#almost like he's been expecting to be nailed in the head for his bullshit for decades and has been practicing

[etakeh]

Happy "I regret I only have two shoes to give to your country" Day!

[lacydollette]

CASUAL , THREE ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ‘casual’ mini series

pairing: fwb!dean x fem!reader

warnings: time skip, angst, confession, dean making you cry, reopening old wounds, explicit language, fwb to lovers, fluff

Dean had spent months in a strange headspace, feeling your absence in every fiber of his body. At first, he told himself it was for the best. You deserved better, and he wasn’t the guy to give it to you. But as the days turned into weeks and then months, the emptiness in his chest only grew bigger.

He wanted to reach out—texting you, calling you late at night when the loneliness hit hardest. But every time his finger lingered over your name he chickened out and the silence stung more than he cared to admit. He missed everything about you; your voice, your laughter, the way you always seemed to know what to say when he was spiraling. He even missed the way you challenged him, called him out on his bullshit.

By the time your birthday rolled around, Dean couldn’t ignore it anymore. He’d spent hours pacing the floor of whatever motel he was staying in, debating whether to make a move. Ultimately, he decided he couldn’t let you slip away more than you already were.

He had actually gotten your gift a few days before you broke things off with him. A knife, but it wasn’t just any knife—it was a custom hunting blade with a special design etched into the handle. Practical and personal, just like you. But that didn’t feel like enough. So, against every instinct he had, Dean stopped at a flower shop and bought the biggest bouquet he could find. The arrangement was almost embarrassingly oversized, but he didn’t care.

Dean drove for hours to get to your little apartment, the mix of nerves and determination keeping him going and when he finally arrived, he parked the Impala and stood at your door, his heart hammering as he rang the bell.

And then he waited.

Nothing.

He rang again. Still nothing.

Dean sighed, shifting the weight of the flowers in his hand. “Fuck..” he muttered to himself, stepping back. His body was filled with disappointment, though he wasn’t sure what he had expected. It wasn’t like you’d been itching to hear from him.

Getting back into the Impala, Dean tossed the bouquet onto the passenger seat and leaned his head against the steering wheel. “Damn it,” he hissed, feeling ridiculous for driving all this way just to be ignored. Desperate, he pulled out his phone and called Sam.

“Dean?” Sam’s voice was groggy, clearly half-asleep. “I need you to do something for me,” Dean said, his tone sharp with urgency.

“Let me guess—track someone down?” Sam replied dryly, clearly unimpressed. Dean sighed. “Yeah. Y/n. Look, it’s her birthday, and I just… I need to see her, okay? She’s not at her apartment, and I have no idea where she is.”

There was a pause, and Dean could practically hear Sam’s disapproving sigh. “You realize how stalkerish this sounds, right?”

“Sam, please,” Dean said, his voice quieter now, almost pleading. “I screwed up, and I need to fix it. Just—can you do this for me?” Sam sighed on the other end of the line. “Fine. Give me a minute.”

It didn’t take long. Within a few minutes, Sam had tracked your phone’s location, telling him that you were at a bar nearby, and Dean definitely didn’t waste any more time.

When he arrived, the bar was packed, the neon lights glowing against the night sky. Dean parked the Impala and sat there for a moment, staring at the entrance. The bouquet sat beside him, mocking him with its overly big flowercrown. He felt like an idiot.

Taking a breath he stepped out of ‘baby’ before entering the bar. Inside, the place was alive with music and people everywhere. It didn’t take long for Dean to find you—you were at a table near the back, lazily twisting the straw in your empty glass. You looked stunning. Your hair fell in soft waves, and your lips curved into a small, thoughtful smile as you absentmindedly tapped your nails against the side of the glass. He felt his heart twist, a mix of longing and regret washing over him.

Just as he worked up the nerve to approach, another man appeared beside you. He set two fresh drinks on the table and slid into the seat next to you. Dean froze. You smiled brightly, your expression lighting up in a way that Dean hadn’t seen in what felt like forever. It was genuine, carefree, happy—and it wasn’t because of him.

Dean’s stomach twisted, his heart sinking. You looked good. Better than good. You looked like you were doing just fine without him. And suddenly, he felt out of place. He took a step back, torn between the overwhelming need to say something and the bitter realization that you didn’t need him anymore. Then, as if sensing him, you glanced up. Your eyes locked with his across the room, and the world seemed to stop.

You froze, your smile fading as your breath hitched in your throat. It was like seeing a ghost—Dean, your Dean, standing in the middle of the bar with an unreadable expression. Your buried feelings came to the surface, a flood of all kinds of emotions rushing through you; anger, pain, longing.

But Dean wasn’t standing still anymore. His gaze lingered on you for only a moment before he turned around and rushed out of the bar.“Dean!” you called out, rising to your feet, but your voice was lost in the noise.

Your heart pounded as you watched him disappear through the door. You grabbed your jacket, ignoring the man at your table as you rushed out after him. But by the time you made it outside, the Impala was already pulling onto the road, speeding away. “Dean!” you shouted again. But it was too late. He was gone, and you were left standing there, breathless and confused.

Back at your table, you sank into your seat, your mind a mess. The man beside you asked if you were okay, but you barely heard him. Your thoughts were consumed by Dean—his sudden appearance, the way he’d looked at you, and the way he’d left just as quickly.

The last time you’d seen him, you’d meant every word you said. You’d stood your ground, told him exactly how you felt, and walked away because you deserved better. And he hadn’t fought for you then. He hadn’t cared enough to try. But now? Now, he showed up out of nowhere, carrying this pained expression. Was it guilt? Regret? Or just another half-hearted attempt to make himself feel better?

You were glad he saw you, glad he got to witness what he’d lost. You’d spent so much energy, so much time on him, only to be left empty-handed. He needed to know what it felt like. And yet… as you sat there, your drink untouched and your heart heavy, you couldn’t stop the ache that lingered deep inside. Because no matter how hard you tried, some part of you still missed him. Still wanted him.

The Uber ride to your apartment felt like forever, though it couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes. The city lights blurred past the window as you rested your head against the cool glass, your thoughts a mess. Dean’s face was haunting your mind—his green eyes filled with something raw, his lips pressing into a thin line before he walked away.

A headache was beginning to throb at your temples, not from too much alcohol but from the emotional chaos inside you. By the time the car pulled up to your apartment, you were exhausted, both physically and mentally.

You climbed out and headed toward your door, fumbling with your keys before you noticed it; a massive bouquet of flowers resting against your door, vibrant and fragrant even in the dim light of the hallway. Beside it was a small box, tied with a white silk bow. Your breath caught as you spotted a card tucked neatly underneath the bow.

You already knew.

Kneeling down, you grabbed the card with trembling fingers and opened it. The handwriting was unmistakably his—rough but deliberate. ‘Happy Birthday, y/n.’ A lump formed in your throat as you set the card aside and picked up the box. Pulling the bow loose, you opened it carefully, and the sight inside made your heart clench.

It was a hunting knife, brand new and polished, with a custom blade. Your initials were engraved on the handle in elegant lettering. It was beautiful, practical, and unmistakably thoughtful—exactly the kind of gift Dean would give.

The tears started before you could stop them. They blurred your vision as you knelt there in the hallway, clutching the knife in one hand and the card in the other. You felt like a teenager crying over her first heartbreak, raw and exposed in a way you hadn’t been in a long time.

You hated him. You loved him. You hated that you still loved him.

Wiping your eyes with the back of your hand, you pulled out your phone, fingers shaking as you dialed his number. It rang. And rang. And rang. Then his voicemail clicked on, the sound of his gruff voice making your chest tighten.

“Hey, it’s Dean. Leave a message.”

You hesitated for a second before letting your emotions take over. “You’re an asshole, you know that?” you started, your voice thick with frustration and tears. “Showing up like that, leaving me flowers and—and this stupidly perfect knife. What do you want from me, Dean? Huh? Because I can’t keep doing this!”

You let out a shaky breath, your words tumbling out before you could stop them. “I should punch you in the face and never talk to you again. But I can’t, because no matter what I do, I never stop thinking about you. About us. About that dumb smirk of yours and—and how you make me feel safe even when you’re the one tearing me apart.”

You paused, your voice breaking. “I miss you, Dean. I miss you so much.” A moment of silence stretched on after your confession, and you were about to end the call when a familiar voice echoed softly behind you.

“I know.”

You froze, your breath catching in your throat. Slowly, you turned around. Dean was standing at the end of the hallway, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket. His face was drawn and tired, but his eyes were locked on you.

Without thinking, you rushed toward him, tears streaming down your face. You shoved him hard in the chest with both hands, all the pent-up frustration and heartache pouring out of you. “You’re such an idiot!” you yelled, your voice trembling with rage. You pushed him again, your palms hitting his chest with force, though he didn’t flinch, didn’t even try to stop you.

“You don’t get to do this, Dean! You don’t get to disappear and then show up whenever it’s convenient for you, like nothing ever happened!” You shoved him again, harder this time, but your strength was waning. “You don’t get to make me feel like I’m not enough! Like I’m just—just some leftovers!”

Dean stood there, his jaw tight, his green eyes filled with guilt and pain, taking every word and every hit you threw at him. He didn’t defend himself, didn’t say a word, because he knew. He knew you were right.

“You’re such a coward!” you sobbed, your voice breaking as your fists pounded weakly against his chest. “I’m too good for this, Dean. Too good for you! And I hate that I still—”

Your voice gave out as your body did the same. All the anger, all the pain, it came crashing down on you at once, leaving you trembling and gasping for air. You collapsed against him, your fists loosening as your tears soaked into his shirt.

Dean caught you instantly, his strong arms wrapping around you and pulling you close. He held you tightly, like he was afraid you might slip away if he let go. His chin rested on top of your head as his hand gently ran up and down your back, grounding you as you sobbed against him.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m so damn sorry, y/n. For everything. For not seeing you. For not—” His breath hitched, his arms tightening around you. “For not realizing what I had until I lost it.”

You didn’t respond, didn’t move, but he kept going, his voice raw and honest. “You’re right. I am an idiot. And a coward. And you are way too good for me. But I can’t—” His voice broke, and you felt his chest rise and fall sharply as he tried to steady himself. “I can’t lose you again.”

He leaned back just enough to tilt your chin up, his thumb brushing away the tears on your cheek. His eyes searched yours, his own glistening with unshed tears. “I don’t deserve you, y/n. I never did. But I love you. God, I love you so much it hurts. And if you give me just one more chance—just one—I swear to you, I’ll never take you for granted again. I’ll spend every day proving to you that I want you, all of you.”

Your breath caught in your throat as you stared up at him, your heart pounding in your chest. You wanted to be angry, to hold onto the walls you’d built around your heart, but the way he looked at you—so broken, so full of love—made it impossible.

“Dean…” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said softly, his forehead resting against yours. “Not this time. Not ever.”

And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe him. You let yourself hope. Because as much as he had hurt you, as much as he had failed you, you still loved him. And maybe, just maybe, he could finally learn to love you the way you deserved.

So, you let yourself fall into him, his arms wrapping around you once more, holding you as if the whole world could shatter around you and he wouldn’t let go.

links: dean masterlist

tags: @gibson-g1rl @beausling @angelicjackles @deansbite @figthoughts @chevroletdean @deansenvy @cosmicanakin @hischrrypie @nuemanfilms @rubyvhs @supernatural-wolfie

[sataraxia]

jerk.

earth42!miles x fem!reader

summary: you haven't heard about him for a whole week, what a 'jerk'. (wc: 3.9 k, kinda short and a dumb blurb)

warnings: cursing, a kind of suggestive? line at the end.

a/n: it's the first time i publish something so maybe it's kinda bad idk, and also this isn't angst miles is actually the best man ever pls i just wanna hug him. aand english isn't my first language so pls pls let me know if i spelled something wrong!

"I heard that kiki was invited to prom in the most romantic way possible, I'm so jealous."

"oh god, yeah, I wish I had a boyfriend like hers, or well, just a boyfriend".

You were biting your nails right now, looking everywhere but at your friends, what a topic, huh?

“hey, your boyfriend already invited you?”

And there was the question, you just looked lazily at them “uh, sure”

The truth was that you hadn't been talking to Miles for a week or so, and this was exactly why.

You always understood that maybe he didn't like a lot of things about high school, and you never complained about it, but this time, it was something important to you, and he didn't seem to care.

"baby, it's just a dance, I don't understand why you're acting like it's such a big deal." he said while not even looking at your direction.

"maybe it's a big deal that you're being a jerk about this."

Yeah, that conversation didn't end well, you haven't heard from him since.

The thing was, you don't do a lot of couple things publicly, and it's slowly starting to affect your mind, maybe he didn't want to be seen with you, or someone couldn't see him with you, the thought alone causing you to shiver. 

You spent the rest of the day distracting yourself with your friends and your homework, secretly waiting for a message from him to appear on your phone.

It did, but definitely not what you expected.

miles <4: 'i’m back in town, wyd?'

Oh. 

You didn't know whether to be happy that he wasn't ignoring you, or angry that he didn't give the last discussion more than a thought. 

You decided not to let it go this time, and not even look at the text.

Of course, that was stupid, but so were you.

It wasn't more than two hours, he was already knocking on your window, and once you let him in, he just looked at you, deeply.

“wanna’ tell me what’s up with you, darling?”

That was not affectionate, he was annoyed, mocking, you realize.

“nothing.” you couldn’t look at him when you were lying, he knew that.

“i thought you were the one who opted for that communication bullshit, cmon.”

“where were you?”

“work”  the tone was defensive, almost secretive, it was always like that when he mentioned something about the prowler, you never talked a lot about it.

“you could have told me”

“thought you didn't want a jerk talking to you?”

“yeah, but you’re still my boyfriend, Miles, we argued, and I didn't hear about you for a whole week.”

“sorry.”

That's what made your veins boil the most, he was never mean, disrespectful, or a jerk.

He always knew when to say sorry or when he had done the wrong thing, that meant he didn't really care about the problem that kept popping into your head, he didn't see it like a problem at all.

And that only made you feel dumber, maybe you were overreacting, again.

“it’s okay, i just missed you” 

That's all you had to say for him to look at you with those eyes that made you feel like the most special woman on earth, that made any insecurity disappear just as the space between your bodies did.

“i missed you too.”

Of course, he stayed the whole night with you.

The next afternoon, when you entered your room, you saw a package on your bed, with a note on top of it

“I couldn't go to prom if my girl wasn't wearing my color, be at your door by eight o'clock. 

                                                                                                      luv ya, miles.”

Inside the package was a beautiful dress, vibrant purple, obviously.

This was definitely the man of your dreams.

+bonus:

Eight o'clock, and he was with his motorcycle at your door.

"you are breathtaking, love" he said and you approached him to give him just a little kiss, while smiling.

"thanks for all this, but I thought it wasn't a big deal?" a smirk adorned your face.

"it was a big deal if you were calling me a jerk about it" you grabbed his waist as you settled on the bike.

"sorry about that." a little peck on the cheek.

"you'll have time to apologize to me, don't worry:"

[seresinhangmanjake]

The One I Want: Part 11

Jake "Hangman" Seresin x plus size!reader

Summary: You’re new in town and some guy named Jake is about to be your roommate. Being skeptical of new people keeps you lonely and uninterested in any entanglements, but Jake is desperate to change that.

Notes/Warnings: cursing, body shaming, typos

Words: 2879

The One I Want Masterlist

“So, you are the new roomie,” Brit says, crossing her arms under her breasts, pushing them up much higher than what is naturally achievable. The door closes behind her. “The new pussy. The new set of tits.”

Her heels click across the tiled floor as she makes her way over to the sink, pulls out a tube of lipstick from the bag hanging off her shoulder, and uncaps it. The stick runs smoothly over her bottom lip, renewing the vibrancy of the red shade. 

“I could see it the other night,” she continues as she caps the tube. Her eyes meet yours in the mirror. “Fucker was looking at you like you were some angel that fell out of the goddamn sky—until it changed into the kicked-puppy look because of whatever you said to him. And yet, despite your nasty words, I’m the one who got the furious look to go with a bullshit lecture about ‘backing off’,” she scoffs. “I’ve heard it before, but this time I figured it probably had something to do with the chubby girl he sent away.”

It’s been months since you’ve heard that word, and you feel the dig, but it doesn't make it as deep into your gut as you expected. It's more like a shallow divot in the ground. It causes a stumble and a fleeting moment of panic, but that panic morphs into relief when you realize it didn’t shove you down onto your knees. You’re able to pull yourself back together, upright and undamaged, and carry on with your next step as if it never happened.

The blonde looks you up and down in the silence that follows her words. Oddly, her eyes do not flit in sharp movements that would suggest an unwillingness to linger on something unpleasant. Instead, she’s almost as slow and thoughtful as Jake when his eyes drag along your curves with enough appreciation they could substitute for his fingers. But it’s no shock that Brit’s lengthy concentration on the wider parts of your body is not from appreciation. Her stare contains questions, the most likely of them picking at why Jake would want someone like you when he once had her. And without an accompanying snarl across her lips or pinch in her brow, she seems more like a curious child wanting to understand a concept she’s never before been witness to. 

But then she finds her smirk.

“You’re not his type.” Her tongue running over one side of her top row of teeth makes a squelching sound that you pray you’ll never hear twice. 

“What do you want?” you ask, “Just for Jake to want you again?” 

Her head jerks back an inch and the curve of her jaw shifts with her grinding teeth. You weren’t aware you had the power to catch someone like her off-guard, but it takes some time before her tense features melt into a smile. 

“I knew he would tell you all about me,” she sighs. “I don’t even have to formally introduce myself because he’s so damn considerate.” Tilting her head, her smile widens, but her eyes are missing all light and the longer you stare the more you expect fangs to form and nails to elongate in preparation for ripping you to pieces. “I only want to do you a favor. Don’t you like favors?”

You swallow. “I don’t need a favor.”

“What kind of weirdo doesn’t appreciate a favor?” Her face scrunches and her head shakes in mock disbelief as she tosses the lipstick back into her purse. “Fine, we’ll call it something else: a warning for the sake of your own self-care.” She crosses her arms again and moves back to lean against the sink; the exact spot where you sat as Jake touched and kissed and held you. You wonder if she’d allow any part of her to make contact with that spot if she knew its very recent history. 

“Jake Seresin gets bored,” she says with the prideful tone of someone much too pleased to force their knowledge upon others, whether that knowledge be accurate or not. “I don’t know where he found you or what sob story you gave that tapped into his caretaker complex, but it doesn’t make a difference in the long run. You’re not there because you have value to him, you’re there because you’re easy. You are a warm pussy and an open mouth and a pair of tits, and that’s it,” she spits. “Don’t start thinking that you're special or that you give him something no one else can. He’s tasted better things than you and thrown them away, so believe me when I say that you’re wasting your time by latching on to him. The way he looks at you, it's not real. What you are is shiny and new, but shiny and new doesn’t last forever, and after enough time, he’ll–”

“I'm not that new,” you interrupt.

A flash shoots across her irises—there and then gone. For someone else, it could have passed unnoticed, but you recognize the things you have felt before; the verbal shutdown that stops someone in their tracks by ripping the words from their throat and rendering them meaningless. Being on the opposite end of it turns your stomach, but for your defense and the defense of the man you care for, you won't hide the truth to spare her.

Brit scoffs. “You’ve lived there, what, a few weeks?”

“Months.”

Her brow knits and eyes narrow, and she’s guaranteed to form wrinkles you’re sure she’d rather prevent. 

“Good,” she says, but it’s not quite as dominant as before. “Then you don’t have much time before he shows you the man he really is. It starts off all sweet, he’s kind and considerate of your feelings, but the minute you want more he’ll dump you on your ass.”

“He isn't–”

“It will happen,” she snaps, taking a few more steps closer until she’s just shy of in your face. “And if you have an ounce of intelligence, you’ll leave him.”

With how hard she’s trying, there’s an instinctual part of you that fights to feel sympathy. And in a way, you do. What she’s sharing is not unlike your own experiences. You’ve been with men. You know the ones who aim to hurt and revel in their success. You know the ones who don’t think twice about their actions and hurt without looking back. But you also know Jake is neither of those men.

You let a handful of beats pass, hoping to find in her glare one dominating emotion to guide you. But they are too interwoven. She is fueled by the familiar self-sustaining brew of anger and pain, and you wonder if she can feel anything else anymore–if she is capable of relaxing or evenly breathing. You wonder if she ever sleeps. 

“You know, running from something and chasing after something are a lot alike,” you begin, testing the strength of your voice in the slim space between you. “You practically kill yourself trying to reach a place where you’re content and have what you want, but you never get there. And it's exhausting,” you admit. “I know how exhausting it is.”

“Do you have a point?”

Your stare doesn't falter under the intensity of hers. “Aren’t you tired?”

She flinches, and as her eyes flick back and forth between yours you wait for some form of retaliation, but it doesn't come. 

Your safety is solidified by the call of your name as the door swings open. Millie’s head pops into the room and when she recognizes who has you nearly pressed up against the wall, her body follows. Her arms cross and her brows dip and for the first time you witness a death glare you didn’t know that that woman—that tiny woman, Rooster’s girl, your friend—was capable of. The glare pries into the blonde. 

“You alright, hon?” she asks, but it’s not a question looking for a response as much as it is a warning to Brit that if anyone in this room is going to be ��alright,’ she’s last on the list. 

Impressively, that’s all it takes before you’re watching Brit retreat from the bathroom. 

When the door closes, Millie rushes over to take your hand, falling into the motherly mode that, considering her age, continues to throw you for a loop. 

“What the hell was that?” she demands. “What’d she say to you?”

“Nothing,” you say, shaking your head. Glad that she’s now by your side, your lips quirk.

“It didn’t look like nothin’.”

“Nothing that matters.” Her fingers give your hand a light squeeze as she scans your face, searching for a chink in your expression that might indicate a lie. “Millie, I swear.”

Seemingly satisfied, she nods and turns for the door, pulling you along behind her. “We have to tell Jake she was botherin’ you.”

Suddenly, your heels dig into the floor. “No, we don't.”

Millie twists back around and blinks as if she misheard you. “You’re kiddin’ me.”

You’re not. Jake doesn’t need that. Dragging unnecessary problems into his life is the last thing you want to do to him. And unnecessary is exactly what this is. You can take care of yourself, but you’re not sure your abilities will matter if Jake knows what happened in this bathroom. After everything he’s been through and lost, learning that Brit went around him to get to you will be seen as nothing less than a threat in his eyes, as it would be seen in yours were the situation reversed. 

That’s what happens when you chip away at each other’s walls. Because both of you have begun exposing your hearts and your worries and your fears while your hands are intertwined, the area to protect has expanded in a way it wouldn’t have had you taken this journey on your own. Now it’s harder. There’s more open space, less solid defenses, and your eyes have to monitor distances farther than they can reach. It's impossible to always be successful in protecting two people at once, so now, to protect Jake, you have to take the blow. And in this case, that is what is necessary. 

“It’s his birthday,” you stress. “He's happy. Just let it be.”

“But he's going to see her out there anyway.” Millie waves in Jake’s general direction as if the dramatic flail of her short arm might assist in making her point.

“I doubt it. She probably left.”

“Why on earth would you think that?”

Because Brit didn't come here for Jake. Not tonight. But you can’t immediately piece together the right way to say I don’t think it, I know it without inviting more questions from the fiery redhead with a fierce protective nature. So you ignore it. “Everything's going to be fine,” you say. “I promise.”

—

“Don’t you think it’s a little too out in the open there?” you ask from the couch as Jake centers the snow globe on the mantle above the television. 

“No,” he says without a glance back at you.

“It’ll catch the sunlight and blind you while you're watching a movie.”

His finger nudges the globe a millimeter to the left. “I’ll watch movies at night.”

You roll your eyes. “Well, it throws off the decor of the room.”

He steps back to get a look at the globe's placement before going in to erase the millimeter he had just moved it. “How?”

“I don’t know,” you huff. “There’s no other snow in here.”

When he finally turns to you, his brow is arched and his lips are upturned enough to carve dimples into his cheeks. “There’s no other snow in here,” he repeats. “Do I need to go buy some of that fake stuff? Sprinkle it around the room maybe?”

“You’re not funny,” you grumble as he walks toward you, stopping just a few inches away. He leans down and his hands reach out to cup your cheeks.

“It’s staying,” he says with a peck to your lips. Then he releases you and falls onto the cushions beside you. 

His head rests on the back of the couch, tilted to the side so he can easier watch you, which is exactly what he does. He watches. His soft gaze stays on your face until enough time has passed that you can’t help but chuckle. 

“What?” comes through your light laugh.

“Come here.”

“What for? Your birthday is over.”

Heading lifting, his jaw drops. “By an hour and a half.” 

When your lips pull to the side and brows raise as if to say ‘Not my problem’, Jake sits up and scoots toward the edge of the cushion. 

“What are you doing?” you ask. 

“Getting ready to get on my knees and beg, what does it look like?”

You quickly throw out your hand and press it against the center of his chest to stop him. Though he’s undoubtedly much stronger than you, he falls back onto the couch with the slightest push. As you sit up and stretch a leg over his hips to settle down on his thighs, you sigh through your nose with a smile, and say, “Isn’t that a little dramatic?”

Firm hands grip the dips of your waist. “From my perspective, no.”

Wrapping your arms around his shoulders, you let your body lean into him until your breasts are flush to his chest and your lips are inches apart. “Happy Birthday,” you whisper before your mouth meets his in a kiss. 

It’s soft and slow, and his tongue greets yours with such sweetness as it explores you. He tastes you as if it's the first time after months apart and he doesn’t want to neglect a single bit of you—a drastic shift from earlier when every move he made was filled with urgency, but being in your own home grants you that luxury. There’s no need for hurried movements with no one to bother you. So he doesn’t rush a single thing. Not his kisses. Not his touch. 

Those fingers roam expertly about your body, expressing how much he wants you without demanding you offer him permission to do as he pleases. His fingers that slide up your inner thigh, but not too high, and brush around your breasts, but not too close, silently swear that you are the one in control. His touch serves as a promise of what he can give you, but only if you decide you want it. 

And it’s not that you don’t want it, him, you do, but you would prefer to feel a stronger sense of confidence that if you take each other, you won’t lose something of yourself in the process as you have in the past. If you take that step, you need to be sure you’ll still be the person you’ve become since you met him, the person he knows you to be. Right now, you can’t guarantee that. So you let his fingers do their roaming, burning tingles through the fabric of your dress, and you let your hands do the same, traveling over wide shoulders and thick neck and into soft hair, but you don’t suggest more. And to your relief, he doesn’t push for more, despite it being his birthday. 

Jake releases a moan so low and gravelly and deep that you feel it from your chest to your belly. He moans and groans and when you bite his lip, he lightly whimpers, and you like it too much that you can pull the same sounds from him that he can from you. But that little song you're making him sing is interrupted by a sharp ding. 

Jake’s lips detach from yours and his head whips in the direction of the intrusive sound. “Shit,” he says. “Sorry, let me turn it off.” His arm extends toward the noise, making his whole body lean sideways, and you take the opportunity to lick a small stripe along his neck. “Fuck, beautiful.” He groans another lovely groan as he secures the phone in his hand and straightens his posture. 

You hear the click that opens the phone, the light from the screen creating a bright spot in the corner of your closed eyelids, but it takes you a while to notice that, though Jake’s other arm is still wrapped around you, his hand has stopped its caressing. His breathing has slowed to a more regulated pattern. He’s too quiet for too long, and you never heard him set the phone back down on the side table. 

Then he says, “Why didn’t you tell me about Brit?”

You freeze, all of you from your head to your toes to your heart and the blood rushing through your veins. Pulling your head back from his neck, you find his eyes still glued to his phone. “W-What?”

Jake flips the device so you have a full view of the screen and the block of text in the bottom left corner. 

Rooster: Hey man, Millie said Brit went after your girl tonight. I wasn’t supposed to tell you, but I know you’d tell me if it was Millie, so just making sure she’s ok.

You reread the words, hoping they might change with another pass over, but no luck. “Um…”

---

tags: @wkndwlff @kmc1989 @sagittarius-flowerchild @dempy @oliviah-25 @rosiahills22 @xoxabs88xox @matisse556 @hardballoonlove @lynnevanss @pono-pura-vida @tgmreader @amgluvsbooks @ravenhood2792 @djs8891 @shakespeareanwannabe @sailor-aviator @penguin876 @tgmavericklover @athenabarnes @emilyoflanternhill @wretchedmo @shanimallina87 @crowsreadsarahjmaas @mamachasesmayhem @sky2nd @jessicab1991 @rosedurin @averyhotchner @horseshoegirl @elite4cekalyma @buckysteveloki-me @shelbycillian @kissmethric3 @fox-bee926 @hangmandruigandmav @waltermis @fandom-life-12 @a-serene-place-to-be @bruher @tngrace @mamaskillerqueen @emma8895eb @benedictsvestcollection @blackwidownat2814 @himbos-on-ice @hookslove1592 @alwaysclassyeagle @chaytea06 @cherrycolas-things

[illyrian-dreamer]

Our girl – Part 1

Azriel x Cassian x Reader angst

Summary: Deeming you unfit for a mission, the Inner Circle have betrayed your trust and shattered your life’s mission to avenge you sister. And the two males you love most were at the centre of it all.

Word count: 5k

Super angsty IC dynamics, little bit of violence/blood. Injured reader.

--------

“It was my right!!” Your voice was shrill, breaking from the volume – but you couldn't care less.

“I understand that Y/N, but I have a duty to my court. And to you, to keep you safe.” Your Highlord was unmoved, professional and stoic, your anger washing over him like water against stone.

The thud of your heart was in your ears, the tips of them hot, and you were sure the rest of your family could hear it too. You tried to breath, to think, to let yourself see the logic in Rhys’s decision to let Azriel make the kill over you.

But it was all bullshit.

“He was mine to kill,” you seethed, your voice unrecognisable, an almost growl from the deep part of your throat that strained at you not to cry.

“Try to understand–”

“No!” you spat, marching up to the High Lord, your finger pointed at your chest. The rest of your family stiffened as you approached, untrusting of what you would do next. You could see Azriel’s shadows run down his frame, even though the male hadn't moved from his formal stance by the door. He kept his hands clasped behind his back, still unable to look you in the eye since the moment you had barged into the room. Feyre was biting the nail on her thumb, her face pained and distressed as she watched you march up to her mate. But it was Cassian who showed the least amount of trust, taking a step closer, ready to jump in if - or rather when he had to.

“She was my sister Rhysand, MY SISTER! Not yours, not anyone else's here. He took her in innocence, and his death was mine to mark.”

Rhysand’s brow clenched. “It had to be this way,” he offered softly.

You scoffed, running shaky hands through your hair as you paced backwards. “You expect me to believe that?” Sarcasm oozed from you as easily as the aggression. “I’ve only ever asked you for one thing Rhysand, one thing! Meryl’s murder was unjust, and you promised to train me to avenge her! You promised I would be the one to kill that male!”

Rhysand took a deep breath, his violet eyes pained, but his head remained high. “I’m sorry Y/N. It’s as I said, you’re not ready to execute a mission this big, and Alvar had intel on our court that we could not risk exposing.”

“I have worked my ass off for years for you Rhys. I have trained in hail, rain and shine, I’ve completed mission after mission with no complaint. I have fought for you, lied and stolen and killed for you. I have given my life to avenging Meryl, and you have the audacity to tell me I’m not ready?”

“I know it’s hard to hear. There’s no changing that you didn't have clearance.”

“From who?”

“Cassian and Azriel.”

And that was the last thing you heard before your heart broke in two.

The males you trusted most in this world, the two that had broken your walls, taught you to trust again, trained you and nurtured you, the very beings you loved most in this world,– had not only known of the task, but had been the ones to stop you from fulfilling your life’s mission?

They knew the depths of your reasoning for joining the Inner Circle, for training as a Velarian spy. They had known your one true desire to find Alvar Ashwood – Hybern’s lead assassin – and make him pay for the innocent life that he took.

You looked between the two of them now, your mouth agape as you tried to find the words, or even a sound that could come close enough to the anguish you felt. But no sound found you, even your shaking had stopped. Rhys was saying something, but his words were a world away, muffled and muted as heart-wrenching shock consumed you.

Cassian looked back at you with broken, pleading eyes. Azriel's head hung low in shame.

You would never forgive them for this.

“I-I.” You stopped yourself, gulping. You had nothing left to say. Nodding slowly, silent tears of realisation rolled down your cheeks. One thing was clear – there was no one left that you could trust.

“I’m sorry you’re hurt Y/N, truly. Please, take some time to rest, to process. We’ll discuss this further when you’re ready, I’ll tell you anything you want to know.” Rhys’s stance had softened at your tears, his palms open as he dared to try and slip through your mental shields to sooth you.

Gritting your teeth, you slammed your walls up as high as possible, shutting him out and throwing him from the outskirts of your mind. You whipped your head back to your High Lord, a snarl ready at your lips as you took another stride towards him.

Cassian jumped into action then, stopping you with two large hands on either of your shoulders, his back to his Rhys as he blocked your path.

“Hey, hey, how about we go talk about this outside, ok?”

“Get off me,” you spat, shaking off his hold as you tried to eye Rhys over his shoulder.

Feyre had joined her mate now, their arms linked as they stared at you with pure shock. Neither of them had anticipated just how deeply this decision would cut.

Giving up against Cassian’s hold, you looked between both of them, their figures becoming a blur as tears welled in your eyes. “How could you do this to me?” you broke, your face crumpling. “I trusted you, all of you!”

Cassian pulled you close to his chest as he walked you from the room. “Shh, its alright, c’mon, come with me.”

You had nothing left to give. No energy, no fight, certainly nothing that could resist Cassian’s strength as he dragged you from that room, weeping.

You weren't even sure how you made it to the gardens, but the bite cold of the night shocked you enough to push the General off of you.

Bending at your waist, you held yourself up by your knees, your breath shaky and uneven as you struggled to breath in between sobs. Bile rose in your mouth, and you were unsure if you were going to be sick.

“Shh, its alright Y/N. Just breath.” Cassian’s large hand framed and soothed your back.You wanted so badly to give in to him, to throw yourself at his chest and let him hold you while you cried. But no – he had betrayed you, just like the rest.

“D-don’t touch me,” you managed to gasp.

“Alright sweetheart, alright.”

“And don't call me that!” Having regained a steady breath, you straightened to look at him, disgust seeping from your expression as your eyes darted between his. “You knew?”

Cassian sighed, closing his eyes and dropping his head slightly. “Yeah, I knew.”

“How could you not tell me?”

Another sigh from the General. “We knew you’d go after him if you found out.”

You blinked back at Cassian, biting your lip as you shook your head in disbelief.

“I know it might not make sense right now doll, but we did it for your own good.”

You shook your head faster, your frown deepening as you stepped further away from your once friend. “No, no no Cassian! No! There is no excuse!”

“I’m sorry you’re hurting Y/N, really, I am. I know what it feels like to lose someone you love, to need to avenge them.”

Your eyes narrowed. “That’s right Cass, you do. So where was our family to lie and deceive you all those months you spent slashing and killing to avenge your mother?”

Cassian’s eye softened as he took a deep breath. “You know that is the deepest regret of my life.”

“At least the decision was yours,” you spat, turning your heel for the gates at the back of the gardens.

Cassian was on your tail. “Please, Y/N. We did it out of care for your safety, try to understand.” You kept a stubborn chin forward, picking up your pace as you sought any kind of exit from this Gods-forsaken home that had once been your haven.

You had finally reached the gates, magic willing them to open on their own accord. You steered straight ahead – to the thick of the woods that bordered the house

“Where are you going?” Cassian asked.

You didn't answer the General. Before you, your destination lay clear.

“Y/N. The woods are dangerous.”

You scoffed, your pace and direction unchanged. A strong hand caught your wrist.

“Get off me Cassian,” you snarled.

“Look, I’m sorry, but I can't let you.”

“I said get off!”

Cassian snatched his hand back, a sharp breath drawn as he winced in pain. Your power – that unpredictable, uncontrollable current of energy now swarmed your skin like an electric coating. It was moments like this that your gift found you, unpredictable and dangerous, much like yourself. Surely part of the reason your family had decided you weren't good enough to find and kill Alvar on your own.

You had no room in your heart to care if you hurt Cassian. This was your window to flee, so you did, escaping him and heading to the depths of the woods.

————

The woods were crisp and dark, the usual brilliant array of stars hidden by tree tops. But you didn't care, your own discomfort numbed from the sheer rage that fuelled your every step.

Your breath was a smoky puff against the cold, twigs and branches crunching underneath the stomp of your boots while circular thoughts reeled in your mind, over and over again.

Rhysand had ordered Azriel to kill Alvar. Cassian and Azriel didn’t give you clearance and kept the mission a secret. Alvar was dead. You would never avenge your sister.

It was done. It was over. The last tether to your sister, buried forever. Everything you had worked for, the one motivation that kept you from falling apart at her death, that got you out of bed on those days when grief was an excruciating ache on your stomach – gone in an instant. And the people you loved the most  were to blame.

Deep within your turmoil of thoughts, the shadows that slinked over your footprints went unnoticed, and the figure that flew overhead amiss.

The sound of a bubbling brook pricked your fae ears. You decided to follow it – perhaps a sip of cold water, or running your hands through a stream might calm the energy that still zapped at your skin.

Sure enough, not a short walk away was the brook. The water trickled down into a large pool, the tree tops cleared as moonlight danced in the reflection of the water. Under any other circumstance, you would have found this setting to be beautiful.

You bought shaking hands to cup at the stream, wincing as the cold stung at your power. But the liquid was quick to sooth you, and your spark began to fizzle as you bought your hand to your mouth, drinking intently.

After a few more sips, you sat back at the bank of the pool, closing your eyes as heavy breaths pushed through the ache in your chest. The sound of a small splash of water had you opening your eyes, and you jumped as unfeeling, black ones stared back at you from the centre of the pool.

A sickly pale face watched you unblinking, its figure still beneath the water from the nose down. Adrenaline was quick to fuel you to get the hell out of there, but you also knew better.

This was a kelpie. And it was too late to run.

The kelpie moved silently beneath the water, wading its way towards you. You took the few moments you had to scramble to your feet, patting yourself for anything to defend yourself with. Fuck – you hadn't a weapon on you.

Reaching the edge of the bank now, it stood on its long limbs, water trickling off its sickly figure, its own long black hair blending with the reeds that clung to its frame.

“Are you a royal?” it grinned, its pointed teeth yellow and rotted.

You forced a steady voice, calling on your power you so often stifled. “No,” was all you said, staring the creature down.

The kelpie ran an insidious tongue along its teeth, churning a nauseous feeling in your stomach. “Then why do you smell of it?”

You blinked – you hadn't realised you carried the scent of your family with you too. Perhaps a kelpie’s scent was more heightened?

“They are my family. Unrelated.” you explained, buying yourself more time for your power to gather. “They’ll fetch for me soon,” you lied.

The kelpie hissed and grinned at once, walking closer towards you. You took a few steps back, keeping your distance.

“You smell…,” the kelpie paused, its awful nostrils flaring against its face. “Delicious.”

“You best leave. They’ll kill you if you harm me,” you replied quickly, cursing yourself for the fear that you knew now tinged your scent. The kelpie caught it too, its grin growing wider.

“But I’m starrrrved,” it drawled, lowering its look to you. “I’m afraid I cannot contain myself, even if I tried.” A sickly chuckle racked through its chest.

You gulped, sizing up the creature in front of you. Ordinarily, you knew you could take down someone of his size. But you were without your weapons, and your power was unreliable at the best of times. If it took you in the water, you were sure as dead. Begging to the Gods, you clenched your fists, willing your power to find you in any shape or form.

“Any last words, non-royal?” it cackled, readying itself to attack.

You didn't have a chance to respond as shadows flooded around you, blue siphons glowing among them. The kelpie yelped and howled, and as the darkness cleared you saw its pale figure pinned to the ground.

“Are you alright?” Azriel was before you, his hands gripped at both your arms. Your eyes were wide with shock as you took him in. He had followed you?

The kelpie was deceivingly strong, and fought against his shadows, freeing itself quickly. It screeched as it lunged for you both, a darkened claw swinging for Azriel’s back. You shoved the Shadowsinger aside, the kelpie’s claws slashing across your arm as you yelped in pain. Blood began to pour from your new wound, and the kelpie hissed too, having being struck by your power on contact.

Azriel was on the kelpie in an instant, a blur shadows and muscle before you spotted the glint of truth teller. The next thing you heard was the kelpie’s final howl.

Its mouth agape, the kelpie bled black blood, crawling back to the depths of the pool, choosing to die in its element. Neither you or Azriel stopped it.

Azriel was panting, his breathing loud as the final sign of life from the kelpie bubbled to the surface of the water. You stayed still with shock.

Hazel eyes were before you now, scanning you over.

“Your arm,” Azriel said, touching you gingerly.

“I’m fine,” you said with a distant voice, your mind still with the hideous creature that attacked you. Your forearm was warm with your own blood as it gathered at your fingertips before dripping to the ground.

“Let’s get you to a healer.”

It was that instruction, that order, that snapped you out of your trance. You had heeded and trusted that voice for far too long. And in the end, it had betrayed you.

You snatched your arm away from Azriel, scowling as you met his eyes. “Do not tell me what to do.”

Azriel levelled a look at you. “This is not a regular wound, Y/N. You know a kelpie’s claw is laced with poison.”

You gritted your teeth, ignoring the burning sensation quickly spreading across your body, or the reel in your vision. How convenient that you so desperately needed his help.

“I’ll see to it myself,” you snapped, glaring deep into the Shadowsinger’s eyes. A muscle feathered in his jaw, Azriel’s tell-sign of irritation. He was far less patient than his brothers.

You made to step around him, before a strong arm circled your waist, pulling you back. Too weak to fight him off, a scarred hand covered your mouth to mute your yell of protest. Instead a quick rush of air filled your lungs as the forest folded around you, quickly revealing an infirmary wing.

Shoving yourself from Azriel’s hold the moment you landed, you stumbled forward, finding balance by clinging to the edge of an empty cot. A set of healers rushed to you, grabbing your arms and holding you up.

“A kelpie’s claw,” Azriel said before either of them could ask the question, one of the healer’s dashing for the antidote. “Where is Madja?”

“She does not work nights,” the healer’s voice was loud in your ear as you clung to her, barely able to stand. A small groan escaped you, the fire from the kelpie’s poison burning through your veins, your mobility slowing with every second.

“Fetch for her, please,” Azriel instructed, taking your limp body from the healer and placing you in the cot. A vial was bought to your lips then, the contents inside giving off a putrid smell. You jerked your head stubbornly, but the vial was tipped further against your mouth.

“Drink,” Azriel ordered, his cold hand lacing through your hair and pushing at the back of your head. You had no chose, swallowing the liquid while you still could. The fire in your veins began to dull, and you breathed, thankful for the quick relief.

“Good,” the Shadowsinger said approvingly. You hated that affirmation, but were too weak to show it.

The healers dotted around you, placing cold rags on your face and stitching your wound. Azriel watched, his arms folded and face etched with concern. Uncontrollable shakes racked through your body, your muscles jerking with pain and exhaustion.

Falling in and out of consciousness, you were too dazed to note Madja’s arrival, and with her, Cassian.

“What happened?” Cassian asked his brother, his eyes panicked.

“A kelpie,” Azriel said tightly.

Cassian clenched his eyes shut, punching the bridge of her nose. “She got away from me. I didn't want to chase her, she was already distraught.”

“I was tracking her too. I should have intervened sooner,” Azriel responded, his eyes not leaving you as a deeper frown settled on his face.

After a quick check of your vitals and words with her healers, Madja approached the two.“The antidote is working. She’ll recover soon.”

“She still looks sickly?” Cassian questioned, looking past the healer at your sagged and sweaty body.

“That is what I wanted to talk to you both about. Y/N is carrying symptoms of something else I can't place. Do either of you know if she was involved in a foreign mission lately, perhaps something of high risk or stress?”

The brothers shared a look before Azriel responded. “Not exactly Madja, but she… received some bad news today.”

“She was very upset,” Cassian added.

Madja nodded slowly, tutting softly. “Whatever has happened, it’s manifesting physically. She’s weaker than usual, and will need to rest for a few days. I suggest keeping her here, where we can tend to her.”

“Perhaps we can bring her home Madja. Would you see to her there?” Azriel asked, his arms crossing tighter. Illyrian’s being preternaturally possessive, he preferred you at home where he could keep a closer eye on you, help even.

“The choice is Y/N’s really. Let me do what I can while she rests, I’ll call for you when she wakes.” The brother’s nodded, making to leave the wing.

“Madja,” Cassian half turned, grabbing the healer by her arm. “Please, just, tell her we’re sorry.”

With a small frown, Madja reluctantly agreed.

————

When you awoke, you expected it to be light. Instead, the infirmary was dim, the soft glow of fae light warming the medical wing around you.

Memories from the night before returned, your stomach churning at the thought. The kelpie, hurting Cassian, the fight with your family. Your heart clenched as you were reminded – they had betrayed you, and you could no longer trust them.

Groaning as you turned to your side, you felt around for anything to catch the bile rising in your throat. You luckily landed on a pan, what little remained in your stomach hurled up as your gut clenched and heaved.

Madja entered at the sound, rubbing soothing pats on your back and taking the pan away when you had finished.

You fell back onto the pillows, your body clammy and weak. “What’s wrong with me?” you asked her as she checked your breathing.

“You were struck by a kelpie. Although your wounds are healing well.”

You looked at the ceiling, nodding as you recalled the horrific event. It was hard enough to almost die at the hands of a creature like that, but your heart ached at the thought that Azriel had saved you, yet you never wanted to see his face again.

“It would seem there is something else that plagues your mind, child.”

You looked at Madja now, blinking away the tears that were quickly building.

“Your family mentioned some kind of distressing news?”

Closing your lids, a silent tear rolled from each of your eyes. You merely nodded, your hands quickly brushing away the evidence.

“Its none of my business, but the General was eager that I relay their apologies.”

You froze, flashing a broken look at the healer you had known for many years. How many wounds and ailments of yours had she patched and cured in your career? But emotional wounds – this was new territory for the both of you.

As if finally in safe hands, your face crumpled, your anger and anguish overwhelming as you began to sob. Madja was ordinarily tough – she had no time for foolery and was unsympathetic for injuries of your own fault. But she comforted you now, hushing you and patting your back in a motherly way.

“What do you do when you no longer trust the people you love, Madja?” you asked through shallow cries.

She gave a small, tight smile, squeezing your hands that she now held in hers. “You spend eternity learning to forgive them.”

You bit the quiver in your lip. “I’m not sure I can,” you admitted.

She sighed softly, nodding with understanding. “You have the rest of your existence if you choose to try.”

Madja’s wisdom comforted you, your eyelids turning heavy and you fell to another bout of sleep.

————

Azriel, Cassian and Mor were eating breakfast at the House of Wind, none of them speaking as the weight of last nights events hung heavy.

With a sigh, Mor looked between the males. “She’s going to forgive you eventually, you know that right?”

Cassian gave her a sorry smile, while Azriel kept his eyes on his eggs. He gripped his fork tighter, his jaw clenched. “You didn't see the way she looked at us.”

“She just needs time,” Mor said. “This was her life’s mission after all.”

Azriel’s head snapped up, an icy cold glare fixed upon his face, a blanket over the sheer guilt he felt at Mor’s statement. “You don’t think I know that?”

Mor blinked at the Shadowsinger in shock – it was so unlike him to lose his cool.

“Easy Az, don't snap at Mor for things out of her control,” Cassian frowned at his brother, before shovelling another mouthful of oatmeal.

Azriel let out a sharp breath, clenching his eyes shut, ignoring the sting from the lack of sleep. “I’m sorry,” he said sincerely, still unable to unlock his tight jaw. Mor waved him off, assuring him it was no big deal.

A gust of foreign wind blew as Rhys and Feyre winnowed into the dining room. The High Lord disregarding pleasantries, his hand clutching a letter, its broken seal the unmistakable symbol of the infirmary.

“I have received news on Y/N.” The High Lord’s tone was to the point, cold even, like he was only interested in discussing the facts.

“Is she alright?” Cassian asked urgently. Azriel’s grip tightened on his knife and fork as he held his breath.

“Madja says her recovery is slow, but she is making progress. One or two more nights at the infirmary and she should be strong enough to be discharged.”

“I asked Madja about attending to her here. Has she written about that?” Azriel asked.

Rhys’s lips tightened before he loosed a deep breath. Feyre, her face pained, jumped in. “Madja has also written that at this point in time, Y/N does not wish to return to home.”

The others fell silent.

“What does that mean?” Azriel gritted.

Tears welled in their High Lady’s eyes, and Rhys slipped his hand over his mates.

“She no longer wishes to live here,” he said, his violet eyes saddened and dim.

Mor gasped, and Cassian shook his head. “Where will she go?” The General stood, his chair scraping as he pushed it out behind him.

“It’s unclear at this stage. Madja has asked that we respect her privacy while she heals. I’m hoping we can talk to her when she’s feeling better. Perhaps even convince her to stay.”

“She won't come back.” The rest of the group turned to the Shadowsinger, his gaze darkened and his shadows building to his neck. “I could sense her rage, the hate she held in her eyes. To her, what we did is unredeemable.”

“Don’t say that Az,” Feyre begged, a lone tear rolling down her cheek.

Azriel’s pounded the table with his fist, his knife now stuck upright in the mahogany wood. “Would you prefer I lied? She’s worked her whole life to avenge Meryl, and we shattered that dream. I wouldn't forgive us either.”

“Surely there is something we can do,” Cassian looked between his brother’s, eyes desperate, almost pleading.

But Azriel kept his cold glare on the couple before him. “You asked me to find Alvar first. So I did. And now we’ve lost our girl.”

Rhys’s power coursed through the room as he bought his mate closer to his side. “Watch it, Azriel,” he warned. “Alvar had intel on our wards, our home would be forever exposed if he got away. I tried my best to give Y/N the opportunity. Let’s not forget the decision you and Cass made to keep her grounded.”

“She was going to get herself killed,” Cassian muttered, not defensively, but as pure fact. “The desire to kill him – it makes her power unpredictable. She would have hurt herself, or died trying.”

“We all did what we had to do,” Feyre said softly, bringing sense back above the tension of the room. Pained, guilty expressions reflected hers.

Azriel stood now too, making his way around the table and heading for the door.

“Where are you going?” Rhys asked.

“To go get Y/N.”

“She’s asked we give her some space Az,” Feyre reasoned. “We have no right to go barging in while she’s trying to recover.”

“I don't care. She’s angry, but that doesn't mean she knows what’s best. She’ll heal better here, with people that care about her. I’ll go–”

“Sit down,” Rhys interrupted the Shadowsinger, the air thickening with his power as he pulled rank.

Azriel’s shoulder’s tightened at Rhys’s order, halting his steps yet refusing to take his seat. “She belongs here, with us,” he gritted.

“We can't force her to do anything Azriel,” Mor whispered, her eyes soft as cast a sympathetic look at her friend.

There was silence in the room again, none of them knowing what to say next.

“This is my fault,” Cassian swallowed, his gaze distant in a deep frown.

“No one is to blame,” Rhys said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “The situation is unfortunate, but I’m certain it will get better in time.” He breathed deeply, offering a broken smile to his mate before casting a stern look at the others. “We’ll keep you updated if we hear anything further.”

With a few quiet goodbyes, the High Lord and Lady winnowed back to their River Home.

“We–“ Cassian began.

“Don’t Cass,” Mor interrupted knowingly. “You need to leave bad enough alone.” She stood then, leaving the males to their breakfast.

Cassian cast a look to his brother, who was already looking at him. “Are we leaving now?”

“Not with all eyes on us. Wait until dark. Then we’ll go get our girl.”

“Deal.”

--------

Part 2 >>>>

AN: Ok, here’s that angsty piece I was telling you about.... 

I HAVE MISSED YOU GUYS!!!

Also I’ve been slack with my tag lists, very sorry! If you’d like to join a generic acotar one, drop a comment. 

[god-has-entered-my-body]

Twist around the lounge - George Daniel & Matty Healy

A/N: i've been writing since 10am also this is barely spellchecked @beforeyougo-turnthebiglightoff ur a legendary beta thank u for fixing the fuckass formatting xx

wc: 5k

content warnings: super gay, smut, fluff, kissing, power dynamics, fingering, handjobs, blowjobs, begging, teasing, threesome, masturbation, voyeurism, exhibitionism, so gay, pain kink, cumplay, sub! matty, switch(?)! george, shy G oh my god, they get high moments before they fuck so tw for that, allusions to pegging (i reckon that isn't even a warning but better be safe xx)

“What happened to ‘girls don’t roll their own spliffs?’” George comments as you drag your tongue along the paper, the question directed at Matty. You roll your eyes dramatically, holding your hand as George passes you the lighter and you flick it on, rotating for an even burn. Matty shakes his head from across you, adjusting his legs under him he wipes his thumb on the glass of the coffee table.

“There's some things I'm willing to give up.” he settles on a vague answer, eyes darting over your face as you chuckle at the implication. Your legs shift over George’s lap to a more comfortable position as you take the first drag, letting the smoke curl around you in pretty patterns.

Passing the lit spliff to Matty, you pick at your nails as you let the hazy sensation take over your body, though it's not quite as strong as you’d like.

A soft breeze from the open window kisses your skin and you close your eyes, enjoying the feeling. George lets his arms splay out on either side in a relaxed manner, sucking in a deep breath as he watches Matty inhale the smoke, his eyes drooping closed when it hits him, a lazy smile spreading onto his face.  

Matty blows an O in your direction and you catch it like a kiss, shooting him a wink. Too distracted by you looking at him, Matty manages to fumble the spliff, letting it drop into the sliver of skin exposed by the mid-length black skirt he’s wearing.

“Fuck– shit, fucking bullshit-” he curses, brushing hot ash off his leg, hissing in discomfort. 

“Hm, I thought you liked pain?” you joke, eyeing him up and down in a teasing manner, giggling quietly. George perks up slightly at your words, his eyes darting between you and Matty.

“Not like that, you know well enough the type I enjoy.” he breathes, wiping his fingers on his skirt to rid them of the black residue from the ash, going to take another drag. 

You expect a fucked off groan from George, the typical annoyed expression you’re used to replaced by one of undeniable intrigue, his eyebrows raised in curiosity. Matty looks up, a bit confused at the lack of conversation, a heavy silence falling over the three of you. George runs an unsteady hand through his hair as Matty blows smoke, his eyes getting visibly redder as the seconds tick by. 

The silence is broken by George’s deep voice, timid and unsure.

“What do you mean he likes… uhm- pain?” The end of his sentence is punctuated by an uncharacteristic voice crack, your eyes narrowing at the odd question. It takes a few seconds for the words to finally register as Matty hands George the spliff, their hands lingering in a way that could be labeled as more than platonic if you looked close enough.

The more you look, the faster the gears in your head turn. You can see a thousand thoughts running through Matty’s mind as George stares at both of you, a faint blush dusting his cheeks at the obscenity of the question. It finally clicks for Matty when he sees him looking at the bit of skin visible over the collar of his shirt, littered with multicolored hickeys and bite marks.

“Oh you know, just like….” you trail off, moving your legs from their position on George’s lap, sitting up in a more normal position.

“I like it when she pulls my hair.” Matty’s bluntness almost makes you cringe, but the feeling of embarrassment is curbed by the look on George’s face, his lips parted in surprise at the answer. The curly haired boy smirks at you mischievously, eyes flicking between you and George, waiting for one of you to answer.

“Oh, uhm– thats-” George stutters, his voice incredibly meek right before Matty cuts him off.

“Really fucking hot? Yeah, mate, you wouldn't believe.” your eyes widen at the conversation being held right now, and you try to gather your words to steer it away from whatever this was, hoping and praying Matty hadn't spooked George into never wanting to speak to either of you ever again.

“Yeah, it is.” George breathes, no stutter in sight as Matty watches his every move, acting accordingly. In what feels like a fraction of a second, you suddenly feel the weight of a body in your lap, and it takes a moment to realize its Matty, straddling you like George isn’t sitting two fucking feet away from you.

His lips catch yours in a searing hot kiss, all tongue and teeth as our mouths work against each other, quiet wet sound filling the space as you feel George’s eyes on you, shamelessly staring. 

“See? I was right.” Matty murmurs against your lips, vaguely gesturing in the direction of an incredibly flustered George, his confidence unfaltering. You pull away for a few moments, cocking your head in confusion as you see him set the spliff down in the corner of your eye, bright pink ashtray glimmering in the dim light.

“Our little Georgie here,” he cuts himself off with another peck to your bruised lips before continuing. “likes to watch, don't you, love?” The pet name makes George visibly twitch, Matty’s sultry words evoking something primal in him, something he’d never felt before. You feel his hand trail down your chest, grazing over your nipples as he caresses your skin, his touch tantalizing. Turning your head slightly, you see a sight that will be ingrained into your frontal lobe until the day you die. Georges nods, confirming Matty’s suspicions and you gasp as curls brush under your jaw, hot lips pressed to your collarbones. 

The energy in the room shifts dramatically as George makes a move towards the two of you. He opens his mouth to speak once, twice, until he finally manages to force a string of words out.

“W-what else–” Matty stops, turning towards him with a look of encouragement, nodding at the clearly nervous blonde.

“What else does she– does she do..?” The question is directed at Matty, his eyes avoiding you at all costs, too shy to even look at you properly.

“Fuck, she makes me hurt so good, m’dizzy even thinking ‘bout it.”

George's breath hitches and you can tell he's turned on by the way Matty moans the words, grinning maniacally at the both of you, this whole situation like a dream come true for him.

“See this?” Matty hooks his fingers into the collar of his shirt, pulling it down to reveal a myriad of bruises and marks, flaunting them to George. You can see a small part of him wish George would touch him, run the rough pads of his fingers over his pale skin, maybe even press down onto the fresh splotches of color.

“Got a bit too annoying so she put me in my place, marked me up all pretty.” Endless nights spent holding him down, murmuring into his ear, your mouth attached to his throat as he whines spin in your head, the memories going straight between your legs as you absentmindedly spread them, and action not going unnoticed by Matty.

“Fucking hell.” George mutters, entranced by the scene in front of him, trying to convince himself he was dreaming. You don't even notice how close he really is until Matty grabs the edge of his half unbuttoned shirt, smashing his lips against his. A startled gasp escapes George before he melts into the kiss and Matty moans, licking into his mouth at a dizzying pace. 

Your heart beats against your ribcage when George threads his dominant hand into his curls, tugging experimentally. The action is tentative, unsure, but Matty’s wanton groan spurs him on, a sudden rush of confidence making him pull harder, earning more sounds from him. A high pitched moan spills from Matty’s lips as George slips his tongue past them, the sight pornographic as you watch them, eyes darting between the two men. 

Letting out a groan of protest when Matty pulls away, you catch the beginnings of a smirk right before George presses his lips to yours, his stubble scratching along your chin roughly. It feels different yet so, so fucking good as he groans into your mouth.

“Fuck, that's so hot.” Matty breathes, running his fingers through his hair, still perched in your lap as George continues kissing you frantically, wanting to feel every inch of your lips. 

You barely notice Matty sinking to his knees while George keeps you busy, your eyes screwed shut tightly as a carnal desire takes over your body, lighting every fiber of it aflame. Both of them can visibly see how worked up you are the moment Matty slides your shorts down your thighs, your hips lifting to help him out. There's a visible wet patch on the front of your panties, one that makes George gasp when he sees it, breaking the kiss. 

“Oh, don't stop on my account.” Matty pouts, not liking this you-and-George-not-kissing turn of events. George catches your lips again, the kiss searing hot as his hand finds your jaw, his chest pressed up to the side of your body.

“Gorgeous, isn't she?” you giggle at Matty’s words, letting one of your hands thread through his hair as he mouths along your thigh, licking over your clothed cunt. His fingers play with the hem of the cotton, making you shiver at the coldness of his fingers against your skin. 

“You should see him in a bit of silk, takes your fucking breath away.” you whisper to George, quietly wondering if he did have a pretty little number on under that skirt of his.

“Fuck, seriously?” George says, almost to himself, looking down and locking eyes with Matty. Matty rests his cheek on your thigh, his fingers slowly pushing the fabric of your panties to the side.

“Shame I didn't have time to prepare, would've even gotten those pretty little garters out. Love those, don't you?” You nod, smiling at George as the mental image flickers in front of his eyes, fantasies running wild in his mind. 

You feel rough fingers against the skin of your stomach, and you realize what the blonde is hinting at.

“Can I..” he trails off before he can even finish his sentence and you nod, urging him to rid you of the unnecessary material. A choked gasp spills from his lips when he realizes the lack of bra under your top, his hands shamelessly groping your tits as you moan, fingers toying with your nipples meanly. 

His mouth finds the space between your tits, leaving aggressive marks in his wake as Matty watches the scene in front of him unfold, licking his bottom lip. Matty’s fingers dip under your underwear, applying pressure to your clit making your hips buck upward, searching for more pleasure as Matty grins up from below you.

“Fuck– you’re so tight.” he murmurs as his digits sink into you, stroking against your walls at a dizzying pace, your head spinning at the blinding ecstasy. 

A desperate moan escapes you as George feels you up, your chest looking eerily similar to Matty’s as your nails dig into the cushions of the sofa, your feeble attempt at grounding yourself. Matty presses soft kisses to the inside of your thigh as you writhe under his touch, sucking lightly and leaving similar marks to George, if not a bit less harsh. 

“Matty, please– m’so close.” you whine, cut off by George’s lips against yours, all the oxygen in your lungs being knocked out of them in a split second, leaving you feeling weightless. Your vision is blurry as your orgasm approaches, the coil in your belly winding impossibly tight as Matty’s hand reaches up to graze your stomach reassuringly. A rough hand grabs yours and you open your eyes fully to realize it's George’s, smiling softly as Matty brings you to that delicious edge.

You cum with a whimper of his name, gripping the blonde’s hand so tightly you might've cut off the blood supply to his fingertips, pleasure washing over you in tidal waves, your hips unabashedly grinding down onto Matty’s fingers.  

It takes a few minutes for you to properly come to, your chest heaving with effort as Matty kisses your thighs sweetly, gazing up into your eyes. A beat of silence passes between the three of you as you and Matty exchange silent conversation, George blinking rapidly at what he had just witnessed. He still felt like he was dreaming, his whole body floating above the mortal plane as you move to get up, Matty shuffling to the side to make his way between George’s legs, giving you space to do the same.

“You don't have to– I can just-” he stutters, so unsure of himself it's adorable, his face flushed a deep shade of red. You smile to yourself as Matty speaks, his confident tone having a visible effect on the boy above you.

“Do you want us to? Because I want you both so fucking bad.” Matty’s hands grope George's thighs, playing with the buckle of his belt cheekily as he peers up at him, his eyes dancing with desire. 

“Let him take these off you, hm?” You trace your fingers over his stomach where his shirt had ridden up slightly, making him twitch. The movement reminds you of Matty, yet still starkly different.

“Yeah, okay– fuck.” he groans as delicate hands unbuckle his belt, the clinking of metal making your heart thrum in your chest in anticipation. Matty’s fingers start unbuttoning his jeans, stealing a glance at your face, signaling you to take over. George’s cock is hard, precum leaking from his tip as he strains against his grey boxers, a sight you commit to memory

Matty’s now free hands grip the back of your head, pulling you into a messy kiss, so clearly for show it makes your head spin at the mere implication that George was getting turned on from watching you. Your hand finds the front of George’s boxers, palming his cock through them as soft groans fill the room, his legs shaking at the sudden stimulation.

“So ready for us, hm? Should've done this earlier if it got me that.” Matty gestures to the blonde's face, scrunched up in ecstasy as you take him out of the confines of his underwear, fisting the base of his cock. Settling into a more comfortable position on your knees, you take the tip into your mouth, swirling your tongue around it as George gasps, screwing his eyes shut in pleasure. 

Matty takes the few spare seconds to grab at the hem of his shirt, sliding it off of him to reveal his bare chest, glistening with sweat and adorned in tattoos. The sight of him half naked never ceases to make you stutter, the low rise of his skirt only adding to the inherent erotic energy surrounding him.

It takes effort to take all of him into your mouth, Matty watching intently as you choke, sputtering on his cock with spit dribbling down your chin obscenely.

“Look how well she’s taking you, feels so fucking good I bet.” Matty reaches down to touch himself to the scene in front of him, letting his face fall onto one of George's thighs. Soft whimpers and moans spill from his lips, barely audible over George’s masculine groans, the juxtaposition making you feel lightheaded as one of his hands finds its way to the top of your head, resting there. 

“Please– fuck, feels so good. Keep doing tha- ohhh shit, fuck.” The head of his cock hits the back of your throat, making you gag. Matty presses an encouraging hand to your lower back. One glance up makes your breath hitch. George isn’t looking at you, but at Matty, his hand disappearing under the waistband of his velvety skirt, squeezing himself through his underwear. The air is charged with lust, the eye contact between the two men so intense you can feel it in your bones. 

Matty’s eyes are glazed over with desperation, the sight of you getting George off fulfilling every fantasy he’s ever had. He’s sure nothing could ever top this, silently begging this wouldn't be the last time it would happen. Matty brushes strands of hair out of your face, pressing a sweet kiss to your cheek as you deepthroat George, tears threatening to spill at the effort.

You feel his cock twitch in your mouth, a low groan following as his hand goes slack in your hair, his hips bucking involuntarily. Sincere apologies spill from his lips and you pull off him, wiping your mouth and assuring him everything was alright, offering him a sickeningly sweet smile like you didn't just have his cock down your throat. 

“Make him cum, darling, I wanna see him cum– shit.” Matty whines, eyes begging you. You nod, a smirk spreading onto your face as you take George back into your mouth, his immediate groans of pleasure letting you know just how close he really is. Matty watches as you manage to not gag, making George throw his head back in ecstasy, moaning your name like a prayer. 

The thing that finally does him in? Matty’s hand grazing over the skin of his arm, making him spill into your mouth with a cry, the musky taste of his cum filling your senses. George shakes, actually shakes at the force of his orgasm, hair sticking to his forehead. An idea pops into your head moments before you swallow, and you turn your head to Matty, tapping his bottom lip with your index finger.

Matty’s eyes widen as he realizes what you want to do, his tongue lolling out of his mouth as he opens it. You let cum drop into his mouth, some of it missing and hitting his lips, a pornographic moan ripping itself from Matty’s throat at the salty, distinct taste of George.

“Love tasting you on my tongue, shit.” Matty mutters at George, growing impossibly harder at the eroticism of it all, his cock visibly tenting his skirt. 

You lick a stripe up the side of his neck, bringing your wet lips to his ear and whispering into it.

“Get up on the sofa for me baby, let's get you off.” you speak, your words sultry and coated with thick honey, making both Matty and George shiver. 

The curly haired boy nods frantically at your request, scrambling up to find his seat next to George, still panting from his recent orgasm, and the proximity to Matty definitely not helping his current state. You let out a sigh Matty knows all too well, searching your expression to decode what you really meant. It clicks for him when your eyes flicker over to George’s lap, grinning wildly as he clocks it, draping one of his legs over George in a heartbeat. 

Using his body weight to hoist himself to a sitting position, he relishes in the surprised sounds George makes, stuttering over his words while trying to process the events unfolding. Something shifts when Matty makes direct eye contact with him, that sight probably the hottest thing you’ve ever seen in your life.

“God, you’re so pretty.” George mutters, his lips inches away from Matty’s as they both breathe heavily.

“He is, isn't he?” you grin, your thoughts running wild as your eyes dart around the space, your breath hitching when they land on the discarded leather belt right in front of you, innocent and unassuming.   

Matty is the one who initiates the kiss, immediately taking George’s bottom lip between his teeth, biting down meanly as the blonde gasps into his mouth, pupils completely blown out. Both of them are completely breathless, too caught up in each other to notice you get up and circle around to stand behind Matty, leather in hand.

Matty’s eyes fly open when he feels you grab his arms suddenly, the belt clamped between your teeth as you pull them back, a small yelp spilling from his lips. George notices your movements, knitting his eyebrows in confusion before he realizes that you’re restraining him, the thought making his heart race. The metal clinking is deafeningly loud as his movement is restricted, a high-pitched whine leaving Matty.

“He loves this, look at how hard he is.” you say, your lips pressed to George’s ear as Matty’s hips twitch, bucking up against nothing, desperate for any kind of friction. He’s been hard for the better part of an hour now, watching and talking but never getting off. You see George hesitate, his hand ghosting over the bulge under his skirt while Matty yearns for his touch, eyes pleading with both of you simultaneously.  

“Touch him baby, promise he doesn't bite.” you coo, letting your fingers linger on the leather, tracing the small designs of the belt.

“Unless you want me to.” he bites his lip at George, earning a chuckle from both you and him. The lip bite, despite being ironic, still made something in you stir. 

“I don’t know how– i’ve never-” George whispers, deathly afraid of messing up, afraid of ruining this perfect moment.

“It's alright love, just–” Matty speaks, cocking his head in a sweet manner as George looks at him, red dusting his otherwise pale cheeks.

“Do what you do to yourself when you’re alone, yeah?” Matty reassures him, writhing against the restraints as George tentatively palms his cock over the velvety material.

The thought of George getting himself off is something you file away for later, the mental imagine making the heat between your legs grow exponentially, and you squeeze your thighs together to relieve some of that pressure.  

“Ah, fuck.” Matty whimpers, and you see the blonde flipping the fabric of his skirt up against his stomach, the clothing bunching up at his waist.

“Look how much he wants you, basically begging for you to get him off.” you speak slowly, drinking in the scene in front of you with a primal hunger, the bulge in Matty’s boxers adorned with a wet patch on the front of them. 

“So responsive, isn’t he?” 

Matty whimpers as George finally reaches into his boxers, taking him out and wrapping a hand around his leaking cock, beads of precum bubbling at the tip. George mirrors the movements he uses on himself, eyes searching the other boy’s expression for any sign of discomfort. Instead, he’s met with a blissed out Matty, face contorting in pleasure as George’s hand works him, using his precum as lube.

“Hear that?” you speak, taking in Matty writhing against George, wet lips parted as his eyes droop shut in ecstasy, wanton whines filling the room. You can see abandoned spliff in the ashtray across from you, last remnants of smoke curling in the air as the weed goes to waste, reminding you of how this situation even came to be.

“Those are the same noises he makes when I fuck him.” Your inflection makes the sentence all the more erotic as George stares at both of you wide-eyed, scenes playing out in his mind like a film.

“Y-you-” He stutters and you nod, Matty’s face flushing in a way you don't quite recognise. He’s embarrassed. A smirk tugs at the corners of your mouth as you realize this, finally finding his Achilles heel. That spot was George.

“Yeah, and he takes it, takes whatever I give him. He’ll take whatever you give him, too.” A choked whine leaves Matty’s lips as you speak about him like he isnt even there. He leans forward, resting his cheek in the crook of George’s neck as he makes eye contact with you, fucking panting like a dog in heat. 

“Shit, your hand feels so fucking good.” Matty whimpers, his cock twitching in George's grip as he speeds up his movements, basking in the curly haired boy's praise. Sweat makes Matty’s curls stick to his forehead, his bare chest glistening in the dim light of the living room. You watch as George gets him off, so blatantly turned on by the boy in his lap that it's genuinely laughable. 

“Let me see you, wanna see your pretty face.” George mutters against Matty’s hair, catching you both by surprise. Matty pulls back, a clear look of arousal at the boy’s words, his lips parted in a way that shows you he’s so, so close to the edge it's physically painful for him. 

“Make me cum, please– i’m so fucking close, feels so good, G, fuckk.” Matty braces himself as you trail your fingers up and down his spine, shivers blooming through his whole body as his orgasm rushes at him full throttle. George’s hand squeezes his cock roughly, the slight note of pain sending white-hot pleasure straight to Matty’s lower half, making him moan desperately as George murmurs against his jaw.

The audible sounds of frustration as Matty pulls at the belt restraining his arms is incredibly hot, your tongue darting out to lick a stripe along his throat as he gasps, the stimulation feeling like pure heaven

“That's it, baby, let go for us, doing so well.” George groans, his commanding tone of voice sending Matty hurling over the edge, his orgasm crashing over him so violently tears start to stream down his face as he cums all over George’s stomach and his own, panting their skin as you watch, a soft noise slipping past your lips.

George works Matty through his high, watching every reaction, expression, and movement he offers him, his hand steadily slowing down as Matty’s full body twitches subside, high.pitched pants and whines spilling from his lips as he closes his eyes, basking in the afterglow.

“Fuck- that was.”    

“The hottest thing you’ve ever seen?” You smirk, finishing his sentence for him with a cheeky wink. It takes a few beats for George to fully come down from his power trip, eyes darting between you and Matty as he registers the compromising position he is currently in. You notice his slight panic, resting a reassuring hand on his shoulder, acting as his tether to reality. 

“Is this going to happen again?” The question is heavy on the three of you for a moment, but eye contact with Matty tells you he already has an answer.

“Do you want it to?” Though he is still restrained, Matty is as cocky as ever, raising his eyebrows at George in a teasing manner. You watch as George gathers his words, your heart thrumming against your ribcage in anticipation. 

“That depends,” George says, sounding confident. 

“Depends on what?” Matty cocks his head and you mirror the movement, equally as confused at his statement. The curly haired boy is still out of breath, his panting ruining the calm and collected demeanor he tries so desperately to portray.   

“Depends if you take it as well as she says you do.” he gestures to you, your smirk growing as Matty flushes a deep shade of crimson, squirming under George’s touch as he rests his hands on his velvet covered hips. You chuckle quietly before answering, making deliberate eye contact with George and George only.

“Oh trust me, my sweet G, he does.”  

[spidernuggets]

Hi! :D

I was wondering if you could do a jason x fem reader where jason just rescued reader from being kidnapped and he has to calm her down from a panic attack?

Jason Todd x Fem!Reader

Warning‼️: threats of rape

Note: I apologise in advance, I don't have much experience of comforting or calming someone down during a panic attack

You couldn't see. It was dark. You were sitting down on a hard, cold surface. Wherever you were, you were moving. But, you couldn't moce your arms or your legs. Your wrists were bound together behind your back, and your ankles tied together.

You were whimpering and crying, tears rolling down youe face as you heard someone, a man most likely, scoffing at your state.

"This is the girl big, bad Red Hood is hooking up with? I expected someone... Feistier. Definitely wouldn't mind a feisty gal," he grunted and you sniffled at his comment.

So you were kidnapped as bait for Red Hood?

You were scared. This never happened before. You couldn't even remember what happened before you got kidnapped. But you knew your boyfriend was already out on patrol. Yeah. And he checks up on you ever half hour. He'll find you. He'll figure out where you are.

The vehicle came to a stop. The ropes from your ankles were cut. Someone harshly grabbed your arm, forcing you up and shoving you out of the van, almost tripping over when you couldn't watch your step.

"Move it, bitch," a different man said, pushing your back every two seconds, guiding you to a cliche located warehouse.

You were gagged with an itchy rope tight around your face, dribbles of saliva running down, mixed with your salty tears.

"Ugh, fucking disgusting. Did he answer yet?" Asked one of the men.

"No, sir. It's been 17 minutes since our message."

"Tsk." The man who seemed to be the one in control of this situation leaned down by your ear. "Looks like you don't mean as much to him as both of us thought. You know, if he doesn't come, we can still make good use of you," he sneers, grasping a tight hold of your jaw.

You snarled, refusing to take any of this bullshit, anger rising in your chest. You took the close proximity as a chance to kick him as hard as you could in the crotch. You can hear the loads of guns being pointed towards you, but no fire. You assumed their boss refrained them from pulling the triggers.

"Oh, ho, you fucking whore!" He yells, giving you a brutal slap across the face, making you topple over, your head hitting against the cold, concrete floor. Luckily, though, you were still conscious, aware of your surroundings.

The man pulls you back up and grabs you by the throat. "That was your only warning, you little bitch. Make a move like that again, and the next time your little Red Hood fellow sees you, you'd be branded by someone else," he threaten as the other men snickered and laugh at your vunerable state.

But then, there was a sound of a creek of a floorboard in the distance. You can hear the mean aiming their guns to where the sound was coming from, up at the catwalk.

Suddenly, one of the men dropped dead. As some of the men closer inspected the now dead body, they saw a small hole in the middle of the dead man's eyes.

A few seconds before they could react, three more of the men got shot. Unusually, though, there were no gunshot sounds. And you knew Jason was there. Jason once told you that if you were ever kidnapped, he would use a silencer, so you'd be less startled.

You weren't, to say the least, but then one of the men was ordered to grab you and bring you back to the van. You felt the harsh breeze slap your skin, struggling and wriggling in the man's grasp.

"Shut uo, would you-" The boss yelled and was about to throw a punch if his head wasn't then filled with lead a split second after.

You felt the grip the man had on you loosen. You were so shook, you fell to the ground, crying and whimpering, still unable to see or speak.

You felt like you couldn't breathe. Your heels were digging against the dirt and gravel, and your nails pierced cresent shaped dents in your skin.

"Y/n!"A voice called out. But you couldn't register whose voice. "Darling- Hey, princess, I'm here- I'm right here, it's me, don't worry," the voice said frantically.

You were in a state of shock, you kept kicking, and your screams were muffled. You looked like a mess. Snot was running down your nose, your wrists were red and bruised, and some of the skin was peeling off, and foam of saliva filled the corners of your lips.

Jason quickly untied all the bounds. He started with the rope around your face. Once it was released, you wasted no time to beg for you life.

"No- No, please! I'm- I'm sorry, please, please," you wailed, choking on your sobs in the process.

"Wh-what? Darling, it's okay, it's me! It's Jason!" He tried to assure, but to no avail. You were still squirming against him as he tried to take off your blindfold.

But once he did, your eyes were bright red and closed tight.

"Please!" You sobbed. "Please, let me go, I won't tell anyone, just- please." Your breathing began to quicken and became unsteady.

Jason started to panic, cutting the ropes off your wrists as fast as he could. Once your arms were free, you put them in front of you in defence.

"I'm sorry, please! I- I can't-" Your sobs grew loud, your hands grasping at the dirt on the ground, gravel pieces digging into your nails.

Jason carefully places his hand on your knee. "My love, please look at me. It's me. Jason. Look," he took his glove off and held his hand in front of your shut eyes, hoping you'd open them for at least a second. "It's me, your husband. You're safe. I came. I promised you I would always protect you," he continued to assure you.

You peeked and saw the glistening band that rested around his ring finger. You still couldn't pricess that it was Jason who was in front of you, but you called out his name.

"Jay?" You whimpered. Jason nodded, his free hand slowly reaching out to hold your cheek, his rough textured glover softly caressing your face.

The hand on your knees takes your hand, and he puts it against his heart. "Breathe with me, doll. I'm here for you, okay?" He says, taking deep breaths in and out.

Your breath continues to shudder but manages to slowly follow his deep breathing patterns. "That's it, love. You're doing so well."

Finally, you can see the face of the love of your life, kneeling in front of you, eith glassy eyes and a scared and concerned look on his face.

"Jason," you said quietly while sniffling. You weakling reaching your arms out, and Jason immediately understood. He leaned towards you, holding you in a secure embrace, a promise showing you that he'll always save you.

"Did they hurt you?? Did they touch you?" He said, fury sparking in his eyes as you weakly nodded.

Jason clears the damp hair away from your face. "Listen to me, sweetheart. They're dead. They're all dead. Every single one who laid a hand on who, and those who were an accomplice to it. They're dead. And I'll kill anyone else who thinks they have a right to do so," he says.

You were never afraid of Red Hood. Why be afraid of someone who loves you so much that they'd kill someone who put you in danger for you?

And that's why you love him just as much.

soz this fic is shorter than my usual ones, hope you lile it!! 😭😭

[666kage]

this is literally my first time writing smut that's not like.. same idea straight forward bullshit for my friend so please be nice 💀

kuroko tetsuya x fem!reader smut

CW!!: cunnilingus, squirting, face riding, oral (f! recieving), overstimulation, idk just read it :3 (men who eat pussy for pleasure go to heaven btw)

wc: 742

kuroko hadn’t a single clue what you’d meant when you called him a munch. not until he heard his upperclassman laughing, as they quoted a beautiful, ginger haired, busty woman. they’d watched her music video during lunch, koganei walked around sassily quoting the video. this made hyuga, izuki, and tsuchida cackle. mitobe silently chuckled. the first years were lost in conversation, not noticing.

when kagami commented about liking american girls compared to japanese girls, kuroko was confused. kagami couldn’t put it into words without cringing indefinitely, but kuroko could almost read in between the lines. kagami liked them better because they were fuller? he didn’t outright state it, he had motioned downwards saying it “feels better”. before evasively asking kuroko his opinion on sex with japanese. kagami knows he has a girlfriend, and since they’d been dating since their second year of middle school, he could only assume that they’d done things.

kuroko only brushed him off, changing the subject. he didn’t know how to tell his friend that he’d never had sex. that he didn’t want to have sex. he genuinely enjoyed just.. eating pussy. he didn’t have any interest in sex. yeah, a hand job or blow job is nice, but it so much more fun to watch from below as you squirm, and shake. telling him to stop, that you couldn’t handle any more. pulling so hard on his blue locs, that he was sure they were going to come out. when you’d squish his head with your thighs, squashing his cute cheeks together. squeezing so hard he was sure he was running out air.

the way you bucked your hips when he stuck his tongue inside. how you would whimper his given name every time his nose would brush against your clitoris. the feeling he expects every time you began pushing his head again, that gush all over his face and his bed sheets. how you’d shyly cover your face, as he looked up at you endearingly. he was so inlove with every movement you made. when he’d watch your fingers, nails painted the color you had him to choose, grip onto the sheets, so tightly the color of your skin is dulling.

when he’d rut into the sheets, cumming himself from feeling your pulse against his soaking wet face. he’d let soft moans out into your pussy, making your back arch at the light sensations.

and when he’d convince you to ride his face, it was a fucking ball. you’d grip onto the headboard, trying to get up with all your might. but his arms were entangled with your legs so tightly you couldn’t. he’d occasionally squeeze your thighs or ass lovingly. you’d mewl and whimper when he’d kitty lick at your clitoris. he’d lock eyes with you, giving the most content, and excited expression he could muster.

however, his favorite—i mean his favorite—thing to do, wasn’t something he couldn’t do often. usually having to be quiet due to your or his parents accompanying one the other rooms. but whenever he got you alone, he’d overstimulate you, then bite you. right on your clit. electing a scream out of you. it wasn’t a hard one, he was practically just grazing your clitoris with his incisors. but when he’d bite down, he’d flick his eyes up to you, watching your pleasure filled expression. he’d then pull back, and you’d look at his face. despite it being cover by cum, squirt, and any other bodily liquids that had come out of you, from only a few centimeters below his eyes. he still had a innocent, pure looking on his face. his blue eyes all wide and child like, he would smiled at you.

coming in at a close second, was when you’d lay lethargically on his bed. as he went to get a water bottle, and a cloth to clean you off. and despite being spent you’d beg, and beg, and beg to help him with the brick hard erection that was staring at you. he’d just deny, eventually laying down beside you. and you’d promise to give him the greatest blowjob of his life at some point in the near future. he’d say no, that you wouldn’t do that. that he wouldn’t allow it.

you would only whine in response, at how unfair he was to you. occasionally, you’d catch him slipping the morning after, getting down on your knees and pleasing him. but those days were rare.

if this gets one note i’ll make a part two where she tops kurokos off. also i am in love with ice spice that woman is gorgeous.

[us3rnam3-r3dact3d]

the world (it burns through me)

Chapter 8

Ao3 | 3.5k Words | Darlin's POV

Quinn does show-and-tell. Angel sleeps fitfully. Darlin' (nearly) commits homicide. Sam pulls them away from the ledge. David sets foot on the scene.

TW: Threats, home invasion, injury, blood, sexual trauma, implied physical abuse, threats of rape, non-consensual filming of sexual acts, general Quinn bullshit.

Quinn Fox looked exactly the same as he had when you’d last seen him four months ago, sans being beaten within an inch of his life. His skin was still so pale it was nearly translucent, dotted in a handful of places by beauty marks. He still wasn’t adorned by any of the shitty tattoos that you were, that he had put there, that he claimed to love so much. What few he had peaked out from the sleeves of his pristine leather jacket, perfect and new and costing a fucking fortune. His blue eyes were still so pale that he had to squint in Max’s warm light. His teeth were still sharp and too many and nicotine stained. He’d go in for a bleach session next time he was in L.A.. 

“My precious thing,” he rose from his seat and tossed the paper napkin he’d spread in his lap to the ground, waving away the server casually. You watched her face drop as she turned away and retreated towards the counter, where the guy behind it was staring outright now. You’d only have a few minutes before they had enough of Quinn and kicked you out. It was a familiar countdown in the back of your mind. Nearly everybody had enough of Quinn eventually. You’d gotten the timing down to a science. 

“Don’t call me that.” You hissed. He reached out to you, one nimble hand with perfectly painted, black nails and bulky rings. Your mind supplied the feeling of those rings crunching across your cheekbones. “And don’t fucking touch me. Sit down.” You huddled into the booth, arms locked around your middle. There was still blood on your jacket from the last time you’d seen Quinn. 

“So touchy, Precious.” Quinn said, floating back down into his side of the booth. Sam sat down quietly next to you. His eyes flicked across Quinn quickly, almost casually. You watched him categorize Quinn’s skinny jeans, bought with rips and wear already sewed in, his Nirvana shirt, a band you knew he’d never listened to. God, he was such a fucking poser. You couldn’t fathom what about him had ever been enticing to you. “I implied you should come alone, you know.” He sneered towards Sam. 

“Yeah, well, the last time I was alone with you, you put me in a fucking coma, so…” you shrugged. You felt Sam’s eyes slip to you. That was a little tidbit you’d neglected to share with him. He’d have questions later on. You swallowed down the urge to deny them before he even asked. Instead, you brought one hand down to rest against his thigh, your fingers twisting up his uniform pants hard enough they would wrinkle. 

“True,” Quinn laughed, not even bothering to be decent enough to hide his glee. His eyes moved to Sam. “I assure you, they gave as good as they got, Sammy. Or- do you prefer ‘Captain Collins?’”Quinn grinned, his mouth pulling just a little too far on either side. You thought you were going to fall out. Behind that grin, that delighted twist to his stupid face, there was a familiar anger. He’d had that look about him when he put cigarettes out on your skin. He’d had that look about him when he’d fucked you so hard and hateful you couldn’t move for two days. “I was expecting the other one, Precious. Big, scary Captain Shaw. He’s a much better frame to hide behind.” 

“They ain’t hiding.” Sam spat. “And you’d be so lucky to be staring down Shaw instead of me.” 

“Is that so, cowboy?” Quinn laughed. It was a rasping, shrieking sound, like a predator barking out before it struck. Your hand tightened on Sam’s thigh. 

“It is.” Sam said. “David Shaw is a good man. He wouldn’t hurt ‘ya without cause. But I am not a good man.” 

“Whatever happened to ‘do no harm,’ Doctor?” Quinn cocked his head to one side. 

“I’m not a doctor anymore.” 

“Quinn,” you snapped, demanding his attention. Those bright eyes stuck on Sam for a moment longer. You slammed your phone down on the table. The photo of Little Shaw shone up at the three of you, accusatory. Sam gasped audibly when he saw it, going stiff. Quinn flicked his eyes down at it and laughed again. “What the fuck do you want?”

“That was almost too easy, you know?” He rested his chin atop his folded hands as he stared down at the picture. “I just had to pick a day when the good Captain was working the night shift. It’s so convenient that he takes you with him everywhere. I almost wish I had sent you this instead.” 

He produced his own phone and laid it on the table next to yours. It was newer, nicer, and the screen was giant. The big screen exposed a shaky video of the Shaw’s master bedroom from an angle you hadn’t seen yet. If you had to guess, it was through a crack in the closet door. Your stomach flipped as you leaned in close. Sam mirrored your posture. The camera panned from the plush, carpeted floor and towards the softly lit bed, on top of which Little Shaw was spread out, their phone in one hand and the other free. They were wearing one of David’s D.F.D. tee-shirts, which swallowed their frame like a robe. You watched as their hand trailed from the hem of the shirt and lifted, exposing their thighs, their waist, their fluttering stomach and chest. Sam cut his eyes away immediately, but you didn’t move until the audio kicked in. Little Shaw let out a moan, Quinn’s phone cranked up to top volume. Heads swiveled towards your booth. You slammed your hand down on the phone, fumbling for the volume button as you snatched it and tucked it close to your chest. 

“You fucking freak.” You hissed. You couldn’t even manage to be surprised, just vaguely nauseous. He was in the fucking closet. How long had he been in there?

“They rest so fitfully when the good Captain isn’t home.” Quinn mused, inspecting his nails. “I had to hush them back to sleep a handful of times to make sure I wasn’t caught. Nothing a quick cuddle couldn’t fix, of course.” 

He had touched them. You were going to commit homicide. 

“Quinn,” you growled through clenched teeth, “step outside.” 

“Darlin-” Sam started, grabbing your wrist in an attempt to ground you. You didn’t care if he wrapped his arms around your waist, if he pressed kisses to your temples, if he fucking took you right here in this booth in Max’s; no firm touch or soft word could pull you back down now. Quinn had touched them. He had filmed them in a vulnerable moment and then held them while they slept. All while David was fussing over you at the 10-19. You had distracted him. You had drawn his attention away from the people who really mattered and then delivered danger to his literal fucking bedroom. 

“Fuck you, move!” You shoved Sam hard, hard enough for him to stumble out of the booth and into the guy from behind the counter just as he came to interrupt the fight that was brewing in his dining room. 

“Captain Collins,” the guy said, catching Sam as he got his footing. You forgot how well known the 10-19 was on this side of town. You’d be surprised if Sam wasn’t a familiar figure to every person who worked here, and you’d dragged him into this. “Are you alright?” 

“I’m fine, Guy,” Sam said, and go fucking figure, a literal pizza Guy. “We’re just leaving.” Guy’s gaze flicked from Sam to you to Quinn and back again. Sam must have given him a reassuring enough look, because he stepped aside. You surged up, knees shaky, and snagged Quinn by the collar of his designer leather jacket. He grunted but didn’t fight back as you pulled him out of the booth and towards the door. You pulled stares from the families adorning the booths and counter, and you probably looked like a rabid animal. You could picture your own expression, twisted and gnarled by the scars that cut through your face. You saw a kid flinch back and away from you as you passed his seat. 

The air was cold and sharp as you burst out of Max’s and started dragging Quinn towards the back parking lot. He let you, let you pull him along, let you toss him when you reached what you considered an acceptable distance from the building to kick his ass. You knew that, if he wanted to, Quinn could make it difficult for you, at the very least. He was strong, just as strong as you and twice as fast, twice as clever. You were a blunt object. You didn’t have it in you to strategize, to think through a fight as it happened. You could call Quinn a lot of horrible things, but one thing he was not was stupid. Not like you were. 

Your fist connected with his face before he could even get his footing. Pain burst out over your barely-healed knuckles with satisfaction. You grit your teeth and tried to step back, put some distance between you two. Your back met with the trunk of a silver sedan. Quinn held himself up, one hand on the grimy wall of Max’s industrial dumpster. Blood and bruise blossomed so prettily across his sharp cheekbone. He closed in as soon as he got his footing, boxing you in between him and the car. Your only way out was through. 

You’d been fighting the same way your entire life. You’d always been weaker than someone, you’d always been hungry and disadvantaged and outnumbered. So you took to the ground like a prey animal. You dove in, hit them where it hurt, and ran, put distance between you, let the hoard thin as they chased you so you could pick them off one by one. Quinn had always delighted in watching you dance around the battlefield, often of his own making. He liked to watch you scrap, fight dirty, pull hair and bite and scratch for eyes. 

He was so much taller than you and his reach seemed endless. When the two of you fought, he didn’t let you run. He made you stand in one spot and wail, hoping that your brute force was enough. 

That, more than anything he did to you, had always made you feel distinctly vulnerable. 

He came at you quickly, decisively, struck you hard in your ribs. His shitty ex must have told him where she’d done the same, because his aim was eerie. You gasped, the air knocked out of you, and locked an arm around his shoulders to keep him close. You drove your fist up, into his gut, punching for his diaphragm as your chest seized and fought to allow you any air. 

Quinn twisted out of your hold and swung his leg up, landing a kick to your stomach and sprawling you back against the sedan. You growled, near feral, and dove forward again. Quinn wanted you close, pinned down, vulnerable? You would show him just how dangerous you could be in close quarters. 

It was blurry after that. A series of hits, skin on skin, tearing fabric, blood and grunts. This was a familiar dance. The two of you had fucked, often, in fact, but for you this was a much more familiar type of intimacy. It was how your father, on the rare occasions he had been present in your childhood, had shown you his love. It was how your mother, for all of her virtues, had raised you. Since you were young, you’d been shown love most often by a firm right hand. Quinn was the latest in a long line of people who loved you with a fist. You filled up with the heady euphoria of it, got drunk on his little sounds, his curses and moans of pain, his high laughter like a predator’s ringing around in your swimming head. 

This is what you had seen in him. His eyes flashed, bluer than blue, catching yours a few times in the scuffle. You crushed your knuckles into his nose and knocked it askew. He called out your name, your real name. Fuck, it sounded like a plea, like a promise. 

He hit the ground before you did. You’d always had staying power, whether it had anything to do with your actual constitution or if it was tied up in your stupid, persistent stubbornness. Quinn was a child of abundance. You knew from the shape of him, no matter what games he liked to play, that he had never wanted for anything. That was the only advantage you had over guys like Quinn, guys like David. You had had to last before. Plenty of people had tried to starve you out, so when most people were bent with hunger pains, you did what you did best; soldiered on. 

“What do you want, Quinn?” You panted, hands on your knees. He spat out blood and smiled up at you with swollen cheeks. 

“I already told you, Precious.” Back to that stupid nickname. You wanted to kick him again, but he was already pushing himself up, getting his feet under him. “I want you.” 

“You are fucked in the head if you think I’d ever go back to you.” You growled. Your ribs ached. You wrapped a hand around your chest and held on. 

“No,” Quinn smiled at you as he stood. He had the nerve to look bashful. “I suppose not. That’s fine. All I want is… one last taste.” 

“What?” You breathed. 

“I want to fuck you.” He rolled his eyes, swiping a finger under his nose and coming back bloody. “One last time.” 

“Fuck off.” You scoffed. Your stomach was doing flips again. The idea of putting yourself in that position, vulnerable and bare under him, submitting yourself to Quinn’s particular brand of love, made you physically sick. 

Part of you was afraid you wouldn’t survive his one last time. Another part of you, somehow bigger, was afraid you would. 

You turned to leave, resolute, and caught sight of Sam. He was standing two yards off, watching silently on the edge of the parking lot. He seemed more concerned than anything, but there wasn’t an ounce of judgment in his severe features. You looked away. Holding his brown-eyed-gaze was unbearable. 

“I’ll get what I want somewhere, Precious.” Quinn called after you. “From someone. Remember, I’ve been inside their bedroom.” 

An image of Little Shaw flashed across your mind. Pressed against the floor, folded in half with Quinn between their legs, his teeth in their skin, burns littering their flawless skin, cuts waiting to scar from that ill-kept pocket knife he carried. Something in your chest snapped. Maybe it was a bone. Maybe it was your resolve. 

You crashed into Quinn, moving faster than you thought you could. His head banged back against the dumpster, his lips twisted into a fuck-you smile that you wanted to rip off of his face. You knew where he kept it in his stupid fucking jacket. His knife was in your hand before you could even think. The blade was opened, dried blood giving it a rusty look, and pressed into the juncture of his throat. You knew the bite of that blade. You’d had it pressed in that same spot a dozen times before. A line of blood ran down his throat, catching on his bobbing Adam's apple. He looked so fucking pretty in this light, the puff of his breath in the winter air smothering his features, blood smeared across his thin lips. 

You loved him. You had loved him, at least. Your body wouldn’t let you forget it. 

“If you ever fucking touch them, I’ll kill you!” You cried, a plea, a promise. “I’ll tear you to pieces, do you fucking get that? I’ll fucking kill you!” 

“Darlin’!” An arm locked around your middle and pulled you back. The knife clattered to the asphalt, wet with Quinn’s blood. His laughter crowded out any thought that might make itself known in your head. You thought you’d drown in the sound of it. 

Warmth at your back. The distance between you and Quinn grew. A soft voice taking up the space left behind as Quinn’s retreated. You were across the parking lot, across the road, in the passenger seat of Sam’s truck before you could think enough to start fighting. Sam didn’t stop talking. 

“I know, I know, Darlin’, I’ve gotcha. Gimme- yeah, there, come here-“ he grabbed your hand, squeezed it in time with his exaggerated breaths. You realized, suddenly, as Sam plopped into the driver’s seat and trapped you in the silent confines of his truck’s cabin, that you were crying. Wailing, actually. You hadn’t cried in years. Not since Gabe had died, and even that wasn’t anything like this. You bent at the middle, your seatbelt pulling at the bruises on your chest, and screamed. Sam’s hand snapped to the back of your neck. You thought he was likely trying to stabilize your spine. Paramedic training must have kicked in. His fingers tangled with your hair as he shushed you, cooed soft reassurances into the space between your cries. 

Eventually, your voice gave out. Eventually, your muscles unclenched, and you hung, chest to thighs, hugging yourself so hard you couldn’t breathe. Sam’s hand didn’t leave your hair until the car stopped, and only then to reach more of you. His cold, rough hands trailed up under your jacket, sought out skin, tugged you up until he could look you over. 

Your eyes met his, dark and wide and sure. 

He wasn’t scared. You didn’t know how he had managed that. You didn’t know how he managed to look at you the exact same way after that. 

“I’m sorry-“ you started, your mouth sharp with blood. 

“Don’t,” Sam snapped, his face twisting. He looked… pissed off. That you understood. That you could wrap your mind around. He wanted to be angry with you? That was fine. Better that than scared of you. “You didn’t do a damn thing wrong. Come on, lemme get you inside. I need to take a look at you.” 

You looked up, took in your surroundings. The 10-19 stood, illuminated by street lights, across its long parking lot. You didn’t know how you’d missed that familiar drive. Your chest sparked with anxiety. David’s truck was still on the lot. He would see you. 

“I can’t.” You breathed. You shook your head, rebuking the very thought of David seeing you like this. And fuck, how could you explain why? He would kill you. He’d kick you out. He’d wash his hands of you. And as much as you were fighting his influence, his help, his care, you knew that you would come unraveled without it. If David was done with you, then that was it. Doors closed. No vacancy. 

“Darlin’-“ Sam started, reaching for you. Your phone started buzzing in your pocket. You startled, fumbling for it with your swollen, fucked up hands. Sam had delicately dabbed your knuckles with alcohol and gauze for days and you’d gone and wasted his work. 

David’s name lit up your screen. His shift was over and at this hour he was done worrying over the night shift. He was looking for you so he could go home to his invaded home and his endangered spouse. The prey animal in your chest jerked and you followed where it tugged you. You dropped your phone, stumbled out of Sam’s truck, tangling with the seatbelt. Your boots hit the asphalt and you ran. 

You didn’t realize, in your haste to run, hide, escape, that you’d started running towards the 10-19. You didn’t realize, as you stared down at your feet and tried to make yourself small, that you were running straight into David until you collided with his chest. 

You bounced back, let out a startled cry, and raised your fists. You didn’t know if it was to strike out or to protect your face, but it served the same purpose either way. David’s phone was still up to his ear, and his face was bare in shock as he looked you over. 

You stepped back like you were going to run. He was faster than you. His fingers threaded into your jacket and pulled you close. 

“What the fuck?” He barked, his face lined with anger and worry. 

Your body knew you were done. David’s hand held up your weight, and you went limp against your jacket. Whatever adrenaline had been holding you together slipped away and let you unravel. David hauled you to his chest by your jacket, cradled your head with one giant palm, wrapped his other arm around your still too-trim waist. 

“Sam!” He shouted, a definitive order. You were a walking house fire, and David took over as soon as he set foot on the scene. 

That was it, then. He’d seen you. He would know, or Sam would tell him. David would choose his spouse over you, which is what he should have done in the first fucking place. You’d be out on your ass in two hours flat. You’d run with less in worse shape in less time. But you couldn’t get your feet under you. You couldn’t get an inch of your body to obey your desperate orders. 

Doors closed. No vacancy.

[itgirl-cad]

I kept seeing tiktoks about an AU where the characters are actors and what their blooper reel would look like… so I made a lil fic from the idea :) lmk if I should make this a mini series cuz I have so many ideas!!

Valentino was sitting on his couch, waiting for the scene to start. It had been 5 takes deep into the first few lines of his scene and he had to continuously restart. As soon as they had the greenlight, they started the scene. He sat up with rage.

“Fuckin’ finally!” He smashes the sugar glass cup he was holding right on the floor. He finally managed to hit it on the spike they put on the floor. “Kitty, another drink!” One camera followed the extra Valentino was interacting with, the other stayed focused on his close up.

“Can you believe what that piece of shit did?” He held out his hand without moving his head to look. The extra placed it in his hand but Val got a bit too into character and moved too quickly. The drink hit his hand and was tossed onto the ground below. “Hijo de perra!” Val swore as he picked the prop up and sighed.

Vox chuckled from the other side of the room “This scene is never gonna end.”

Take 6.

“Can you believe what that piece of shit did? The ungrateful whore!” He yelled and fake threw the glass. Vox had to laugh. He was trying to stifle it but it ended up bursting out of him. “I’m sorry but you look so stupid.”

Val rolled his eyes, “You try fake throwing something.”

It was take one of Lucifer and Alastor having their first scene together. They have had the most success with their lack of mistakes. Charlie was watching them, almost in awe when she heard her cue line and made her way towards her father as he turned to speak to her in an unimpressed tone.

“Who is this? Are you the bellhop?” He gestured his cane over to the taller man.

Alastor let out the most perfect fake and sarcastic laugh ever. He really did amazing with sarcastic roles. “No! I am the host of this hotel! You might have heard of me from my radio broadcast.” He leans on his cane, slightly bending down to his level, just even to make a point.

“Hmm. nope! I guess that’s why Charlie called it the HAZBIN hotel hahaha-”

“Ha ha ha…” His last ha dragged out for a bit then the radio effect was gone from his voice, “What the fuck’s my line?” He asked and started to chuckle.

Charlie let out a laugh as the crew told him his line.

“I do apologize, your performance was rather captivating.” Alastor adjusted his tie and his ears moved a bit. He was getting a bit frustrated working with Lucifer. Usually he makes no mistakes.

They ran the scene again.

Hmm. nope! I guess that’s why Charlie called it the HAZBIN hotel hahaha-”

His laughing got cut off by Alastors fake bullshit retort “Ha ha ha. It was actually my idea.” nHe looked at his nails like a sassy ‘mean girls’ like character.

Lucifer’s eyes got more bloodshot as his laugh got more insane and his dialogue speed up “Haha well it’s not very clever-”

Ha HA…” Alastor got down to lucifer’s level and up in his business “Fuck you”

Charlie got in between the two of them “Anyways.. Dad, look at this lovely parlor!” She dragged him away to carry on the scene.

Alastor appeared behind them as Charlie spoke his name. He never missed a cue. He made his way over to her, minding the spot on the floor that is spiked with red tape, for him. “Charlie has a very unique vision. I am happy to fulfill her bizarre requests.” He rests a hand on her shoulder.

“Oh, thank you, Alastor.” She smiles sweetly and places her hand on his. Lucifer was fuming. Alastor looked back over to his face and his shit eating grin got bigger.

“Quite an impressive young lady,” He placed a hand on her chin. Charlie decided to be a prankster and gave him a kissy face and puckered her lips. Alastor, not expecting such an action, drops his hand from her chin and the radio static picks up. Charlie roared out with laughter, Lucifer following suit.

“Al! Your fucking face!” She had tears in her eyes.

“You traumatized him!” Lucifer was having too much fun with this.

Alastor just looks right into the camera with a traumatized smile and pained eyes. The director yelled cut and Alastor’s smile immediately drops. He frowns and his radio effect is gone from his voice.

“Awh no he's frowning!” Charlie felt kinda bad, but it was a funny prank.

“It was worth it.” Lucifer gave her a high-five.

In the recording studio, Vox was recording his lines for “stayed gone” alongside Alastor. They both had their scripts in front of them and stood in front of microphones.

Vox started his lines “Top of the hour, and we're discussing a certain has-been Who has been spotted cavorting around town After a seven-year absence. Did anybody miss him? Did anybody notice? More on tonight's program So, the Radio Demon is- holy fuck I talk a lot..” He exclaimed, running out of breath.

Alastor chuckled, “I have been telling you that.”

“Oh literally go fuck yourself” He rolled his eyes and started from ‘top of the hour’ once again

They tried different callouts between the lines to see what would fit best. Most of it was improv because Vox couldn’t remember the actual script. He was too engaged with yelling at alastor and looking at the cocky son of a bitch in the booth beside him.

“Yes, I know it's been a while Since someone with style treated Hell to a broadcast Sinners, rejoice!”

“What a stupid voice!” Vox yelled. Vox just did a string of those, looping Alastor’s track so he did have to repetitively sing the same cue line. “Such an irritating voice!” “What a lousy voice!” He could’ve gone all day long if the sound director let him. All those shower conversations had prepared him.

“Instead of a clout-chasing mediocre video podcast” Alastor sang and let Vox have multiple retorts

“Come on.. No, that one is so boring. Lemme try again” Vox sighs and thinks of better retorts, “Oh piss off!” “Excuse me?” “up yours!”

“Is Vox insecure, pursuing allure? Flitting between this fad and that, is nothing working?”

“Ignore his chirping!”

To be honest, Vox could have written a disstrack.

[strawbrrycuteblog]

OMG i never thought I would like hybrid!enha so much having read your puppy!Jake as my first hybrid fic.

I have already become a fan of your writing 😭💋please can you make one for heeseung and sunghoon too????

This is such a compliment!! TYSM!

Warnings: lowkey mean Dom!hoon, he calls reader bitch, nipple piercing mentioned, mostly hoon being a meany.

“W-wait…”

You mumbled out as sunghoon forced his dick through your lips, pushing and hitting your cervix as he held you up against the front door.

“You knew I was in heat this whole fucking time but didn’t do anything?”

He grunted as his throbbing and aching penis was finally getting relief.

“You know how bad I needed this?”

“No..”

“Then you’re gonna find out, don’t expect to be treated nicely baby.”

And with that he pulled out and pushed you down to the couch, getting in between your legs and ravishing your clit, nipping at it with his leopard canines.

“Ah! Sunghoon that’s hurt!”

“The whole fucking point bitch.”

You couldn’t believe how rude he was being, he’d always been so gentle, so considerate of his strength compared to yours…

But now you only felt yourself leaking on the leather couch from being called a bitch.

You felt his nails dig into your thighs as he fucked you open on his tongue alone, slurping up the juice you had for him, almost like he hadn’t just downed two three waters at the restaurant.

“So good..”

“Perfect even”

You could hear him mumble and jumble as your head fell against the leather pillow, arching off the cold material to buck against his face, bumping against his nose.

“Please Hoonie! I wanna cum so bad!”

He stopped almost immediately, even if he himself didn’t want to pull away the force of wanting to edge you like he felt you’d done to him made him able to pull away.

“As if I’d let you do that now?” He spat.

“I had to fuck my fist because I was trying to be ‘thoughtful’ but here you were, trying to do what?”

He said as he waited for you to speak, “I was only trying to give you space!”

“Bullshit.”

He pulled you up and sat down, sitting you on him, he pushed his tip in but held you up so you could sit fully on him.

“Hoon this isn’t fair!”

“Seems fair to me. But at this point what does fair even mean to you?”

He let go with one hand to rip your top off.

“Hey!”

God he wish you’d just shut up at this point, you both know he isn’t gonna be gentle anymore so why be such a brat?

“I’ll get a new one.”

He licked your hardened nipple, flicking his tongue over it as he sucked on it too, he thought you’d look so pretty with a nipple piercing.

“Fuck baby you drive to the edge.”

He tried not to sound to desperate but god the way you wrapped around him was hard to resist.

He pushed up into you, attempting to reach your end point. Curious as to how deep your pussy really was.

“I’m gonna fuck you inside out by time the night ends.”

In the future I also might edit this to be longer or make a pt 2 so lmk if that’s what y’all want!

[solsticelosthermind]

I actually read through those long fics I keep complaining about having abandoned, and oh my god, I have so many notes in those docs, and so much already written, and it’s so good?? I love it so much?? I think I’m going to make more of a dedicated effort to straighten those out. It seemed to be helpful, bouncing between projects, rather than just. Languishing in my agony when the words aren’t wording.

anyway blah blah some sentences not-Sunday—have about 800 something words of the sterek fic because I’m kicking my feet about it:

Picture-wolf nodded, his eyes wandering as he thought. Then, the little notepad was back. “Touch the glass.”

“...why?” Stiles asked, even as he let his hand hesitate over the surface.

“Please.”

“Not really an answer,” but it wasn’t like he had anything left to lose.  He shifted, so he could still see the man beside his hand. “Now what?”

Ridiculous as it seemed, he felt a frisson of ice drip down his spine at the thought of being hauled inside the frame. He couldn’t even figure out how to get off the Hale’s property, nevermind out of a freaking picture.

Almost too fast to follow, the man laid his own small hand against Stiles’ palm, slashing down with all five nails. Yelping, Stiles wrenched his hand back, gaping at the five tiny lines marking his skin, each seeping little ruby droplets. 

“What the—” but when he looked up to snap at the man inside the picture, Stiles stopped dead, his jaw hanging open. 

His blood left faint trails behind on the glass, smudges that the man was cleaning with his tongue. If it hadn’t been his blood, then it might have been comical instead of turning his stomach. “Lesson learned,” he croaked, edging away, back to his books. “Stay away from the terrifying blood thirsty moving pictures.”

A laugh rippled across the room, soft and mocking, rooting Stiles to the spot as he watched the little man throw his head back. Staring didn’t help it make sense, so Stiles switched to eyeing the thin slices on his hand. They’d already stopped bleeding. He looked back up, just in time to watch the man lick the last traces of red from his mouth. “Um. What the actual fuck is happening?”

“Oh good, it worked.” The man gave Stiles a pleased, mischievous grin. “I wasn’t sure.”

“You weren’t— what— how are you talking?”

 “All things considered, you’re not very bright, are you, kid?” The voice, which matched the motions of the man’s mouth, was softer and higher than he'd have expected, just like Derek’s. Belatedly, Stiles bristled. 

“I suppose it’s to be expected, new lamb like you. Don’t take it so personally.” The man cleaned his claws with a careless dip into the lake behind him, drying them absently on his jeans.  “And the ‘what’ being my very rudimentary knowledge of blood magic.”

Stiles flailed his arms out with a high pitched, “You magicked me?”

“Not quite. Come on, Stiles. You just said this yourself: your reality includes werewolves and curses, now.”

“And blood magic,” Stiles said, flatly.

“Naturally. Unfortunately, I don’t think anyone except you will be able to hear my scintillating wit, but beggars can’t be choosers and all.” The guy gave an airy flutter of his fingers. “More importantly, Derek’s licking his wounds somewhere we can’t get at him, and you’ve got a nearly feral puppy running around the house.” 

That pulled him back together quickly. “Erica’s not feral.”

The man sighed, shaking his head. “She’s a newly turned wolf with zero guidance and her Alpha’s run off. From what we can tell, the only reason she’s even half as cognizant as she is is because of her bond to you.”

There was too much in that one statement for Stiles to even begin to process. He focused on smaller parts, talking almost to himself. “Derek’s her… Alpha? Because he bit her. Except Alpha wolves are crap.”

Another huff of laughter. “In actual wolf-wolves, yes, that study was utter bullshit. But we’re human, too, and that’s what makes things muddied. We need a head wolf, an Alpha wolf, to protect and nurture the pack’s spark.”

“Okay,” Stiles turned away, pacing back and forth before the man’s frame, scrubbing at his hair. It stabbed unpleasantly into the shallow cuts on his palm and he winced, dropping and flexing his hands. “Okay, so maybe part of the reason she was okay before was Derek’s proximity. But she almost lost it in the woods…” He shot the man a puzzled glance. “I calmed her down just fine? Made her listen to my heart.”

The man gave a noncommittal shrug. “And if you think Derek let you two wander off alone, then you’re going to need to pay better attention.”

Stiles deflated. “But you said I’m keeping her sort of okay?”

“In theory, yes. She seeks you out and uses you as…” he hesitated, blinking. “Something of a touchstone. Bear in mind, all we can do is watch and make assumptions. We don’t know either of you. Maybe she’s just very strong willed.” He shrugged, eyes keen on Stiles. “But whatever it is, it isn’t strong enough to anchor her to her humanity. She’s going to hurt you.”

“We,” Stiles repeated, pulling himself straight. “That’s the second time—“ He paused, swallowing as his eyes went wide. Turning, he looked at the other, empty frames. “She was moving,” he murmured. “That wasn’t from missing my dose.”

Stiles ducked his head to bring himself down to the man’s eye level. “Derek said the Hales never left. All of you? You’re,” he made an all encompassing gesture. “Stuck in the photographs?’

“All of us,” the man returned, sounding strained, creases appearing around his eyes. “Every single one of us, save my nephew.”

[dramaticals]

HIII, okay... I have to tell you that I CONSTANTLY check your blog because MWAH chefs kiss lol

I'm so happy for you, btw! 800 followers is huge! (And SO deserved)

And I was wondering (if you've got time with all your fans you little celeb you) if for your 800 follower event could do a small blurb of Fem!reader x mattheo based off of the song 'Lips Of An Angel' by Hinder? I just feel like it's so HIM but he wouldn't really listen to it, yknow?

Anyway... it's absolutely cool if you can't, I love your blog and SO MANY well wishes that you get even more (deserved) followers ml <3

Thank you sm, and I hope you have such a good week! Always so much love and patience ofcc 🫶

thank you so much! that means a lot to me 🥹 i don't typically write mattheo, so i did some very surface reading and i hope this turned out how you expected.

star's 800 followers celebration ! | send an ask !

honey, why you crying, is everything okay? / i gotta whisper 'cause I can't be too loud / well, my girl's in the next room / sometimes I wish she was you / i guess we never really moved on

"Is everything okay?"

Mattheo stands a few feet away, frozen at the start of the corridor that led to the dormitories. His feet are bare, his head of curls in disarray, and his pyjama pants hang loosely on his hips. It looks like he had just snuck out of the witches' dormitories.

You nod, grateful for the cover of darkness the dimly lit common room provided. You don't bother wiping your tears, knowing any movement would bring Mattheo's attention to them. "Yes," you sniffle, voice soft. "I'm fine."

Mattheo, knowing you so deeply, disregards your blatant lie and steps closer towards you. There's no hiding from him now, and it takes everything in you not to turn and hide from him. It had only been a month since he cut things off with you, three weeks since you found out he was seeing someone else, and two weeks since you impulsively decided to put yourself back out there. You clench your fists together, focusing on the pain of your nails digging into your palm to halt the flow of tears. 

"What did he do?" 

"It doesn't matter."

"Bullshit," Mattheo says harshly, forgetting himself a little. He clears his throat and lowers his voice. "It does matter."

"It shouldn't," you say, swallowing thickly. Your heart pounds and it aches. "At least, not to you."

Mattheo's eyes blaze, and you swear you imagine the anger behind his soft brown eyes. He shouldn't be feeling this way, not when he had just spent the good half of the night with another girl, but he'd be lying to himself if he didn't admit that you occupied a large part of his mind. Every time he was with her, he couldn't help but think of you—the way you snorted when he made you laugh really hard, the way you'd lean on him when you were tired, the way you'd tug him closer when he was already as close as he could possibly be. "You'll always matter to me."

"Right," you almost laugh. You couldn't deal with Mattheo tonight. Your head was already spinning, and you weren't in the right mindset to decipher what the hell he meant by that. "Goodnight, Mattheo."

[tobiasdrake]

Dragon Ball Daima 01x11 - Legend

Here we go. The band's all here, of the characters we were promised would be. Onward to Tamagami #2.

I half-expected this exchange to end with us learning the Nameless Namekian's original name. This series is going so hard on trying to shore up as much of the lore as possible that I wouldn't be surprised to meet Dr. Gero's son before all is said and done.

(And find out the Androids secretly fled Daimakai eons ago, for that matter.)

"And his solution was to come to your world and provoke you himself into doing it. Yes, we are all well aware of what a tool our King Gomah is.

Things haven't been the same since we lost the true King Dabra in that unfortunate cookie incident. Now we secretly bake effigies in his honor. I make mine with nutmeg!"

What. You have an entire classification of warrior-type Namekians. What is that supposed to even be if not "using power for conflict"?

No, you're fine, Piccolo. It's this tool that's got his head screwed on backwards. There've been warrior-type Namekians for as long as they've existed as a concept.

Well, almost. Piccolo-Daimao was 竜族 Ryuzoku, Dragon Clan, before he reincarnated himself as 戦士タイプ Senshi Taipu, Warrior-Type. But there were also Warrior-Type Namekians in the village Frieza attacked as well as Nail, a Warrior-Type Namekian implied to have had his dormant power unlocked by Saichoro.

This clown's trying to be like, "It wouldn't be proper for Namekians to indulge in violence. That's why I went through all kinds of hoops to essentially put out a hit on my enemies. I want Gomah broken and bleeding in a pile of limbs, but my kind must be above such things. It's okay to have people killed as long as my hands aren't the ones that get bloody."

Meanwhile, he's the only Namekian in history who has ever felt that way. So I gotta say, I think it's just you being pretentious, bruh.

(Though it's possible that Neva might be playing Goku and Gomah against each other for some ulterior motive. Watch him turn out to be Canon Slug. XD This is either a bullshit excuse to disguise his true motives or a bullshit excuse to close the plot hole of why he doesn't just do everything himself. Either way, he's full of shit.)

Kuu is adorable. I love that resting goofy smile they have. They have no idea what we're doing but they're excited to be a part of it.

You know, I knew they were going to make a second one as soon as they held some components back. Kuu reeked of prototype from before they even came out. But I didn't think it would happen this quickly.

Dr. Arinsu's theory does check out, though. Just a cursory glance at Kuu is enough to conclude that they are way more Saibaman than Buu.

Neva's face like, "Yes, and LOOK WHAT HAPPENED."

Both Earth and Namek would have been demonstrably better off with Tamagamis guarding their Dragon Balls.

Kuu said 兄弟 kyodai, the gender-neutral "sibling".

I only bring this up because my mind remains blown by the possibility that Namekians and Kaios may have been They/Them this whole time and that English translators may have messed that up.

Dr. Arinsu's face like, "All twenty-seven minutes of your life, huh?"

Oh wow, Duu is somehow even less of a Final Boss lookin' motherfucker than Kuu. And is also named Duu.

Not to be channeling Toriyama's nosy former editor on main but they have a wicked looking transformation coming or something, right? This one just looks like the Nappa to Kuu's Vegeta.

But Buu also looked harmless when we first met him. They could be trying to make lightning strike twice with that.

Oh, there we go. Kuu addresses himself as Duu's onii-chan, which is the distinctly gendered "older brother". You can have half of Onii-chan's.

As a small linguistic note, he uses the -chan honorific instead of -san when he does this, implying that he wants an emotionally affectionate relationship with Duu rather than a respectful and hierarchical one.

I'm half-expecting Duu to get creamed by the Tamagami too, and that they both together wind up being the ultimate adversary.

Ooh, maybe they'll do a fusion and. Goku has faced down many things, but is he prepared for the noble fused warrior Count Duukuu?

Seriously, I adore these two. They quickly became the best part of Dragon Ball Daima. I am already more invested in them than I am in Goku's journey.

Aww, she's worried about her boys. Dr. Arinsu is undergoing the "Wicked heart slowly melted by love of family" character arc.

Hey, Vegeta, who does that remind you of? Vegeta? Hey, Vegeta! Vegeta! Vegeta! Vegeta!

Yep. He is already doing far better than Kuu. Goofy but strong, like Fat Buu.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA He's learning what his powers are mid-fight and still smoking Tamagami #1 like it's no big deal.

Weirds me out that Bulma keeps addressing it as "Tamagami-sama". The -sama honorific is a way of showing supreme respect to wise masters and venerable elders.

That's not a level of humility and reverence that I usually associate with Bulma. Does she even address Whis as -sama?

I genuinely cannot remember if she does or doesn't.

I love that Vegeta doesn't even react to this pushing of the Goku Button. After all, we're post-Vegeta making peace with Goku being the better of them in the final battle with Pure Buu but pre-Vegeta and Goku's character regression in Super.

This is Battle of Gods Vegeta, who had finally accepted a certain measure of humility and put his pride aside for the sake of more important things.

He wants to take a crack at a Tamagami. But not to prove that he's better than Goku.

And, on that note:

Goku's fight with the Tamagami was pretty well-paced, because it could be centerpiece of the episode. Not only does Vegeta's fight have to share screentime with Duu's, but they want to make a cliffhanger out of it.

So it runs afoul of the Anime Saiyan Fight problem. Which is that the anime wants to create tense moments and exciting suspense out of these characters getting their shit kicked in. They do that to set up an exciting, climactic reveal where they suddenly and dramatically unlock the ability to go Super Saiyan for the umpteenth time. Even though there is literally nothing stopping them from going Super Saiyan at any point prior to the sudden, dramatic re-unlocking.

"Goku is getting trashed in his base form. But then. Out of nowhere. His power swells up and he suddenly goes SUPER SAIYAN!?!? WHAT!?!? SINCE WHEN COULD HE DO THAT!?!? (For the 87th time.)"

This is how the anime and anime movies always treat the power-up forms. They do this so much that anime-onlies think this is what Dragon Ball fights are actually supposed to be like. But it just makes the preceding action feel hollow if it's not paced as a steady ramping up.

This fight is paced as a shitstomp-until-sudden-powerup. And when characters are getting shitstomped at 1% power, it's always impossible to get invested in 'cause. Like. Vegeta is choosing to let this happen to him. He could stop this any time he wants, but he is allowing it.

Vegeta is allowing himself to be nearly eaten.

Hell, he doesn't even transform to get out of this. He just tries harder.

"Oh, wait, instead of using 0.2% of my power and being eaten, I could use 0.5% of my power and not be eaten."

Riveting choreography there.

Vegeta is choosing to let this happen to him.

Vegeta is choosing to let this happen to him.

The episode ends on the cliffhanger of "BUT HOW WILL VEGETA SURVIVE BEING EATEN BY THE KRAKEN!?!?"

And.

You know what?

I bet he escapes.

By using the power he has free access to. Because he could just not let this happen to him and is in no real danger.

Hopefully, once this cliffhanger is neatly resolved by Vegeta just trying a little bit harder, we'll get a real fight next episode.

But at least we have Duu's genuinely fun and interesting fight for this one.

[elliemarchetti]

Double Wedding

I don't know if I nailed today's prompt for @jilymicrofics, but the idea of ​​James and Sirius being married was too funny not to delve into.

Prompt: Astounded

Words: 489

Lily was astounded. Perhaps shocked would’ve been the right term, although, knowing the characters she should’ve expected it. Marlene, however, was furious.

“Remind me why I shouldn’t kill one of you and solve the problem,” she hissed, a suspicious, and frankly slightly concerning, coldness in her voice.

“Because you would be sad about it if you did?” suggested Sirius, immediately retreating when his girlfriend glared at him.

Lily didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. In itself, the situation would’ve been extremely comical, if only James and Sirius hadn’t forgotten to tell them, and the small omission, as they defined it, wasn’t messing with Marlene’s vision.

Their fiancees were already married to each other. A foolish decision, took when they were fresh out of Hogwarts, during a drunk night out with Remus and Peter, who acted as their witnesses, which was now having considerable consequences on the organization of two real weddings.

“Look at it this way,” James ventured, turning to Marlene, “you could traumatize so many old ladies by introducing yourself as Sirius’s lover for the rest of your lives.”

The blonde girl seemed to ponder the possibility, but ultimately decided it was far better to be the new, and only, Mrs. Black.

“I want Walburga to turn in her grave at the thought of what I’ll do to the good name of her noble and most ancient house,” she ruled.

“That’s why I love you,” murmured Sirius, and in the blink of an eye they were reconciled, and were making out like teenagers. Sometimes, Lily was convinced their brains were still stuck at seventeen, trapped in bodies that were inevitably destined to grow old, but she felt no resentment for their ways, considering what they had been through to get there.

“And you?” James queried, sliding one of his long arms around Lily’s shoulders to pull her closer. “What do you want?”

Lily raised her head to meet his deep brown eyes, to study every detail of his features, and how his dark, always dishevelled hair fell on his forehead. She wanted to see him struggle with his glasses every morning, and be there when his first white hair made its appearance in the beard he was desperately trying to grow in an attempt to look older. She wanted a house all for them, a welcoming place, where they could invite friends for dinner and board games night, where they could mature as a couple and start a family…

“What are you thinking about?” he inquired, his face now decidedly closer, so much so that their noses were almost touching.

“What happens once we say I do,” she admitted, the hint of a smile she didn’t want to contain making its way to her lips.

“Second thoughts?” he asked, vaguely horrified.

Lily shook her head. She couldn’t imagine her life without James anymore, no matter how much the bullshit from his youth would haunt them in adulthood.

[avvail-whumps]

‘guns for hire’ — forty-eight hours #37

previous · masterlist · next

content warnings: whumpee referred to as “kid” but they’re an adult, conditioned whumpee, interrogations, stockholm syndrome, mentioned past character death

Sharpe was expecting Summers to lay into him the moment the door was closed, and he was already preparing a cigerette for him to drag between her harsh words.

He hadn’t been expecting her hand to slap them from his fingers harshly, causing them to clatter to the ground. His brows furrowed instantly, arms coming up in mock surrender.

“Jesus, Summers,” he grunted, but the woman’s fiery eyes were burning too brightly for her to even care about his visible discontent.

“This whole thing is a fucking mess,” she snarled, face twisted in anger. “He should be in a hospital. He shouldn’t be locked in some interogation room while you grill the poor kid until he’s in tears.”

“I’m not grilling him,” Sharpe argued, but he was promptly cut off.

“No, Steven,” she snapped. “Be quiet for two seconds. You arrested Roy under ridiculous assumptions and for what? Because you think it was his uncle that killed Mikhail Wilson?”

“I know it was his uncle that killed Mikhail Wilson,” the detective corrected with a scoff, his brows furrowing in discontent. “Kidnapping Leo was sloppy. So naturally his uncle is going to be the one to clean up loose ends.”

“On what grounds, Steven?” Summers snapped, throwing her arms up in disbelief. There was a fiery, but exasperated tone to her sharp voice. “On what grounds would any of this hold up as viable evidence? It doesn’t. It’s all speculation, and speculation isn’t going to get Roy convicted.”

“You really believe the bullshit about stumbling onto his house is true? That there happened to conveniently be someplace else that kidnapping victims are kept?”

“Those forests are fucking huge,” Summers frowned, shaking her head. The anger was slowly leaving her voice, finding it was useless to argue against Sharpe. “People go missing in them and never found all the time, and you know this. If his kidnappers wanted to keep him someplace concealed, we might never find it, even if we had hundreds of officers searching every square acre.”

Sharpe shook his head, running a desperate hand through his hair. His eyes snapped towards the door where Leo was, and all it took was the reminder of him in the car to get him fired up once again. There were too many little discrepancies popping up that couldn’t be sheerly down to coincidence.

“The kid is confused,” Summers spoke once more, drawing him out of his boiling rage. “He’s scared. He’s likely traumatised, and you think he’d be able to retell some fake, elaborate story in the state he’s in right now?”

“Summers—”

“Forensics are doing a sweep of Roy’s house,” she interrupted coldly. “If anything detrimental comes up, we’ll know. They’ll have Roy’s trip to Morocco checked, as well as his phone and laptop.”

The detective decided to keep mouth shut for now. There was no use arguing against her when the evidence was stacked up against him so highly, which he saw and understood completely. Although his words were being seen as sheer speculation, which in reality, it was, it was speculation that Sharpe believed to be the truth, and he was going to fight tooth and nail to save Leo from the man’s clutches. 

“Summers, you know I’m a good detective,” he started, and the woman turned away from him with a sharp groan. 

“Don’t start this, Steven,” she snapped. “I know you’re a good detective. But this is a mess and you know it, even if you are right.” 

“We’d hit a dead end. His case had been closed. The captain was even willing to bet his career on this case, and look what happened. We found him.” 

“And haven’t they given a valid enough reason to explain that?” 

Sharpe grit his teeth, a sharp scoff rising in his throat. He almost couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “What, so you believe Roy’s bullshit about not wanting to call the police?” 

“You saw the kid in there,” she fired back swiftly, without missing a beat. “He genuinely believes that he was responsible for Michael’s death. You’re a detective, Steven. Like you said, a good one. Can’t you tell that he’s scared out of his mind?” 

“He’s scared enough to do what he’s told,” he grumbled dryly under his breath, stifling a grunt when Summers elbowed him a little too hard in the rib. He could tell she was angry and frustrated, and so was he. They’d found the kid safe and sound, but they both knew that he wouldn’t ever be the same. Just looking at all of the horrible scars on his body from the photos, and the sickening guilt in their stomachs for not saving him quicker. It was enough to shake the both of them, including Sharpe, despite his tough exterior. 

“What kind of twenty-four year old lives in the middle of nowhere anyway?” Sharpe grumbled under his breath, ignoring Summers’ eyes when she turned to glance at him. She leaned against the wall, running a hand through her hair and gathering it up into a ponytail. She pressed the bobble between her teeth as she did, before scraping it all back successfully. 

“I had a word with him while you were talking with Leo,” she sighed, folding her arms over her chest. “I already asked him. His explanation was reasonable enough.” 

The detective scoffed. “And what was that?” 

“His uncle,” she shrugged wearily. “It’s safer for him than if he was in the city. Wouldn’t be hard for that man to find him if he decided he didn’t want his dear old nephew running around by himself anymore.” 

Sharpe had a lot to say about that, but for the sake of not having his cigerate and lighter slapped out of his hands for a second time, he decided to keep it to himself. He bent down and scooped the two objects up, tossing the cigerette in the bin, and pulling out another from the depths of his trouser pockets. He leaned against the opposite side of the wall, beside the water dispenser. He wasn’t allowed to smoke at the station, but he didn’t care. 

“How is the Commissioner taking this?” 

His words lingered in the foul air for a while, tainting it even further. Summers’ eyes remained glued to part of the ground, her eyebrows raising with a deep sigh. 

“As you can imagine, not very well,” she muttered. “He’s absolutely livid. You’ve probably cost the Captain his badge.” 

Sharpe sucked in a breath, tasting the familiar tobacco on his tongue. “Yeah, well, we’ve still got over twenty-four hours for Leo to tell us the truth.” 

Summers gave another pathetic shrug. The detective didn’t want to believe that she’d given up just yet, but it was becoming increasingly more difficult as the time whirled on by. They’d have to move Roy into a cell for the night, as well as find someplace for the kid to recuperate. By then, their time would be rapidly diminishing. 

“And what if Roy walks free, huh, Steven?” She asked softly. “There’ll probably be hefty compensation for the Commissoner to deal with once this is all over. And, Jesus, if his uncle is willing to tie up loose ends for his nephew like you said, what’s the chance he won’t do the same here?” 

Something icey made its way into Sharpes chest. His eyes narrowed as he glanced at her from above his cigarette. 

“What exactly are you implying?” 

Summers tapped a finger on her forearm. “The Commissioner isn’t going to let this slide.”

“Doesn’t this just prove my claim if he does?” He grumbled. “That he currently has connections with his uncle?” 

“He’s his legal guardian,” Summers reminded him gently. “So, no. Not really.” 

“Fuck,” Sharpe sighed, rubbing the aching crease in his forehead. He took another deep drag, letting the sting fill up his lungs. All he could hope for was that once the house was sweeped and searched, something of value would come up. Something incriminating, while they thoroughly did a search on Bran, Sean and Rafi in the meantime. Sharpe didn’t feel as though Leo would take well to his encouragement to tell him it was Roy, so he found his gaze settling on Summers’ remorseful face again. 

“Can you talk to the kid again?” He asked softly. “He might open up to you. Much prettier than me, after all.” 

That brought a small smirk to her lips. “Was that a compliment, Steven?” 

He tapped the end of the cigerette with a chuckle, watching the dark ash flutter to the ground. 

“Never.” 

She shook her head, pushing off the wall. “I’ll do my best. They should transfer Roy into a cell for the night.” 

“Already on it,” Sharpe called out as his feet carried him swiftly through the corridors of the station, his smile fading as soon as her back was turned. 

. . . 

Leo must have drifted off for a while, because when he blinked his eyes open, they were crusted and sore against the dry air. His stuffy nose struggled to take a deep breath in, uncurling his head from his arms. His neck felt horribly stiff as he shifted back into the chair, weary hands rubbing at it gently. 

He was still in the same, boring room as before, alone as ever. 

He wondered where Roy was. 

God, he would do anything to see him right now. Was he somewhere in the building? Were they treating him badly? Was he doing a good job? Without Roy here to tell him if he was doing okay with the story, he could feel himself becoming agitated and nervous. If he was here, he would probably be holding him gently, whispering sweet nothings into his ear, and Leo would lap it up like it was the last time he’d ever hear anything nice. It might have been now. What if he got into trouble for killing Michael? What if he slipped up and disappointed Roy? 

Even when the door popped open again, Leo didn’t look over. He was chewing on his finger again, staring intently at the surface of the table. 

“Leo?” 

He jerkily nodded his head, letting the woman know that he was listening. It passed over him in a blur, however. He briefly listened to her soft words, much kinder than the bearded detective from before. He learned that her name was Summers. Heard her repeat the same mantra’s of “you’re safe now” and “no one can hurt you anymore”. He had to endure the difficult, probing questions that Roy had told him about, words flying from her mouth like “do you understand the concept of Stockholm Syndrome?” or “did he coerce you into sexual intercourse?”, and Leo forced himself to keep his head on straight through it all. 

Still, like Roy wanted, he didn’t crumble. 

He felt like he would. Each question was chipping away at his exhausted resolve, the sinking darkness under his eyes an indication enough about what the stress was doing to him. He was guided carefully to an unlocked cell, where they encouraged him to get some rest. A bunch of pillows, blankets, water, pills, and even a bar of chocolate was handed to him by uniformed police officers.

Their kindness was almost strange.

Respectfully keeping their distance, making sure he was comfortable and ensuring him they would do their best to stay quiet for him. Even when he’d become anxious over the cell door being locked and caging him in like some criminal, a pudgy officer had placed a chair against the door to keep it propped open for him. 

Leo barely slept a wink. 

He pulled the blankets right up to his nose, but none of them reminded him of home. His stomach ached as sickening thoughts plagued his mind. I need to tell them. I need to tell them the truth. Then another side of them, cruel and hissing in his ear. What about Roy? He’ll be so disappointed in you. 

By the time he’d been retrieved by those two detectives again and placed in the same little room, he was more of a coward than he had always been. He sobbed as he told them the same story, over and over again. Even as the timer ticked down, closing in on the forty-eight hours with only minutes left, he gave Sharpe and Summers the same answer to their demands. 

“We can only do this with your help,” the man pressed, a slight edge of desperation in his tone. “Tell us it was Roy.” 

He didn’t. 

And by then, it was too late anyway.

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