try to ignore it. You really do. And, for a few minutes, you’re fine. But then Feyre whispers, “I swear to the Cauldron, if you keep touching me like that I will drag you into the shadows and make you beg to—”

“No,” you say sharply, holding up a hand. “Absolutely not. You cannot do this in the communal booth.”

Rhysand and Feyre both blink at you. Slowly. Like they’re just now realizing the rest of you exist.

“Oh,” Feyre says, blinking again. “I said that… out loud?”

Cassian groans and drops his head to the table. “Yes. You did.”

“We all heard it,” Mor says, looking personally offended.

Rhys looks vaguely affronted. “We were talking through the bond—”

“You weren’t,” you, Cassian, and Mor all say at once.

Azriel only sighs and catches your eye, mouthing, Every damn time.

And then—

Too much light. Too much warmth. Music in your bones. Glitter on your cheeks. Someone grabs your hand and drags you back to the dance floor. You don’t know who. Doesn’t matter. You let the rhythm carry you, laughter bubbling up like it’s been trapped for months.

Azriel finds you in the chaos. Quiet. Solid. He takes your hand, spins you once—lazy, sweet—then pulls you close with that look. Like the world is loud but you are not.

And then—

The night slips.

You and Mor, arms around each other, cheeks dusted with shimmer.

Cassian balances a shotglass between the clawed tips of his wings—a feat that’s nothing short of impressive—while Azriel leans in to drink from it for the fourth time and misses. Again.

Rhys stumbling through a dance with Feyre, refusing to let go of her hand even as he trips.

Azriel laughing, loud and bright, shirt drenched in spilled liquor and clinging to him like a second skin.

It’s beautiful, in the messy, ephemeral way nights like this always are.

And when it ends—when the cold air bites and your heels dangle from your fingers—you’re walking beside him.

Azriel. Silent and steady.

Side by side. Arms brushing.

Still friends.

Still not in love.

Definitely not.

Probably.

… Maybe.

The others are a few paces ahead, their laughter echoing down the cobbled street, mingling with the night’s quiet. You’d all chosen to walk back to the townhouse instead of winnowing—mostly to spare Mor another tragic bathroom incident.

You glance at Azriel, his profile softened by the pale glow of distant streetlights, the sharp edges of him mellowed by the dim light. He’s quieter now, more anchored, like the buzz is finally starting to bleed out of him too.

For a fleeting moment, your eyes meet, and something shifts, an unspoken weight hanging in the air between you. It’s not just the silence—it’s everything that comes with it. He looks away first, but the tension doesn’t dissipate. It lingers, thick and undeniable.

“So,” you say, your voice light, but there’s a brittleness beneath it, a crack in the calm. “You get this fucked up before?”

He lets out a low chuckle, the sound familiar and warm, but with something in it that feels like the night itself. “Should’ve seen us three while we were training. You wouldn’t have recognized us.”

“Did you have fun tonight?”

Azriel smirks, eyes gleaming with something you can’t quite place, a mystery veiled beneath his calm. “I’ll answer that when I’m sober enough to remember half of it.”

A teasing grin tugs at your lips, unspoken but understood.

His gaze shifts toward you then, and the playful edge in his expression softens, ever so briefly. It’s a shift so subtle, it feels as though the air around you changes. His steps slow, just enough to bring him closer—his presence, steady and grounding, a quiet comfort against the coolness of the night.

And then, before you can fully comprehend it, his hand is at your back again—a subtle, possessive touch, just above your waist. It’s not new, this gesture. He’s done it before, but tonight, it feels different.

“You okay?” His voice is soft, low—barely above the city’s hum, but it cuts through everything else.

You swallow, suddenly aware of the weight behind the question, the way it settles in your chest. You nod, forcing a smile, though it feels less like a smile and more like a fragile shield. You meet his gaze through your lashes.

“I’m drunk,” you admit, a small giggle escaping, but the sound feels a little too light for the heaviness in the air.

Azriel huffs a soft laugh, warm breath brushing against your skin. “Yeah, I figured.”

The silence that follows is comfortable, in a way—a strange sort of peace between the two of you. The laughter and raucous chatter of your group fades further ahead, their voices lost in the night, leaving only the faint echo of their noise behind. Here, between you and Azriel, there’s nothing but quiet. His hand still rests at your back, the lightest touch, but you can feel it—every brush of his fingers against the fabric of your dress, like an unspoken promise.

You glance over at him, a playful glint dancing in your eyes. “Answer my question though. Did you have fun tonight? I know you don’t like coming out much.”

Azriel doesn’t look at you. His gaze remains fixed on the path ahead, his lips curving into the faintest smile. “Fun?” he mutters, his voice light but carrying an edge. “If I’d known the night would end with me trying to drink out of Cassian’s wings, I might’ve stayed in.”

You laugh softly, the sound laced with warmth. “Oh, but you looked like you were having a blast.”

“I was,” he admits, voice lower now, quieter.

His words hang in the air, settling between you, filling the space with something deeper, something more. You glance at him again, and this time, his gaze finds yours. Dark, steady, unwavering.

And in that moment, everything feels charged, like the next move is inevitable.

You stop walking.

Azriel doesn’t pull his hand from your waist. Instead he swings around, turning to face you with an abruptness that feels almost instinctive, like the idea of letting go wasn’t even an option. Like keeping his hand on you mattered more than keeping his feet on the ground. Now, he stands before you, close enough that the heat of his body bleeds into yours, the cool night air thick with the warmth of his breath mingling with yours.

For a moment, there’s nothing—just the two of you, suspended in the quiet, the distance between you and your family growing with each passing second.

It’s like a pulse, something deep within both of you that knows this is the moment, one that’s been silently building, lingering, biding its time.

You feel it in the way his eyes lock onto yours, how his body shifts ever so slightly—so close now you could reach up, could touch him, but you don’t move.

Then, as if it was always meant to happen, his hand slides from your back, cupping the side of your face gently. His thumb brushes across your cheek, soft and tender, a quiet, unspoken question hanging between you.

Before you can stop yourself, you lean in first. Your lips find his—soft, uncertain at first, like you’re both holding your breath. But the second they meet, it’s like something clicks into place. Like every unsaid thing between you is finally, finally speaking.

But then it deepens, the kiss turning more urgent, the gentle press of lips becoming something more, something full of warmth and heat. The taste of alcohol lingers, but underneath that is the familiar, the comforting—years of friendship tangled into something new, something wild. The world shifts, or maybe it’s just the two of you, with everything else fading away.

Azriel’s hands slip into your hair, finding the nape of your neck, the curve of your shoulder, pulling you closer. And the kiss is no longer just soft; it’s a quiet intensity, like something between you both has been building for far longer than either of you realized.

When you part, it’s only just enough to breathe, just enough to meet his gaze. Your lips feel swollen, your heart racing in your chest. But all you can think about is how desperately you want more. Not just his mouth, but all of him—his body, his touch. The press of him, hot and solid against you. The drag of his hand down your spine, the way his fingers splayed across your waist like he never wanted to let go. You want him closer. You want him everywhere. His hand between your legs. You want—

You blink, the haze slowly clearing.

As you lean past him, you finally take in the world around you again. The rest of the group is a fair distance ahead now, moving in a disjointed knot—Cassian with his arm slung lazily around Mor, Feyre pulling Rhys by the wrist as he slurs something half-laughing.

“Guys,” you call, breathless, voice a little hoarse, “we’re going to the… to the House of—” But you realize, mid-sentence, that no one is listening.

“Forget it,” Azriel mutters, and without warning, he grabs your hand.

He tugs you right, pulling you away from the main walkway and down a narrow side street, dimly lit by the soft glow of faelights overhead. You follow without hesitation, heart racing, your legs moving before your mind can fully catch up. The sounds of the city—music drifting from an open window, the distant clang of something dropped—feel muffled now, like they belong to someone else.

All you know is the heat of his hand in yours, the excitement blooming in your chest as a grin spreads across your face. And then, you’re running.

Laughing, breathless, borderline euphoric as your feet hit the cobblestone in time with his. His fingers are laced with yours, and he doesn’t let go—not once—not even when you nearly trip on a loose stone and bark out a curse through your grin. He just squeezes your hand tighter and keeps going.

The wind rushes past, sweeping your hair into your face, and still you run, streetlights flickering overhead like stars caught in motion. You glance at him once, just once, and gods, it knocks the breath clean out of you.

He looks good. Stupidly good. His wings are tucked in tight behind him, shadows trailing in his wake like they can't quite keep up. There’s a flush high on his cheeks from the alcohol or the running—or maybe the kiss—and his smile. His smile is rare and wild and real, splitting his face in a way that makes something in your chest twist. His eyes find yours, dark and bright all at once, and the way he looks at you feels like falling without ever hitting the ground.

You’ve known him for years. Fought beside him, argued with him, trusted him more than you’ve trusted most. You’ve always thought he was beautiful in that silent, devastating kind of way. The kind of beautiful that hurts if you look too long. But this is new. Or maybe not new at all—maybe it’s just undeniable now.

He slows only once the path narrows again, steps easing to a walk, his hand still firm in yours. You're panting, your heart racing in your chest like it’s trying to tell you something urgent, something important.

Azriel glances at you, still grinning. “Want a shortcut?”

You eye him, arching a brow. “A shortcut, or are you about to throw me over your shoulder?”

He shrugs, unbothered. “I could throw you over my shoulder.”

You snort. “You’re drunk.”

His smile deepens. “Tipsy.”

You tilt your head. “Drunk, and you think you’re in any shape to fly us home?”

He smirks, swaying slightly. “I could.”

You blink at him. “Could you even land us properly?”

He pauses—just for a beat—then looks at you with a glint in his eye that’s half mischief, half something far more dangerous. “I’m so fucking glad you didn’t know me growing up.”

Before you can ask what the hell that means, he sweeps forward. One arm wraps around your waist, the other slides behind your knees, and suddenly you’re airborne—held tight against his chest like it’s the easiest thing in the world. You gasp, grabbing onto his shoulders without a second thought.

“Azriel—”

But he’s already launching into the air, wings snapping wide, the wind catching beneath them as the city drops away below.

You press your face into the side of his neck, your laughter half-dazed, half-horrified. “You’re actually insane.”

He hums, voice a little smug. “Maybe. But you’re the one who kissed me.”

And gods help you, you’re already wondering when you can do it again.

Maybe he feels it—senses it—because before you can even finish the thought, he adjusts his grip just enough to shift you higher against him. Your arms loop instinctively around his neck, noses brushing, breath mingling. The wind whips past, cold and biting, but you don’t feel it.

You only feel him.

Then his mouth is on yours.

It’s nothing like that first kiss—nothing tentative or hesitant about it. It’s needy, open-mouthed, all tongue and teeth and breathless hunger.

You moan into him—can’t help it. The sound is swallowed by the sky, lost to the night. But he hears it. You know he does. His grip tightens like he needs you closer, like there’s not a single inch of air he’s willing to spare between you. His shadows are stirring again, curling around you like they want in on the taste.

Your fingers tangle in his hair as your teeth graze his bottom lip, and he growls—deep and low and barely restrained.

“Azriel—” you gasp against his mouth. He huffs a laugh, sharp and wicked.

“Careful,” he murmurs, lips trailing hot over your jaw. “I might miss the landing on purpose.”

You barely manage a breath. “We need to land,” you murmur, though it sounds more like a curse than a request. “Now.”

He lets out a sound that’s half-groan, half-laugh, and the next moment, he angles downward.

The house appears below in a blur, the lights from the windows streaking past as he descends fast and sharp. The landing is rougher than usual—feet hitting the balcony hard, wings flaring wide to catch the worst of it—but neither of you care. Not when his mouth crashes back onto yours the second you touch solid ground.

He walks you backward through the open doors, his hands already skimming beneath your dress—rough and hungry, like he can’t decide where he wants to touch you first. The fabric slips higher with every step, until it's bunched around your waist and you’re moaning into his mouth, your fingers gripping the front of his shirt like you might tear it clean off.

Instead, you reach behind him, fumbling at the slats that hold it together around his wings. The second you get the first one undone, he groans into your mouth, kissing you harder. His hands slip down your back, eager and sure, grasping for the zipper of your dress.

You undo the next, and the next—moving fast, clumsy with urgency. By the time the last one comes loose, he’s all but panting against your jaw.

“Off,” you whisper, and he shrugs out of the shirt with a sound that’s damn near a growl.

He lifts you again like you weigh nothing, kissing you through the hall like he’s starving—stumbling a little, both of you half-drunk on each other and the leftover buzz of the night. His shirt falls somewhere by the wall, your heels were long since discarded on the veranda, and your dress slips off your shoulders as you reach the stairs, falling in a silky heap at your feet. You barely register the path, only the heat of his mouth on your throat, the scrape of his teeth at your collarbone, the low, broken noises he keeps making like he needs this—needs you.

The bedroom door slams shut behind you, and then you’re falling back onto the bed, and he’s following you down.

The mattress gives beneath your weight, cool sheets against your back—his body a furnace as it presses to yours, bracing on his forearms.

His lips find yours again, slower now, but no less desperate. Like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, the way you taste, the way you sigh into every kiss like it’s the only one you’ll ever need.

His hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking gently over your cheekbone as he leans in deeper, tongue sliding against yours in a rhythm that feels far too practiced for two people who’ve never done this before. But you have, haven’t you? In glances. In moments stolen in shadows. In the soft touches that used to mean nothing—until they meant everything.

You arch into him when his hand skims down your side, across your ribs, ghosting the curve of your waist like he’s still not sure you’re real. Like he can’t believe this is happening.

“Fuck,” he mutters into your mouth, breath catching. “You’re so—”

He doesn’t finish. Doesn’t need to.

You feel it in the way he lowers his head and wraps his lips around your nipple, warm and wet and slow. Your back arches off the bed, a gasp escaping you as he laps his tongue over the sensitive bud, sucking just hard enough to make your thighs clench around his hips.

You dig your fingers into his hair, letting your head fall back, eyes fluttering shut as his hands roam—one cupping your other breast, the other smoothing down the length of your thigh. He shifts, nudging your legs apart with his knee, sliding between them like he belongs there.

And gods, he does.

You open your eyes just enough to look at him—his dark hair falling into his face, his mouth wet and red from kissing you. He’s never looked more beautiful. Or more wrecked.

“Az,” you whisper, breathless, stroking your thumb across his cheekbone.

He lifts his head. Meets your gaze.

The look in his eyes nearly undoes you—like he’s never seen you before, not like this. Like something old has cracked open between you and there’s no going back.

“I’ve wanted this,” he says, voice low and raw. “Longer than I ever let myself admit.”

You don’t reply. Because his hands shake as they trail down your body, slipping under the waistband of your underwear. You barely have time to catch your breath before his fingers tug at the fabric, dragging it down your hips and past your thighs.

“Cauldron, you’re so beautiful,” he breathes, the words thick with desire, as he works your underwear off your legs. His eyes trace the path of his hands like he’s memorizing every inch of you. “It took everything in me not to stare when you came down those stairs,” he says, voice rough. “You looked like you’d strung up the fucking stars just to watch them burn.”

Your heart gives a traitorous flutter. He was looking. He did care. And knowing that makes something inside you ache.

You spread your legs for him, a silent invitation. His gaze flicks back up to yours, hungry and wide, a dark promise in his eyes. But it’s not just hunger in those eyes—there’s something deeper, more tender, that makes your heart stutter in your chest.

He shifts, dropping to his stomach, his wings spread out behind him like a dark, protective shield. You gasp as his lips brush the inside of your thigh, the heat of his breath against your skin making you shiver. He’s barely touched you, but your body is already aching, already craving more.

Azriel hums as he presses his mouth against the soft skin of your inner thigh, the sound a low vibration that runs straight through you. “You smell so fucking good,” he murmurs, his hands gripping your thighs as he settles between them.

He can’t wait any longer.

His lips finally brush your folds, and you can’t help the needy whimper that escapes you. His mouth is hot—so hot, and as soon as his tongue flicks against you, your back arches off the bed, hands flying to his hair. He groans, low and satisfied, and the sound makes your chest tighten with need.

Azriel loves this—loves the taste of you, the way you tremble under his touch. It’s like he’s starving, and your pussy is the only thing that will ever fill him. He’s quick to bury his face deeper, his tongue lapping at your clit with the precision of someone who’s done this a thousand times, each movement a studied perfection. You feel him groan into you, his entire body trembling, like he can’t get enough.

And then, he starts grinding.

You feel the slow, desperate rut of his hips against the mattress—like he needs the friction, like it hurts not to be inside you. His cock throbs against the fabric of his underwear, and still, he doesn’t stop. He moans into your cunt, a low, broken whine of a sound, his mouth locked to you like you’re the only thing tethering him to reality.

You reach for his hair, tugging him closer, hips moving of their own accord as you grind up into his face. He moans louder this time, his hands pressing down on your hips to hold you still just long enough for him to really feel you.

“Fuck,” he gasps, pulling away just long enough to breathe, “you’re so fucking sweet. Can’t get enough.”

“Then don’t stop,” you manage to say, your voice barely a whisper. “Please, Az—just—”

You don’t need to finish. He’s already back, his mouth pressing against you again like a man starved, devouring you with everything he’s got. Every flick of his tongue against your clit, every deep stroke, sends shockwaves of pleasure through you, building you up higher and higher until you can’t think of anything else but him—his tongue, his mouth, his need.

He’s lost in you, his hips still grinding desperately into the mattress as he eats you out like it’s the last meal he’ll ever have. You grip his hair tighter, pulling him even closer, rocking your hips against his face, each thrust of his tongue like a promise.

And when you finally let go—when you shatter, your body arching against his mouth and your vision going white—he doesn’t stop. He keeps going, keeps licking and sucking until you’re trembling, until you’ve been pushed past every point of endurance.

He pulls away slowly, his face glistening with you, and his dark eyes are glowing—feral, hungry. His lips curl into a satisfied grin, like he just won the most important battle of his life.

“Fucking perfect,” he mutters, voice thick, and then he crawls back up your body, kissing you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

You can feel his chest press against yours, his heartbeat racing as fast as yours. He pulls away, and for a moment, you just look at each other—eyes locked, the world outside forgotten.

He brushes his nose against yours, a soft, lingering touch, and then lowers his forehead to yours. “You okay?” His voice is rough, still full of desire, but there’s a softness to it now, a care that makes your chest tighten.

You nod, breathless, a shaky laugh escaping your lips. “More than okay.”

His lips curl into a smile, and he presses a soft kiss to your lips, the kind of kiss that feels like a promise. You reach for him, your hands shaking just a little as you trail your fingers over the muscles of his chest, feeling the thrum of his heartbeat under your fingertips. His eyes close as your hands move lower, tracing the defined lines of his stomach. You want to memorize him—want to feel him, every part of him.

As your fingers brush against the waistband of his underwear, your breath catches in your throat. The tension in the air thickens, and for a moment, you hesitate, fingers trembling just above the fabric. His body is taut beneath your touch, but his eyes remain locked on yours—expectant, but still tender.

You pull them down slowly, the fabric sliding off his hips, revealing him fully for the first time. Your gaze flicks downward.

And gods, he's big.

You blink, your heart racing as you take in the sight. The soft glow of the room highlights the sharp, defined lines of his body, but it's him, his cock, that makes your breath hitch. Thick and hard, standing at attention, the tip flushed with need, and for a moment, all you can do is stare, wide-eyed and speechless.

Your stomach does this strange flip, a mix of awe and anticipation. You’ve seen his body before—shirtless, after sparring, sweaty from training—but this... this is something else.

It’s nothing like you imagined. It’s bigger than you thought, intimidating in a way that makes your cheeks flush.

The heat between your legs flares, but it's not just lust—it’s the overwhelming realization of how much he desires you. The connection. The intimacy. This is your best friend, exposed in a way you’ve never seen before. It’s more than you expected. Bigger, thicker than you thought—intimidating and... a little overwhelming.

A warmth starts to bloom in your chest, spreading down to the pit of your stomach. It’s not just lust, though there’s plenty of that. It’s a sort of quiet shock that makes your whole body feel electrified, like you’re standing on the edge of something you weren’t sure you’d ever have the courage to leap into.

You swallow hard, your heart pounding in your chest as you finally look up at him. He looks nervous—his gaze flicking down, then back up again, like he’s unsure how you’ll react. “I can handle it, Az.”

He doesn’t answer at first, just watches you with those dark, stormy eyes, searching for something in yours. His breath is shallow, his chest rising and falling beneath you.

“Are you sure?” His voice is thick, strained. The weight of his hesitation settles between you. You nod, pressing your hands to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingertips.

“I’m sure,” you breathe out. “I want this. I want you. Please.”

A shudder runs through him at your words, but he doesn’t move to rush it. Instead, he leans down, placing a soft kiss to your lips, his hand gently cradling your face as he deepens the kiss, his tongue coaxing and tender. He pulls back, his eyes searching yours again.

“I’ll never rush you, okay? Anything—you let me know,” he says, his voice low and filled with such sincerity that it makes your chest tighten. He slowly begins to ease himself between your legs, the tip of his cock nudging against you.

It’s everything you imagined and more—every inch of him solid and warm, the weight of him just right as he finally pushes into you. The stretch is slow, controlled, and you wince slightly at the initial burn, but it fades quickly as he inches in deeper, his hands gentle on your hips. He pauses once he's fully seated inside, both of you panting, your body adjusting to the sensation.

Azriel’s breath is ragged as he pulls back slightly, then presses in again—slow, deliberate, giving you time to adjust. “Fuck, you feel so good, (y/n),” he groans, his voice thick with desire.

You feel him everywhere, his every movement slow and deliberate, the depth of his tenderness filling you in ways you never expected. But as the heat builds in your belly, a need rises in you too—a need for him to give in, to let go, to stop holding back.

“I need more, Az,” you whisper. “Please.”

His eyes lock onto yours, a mixture of conflict and desire flickering across his features. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he says, his voice rough, but you can see the way his hands grip the bed, his muscles straining as he tries to hold back.

You reach up, hands sliding to the back of his neck, pulling him closer to kiss him again, more urgently this time. “I said I’m sure,” you whisper against his lips, fingers brushing the edge of his wing.

And that’s all it takes. He straightens suddenly, hands sliding down to grip your waist as he begins to move, his thrusts steady and sure. He’s still gentle, his rhythm slow but building in intensity with every movement. His eyes never leave yours, and in them, you see the same fierce desire mirrored back at you, mixed with something deeper—something softer.

Each stroke is powerful as he drives into you with growing urgency. You moan, fingers digging into his biceps, your body arching to meet every snap of his hips.

“Azriel,” you gasp, your nails scraping down his back as the pleasure begins to build inside you.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice a breathless growl as he thrusts harder, the force of him filling you completely. “Always got you.”

The heat builds fast, that deep, aching tension curling tighter with every thrust, stoking the fire within you. His hands find your hips, fingers curling hard into the flesh—gripping you like he’s claiming you, like he can’t bear to let go—as he pulls you onto him again and again. He angles his movements just right, drinking in every sound you make and relishing each one more than the last.

His movements are still slow, deliberate, but there's a hunger there now—something primal in the way he grips you, the way he pulls you closer, urging you to take more of him.

“Please,” you whisper, your hands sliding up to tangle in his hair, desperate for more, for him to push you over the edge.

Azriel responds with a low, hungry groan, his thrusts becoming a little quicker, a little harder. He can feel the way your body trembles beneath him, the way you react to him. He loves it, loves knowing that he’s the one who’s breaking through all the walls, all the restraint you both held before.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he growls, his voice rough with need, words spilling out in a rush as he braces himself over you. His forearms cage you in, hands on either side of your face, cradling your jaw, holding you there like you’re the only thing in the world worth seeing. He thrusts deeper, pushing you further into the mattress, and the room seems to spin. Your world narrows to just the two of you, your bodies moving in perfect sync.

Your breath hitches as you feel yourself tightening around him, your body winding up with a force that threatens to snap. You can’t stop the moan that escapes you, the pleasure building inside you, getting closer, almost overwhelming.

“Az, I’m—” you choke out, unable to finish the sentence as the pressure inside you becomes almost unbearable.

“Let go, baby,” he says, low and raspy, urging you on. “Let me feel you.”

You never thought you’d hear him like this, hoarse and hungry and just a little wrecked, and fuck, it’s the hottest thing you’ve heard in your life.

And then, it happens—the release hits you like a wave, washing over you, taking over every part of you. You cry out his name, your body trembling as your nails scrape down his back once more.

Azriel groans your name, the sound raw and desperate, and as your body contracts around him, his thrusts falter for a moment before he loses himself too, the intensity of the moment taking him to the edge.

He buries himself deep with a guttural moan—low and wrecked, like the sound’s been punched out of him—his breath hitching, hips stuttering as he spills into you, body trembling with the force of it. “Fuck,” he gasps. “Fuck, fuck—”

You’re both still breathing hard when he suddenly stills, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes are wide.

“Shit,” he pants. “I didn’t even ask—are you on the tonic? I’m so sorry, I just—fuck I wasn’t thinking, I didn’t mean to—”

You laugh, breathless. “Az, I am. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

He exhales shakily. “Okay. Good. Fuck, good… Just—yeah. Okay.”

For a moment, all there is is the sound of your breathing, the feel of him against you, and the pulse of your hearts racing together. You both just stare at each other for a moment, trying to catch your breath, the weight of everything hanging between you in the most beautiful, unspoken way.

“Are you okay?” he asks softly, still hovering over you, his chest rising and falling in rapid succession.

You nod, your fingers gently tracing his jawline. “More than okay,” you whisper, your voice still breathless, a contented smile tugging at your lips.

Azriel presses a kiss to your forehead and slips out, easing onto the bed and tugging you with him until your head rests on his chest, your body draped over his. One arm wraps around your waist, and his wings wrap around you both like a blanket.

You lie there in silence, skin sticky with sweat, limbs tangled, breath slowly evening out. You’d deal with everything in the morning—whatever this was now, whatever it meant. You’d figure out what to say to Mor, to Cassian, to Feyre and Rhysand. But for now, you just press your face into Azriel’s chest and let yourself rest, wrapped in him, wrapped in this.

#acotar #azriel acotar #azriel x reader #acotar fic #acotar fanfic #drunk on you

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aviationanddefence1 · 2 years ago

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#small arms market #light weapon market #italy weapon market

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halcyon-writings · 24 days ago

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nav.

— In which Mydei for once approves of the old Castrum Kremnos tradition of gifting a weapon to the one you were courting.

Before you can say anything to him, Krateros gasps when he sees you. Your reaction is immediate, practically jumping in alarm, because a man like Krateros was never this frazzled, much less shown as much anyway.

“What is it? What’s the matter?” You ask, thinking that you must have something on your clothes, already patting at yourself with a confused concern.

Immediately the Kremnoan warrior begins to cough. Now it’s your turn to be worried. You could’ve sworn that the older man was turning an alarming shade of red. "Please, forgive my outburst," He says, voice slightly hoarse from his abrupt coughing fit.

Then he clears his throat again, eyes moving to your side once more. This time you turn your head as you follow his line of sight. For a moment you don't quite see what he's talking about, in fact. you're still as confused as ever. Then his gaze becomes a bit more pointed as he continues to stare. Slowly, it dawns upon you.

"Where did you acquire such a style of weapon?" Krateros asks.

You remove the bladed weapon from its sheath, admiring the work in the steel. After all, it was rare for any weapons to be forged in the style of Castrum Kremnos, aside from something speciality made, but those sort of weapons cost an arm and a leg since they needed to truly last with as many of the battles that would be witnessed..

"Ah, Mydeimos gave it to me," You say, a small smile on your face, "I was surprised to see him with a weapon when we were sent out to clear some of the black tide, but then my own weapon was unfortunately broken, luckily he offered me his."

If Krateros' jaw dropped any further, it would have already been on the floor by now.

You pause, noting his silence, "Is... is something the matter?"

He is quick to shake his head, "Not at all."

(Perhaps the first sign was the fact that you were one of the few who were allowed to refer to Mydei as Mydeimos at all, aside from someone such as Lady Aglaea or Lady Tribbie.)

You watch his retreating form, still a bit perplexed. But your eyes return to the blade in your hands. You hum as you give it a few light swings, noting the weight being nearly perfect, just requiring a bit of training to properly handle it. Hm, you truly were lucky that Mydei had a similar weapon you could use.

Mydei had been (dragged) asked to accompany Tribbie into the market as the older of the two had moved in a flutter of wings from stall to stall. Even if it was the same wares each day, the small demigod always had the time to admire each and every work of craftsmanship.

Tribbie had said nothing with how easily he agreed, in her words, "De seems really happy today."

He was, ecstatic even. As they passed Chartonus' forge, which he thanked the other for his work on such short notice. He pretends not to see Tribbie's knowing smile either. Simply, looking the other way, which also meant, he saw the approaching Krateros.

Trinnon and Trianne had flown off with a giggling Tribbie as Krateros approached, Mydei uncrossed his arms, tilting his head in a silent question.

"You saw," Mydei spoke, his tone even.

Krateros nods, and despite the more frantic aspect of his appearance, there was a... lightness to the old fighter. One that made the crease of the man's brow go away for just a moment.

"Do they even know the significance of recieving such a gift?" Krateros asked softly.

At this, the Prince shook his head, warmth blossoming in his chest and heat rising up his neck. "In the heat of the moment, maybe not yet. But I know they will understand."

The softening of the Prince's eyes made Krateros pause, before he too couldn't help but shake his head with a small chuckle; his own reservations forgotten. The youth these days, he thought.

It wasn't like Mydei was going to outright tell you that the weapon you currently wielded was all but a proposal gift. It was a longstanding tradition that for once, Mydei didn't scoff at. If he couldn't be at your side every battle, then the weapon you wielded would protect you in his stead.

(That and perhaps he wouldn't admit that he quite liked the sight of you wielding a weapon in the style of Castrum Kremnos. Perhaps he'd see if he could find armor that suited your style and that of Kremnos as well...)

When he sees you later, the knowing look in your eyes makes his heart skip a beat. There was no need to worry, after all.

#halcyon writings.#honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #honkai star rail imagines #hsr imagines #mydei x reader #mydei hsr x reader #hsr mydei x reader #hsr x you #honkai star rail x you #hsr x y/n #mydei x you #mydeimos x reader #mydeimos x you

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inseobts · 1 month ago

Text

Things I Never Said - pt.1

shanks x fem!reader (+ platonic luffy x fem!reader)

part 2

after years of running from a love too painful to face, you’re forced to confront everything you tried to bury when you meet your old little friend, luffy

words count: 3.6k

a/n: I already imagined you all asking for a part 2, so I beat you to it and already prepared it!

tags: angst, past love, reunion, bittersweet

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

You’ve lived on this island for a year now. It’s small, quiet, peaceful, nothing like the wild sea you used to know. You still sail sometimes. You still fight when needed. You haven’t given up the pirate life completely.

But you take it slower now.

It’s not the same, being alone.

You sit by the edge of the market, half-watching the sea, when you see him.

A boy with a red vest. A straw hat. A smile big enough to split the sky.

Your heart jumps before your brain catches up.

“That’s him,” you whisper “That’s Luffy.”

He’s walking through the crowd like it’s not even there, grinning at fruit stalls, laughing at a dog. You stand up fast, knocking over a crate behind you. Someone curses. You don’t even look back.

You move fast. Years haven’t slowed your legs.

You cut around the street and slip behind him just before he turns the corner.

And then you do it.

You snatch the hat clean off his head.

“HEY!!!” he shouts, spinning around “WHO THE HELL—”

He stops.

The rest of his crew is on alert instantly... blades out, feet planted, ready to fight.

You smile, holding the hat between two fingers “Still not fast enough, Captain.”

Luffy blinks. His jaw drops “Wait… no way. YOU?!”

You nod “Hey, Monkey D.”

“Y/N!!!” His face lights up like a bonfire. He throws himself forward, full hug, no hesitation “You’re alive!”

“I am” you say softly, still holding the hat.

The others glance at each other, confused but now more relaxed, slowly putting their weapons away.

“You’re here! On this island?! What?! Why didn’t you say anything?! How long—wait.” His eyes land on the hat in your hands “You okay?”

You freeze.

The straw hat is warm from his head. But to you, it’s not just his. It was someone else’s before him. And back then, you touched it with the same fingers.

You run your thumb along the brim. It almost hurts.

“I remember when he gave this to you” you say quietly.

Luffy goes quiet, face suddenly serious “You mean Shanks.”

“Yeah.”

You hand the hat back. You don’t want to hold it anymore.

He takes it carefully, like it’s more than just cloth and string.

“Hey, Luffy? Care to introduce this beauty to the rest of us?” Sanji steps forward, ever the charmer, taking your hand to kiss it with a wink.

You raise an eyebrow but let him do it. Luffy snaps back to reality.

“Oh right!” He turns to the crew, like he just remembered they were there “This is Y/N! She’s Shanks’ wife!”

Everyone gasps, even you.

You stare at him, stunned for a second, then bonk your hand against his head.

“You’re still an idiot!”

“Ow! What?!”

“I’m not Shanks’ wife. I never was…”

“Wait—you weren’t?? But I remember he used to tell everyone you were his wife!”

You look away for a second “He was just… exaggerating. As always.”

“Alright!” Luffy announces with arms wide “Since you’re already amazing, it’s time to meet my amazing crew!”

You fold your arms, amused.

“This is Zoro—he’s scary but he’s cool. That’s Nami—she’ll punch me but she’s nice. Usopp—he’s awesome and brave and lies sometimes but it’s funny. Sanji—he cooks and falls in love every five minutes. Robin—she reads weird stuff. Franky—he’s SUPER. Brook—he’s a skeleton and musician. And Jinbe—he’s a fish-man and also very cool.”

You give them a long, slow look.

“I already know all of you.”

The crew looks surprised.

“You do?” Nami asks.

“Yeah,” you say with a small smirk “You lot are famous. Bounties, newspaper stories, chaos in every corner of the sea? You’re hard to miss.”

Then, your eyes settle on Usopp.

You stare just a second too long.

Luffy notices “What? You looking at Usopp? Why?”

You speak softly, but the words come sharp “You really look like your father.”

Usopp straightens, blinking “Huh?”

You pause. Then add, “But I’m sorry. I hate him a lot, actually.”

Silence falls.

Usopp’s mouth opens just a little but he doesn’t ask anything. He just nods once and looks away.

You don’t explain. You won’t.

Meanwhile, Sanji’s hand flutters over his chest like he’s been shot.

“She stares at the long-nose and hates his father, but not one look for me… life is cruel…”

Nami sighs “Ignore him. He’ll cry into a tomato later.”

You smile again, but it’s smaller now.

“Come on,” you say, turning “I’m taking you to eat.”

Luffy lights up “FOOD?!”

The walk through town is full of noise, mostly from Luffy and Brook, who’s trying to make a pun about every vegetable they pass. You wave at shopkeepers, people smile at you like you belong here.

You lead them to a small, warm place nestled between two shops. The scent of grilled fish and rice floats out from the doorway. No sign, but the smell says home.

As you open the door, the owner grins “Y/N! You brought chaos with you, huh?”

“Something like that” you say, stepping in.

Luffy’s already trying to climb onto a table.

“Before you eat the whole island—listen up!” you shout.

Luffy freezes mid-motion.

“You’re all welcome here,” you say, “but sadly—I’m not offering.”

Luffy gasps, dramatic “WHY?!”

You raise a brow “Because I know how much you eat. I’m not trying to go broke today.”

The crew laughs as they sit down. Nami gives you an approving nod.

“I like her” she says.

Sanji is still sulking dramatically “If only I were the long-nose…”

You glance across the table at Luffy “You’ve got a good crew.”

“The best” he says with a mouthful of meat already.

You sit across from him, watching the way they all move around each other, fighting, teasing, laughing. It’s loud. It’s messy. But it’s family.

Zoro leans back with a drink “So… how close were you and Shanks, really?”

You glance away “Close enough to know the smell of his coat. The way he laughed when he was lying. The way he always looked out at the sea… like something was missing.”

Robin watches you carefully “Sounds like you loved him.”

You don’t answer.

Luffy swallows and says, quiet for once, “He still talks about you when we meet.”

Your heart skips.

“What?”

“Just little things. Like if he messes something up, he goes, ‘Y/N would’ve kicked my ass for that’. Stuff like that.”

You look down at your glass.

“…That idiot.”

“You miss him?” Luffy asks.

You give him a sad smile “Every single day.”

Plates are emptying. The sun outside begins to lean lower. Warm golden light spills in through the windows. The restaurant is loud with laughter and forks clinking, until Luffy suddenly leans across the table and says:

“Wait. You and Shanks actually ACTUALLY broke up?”

You blink “You… didn’t know?”

He shakes his head fast “No! He told me you were just gone for a while. Said you had ‘family matters’ or something. He made it sound like you’d come back anytime.”

You laugh soft and sad “That’s not true, Luffy.”

Luffy frowns “So he lied?”

You nod slowly “Yeah. We broke up. Years ago.”

The table goes quiet for just a breath.

Then Nami leans forward.

Robin tilts her head.

Sanji is already gripping the edge of the table like he’s waiting for a juicy romance novel.

Zoro sighs “Here we go.”

“So… You and Shanks?” Nami says “As in, Red-Haired Shanks?”

“Mhm” you hum.

Robin smiles “So… what was he like? In love?”

You take a sip from your drink and lean back.

“Oh, he was terrible at it at first.”

“WHAT?!” Chopper yells “How?! He’s so cool!”

You laugh “Exactly. That was the problem. He thought being cool was enough. He’d lean against things, do the half-smile, act mysterious… it was all nonsense.”

Usopp grins “So what worked?”

“Once he got out of his own way,” you say “He started laughing more. Talking like himself. I think the moment I fell in love with him for real was when he burned rice and tried to convince me it was a ‘special smoky flavor from the West Blue.’ He was holding the pot with tongs.”

Nami covers his heart “That’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”

Zoro makes a face “You’re easily impressed.”

“I have standards!” she snaps.

Robin’s eyes glitter “Did he write you letters?”

“He tried,” you smirk “But his handwriting was awful. He’d start strong, like ‘To the fiercest flame on my ship’, and by the end it was mostly wine stains and something about missing my shoulder.”

Brook raises a hand “Yohohoho! Did he sing to you?”

“Yes,” you say, smiling fully now “All the time. Badly. He couldn’t carry a tune when he was drunk, but he insisted I dance with him anyway.”

Chopper giggles “Did he get jealous?”

You grin “One time a noble tried to kiss my hand. Shanks ‘accidentally’ dropped a whole barrel of grog on his foot.”

Luffy’s eyes are soft “See? He really was in love with you…”

You look down, hands resting in your lap “Yeah. He was.”

Silence again, soft this time. No one dares ask about the breakup. They’re smart enough to feel where the line is, even if they’re curious. But still, the questions keep coming.

You don’t realize how tightly you’re holding your glass until your knuckles ache.

Zoro watches you a little too closely, but says nothing.

Nami rests her chin on her hand “You were lucky, y’know. To be loved by someone like that.”

You smile gently “I know.”

But you don’t say the other half of it. That loving someone like that also means losing pieces of yourself when it ends... and it ended.

The crew slowly drifts back into lighter talk. But a weight still lingers, like the sea waiting outside.

You sit in it quietly, letting it rock in your chest like a ship in calm waters, grateful, still aching, always remembering.

The restaurant is warm and full of noise, clinking glasses, the buzz of the Straw Hats laughing, Sanji flirting with Nami and getting punched.

You step away from it.

Take your drink. Slip out of the main room, around the corner toward the kitchen where the air smells like herbs and steam.

The owner looks up “You alright?”

You nod with a tired smile “Just needed some air.”

She watches you, but doesn’t press.

You lean on the wooden counter, letting the wall hold your shoulder. The glass is cool in your hand, but your throat is too tight to swallow.

Footsteps behind you.

You don’t have to look to know who it is.

Luffy stops next to you, strangely quiet. No bounce in his step this time. No grin.

He stands there for a second, like he’s waiting for the words to form.

Then he sits on the crate beside you Why did you break up?”

You inhale sharply.

Straight to it. No dance.

Luffy keeps his eyes on the floor “Did he break your heart?”

The tears come fast.

You don’t even feel them build. They just happen, hot and sudden.

You turn your face away, but your voice still cracks when you whisper, “He did.”

Luffy looks up at you slowly.

“And I think I also broke his heart.”

Your hand covers your mouth like it might stop the sound. It doesn’t.

You breathe through your nose, fast and shaky, trying to pull it together. You wipe your cheek with your sleeve, then the other. It just keeps coming.

“It wasn’t about love,” you say hoarsely “We had so much love. That wasn’t the problem.”

You grip the glass tighter.

“It was the sea. The life. The way he always had something bigger waiting for him. Some war, some island, some dream… and I—” You laugh softly through your tears “I wasn’t big enough to be part of it.”

Luffy doesn’t interrupt. He just listens.

“He told me once that the sea calls him louder than anything else. Louder than sleep, louder than pain. Louder than me.” You look down “And I hated him for that. Even though I understood it.”

Luffy nods, slow.

“He never stopped loving you,” he says “Even when he talked about the sea. Even when he left.”

You smile faintly “I know.”

You close your eyes.

The tears slow. Your chest hurts. But somehow, it’s a little easier now that you’ve said it out loud.

Luffy nudges your arm “Wanna come back to the table?”

“In a bit.”

“Okay.” he says, standing up. Then adds, more quietly, “I’m glad you’re still alive.”

You look at him.

That same boy. That same hat.

And in a way, still carrying a part of Shanks.

“Me too...” you whisper.

He walks off, and for a moment, you’re left in the quiet with a full heart, and just a few tears left.

You return to the table a little later. Your face is calm again. Eyes dry. Shoulders lighter.

The crew’s already deep in a debate over whether Brook’s music counts as “live” if he’s technically dead.

“I’m telling you,” Zoro mutters, “it’s spooky.”

“It’s art!” Brook insists “My concerts slay! Yohohoho!”

“Don’t help your case.” Nami says, sipping her drink.

You slide into your seat “Miss me?”

Chopper lights up “You’re back!”

Luffy flashes a grin “Hey! Feeling better?”

You nod “Yeah. Thanks.”

No one says Shanks’ name again. They just scoot over and make space.

Robin tops off your drink. Franky pushes a plate of grilled shrimp your way. Brook offers you a bone (you politely decline).

Then Sanji clears his throat, and you feel the air shifts.

He steps up beside you like he’s on stage. A fresh rose seems to appear from nowhere in his fingers.

“Oh, enchantress of the island breeze…” he begins, dropping to one knee.

“God, no” Nami groans.

“…with eyes brighter than the Grand Line’s stars and a smile that could command the tides—”

“Get up” Zoro mutters.

Sanji doesn’t blink “I must ask… how is it that you’ve lived here a whole year without blessing my eyes before today?”

You raise a brow “It’s not like you’re always on this island.”

“Details,” he says, dead serious “Tell me, my sweet hurricane—have you ever considered falling in love again… possibly with someone who can make ten kinds of pasta and cry respectfully in your honor?”

You try not to laugh “Do you always lay it on this thick?”

Robin’s hiding a smile behind her hand “Only when he’s desperate.”

“I AM NOT—!” Sanji starts, then immediately shifts back to you with a twinkle in his eye “Only when moved by a beauty this profound.”

Luffy snorts soda through his nose “He means you’re hot!”

“Captain, please” Sanji hisses, red-faced.

You smirk “You know what? It’s nice being flirted with again.”

Sanji gasps like you just proposed.

But before he can say a word, Usopp cuts in “Don’t encourage him! You’re gonna break the poor guy.”

Chopper claps his hooves “He’s already crying!”

“I’m crying because I’m feeling things!” Sanji shouts, pressing the rose to his chest.

The whole table erupts.

Luffy’s doubled over laughing. Nami wipes a tear from her eye. Even Zoro cracks a grin.

And you laugh with them.

For the first time in a long time, it doesn’t feel like you’re carrying something heavy. It just feels like now.

Like you’re allowed to enjoy the present.

Like the sea might still have something for you, something warm, and real, and maybe even ridiculous.

You raise your glass.

“To chaos!” you say.

They all lift theirs.

“To pirates!” Luffy shouts.

“To not letting Sanji flirt in peace!” Usopp adds.

“To being alive!” Robin says, soft.

You drink and for the rest of the night, you don’t look back.

The door slams open.

Everyone flinches.

A man rushes in out of breath, eyes scanning fast until they land on you.

“Y/N!”

“Kale…” you say the name of the man in front of you.

Then as soon as you realise his pale face you’re already halfway out of your seat.

You know that look. That panic. That urgency.

You don’t even need to hear it.

But he says it anyway.

“They’re here. Docked just now. It’s the Red-Haired Pirates.”

The words drop like thunder.

You don’t freeze. You move.

You stand so fast your chair screeches backward.

Your legs know what to do before your heart catches up, grab your coat, check your pouch, feel for your knife.

Luffy rises too “Wait—what?”

You’re already walking toward the back exit.

“Y/N!” he calls after you “Where are you going?!”

You don’t turn around but his hand grabs your arm. You stop.

He’s looking at you, confused, eyebrows furrowed. His grip is gentle, but firm “Why are you leaving?”

You stare at him and then quietly, honestly, tiredly “Luffy… I change islands every time.”

He blinks “What?”

“Every time someone whispers he’s near. Every time one of his crew is spotted. Every time that damn flag shows up on the horizon.” You look around the restaurant once, then back at him “People know. Everyone in this town knows.”

You pause. Your voice lowers.

“That if Shanks comes… I go.”

The room is holding its breath. Even the crew has gone still, watching from the table.

“That’s the deal,” you say “That’s how I avoided him all these years.”

Luffy doesn’t say anything. He just watches your face.

“That’s how I survived all these years.”

You pull your arm gently from his grip.

“If he asks about me, they’ll pretend they don’t even know what a ‘Y/N’ is” you whisper, more to yourself than him “They always do.”

You turn back toward the exit.

Luffy doesn’t stop you again. But you feel his eyes following you. And you hate the silence that follows you out.

The back door clicks shut behind you.

Your boots hit the alley dirt hard as you move fast, eyes scanning for your escape route, anywhere quiet, hidden, away.

Inside, the restaurant is still frozen in place. Luffy hasn’t moved. The crew’s glancing between each other, between the door you vanished through and their captain’s tense face.

Then BANG.

The front doors slam open like the whole building belongs to him.

“LUFFY!!”

That voice.

That laugh.

That presence.

The room turns.

He’s already walking in with the swagger of a storm. Sun on his shoulders, wind still in his red hair, he's alone, and he’s smiling like this is the best day of his year.

“I heard rumours you were here,” he calls, waving off the stunned silence like it’s nothing “And since I was around, I said, why not?”

Luffy’s mouth twitches into a smile, small, tight, forced. The others don’t speak.

Shanks stops mid-step, frowning slightly.

He scans the table. His sharp eyes take in the untouched plates. The awkward silence. Zoro’s subtle hand on one sword hilt. Nami’s stiff posture. Robin’s too-calm expression.

Then back to Luffy.

“…you all look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

He’s still smiling, but his voice is quieter now. Curious.

Suspicious.

No one answers.

Shanks narrows his eyes a little, not angry. Just reading the air. He’s always been good at that.

“Did I interrupt something?”

Luffy shifts his weight. Behind his back, his hands tighten into fists.

Sanji glances toward the back door.

Shanks follows the glance, subtle, sharp.

He sees it.

His smile fades slightly.

He steps forward once. Just one step.

“…was someone else here?”

Luffy opens his mouth.

He could lie. He wants to lie. But his eyes betray him.

And Shanks knows right away... You’re here. Or, at least, you were.

His gaze snaps toward the back. Just for a second.

Then back to Luffy.

“Was Y/N here?”

The question lands like lightning.

He turns to the owner of the restaurant, the older woman behind the counter. The one who always gave you extra bread when she thought you looked too tired.

“Was she in this town all this time?” he asks again.

Her hands tremble slightly as she wipes a cup dry.

She doesn’t meet his eyes “I don’t know who you’re talking about, sir.”

Too fast.

Too careful.

Too fake.

Shanks watches her for one heartbeat longer, then shifts.

His gaze slides to the man near the wall, the same one who ran to warn you, Kale.

“You?” Shanks asks, stepping closer “I saw you running in here. Seemed like something urgent.”

Kale swallows.

You can almost hear the script in his head. The one you made sure they all memorized.

He straightens.

“I don’t know what a Y/N is.”

Shanks stares at him. Not angry. Not smiling. Just quiet. Like a man putting pieces together.

“…Right, they all say like this every damn island.” he says.

Then he turns.

He walks slowly to the back door. Every bootstep echoing like a clock counting down.

Luffy stays silent. The crew doesn’t move.

Shanks opens the back door.

There’s no one there.

Just an empty alley. Breeze picking at the dust. Faint footsteps echoing from far away.

But he frowns. Something’s off.

He doesn’t step outside. He just stands there in the doorway. Eyes sweeping the edges. The corners. The crates. The narrow shadows.

You’re not far.

You didn’t have time.

You’re hiding.

He can feel it.

His voice is barely above a whisper now, but it carries.

“…I can feel you're still here.”

You hold your breath.

Tucked behind crates in the narrow alley, you press your back to the wall. It’s damp. Cold. You try to still every inch of yourself. You’ve done this before, more times than you want to admit.

But never this close.

Never with his voice that close.

“…I can feel you're still here.”

Your heart pounds so loud it feels like it’ll shake the wood beside you.

And then Clink.

Your boot... a tiny shift. Metal brushing against stone.

It echoes like a scream.

838 notes · View notes

heliosunny · 5 months ago

Note

Hi! I love your Yan fics, can I request a Yan!Fem!Reader with Phainon looking like the Kevin Kaslana she used to love? (It would be better if Yan!Reader's love for Phainon/Kevin was like Jyahnar's love for Kiana in ggz.) Please, I just love them so much, these two Samoyeds are something😭😭😭

Yan!Fem!Reader x Phainon

The first time you saw him, your heart stopped.

The market square was loud, buzzing with the energy of traders and travelers, but all of it faded into nothing the moment your eyes landed on him. White hair, blue eyes, a strong, battle-worn physique—he looked just like him. The one you had lost.

It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be.

But the longer you watched, the harder it was to tell yourself otherwise. He moved so effortlessly, carrying a heavy bag of supplies over one shoulder, his posture relaxed yet powerful. His laugh rang out—bright, unguarded, the sound of someone who had never known true loss.

No, he wasn’t him.

But that didn’t matter.

A person could be shaped. Molded.

Phainon was a wandering warrior, traveling from city to city, taking on work as a hired fighter. Not quite a mercenary, he wasn’t the type to kill for money, but a warrior for those who could afford his skill. He was strong, fast, and trained in both traditional weapons and modern enhancements. But he wasn’t untouchable. He wasn’t careful. Most importantly, he was kind. And that was what would ruin him.

A connection, set in place long before you arrived. A man you had helped months ago, one who now owed you a favor, introduced you at a local gathering.

“Phainon, this is Y/N. She's new in town.”

You gave a polite smile.

“Nice to meet you.” His eyes met yours, and for the briefest moment, something stirred in your chest—something yearning.

You pushed it down. For now, you would be patient. You would slip into his life, step by step, until he couldn’t imagine a world without you. And then—when the time was right—you would take him.

The mission had been a success, but you barely thought about it. Your mind was elsewhere, pulled by an invisible thread—toward him. The moment you saw the campfire in the distance, your steps slowed. Phainon sat by the fire, leaning back against a crate, his sword resting within arm’s reach. He looked up as you approached, his face lighting up with recognition.

“Well, if it isn’t Y/N” he said, grinning. “Back already?”

You gave a small nod, watching as he gestured toward the empty spot beside him.

“Come on, sit. You must be starving.”

You hesitated—not because you doubted the invitation, but because the way he said it. It was too familiar. Too much like him. But you went anyway, settling beside him as the fire crackled between you.

Phainon stretched, rolling his shoulders before glancing at you. “Got anything to eat? I’d offer, but I kinda ran through my rations.”

You reached into your bag, fingers closing around a familiar plastic cup. As you pulled it out, peeling the lid back slightly, steam rose from the broth inside. Instant noodles.

Phainon blinked. Then, to your surprise, his face lit up.

“No way—you eat those too?” He let out a laugh, eyes shining with something almost nostalgic. “Man, I haven’t had these in ages.”

Your fingers curled slightly around the cup.

He liked them.

Just like Kevin did.

You handed the cup over, watching as Phainon took it eagerly, chopsticks in hand. The first bite made him pause, eyes closing briefly as he let out a satisfied sigh.

“Damn, that’s good” he muttered. “Simple, but hits the spot.”

You had known, of course. You had seen the similarities, traced them over and over in your mind. But seeing it now, so natural, so real— It was fate. It had to be.

“You sure you don’t want any?”

You smiled. “I don’t mind.”

Because just watching him—watching Kevin—was enough.

The night air was cool, the fire reduced to glowing embers. Phainon sat beside you, his usual energy dimmed by the quiet peace of the moment. The warmth of the meal, the weight of exhaustion settling into your bones—it all made your eyelids grow heavy.

“You should get some sleep” Phainon murmured, voice softer than usual.

You shifted slightly, resting your arms against your knees. “I’m fine.”

He huffed a laugh. “Yeah, sure.”

Suddenly, he tilted his head toward you, offering his shoulder.

“Here. You look dead on your feet.”

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t want to—but because it was too familiar. But in the end, you let yourself lean in. His body was warm, solid, steady. A presence that should have belonged to someone else. Your eyes slipped shut. And then the past came rushing back.

It was cold. The kind of cold that seeped into your bones, that turned breath to mist and blood to ice. Kevin stood before you, blade in hand, his expression unreadable. Behind him, the battlefield stretched endlessly—flames licking at broken metal, bodies crumpled in the snow.

You reached for him. “Kevin—”

He didn’t move. And then, without warning, the world cracked apart. Blood bloomed across his chest, staining his uniform. You screamed. He didn’t fall. Not at first. He turned to you, lips parting as if to say something, but then his knees buckled. His body hit the ground. The snow swallowed him whole. You ran. You clawed at the frozen earth, hands shaking as you tried to pull him back, tried to stop the blood from spilling out.

You woke with a gasp, your body jerking upright. The campfire flickered in the dark, but all you could see was red. A strong arm wrapped around you.

“Hey, hey—breathe,” Phainon’s voice murmured, still thick with sleep. His warmth surrounded you, grounding you, pulling you back. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

Your fingers curled into his shirt. For a moment, you almost called him Kevin. But then Phainon pulled you closer, his hand resting gently against your back, and the name died on your tongue. He wasn’t Kevin. But that didn’t matter. Because in his arms, you could almost pretend.

It had been weeks since you last saw him. You told yourself it didn’t matter. Phainon was a wandering warrior, it was natural for your paths to split. You would always find him again.

The city was lively, you moved through the crowd, heading toward the bounty office when a familiar voice cut through the noise.

“—Not bad, huh? Almost too easy.”

You stopped. Phainon stood near the entrance of a tavern, laughing with a group of fighters. His silver-white hair caught the light, his expression open and carefree.

He looked the same. He always looked the same. But something was off. The people around him. They weren’t you.

One of them, a cocky-looking guy with a scar across his jaw, noticed you first.

“Well, well. What do we have here?”

You ignored him, stepping toward Phainon. Before you could speak, the guy slung an arm around Phainon’s shoulder, grinning. “Hey, Phainon, is this an old flame or something?”

Your expression didn’t change, but something cold settled in your stomach.

Phainon blinked, glancing between you and the man.

“Huh? No, this is—”

The guy cut him off with a laugh. “Come on, don’t tell me you let this one slip away.”

His grin widened, eyes flicking over you in a way you did not like. “Though, I guess if you’re free now—”

Your knife was at his throat before he could finish. Silence fell over the group. The man froze, his smirk twisting into something nervous.

“I’d suggest you shut up” you murmured. “Before you lose something important.”

A drop of sweat rolled down his temple. He lifted his hands in surrender, stepping back carefully.

“Alright, alright. No need to get violent.”

You lowered the knife. Without another word, you turned and walked away.

Phainon cursed under his breath before jogging after you. “Wait—Y/N!”

You didn’t stop, but he caught up easily, falling into step beside you.

“You know, scaring the hell out of people isn’t the best way to make friends.”

“I wasn’t trying to make friends.”

Phainon laughed, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Yeah, I figured.” He glanced at you. “Still… sorry about that guy. He’s an idiot.”

You said nothing.

He nudged your arm. “You okay?”

You exhaled slowly, forcing down the lingering irritation. It wasn’t his fault.

“…I’m fine.”

Phainon studied you for a moment, then smiled. “Well, since you’re here, want to help me out with a mission? It’s nothing too crazy, but an extra set of hands wouldn’t hurt.”

You met his gaze. A chance to stay close. A chance to remind him that no one knew him like you did. You nodded.

“Great. Let’s go.”

And just like that, you were by his side again. Right where you belonged.

The mission was straightforward—escort a merchant’s cargo through a stretch of rough terrain. Phainon handled the front, chatting with the merchant, while you kept watch from the back.

It should have been easy. But your mind wasn’t on the job. You watched Phainon’s movements, the way he carried himself, the way his shoulders shifted with each step.

It was so much like Kevin.

And yet, it wasn’t.

You clenched your fists. He wasn’t Kevin. The realization struck harder than expected, like a thread snapping loose in your mind. You had known, of course.

And yet… The thought crept back in, slow and insidious. Kevin had walked ahead of you once, too. Just like this. Always leading, always making sure you weren’t far behind. And when you trailed off, lost in thought, he had always—

“Y/N!”

Phainon was in front of you now, tilting his head. “You good?”

For a moment, you didn’t answer. You just stared at him, seeing him and not seeing him at the same time.

“…Yeah,” you finally murmured.

He didn’t look convinced but let it go. The mission ended smoothly. You parted ways with the merchant at a guild outpost, collecting your cut of the payment before heading off on your own.

You needed space.

The forest just outside the outpost was quiet, the distant hum of city life fading into the rustling leaves. You leaned against a tree, exhaling slowly. You had been too careless. Too caught up in the idea of him.

Phainon wasn’t Kevin. But it was hard to let go.

“Did I do something?”

Your eyes snapped open. Phainon stood a few feet away, arms crossed, expression light but questioning.

“…Why are you here?”

He shrugged. “Saw you leave. Thought you might need company.”

Of course. Of course he would follow. Just like Kevin had.

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “I just needed some air.”

Phainon hummed. “Well, I won’t bother you too much, then.” He paused, then added, “Did you hear about the guy who fell into a well?”

You frowned. “What?”

“He couldn’t see that well.”

You stared at him. A beat of silence. Then— A laugh slipped out before you could stop it. It was small, barely more than a chuckle, but it was real. Phainon grinned like he had won something, rocking back on his heels.

“There it is,” he said.

You shook your head, exhaling. “That was awful.”

“I know.”

And just like that, the weight in your chest lessened.

He wasn’t Kevin. But maybe… that was okay.

Phainon never stayed in one place for too long, never tied himself down. But you were patient. And patience always paid off.

You didn’t force your presence into his life. Instead, you became a constant—a familiar face in his ever-changing world.

When he stopped by a town, you were already there.

When he took on a job, you happened to be on a similar one.

And when he thought he was alone, he would find himself thinking about you.

One evening, after a particularly grueling mission, Phainon collapsed into a seat at a guild tavern, rolling his shoulder with a tired sigh. His new companions were loud, sharing drinks, but he felt… detached. Like something was missing. And then— A familiar presence slid into the seat beside him.

“You look like hell.”

His head snapped toward you, surprised—then relieved. “Y/N!”

is grin came easy, like he had been expecting you all along. “You got a habit of showing up at the right time, huh?”

You smiled, resting your chin on your hand. “Or maybe you’ve just started noticing.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Maybe.”

He didn’t realize it yet, but he was already caught. Because now, when you weren’t around, he felt your absence. And that was exactly what you wanted.

---

The air was thick with the scent of blood and scorched earth. Phainon stood amidst the wreckage—broken weapons, shattered armor, and bodies strewn across the battlefield. But none of it made sense. Because you were the one who did this.

His party had been strong. They should have been able to handle a monster attack, but instead, they were lying unconscious at your feet, their bodies bearing wounds too precise, too lethal to be anything but intentional. And there you stood, a wicked glint in your eyes, your blade gleaming under the artificial moonlight cast by the neon panels embedded into the sky.

The world was a strange mix of past and future, but here and now, only one thing mattered—your bloodstained hands and the way you were looking at him. Not as a stranger. But as him.

“Kevin…” You breathed his name like a prayer, like a curse.

Phainon tensed. Kevin?

The monster that had been terrorizing travelers was nowhere to be seen, but he knew what had happened now. You’d fallen under its control—trapped in an illusion, haunted by the past.

Your movements were deadly, practiced. Years of battle had honed you into something nearly untouchable, something even his team had failed to stand against. But Phainon wasn’t them. He had fought wars alone, walked through death and back, and he wouldn’t fall so easily.

“Kevin,” you called again, this time with something aching in your voice, something raw. “Why did you leave me?”

Phainon barely dodged as you lunged, your blade slicing through the air where his throat had been a moment before. He didn’t answer. There was no point. You weren’t here. You were somewhere else.

You fought like a demon possessed, each strike laced with fury, grief, and longing. Phainon could see it in your eyes—the war between past and present, the way you weren’t truly seeing him. You didn’t hesitate. Because in your mind, you were fighting to keep Kevin from slipping away again. A cruel trick of the mind.

Phainon gritted his teeth, raising his sword to block another vicious strike. He had to end this—quickly. You were powerful, but the real enemy was the one who had twisted your memories, poisoned your mind.

And then he saw it. A shadow lurking behind you, monstrous and ancient, its form flickering in and out of existence. The true beast. You weren’t the enemy. It was. With a swift, calculated movement, Phainon feinted, dodging your next strike just enough to get into position. Then, with one fluid motion, he shifted his grip— And slayed the monster in a single, precise strike.

The moment its body hit the ground, the illusion shattered. The haze in your eyes flickered, confusion replacing the madness. Your knees buckled, and Phainon caught you before you could collapse entirely.

“Phainon…?” Your voice was barely above a whisper.

Not Kevin.

His grip tightened around you, but his expression remained unreadable. “It’s over.”

The weight of what had just happened pressed down on you, suffocating, but before you could fall any further, Phainon moved.

Without a word, he lifted you into his arms and began walking. Away from the battlefield. Away from the carnage, to the nearest inn.

The room at the inn was dimly lit, the only illumination coming from the old-fashioned lantern hanging on the wall. Outside, the distant hum of machinery mixed with the sound of rain tapping against the window—modern and ancient, colliding in a world that never quite made sense. But none of it mattered. Not when he was here.

Phainon sat at the edge of the bed, tending to the shallow cuts on his arm. The battle had been over for hours, but you could still feel the phantom weight of your blade in your hands, still hear the way you had called him Kevin with such desperation.

But that wasn’t what made your stomach twist. It was the way he had looked at you afterward. Distant. Like he was leaving you behind. Your fingers curled into the sheets, your breath slow and measured as you watched him from across the room.

Your voice came out softer than you intended. “You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?”

Phainon didn’t look up. “Thinking about what?”

“Leaving me.”

A flicker of something crossed his face—annoyance? Amusement? It was always so hard to tell with him. “You’re imagining things.”

“Am I?” You pushed yourself up, the sheets pooling around you as you crawled closer. “You’re afraid of me now.”

He finally met your gaze, “No. But I know you, and I know what you’re thinking.”

You let out a soft laugh, tilting your head. “Do you?”

Your hands moved before he could react, grabbing his wrist, fingers pressing into the faint scars that mapped his skin. He stilled, not out of fear, but because he knew. Knew that something had shifted inside you, something that had always been there but had finally cracked open, spilling over.

“You tried to take him from me” you whispered, tightening your grip. “Tried to remind me he’s gone.”

Phainon didn’t respond.

“You killed the monster” you continued, “but do you think that means I’ll forget? That I’ll let go?”

“I’m not him.”

“I know.” Your nails pressed into his skin. “That’s why you’re mine.”

Kevin had been taken from you, ripped away by a cruel world that had never cared for love or loyalty. But Phainon… Phainon was here. And you wouldn’t lose him.

“You belong to me” you murmured, inching closer, close enough to feel his breath, to drown in his eyes. “So don’t even think about leaving, Phainon.”

Phainon didn’t speak, but he didn’t push you away either.

You straddled him, fingers wrapped around his wrists, pressing them into the mattress. His silver hair fanned across the sheets, his expression unreadable beneath you. The lantern’s glow flickered against his skin, casting shadows over the sharp lines of his face.

“You’re not trying to stop me” you whispered, leaning down until your noses nearly touched. “Why?”

Still, he said nothing. But his body—his silence—spoke volumes. You traced your fingers along the veins of his forearm, feeling the strength beneath them. He could throw you off if he truly wanted to. He could fight back. But he didn’t. A shiver of delight ran through you.

“You act like you don’t care” you murmured, shifting slightly, feeling the way his muscles tensed beneath you, “but you do, don’t you?”

You watched his expression, waiting, daring him to deny it. But there was no sharp retort, no scoff, no effort to escape. Only silence. Your hands released his wrists, fingers trailing down his arms, across his chest.

“You won’t leave me” you whispered, pressing your forehead to his. “I won’t let you.”

His eyes softened, just slightly.

“You’re mine” you breathed against his lips, feeling the warmth of him beneath you, the quiet surrender he refused to put into words.

His steady breath fanning against your lips as you hovered over him, waiting, daring him to push you away. His wrists were free now, your hands resting lightly on his chest, feeling the slow, controlled rhythm of his heartbeat.

Then, he moved. It was subtle, almost hesitant—the way his head tilted up ever so slightly, the way his breath caught just before his lips brushed yours. Your own breath hitched, a rush of warmth flooding your veins.

So, he finally understands?

Your fingers curled around the fabric of his shirt, your grip tightening. Just as his lips were about to meet yours, you caught his chin between your fingers, stopping him just short.

“Ah” you whispered, tilting his head back just enough to assert your hold, “so you do want me.”

He didn’t deny it. You leaned in, lips ghosting over his, savoring the way his breath shuddered ever so slightly, the way he was letting you control the moment.

“I knew you would come around” you murmured, letting your fingers trail up to cup his jaw.

Then, with agonizing slowness, you leaned down, claiming what had always belonged to you.

#yandere #hsr x reader #honkai star rail #hsr x you #yandere reader #phainon honkai star rail #phainon hsr #phainon x reader #hsr phainon #phainon

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alexa-yukiyu · 5 months ago

Note

You know how child!Dokusha often ends up in places she shouldn't be? I think that most of the characters would be understanding of the childs curiosity, while others would scold them for not sitting put.

For example child! Dokusha as mihawks child would get scolded by their father alot for it but he understands that children will be children and be curious. Also the more you tell kids to not do something the more they do it

I feel like shanks would be A father that also let's his crew be fathers. Personally I love the idea that lucky roo is a amazing babysitter, I don't know why

Eat water drink food Alexa 👍

Sneaky sneak ft Mihawk and Lucky Roo

A/N Alright the title is kinda weak but I have nothing, also this is pretty weak especially the part with too so i’m sorry holo 🥲 I am late and lack in

Reader here is replaced with Dokucha for the enjoyment of both reader and oc character readers

Dokucha grinned, realizing the room they had sneaked into was the armory. Their eyes shined in excitement as they examined all the weapons in the room, hopping, crawling, and sneaking around the glittering artifacts until a specific one called their attention.

Grinning, they climbed down from the small ledge they had climbed to take a peek at a bow; they approached the familiar weapon, lips slightly parted in awe as they stood in front of the sword.

"No way…" they muttered gingerly touching the handle of the sword as thoughts raced through their mind.

"It's so beautiful…the best quality leather in the market wrapped on the handle with a lapis lazuli encrusted on the pummel," they muttered, eyeing the large jewel and rubbing the leather, shivering at the supple, slightly grainy texture.

"A half-a-meter gold hand-carved guard with jade and tanzanite on the quillon and the Ricasso," they gushed, eyes twinkling in amazement as their hand lowered to the body of the sword

"A black blade; it could have been his haki, but maybe it was forged like this, put in heat time after time to get such a beautiful obsidian color, and they even added hand-carving to its fuller."

"And it's-

"Not yours to he touching." A stern voice cut in, taking a firm but gentle hold of their hand as it began inching toward the edge of the blade

"Ah! Dad! What are you doing here? " they yelled, their eyes wide as they jumped back from the man, arms now crossed on his chest as he stared them down.

"That is hardly the question here, isn't it?" He questioned, raising an eyebrow, watching as the child began to fidget and look away from the man, trying to put their sight on anything but him.

"I just ended up here; I was going to leave….but then I saw you, and I got a lil distracted."

Mihawk stared at the child, his frown softening until he let out a chuckle. A rare amused smile grew on his face, though he was quick to erase it.

"You know you are not supposed to be here, " he chided, shaking his head as he took hold of his sword. His amusement grew as the move instantly caught the attention of the child.

"However, I will forgive it this time since I see you have been keeping up with your readings," he called, glancing at them; he noticed this caused their attention to switch to him, placing Yoru in its rightful place behind him.

"How about I teach you some hands-on lessons on the art of the swords?" He suggested turning around and making his way out of the room

"Yes!" They hollered, scrambling to follow after the man

"Oi, have you found them yet?!" Hongo called, his voice echoing across the deck, and various negative responses echoed back, much to his annoyance.

"Commander Hongo, do you think they might have followed Shanks out of the ship?" A crewmember questioned, scratching his neck as he looked around the deck for the child

"No, they're a rascal, but they know the consequences won't be light if they leave the Force without permission; they know better," Hongo huffed out.

"This would be so much easier if Yassop were here; he's the only one that can bypass their presence masking," he muttered, calling out to the crewmates to continue their search as he joined them.

"Ha! That's right! Without Uncle Yassop here, they have no chance!" They snickered from below them as they hid on the gun's deck, browsing through the different weapons that were kept alongside the canons

"Oh! They keep the grenades here! Sweet!" They cheered, grabbing the small sphere with a mischievous grin on their faces, until a hand grabbed it from their hands, causing them to shoot up.

"U-Uncle Roo!" they gaped, watching the grinning back as he put the grenade back where they had found it.

"Ha! Ha! That's true, but you still have to find a good hiding spot if you don't want the rest of us to find you," he called teasingly

"You're not supposed to be here," he stated, letting out a small laugh as they just looked away.

"You can't sneak here every time he leaves; you know we are going to find you."

"…are you goin' To tell Dad?"

"Hm, I could! But I could also cut you a deal," he snickered, taking a bite from the usual chicken leg on his hand.

"Deal?"

"You finish your chores, and I won't tell him."

"Ugh!"

I thought I was cookin

Taglist:

@Imaginarydreams

@amethystviolin

@h0n3y-l3m0n05

@hannahbarberra162

@epochal-oracle

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queen-of-the-avengers · 1 year ago

Text

Arabesque

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~1.7k

Warnings: fluff

Summary: Being a ballerina is everything you've ever wanted and more but after a major injury, you had to stay a step back. Now you're able to get back into it, so you ask the one person on the team who has taken ballet if she can help you.

Squares Filled: “you better have a good excuse for being late again.” (2021) for @blackwidowbingo

Author’s Note: any and all comments are appreciated <3

The mansion is so big that you have to split up from your team in order to cover most of it. You hate being on your own on a mission but this calls for you to be alone. You’re not much for violence but the team needs a sharpshooter, which you are. You’re highly skilled on your feet, very flexible, and light as a feather. You can sneak into a room and not make a sound even if there are fifty people in it.

Someone with that skill is useful on a mission like this one. Someone stole black market weapons that they want to sell to the highest bidder, and you’re here to stop him before they leave. You’re not sure who is behind this but if those weapons get out, a lot of people are going to die.

Your earpiece connects you to Steve, Clint, and Natasha so even though you’re not in the same room as them, you still have them by your side. Your steps are very light as you enter one of the back rooms and there is a man in the back by a table of weapons. It’s the stolen merchandise. If you play your cards right, you can do this without alerting him.

The man takes apart the big guns to be packaged easier in the boxes by his feet. As he is turning to package the guns, you panic thinking he is going to see you and start shooting. You do the first thing you can think of and haul yourself onto a high cabinet soundlessly. The man turns and doesn't see you as he continues to pack the weapons.

You jump from high cabinet to high cabinet as you make your way across the room silently. The space is small and compact but you’re very flexible. You’ve been training all your life to be where you are, and it comes in handy for missions like these. When you get right above the guy, you jump onto his back and tighten your legs around his neck. The man doesn’t have any time to react and begins flailing about trying to get you off him.

You take your knife out of the arm holster and stab his hands that try to pry you off him, and he falls to the ground in a fit of choked gasps. As soon as he is passed out from the lack of oxygen, you step away from him and clean your blade on his jacket.

“I got the weapons. Back room, west wing.”

“On our way,” Natasha says. Your teammates meet you in the back room and see the man sprawled at your feet. “You took him down without alerting the alarms. Impressive.”

One word from her and you’re a blushing mess.

“Thank you,” you smile.

Steve grabs the man while you, Natasha, and Clinbt grab the weapons. SHIELD has been looking for these weapons that will keep them in their inventory while keeping the man hostage to gather more information from him. Everyone wants to celebrate the successful mission but parties were never your thing. Nothing against your friends but you’d rather spend time in the gym than be mingling with all of them.

Tony made a section of the gym to mirror a ballet studio for you to practice in. You’ve taken ballet ever since you could walk since your mother was one. You’re just following in her footsteps, trying to make her proud. The dream is to one day be on stage in front of an audience but you have a long way until you get there. You face the mirror and grab onto the bar so you can do your stretches. You squat down and bend your knees outward for ten seconds before standing up and doing it all over again.

For your next stretch, you turn away from the mirror and bend backward until your head is at the same length as the low bar. You grab onto the bar and lean forward while still holding onto the bar so that your body is in a backward ‘7’ shape. You’re holding this position for thirty seconds when you see Natasha walk into the gym through the mirror. You stand upright and give her a kind smile.

“Nice form. Looks like it feels good.”

“Yeah, especially after a long mission.”

“Little tip? Try using the wall for that stretch and walk your legs down the wall.”

“Have you ever taken ballet?”

“We did it as part of our training.” You open your mouth to ask her something but decide against it. “No, what were you going to say?”

“I was going to ask if you wanted to be my teacher. I could use some help with my form even though I’ve been doing this all my life. I took a long break due to an injury and I’m just now getting back into it. I’d like you to teach me only if you’re okay with it. I understand if it’s too painful for you to, though.”

She chuckles. “Had you asked me fifteen years ago, I would have said no but I can be your teacher now.”

“Great,” you grin.

You two meet four times a week, three times if you have a mission to go on. She is teaching you so much, stuff that you didn’t know about or have forgotten about. While this has been helpful for your ballet career, it’s bad for your thoughts and feelings. It’s no secret that you have a thing for Natasha. How can anyone not have a thing for her? She’s gorgeous, has an amazing personality, is sweet and funny, and puts everyone before herself. She might know based on the looks you’ve been giving her but you haven’t outright told her you like her.

“I appreciate everything you’ve been doing for me,” you say to her.

You’ve learned so much in the coming weeks that brought you closer to her, which is why you two are sitting on the roof overlooking the city below. Tony built the Avengers Tower right in the center of Manhattan so on nights like these, you can see the nightlife.

“So, have you always wanted to be a ballerina?” Natasha asks.

“For as long as I could remember. My mother was one. Maybe that’s why I got into ballet classes at such a young age. I was actually really good until I graduated high school. I got injured on stage which left me unable to perform for years. By the time I could do it again, I lost my way. I started to pick it up over the years but it wasn’t the same. What about you?”

“What about me?”

“I can’t imagine going through Red Room training was fun, but did you like doing ballet? Can you see yourself doing it again?”

“No,” she shakes her head.

“What did you want to do in life? You know, if you weren't an Avenger?”

“I never thought about it. I was taken at such a young age, that I didn’t think I could know anything outside of that training.”

That hurts your heart. She was taken and forced into a life she never asked for. She better off now but at what cost?

“What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugs.

Moments like these are precious because they don’t last forever. The training sessions after this got better because you two found a way to work well together. She’d help you with your form and you’d try and perform a number for her. It’s working well for you two except your feelings for her are increasing. It’s the way she presses her body against yours to make sure you’re in the right position or her hand on your body guiding you to where you need to be.

It’s driving you insane.

She’s gonna kill me. Fuck.

If you’re late one more time, she is going to kick your ass. You rush down to the gym in hopes she isn’t there. You yank open the door and sigh in relief when you don’t see her in the corner. To make it seem like you’ve been here for at least thirty minutes, you quickly put your shoes on and do some quick stretches.

“You better have a good excuse for being late again.”

You look up and see Natasha by the entrance to the gym.

“Okay, listen, my alarm didn’t wake me up.”

“It’s one in the afternoon.”

“Your point?”

“If you’re late again, I’ll have you on the floor in seconds.”

Damn, why’d that turn you on? Those are delicious yet dangerous thoughts.

“Yes, ma’am,” you nod.

She walks over to you just as you stick your left leg into the air behind you. The only thing you’re balancing on is your right foot on your toes. You arch your back slightly and raise your arms to look like you’re flying. One of the things you’ve had trouble with since getting back into the art is balancing. Natasha puts her right hand underneath your leg to keep it up as soon as she sees you wobbling.

“Don’t think. Clear your mind.”

She moves her hand from your calf up to your inner thigh, raising your leg as she moves. She grips your hip to get you to stay still, but the only reason why you’re going to crumble to the ground is because her hands are on your body. Her hands are so close to the place where you want her the most even if she doesn’t know it. She must know what she’s doing to you otherwise she wouldn’t do it. You look at her through the mirror and see the slight smirk on her face. That motherfucker. She knows exactly what she is doing.

“Like that?”

“Just like that. Good girl.”

Those two words are what cause you to fall back into her. She catches you in her arms and you put your hands on her shoulders to steady yourself.

“Sorry,” you whisper.

“It’s okay,” she whispers back.

Your body acts before your brain can think. You press a kiss upon her lips but quickly pull back in shock that you actually did that.

“Shit, I’m sorry. I didn't mean to do that.”

“Do it again,” she says.

This time, you kiss her confidently. Ballet practice just got a whole lot more interesting.

Follow my library blog @aqueenslibrary where I reblog all my stories, so you can put notifications on there without the extra stuff :)

#natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff fic #natasha romanoff fanfiction #natasha romanoff fanfic #natasha romanoff fluff #natasha romanoff fiction #natasha romanoff fan fic #natasha romanoff fan fiction #marvel #marvel fanfiction #mcu #marvel fan fic #marvel fluff #marvel fanfic #marvel fan fiction #marvel fic #marvel fiction #mcu fanfiction

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northstar-galactic-command · 1 month ago

Text

Shipkillers, Part One

Shady marketing materials will sometimes claim a weapon from a particularly license is “ship scale” or “naval grade”. Some pilots will also claim that the custom, overpowered monstrosity they’ve attached to their Mech is a “ship-class” gun. But what does that mean, anyway?

On a purely technical level, it means absolutely nothing. All of these terms are fluff and marketing buzzwords. There is no formal or official definition of what is and isn’t a naval weapon. At the most literal level, if someone bolted a GMS Type-I Pistol to the side of a freighter then any Frame equipped with a Type-I Pistol is technically armed with a “ship gun”.

A more realistic definition for so-called “naval weapons” is that they are dedicated ship-to-ship weapons that have been scaled down for use on a Mech, Mech weapons that have been scaled up into a ship-to-ship weapon, or Mech weapons that operate using the same principles as a popular ship-to-ship weapon.

In a hilarious twist the Pinaka missile launcher is a simultaneous example of both the first and second definitions*, while Harrison Armory’s Tachyon Lance is a pretty straightforward example of the third.

All that being said, claiming a chassis weapon is a “naval gun” because it has a loose naval counterpart is like claiming something is an artillery mech because it’s equipped with an IPS-N. hand cannon. The hand cannon uses explosive propellant to launch a high-caliber projectile just like the GMS Type-III howitzer and HA siege cannon, and even has “cannon” in its name! That still doesn’t make it an artillery cannon.

There is one major exception to this, and it’s the main reason we even have to have this discussion. So let’s talk about the elephant in the room: the Apocalypse Rail.

First, we need to clear up some misconceptions. The Apocalypse Rail does not use the same technology as the long and short-spool guns found on warships. It was never put on a ship, and it was never meant to be put on a ship. Not in its current form, at least.

The Apocalypse Rail was originally a scale test of an entirely new type of spool weapon that Harrison Armory hoped would eventually replace existing spinal spoon guns. It was released to the general public as a form of crowd-sourced field testing, to give HA engineers live data they could use to help work out the kinks before attempting to put it on a ship.

Getting it to the point it could actually be deployed to a real battlefield was the tricky part. It was too big, too volatile, and required too much power to include as a standalone weapon. So instead they built the Apocalypse Rail around the only Chassis big enough to handle it: the new (at the time) Barbossa frame. Or the Barbossa was built around the Apocalypse Rail, depending on who you ask.

Unfortunately for those desiring taxonomic precision, this came with a PR problem. The Barbossa was built under the explicit orders of John Creighton Harrison II. It was supposed to, and this is a direct quote, “stand as the unstoppable image of Harrison I”. There was no way HA was going to let words “miniature”, “small”, or “light” be affiliated with the signature superweapon of the biggest frame they’d ever released, a frame that was supposed to be an idol to their beloved founder. So instead of an accurate classification like “small-scale gravitational spool gun” or “miniature exponential gravitic catapult”, the weapon was marketed as a “ship-class spool weapon”.

…which is where the problems start.

There’s no shortage of people who like to perform statistical analyses of Mechs and their equipment, and there’s no end of data for them to comb through: official specs, field tests, action reports, simulations accurate down to the last spec of dust, videos of weird stunts someone pulled in the Long Rim, and so much more. The official reports done by corporations or nationstates almost never see the light of day, but plenty of others are willing to take a more public stab at it. Some of these are extremely methodical and well researched, some are hot garbage, and virtually all of them have at least some bias (intentional or otherwise).

The Omninet is flooded with articles, videos, and think pieces on each and every major Frame, most arguing why the Frame is either the best thing ever or utter trash. While it has its supporters, the Barbarossa rarely comes out well in these sorts of amateur reviews. A common complaint (aside from its ridiculous size) is that the terrifying Apocalypse Rail is overhyped. It's easy to find a weapon that can be modified to hit just hard as the Apocalypse Rail does against an unarmored or lightly armored target, without the Rail's many drawbacks. For example, according to most reports a full burst from a stock Leviathan Heavy Assault Cannon has higher average damage than an Apocalypse Rail, and a mech with a Leviathan doesn't need to sit still while their gun charges.

This causes some misunderstandings. Pilots look at the numbers for their over-caliber artillery cannon or super-charged turbolaser and see that it's averaging as much or more damage as the legendary "ship-class spool weapon". If the Apocalypse Rail is a ship-scale weapon and their gun hits just as hard, they must be carrying naval ordinance too!

What most people forget is that the Apocalypse Rail wasn't designed to shoot at Frames, or aircraft, or tanks. It's honestly wasted against them, like trying to kill ants with a sledgehammer. The Rail was designed to be used against hundred-meter long slabs of armor that can't dodge or take cover. It's an anti-ship, anti-fortification weapon, and that's where it shows its true power.

An IPS-N portable bunker can shrug off hits from siege cannons, Pinaka missile barrages, and fully-charged solidcore lasers. It’s four times as thick as the GMS Pattern-A Jericho deployable cover, designed to tank sustained barrages from super-heavy ordinance.

An Apocalypse Rail can destroy a portable bunker in a single shot.

Even if you somehow doubled the bunker's thickness and put it under two overlapping Aegis shield generators, a fully-charged Apocalypse Rail will still vaporize the bunker in a single hit. It’s that powerful. So why does it suck?

To put it bluntly, the Apocalypse Rail can barely hit the broadside of a barn. It has a deviation measured in meters. This shouldn't come as a surprise: it's a highly volatile weapon system built directly into an infamously clumsy Frame that must be totally stationary while charging and firing. Everything from gravity to humidity to atmospheric pressure to density of air particulates can impact the weapon's accuracy, and that's not even getting into the fact that enemies usually won't sit perfectly still so they can be shot. Unless the Rail is shooting at a large building, a direct hit is almost impossible. So instead of aiming at their target, most pilots will aim at something near their target.

Infantry, Frames, vehicles, and similar units don’t take damage from an Apocalypse Rail’s projectile: they get damaged by the shockwave from the projectile impacting nearby. This keeps misses from unintentionally rearranging landmarks several dozen kilometers away, and a fully charged Rail is so powerful that even a near miss can severely damage most units. It doesn't always work, however, which is how you get those amusing images of people standing in the molten crater of an Apocalypse Rail impact, totally unharmed despite everything around them having been vaporized.

Against large orbital targets, which move in predictable ways and don’t have as much terrestrial nonsense to complicate the shot, the Apocalypse Rail is devastating. In an orbital defense role, its range and damage exceed almost any other chassis-based weapon system on the market. Thus, while it isn't purpose-built for the job, the Apocalypse Rail is still the closest thing most pilots ever get to putting “true” naval ordinance on a Mech.

But dedicated Frame-mounted anti-ship weapons do exist. They’re known as “Shipkillers”.

To be continued…

*: The Pinaka was based on a ship-to-ship missile system, which was sized down for use on a mechanized Chassis. The original naval weapon was phased out, but the Pinaka performed so well as part of the Monarch license that SSC scaled it back up and rereleased it as part of their LIMITD line of naval weapons.

#the Apocalypse Rail exists to compensate for John Creighton's dick #and like his dick it's overhyped #it requires external support #and it doesn't work most of the time #lancer rp #lancer rpg #lancer battlegroup #lancer Harrison Armory

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marvelskies1969 · 2 months ago

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Infinity

Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader / Loki x Fem!Reader

Premise: Y/N Rogers was sent away as a child, her powers deemed dangerous. After years of brief summers with Steve and Bucky, she returns for good when their mother dies—just as war begins.

As her abilities awaken, she draws the attention of Loki, the trickster god, and faces growing fear from those around her. Caught between destiny, war, and forbidden ties, Y/N must decide who she truly is—and who she’s willing to fight for.

Warnings/content: slight angst, brief mention of death/dying, jealousy, fluff, swearing, unstable parental relationships, follows the plot of the MCU timeline, with small changes.

[Masterlist]

[Part 3]

Chapter 88

The Unseen Threat

The Avengers gathered in the lab, the weight of their latest crisis pressing down on them. Ultron had vanished into the internet, leaving destruction, uncertainty, and access to nuclear codes. The team debated responsibility as tensions flared. Thor’s anger erupted, lifting Tony effortlessly in frustration, reflecting the fear creeping in. Ultron wasn’t just an accident—they had made him.

As Steve stood firm, insisting they’d fight together no matter the cost, Maria Hill revealed disturbing reports: erased data, victims with forgotten memories, and a clue leading them to Ulysses Klaue, a black-market dealer with ties to vibranium. The trail led them to Wakanda, where a battle awaited.

In the shadows of the salvage yard, Y/N barely heard the murmurs of her teammates. The second they entered, she felt it—the presence of Wanda. The connection was undeniable, the pull of the Mind Stone still strong. Wanda was close. Y/N had no doubt she was aware of her too.

Ultron’s fury exploded as he tore Klaue’s arm off. Before things could spiral further, the Avengers stormed in—Iron Man, Thor, and Captain America ready for a fight.

Tony’s voice was calm but tense. "Junior."

Ultron barely glanced at him. "If I have to break your heart to win, I will."

Chaos erupted. Ultron’s drones dropped from above, weapons firing. Pietro darted around, too fast to catch, while Wanda’s red energy crackled dangerously at her fingertips.

Y/N tried to intercept but between keeping tabs on Pietro, Y/N found herself under Wanda's spell as she appeared as if from nowhere, then suddenly she wasn't in the yard anymore.

The skies darkened, and thundered cracks—not from Thor, but from a different storm. Loki stands atop the throne, eyes burning emerald, a twisted crown of gold coiled like serpents around his brow. His voice is low and cold, echoing through the halls as he declares himself King Eternal. The people of Asgard kneel, not in loyalty, but in fear. His laughter grows wild—madness etched into every syllable.

Y/N tries to run, to scream, to reach him—but the scene rips away like torn fabric.

Now it’s snowing.

She’s back by the train tracks, metal screaming against metal, the memory too cruel. Bucky is falling again, again—and this time he doesn't just fall. He turns midair, eyes hollow, accusing. “You let me go.”

Before she can cry out, he vanishes into the white, and the wind turns to whispers.

She spins around—now she's surrounded. The Avengers form a circle, faces unreadable, wary. Natasha’s hand is near her weapon. Tony’s repulsors are glowing. Steve doesn’t look at her—he looks through her. Fear coils in their eyes.

“What are you?”

Panic rises in her chest, thick and suffocating. The world starts to shake. She begs them to stop looking at her like that. She begs them to listen. They don’t. She screams.

And then—white light.

When it clears, the world is silent.

She's standing in the wreckage of her own power.

The corpses of her friends lie strewn around her like fallen stars—Natasha, eyes open in death. Tony, armor shattered, chest dark. Thor’s hammer lies still. Clint’s bow snapped in two.

She stumbles through them, heart pounding, blood on her hands. Her breath comes in gasps.

And then she sees them.

Loki and Bucky—side by side, watching her, expressionless, lifeless. Silent judges of a crime she never meant to commit.

She collapses to her knees before them.

A hand grips her ankle—tight, desperate.

She turns.

Steve. Still alive, barely. His face pale, lips bloodied. But his voice—his voice is not his own.

It is Odin's, ancient and booming.

“The Green Witch… who gained too many colours.”

Y/N fought against it, muscles trembling, mind clawing its way out of the nightmare like a drowning woman reaching for air. “It’s not real! It’s not real!” she screamed, voice hoarse with desperation.

And then, like a dam cracking under pressure, her power surged outward—chaotic, brilliant, untamed. The illusion shattered around her like glass hit with a hammer. Wanda reeled back, a sharp gasp escaping her lips as she staggered.

She hadn’t expected Y/N to break free so quickly—not from her magic.

Y/N’s eyes glowed with the raw, pulsing force of her abilities. She didn’t hesitate. She reached—dug—straight into Wanda’s mind.

Wanda flinched, but the contact had been made.

A whisper slipped through, almost like a lullaby.

“I want the big one.”

Y/N’s eyes widened. Hulk.

Wanda vanished into the shadows before Y/N could react, scurrying off like a fox who’d just teased a lion.

Panting, shaken but clear, Y/N turned to the others. “I know what her game is,” she called. “We have to move now!”

But that’s when she saw them.

They weren’t moving.

The team stood still—too still. Eyes glazed, caught in the same psychic web she had just torn through.

She watched Thor stagger, his expression shifting in terror. Natasha froze, lost in a vision of her past. Steve gripped his shield, but his eyes were vacant, caught in a dance hall that no longer existed.

Y/N’s heart dropped.

They were already inside it.

And this time, she wasn’t sure she could pull them out. She noticed Clint, unfazed moving towards her, scanning for the ultra fast twin he was trying to contain.

"Clint, we have to move. Now!" Y/N shouted, urgency rising in her voice.

Clint, focused on the battle, glanced at her but didn’t reply. Wanda was in control, and their team was crumbling.

Panic surged through her, and she turned to Clint, her mind racing. "We need to get to the Quinjet. Now!"

But before they could react, a roar shook the Quinjet. Hulk had awakened, and he was already headed for the city.

Y/N’s heart pounded. They had to stop him, but it was already too late.

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idkyetxoxo · 2 months ago

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Harwin Strong - In the Dark

Summary - An errand takes a dangerous turn when she finds herself cornered by a stranger in the dark streets. In a desperate act of self-defence, she changes the course of her night—and her life. With her secret weighing heavily, an unexpected ally offers help, but at what cost?

Pairing - Harwin Strong x reader

Warnings - Violence

Word count - 2045

Masterlist for Harwin • House of the Dragon General Masterlist.

The streets had grown eerily silent, the once-bustling marketplace now a shadow of its lively self.

Workers had retreated to the warmth of their homes, vendors packed away their wares, and the city exhaled a weary sigh, leaving the narrow lanes deserted under the dim glow of flickering lanterns.

I moved quickly, my shoes striking the cobblestones in rhythm with my racing heart. I cursed myself for lingering so long, knowing well that the market was no place for someone like me after dark.

But I had wanted to surprise Rhaenyra—a pair of delicate earrings caught our eyes when we strolled the stalls days ago, and I had thought them perfect for her name day.

I hadn't meant to lose track of time.

The cool night air bit at my cheeks as I tightened my cloak around my shoulders, fingers brushing the small dagger strapped to my thigh. My father's stern voice echoed in my mind: "A weapon is not a comfort; it's a necessity."

At the time, I'd thought him dramatic. Now, I wasn't so sure.

Behind me, the shuffle of staggered footsteps broke the quiet, paired with low, guttural muttering. I froze for the briefest of moments before forcing my legs to move faster, the dagger a solid reassurance against my skin.

Then he appeared.

A figure stepped from the shadows and blocked my path, forcing me to halt abruptly. He stood with a casual menace, his dishevelled hair catching the faint light, and his smirk curled with disdain. His eyes were sharp, predatory, taking in my form with an air of cruel amusement.

"And what's this?" he sneered, tilting his head. "A little bird fluttering through the city this late?"

My voice caught in my throat, but I managed to murmur, "I apologise, ser. I mean no trouble."

I moved to sidestep him, clutching my cloak tighter, but his hand shot out, rough and unyielding, gripping my arm.

"Ser?" he repeated, laughing harshly. The sound was jagged, unpleasant. "A proper tongue on you. Too proper for this part of the city, I'd wager. What's a noble girl doing here, playing at being common?" His grip tightened, his sneer widening as I flinched.

"I only wish to go home," I whispered, my voice trembling despite my efforts to sound calm. The tremor betrayed me, and his smile turned darker, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes.

I twisted against his hold, panic clawing at my chest as I struggled to free myself, but his strength outmatched mine easily.

Fear prickled along my spine as I realized how truly isolated I was, the world around us silent save for the distant hum of the city settling into slumber.

Every instinct screamed at me to act, to fight, to run. But in that moment, all I could hear was the sound of my own breath, shallow and quick, as I stared into the unkind face of the man who blocked my path.

The man's grip on my arm grew punishing, his nails digging into my skin through the fabric of my cloak. His sneer twisted into something more sinister, his eyes narrowing with an unspoken threat that made my stomach churn.

"Don't be shy now," he hissed, pulling me closer. His breath reeked of ale and something bitter. "You're far from home, aren't you, little lady? No one to hear you scream this far out."

I tried to yank free again, panic flooding my chest as his other hand came up to grip my chin, forcing me to meet his predatory gaze. "Stop," I choked out, my voice breaking.

"Stop?" he mocked, his grin widening. "I don't think so. Pretty thing like you doesn't get to bark orders at me." His fingers pressed harder against my skin.

The fear in me turned sharp, desperate. My hand shot to the dagger at my thigh, fumbling to unsheathe it as my vision blurred with tears. He noticed, his smirk faltering.

"Oh, you've got teeth," he snarled. "Let's see how sharp they are."

With a burst of adrenaline, I swung the dagger upward, aiming to scare him—just to make him let go. But he was closer than I'd realised, and the blade found flesh.

A sickening resistance met my hand, followed by a wet gasp as his grip slackened.

I stumbled back, my breath ragged, the dagger still clutched in my trembling hand. The man staggered, clutching at his stomach where dark, sticky blood seeped through his fingers.

His eyes, wide with shock and fury, locked onto mine before his legs buckled, and he crumpled to the ground.

"No," I whispered, my voice barely audible over the pounding in my ears. "No, no, no..."

I dropped to my knees beside him, the dagger slipping from my grip onto the cobblestones. My hands pressed desperately against the wound, but the blood just kept coming, warm and unrelenting.

"Please," I begged, my voice breaking. "I didn't mean to—just stay—stay awake!"

But the man's breathing was shallow, his movements slowing until he was still. My hands, slick with his blood, trembled uncontrollably as I stared down at what I had done.

A sound broke through the fog in my mind—footsteps, measured and purposeful. My head snapped up, and a figure emerged from the shadows.

Torchlight glinted off the familiar black-and-gold armor of the City Watch. Ser Harwin Strong.

I knew him. Everyone at the Keep did.

The Lord Commander of the City Watch was a presence impossible to ignore—broad-shouldered, stalwart, with kind eyes that belied his fearsome reputation.

I'd seen him often in the Keep, admired his quiet chivalry, the way he carried himself with a strength that never seemed cruel.

Now, those kind eyes fell on me, widening slightly as he took in the scene—the blood on my hands, the body at my knees.

"My lady," he said, his voice low but steady, as if trying not to startle me. He stepped closer, slowly, his torch casting long shadows around us. "Are you hurt?"

I couldn't answer. The words wouldn't come. Instead, a broken sob escaped me as tears streamed down my face.

"I didn't mean to," I cried, my voice shaking. "I didn't mean to—I just wanted him to stop—"

Harwin crouched beside me, his movements deliberate and unthreatening. He reached for the dagger, still slick with blood where it lay on the ground. His fingers closed around the hilt, but he didn't pull it away immediately. Instead, he looked at me, his gaze soft and steady.

"It's all right," he said gently. "You're safe now."

"No," I stammered, shaking my head violently. "I've killed him—I've killed someone. This wasn't supposed to happen—I didn't mean to!"

He placed the dagger carefully to the side, out of my reach, and then his large, calloused hand rested lightly on my trembling shoulder.

"Listen to me," he said, his voice calm but firm. "What happened here will not follow you. Do you understand? You're not to blame for what he forced you to do."

I blinked at him through tears, unable to comprehend. "But... I've killed him."

"And it will stay between us," he said, his expression resolute. "No one has to know it was you. I will take care of this."

I stared at him, the weight of his words sinking in. His reassurance was like a lifeline, but guilt and horror still churned in my chest.

"You would—" I started, but my voice broke.

"I would," he said simply. His hand lingered on my shoulder for a moment, grounding me, before he stood and glanced around.

His sharp gaze seemed to assess the scene with the efficiency of someone who had seen more than his share of violence.

"Come," he said, offering me his hand. "You shouldn't be here when others arrive. Let me help you."

For a moment, I hesitated, my bloodied hands hovering uselessly in the air. Then, trembling, I placed my hand in his, and he pulled me to my feet.

Harwin's grip was steady but careful as he led me through the twisting alleys, the torchlight flickering against the looming shadows.

My legs felt weak beneath me, every step a monumental effort. My hands, still sticky with blood, trembled uncontrollably, and tears streamed down my cheeks in relentless waves.

"Just keep walking," he said softly, his voice a low rumble of reassurance. "You're all right now. I've got you."

I tried to focus on his presence, the solidness of him, but the image of the man's lifeless eyes haunted me. My breaths came in shallow gasps, and every few steps, a fresh sob broke from my throat.

Harwin slowed, glancing at me with concern.

"Tell me," he said after a moment, his tone light as if we were discussing something mundane, "what were you doing out there so late, anyway?"

His question caught me off guard. My voice wavered as I replied, "I... I was buying earrings. For Rhaenyra."

Harwin raised an eyebrow, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Earrings for the princess, is it? And you thought the best time to fetch them was after dark, in the city's worst alleys?"

The absurdity of it struck me, and a shaky, unexpected laugh bubbled up through my tears. "I didn't think," I admitted. "I just wanted to surprise her for her name day."

"Well," he said, his grin widening, "I'm sure Princess Rhaenyra will be thrilled to know her gift nearly got you killed. She'll probably insist you bring several guards the next time you leave the Keep."

Despite everything, I laughed again, the sound still choked by tears but lighter than before. Harwin glanced at me, clearly satisfied that his distraction was working.

"Let me guess," he continued, his tone teasing, "she'll love the earrings but pretend she doesn't care. Very Targaryen of her."

"She'll care," I said, my voice quieter now but steadier. "She just doesn't always show it."

He chuckled. "That sounds about right. I've seen her scare half the court with a single look. And yet, here you are, braving the market to find her a gift. If she doesn't appreciate that, well... maybe she doesn't deserve you."

His playful words softened the edges of my panic, and by the time the towering silhouette of the Keep came into view, the wild pounding of my heart had slowed.

As we approached the gates, Harwin stopped and turned to me, his expression suddenly serious. He kept his voice low, leaning closer so only I could hear. "You're going to go straight to your chambers. Don't speak to anyone, don't linger, and don't let anyone see your hands like this."

I glanced down at my bloodied fingers, the sight renewing a wave of nausea.

"Wash yourself thoroughly," he continued, his eyes locking with mine. "Change your clothes. Burn them if you have to. No one needs to know what happened tonight."

"But what about..." My voice faltered as I thought of the man lying lifeless in the alley. "What about him? I've killed someone."

Harwin's jaw tightened, but his tone remained calm. "I told you. I'll take care of it. No one will find him before I do, and no one will know it was you. You have my word."

His certainty, his unwavering confidence, should have comforted me, but guilt still clung to me like a second skin. "Why are you doing this for me?" I whispered.

Harwin's expression softened, his steady gaze meeting mine. "Because I can," he said simply. "And because I know the kind of man he was. What you did wasn't wrong—it was survival."

I nodded slowly, the weight of his words settling over me. As I turned to leave, something in me hesitated.

Before I could stop myself, I stepped closer and pressed a trembling kiss to his cheek. His skin was warm beneath my lips, roughened by the faintest stubble.

"Thank you," I murmured, pulling back, my voice barely audible.

Harwin blinked, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then he gave me a small, almost boyish smile, one that made my chest tighten in an entirely different way.

"Go on," he said softly, gesturing toward the Keep. "And remember—you don't owe anyone an explanation. Not even me."

I nodded again, my heart still racing, though this time for reasons I couldn't quite explain. As I slipped into the safety of the Keep, his figure remained etched in my mind.

No matter what had happened tonight, one thing was certain: I would find a way to see him again.

A/n - Wish he had more screentime :(

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kweenhera · 20 days ago

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Bix raising her son on Mina-Rau, New Republic era

[Excerpt from fanfic Rebellions Eat Their Own]

CW: Minor (non-humanoid) character death

Everything burned.

The fields, the workshops, the makeshift homes—all swallowed by the flames. Their entire livelihood, reduced to ash. And for what? Just to send a message.

Smoke choked the night air, thick and foul. Through the haze, a figure stood motionless amid the inferno. His jacket, once dark brown, was scorched at the edges. A rifle hung slung across his shoulder. A Stormtrooper's helmet, defaced with jagged symbols — occult signs, kill counts, the crude scrawl of *66* etched over the right eye. His crew's number.

A legion abandoned and forgotten. Stranded here since the war's end.

The helmet tilted. Slowly. Deliberately. He was looking at her. Bix couldn't move. Couldn't scream. His gloved fingers slid along the rifle's leather strap. The weapon lowered. Raised. Aimed —

Bix jolted awake, drenched in sweat that stuck her threadbare sleep tunic to her back. Her hands flew to the empty space beside her, fingers clawing at the rumpled blankets where her son should have been sleeping.

Nothing.

Just the lingering heat of the nightmare and cold mattress. "Clem?" Her voice came out a hoarse whisper. Then louder, cracking with panic: "Clem!"

She was on her feet before she'd fully registered moving, bare feet slapping against the metallic floor as she rushed through the darkened house. The light was on in the kitchen; she rushed through the doorway — and there he stood, small hands wrapped around a mug of water nearly as big as his face.

"What is it, mommy?" he asked, blinking up at her with soft, sleepy eyes.

Bix didn't say anything; she just lunged forward and scooped him up, pressing her nose into his curls, inhaling the scent of the faint herbal smell of the cheap washing powder she traded for at the monthly market.

The front door creaked as she pushed it open. She needed air, needed to see the horizon. Dawn painted the sky in bright red and orange as she sank onto the porch steps, Clem now perched drowsily in her lap. He was starting to get too big for this. Across the fields, the blinking eye of the reprogrammed Imperial probe droid drifted on its morning patrol. Old Man Amo had scavenged it after the Battle over Mina-Rau, spent five weeks taking it apart and putting it back together with his granddaughter's help. Now it watched over their township with dutiful precision, its sensors tuned to warn of approaching speeders or unfamiliar heat signatures.

We've been lucky, Bix thought, rubbing circles on Clem's back. As far as Outer Rim settlements went, Mina-Rau had it easy. The fighting had mostly bypassed them—no orbital bombardments, no scorched-earth reprisals. But the slow strangulation of interstellar trade might as well have been a noose. They had food, but little else. The processor in Amo's shed had broken down months ago, and the comm tower's transmitter had given up entirely. Without replacement parts, without regular supply runs, they'd become experts at making do. Bix could field-strip a broken moisture vaporator on her own, and could press three more rounds out of a fraying hydronic tubing. But each repair felt like buying time against an inevitable decay.

Clem shifted around her arms as the sun continued its rise. Somewhere in the distance, the morning bell rang at the communal kitchen. Bix pressed a kiss to her son's forehead.

Another day had begun. Another battle in the long war for survival.

...

"Amo, are you there?" she said while banging at the open front door of his shed. The old man had been working on fixing some bugs in B2 for the last few days. The droid spent most of his time in his charging station these days and had begun powering down unpredictably. When she and her son entered, the droid started spinning his head with delight.

"C-c-c-cassian!" he shouted. He was shaking with excitement. She'd long since stopped correcting him. Every time she told the droid about Cassian, she had to watch his heart break all over again. She'd explained to her son that he reminded the droid of an old friend. Someday I'll tell him the rest of it, she thought. There were so many things she had to do on that far-off some day. Clem knew that his father had been a soldier, a rebel - but not much more than that. Not yet.

"All right old boy, settle down!" Amo grumbled from behind the droid. He was crouched down, working on the chassis with a hydrospanner. "I'm just about done closing you up, but you don't want me slipping back here." B2 shrunk back into himself.

Clem walked up, waving his hand in front of B2's optical sensor. "Hi B2! Wanna play when Amo's done fixing you?" The droid started shaking again.

"What'd I just tell you?" Amo muttered, to no effect.

"Y-y-yes! I love to p-play. B-but I have woo-Oork." B2 swivelled his head to look back at Amo.

"I'm sure Amo can manage without you this morning, right Amo?", Bix said. The old man made a great performance of hemming and hawing, but in the end he agreed as he always did. The truth was that B2's working days were long behind him. But the old droid hated feeling useless, so they put on this little show for his benefit. She was just about to send them off when she heard a noise outside. It sounded like speeders approaching.

Outside she saw two speeder bikes slowing down and stopping in the middle of the street. Mounted on them were four people, two on each hovercraft. They were dressed in battered imperial regalia. One of the drivers wore a worn-out Stormtrooper armor, with numbers *66* painted on his shoulder, but he lacked a helmet. The other driver had no real armor to speak of; instead he wore tactical military pants and a grey tank top. On his head he wore what looked like the hat of an imperial officer - most likely something he picked up. On his neck he had a tattoo. Jiyan, the local force-healer, had taught her what the symbol meant. It was an old Sith crest. On the back of the speeders sat a pair of older men who looked nearly identical. At first she thought they were brothers, before Bix realized they were clones.

They all belonged to a legion that had been stuck on this planet since the defeat of the Empire, and seemingly had no contact with other imperial loyalists. Previously they had pretended to follow orders and procedures. Now they took what they wanted, whenever they wanted.

They dismounted their speeder bikes and headed for the little watering hole opposite Amo's shed. The place belonged to Terma, a dear friend to whom Bix was eternally grateful. She had helped Bix out more times than she could count. Her daughter was a few years older than Clem, but the two would often play together. The girl acted like she was his older sister, and liked to be in charge whenever they saw each other. She had no siblings of her own, yet. Terma was in her last month of pregnancy so the girl might soon have an actual little brother.

Terma's place wasn't much of a bar. She had opened up her home, placed a few chairs outside and was happy to serve whoever came by. She'd flipped a couple of barrels upside down to function as tables. The Troopers had started showing up more and more often. They never paid for their drinks.

Clem started chasing B2 around. All of a sudden the droid started moving erratically. He bumped into the leg of one of the men who had just gotten seated at Terma's place. Terma had just arrived with their drinks. The man with the officer's hat looked down and kicked B2 away. The droid fell on his side.

Clem grabbed his mother's leg. "Isn't that the men that you and papa defeated?"

"Please, be quiet," said Bix.

"Error... error..." B2 started shouting. His holoprojector booted up. Suddenly Maarva Andor's image floated in the air. "The Empire is a disease that thrives in darkness... the Empire is a disease that thrives in darkness..." B2 started shaking. The Trooper jumped up from where he was seated.

"Whose droid is this?" the man in the officer's cap shouted. Clem took a step forward before Bix could grab him.

"This piece of crap belongs to you, kid?" the man asked. He carried a rifle across his shoulder.

"No, it's not ours," Bix said, shaking her head violently. The man turned toward Terma who had been frozen in place since she put down the drinks on their table. “Do you know who this belongs to?”.

The pregnant woman shook her head. “No, I don’t know”. She and Bix shared a glance. Both not moving, not knowing what was the right thing to do to defuse the situation.

"The Empire is a disease that thrives in darkness... the Empire is a disease that thrives in darkness..." B2 continued to repeat. Clem looked up towards his mother, and asked: “Who is that woman?”. Bix remained silent.

"Well, someone better turn it off or else I will.", he screamed.

Bix’s fingers placed themselves in front of her son's eyes as the soldier lowered his rifle.

"The Empire is a disease that thrives in darkness... the Empire is a disease that thrives--"

One shot, right in the lens.

The legion claimed they were here to protect them, but from whom? There weren't any criminal gangs or terrorists here. No rebel cells, or even Republic military stations. It was just old machinery apparently that the township needed defending from.

"Sorry, sir," Amo said and walked towards the soldier. Bix whispered "No, please.", as he walked past them. The man didn't care. He continued stumbling forwards with his wobbly walk.

The trooper was walking back to his table. "What is it, old man?" he asked.

"I wondered if I could take what's left of the droid - could perhaps be good for some spare parts."

"I highly doubt that," he laughed. "That thing is ancient."

Amo put on a fake smile. "So you don't mind?"

The soldier looked down. "You can take it. Just remember this generosity on our part."

“Of course not, thank you Sir”, Amo said. Amo lifted up what was left of the droid. As he walked by, Clem put his hand on it and stroked its head. "I'll see what I can do..." Amo said as he carried the droid back into his shed. Bix knew he was putting on a performance for Clem's sake. There was nothing he could do. Perhaps that far off some day had arrived.

#andor #andor series #star wars #bix caleen #cassian andor #andor spoilers #andor s2 #ao3 fanfic #ao3 writer #fanfic #fanfiction #ao3 link

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gxr25256 · 8 months ago

Text

Mercy in the Shadows - Sixshot x reader

🌵 If there are any mistakes, please forgive me.

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The black market of Cybertron sprawled beneath the grimy spires of an abandoned industrial sector, where the remnants of war and conquest had been shoved aside to decay in shadows. Towering structures—relics of past battles and conquests—cast long, harsh shadows over crowded rows of stalls where vendors hawked anything with a price. Stolen weapons, forbidden tech, scraps of Cybertronian armor, and unfortunate captives from distant planets—all of it littered the scene in a chaotic mixture of neon and rust. Each item was a trophy, a whisper of violence from a hundred other worlds, and Sixshot drifted through it with a growing, gnawing sense of restlessness.

Megatron’s unexpected day off grated against his nature; idleness felt like rust forming on his circuits. A day without purpose felt like a day stripped of his essence. That's insulting. But the boredom had brought him here, among his fellow Phase Sixers. They were scattered across the market, each drifting toward different distractions like predators prowling in the dusk.

Overlord prowled through the stalls with his usual swagger, laughing off merchants' terrified glances with mock kindness that barely hid his violent intent. Sixshot had long ago come to understand Overlord’s twisted relish for bloodshed, a brutality that went beyond any sense of duty. There was something grotesque, almost obscene, about his joy in suffering, a sentiment that made Sixshot uneasy.

Black Shadow, on the other hand, drifted between stalls with a smooth confidence, a face that alternated between detached boredom and intrigue. Occasionally, he exchanged a few sly words with some of the merchants or put his arm around some of his deceptions colleagues and appear very friendly. But Sixshot knew better—he saw through the charade. Black Shadow wasn't here out of camaraderie. No, the only reason he is here: profit. Energizing his private stockpile was his real objective. Sixshot knew as soon as black shadow got a good enough price, he’d betray them without a second thought.

Putting thoughts about his colleague aside, sixshot adjusted his posture. He leaned back against a wall of rough, rusted steel, arms crossed, optics skimming the market with a disinterested glare. His gaze skimmed over the vendors and buyers, creatures of every shape and size, each chattering in grating voices over who or what might be worth a trade. The entire place was a crowded mess, littered with broken artifacts and miserable captives. Some were quiet, others despairing, a few shouting or growling in languages he didn’t bother to understand.

But then, his optics landed on "you."

It took him a second to recognize the figure—a tiny form crammed behind the energy bars of a cage, looking so out of place it was almost laughable. Among the clanking, bulkier species of aliens, among all the caged beasts and prisoners from dozens of battlefronts, you stood out: fragile, trembling, skin pale under the harsh Cybertronian lights.

A human.

The human's fear was almost palpable. Your breathing was quick, shallow, and you clung to the far side of the cage as if hoping it would dissolve into an escape. Your wide eyes darted around the market in search of something, anything, to save you from the towering titans that prowled the area. That look was one Sixshot knew well.

He couldn’t resist the pull of curiosity. What do you feel when you know your existence is utterly insignificant in a universe ruled by giants? he mused. Something about their terror was... different from what he usually saw. Battle gave him excitement, yes, but this? This was a glimpse into the helplessness he so rarely encountered.

He pushed off the wall, striding slowly toward your cage, his optics studying every detail. Your small form clung to the bars, eyes darting wildly around the market, your breath coming in quick, shallow gulps. From the trembling in your limbs, to the way you pressed yourself against the back of the cage, every fiber of your being screamed of fear, like an animal that knew it was cornered and hopelessly outmatched.

There was no bravery in you, no defiance, no hidden strength waiting to be unveiled. And yet…your fear was different from what he normally saw in battle. There was a desperation in it, a rawness that he rarely encountered. The beings he faced on the battlefield had a hardened kind of fear, a last-stand defiance, as though they had already accepted their fate before they ever laid optics on him. They were soldiers, warriors resigned to the end. You were none of those things. You were terrified in a way he hadn’t seen since his earliest days of combat, when his first foes had still been innocent enough to believe that fighting back would save them.

He leaned closer, his optics boring down on you, watching with an intensity that made the cage rattle as his presence loomed. You flinched violently, clutching the bars of the cage as though willing yourself to vanish. Your eyes met his briefly, wide and pleading, then darted away, too afraid to hold his gaze. The look on your face—it stirred something deep within him, a flicker of recognition that was more instinct than memory.

This was prey. True prey. The kind that knew only terror, the kind that understood its helplessness in the face of absolute power.

He was aware of your every movement: the small tremors running through you, the quiver of your lip as you fought to stay silent, the shallow rise and fall of your chest as you struggled to control your breath. He could practically feel your pulse racing from where he stood, a tiny, frantic heartbeat in the face of a predator that could crush you with a single motion.

Something cold and calculating sparked in Sixshot’s optics as he observed you, an old, he hadn’t felt in cycles. It wasn’t the thrill of conquest, nor the satisfaction of a worthy opponent. It was simply a glimpse into something so small and insignificant that it gave him a reminder of what he truly was: a weapon, a machine of total annihilation, one that even other Decepticons viewed with unease. His power had made him a pariah, feared and isolated even among the monsters he called allies.

Yet, he respected the strong. He valued those who fought back, who met him on the battlefield with fire in their optics. This human was none of those things. But there was still something about them, something attractive.

An annoyed sigh came from him, like a roll of thunder. “Pathetic,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. But he didn’t move away. He stayed there, towering over the cage, optics fixed on you like a scientist inspecting a specimen.

The vendor, noticing Sixshot’s interest, sidled over eagerly, his voice a grating whine. “Quite a rare find, isn’t it? A rarity from that little backwater planet, Earth." The merchant gave a smug chuckle. “Not much of a fighter, but they cower in the most entertaining ways.”

The words barely registered to Sixshot. He continued to observe you, noting every subtle tremor, every desperate shift of your eyes. He saw the way your fingers gripped each other tightly, knuckles turning white under the strain, your breathing growing shallow as you tried to make yourself smaller, less visible.

“Interested?” the trader ventured, clearly hoping for a transaction.

Sixshot’s optics narrowed. “What would I do with something so fragile?” he replied, his tone dismissive, though his gaze hadn’t shifted.

The merchant chuckled, mistaking Sixshot's interest as mere curiosity . “A toy, perhaps. Or a pet to keep your quarters interesting. Some find it amusing, having one of these creatures cowering in the corner, watching you with those little eyes. It can be… satisfying.”

The idea of taking you as a “pet” was laughable to him. Amusing? No, that wasn’t it. He had no need for amusement. His life was not about leisure or indulgence—it was about the thrill of worthy combat, the satisfaction of watching an opponent meet their end with dignity or terror. You didn’t fit into that world; you were not a warrior, nor an enemy, nor anything remotely close to a combatant. And yet, your fear called to him.

It would be so easy to snuff out that fear. One flick of his finger could silence you, end your miserable terror in an instant. It would be a mercy—a quick death, a release from the agony of knowing you were powerless.

And yet, he didn’t.

“Do you understand what you are?” he asked quietly, his voice a deep, rumbling growl that filled the space around you. The question seemed almost rhetorical, but he was genuinely curious. What went on in a mind that knew it was nothing more than prey? A creature so weak it couldn’t even defend itself, forced to rely on hope or mercy—neither of which existed here.

Your head lifted, just barely, and you managed a timid nod, your eyes wide and glazed with tears. He could see the struggle in your face, the way you fought to keep some shred of composure in the face of absolute terror.

"Then you understand this is where you die," he continued, almost conversationally, as if discussing the weather. His tone held no malice, no cruelty; it was a simple statement of fact.

Your lips parted, a faint tremble to your voice. "Please…" The word slipped out, barely audible, a plea that you knew was pointless yet voiced out of desperation.

With a dismissive huff, he straightened, turning away from the cage, folding his arms and giving you a final, unreadable look. “I’ll take this one,” he said simply to the merchant, his voice devoid of any emotion but finality.

The merchant’s face brightened with greed. “A fine choice! You’ll enjoy having a creature so… malleable. They’re delightful to break.”

Sixshot didn’t respond. He didn’t take you because he wanted a pet. He didn’t take you becausehe found any joy in your terror. But perhaps, in his own way, he was giving you a purpose. A purpose in his world—a chance to exist, however briefly. Or it would simply be a way for him to kill time.

Whatever it is, then for you, it would be the beginning of a nightmare from which there was no escape.

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#transformers x reader #tranformers sixshot #sixshot x reader

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chil-aglia · 3 months ago

Text

𝗕𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗱 𝗜𝘀 𝗧𝗵𝗶𝗰𝗸𝗲𝗿 𝗧𝗵𝗮𝗻 𝗪𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗿 |ROTTMNT| (Male OC)

~𝙋𝙧𝙤𝙡𝙤𝙜𝙪𝙚~

Be sure to read the tags on my Ao3 so you guys know what you’re getting yourselves into.

Art above is done by me. PLEASE feel free to make your own art and idk tag me in it or something—

Warnings: Being hit (briefly), murder (briefly), blood (briefly), etc

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The loud and eerie noise of a blade slashing in the air was heard, followed by the gurgling noise of someone choking and falling to the ground with a heavy thump.

The red ooze of blood pooling out as the yokai lays limply on the floor, their eyes wide and mouth open agape. Standing by was a tall figure in the shadows, having their sword clenched in their hand as they observed the lifeless body. They were fit, given the body armor they wore, as a small light of green skin from their fingers and mouth visible.

The blade dripped in blood before being swiped off with a simple flick. The mystery silhouette crouches down, picking up a vial of green liquid that fell out of their pockets.

One of two vials recovered. The other vial in the paws of some mystic creature who stole it from under Baron Draxum’s nose.

This vial that was now just received had also been stolen, but only a week ago by some low life crook who thought they could sell it in the black market. Rookie mistake for boasting it about it online with the whereabouts of where they lived.

”Moron.” The figure spoke lowly, as he clenched the vial in his hand and turned away. He can return back to Baron Draxum now that his little mission was completed, which granted did take maybe an hour or so tops to actually do something, but the tall mystery stranger was having a pleasant time going at his own pace.

Even stopping by a cafe to grab a drink.

Content with himself he vanishes into the shadows, leaving the body for the Hidden City police to deal with.

-----

Upon arriving back at Draxum’s place, the figure groans and stretches his arms out, walking around as he expected to be met with his boss or even the two gargoyles. But nothing of the sort happened, making him grow suspicious of the silence.

Where is everyone?

He hums, walking around the living room where he thought Huginn and Muninn would be sleeping in their dog bed.

Must be in the lab then.

He began making his way to the elevator that would descend him down into the underground lab that Draxum spent most of his free time in. But halfway there, the building shook, making him become alarmed and on high alert.

It came from the lab below as he clicked his tongue and raced towards the elevator, pounding his finger on the button as he descended down, tapping his foot impatiently as he wondered what the hell was that loud noise and what caused the building to shake like that.

When he arrived at the lab, he quickly ran out, overlooking the ground floor as he was on the second floor above.

His eyes narrowed and he caught a glimpse of…well, everything.

Five unfamiliar figures stood in front of Draxum, each holding onto a weapon. From the looks of it, they were the weapons from the storage room, the mystical ones that even he wasn’t allowed to touch.

His eyes travelled over to see a large golem lying unconsciously on the floor, coming to the conclusion that was the reason why the building had shaken like an earthquake hit earlier.

He watched from above as his Master, Draxum, slowly claps, “Accidentally impressive. With a little bit of training, you could be as formidable as I’d hoped." He noted, smirking upon the idea.

What?

He shakes his head and regains his attention on the human—a human?! Here in the Hidden City? Here in Draxum’s home?

He narrowed his eyes when the human girl was flying overhead, being carried by Huginn and Muninn. “It’s okay! I got this!" She assured the others to which the unnamed figure turns his attention back onto them.

Taking in their appearance with confused and curious eyes. They were turtles, all different species but turtles nonetheless. He began to ponder, he knew Draxum used to have turtles before they were destroyed in the previous lab explosion. So this couldn’t possibly be them…right?

The turtle wearing a blue mask coughs, standing up from the pile of debris. “Okay, well, great, and since you’re surrendering—“ He began only to be cut off when Draxum laughed.

“Baron Draxum does not surrender."

“Okay, well, when he gets here, we’ll deal with him—oh, ho, ho, I see. You’re doing that whole ‘sinister talking in the third person’ thing." The turtle smirks, a look of cockiness plastered on his face as the larger of the four, donned in a red mask, jumps back onto their feet.

“Only Raph can use the third person! All right, guys, time to put our training to use." He announces, running off towards the yokai. The figure's first instinct was to rush in, protect his Master, but he also knew very well that Draxum can take care of himself, so pushing back the instincts eating away at him, he remained crouched on the second floor, observing the fight.

Draxum’s arms begin growing huge from his mystic powers, before he blocks all their strikes, grunting when he decides to hit the ground with both fists, the concussion of the ground cracking apart throws the turtles back and off balance.

They groan and rub their heads as Baron Draxum stands tall.

“And that’s why Baron Draxum—“

Huginn suddenly falls from above and hits Draxum on the head, making the yokai hiss in annoyance. “I’m sorry, boss." He apologised in a daze before passing out.

The figure raises his eyes in curiosity when the human girl suddenly lands on ground and beats on Muninn, grabbing Huginn in her teeth and shaking him like a dog toy while she stomps repeatedly on Muninn. Pausing, she looks at the turtles and gives a thumbs up, which they return the gesture.

She spat out Huginn and kicked Muninn away, turning back around to confidently grin at Draxum who glared back. The human held their bat in their hands, tapping it against her palm.

“All right creep! Free the dog thingy! Aprilllll O’Neil!”

Holding her bat high in the air, she jumps up, smirking confidently as Draxum scowls at her appearance. He holds his hand out to summon his vines to capture her. But he didn’t get the chance when a dark figure jumped down from above, crashing right into April and pinning her down, sword impaling the ground next to her head.

April’s eyes went unfocused for a moment, dizzy when she collided with the hard ground and the sudden weight of someone smacking right into her. She groans, looking up at her attacker.

The attacker wasn’t human, that much she could tell with their green skin. The stranger wore a black bandanna atop of their head that covered most of their face, leaving only their mouth and eyes seen. It resembled that of Donnie and Raph’s own masks, with this mask having longer tails.

April also noticed how the stranger wore a dark green body armoured suit with a silver armored chest piece that resembled a lot like a turtle plastron. A silver belt across their waist, followed by black shorts that connected down to their legs who also had bits and pieces of armor metal on them, followed by dark greyish brown mesh on their knees. Their covered feet matching the dark green bodysuit with large metal like talons as toes appear at the end.

The figure wore brownish grey gloves, leaving only their green three-fingers exposed.

What the…?

April stared, eyes wide and a little scared at the deadly look the non-human creature was giving her. April returns her eyes to give another once overlook of their face, noticing red markings that reached just under their eyes. In fact, the more she observed, the more she began to become puzzled. Aware that this stranger was looking quite similar to a certain blue masked turtle that was currently with his brothers.

“…L-Leo?”

Her voice was shaky, catching the oxygen that left her when she was pinned down, having the air knocked out of her lungs earlier. The stranger couldn’t help but tilt their head.

”Who?” The stranger responded with confusion but also uninterested since he shook his head and stood tall. He raised his weapon high in the air to strike down at the human, but he didn’t get a chance when a rocket launched at him, catching him off guard completely as he jumped back.

He luckily dodged the attack, glaring over at the turtles as the rocket launched came from the turtle in purple. The human, April, scurried back towards the others.

”April! You okay?” The blue masked mutant turtle checks over his human friend as Draxum turns his gaze to the attacker.

”Three!”

The figure slightly flinched, as he breathed in and stood up straight, sword gripped tightly in hand. “Master Draxum.” He greeted back, as Donnie tilted his head upon the reaction.

”Three? What, you counting down? Or you simply forgot one and two?” His sarcasm escaped him before he could even think of what to say, he gulled upon the glare and low growl from the mystery guy who attacked April.

Donnie could only simply presume that the unknown stranger’s name was actually Three. Like seriously? Who is named Three?

Draxum eyed Three before he turns back around to the intruders and shoots brownish liquid at April first, transforming the liquid into a cocoon that traps her. “You did not just do that to our friend!” The smallest of the turtles exclaims, throwing his end of the from the mystic weapon, both Draxum and Three dodge easily, leaning back as the chain fires past them.

But it didn’t come back, making Three and Draxum turn to see the ball at the end spinning and erupting into flames, laughing maniacally.

"Whoa. Magic weapon—ah!”

It yanks him forward and then flies around, taking him on a wild ride as Three steps back, narrowing his eyes before focusing his attention on the others. Raising his sword he itches to charge in while they are distracted, but Draxum stops him by placing a hand on his shoulder.

Three blinks, staring up at his Master who merely observed the flying turtle who had eventually hit a section of the ooze tank and broke it.

He yells and screams, as the end of the Kusari-fundo continues to laugh and turn into a flaming face.

It sped over to Draxum and Three who the two both jumped aside before it could even hit them, unfortunately for the one getting dragged, he landed on the ground with a loud thump.

“Mikey, that was awesome. How’d you do that?" The largest of the turtles asks with curiosity and wonder, “I don’t know, man. I was just swinging my weapon, like this, and all of a sudden—“ Mikey, as Three just learned, proceeded to show what he did earlier before the weapon once more flames up.

“Just like tha—!” He soars off again as Three scoffs, crossing his arms. He should really just end this, but for some odd reason, Draxum won’t let him. He hoped his Master wasn’t actually considering recruiting these four.

"Let me try. Magic weapon, magic weapon, magic weapon, magic weapon!” The red masked turtle slams his tonfa’s together, red sparks flying off it.

“Aw, yeah! Magic weapon!”

It however explodes and knocks him down.

"Can’t wait to find out what mine does!” The blue masked turtle announces, gripping the ōdachi in his hands as he sprints towards Draxum and Three. Instinctively, Three got in front of Draxum, his sword raised up and ready to block. But to his surprise and confusion for the three of them, when the ōdachi was swung, nothing happened. Had he missed?

The turtle gulped and awkwardly laughed, as well as sweating. Three huffs, annoyed by all this as he flips his katana to the side, he glanced up, raising his brow when the ōdachi suddenly sparks to life, a blue portal opening above and beneath the sword wielder who blinked and yelps, trying to run out but was too late.

He was caught in the rift of the portal, “Get…me…off…this…ride! Whoa!" He pleads, earning a groan from Three. Suddenly Donnie slides in, standing next to Draxum. “And that’s why I like fighting the old-fashioned way, with impossibly futuristic high-tech weaponry." He claims, swiping his bō at Draxum who jumps back.

Three swiftly got in between them, blocking the attack and kicking Donnie in the stomach, the turtle groaning before gasping as he blocked a strike of the blade.

Three was locked in, dodging and manoeuvring his way around Donnie to find an opening. He jumps up, roundhouse kicking Donnie in the face as the latter grunts and falls to the ground.

Three stood in front of him, gripping his katana and thrusting it towards his down opponent. “Don’t kill him!” Draxum orders, making Three halt in his attack, inches away from skewering the mutant.

Don’t kill?

Three opens his mouth to retort, only to be caught off guard when Donnie slapped his blade away with his bō staff, the tech bō forming a rocket as it launches off and hits Three in the face, the latter stumbling back.

”Bastard…” Three hisses as Donnie could only grin in pride, "Just like I planned it!" He announces, jumping into the air while spinning his staff.

"Look out!"

Mikey smashes into Donnie, the two flying away and crashing into the wall with the others. Draxum scoffs, "You fight like untrained buffoons!” He exclaims, Three nodding in agreement, as he stands next to his Master.

”But under me, you could become true warriors.”

”What?! You can’t be serious about that Master!” Three exclaims, wide eyed as Draxum throws pellets that formed cocoons around the turtles. “Master, we don’t need these bozos. You have me instead.” Three argues slightly, hand on his chest as Draxum glares down at him.

”You don’t realise who they are, don’t you?”

Who they are…?

”Why should I care?”

Draxum smirks, grabbing Three by the shoulders and turning him around to face the trapped turtles who watch with curiosity and annoyance.

”They’re your brothers after all.”

Draxum grabs the mask off Three, tearing it off and exposing his face. Three himself blinked owlishly, still registering what was said to him.

Brothers?

The turtles gasp and widely stare as Mikey looks between Three and his brother in blue. “L-Leo! He looks just like you!” He announces the obvious, and it was true, the two were scarily similar with only slight differences, one being that Three had two smaller crescent shaped moons on his face.

”I knew I wasn’t crazy!” April jumps into her cocoon, as Leo silently stares. “What the…?” He muttered, narrowing his eyes at the turtle ahead of him.

“Three, you recall the time I told you about the other turtle experiments, yes?”

”S…somewhat.”

Draxum hums, gesturing to Leo. “This one is your biological twin. Number Two.” He reminded as both Three and Leo share a startled outage of bewilderment.

Three did recall the story of him and his…and the others. How they died in the explosion, leaving him to be the only survivor.

But yet, here they are…alive and healthy.

”You gotta be kidding me.” He hisses under his breath, taking in the information. "Turtles, now that you know you have another family member, why are you trying to stop my plans? We are all in this together!" Draxum announces, stepping towards them as Donnie yelps when he nods his head to look up.

“Ah, hey, I don’t know if this is part of your plan, but the lab’s about to explode!”

What?!

Three snapped out of his trance, turning around in a hurry to see the tank that contained the ooze begin sparking out and eventually exploded. Debris came hurtling down towards Draxum.

“Master Draxum!”

Three announces, jumping in and shoving his creator out of the way in time. The tower buzzes and the rest of the infrastructure starts falling.

The containment of the Oozesquitoes breaking open as the bugs escape. Three however was more focused on helping Draxum escape, coughing as dust from the crashing debris lifted in the air.

He headed toward the doorway to leave, having Draxum leaning on him to not fall over. Three paused, turning back to stare at the intruders who all teleported out of the cocoons by the mystic creature that Draxum caught.

Three glares, noticing the brief glance from Leo who stretched his hand out toward him, as though he wanted to say something.

”Three, let’s go.” Draxum scolds lightly, pushing his creation towards the door as Three hums in acknowledgement and walks out. Huginn and Muninn flying after them.

-----

Hours after the destruction of Draxum’s stronghold, the yokai, the gargoyles and the mutant Three resided in a hotel room. Being the only place available for them on such short notice.

Three stripped off his armoured suit, rolling his shoulders and neck to get feeling back into them as he side eyes Draxum who was standing by the window, looking out in deep focus.

”You said they were dead.”

Draxum hums in acknowledgement, “I believed that they were. Seeing them tonight was a first for me.” He muttered, letting out an exhale as he sat down on the bed, exhausted from today. Three stared at him and narrowed his eyes.

”They're a bunch of nobodies. You don’t need them.”

”Three—“

”I’m more than capable of being by your side. They would only get in the way. Did you see the way they even handled the mystic weapons?”

Draxum began growing annoyed, standing up on his feet and advancing towards Three who was ranting, unaware of Draxum behind him. “You should’ve just let me kill them—“ He stated, turning around with a little grin. Only for said expression to be completely wiped off when he was backhanded.

Three grunts, holding his face as he winced at the stinging sensation.

”Enough. You will not kill them. In fact, I need them on my side in order to make my plans become a success.”

He stands tall over Three who looks away, lips firmly in a line as he bowed in respect.

”Yes…”

”Yes, what?”

Three bites the inside of his cheek as he exhaled out a breath he was holding in.

”Yes, Master Draxum.”

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WHOOO BITTW IS FINALLY OUT! How we fall feeling?

APOLOGISE FOR ANY GRAMMAR MISTAKES THAT WERE MADE, I TYPE PRETTY FAST AND OFTEN DON’T SEE THEM UNTIL I ACTUALLY PUBLISH THE CHAPTER. THEN I’D TRY AND FIX ANY MISTAKES WHEN I SEE ONE.

Quotev - Blood Is Thicker Than Water

Ao3 - Blood Is Thicker Than Water - Chapter 1 - Chilaglia - Rise of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (Cartoon 2018) [Archive of Our Own]

First chapter here

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