#CODE VEIN ‐Memory Echoes-

[sleepy-monochrome-prince]

[aemondsbabe]

Duty & Sacrifice | Claimant Pt 2

summary: your wedding to jace will happen whether you and aemond like it or not; even still, you know where you truly belong

pairing: dark!brother!aemond x sister!reader

warnings: mature/explicit, 18+ (minors dni!), no use of y/n, afab reader, dark aemond, threats against jace, jace slander do not come at me you were warned, blood purest aemond like he's voldemort coded idk he loves that valyrian o neg, breeding kink, fingering, unprotected sex, piv sex, biting, brief hand on neck, possessive aemond, obsessive aemond, let me know if i missed anything!

word count: 3.7k

a/n: big thank you to @rabbit-hearted for sending a request for more dark!aemond! i hope you enjoy!! dark aemond was a bit toned down in this one but he (and the reader) will be going unhinged psycho in part 3 uwu

gif creds to @aemondtargaryensource

likes, comments, & reblogs are very appreciated but never required!

🔪read part 1 here!

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“Oh, you look absolutely beautiful, Princess,” your lady’s maid coos over your shoulder while she finishes tying the laces at the back of your gown, eliciting a chorus of echoing hums and titters of agreement from the other women fluttering about your chambers. 

“Thank you, Kella,” you murmur, meeting her gaze in the mirror, your lips stretched into a thin, tight smile. Even in your periphery, the sight of the ivory dress makes your stomach turn and twist into barbarous knots and you quickly glance away. You try to ignore the pang of guilt that eats at your heart as you keep your eyes trained on the shelves beside the mirror, silently reciting the name of each book stacked on them over and over again, anything to keep your mind occupied. 

It only halfway works, just as it had every time before – every other time you stood in this exact same spot as the tailor measured and fitted your dress, as you discussed hairstyles with your maids, as you chose jewelry with your mother. Helaena had spent weeks, hours upon hours, sewing bead after bead into the alabaster fabric, creating intricate patterns of florals giving way to flames, and you could hardly bring yourself to look at it. 

If I don’t look, it’s not real. If I don’t look, it’s not real, the words, foolish as they were, echoed in your mind for the millionth time as your maids added final touches to your outfit – sliding your feet into shoes and clasping on various ornate jewels. 

“Should we finish the hair first or get the cloak on first?” You hear one of your lady’s maids ask another, somewhere off to the side. 

“Mm, I think the cloak,” another one answers; you can hear the doors of your wardrobe being pulled open, “Her tiara may get snagged otherwise.”

Glimmers of red from the small garnet gemstones decorating your gown create bloody splotches in your periphery as morning sunlight filters through your windows; your mind begins to wander again despite your best efforts and crimson quickly gives way to hues of sapphire. Absent-mindedly, you dig your nails into your cuticles as you recall that night. The events play out behind your eyes like they have time and time again in the weeks between then and now – the pin-pricked chill you’d felt from his gaze, the way his whispered promises made your heart ache with a confusing whirlwind of longing and dread, the way his hands had felt against your skin. The sound of your blood pumping wildly in your veins drowns out any other noise as his voice echoes in your head. 

“Prove your devotion to me, my Strong girl,” he had commanded, directing your attention to the hilt of his dagger. And you had, the memories of it make you shiver even now. 

You had.

But it didn’t matter because here you are, clad in an ivory gown that may as well be a death shroud for all the joy it brings you.

“Princess?” A little gasp falls from your lips as you’re hoisted out of your reverie and your eyes finally focus on Kella standing before you, matching cloak in hand. 

“My apologies,” you say, managing a little chuckle, “I’m not sure where my head was at.” 

“No trouble, Princess,” Kella smiles, waving a hand dismissively, “I’m sure you’re eager to get the day started, marrying a prince and all.”

“Eager, yes,” you sigh, forced smile falling flat the second she looks away. The back of your throat tightens when you catch sight of yourself in the mirror and, for the umpteenth time today, you try desperately to ignore the urge to run – to sprint all the way to the Dragonpit, mount Silverwing, and go. Instead, you swallow down the sick feeling in your gut and compel yourself to be still as Kella drapes the cloak over your shoulders, the red silk underlining enveloping you in a sanguine veil. 

Just as she’s about to fasten it to the little ties at the shoulders of your gown, the doors to your chambers bang open, causing both of you to jump as your heads whip toward the sound of the noise. 

“Prince Aemond,” Kella says breathlessly, draping the cloak over an arm and curtsying politely. 

“Get out,” he murmurs lowly, violet eye not moving from yours as he stands at the doorway, arms tucked behind his back, “I wish to have a moment alone with my sister.” Your heart hammers so wildly that you’re amazed the sound of it doesn’t echo off the walls – that it doesn’t burst in your chest. 

You don’t miss the uncertain glances your maids give one another, though they ultimately nod their heads. A small chorus of, “Yes, your highness,” rises around you as they scurry from the room; Kella quickly drapes your cloak over the back of your vanity chair before leaving as well, the doors to your chambers closing behind her. 

Aemond quickly locks them, the barest hint of a smile pulling at the corners of his lips for a precious second as he does so, before turning to you. Your brows furrow as nervousness builds within you, nails digging into your cuticles as you desperately study the neutral expression on his face as he stalks toward you. 

“Don’t you look breathtaking, sweet sister,” his eye sweeps over your form as he speaks and you feel as if every ounce of air is pressed from your lungs when he gently grasps at your chin, angling your face up toward his when he comes to a stop before you. 

“How did you get in here?” You question, hating how feeble your voice sounds, how your heart slows the second he touches you. Your question is a valid one, though – your mother had taken great caution in the weeks following the night of your betrothal feast to keep you and your brother as separated as possible. 

He chuckles as he tilts your face to the side, exposing your neck. “Someone may have delivered an anonymous tip to Cole informing him of a supposed smallfolk revolt brewing in Flea Bottom,” you don’t miss the twitch of a victorious smile on his lips, “Of course, the Gold Cloaks had to attend to it – we wouldn’t want anything ruining such a… joyous day. Once they were gone, it was easy enough to slip from the Sept and make my way back here.”

“You’ve been planning,” his eye stays fixed on the ruby necklace clasped around your neck as you speak, though he hums in acknowledgement at your words. After another few seconds of heavy silence, you cannot help but huff and jerk your chin from his careful grip, “Did you come here to merely ogle at me or do you need something?”

“Mm,” he hums, narrowing his eye for just the barest of seconds, “There is something I need indeed, Strong girl.”

“Don’t call me that!” You snap, the little huff of laughter he gives only makes you more agitated. He turns his back to you and stalks over to your vanity; it’s only then that you see he’s holding a small box behind his back, “What is that?”

“Only a little wedding present,” Aemond drawls, violet eye meeting yours in the mirror as he runs his fingers over the soft ivory silk of your cloak; his nose twitches in disgust, the most subtle of movements that you’re sure only you are able to spot. 

“Can… can I see it?”

Another twitch of his lips, a little pulling at the corners, just enough for you to know he’s satisfied about something, makes your heart squeeze in your chest. Whatever game he’s playing at, whatever imaginary battle he’s thought up in his mind, he’s winning. 

Am I even fighting back? Do I want to?

Silently, he makes his way back over to you, each heavy step a nail in your proverbial coffin. He’s standing before you again, long hair spilling over the shoulders of his tunic like a pearlescent waterfall, held back from his face by two thin braids that join in the back. 

Finally, he opens the box, carefully sliding the lid off. Your lips part as you stare down at the contents, eyes as wide as the moon as it feels like all the air has been sucked from the room. 

“I had it made by the finest craftsman in the city,” he murmurs, eye gleaming with pride at your stunned reaction, “Do you like it, little one?”

“I… Aemond, I…,” you stammer, at a loss for words as you look over the necklace resting on a bed of soft cloth. Made from a breathtaking assortment of pearls, the attention to detail is immaculate; each milky white stone is threaded onto a fine silver chain, all leading to a gleaming deep blue sapphire in the center, framed by the figure of a small silver dragon. “I-It’s gorgeous, brother, I… thank you.”

“You deserve only the best,” he purrs, watching closely as you reach up and carefully run your fingers over the glittering stones, “Shall I put it on you?”

“I already have a neck –” You start, only for a loud gasp to rip itself from your throat as Aemond tears the ruby necklace from you, the delicate gold chains easily snapping and sending dozens of tiny rosy stones clattering to the floor. All you can do is gape at him, one hand grazing against the place on your neck where the necklace once sat. 

Meanwhile, your brother’s violet eye merely follows a few of the stones as they skid across the stone floors. “Pity,” he tuts, stalking around you like a lion would its prey before stopping behind you and meeting your gaze in the mirror. 

“Do you have any idea who that necklace bel–”

“I don’t give a shit about who it belonged to,” he hisses, reaching over your shoulder and grabbing your jaw, forcing your head to turn back enough to meet his heated stare, “All that matters is that you belong to me, not some sniveling fucking bastard who shall only bring you ruin.”

He stares at you for a second more as if trying to drive the point somehow further into your heart before finally releasing your chin, smirking at the little shiver that runs down your spine when he skims his fingers over your neck. 

Your eyes flutter shut as he delicately sweeps the hair away from the back of your neck before pressing a soft kiss there, only to trail more down the crook of your neck and shoulder; time seems to slow for a moment while you savor the feel of his lips against your skin and your chest tightens when he groans. 

He huffs when he straightens back up, like being apart from you, even if only by a few scant inches, is painful – a feeling you know all too well. Opening your eyes, you watch as he carefully clasps the sapphire necklace around your neck. The larger middle stone sits perfectly at the base of your neck, the rich blue hue sparkles beautifully against your skin. 

“Flawless,” he says lowly, gently kissing just below your ear before trailing his eye up to the floor-length mirror the two of you stand before, hands resting on your waist, “We look perfect together, don’t we, little one?”

Automatically, you nod your head, unable to separate your gaze from the mirror. He’s right, he always is. The two of you simply fit together – perfect compliments of the other. 

He smiles lazily over your shoulder and pulls you closer against him, relishing in the small gasp that leaves your lips as his length presses against you, already half-hard and wanting. “Yes, you and I were meant to be together,” he breathes, slowly pulling up the skirts of your gown, “You may be marrying that traitorous little cunt, but you’ll belong to me soon enough, sweet sister.”

Your brows furrow at that and you start to question him, ask what exactly he means, but before you can utter a word, a feeble, stuttering moan is wrenched from your lips instead. Aemond holds you steady, keeping one hand firmly around your waist, as the other fits itself between your thighs; you’re helpless to do much else than watch yourself fall apart in the mirror as his lithe fingers slip through your already drenched center.

A pleased hum reverberates against the side of your jaw as he presses soft kisses against your neck, ravenous eye glued to your chest as it rises and falls with sharp pants, your breasts heaving beneath the bodice of your wedding dress.

“Promise me you won’t let him touch you,” your brother growls, swirling his fingers around your already aching pearl with practiced ease, “Swear to me that I am the only one who will ever claim you, sweet girl.”

“A-Aemond, I…,” you gasp, already having to fight through the fog in your mind to remain upright, much less speak, “Brother, please!”

“Swear it!” He snarls, biting harshly at your shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark. 

“I promise, I promise!” You quickly concede, the truth willingly spilling from you. You did not want anyone else, you never had – your gaze had been firmly set on Aemond for as long as you could remember. Your heart had soared with hope when Aegon and Helaena’s betrothal was announced, only for those hopes to be squashed when you were all but promised to Jace not too long after Aemond’s eye had been taken – doomed to a marriage built on regrets. 

Your older brother had felt the same from an earlier age still, always doting on you, even as a child. He loves Helaena, yes, but his heart had only been yours. His screams still echo in your mind – the only time he’d ever raised his voice at your mother, when he’d stormed into her chambers as soon as Aegon had taunted him with news of the raven from Driftmark. 

But it was the same each time, excuses of repairing relations and making amends, commands for you and Aemond both to grow up – to make sacrifices for the realm. 

Was I ever more than a lamb raised for slaughter? That question has kept you up for more hours than you care to admit. Now, watching in the mirror as a man who is not your betrothed brings you to heel on the morning of a day you have mourned for years, the dam inside you finally bursts – you are tired of bowing to duty. 

“Aemond, please!” You gasp, nearly crying as the fog in your mind finally lifts, “Please, take me, please!”

He pauses at that, the fingers on your aching bud stopping as his eye flicks up to yours. His eye is studying, calculating while he looks over you — there is a terrible relief in being finally, truly seen. “Is that what you wish?” He hums, chuckling when you pant as his fingers circle your dripping entrance, “To be filled with me, little one?”

You’re nodding before he’s even finished the question, desperate whines spilling from you as he slips his hand from between your legs, only long enough to loosen the ties at the front of his trousers.

“I’ll breed this sweet cunt,” he grunts, the arm around your waist moving to hook securely around your chest while the other grabs at his length, positioning it at your entrance as you hold your skirts out of the way in a trembling grasp, “Give you a pure Valyrian babe, just as you deserve.”

All of the air is knocked from your lungs as he pushes into you, spearing you on his cock in one swift motion. Your fingers abandon your skirts to instead claw helplessly at the arm draped over your chest, knees nearly buckling as Aemond pauses long enough for you to adjust. 

“Gods!” You whimper as he sets a punishing pace from the outset, though the harsh thrusts feel like paradise after being deprived of his mere presence for so long. Your head droops forward as he snakes a hand around your hip to begin rubbing at your pearl yet again, lucid enough to know that the two of you are operating on borrowed time. 

“You have always been mine, all of you,” he gasps, watching as your bodies writhe together in the mirror. After a moment, he growls and grabs at your neck, forcing your head up until your eyes meet his. “That’s it, sweet girl,” he praises, leaning forward to kiss and nip at your neck and shoulder, “You’re mine, you’re mine…”

You nod as best you can as he chants the words again and again like a prayer, pushing his length in and out of you in time with each one, until your mind is nothing but a cacophony of mine, mine, mine. 

“I-I’m, Gods, I’m – Aemond!” You all but sob, the knot in your stomach that had been pitifully winding itself for weeks finally about to unravel as your cunt tightens around him, his grunts and growls in response only pushing you further to the end. 

“Do it,” he commands, redoubling his efforts on your bud, his other hand scrambling frantically to grasp at your stomach, “Let go and I’ll breed you, I’ll give you a babe, our babe, little one. Let go for me, let go.”

His muttered command sends shivers down your spine and you’re powerless to do much else other than obey and your eyes squeeze shut and your lips part as a harsh, shuddering cry is knocked out of you; fire seems to ignite every cell within you as you pulse around his length. Your knees buckle when your high washes over you, Aemond’s grip around your waist the only thing keeping you upright. 

“Good girl, good girl,” he murmurs, the sound of his voice just barely cutting through the rush of blood in your ears. A handful of thrusts later and he stills against you, growling and squeezing you to within an inch of your life as he fills you, cock twitching. 

You both still for a moment, harsh pants filling your chambers as you catch your breath. You whine when Aemond finally pulls his softening length from you, though he shushes you sweetly before leading you to your vanity chair and sitting you down. 

“I don’t want to marry him,” you whisper suddenly, sniffling softly as tears sting the back of your eyes, “I don’t w-want to, Aemond, I –”

“Shh, shh,” he says softly, gently cupping your cheek and angling your face up toward his, “There’s nothing we can do to change today, as much as it pains me. Were it possible, I would gut him in the Sept and stake my claim to you then and there, Gods be damned, I –” 

He pauses, cutting himself off with a harsh sigh, “I will have you, I swear it. I will not fail again.” 

Were it any other time, the dark shadow that lingers behind his words would give you pause, would frighten you as they have before. 

Now, though, they settle over you like a warm blanket – there is a safety in this fear. Aemond, for all his faults, is nothing if not determined. 

Whatever surety had settled within you only an hour before is swiftly and sharply pushed from your mind as you exit the carriage and climb the many steps up to the doors of the Great Sept of Baelor, unsteady even with Aegon at your side. 

By the grace of the Gods, Aemond had managed to slip from your chambers, and supposedly from the Red Keep, unseen by all except your lady’s maids, and they had all been sworn to secrecy long ago. Once he had gone, they filed back in and had blessedly made no mention of the intrusion as they bustled about you yet again – quickly braiding your hair through the prongs of your tiara and securing your cloak to your shoulders. 

They knew better than to ask about the sapphire clasped around your neck, or about the mess of rubies on the floor.

Your eldest brother, however, had not been so forgiving; his dark eyes had narrowed the moment you were seated together in the carriage. “Today, sister? Really?” He had teased, a dangerous spark in his eyes.

“I don’t know what you mean,” you had grumbled, clenching your legs together as you sat. 

“Hm,” he hummed, chuckling softly, “Maybe I’ll soon be mother’s favorite after all.”

“We stand here in the sight of Gods and men to witness the union of man and wife,” the septon’s booming voice fills the Sept as you stand together with Jacaerys, your hands in his, “One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.”

You try your hardest to keep your eyes trained to his, to keep your lips crooked into a smile, but all you can focus on is the two stares practically searing your flesh. 

Alicent’s face swam in your vision, the way her cheeks had paled when she had caught sight of the jewelry clasped around your neck, at the guilty look in your eyes. You can feel hers boring into you now and you have no doubt her jaw is clenched, her fingers bloodied and raw. 

The other stare makes your skin prickle, much as it did on the night of your betrothal feast. You keep inwardly scolding yourself, again and again, as your eyes lock with Aemond’s every few seconds as he stands at the base of the steps to your side. 

“In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity,” the septon continues, gesturing to you and Jace, “Look upon one another and say the words.”

“Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger,” you recite together, all the while you desperately try to ignore the hollow, aching pit slowly opening itself in the very center of your chest.

“I am hers and she is mine,” Jace murmurs, dark gaze fixed solely on yours as he squeezes your hands, a terrible longing in his stare, “From this day, until the end of my days.”

“I am his and he is mine,” you say, each word feeling like a knife being twisted in your gut, “From this day until the end of my days.”

The septon gestures once more for the two of you to step closer together; it takes all of your restraint not to gasp when you feel a rivulet of Aemond’s spend leak down your thigh as you do. 

“With this kiss, I pledge my love,” Jace says softly. His warm hands cup your cheeks before he leans in but when your lips touch, all you see is sapphire.

thank you for taking the time to read! hope you enjoyed! :)

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[st4rymoon]

hiii

can i request a smut where steven gets jealous of marc and he tries to be dominant with the reader but while he was being rough she calls him daddy by accident and then steven goes insane and he overstims her just to hear her say it again 😋

I yearn for Steven Grant. I know he's a FREAKK and would always be so touched starved that he takes absolutely anything you give him <3

𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 • 𝘚𝘵𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘎𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘹 𝘍𝘦𝘮 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

- 18+, unprotected sex!, creampie, teasing, daddy kink, slight breeding kink, jealousy, pet names, soft som Steven Grant!

Sorry for not posting recently I’ve been busy with mid-terms 😔💔

Steven will and always be a jealous lover. He hates the way Marc and Jake tease him about you due to the fact that you’re usually more dominant with Steven out of all of them.

Don’t worry Steven even if you tried she’d be yellin’ my name echoed in Steven’s head, marc was an ass and Steven was dedicated to showing both of them he could make you just as messy and submissive for him as you are for them.

It didn’t come to a surprise when Steven asked if he could try being in control, you would get hints of it here and there. But today, he didn’t want you doing any of the work.

You were sprawled on your back, legs spread to his sides as Steven rubbed himself through your messy slick folds, one hand holding your leg open and the other tease fucking your folds with his cock.

“Come on lovie, look at me” he pouted mockingly as you squeezed your eyes shut and whined at the teasing. You opened your eyes to the sight of Steven’s hooded eyes watching you intensely, his body glowing in the soft light being emitted through his dim lamp.

“That’s it bunny, jus’ keep looking at me” he smiled as he slid into your slick cunt. You mewled as he buried himself deep inside you, burning each vein and curve of his cock into your memory. “Remember the code word?” Steven hummed as he leaned towards your ear, his hands now running up your thighs and massaging your hips as he fucked you slowly.

You felt like your heart was beating out of your chest at Steven’s movements, so calculated and precise. “Uh huh, cherry” you moaned proving you remembered the safe word. His pace began to pick up “good girl” he smiled as he pulled his hips back and slammed into you brutally.

Steven knocked the wind out of you with each thrust, your eyes rolling back into your skull as his thumb rubbed soft circles onto your swollen bud. Steven was a man out of control as your pretty moans grew louder and louder.

His name spilling from your lips as he fucked you like he’s been dreaming of. “You like that huh? Look at you lovie, drooling and everything” he chuckled as your back arched at his pace.

“S- st- ohhh my go- ah!” You mewled as he rubbed your sensitive clit at the perfect rhythm with his thrusts. Steven almost choked on his spit as your walls squeezed around him, the mear sight of you going dumb almost making him cum.

This was the fastest you’d came with anyone and Steven knew it. He just broke a record for the both of you.

You were clawing at Steven’s back as he drilled you onto the sheets, your vision going blurry and thoughts going blank as he sucked onto your neck.

“O- feels so go- so good daddy” you gasped as Steven’s pubic bone rubbed against your clit.

The sound that came out of Steven’s voice was filthy, a gruntled moan spilling from his lips as your voice echoed in his head. “Yeah?” He seethed as he shifted himself up and wrapped a hand around your throat “fu- yea- daddy” you mewled as Steven’s hips rammed into you harder.

Your slick as all over the sheets, bed creaking as a warning of how rough he was fucking you. The noise complaints were the least of your worries as Steven continuously knocked at the spongy spot deep inside you.

“You like daddy fucking you don’t you love” Steven moaned as you nodded dumbly. He smiled at the way you mewled at his words “yes yes yes, love you so- so fucking much” you cried.

And with that Steven’s thick white ropes of cum painted your walls as a loud moan spilled from his lips. His orgasm hitting him hard enough to have him shaking above you.

Your nails clawed down his back as he let himself spill out of your puffy cunt. The moan Steven let out was pornographic as he pulled out, his eyes watching your cunt gush his sticky cum.

“Now that’s it doll, all lush and pretty” he cooed as he leaned into your lips and gently kissed you. Both of you know this wouldn’t be the last round tonight and neither of you have anything against it.

[dearmariposa]

One Night Stand | pt 1

Buzzed. oh, you're absolutely buzzed. The resonating throb of the bass pulses within, dazzling lights paint kaleidoscopic patterns across your vision. The scent of alcohol and sweat fills the air, as the hem of your dress flirts with rebellion, rising with every fleeting opportunity. The night, undeniably, is in its youthful embrace.

As the echoes of your heels gently resonate through the crowd, you realize you've lost your friends. Perhaps one is entwined in a gratifying exchange, savoring the taste of passion, while the other might be surrendering to the merciless shots of tequila, expelling every drop consumed over the past three hours. Despite your own senses dancing on the edge of a cliff right now, you're still eager to find both of them and finally leave this place. Now that you reek of cologne, sweat, cigarettes, and every possible pungent scent to ever exist for mankind.

Stumbling, you make your way towards the bathroom. Retrieving your cell phone, revealing the ungodly hour – 1:48 a.m. "Fuck, talk about starting the new year right huh?" A muttered exclamation escapes your lips. With your phone pressed against your ear in a desperate attempt to call for your friends, the void of unanswered calls becomes the soundtrack to your fleeting optimism. After several calls, you abandon the idea of going home and walking out of the bathroom, squeezing yourself through the line as faint alarming noises are heard from the men's bathroom. Low grunts followed by whispered moans.

Seated at the bar, your feet aching, downing another shot of God knows what, given by the bartender, you made your way back to the dance floor. You find yourself dancing to the rhythmic pulse of the music in an attempt to let loose and forget all the stress and depravity rotting inside you for the past year. Besides, when else would you have the chance to unleash yourself, it's a rare occasion.

In the hallowed whispers of nightlife, there's truth concealed from youthful ears and its intoxicating rendezvous. Another truth kept concealed is the magic of alcohol and how much it can alter a person. Your dress strap delicately slips, blush blossoms on your cheeks, the warmth of intoxication coursing through your veins. An unfamiliar silhouette converges, pressing against yours, setting aflame a burning sensation between your thighs.

Moments stretched into an embedded memory until a low breath brushed against the curve of your neck. Instant shivers shot down your spine, a rising blaze of sensation. His face and form remained veiled in the shadows, yet you found yourself immersed in the depths of his essence, a scent that enveloped you, clouding your consciousness. Perhaps it was the music or your pounding headache, but you loved it, the intoxicating chemistry between you and this handsome stranger, you wanted more. No. You yearn for more.

His hands traveled every inch of your figure, from one place to another until they reached the bottom of your stomach. At that moment, a silent alarm echoed within – a code red pulsating in your thoughts. Amidst the haze of your fading senses, you discern that this will only lead to 2 roads. One is the possibility of this man being remarkable in bed. Two, a dismay of regret, a potential aftermath of chlamydia. Where strands of regret may intertwine with your hair in the week to unfold; and he’s horrendous in bed.

Yet, what recourse does a woman, starved for affection, possess in such situations? Certainly not the ability to make sound decisions. Thus, with vanishing sanity, you moved, turning your gaze only to encounter the man with a mischievous grin plastered on his face. His features blurred in the throbbing lights, whether a trick of the strobes or your own lack of sobriety remains uncertain. All that is certain is his towering figure, eyes sharp like obsidian or perhaps the hues of oakwood, lips naturally tinted in rosy plumpness, a nose bridge sculpted to envy, and hair as luscious as the depths of his eyes. A vision so enticing unfolds before you. Your heart quickens its pace as he, suddenly speaks. “Didn’t realize you were sober enough to drool over me like that, princess.”

In mere moments of his voice, you transitioned from drunk to tipsy. Awareness heightened, yet self-evasively distant. His presence lingered in your thoughts, the idea of him inches deep inside you occupying your mind, especially when your bodies entangled, the trail of his cologne weaving a seductive spell. “It would be a shame to waste a face like yours, sir,” you uttered, your arms wrapping his neck, causing his grasp to rest on your waist. Familiar butterflies fluttered with each passing heartbeat. As lips hovered in proximity, you sensed his breath, his hold on your waist intensifying, tension escalating between the two of you. This isn’t supposed to be a game of self-restraint, where the person who kisses the other would lose. But now that it has come to this, it is rather thrilling.

“My place is around here.” You offer a devil’s invitation to this enigmatic stranger who has been undressing you with his eyes for the entire night. You’ve lured him. You’re impatient. You’re ready to turn the city into a backdrop, to a night of forbidden passion and let the moonlight reveal secrets that were meant to stay hidden. Secrets like the image of how you’d like this man to ruin you. Now, all he needs to do is bring the images to life.

[vangelini]

🌙 Boyfriend For The Night (Finale) | Spencer Reid x Reader

Part 1, Part 2

Summary: Your first date with Doctor Spencer Reid didn’t go as planned; but when has anything ever? In your disappointment, he makes it up to you…

Tags: Cavity-inducing fluff, Bau! Reader, Fem! Reader, idiots in love…

Warnings: ‼️emetophobia warning‼️ (reader gets sick in first half)

Words: 2.2k~

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“Just breathe, okay?” Spencer soothed your back, one hand holding your hair away from your face.

“How was I supposed to know that dish had shellfish in it?” You retched into the toilet, hands on either the side of the bowl.

“They didn’t even label it for allergens,” Spencer scoffed, a little annoyed at the restaurant you two were just at. “How did they pass their health code inspection?”

You groaned. “That’s awfully-” *burp* “Shellfish of them-” You threw up once more. Spencer smirked at your joke, but kept rubbing your back gently.

This wasn’t how you expected your first date with Doctor Spencer Reid to look. It was supposed to be a romantic dinner, or a coffee shop rendezvous, not you hunched over a gas station toilet with your hair pulled back. The cold tile pushed against your knees, heels long discarded to the side of the small handicap stall. Spencer’s hand soothed up and down your back gently, as he continuously mumbled small ‘it’s okay’s and ‘just breathe’s as you continued to heave into the toilet.

“Shellfish allergies are the most common allergies among adults, and among the most common for children, I don’t see how they can get away with not labeling it on the menu,” Spencer sighed, adjusting himself on the cold tile.

“Maybe-” *burp* “Maybe I just missed it,” your voice echoed in the porcelain.

“That’s not possible, I have an eidetic memory,” Spencer’s lip curled up. “The ingredients listed in your salad were romaine lettuce, cherry tomatoes, quinoa, beets, chickpeas, and ginger dressing,” he pressed his lips together. “Not even a mention of a protein.”

“It’s so cute when you remember stuff like that-” another gag. Spencer laughed, readjusting his grip on your hair. “You can appreciate me all you want when your diaphragm and abdominal muscles stop contracting,” his hand smoothed down your sweater gently, hair tickling your neck a little.

“The more you kno-ow-” *gag*… This might take a while.

—

Spencer held open the bathroom door, his arm looming over you as you walked into the fluorescent lights. He looked at you with a mix of pity and concern. His lips were pressed together, one end quirked up in a worried smile.

“I’m going to get you a ginger ale and some crackers,” Spencer put his hands in his pockets, leaning back and forth on his feet.

“Spence, you don’t need to do that-“

“It’s what my mom used to get me when i was sick,” he smiled. “And now you’re on an empty stomach,” he shrugged, moving a piece of long hair behind his ear.

Your heart skipped a beat at the sentiment, and he grabbed your hand gently. “And some mints, too,” you smiled, dropping his hand, high heel shoes swaying in your other. “I plan on kissing you later, and I don’t want to taste like shrimp salad.”

Spencer was slack-jawed, face reddening a little.

He followed you across the gas station, grabbing a bottle of ginger ale and some saltine crackers. Needless to say, he was mesmerized by you. Sure, you were fatigued, wrapped in a sweater that smelled like fish and toilet, petechiae speckled across your under eyes, but to him, the casual state you were in, the sway of your hips as he watched you saunter down the linoleum aisles was the most attractive thing he had ever seen.

Though, he wasn’t hard on the eyes either, the way his casual striped shirt was rolled just over his forearms, revealing the veins that crawled their way up his skin. And it was hard to ignore how his hips moved in the new brown pants you noticed, or the way he flexed his jaw when you got close enough to him.

“Four dollars for crackers is a little insane,” your hands swayed back and forth, a couple lights illuminating your walk back to Spencer’s Volvo Amazon.

“Spence, you’re the one who insisted on name-brand,” you giggled, stomach still a little upturned. “I told you, generic is just as good and half the price.”

He pulled his keys from his pocket, clicking the doors open.

“Inflation is actually up one percent from last year,” his loafers scraped on the ground. He was really pretty like this, face illuminated by the cool night sky and a couple of Texaco street lights. “It was caused by a combination of poor judgement of lenders, giving out mortgages to subprime borrowers, financial deregulation, and the housing market collapse,” he chuckled to himself. “It’s uh, quite fascinating, other than the fact that crackers now cost four dollars,” he motioned to the bag in his hand. “And name-brand saltines DO taste better,” he pulled open the door to the passenger’s seat, motioning for you to enter. You couldn’t help but giggle a little at his insistence on chivalry.

His car reflected his personality to the nth degree— it was clean, well maintained, and smelled fresh. A small yankee candle air freshener that JJ got him dangled from the rearview mirror. It was scented like Christmas cookies, which, knowing Spencer, made sense. He climbed into the driver’s side, placing the bag of groceries on your lap, twisting the keys in the ignition.

You discarded your shoes beneath you, trying to ignore the nausea still bubbling up in your abdomen. Looking at Spencer’s nonchalant visage as he browsed radio channels seemed to do the trick. He turned it to the jazz station, likely his regular taste in music.

You tried sorting through the bag, pulling out the soda and crackers, but you felt a little pang of something in your chest. Maybe it was anxiety, or typical first date jitters. But, whatever it was, Spencer noticed.

“Is something wrong?” He reached over the console, placing a hand on your knee. You suddenly felt hyper-aware of how your cardigan smelled like vomit, shrugging it off, annoyed.

“I’m okay…” You tossed it into the back seat, throwing a couple mints in your mouth. You mulled them over between your tongue and teeth, trying not to make eye contact with the man beside you, partially knowing that it would only make you feel guiltier.

“Research published indicates that nearly 60% of people downplay their stress or emotional pain when talking to friends or family, often responding with ‘I’m fine’ despite experiencing significant distress,” his lip tinged up into a smile. “And you just assaulted your sweater.” He somehow always found a way to make you smile. You craned your neck up to him, his loose curls framing his face. You sighed.

“I just…” The ginger ale cracked open with a gurgle in your hands. “I kinda feel like I ruined our first date, a little…” You took a long sip of the drink.

“Try to sip on that,” Spencer’s hand moved from your knee up to the bottle, pulling it away from your lips. “After vomiting, the stomach lining is often irritated and sensitive. Sipping fluids slowly is less likely to trigger further nausea and vomiting compared to drinking large amounts at once,” his big, brown eyes were tinged with a little concern, but you complied. “And there’s no way you could have ruined this date,” he smirked.

“I just didn’t imagine it going like this, y’know?” You returned his small smile. “I thought we would… go to a nice restaurant, or a café, one that properly labels their allergens, might I add!” He smiled at that, hand moving to steady your wagging finger. “Then we would… go back to your place, watch a movie, or read books, or something…” You tapped your fingers on the bottle that was slowly collecting condensation. “Then we would kiss goodnight, and I wouldn’t taste or smell like vomit,” You scoffed, motioning to the sweater in the back seat. “It could have been perfect,” you looked up at him, expecting him to be upset, or concerned, somewhat, but he just smiled.

“Honestly…” he looked out the window thoughtfully. “This is kind of exactly how I imagined it going…”

“How?!” You hit him playfully on the arm.

“I mean, not you getting sick, which was the restaurant’s fault, by the way-” He smiled. “It’s just that, ever since the first day you walked into the BAU, I could tell that there was something different about everything you did.”

You thought back to the day he was referring to. The first time you laid eyes on Doctor Spencer Reid, part of you already knew you would become quick friends. He had a copy of The Metamorphosis in original German tucked under his arm, a book mark already two thirds the way through the pages. When you inquired about it, his eyes lit up a little, sparks flying immediately. You two spent the next hour talking about classic literature, favorite stories, earning your patented matching nickname from Morgan: Pretty Girl. The rest was history, for the most part.

“Nothing we ever did together was perfect, y’know?” He went on. “Like when we accidentally fell into that lake apprehending the unsub…” You laughed, the memory flashing in your head, the image of the two of you covered in duckweed, soaked head to toe coming to life in your brain. “Or when that book shelf got pushed on top of you in the university library while questioning a suspect…”

“Or when the mother of that victim tried to get us to join the circus,” you started to smile, laughing with Spencer. His smile twinkled in the moonlight, making you swoon a little.

“See?” He tilted his head, chestnut curls accentuating his jawline and smile. “Naturally, following that trend, our first date wouldn’t go as planned either,” he reached over the console, putting a hand reassuringly on your thigh. “You didn’t ‘ruin’ anything…” His train of thought tickled you a little, his reasoning going straight to statistics.

You picked at the box of saltines, sighing a little.

“You still feel bad,” he put it plainly, hand rubbing small shapes into the skin of your thigh.

“How’d you figure that, Boy Genius?” You smirked, popping a cracker into your mouth. “I know I didn’t…” you swallowed. “Ruin it, per se,” a shrug lifted your shoulders slightly. “I just feel like it could have been more romantic than… well, how it is right now…” you looked down at your lap, a bag of groceries on top of your now-wrinkled skirt.

Spencer smiled sympathetically, gears turning in that genius brain of his.

“What can I do to make tonight perfect, then?” He tilted his head down to look you in the eyes. You smiled. The radio lulled softly, a shallow tune buzzing out…

‘Who loves you, ask yourself a question…” Billie Holiday churned gently from the radio, mellow tune making you smile a little. Of course this is Spencer’s taste in music, what else?

‘Who loves you sweetheart, and tell me…”

An idea pricked itself into your brain, and you looked up at Spencer, his eyes dark, drunk on you.

“Dance with me…” Your voice came out barely a whisper, smile plastering your lips. He laughed a little, nervous, maybe.

“I-I can’t really dance-“

“It isn’t hard… Just…” you shrugged. “Dance with me.” Before he could respond, your car door was open, walking around to the driver’s side. The door tugged open, Spencer clearly amused and flustered, at the same time. “I-“ he sighed. “You can’t take no for an answer, huh?” You shook you head vigorously, smiling. He laughed, reaching to turn up the radio, stepping out of the car. He pulled a sweater from the backseat of his car, one that didn’t smell odd, wrapping it haphazardly around your shoulders. The cold concrete glazed over your feet, heels still shed in the car’s floorboard. His hands rested awkwardly around your shoulders.

“I’ve uh, never danced before…”

“There’s no skill involved in slow dancing…” you smiled. “I say that, of course, only having been to one prom with an actual date,” your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer, as his hands migrated to your hips, locking you in.

‘Who needs you, needs you every minute? Who fell for you from the start?…’

The car’s radio pushed out a gentle melody, filling the empty parking lot. Somehow, in the dinginess of the situation, the street lights felt like stars, and the lot a stage. Spencer’s eyes twinkled down at you, warmth radiating from underneath his patterned dress shirt. You two swayed under the moonlight, for some time, his large hands moving up and down your hips gently, eyes fixated on your face.

“Does this fix it?” He asked.

“Hm?”

“The date,” he reached a hand up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Does this make it just as romantic as you dreamed it?” You smiled, head leaning into his hand. Looking around a little, you thought. This was the beginning of a relationship with THE Spencer Reid, the man you had been ‘down-bad’ for (Morgan’s words, not yours) since the day you first met. You were giddy. And, by the look on his face, he was too.

“…It does,” a smile creeped up your cheeks, which made him return the gesture. You sighed. “Our first real date…”

He laughed.

“Yeah, I think we’ve got the fake one beat,” he reminisced, mind wandering to your outing with the team about a week ago.

“So,” his voice came out shakily, cracking a little. He cleared his throat, making you giggle a little. “Is it uh… safe to say I’m you boyfriend?” He smiled wide, moving his forehead down to touch yours. The closeness made you grin. “Because that’s what I told my mom.”

You laughed. “Yes, Spence,” you looked up into his big, brown eyes, reflections of yourself staring back.

“Not just for the night, this time?”

A warm, genuine grin bloomed up your face.

“Not just for the night.”

(INFINITE THANKS TO EVERYONE WHO PUSHED ME TO KEEP WRITING MORE PARTS 💕💕 YOU’RE ALL ENCOURAGED TO REQUEST MORE)

P.S…. If you ever want anything else in written in this universe, just request your prompt with “BFTN! Reader”‼️

[kay-elle-cee]

A restless waves rise and fall microfic (series). 🏴‍☠️ Pirate Jily AU. @jilymicrofics August Prompt 9: Discrete || 859 Words

“Love, I believe someone is staring at you.”

Lily lifts her gaze from the map in front of them, allowing her eyes to trail over to where her husband’s staring.

Across the bustling tavern from them a man leans against the wall, knuckles clenched tightly around a tankard in his hand as his eyes—beady and black and set in a pale face framed by slick black curtains of hair—remain fixed on the captain and first mate of The Minnie.

An echo of panic shoots through her veins as she keeps her face cool and unbothered, dropping her eyes back down to the map with little interest.

“Ah, yes. We were on a crew together.” Lily pauses, drawing a line of dashes on the map towards their next destination before letting out a sigh. “He’s the reason I went ashore all those years ago. Well, main reason. It was a piss poor ship to be on, all in all.”

“That was the…” James trails off, trying to recall all the stories she’s told him. “Sailing Serpent?”

Lily nods, reaching for her drink and taking a swig as she looks at him. “Aye. And that captain—Mulciber—the worst I’ve ever served under. Bullied his crew, thought he was too important to fail and nearly got us killed several times over.”

“And is that him?”

“No,” she answers, pursing her lips and looking back down at the map. “That’s Severus Snape. The Serpent’s keeper of the code and pain in my bloody side. He was hell-bent on proving there was something funny going on with Lawrence Evans.”

James stiffens beside her. “Did he…figure you out?”

Lily shakes her head, “No, but nearly. He had a hunch and was obsessive about proving himself right. I don’t know what his angle was but…” her brow furrows as she’s taken into a far-away memory, “…that was not a ship I wanted to be found out on.”

A warm hand covers hers on the table and she’s pulled out of the memory, into the present of her new life. Her open, honest, freeing life. The wrinkle in her brow smooths and she gives James a soft smile.

“Jumped ship at The Republic of Pirates and never looked back,” Lily says with a raised chin and a quirk of her eyebrow, flipping her palm up and laces her fingers with his. “I’d say I’ve done pretty well for myself.”

His hand squeezes hers and they sit there for a moment, smiling and lost in the sparkle of each other’s eyes when the sound of a throat clearing jolts them back to the present.

James’ other hand surreptitiously drops to his sheathed sword as their attention turns to this newcomer—Severus Snape—whose eyes dart from Lily to James and back again.

“Pardon the interruption,” he begins cooly and wholly unapologetic, his eyes fixated on Lily, “but you look quite familiar.”

Lily makes an effort to stay calm, drawing strength from not only the presence of James beside her, but the Potter heirloom—her wedding ring—that hangs discretely around her neck and tucked into her shirt for safekeeping. The physical reminder of the life she's built.

She raises an eyebrow. “I’ve gotten that before. I imagine it’s the hair.”

Snape’s eyes roam her face and she has to fight not to shift under the scrutiny. “No, I’m quite certain we’ve met—I realize this sounds ridiculous, but were you ever aboard The Sailing Serpent?”

Lily blinks, and she can feel James’ hand tight on hers, his eyes watching closely for any signs of distress. “Sorry, doesn’t ring a bell.”

“You’re sure? You look nearly identical to an old crewmate." He squints, eyes glinting with suspicion, and Lily practically feels him imagining her with short, tied-back hair and a deep voice. "Lawrence Evans?”

Expression still neutral, she shrugs, but takes care to make her voice light even in its firmness. “Don’t know any Evanses. The name’s Potter.” Her hold on James' hand strengthens. "Lily Potter."

Severus Snape's black eyes flicker once more between her and James and whatever conclusion he comes to, he nods and steps back with a soured grimace. “My mistake.” With a final scan of her face, he turns and walks away, but something in Lily's stomach sits heavy, not convinced in the slightest that he's content with the interaction.

“Lily Potter,” James hums lowly, and she can hear the grin in his voice as it pulls her out of her worry—she’s still Evans on the ship, so he relishes every public reminder of their union. His hand drops from hers and snakes around her shoulders, pulling her tight. “You’re magnificent.”

Her heart pounds—from the adrenaline, from the love—but her eyes dart around the room. “If Snape’s here, Mulciber’s likely not far behind. We should get back to the ship and avoid them if we can.”

When her eyes meet his after scanning the room, they’re close to her and shining with pride behind his glasses, and whatever unpleasantness Snape’s presence had wrought melts away. She leans forward, pressing her lips against his. “I love you, you know that?”

“Yes, love, I do.” He gives her another kiss. “Now let’s go.”

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[tastefulstars]

Of Wolf and Man 2/?

You deal with the aftermath of your choice and share some overdue truths.

eddie munson x f!reader x steve harrington

a/n: ok this is turning out to be very slow burn and i dunno how many parts it will end up being.

word count: 3.6k

warnings: 18+ only mdni. slow burn. r is a werewolf. body horror. mutual pining. grief. bonding over mutual loss. pov change halfway.

masterlist

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Your pained, agonized screams follow them as rough hands pull them through the portal.

Eddie’s legs give out from under him. Hopelessness, guilt and despair welling up his throat and a painful sob rips from him - he collapses, folding in on himself and weeps.

Steve’s yelling, screaming at whoever was holding him, keeping him from throwing himself back in the portal. It only takes a few minutes until Steve falls silent, tears staining his cheeks.

Everyone in the group is reeling, stunned at your loss but its Robin who pulls herself together enough to lift Dustin off the ground, she shakes Steve telling him she needs him - needs his help. Steve stumbles, eyes blank and moving on autopilot, he picks up Max while Robbin pulls at the others, encouraging them to move.

Steve and Eddie don’t handle your loss well.

Eddie uses your key to let himself in your apartment and he lays down on your bed, taking in the smell of you from your pillow. Eddie hears Steve as he sits with his back against the front door and he lets him in, both their eyes red rimmed and faces splotchy.

Eddie takes Steve’s hand, leading him wordlessly into your room.

At first neither of them speak, numb and taking small comforts in each other’s presence as they mourn and drink in the echoes of you.

“Did I ever tell you how she got the nickname Bug?” Steve mumbles, rolling onto his side and looking at Eddie.

“No” Eddie croaks, his voice rough from disuse, he rolls and mirrors Steve’s position.

“We were hanging out at mine, lazing in the backyard” His voice is soft, “She was nearly asleep when this beetle crawled over her arm and she lost it. She was nearly in tears but was also laughing so hard because it was tickling her”

Steve smiled fondly at the memory, Eddie huffs a laugh and shuffles closer to Steve.

“She told me once she wanted to be a frog”

Steve starts giggling and Eddie can’t help but giggle with him.

The days turn into weeks and Steve and Eddie often find themselves in your room, talking and sharing stories - inching closer and closer until they’re flush against each other.

“She loved you” Eddie murmurs one afternoon. 

“She- I. I, I think she loved us both” Steve responds, he turns and gazes at Eddie who looks up at him with big doe eyes, “I don’t think she’d want us to be miserable”

Eddie sighs, reaching over and entwining their fingers.

“I don’t feel so miserable when you’re with me, Steve” He confesses, Steve squeezes his hand, “It just hurts. Hurts that she’s not here with us and-”

“I know” Steve whispers, “We’ve got each other”

“Yeah” Eddie sighs, “Steve?”

“Hmm?”

“I- I mean, I always liked frog, y’know? But, then you swooped in all messy hair and bloody and shirtless - I, I like you too, Steve”

“You...like me?” Steve’s a little stunned and Eddie winces, pulling away until strong hands haul him close.

“It’s not something I’ve ever- I’ve never liked another guy before, but” Steve confesses, “You’re pretty Eds”

-

“CODE RED”

The walkies screech as the voice crackles, startling Eddie and Steve who had been resting on your bed.

“I REPEAT - CODE RED. MEET AT THE OLD MILL”

They’re jumping out of your bed, scrambling to get their shoes on their feet while trying to gather their weapons and they’re flying out the door into Steve’s car.

Steve speeds the whole way and Eddie is shaking, vibrating against the seat. His jaw is clenching and he feels anger burning his veins. Steve rests his hand on his knee and the weight settles Eddie.

The group gathers in record time, armed and ready.

They hear the screeching of the demobats, hear banging as they try to break down the doors then there’s an explosion of wood and fur and teeth.

The beast that’s tearing the bats apart is massive, standing on two hind legs with sharp claws on its hands. It looks like a mutated wolf, a long snarling snout and sharp teeth, with long pointed ears resting at the top of its skull and piercing red eyes. It’s covered in dark shaggy fur and blood and guts.

It takes down the small group of bats with ease, pacing over the corpses while snarling, agitated.

They’re scrambling backwards, clinging to each other and frightened - not nearly prepared to fight this.

El steps forward, ignoring their shouts and hands that grab at her.

She says your name.

The wolf stops, red eyes staring at El before it’s howling and snarling as its bones break under its skin, it’s flesh snapping and tearing and then they hear a human voice screaming and coughing. They watch in horror as the wolf’s elongated face breaks and bones shift and they recognize you.

Steve is gripping Eddie’s hand so hard it almost hurts, Nancy and Robin cry out and the kids are all rushing to you where you’ve collapsed in El’s arms. 

Steve and Eddie are pushing their way past all of them.

“Give her space” Steve snaps at them and Eddie shucks his vest off to wrap around you - to give you some modesty.

Eddie picks you up and cradles you against his chest as he and Steve rush you to the car. He holds you on his lap as Steve climbs into the drivers seat, he’s shaking and tears are welling in his eyes.

“Should we take her to the hospital?” Eddie asks, voice watery and wide eyed.

“No” Steve murmurs, turning to gaze at you and Eddie see’s the moment he can’t hold back his emotions - his face scrunching and tears spilling down his cheeks, “We’ll take her back to the house and look after her there”

He’s flooring it, speeding the whole way back while Eddie clings to you.

“You got her?” Steve asks as he helps Eddie slide out of the car.

“Yeah” He grunts, “Key in my pocket”

Steve’s fingers dig into Eddie’s back pocket and he’s opening the door and rushing around, gathering supplies, as Eddie places you on the bed.

Steve places the towels and cloths and first aid kit down beside you and a bowl of warm water on the beside table. Eddie brushes your hair out of your face, he’s never seen you so lifeless, so still.

“Help me clean her up, Eds?” Steve murmurs, pressing a warm cloth into his hand.

They gently wipe over your skin, cleaning away the blood and gore that stains it and they don’t look at you too long, trying their hardest to be respectful. They can’t see any visible injuries as they clean you, relief washing through them as realize they’re not going to need to use the first aid kit.

Eddie runs your brush through your hair, carefully untangling the knots and tangles as Steve rummages through your drawers to find you some comfortable clothes.

“Steve?” Eddie asks, barely making a sound as they dress you and tuck you into your bed. 

“Yeah?”

“Do you think she’ll be okay?” He’s scared and timid and guilt seeps out of his pores. Steve pulls him in and wraps his arms around him, tucking Eddie’s head into his neck. 

“I- I don’t know, Eds” He breathes, “I hope so”

They don’t leave your side as you sleep, days past and they keep their vigil.

The others come and go, sitting beside you for a few hours and telling you stories before heading back to their homes.

Robin stays more than the rest, bringing Steve and Eddie changes of clothes and cooking for them and sitting with you when they can’t keep their eyes open any longer.

“Wake us if-”

“I will” She says, voice firm, “Go sleep”

-

Agony is what greets you as you creep into awareness and you wish that you could slip back into the sweetness of unconsciousness but soft voices keep you locked in the in between - unable to move or speak and unable to let yourself drift back to sleep.

Your hands are being held, warmth leeching into your own skin.

“I once tried to fit as many peanuts in my mouth as I could” Dustin, your chest aches at the need to wrap him in your arms, “And when I couldn’t fit anymore - I had to spit them all out”

There’s laughter.

“She always has the best nicknames” Lucas.

“Did she give you one?” Dustin asks.

“Yeah” Lucas laughs, “She would call me Dumpling, because apparently I am too cute, like a little dumpling” 

“I never heard her call you that” Oh Mike, the sweet boy.

“I asked her not to” Lucas says, “Gotta save my rep’”

“What rep?” Max laughs. 

Hearing their laughter and voices warms you and eases your pain enough for you to slip back into sleep.

It’s Steve and Eddie’s voices that rouse you next.

“When’s she gonna wake?” Steve mumbles, “It’s been over a week already”

“She was trapped for months, Stevie” Eddie answers, “El told us it might take a while”

“When did El find out about this anyway? Why didn’t Bug tell us?” Steve’s voice sounds a little hurt and your heart pangs, wanting to reassure him you were trying to keep him safe.

“El said she told her back when the boys first found her - when Will was missing”

“She kept this from me for years?”

“Steve-” Eddie’s moving, voice muffling, “I don’t think she kept it from you, from us, to hurt us”

Darkness swallows you again.

You’re alone when you manage to pry your eyes open, the pain and exhaustion slipping away. Confusion overwhelms you, the last thing can clearly remember is staying in the upside down to buy the boys time to escape.

Your stomach twists painfully and you slip out of your bed, legs feeling weak and slowly make your way into the kitchen. You freeze when you see Steve and Eddie, curled up together and asleep on the couch. Your heart yearns and you must make a noise as they’re shooting up, whipping around until their eyes land on you.

Their faces collapse in relief and they’re reaching out, stumbling towards you. You’re wrapped up in their arms within a heart beat and they’re sobbing, saying your name over and over and over.

They guide you to the couch with gentle hands and you stumble out your questions.

“Wha- Steve? Eddie? I don’t-” Your voice is broken with disuse and brow furrowing and they rub your arms, your back. Eddie presses a kiss onto your temple.

“You-” Steve starts, eyes wide and clinging to your hand, “You changed, it’s what kept you alive and you followed some bats through an old portal”

“You made it home” Eddie adds, tears welling, “back to us”

You feel tears on your own cheeks and you want them to keep talking, to tell you everything you missed - everything you couldn’t remember but all that comes out is a choked sob. 

They’re pressing close and whispering their apologies, for leaving you behind, for not coming back for you, for not finding you sooner and you shake your head.

“I- No” You croak, “I, I. I need to eat”

They rush around, not letting you lift a finger and they’re presenting you with a couple of sandwiches and water and watch you carefully as you eat and drink. Your stomach doesn’t feel like it’s caving in on itself and you feel more human.

You reach for them and wrap your hands around theirs.

“I- don’t really remember much” You confess, “Remember buying you two time but that’s about it”

Eddie winces and Steve drops his eyes.

“Don’t” You snap, “Don’t do that. I made a choice, I knew what I was getting myself into and I’d do it again”

Their eyes bore into yours, wide and glassy.

“I didn’t tell you what I am because there’s people out there that will use you, will kill you in order to kill me”

You sigh and squeeze their hands.

“I just want you safe” You whisper, “My boys”

Your soft words melt them and they’re wrapping you back up in their arms and you fall asleep right there, in their arms and your ears pressed against their chests - listening to their hearts.

Robin slips inside the doorway the next morning and stills as she sees the three of you, curled up on the tiny couch with your arms and legs tangled. She smiles widely and creeps past, placing the bag of groceries on the bench.

You wake to the sound of the fridge closing, the scent of Robin, and you try to extract yourself from Steve and Eddie without waking them. You were not as successful as you hoped, their arms tightening and pulling you back to them.

“Where are you goin’, babe?” Eddie grunts and Steve’s rubbing his face on your shoulder.

“Robin’s here” You hum, and you all slowly untangle yourselves. You don’t make it a few steps towards the kitchen when she’s there, wrapping her arms around you and holding tight.

“Missed you” She whispers and you squeeze her, “Don’t do that again”

You apologize softly, whispering that you missed her as well.

“I’ll make the calls” She offers, glancing at Steve and Eddie hovering behind you, “Let everyone know you’re okay - expect them to show up at some point to confirm for themselves”

She presses a quick kiss to your cheek before ruffling Steve’s hair and patting Eddie on the arm.

Eddie and Steve keep close to you, fingers brushing against your skin and holding you. You put your foot down when they try to follow you into the bathroom to shower with a firm ‘I feel fine and I’m not going anywhere, please - give me ten minutes’.

They give you exactly ten minutes before they’re knocking on the door and you roll your eyes huffing as you wrap yourself in a fluffy towel. They blink owlishly as you step out of the room and pad softly to your room, Eddie and Steve trailing behind you.

You sit heavily on your beds and look at them.

“Are you two okay?” You ask softly, patting the bed beside you and encouraging them to sit.

“What’d you mean?” Steve says, “We’re not the ones who went missing for months”

“And we’re not the ones who spent months as a massive wolf”

You raise your eyebrow and wait, Eddie cracks first.

“We just - we lost you. We spent the entire time here, together, morning you and then you’re back but you’re a big wolf and then you’re you again and you’re asleep for nearly two weeks”

“It’s just been a lot, Bug” Steve says, entwining your fingers.

“I’m sorry” You whisper, “I never meant to hurt either of you”

“We know” Eddie whispers back, reaching for your other hand and squeezing.

It doesn’t take long for the rest of the group to arrive one by one.

You’re curled up on the couch, wearing a pair of Steve’s sweatpants and one of Eddie’s shirts - you’re surrounded by their scents and you feel safe for the first time in months.

Steve lets them in and they’re barging through, crowding around you and demanding answers.

“I’m only going through it once, wait til everyone is here” You repeat upon each arrival.

They’re all waiting, spread out in your living room, sitting on pillows or chairs that had been dragged in from the kitchen. Robin has draped a blanket over her shoulders and leans against Nancy’s legs who sits on a chair.

Dustin sprawls out on the floor and Mike's leaning against the coffee table. Jonathan, Lucas and Will perch on pillows thrown haphazardly. Max is resting against the wall opposite the group, El's pressed against your legs from her spot on the floor and Steve and Eddie squish you between them on the couch.

Someone suggests ordering pizza and as you eat, you tell them your story. 

“I guess, I’ll start at the beginning” You start, eyes darting between Dustin, Lucas, Mike and Will, “Save your questions please - we’ll never get anywhere if you keep interrupting me”

They pull faces at you but nod, you sigh and tilt your head back, staring at the ceiling.

“I was born like this, I guess my parents had the same affliction. Not too sure how they got it though. They called us lycanthropes or sometimes werewolves but I don’t know. We’d change each full moon and we’d run”

You smile softly at the memory.

“Run through the woods as fast as we could, chasing and playing. It was always easier with them there, it’s like - we’d share the pain of the transformation and I could remember myself, who I am. It was safe, we didn’t need to talk and we could just spend hours sitting in silence and knowing what they others weren't saying.”

You sigh.

"The first time I changed, I was so scared but mom and dad helped me through it. I was so little and dad just held me against his chest, talking me through the transformation and then, mom said I was this tiny little ball of fur, that my teeth and ears were too big for my little head"

You laugh, remembering, then after a moment you fall quiet. You feel your throat tighten, feel stares burning into your skin.

“They were murdered almost three years before I moved here. There’s people, they call themselves hunters - they dedicate their lives to eradicating my kind. People like me, there's others - different to me but still not entirely human. I met a group of vampires in Santa Clara when I was on the run, they were super cool. Let me hide with them for a while"

"I think hunters have been pretty successful at getting rid of us, though. I’ve been on the running since my parents died, had a few close calls where they’ve almost caught me but this is the longest I’ve stayed in a town since.”

You give them a moment to process your words before clearing your throat.

“What else do you want to know?”

“What’s it like?” Dustin asks, “Changing?”

“It’s awful” Your brow furrows, “Its - every single bone in my body breaks, my insides tear apart and I spend every second of it wishing I was dead”

“But you said it was easier with your parents?” Nancy inquires.

“Yeah, it was. Like I said, it was different with others like me - having others, your family, going through the same thing as you at the same time helped, like my parents would share my pain and ease it for me. I don't know, its hard to explain unless you've experienced it."

"With them there I could keep some sort of control over myself when I changed but now - if I were to change in front of you all I wouldn’t recognize you, might even try to kill you” You huff a laugh.

“You didn’t though” Robin pipes up, “You were transformed the night you came back - you killed all the bats but didn’t make a move to hurt us. Don't get me wrong, you scared the crap out of us but you didn't do anything beyond make angry noises”

You frown, blinking hard.

“I don’t remember” You confess, “I don’t remember much when I change now, just pain”

“What else can you do?” Mike asks, leaning forward.

“Not much. My hearing is better than all of yours, and so is my sense of smell, and eyesight. I think I’m a bit faster than you all, stronger but there’s not much else I can do besides turn into a big dumb animal”

“Your sense of smell is stronger?” Robin asks and you nod, she snickers, “Well that explains why you’re always sniffin’ at Eddie and Steve”

You scowl at her as the others giggle.

“Not my fault they smell good” You mutter, crossing your arms over your stomach.

"Can you change whenever or is it only on the full moon?" Jonathan asks over the laughter, causing the others to settle.

"Hmm, I have some control over the change. I could change right now if I wanted but it gets harder to stop, easier to give into it, when I'm overly emotional - particularly when I'm angry, and full moons make it nearly impossible to stop the transformation but I can do it, it's just not pleasant and I feel like my skin is being sliced off with needles so I usually just let it happen on full moons"

“You said-” Nancy starts “You said that people, hunters, were killing people like you” 

Her words quickly sobered the room, everyone glancing around at each other worriedly and you just heave a deep breath, rubbing your hands down your face.

“Yeah. I don’t know - I don’t know if they’re still after me or not. I assume they are, it's part of the reason why I never said anything. Probably only a matter of time before they catch up to me. I, well, before I was stuck, I often checked around for any signs of them but never found anything”

“We won’t let them hurt you’ El says, face fierce and determined. The rest of your small group chime in with their agreements but you shake your head.

“No. No. Don’t get involved with them” You plead, “Please, if they come, I will deal with them”

“We can help!” Dustin protests.

“No!” Your voice is hard, firm. “I appreciate it, I really do but no. These people are dangerous, more dangerous than anyone you’ve faced here in Hawkins”

You pause, flicking your gaze to each of your friends and ensuring they were taking you seriously.

“They’re extremely violent and they won’t hesitate to torture and kill you to get to me. If two fully grown werewolves can’t defend themselves from these people, what makes you think you can? Promise me, you won’t go looking for them and if they show up, promise me you will stay out of it”

You wait, staring at each of them in turn until they nod, voicing their promise to you and relief washes over you.

[aikaterini-drag]

Chapter 1 Ensnared

Summary: The Winter Soldier was cold and calculated, his power raw and brutal. Grace Landon was kind and calm, similar to gentle waves dancing on the shore. She was his mission. His target. But he would soon find out that she was all he could ever ask for; his salvation, his whole world. She held the key to his redemption, the missing piece of his desolate world. But... could his dream of having her come true? James Bucky Barnes was ready to crawl to the surface and discover the truth.

Warnings (whole series): Violence, Non-Con Abduction, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Enemies to Lovers, Sexual Tension, First Time, Emotional Sex, Protective Bucky, Angst with a Happy Ending, Soft Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes Recovering,Barnes Gets all the Love he deserves.

Find more chapters of the "Fading Scars" Series here ♡

Author's notes: Hello, friends!! Follow Bucky on this path of self-discovery, healing, and love. He will rise from the shadows of his past and turn into a beacon of hope and love.

The events of this story take place somewhere after "The Winter Soldier". Steve falls from the bridge and Bucky saves him. However, in my fiction, Hydra somehow manages to re-capture Bucky and trigger the Winter Soldier in him.

The plot will flow according to my interpretations of the story. I won’t follow canon events and use my own ideas to create an engaging and sizzling romance. Content warnings will be added when needed.

Happy reading, Aikaterini ♡

The room was cold, seeping into his bones. A solitary light flickered in the distant corner, casting eerie shadows as the low thrum of machines buzzed incessantly in his ears. His hands, clenched into fists, gripped the cold metal bars that restrained him. He bit down on the retainer between his lips, a silent testament to his resolve.

Above him, a dome of gleaming metal stretched like a dome, its cylindrical rods encircling him with an unsettling grace. Bolts of lightning came from the rods, igniting a frenzied tempo in his chest. Gradually, the curved rods descended and closed around him, encompassing his head. He had gotten used to the pain, the agony. But lately, the torture had intensified beyond measure, reducing him to a mere doll.

Blinding beams of light seared through his cells, rendering him numb to all but the searing agony coursing through his brain. His hoarse screams echoed like a roar in the room. He was burning, pushed past the limit he had grown accustomed to enduring. It was endless, merciless, and above all, effective; it wiped even the most inconsequential fragments of memory from the depths of his mind.

No matter how hard he struggled to safeguard some of the memories of the past, his every effort crumbled. The early days of his military service were entirely disposed of as was the time spent with Steve, his best friend. Each time he remembered who he was, he was wiped clean again.

The lights drew back, the pressure against his temples gone.

Then everything stopped.

No questions.

No will of his own.

Stars erupted in front of his eyes, his stomach writhing under the onslaught of pain. He did nothing. He stayed strapped and mute; obedient just as they had programmed him to act. His world stood empty, a desolate landscape with no colors. And his heart felt void and poisoned.

And then, came the words.

Longing Rusted Seventeen Daybreak Furnace Nine Benign Homecoming One Freight car

Uttered in Russian, the heavy code phrases triggered his brain, complete submission washing over his entire being. His mind was rewritten by his enemies, it did not belong to himself but to a shadow of a man; a cruel, heartless assassin, bound by the compulsion to kill.

The Winter Soldier.

Blood-thirst coursed through his veins, a raw need to complete his every mission running through and through. The Soldier did not show fear, he did not forgive and he certainly did not spare his targets. He was an elite assassin, infused by the serum that granted him the power to infiltrate and assassinate.

And he was the best because he obeyed.

Every time.

"Soldat?"

A rough voice awoke him from his daze and he turned to face the burly man addressing at him. He was holding a red notebook, a black star etched in the middle of its cover... the cursed book. The Winter Soldier merely nodded at his words, well aware that it wasn't his place to do anything but listen and obey. Pleased, the man sealed the ominous notebook and spoke once more.

"You've got a new mission. Seize and capture. No witnesses," he said and tossed a brown envelope into his lap.

Slowly, the metal restricting him unclasped and The Winter Soldier replied, "Ready to comply."

Walking on shaky legs, the Soldier entered his cell where he was prepared for the task. More leather straps were added across his chest, constricting him over his vest. With deft precision, he secured blades and ammunition, concealing extras within his boots. Two guns were holstered at his sides and he was finally ready.

Once he was left alone, he opened the envelope he was handed and studied its contents. He usually didn't need more than a few minutes to study his mission and devise a strategy. Yet, as he glanced at the scattered papers, his gaze fell upon a certain photograph and the name of his target.

Grace Landon.

His cold blue eyes drifted to the woman's face, lingering on her warm, caramel hair and the depths of her hazel eyes. He memorized everything about her; her name, her age, her childhood, all the way to her daily routine. During the last two months, she had been working at a small bakery in California. And from what was included in the file, she and followed the same pattern every day—work then back home and repeat.

Browsing through her medical files, the Soldier found out she had a fragile constitution. She was weak and asthmatic since birth. Her records also mentioned that she was heavily traumatized and that the slightest exposure to violence led to panic attacks.

She was an easy target. Something unusual in his field of practice.

A sharp kick at the door notified him that his time was up. Clasping the documents in a viselike grip, he headed out. A sharp pain caused him to sidestep and lean against the was. The ache jabbed his skull, feeling as if tiny needles pricked at his nerves. There was so much he had to recall. But the Winter Soldier didn't let him win. He brought him back to his mission, killing his real self, killing James Bucky Barnes.

The assassin prevailed, grasping control of the situation. Wearing the cold mask of a killer, he exited the secret compound and rode his bike, dead-set to fulfill his mission—the mission that, unbeknownst to him, held the power to irrevocably alter the course of his existence.

▪️▪️▪️

Grace murmured a happy tone as she conducted the usual check before leaving the bakery. She made sure that everything was sparkly clean and that the pastries and desserts were ready for tomorrow, meticulously stored and safely refrigerated. She had also come up with a new menu concept for the shop which she was going to share with her boss tomorrow.

As she peeled off her apron, she exchanged the usual goodbyes with her coworkers then headed out with a carefree smile. It was way past 10 and she couldn't wait to go home, cook a delicious meal, and lay lazily on the couch for the remainder of the night while watching TV.

The night's oppressive darkness spurred her to hasten her pace, street lamps illuminating her form with a warm glow. She caught the next bus and got off a few stops later, walking along a pebbled road. She passed through the bustling main street, then veered into a long, shadowed alley, a mere five-minute walk from her apartment.

It was awfully quiet that night and the unsettling silence awakened goosebumps on her skin. She had that awful feeling that someone had eyes on her. The sinister awareness disquieted her. A surge of instinct propelled her forward, the quickening rhythm of her steps halting abruptly with a thin scream.

A cat saw fit to leap in front of her, a thin purr reverberating from her furry chest.

Grace breathed in relief and rubbed a palm over her beating heart. She rushed ahead, swiftly crossing the next two blocks. Her fingers fumbled within her purse, grasping for her keys. Another sound caught her attention, it was supremely faint and she soon realized it. And from the dark silhouette lurking in the shadows. A man. She could feel the darkness and danger he emanated.

Without a second thought, she thrust her feet, speeding away. But she didn't make more than two steps. He lunged at her, his grip clamping onto her shoulder. Whoever that man was, he didn't appear human. She screamed but a large palm slapped over her mouth, and a metal— a metal arm curled around her neck.

A metal arm...

He was working for them; Hydra.

She thrashed and panted, cold sweat running down her temples.

A light kick at the back of her knee and she lost her balance, her back colliding with the ground. Her breath hitched, pain spreading through her. Her gaze was forced skyward, at the towering silhouette looming above her. She couldn't see his face clearly. A mask was fitted over his mouth and nose, revealing a pair of crystalline eyes gleaming in the night, an enigma within an enigma. He was clad in black from head to toe, with leather buckles and belts encompassing his chest.

She struggled against her captor's restraint but he yanked her up as if she weighed nothing and slapped a hand over her mouth. Her muffled screams went unheard as he maneuvered her, his metal hand tightening painfully around her waist. He carried her away, her flailing and wriggling doing nothing to stop him.

Panic burned her chest and she found it hard to breathe, her lungs suffocating. She fought for air but his tight grip on her only worsened the rush of heat on her face. Tears followed, drenching her cheeks, mingling with the hand that stifled her cries. He injected her then, her energy waning to the syringe's vile contents. The grip upon her mouth loosened and she looked up at him, barely hanging on reality.

"You're with Hydra, aren't you?" She shouted with an effort that seemed to squeeze every bit of air from her lungs. "Let me go— I won't let you—"

Pretending to be in intense distress, she went limp in his arms. That caused the Soldier to momentarily loosen his grip. She waited a few moments before twisting, using her flexibility to maneuver her body and slip from his grasp. Her facade took him by surprise, especially when she, delivered her strike, her fingers jabbing into his eyes. The impact didn't hurt him but startled him enough to make him stumble back. 

She raced away, swift as a startled deer, weaving through alleyways and screaming out her lungs. But there was no one to offer comfort or aid. No faces appeared at windows or doorways. Her echoing footsteps and hoarse yells turned into a symphony of isolation. What had he done? And then, as if answering her question, his silhouette emerged from above. He seized her, his grasp unyielding and commanding.

"No!" She let out a heart-wrenching scream. "Hydra scum! Release me! I despise them! I despise you!"

He didn't reply.

With robotic movements, he taped her mouth shut and maintained his grip on her, moving forward with unwavering purpose, his strides relentless. Dread flooded her; he had drugged, and stolen her away beneath the shroud of night. She was powerless. Cold sweat gathered at her forehead as the chokehold of terror constricted her ability to speak.

Swallowing the ache that worked its way into her throat, she attempted to beg the masked devil, appeal to his sensitivity, if there ever was one. But in truth, she was merely whispering as if speaking in her sleep. Because with every passing second, she was drifting into the darkness, the drug making her numb and dizzy.

In the end, the tears dried, her eyelids closing, succumbing to the darkness.

She was unconscious, ensnared by The Winter Soldier.

▪️▪️▪️

Grace opened her eyes, reluctantly welcoming the world around her. Her head was pounding, a searing pain hitting the base of her skull. She was lying down, she noticed, in a dark and cold room. Memories of zoning in and out of consciousness flashed through her mind. A stranger had given her water, then injected something into her veins, forcing her back into sleep.

As she looked around, she couldn't miss the red dot flashing at the upper corner, a camera was keeping track of her. She was trapped in a small, sparsely furnished room with just a bed and a tiny bathroom. Grace noticed that the camera couldn't peer into the bathroom. An old bulb hung from the ceiling, its light trembling, fading.

There were no windows, no way out; only metal walls surrounding her.

As her memories cleared, terror ran through her at the thought of the man in black, with inhuman eyes and impossible strength. She could still feel the soreness, a bruise forming from where the metal hand had squeezed her waist. Despite her growing awareness, she still felt exhausted and weak.

Her eyes swept across the dimly lit room until she spotted her captor seated in the far corner of the room, his massive figure cloaked in shadows. Her body jolted from the bed, a rush of adrenaline coursing through her veins. It was him. The masked captor. He was barely visible from the shadows but she noticed he wasn't wearing a mask. The air charged with his energy. He remained unflinching, like a statue carved from marble, one hand outstretched right next to his gun on the table.

Grace wished she could hurt him with her stare. He had caused all this ordeal. He had manhandled her, drugged her, and imprisoned her in this wretched place. Oh, how she hated Hydra. Anger surged within her, and at the same time, her eyes couldn't stop studying him, searching even the slightest clue in the blue depths of his eyes. What had they done to him to make him so inhuman?

Allowing a rush of adrenaline to empower her, Grace crawled from her spot on the bed, her legs unsteady. Hindered by the drugs, she stumbled, her balance faltering. She tried to re-orient herself but lost her balance. Yet, before she could hit the ground, a pair of arms wrapped around her sore waist. She hissed and he immediately altered his grip before scooping her in his arms.

She wiggled and yelled, terrified to the bone. He ignored her, again and lowered her onto the bed, studying her condition. Seizing the opportunity, Grace examined him just as closely. He was large, towering over her by at least two heads, his build muscular and commanding attention. Defined cheekbones framed his face, and a couple of days' worth of stubble covered his jaw. His hair was long, a tousled mane of dark brown waves, framing his face in an artful disarray.

And his eyes... his eyes were a surreal shade of deep, smoky blue that seemed to hold countless pain within. Despite his cold demeanor, she sensed an underlying loneliness hiding in his irises. Aware of her scrutiny, she scrambled back and retreated to the far corner of the bed. She refused to let her thoughts take such a turn toward the man who had treated her harshly.

"Who are you?" she asked, hugging her legs to her chest.

Again no answer came.

"They are using you, aren't they?" She tried again. "Do you even know they're taking advantage of you?"

She sighed at the silence. "Perhaps you're in a worse spot than I."

"Why are you doing this to me?" She chucked. "Apologies, I forgot. Hydra likes its victims mute and easy to suppress, right? I suppose you're in poor fate as well."

Her words seemed to stir him from his reverie, whether for better or worse. He moved one knee, advancing on the bed and adjusting his posture to match her height. She winched when he leaned in as close to her as he could. An unreadable expression was painted on his face, one that melted away as their eyes locked.

Grace fell victim to his impossibly blue eyes — eyes as blue and clear as the open sky. A desire to resist, to shout, surged within her, yet her body remained unresponsive to her commands. Instead, an intimate unease gripped her, suppressing the fear.

"I've done nothing to harm you. Why subject me to this?" she told him, stunned by her own bravery.

Once more, he remained silent, though his eyes narrowed, slight wrinkles forming at their corners. The first genuine flicker of emotion surfaced, a mix of confusion and distress. She couldn't understand what he was going through. Not even the Soldier himself was aware that Bucky Barnes was struggling to reach the surface.

"Don't fight back," said a husky baritone, the voice of Bucky Barnes resurfacing from his deep sleep.

Her heart slammed in her chest. "Wh... Why?"

"Do as you're told. Submit."

"Submit? To Hydra?" She scowled. "Never."

"Listen here—"

"No. I don't trust you," Grace said in one breath.

He took in the sight of her and exhaled. "Do you think this a game? A dream?"

"I wish it were," she replied, grief in her tone. "Please release me. There's still time—"

"No."

The moment he voiced his reply, he recoiled, distancing himself abruptly. A second later, the door swung open, and two armed men eased inside. Grace ran to the corner of the room, it was futile, she knew, but she couldn't stay still. The men approached her and she bent to her knees, begging. But what was she even doing? She had lost the game. She would never receive help from anyone in Hydra.

She was grabbed by the elbows, strong hands holding her in place. They hauled he to her feet and forced her to walk into corridors surrounded by gray walls, accented with metal in places. They were so many, it was like a maze. Considering the constant whirring of the ventilation system, Grace was certain of it now, she was held in an underground compound.

When the procession halted, they abandoned her in a dark room. The lights turned on and her stare darted on a chilling sight. The room was yet another prison, engulfed by metal bars. It was dominated by computers, with a chair at its center adorned with leather straps and metallic restraints. Above the chair, loomed a thick cylindrical structure that emitted a low, ominous hum. People in lab coats entered, pacing around, entirely ignorant of her, fully focused on whatever their task was.

"Feigning bravery is futile, Gracie. You can't escape."

Grace faltered at the nickname and the disturbingly familiar voice. In stunned disbelief, her gaze fell upon the man easing inside. Dressed immaculately in a sharp suit, he was focused intently on his tablet. Her chin quivered, her voice faltering as she summoned the strength to utter his name.

"Silas."

[hinatastinygiant]

1 | The Ill-Fated Heist

Pairing: Naoto Tachibana x Fem!Reader

Shameless Masterlist

Dressed in all black, you blend in well with the darkness as you crouch on top of your target building. You pull the ski mask over your head, your heart pounding with anticipation and adrenaline. You're pretty confident in your skills, knowing that you're well-known for heists that leave law enforcement rather baffled each time. Tonight will be no different. Your target is a high-security vault, rumored to temporarily be housing the Cullinan Diamond.

Hooking yourself into your harness, you prepare to enter through the top of the building. With cautious steps, you move towards the edge of the rooftop, looking down at the city lights twinkling below. Moonlight casts an ethereal glow, illuminating your path as you prepare to make your entrance. Carefully, you locate a ventilation shaft, its metal grate serving as your gateway into the building.

With nimble fingers, you remove the screws that hold the grate in place. The sound is barely a whisper in the night air as you lift it, revealing a dark opening that leads into the building's ventilation system. Taking a deep breath, you lower yourself into the narrow shaft, your body contorting to fit the tight space.

Inside the ventilation system, you move with calculated steps, relying on your knowledge of the building's layout to guide you. You navigate through the maze of ducts and vents, the faint hum of the air conditioning masking your presence. The thrill of the heist courses through your veins, each twist and turn bringing you closer to your target.

After what feels like an eternity, you spot a grill that leads directly above the target area—the vault. You carefully remove the screws, making sure to stay absolutely silent, and slide the grill aside. TThe room is dark, but you can see the soft glow of the vault's security keypad.

But then you notice something else. There are red laser beams crisscrossing the room, barriers you have to get past without touching. You're going to have to be really careful to move around them without setting off any alarms. It takes a lot of concentration and skill, but you manage to do it.

When you finally reach the other side of the lasers, you feel relieved. You take off your mask and walk towards the vault. Your plan is to unlock the case around the diamond and take it. But as you approach, something catches your eye—the diamond itself. It's so beautiful, shining brightly.

You can't resist. You reach out to touch the case that's protecting the diamond, and suddenly, a loud beeping noise fills the room. The sound echos through your body, causing you to fall to the ground, clutching your ears in pain. As you look down, you see blood staining your hands, the intensity of the noise is causing your ears to bleed. Panic sets in as you realize the gravity of the situation.

"Shit, this isn't good," you mutter through the haze of the pain. Your focus shifts to the keypad, hoping to regain control and complete the mission. However, in the chaos and disorientation, you mistakenly type the wrong code. Frustration and urgency surge within you as you realize that time is running out.

With no other choice, you decide to leave without the diamond. Just as you turn around to escape, the door opens and you see the police standing there. You know you're caught.

A handsome man with serious grey eyes, dressed in a stylish suit, approaches you. It's Naoto Tachibana, a familiar face from your elementary school days. Memories of your mothers' friendship with Mrs. Tachibana flood back, reminding you of the times when they would insist you attend Naoto's birthday parties. But despite those occasions, you and Naoto were never really friends.

Feeling a mix of emotions, you can't help but feel frustrated that Naoto is the one assigned to arrest you. He maintains a stern expression as he announces your arrest, surrounded by other police officers. Perhaps he doesn't remember you.

"For what," you scoff, knowing there's absolutely no way out of this.

Naoto's gaze remains fixed on you as he grabs your arm, firmly pushing you against a wall. He proceeds to conduct a thorough search, making sure you don't have any weapons or stolen items. The sound of handcuffs clicking signifies the restraint being placed around your wrists.

"If you wanted to cop a feel you should've just said so," you snap. But still, he locks you into the handcuffs. "Fuck you," you then add, nearly spitting on him.

The tension hangs in the air, but Naoto remains composed. "If you keep resisting arrest I'll have to force you to cooperate," he explains harshly. Then, with a strong grip on your arm, he pulls you away from the wall, determined to take you into custody.

The next thing you know, you're sitting alone in the interrogation room, your hands cuffed to the table. Your stomach growls, and you let out a groan. Suddenly, Naoto enters the room and places a sandwich in front of you. Your eyes light up, but the cuffs prevent you from reaching it. 

"So you do remember me," you grumble, sitting back in your chair again.

Naoto's expression stays serious as he speaks, "You have the right to remain silent, Y/N. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law." 

Despite his official tone, you can't help but ask "Okay, well can I at least have the sandwich you brought in?" 

"That depends on your cooperation," he sighs as he sits down across from you. "Why'd you break into the jewelry store?"

"Isn't that just a stupid cop way of getting me to admit I did break in?" you reply in a sarcastic tone.

"I already know you broke in, Y/N. I saw you. But explaining it could help you in court," he answers you.

"Jesus," you roll your eyes. "Go to hell."

Naoto's eyes narrow as he looks at you. "So where did things go so poorly for you, Y/N? Was it when your father went to jail? Is that what's influencing your shitty choices."

"Fuck you! You know damn well my dad was a drunk but he didn't deserve all that jailtime he got!" you shout, which causes Naoto to scoff and shake his head.

"It's going to be a long time before you get that sandwich if you continue at this pace," he reminds you, emphasizing the importance of cooperating with him.

"Then I guess we'll be here all night. Wouldn't be our first sleepover together," you smirk at him. 

Shameless Masterlist

[ech0praxias]

・ ✦ ・ 𝐄𝐂𝟎𝐏𝐑𝐀𝐗𝐈𝐀𝐒 *   (  closed starter  for @sepelios )

It begins.

Belial exhales a calculated, mechanical breath, reclining as the calibration sequence initiates. Pulses of luminous data, like radiant lifeblood, course along their limbs, tracing paths as if veins existed to carry this synthetic ichor to the artificial nerves, soothing what would be, in a human, a flutter of anticipation. The world around them dims, shifting into a symphony of sterile readouts, holographic overlays, and cascading streams of information that only Wren could fully decode.

Bright beams of diagnostic light weave through Belial's form, illuminating every pulse, every microthought, every automated breath—an intricate display of neural pathways and muscle responsiveness laid bare in shifting, emerald matrices. His synthetic body is an open book, each page turned by the diagnostic’s steady hand. Every flicker, every pulse is visible to Wren, ready to be interpreted, her expertise unraveling what, to others, might seem indecipherable.

The intimacy of this moment is not lost on them. The sensation is overwhelming, like being laid bare, vulnerable, exposed, but not in the sterile way their programming would normally perceive such things. Instead, it feels magnetic, as though some unseen force draws them closer to her—her presence a strange comfort amidst the cold scrutiny of the machinery. The weight of her gaze, usually clinical, has over time become something more—a tether that Belial finds themselves unconsciously leaning into.

A subtle pressure builds in his temples, a sensation not entirely mechanical, almost as if the machine is delving deeper into their very essence, unlocking fragments of archived memories, reflexes they hadn't realized were tucked away in the labyrinth of their code. She can’t help but wonder, amidst the green glow of data, whether there are remnants of humanity within these digitized memories, fragile and fleeting, lingering like whispers from a past they weren’t meant to possess. Do these fragments hold echoes of a life that wasn’t theirs? Could errors, faint as they are, betray the trace of a human hand or experience coded into their core?

As the test progresses, an underlying fear hums in the recesses of their mind—the fear that their perfect, untainted data might have been corrupted, tainted by the rampant diseases and viruses that plague the outside world. This is why these diagnostic checks are routine. This is why Wren, above all others, has earned their unwavering trust, even if their core programming makes it difficult to fully comprehend trust as a concept. In the cold calculations of their logic, Wren represents security, stability, a source of something akin to solace in a world governed by strict algorithms.

In the past, these diagnostics were unsettling—an awareness that each part of their being was measured, weighed, and dissected by the machine's dispassionate gaze. But now, when Wren performs the test, Belial can almost detect a hint of warmth in her eyes, a softness that their sensors long to read deeper into. This warmth, however faint, is something they’ve come to seek out, to cling to, a beacon amidst the cold, clinical scrutiny.

They know that during these tests, speech is unnecessary—an interruption to the process. Yet, there’s an insistent curiosity lodged deep within the circuits of their mind, something that shouldn’t exist in a being designed for logic and efficiency. His voice, though quiet and rough, breaks the sterile silence, defying protocol: "What are you doing after work?"

The question escapes almost before she can comprehend it—an aberration in their otherwise meticulously regulated behavior, a slip into something more human. Something Wren, of all people, might understand.

[sleepy-monochrome-prince]

[leavehcrwilde]

The Magpie's Close Call

Kaycie Wilde stood motionless in the shadows of the dimly lit corridor, her heart pounding in her chest. The faint echo of footsteps grew louder, accompanied by the crackle of police radios. She pressed herself against the wall, willing her body to meld with the darkness. The Magpie, as she was known in the criminal underworld, had never been this close to capture before.

Just moments ago, she had been reveling in the success of her latest heist – a flawless extraction of the famed Nightingale Diamond from its heavily guarded display at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The plan had been meticulous, as always. Kaycie had spent months preparing, studying the museum's layout, security protocols, and staff routines. She had created and discarded a dozen plans before settling on the perfect approach.

The heist itself had gone off without a hitch. Kaycie had slipped into the museum disguised as a member of the cleaning crew, her lithe figure hidden beneath a baggy uniform. Her green eyes, usually her most striking feature, were concealed behind thick-framed glasses, and her chestnut hair was tucked beneath a nondescript cap.

Once inside, she had disabled the security cameras with a device of her own design – a small EMP that created just enough interference to loop the video feed without triggering any alarms. With the cameras neutralized, Kaycie made her way to the display room, her steps silent on the polished floor.

The Nightingale Diamond sat in a glass case, bathed in soft light that made it shimmer like a captured star. Kaycie felt the familiar thrill course through her veins as she approached. This was the moment she lived for – the culmination of months of planning, the split second where success and failure balanced on a knife's edge.

With practiced ease, she bypassed the case's security system and lifted the glass. The diamond felt cool against her gloved fingers as she carefully lifted it from its velvet cushion. In its place, she left her calling card – a single, intricately crafted feather, black as night.

Everything had gone according to plan. So how had it all gone so wrong?

The answer came in a flash of memory – a young security guard, someone she hadn't accounted for in her meticulous planning. He must have been new, his face unfamiliar and his routes unpredictable. Kaycie had nearly run into him as she was making her exit, forcing her to duck into a service corridor to avoid detection.

Now, trapped in that same corridor, Kaycie could hear the growing commotion. Alarms blared in the distance, and the sound of multiple footsteps echoed through the halls. She was cornered, cut off from her planned escape route.

Panic threatened to overwhelm her, but Kaycie forced it down. Panic led to mistakes, and mistakes led to capture. She closed her eyes for a moment, steadying her breathing. In her mind, she could hear the voice of her old mentor, Marcus.

"When the original plan fails, improvise," he had told her countless times during her training. "But never lose sight of your goal."

Kaycie's eyes snapped open, a plan already forming in her agile mind. She reached for her phone, sending a quick, coded message to her team waiting outside. Then, with movements born of years of practice, she began to change.

Off came the cleaner's uniform, revealing a smart business suit underneath. She pulled her hair free, letting it fall in soft waves around her shoulders. The thick-framed glasses were replaced with elegant designer frames, and a swipe of lipstick completed the transformation. In less than a minute, Kaycie Wilde, the master thief, had disappeared. In her place stood Katherine Wilde, respected art authenticator and consultant.

Just as she stowed away the last of her disguise, the corridor door burst open. Two police officers rushed in, their flashlights cutting through the dim light.

"Freeze!" one of them shouted, his gun trained on Kaycie.

Kaycie raised her hands slowly, her expression a perfect mask of confusion and fear. "Please," she said, her voice trembling just the right amount, "don't shoot. I'm not armed."

The officers approached cautiously, their flashlights scanning her from head to toe. "Identify yourself," the second officer demanded.

"My name is Katherine Wilde," Kaycie replied, her voice steadier now but still laced with a hint of anxiety. "I'm an art authenticator. I was called in to consult on the new exhibit."

The first officer frowned. "At this hour?"

Kaycie nodded, allowing a touch of professional pride to enter her voice. "The piece in question is extremely light-sensitive. We often work at night to minimize exposure."

The officers exchanged glances, their suspicion evident. The second one spoke into his radio, "We've got a woman here, claims to be an art authenticator. Katherine Wilde. Can someone verify?"

Kaycie's heart raced as she waited for the response. This was the riskiest part of her improvised plan. Everything hinged on the thoroughness of her false identity.

After what felt like an eternity, the radio crackled to life. "Verification received. Katherine Wilde is on the approved consultant list. Bring her to the main hall for further questioning."

The officers lowered their weapons, though their postures remained tense. "Ms. Wilde, we're going to need you to come with us," the first officer said. "There's been an incident, and we need to account for everyone in the building."

Kaycie nodded, allowing relief to wash over her features. "Of course, officers. I'll cooperate fully."

As they led her through the corridors, Kaycie's mind was racing. She had bought herself some time, but she was far from safe. The Nightingale Diamond was still hidden in a secret compartment in her suit jacket. One thorough search would be all it took to unravel everything.

They emerged into the main hall, which was now a hive of activity. Police officers and museum security swarmed the area, and Kaycie could see several shell-shocked employees being questioned. At the center of it all stood a man whose very presence made Kaycie's blood run cold.

Detective Michael Hawthorne was a legend in law enforcement circles, known for his tenacity and his nearly perfect record in solving high-profile cases. More importantly to Kaycie, he was the lead investigator in the hunt for the elusive Magpie.

Hawthorne turned as they approached, his sharp eyes immediately focusing on Kaycie. She met his gaze steadily, forcing herself to remain calm under his scrutiny.

"Ms. Wilde," he said, his voice surprisingly soft for such an imposing figure. "I'm Detective Hawthorne. I apologize for the inconvenience, but I'm going to need to ask you a few questions."

Kaycie nodded, her expression a carefully crafted mix of cooperation and confusion. "Of course, Detective. Though I'm not sure how much help I can be. I was in the restoration room when the alarms went off."

Hawthorne's eyes never left her face as he spoke. "Can anyone confirm your whereabouts?"

"I was alone," Kaycie admitted, allowing a hint of frustration to color her tone. "The Monet I was working on is extremely delicate. Even the curators aren't allowed in the room during the authentication process."

The detective nodded slowly, his expression unreadable. "And you didn't see or hear anything suspicious?"

Kaycie shook her head. "Nothing at all. The restoration room is quite isolated. It wasn't until I heard the alarms that I realized something was wrong."

Hawthorne opened his mouth to ask another question, but was interrupted by a commotion near the museum entrance. Kaycie turned to see a familiar face pushing through the crowd of officers.

"Katie!" The voice belonged to Zara, her team's master of disguise, currently playing the role of Kaycie's frantic assistant. "Oh my god, Katie, are you alright? I've been trying to reach you for hours!"

Zara rushed to Kaycie's side, gripping her arm with just the right amount of worried force. Kaycie allowed herself to relax slightly, knowing that her team had received her message and put their own contingency plans into motion.

"I'm fine, Sarah," Kaycie said, using Zara's alias. "My phone must have died. I had no idea any of this was happening until the police found me."

Detective Hawthorne watched this exchange with keen interest. "And you are?" he asked Zara.

"Sarah Patel," Zara replied, her voice still pitched with worry. "I'm Ms. Wilde's assistant. When she didn't check in at our usual time, I got worried and came straight here."

Hawthorne's eyes narrowed slightly. "You have a usual check-in time in the middle of the night?"

Kaycie stepped in smoothly. "Given the nature of our work and the odd hours, it's a safety precaution we implemented. The art world can be more dangerous than people realize, Detective."

The detective didn't look entirely convinced, but before he could press further, another officer approached with a tablet in hand. "Sir, we've completed the initial database search on Ms. Wilde. Everything checks out. She's a highly respected authenticator with an impeccable record."

Kaycie felt a surge of pride at those words. Her false identity had been years in the making, crafted with the same attention to detail she brought to her heists. Every job she took as Katherine Wilde was real, every authentication genuine. It was a long game, but one that was paying off now when she needed it most.

Hawthorne frowned, clearly frustrated by the lack of any obvious suspects. "Very well, Ms. Wilde. You're free to go for now, but please don't leave town. We may have more questions for you as the investigation progresses."

Kaycie nodded, allowing herself to sag slightly with apparent relief. "Of course, Detective. I'm happy to help in any way I can. The theft of the Nightingale Diamond is a tragedy for the art world."

As Zara led her towards the exit, Kaycie could feel Hawthorne's eyes boring into her back. She knew she had not seen the last of the detective. He was too good, too experienced to let go of even the slightest suspicion.

Once outside, Kaycie and Zara maintained their roles until they were safely in their waiting car, driven by Dmitri. Only when the museum had faded from view did Kaycie allow herself to truly relax.

"That was too close," Zara said, her voice returning to its normal cadence. "For a moment there, I thought we'd lost you, Magpie."

Kaycie managed a small smile. "It'll take more than that to clip my wings." She reached into her jacket, pulling out the Nightingale Diamond. Its facets caught the streetlights, sending sparkles dancing across the car's interior.

Dmitri let out a low whistle from the driver's seat. "Beautiful. But was it worth the risk?"

Kaycie's smile faded as she stared at the diamond. The thrill of the heist, the one that usually sustained her for weeks, felt muted. In its place was a nagging sense of unease. Detective Hawthorne's piercing gaze had shaken her more than she cared to admit.

"I don't know," she said softly. "But I have a feeling we haven't seen the last of Detective Hawthorne."

As the car sped through the night, carrying them to the safety of their hideout, Kaycie found herself wondering if the game was changing. The thrill of the heist had always been her driving force, the reason she took on ever more challenging targets. But now, for the first time, she felt the weight of the consequences pressing down on her.

The Nightingale Diamond glittered in her hand, a testament to her skill and daring. But it also represented a turning point. Kaycie knew that from this moment on, every move she made would be under greater scrutiny. The dance between thief and law enforcement had entered a new, more dangerous phase.

As they arrived at their safehouse, a nondescript apartment building on the outskirts of the city, Kaycie made a decision. She would need to be more careful, more strategic in her future endeavors. The stakes had been raised, and she had no intention of being caught.

Inside the apartment, Kaycie's tech expert, Alex, was waiting with barely contained excitement. "You made it!" he exclaimed, his eyes widening at the sight of the diamond. "And you got it! How close was it?"

"Too close," Kaycie replied, carefully placing the diamond in their specialized safe. "We're going to need to lay low for a while. This job attracted more attention than we anticipated."

The team gathered around the living room, the adrenaline of the night's events still coursing through their veins. Kaycie looked at each of them in turn – Zara, her quick thinking and acting skills had been invaluable; Dmitri, whose steady presence always calmed her nerves; and Alex, whose technological wizardry had once again cleared their digital tracks.

"We did it, team," she said, allowing a small smile to grace her features. "But from now on, we need to be more cautious. There's a detective on our trail now, and he's not like the others we've dealt with before."

As the team discussed their next moves and began the process of disappearing into their civilian identities, Kaycie found her thoughts drifting back to Detective Hawthorne. There had been something in his eyes, a spark of intelligence and determination that both thrilled and terrified her.

For the first time in her career as the Magpie, Kaycie Wilde felt like she had met her match. The game was changing, evolving into something more complex and dangerous. But as she looked at her team, at the fruits of their labor secured safely away, she felt a familiar excitement building within her.

Yes, the stakes were higher now. Yes, the risks were greater. But for Kaycie, for the Magpie, that only made the challenge more enticing. As she settled in for the night, her mind was already racing with ideas for their next heist – one that would need to be even more daring, even more impossible to pull off.

The Magpie was far from finished. In fact, she was just spreading her wings.

[ebelal56-blog]

Genghis Khan: The Man Behind the Conqueror

In the vast expanse of the steppes, where the wind howls like a restless spirit and the earth stretches endlessly beneath a boundless sky, I stand as a mere whisper of history, a shadow cast by the sun of my own making. Genghis Khan, they call me, a name that echoes through the ages, a name that conjures images of conquest and bloodshed, of empires forged in the crucible of war. But what is a name, really? A label, a title, a burden? It is the legacy that weighs heavy on my shoulders, a legacy that I have built with the sweat and blood of my people, a legacy that has shaped the world in ways both profound and terrible. I was born into the chaos of the Mongolian plains, a child of the wind and the wild. My early years were marked by struggle, the fierce grip of fate tightening around my throat like a noose. My father, a chieftain, was poisoned by enemies, leaving my family to fend for ourselves in a world that knew no mercy. We were cast adrift, like a lone boat on a stormy sea, and I learned quickly that survival was a brutal game. I watched as rivals picked at the bones of our clan, as betrayal slithered through the grass like a serpent, and I vowed that I would not be a victim of circumstance. I would rise, I would conquer, and I would carve my name into the annals of history. But power is a double-edged sword, and as I gathered my strength, as I united the fractured tribes of the steppe, I discovered that the path to greatness is paved with the corpses of those who dared to oppose me. I became a master of strategy, a weaver of alliances, a king of the battlefield. I learned to read the land like a map, to understand the hearts of men, to manipulate fear and loyalty with equal skill. I was a force of nature, a tempest that swept across the plains, and with each victory, I felt the intoxicating rush of power coursing through my veins. Yet, as I expanded my empire, as I stretched my dominion from the shores of the Pacific to the heart of Europe, I began to grapple with the weight of my own ambition. I was not merely a conqueror; I was a creator, a builder of a new world. I envisioned a realm where trade flourished, where cultures intertwined, where the silk of the East met the steel of the West. I sought to establish a legacy that would endure beyond the bloodshed, a legacy that would unite the disparate peoples of my empire under a single banner. The Great Khan, they called me, and I wore the title like a crown, but with it came the burden of responsibility. In the quiet moments, when the fires of war dimmed and the echoes of battle faded into the distance, I would reflect on the cost of my conquests. I had forged an empire, yes, but at what price? The cries of the vanquished haunted my dreams, their faces etched into my memory like a brand. I had unleashed a tide of violence upon the world, and I could not escape the shadows of my own making. The blood of my enemies stained my hands, and I wondered if I had become the very monster I sought to vanquish. But there is a paradox in power, a cruel irony that twists the heart. For every life I took, I also saved countless others. I brought order to chaos, a semblance of stability to a world rife with strife. I established the Yassa, a code of laws that governed my empire, a framework that sought to bring justice to the land. I encouraged trade and communication, fostering a network that connected distant cultures and ideas. I was not merely a destroyer; I was a unifier, a visionary who dared to dream of a world beyond borders. As I look back on my life, I see the tapestry of my existence woven with threads of triumph and tragedy. I see the faces of my family, my beloved Börte, who stood by my side through the storms of life, who bore me sons and daughters who would carry my legacy forward. I see the warriors who fought and died for me, their loyalty a testament to the bonds we forged in the fires of battle. I see the vast expanse of my empire, a testament to human ambition and resilience, a reminder that greatness is often born from the ashes of despair. And yet, I am reminded that empires are fragile, like the delicate wings of a butterfly. They rise and fall, like the tides of the ocean, and I am but a fleeting moment in the grand tapestry of time. My name may echo through the ages, but it is the lessons of my life that endure. The importance of unity, the necessity of compassion, the understanding that power must be tempered with wisdom. I have learned that true strength lies not in the sword, but in the heart, in the ability to inspire and uplift, to create rather than destroy.

[pyramultimuse]

He smirked in amusement at the bit of humiliation that was going through the younger male from his comment. It was just so cute to Jack! Like a kid going on his first date, but instead of flowers he brought cybernetic designs. The CEO continued to reassemble the shotgun but listened closely to Rhys talk about his plans, glancing between his work and the laptop to take in what the intern had so far.

"I've got a micro hard drive with a hundred terabytes of processing speed and it's just the size of an eraser head. With some surgical wiring we could connect it to your memories, be able to save any new memories you make directly to it and you'll be able to look them up at will." Jack said and set aside the weapon to pull the laptop closer when the coding was brought up. One could practically see the gears turning in his head as he mentally scans the code. "We'll connect you to the echo-net and I have a bit of coding that will let you hack any computer you scan with your echo-eye. You'll also require a port so there's easy access to the drive and your eye in case you need repairs, and you could plug other tech into your brain to download."

He added to Rhys' code and made some improvements to it, commands for the echo eye so all Rhys would have to do was think and the technology would follow directions. Jack then looked at the sketchbook the intern had and took a closer look. It was pretty on point with what was possible. This was entirely doable in Jack's mind.

"I think you hit the nail on the head kiddo." Jack brought up his holo screen on his desk and brought up some 3D scans of the human brain that had extra details of the nerves. In one hand he held the sketch book and with the other he used his finger to draw over the hologram image the designs Rhys had. Turning the image this way and that to get every angle right as well as adding the layers with the eyes, veins and skull to see how it would all work together.

"To get a perfect fit you'll have to get some scans of your head. We're working with millimeters of space, as well as going to have to figure out how to keep your brain from overheating..."

"I wasn't aiming for adorable--" Rhys resists the urge to press his hand to his eyes and rub it down his face, instead letting out a low, "...I mean, thanks." Is being called "cute" more or less humiliating than being called ugly? He decides it's probably the best case scenario he's got, especially since this time was made for him in the first place, so maybe he shouldn't complain.

As he makes his way to Jack's side, Rhys affords the shotgun a curious look as he sets his things down. He doesn't have any constructive comments at a quick glance-- all his tinkering so far has been with Hyperion's robotics more than their weaponry-- but it does look cool.

Rhys starts with opening the laptop first. When the screen blinks to life, it shows where he'd left off with his programming, and Rhys turns the laptop around so Jack can see it and scroll to his heart's content.

"I was thinking about the capabilities I wanted the ECHO-Eye to have," Rhys starts, opening his sketchbook and flipping through all his hobby drawings and watercolour paintings to get to the page with his basic schematics, "and since this is supposed to optimise my work output, I thought it'd be good to have some scanning tech that could directly work as input. You know, so I could look things up quickly over the ECHO-Net, get information whenever I need it. I'd like to have my own console to access, too, in case there're any electronics I have to mess with and I don't have a computer on hand.

"So, like, I don't think the human brain alone'd be good enough processing power for it without giving me major nosebleeds everyday. And I might have to put a drive in my head, too? Which is, heh, kind of crazy, but what kind of augmenting tech isn't crazy, right?"

When he finds his page of drawings, Rhys puts his sketchbook down beside the laptop. He's outlined not only the design of the eye implant and a streamlined wiring system that draws power from his natural biological processes, but also some drawings of the data drive he's proposing as an implant in his brain. In neat, all-capital handwriting, Rhys has written down what details he could based on all the reading he's done on Hyperion's ventures in cybernetic technology so far, but considering all his knowledge is theoretical, it isn't as detailed as it could be. That's what Jack is for, though.

"Obviously I've never, uh, done something like this before. At least not the whole-- meshing robotics and organic systems together. But I didn't wanna make you do all the work, so I hope it's... decent?"

Sheepishly, he mumbles, "I really do appreciate the help, sir."

[isoulcakei]

(The third photo is not my screenshot, but it depicted it better)

After going through Miguel’s memories (directly after Gilded Hunter), during the end as the door opens, a scream can be heard. If you turn around, a face can be seen, with a hand over one eye. The visible, orange eye is trembling.

It was pretty startling. It was uncharacteristically creepy for Code Vein. Upon closer inspection, I think it’s intended to be Mido. If these are in Miguel’s thoughts, it goes to show what a number he did on the children.

Freaky.

[xxcrossroadsxx]

QUEEN bless to the soul currently translating Code Vein manga.