#Fierce Retribution | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

radawaycunt · 6 months ago

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Imperator

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Pairing: Lucius Verus Aurelius x Fem!Reader

WC: 6.7k words

Summary: Once, you only had the memory of the curious barbarian poet, entertaining guests at a party with both violence and verse. But it's not until you see him again, now as emperor, that you get to know the man underneath the titles.

Warnings: Minors DNI this fic is 18+, power imbalance (emperor/servant to freedwoman), mutual pining, slow-ish burn, sort of forbidden love?, lots and lots of fluff good lord, some jealousy, some angst, lovey dovey smut, unprotected p in v, oral (f receiving), maybe some historical inaccuracies lol (I care a lot okay), and iii think that's it but lmk if anything else!

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"Love will enter cloaked in friendship's name."

– Ovid.

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“The gates of hell are open night and day. Smooth the descent, and easy is the way. But to return, and view the cheerful skies, In this the task and mighty labor lies.”

That was the first time you had ever heard him speak, the deep timbre of his voice riddled with contempt. Moments before, he had killed another gladiator, his blood spattered on him like a gruesome adornment. But there was no savagery in his fierce eyes, no mere bloodthirst in the sneer directed at Emperor Geta, your Dominus. His glare was even, like a cold, blue flame that promised not just violence, but retribution as well.

You’d recognized the poem immediately, just as taken aback as everyone else. Nobody moved, the room’s collective breath held in anticipation of the inevitable repercussions of such an offense. Emperor Geta made the slightest move to raise his sword and you gripped the decanter of wine tighter, but your face remained impassive.

“Virgil,” supplied Macrinus, trying to placate him with a broad smile. “He was taught poetry just to amuse you, Imperators.”

There was another momentary pause in which neither twin was sure if they should believe him. But then, Caracalla snorted, standing up to clap the taller man’s shoulder.

“A poet,” He said, laughing. “That’s genius, Macrinus.”

“Yes, certainly very amusing,” Geta said begrudgingly, his jaw clenched.

He and the gladiator had not stopped staring at each other for one moment, like two vipers poised to strike.

“Good, I thought you’d like that,” Macrinus said, approaching his fighter to grasp his shoulder, perhaps in warning. “We live to serve you both.”

“Well, I look forward to seeing your poet at the upcoming games in the Colosseum,” he spits out, throwing the sword aside with a loud clatter. “Let’s see how his verses work for him then.”

Macrinus nodded at his steward to take the gladiator away. He was smiling, seemingly amused, as the steward approached him. As he was being shoved back to the atrium, his eyes took one last baleful look around the room. For the briefest second, you thought his eyes met yours, striking you like a piercing arrow, but then he was gone.

You had no time to dwell on it though, as Emperor Geta returned to his seat and raised his glass to be refilled. But that didn’t mean you would forget so easily, even if your paths might never cross again. All you could do was offer a prayer to the Gods for him.

—--------------------------

The next time you saw him, he was no longer a barbarian gladiator hailed from a distant land, but the new – and rightful – Emperor of Rome. His name was not Hanno, but Lucius Verus Aurelius, and he was the son of the recently passed Queen Lucilla, whom Rome still mourned.

He was not cruel like the twins had been, rarely raising his voice, much less his hand. His demeanor was usually calm, but sometimes he stalked the halls restlessly, as if unsure what he should be doing. He still rose with the sun and trained for a couple of hours in the morning, already used to the routine he’d had as a gladiator, but after that, it was all politics. Endless scrolls of parchment to pore over, meetings to hold with the senate, and lending a patient ear to the populace’s needs. The weight of an empire was on his shoulders, and yet he didn’t bow under it.

During the day, you served his wine and silently hovered around for anything else he might need. At night, you drew his baths, kept his torches lit, and prepared his bed. You would have helped him disrobe too, already used to it from your days of serving Geta, but he chose to do so himself. He was not quite used to his every need being attended to, self-sufficiency deeply ingrained in his being. Mostly, he waved away other servants, leaving you instead to care for him personally.

There were times when you caught him looking at you as if you seemed vaguely familiar, a furrow in his brow when he couldn’t place you. You couldn’t fault him for not remembering you from Senator Thraex’s party, but there was a certain thrill at having piqued his curiosity regardless. Still, you kept your head down and offered no hints, as was your place.

Until one night, while he watched you add aromatic oils and test the bath’s temperature, he finally asked the question that had been on his mind for days.

“What is your name?”

You were startled at first, not having expected him to address you at all. You told him your given Roman name, Domicia, and bowed your head respectfully. He pushed himself off the doorway and stepped into the bathroom, humming thoughtfully.

“Of the home,” he said, referring to the name’s meaning. “Are you Roman? Is that your real name?”

You shook your head in answer to both questions. “I have been in Rome for many years now, though.”

“I have not,” he said, a note of melancholy in his voice. “Yet I grew up here, in these very halls…”

He trailed off, looking around absently, lost in his memories. You could not begin to imagine what he had been through, what he had seen. You had heard of his being sent away as a child, with absolutely no choice in the matter, and could empathize with him.

All you had ever known was a humble life in your native country, until you were stripped of your freedom and brought to the capital of Rome. Neither place felt like home, just the past and the present, and perhaps he was viewing things the same way. You could imagine, even understand, the bittersweetness of returning to a place one thought they might never see again.

“We are honored and grateful to have you back, Dominus,” you said. “I hope things have been to your satisfaction.”

“I have no complaints,” he said, yet he sighed. “Though becoming accustomed to being here, in my current position, is going to take some more time.”

“If there is anything I can do to make it easier for you, please let me know.”

He inclined his head gratefully, your eyes meeting for a moment. “Thank you, Domicia.”

He had the barest of smiles on his handsome face, but you could tell it was genuine. You felt one corner of your lips tugging upwards, but you looked away out of propriety. Even if you were in the same room, you were leagues apart, and it would do you no good to try to imagine otherwise.

You stood up, grabbing the decanter from a nearby table to have it refilled. “Your bath is ready now. Would you like refreshments other than wine?”

He nodded and you bowed, making your way out. By the time you returned with more wine and a platter of olives, bread, and cheese, he was already in the bathtub, leaning back with his eyes closed. Your feet padded softly on the mosaic floor to avoid disturbing him, and you left his refreshments on the table near the tub.

You settled at one side of the room just in case he might need anything, staring off into the middle distance and letting your mind drift. He glanced at you sidelong, his curiosity having only grown after your brief conversation. He still had that nagging feeling that he had seen you somewhere before, but he didn’t want to ask outright.

You felt his gaze on you but pretended not to, keeping your eyes averted. You thought again of the poem he’d recited, how different his demeanor had been then. You wondered what other verses he’d been taught, and if you might ever hear him recite anything again. He had a voice for poetry, somehow turning the words into a sort of enchantment, keeping one entranced.

“Doesn’t it feel… strange sometimes?” he said suddenly, staring up at the ceiling. “When things settle and you realize how far you have come? How much you’ve had to sacrifice for it?”

You hummed in agreement, waiting for him to say more.

“Sometimes, I even wonder if it was all worth it.”

Still lost in a haze of verses, you spoke before you could even think it through.

“Fortunate is he whose mind has the power to probe the causes of things and trample underfoot all terrors and inexorable fate.”

He sat up, surprised. “You know Virgil.” Recognition finally dawned on him. “You were at that party, weren’t you?”

You nodded. “Your words then were just as sharp as your blade.”

He huffed, leaning against the edge of the tub as he remembered his barely contained hatred. “Were you taught poetry to amuse, as well?”

“No, I used to read it with my mother when I was younger.”

“Who else have you read?”

“Ovid, Sappho, Horace…” You became a little flustered as he raised his eyebrows. “My mother was a bit of a romantic.”

“And you?”

It was your turn to huff with amusement, looking down at your hands. “I don’t believe I inherited that trait, no.”

The truth was that in a place such as Rome, love was quite hard to come by. You didn’t actively search for it, its ephemeral nature making you less inclined to, but you were no complete stranger to it. You’d never let it take root, though, for it was not something you could afford to have.

“What about you, Dominus?”

“Me?” he said. “I suppose… I’m not entirely sure anymore. I used to be, at one point.”

His haunted expression told you not to press him for details, so you just nodded sympathetically. The two of you lapsed into silence, the weight of tragedy hanging between you. You’d had a lot more time to become numb to your circumstances, but it was clear the pain he was experiencing was still fresh.

“I will be forced to remarry eventually.” He sighed heavily. “Produce heirs to carry out the lineage, show Rome a unified front.”

“Well, whoever you marry shall be the most fortunate woman in the empire.”

He couldn’t help but chuckle, looking over at you. “You really believe so? You’re not just flattering me?”

“Of course,” you said, giving him a cryptic smile that made him laugh again. “I’m perfectly serious.”

“Oh, I am sure you are.”

After some time, he rose with a small splash, prompting you to immediately approach with an outstretched towel. His nudity barely registered in your mind, having already glimpsed him a few times. You wouldn’t dare to look at him directly, even if you were more than a little curious. You tensed as his fingers barely brushed yours in the exchange, but you quickly stepped back to give him more room.

He wrapped the towel around his waist, water dripping down his sculpted arms and chest. You went to start tidying up, studiously keeping your eyes on your task. He watched as you picked up the refreshments to take to the main chamber, a part of him wishing you would look at him instead.

“One more thing,” he said and you immediately turned around. “Please, I want you to call me Lucius.”

Your face heated up at the mere thought of it. “I could never be so bold…”

“I insist,” he said, holding up a hand as you began to stammer again. “Perhaps only when it is just the two of us, if you’d prefer.”

“I will certainly try my best,” you said with an awkward grin, trying to keep your composure.

He chuckled. “Good enough for me.”

—-----------------

Weeks passed, and while Lucius still hadn’t managed to get you to call him by name, he had certainly gotten you to open up more. In the evenings, the two of you swapped more poetry, often sharing your own interpretations of the verses. At some point, he even had scrolls fetched from the library for you to read to him. He enjoyed the mellifluous sound of your voice, so at odds with your serious expression when you were concentrating. To have him as your sole audience was already titillating, but the fact that he paid close attention was even more of a rush.

During the day, you anxiously looked forward to those handful of hours in which everything else disappeared. No speak of Rome, politics, or bitter memories, content with being each other’s brief escape. You still held yourself at a certain distance, though, always aware of the chasm between you. Yet he never made you feel inferior, often encouraging you to share your thoughts and opinions with him despite your reticence. You would even dare to say he cared, or at least that’s what you wanted to believe.

You wouldn’t necessarily say you were getting attached, for that would be too unrealistic of a fantasy, but you could not deny the butterflies in your stomach that often appeared while around him. His easy, handsome smile, the kindness in his eyes, his patient indulgence when listening to you, and the effort he put into making you laugh…

But the spell was abruptly broken the day he received a visit from his friend Ravi, who had brought someone for him to meet – a respectable Roman lady. A widow, as it happened, just like Lucius. Her hair was perfectly styled, falling in ringlets that framed her lovely face. She wore a lavender-colored dress with a matching veil, much fancier than anything you’d ever owned, and was adorned with golden jewelry. More importantly, she was freeborn, and thus a perfectly good candidate for marriage.

You swallowed hard, otherwise keeping your expression neutral. You hadn’t thought he would start meeting potential brides so soon, and you certainly hadn’t expected how it would make you feel. At least, Lucius also seemed surprised, not expecting his friend to try to set him up without consulting him first. Still, he assumed the role of gracious host and welcomed them warmly, leading them out to the gardens. He glanced over his shoulder at you as you silently trailed behind them, but you didn’t meet his gaze.

The three of them reclined on the couches of the outdoor dining area, shaded by a wooden pergola. It was a beautiful sunny day, the birds singing accompanied by the gurgle of the large fountain at the center of the garden. A gentle breeze stirred the foliage, carrying the faint, sweet smell of a dozen different flowers.

You served them wine and hovered close by as another servant brought them food to snack on. Lucius had deliberately sat across from where you stood just so he could keep an eye on you. You’d withdrawn into yourself, trying your hardest to remain indifferent instead of worrying about whether the meeting went well or not. If it did, then you had to be happy for him, but if it didn’t… Well, at least that would buy you a little more time, if nothing else.

“Such a lovely garden,” the lady, Ilaria, said as she looked around. “One could never tire of such a view.”

Lucius nodded absently but said nothing, as if he hadn’t heard her.

“I could see you fitting in perfectly with all the other flowers here,” Ravi cut in, smiling with as much charm as he could muster to make up for it.

Ilaria inclined her head, modestly waving off the compliment. “Oh, you flatter me, Ravi.”

He gave Lucius a subtle, pointed look to encourage him to follow his lead. Lucius sat up and cleared his throat, only just focusing on the conversation. He had been trying to get your attention as subtly as possible, but he hadn’t been successful.

“Er, yes, it’s always a treat to spend time out here. Certainly helps to clear the mind.”

Ravi shook his head a little and tried not to snort with amusement, thinking he was a lost case. Ilaria smiled, unbothered, taking a handful of grapes from a platter and popping one into her mouth.

“I’d wager there is much on your plate, Imperator,” she said. “And having to manage the household staff on top of everything else… Must be a little overwhelming for you, no?”

“Well, I am a very busy man, yes, but it hasn’t been all that bad,” Lucius said. “I’ve certainly had a great deal of support to see me through.”

His words managed to reach you, softening you up infinitesimally. This time, when he glanced at you, you finally looked back. The ghost of a smile was on your face, but you quickly looked away before it could actually manifest.

“I see. Well, I’m very glad to hear that,” Ilaria said, sharing a curious glance with Ravi, who looked slightly apologetic. “Though perhaps you have considered that having someone run the house for you would take a big burden off your shoulders. I would be more than happy to lend a hand if you’d consider it.”

His eyebrows raised slightly at her boldness, not missing the eagerness in her gaze, poorly concealed behind her innocently helpful demeanor. He certainly did not want to get her hopes up, but he smiled graciously to soften the blow.

“Ah, perhaps in the future, when I have more time to worry about such things,” he said, politely noncommittal. “But I appreciate the offer.”

Her smile wavered and then froze, not wanting to seem too disappointed. “Of course, Imperator.”

For the remainder of their visit, Lucius let them do most of the talking, any remarks he made were studiously polite and yet still a little aloof. Finally, after a few hours, he excused himself, needing to return to his duties. Ravi seemed hesitant, like he wanted to stay behind and speak to him privately, but he would have to wait for another day. He escorted them both out, thanking them for visiting, but he did not exactly invite Ilaria to return to the palace. Her disappointment was more palpable then, but she hid it with as much grace as she could muster.

When they were gone, he turned to you with a shake of his head and a sigh, grinning with bewilderment.

“I do not enjoy being ambushed,” he said as if he felt the need to explain himself. “Decent enough as she seemed.”

You bowed your head in agreement, more relieved than you would like to admit. You had no real reason to have been upset earlier, given that there was nothing between you except for a certain kinship. Even so, it was clear he had not wanted you to be hurt, and you were very thankful for that. You offered him a small smile and some tension seemed to leave his shoulders.

He inclined his head towards the eastern hallway leading to his study. “Come, I would like you to read some documents to me. I can get work done faster that way.”

The tablinum was spacious but cozy, with a door to one side that led to a smaller patio. Before, the twin emperors had never used the room, but now it seemed well lived in. There was a mess of scrolls and wax tablets all over his desk that he still hadn’t let you organize. On the wall behind, there was a recently completed fresco of a gladiator riding a chariot pulled by two horses. For another wall, he had commissioned a portrait of Vesta, goddess of the home and the hearth, but it was still a work in progress. He was particularly proud of that one, an unspoken gift for you, his muse.

You lit the oil lamps in their alcoves, bathing the room in warm light. Lucius sat at his desk with a heavy exhale and scanned his notes to remember where he had left off the previous day. You sat on a stool beside him, unfurling the scroll he handed you and resting it on your knees. The texts you read didn’t always make sense to you, but you understood their importance. The fact that he was entrusting you with such work was an honor you did not take for granted.

“Start in that middle section. There is some stuff I would like to revisit,” he said, taking up his stylus.

You nodded, finding what he was referring to and starting right away. You read to him for the next couple of hours, only stopping if he needed you to repeat something or in case he needed more time to make his notes. A few times during the latter, you glanced up to take in the focused furrow of his brow, a muscle in his jaw ticking as he pondered. You wondered what he might be thinking about, wishing he would impart some more knowledge on you.

Outside, the sun was beginning to set, shadows deepening in the corners of the room. Another servant brought him dinner, but he didn’t seem too hungry yet. He handed you his cup of water when he heard you clear your throat a few times, insisting when you were reluctant to take it.

When he was done for the day, he stretched his arms over his head with a groan and slumped in his seat. You neatly rolled the parchment back up and stood so you could stretch your legs.

“I hope I haven’t tired you too much,” he said, folding his hands behind his head and leaning back. “You can take the rest of the evening off from reading if you’d like, but I would still appreciate some company.”

“Well, I still need to draw your bath and…”

“Somebody else can take care of it,” he cut in with a shrug, not preoccupied.

You hesitated. “What would you have me do instead, then?”

“Just sit back down, relax for a moment,” he said, getting up. “Here, you can have my chair. Much more comfortable.”

You were about to protest, but he gave you a look that said it was not up for discussion. You pursed your lips, uncomfortable at the idea of being idle, especially while taking up his seat. Still, you obeyed and sat down, hands folded on your lap. Feeling a little bold, you looked at him as if to say ‘satisfied?’ and he huffed in amusement.

“Wait, stay still,” he murmured suddenly, leaning down.

You froze as his face hovered mere inches away from yours, his breath fanning over your cupid’s bow. Delicately, he removed a stray eyelash that had been resting on your cheekbone, and he pulled back a little so you could see it on the pad of his finger.

“Make a wish,” he said.

All you could do was stare at him for another breathless moment that seemed to stretch on infinitely. You licked your lips nervously, drawing his eyes there before they returned to hold your gaze. Your heart was like a nervous bird fluttering wildly in your ribcage. Your mind was mostly blank, but the one thought that popped up was ‘I wish he would close the distance right now.’

You gently blew the eyelash away, your wish scattering into the air alongside it. The Gods must have decided to grant it immediately, for he did not pull away, instead slowly leaning in. His lips brushed yours tentatively and you closed your eyes, rejoicing for the barest second before you forced your face to turn away.

“We shouldn’t…” you murmured, the words hard to utter when a desperate want clung to your throat like honey.

“Why not?” He whispered.

“It’s not– I’m not…” You vaguely gestured towards yourself, unsure of what the right words were.

He pulled back to look at you better. “Was I too presumptuous?”

You shook your head. “Not at all.”

“Then what is it?” He pressed.

“Dominus, please.”

“Lucius,” he pleaded, loathing the title. “Say it, please.”

“Lucius,” you said finally, though your eyes still spelled defiance when you glanced at him. “Is it not obvious? We both know it’s impossible.” Your lower lip trembled slightly. “I have a heart, too, you know? I don’t want it to be broken.”

“I know that, of course I know that!” He said, placing his hands on your shoulders and crouching in front of you. “I have no intention of breaking your heart.”

“Surely you understand where I am coming from, though.” You sniffed, keeping tears at bay. “I am not wife material, like the lady Ilaria. I have nothing to offer, no dowry, no family name, or even an inkling of Patrician blood. ”

“I do not care for such things. I would never demand them of you. Even if we cannot marry, I will not marry anyone else that isn’t you,” he said with a firm, determined shake of his head. “But I can still give you my name, along with your freedom. That’s all that matters to me.”

You gasped, the shock of his words akin to a bucket of ice water being dumped over you. Now you let the tears spill over, like a dam had finally burst. He kissed them away, his hands cupping your face gently.

“I have been thinking of nothing else since I met you. I’ve already made the arrangements… I suppose I just didn’t want to ruin the surprise.”

“You honor me,” you said, smiling despite the tears. “You always have.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” He asked. “You have given me more than you think. You brought me the peace I have been so desperately seeking for a long time.”

“I-I don’t even know how to thank you.” You placed a hand over his. “If you desire to give me your name, then I shall give you mine in return.”

You told him your name, the real one, which you had been hiding ever since your Roman name was given to you. He had never asked you for it, knowing that one’s name was the only thing one could truly own in this world. And now for you to give it freely… He repeated it, testing its shape on his tongue, and smiled radiantly.

“Pairs rather well with Lucia Veria, if I do say so myself,” he said with a proud chuckle, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “If you’ll have it, that is.”

You knew by the disarming earnestness in his eyes he wasn’t just offering the name, but himself, as well. His whole heart in the palm of your hand, should you choose to care for it. You felt as if you had already made that choice a while ago, when you first recited Virgil back to him.

“I will,” you said with an elated chuckle. “Of course I will.”

He took your hands in his, kissing both of them. “Then first thing tomorrow, we will make it official.”

More tears flowed as a result of an overwhelming rush of both gratitude and love. You had tried to ignore your feelings, not uprooting them but instead silently letting them grow unacknowledged. For once, it had seemed worth the risk of heartbreak. After all, the love hadn’t stemmed from something as fleeting as lust, but a mutual understanding and respect. It was more than you could ever ask for, and yet everything you desired.

You leaned your forehead against his, your noses brushing as he tilted his head back. This time, it was you who brought your lips to his with a tentative sort of tenderness, propriety still at the back of your mind. He responded in kind, letting you set the pace so as not to scare you off. If you weren’t shaking so much, you might have noticed he was shaking, too.

In that kiss, there was the promise of mutual devotion, sweet and sincere. You were still holding each other’s hands, as if afraid you might drift apart if you let go. You understood then why odes were written about this feeling, as all-consuming as the churning waves of the sea. All those verses had never resonated with you more.

Perhaps you had inherited the romanticism, after all.

—------------------

The air smelled of night-blooming jasmine, the fresh sweetness of it bringing you a sense of tranquility. You leaned against the windowsill, looking up at the stars and trying to piece together constellations. The world seemed drastically different now that you had your freedom, so vivid, so open, so alive. You even noticed it in your posture and the lightness with which you walked, as if you were floating. Lucius had said you were radiant with it.

He’d insisted on taking care of you the same way you’d cared for him, eager to show you his gratitude. You had been hesitant at first, but at his unwavering conviction, you relented, curious how it might feel to be spoiled. All that day, he had served you reverently, taking time off from his duties to focus solely on you.

You couldn’t help getting flustered at all the attention, his ardent gaze like a caress every time it met yours. His touch had so far been entirely chaste, but even the smallest, most innocuous contact was heightened with anticipation. The brush of his fingers over yours when he handed you something, a guiding hand on your lower back, even a touch on your shoulder to make you aware of his presence.

There were a few sneaked kisses in both the garden and the tablinum, each one of them leaving an undercurrent of warmth under your skin that promised more. It was like a slow, drawn-out game of chase, neither of you in a rush to reach its conclusion. If anything, it only made you want each other more.

After the sun had set, when the two of you drifted along as if in a drunken stupor, Lucius went to prepare a bath for you in his chambers. You were nervous and exhilarated, every moment spent waiting for him to be done an exquisite agony. Until finally, he poked his head around the bathroom door.

“It’s ready now,” he said, beckoning you with a smile.

You followed him into the bathroom, hands wringing anxiously. Flower petals were scattered on the mosaic floor, leading towards the steaming tub. Flickering candles bathed the room in a warm glow, making your shadows dance on the wall. You looked at each other, both knowing what the next step was but hesitant to initiate it. He averted his gaze first, gesturing towards the door.

“Would you like me to give you some privacy?”

You shook your head, desire making you a little more brave. “I… I would love some help undressing, though.”

His spine straightened, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. “With pleasure.”

He crouched to slowly pull the hem of your long tunic upwards, rising with it. You lifted your arms so he could get it over your head, the fabric falling to the floor unceremoniously. Your eyes were fixed on his face, drinking in his expression as he took a step back to get a better look at you. The bare expanse of your skin robbed him of breath, his eyes roaming over every curve and plane of your figure. He wanted to sink to his knees again and lay his forehead at your feet in worship, but he stood still, his fingers twitching at his sides.

“The evening star is the most beautiful of all stars,” he said in a low voice, quoting Sappho.

Warmth spread from your chest to your face, and you smiled coyly as another verse came to mind. “Come to me once more, and abate my torment…”

You offered him your hand, which he took, and he led you to the tub. You daintily stepped in, sighing contentedly as you sank into the water’s enveloping warmth. He knelt next to the tub, leaning against it with one arm propped on the edge.

“Have I told you enough times that you are beautiful?” He said. “I don’t think it has been enough.”

You huffed with amusement, looking down as you fought a geeky grin. “Well, about a hundred times with just your eyes. A few times out loud, though.”

He chuckled. “I suppose I’ll have to show you in other ways, too… If I may.”

You nodded, silently granting him permission. He leaned forward and planted a soft kiss on your lips before standing up. He took it upon himself to bathe you, starting out by scrubbing your scalp. You leaned into his touch, eyes closing in bliss. He smiled at your soft, pleasured hum, and vowed to elicit as many more as he could.

Things took on an almost ritualistic quality, with him focused entirely on his task. You were loose limbed, letting him move you about as he used a cloth to scrub your skin. He didn’t try anything that might be deemed unsavory, though you let his tender, reverential touch reach places no one had touched in a very, very long time. But he didn’t linger, to your slight frustration, not wanting to jump into things too quickly. The flames of your desire were stoked slowly, warmth running through you like sweet wine.

When he was done, he helped you step out of the tub and immediately got to drying you off with a towel. You caught his eye for a moment, his pupils blown wide with equally fervent desire. You stopped yourself from clutching his arm, wanting to anchor yourself to him, but he could still tell you were growing restless. He kissed your shoulder, tapping the tip of your nose playfully with his finger.

“Not done quite yet,” he murmured, not missing the way you involuntarily pressed your thighs together. “You’ve always been very patient.”

“For the first time, I fear it might be running thin…” you said, to which he smiled.

He grabbed a small glass bottle of rose oil and lathered some in his hands. He anointed your body with it, the heady scent of one of Venus’s favorite flowers permeating the air. As he reached your chest, you took hold of his wrist and brought his palm to rest over your heart. He felt it beating rapidly, your chest rising and falling with each panting breath.

His eyes fell to your lips, slightly parted with want. He grasped your chin with his free hand, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip.

“I have been thinking about this for a long time,” he said, leaning in to brush his nose against yours. “But I hadn’t wanted to touch you until now, when you actually felt like you had a choice in the matter.”

You clutched his wrist tighter, his thoughtfulness only making you want him more. All those hours he must have spent yearning, unaware that you were stuck thinking of him too. As emperor, he had the right to take whatever he wanted, but having previously been a gladiator, he understood the monumental importance of bodily autonomy. Very few people in Rome had such a privilege and he couldn’t bear the thought of being the one to rob you of it.

You kissed him in response, much fiercer, hungrier, than all the other kisses you had shared so far. A desperate sound escaped his throat and he clasped you against him tightly. Swiftly, he scooped you up into his strong arms and carried you out to the bedchamber as he would a bride.

Gently, he set you down on the bed and pulled away to remove his tunic. This time, you were not meek about his nakedness. You brazenly stared at him, eyes mapping out the lines of his muscles, the pink, raised skin of his scars, and the soft trail of hair on his abdomen that seemed to suggestively point downwards.

His shoulders were squared with pride at your ogling, a sly smile on his face. He’d had an inkling before of your attraction, but to see it on full display was narcotic, and he felt himself pulse with an aching need.

“Come closer,” you said softly.

He did, climbing over you, his warmth immediately enveloping you. You hid your face on the junction between his neck and shoulder, embarrassed at all the thoughts rushing through your mind.

“What is it?” He asked, raising an eyebrow with amusement.

“Nothing,” you said, voice muffled against his skin. “I just… I do not think you realize how badly I wanted this, too. I-I don’t want to ever stop.”

He chuckled indulgently, nudging your head so you’d look at him. “Neither do I.”

He kissed you again, and again, and again. You were so close to him that the lines of your bodies became indivisible, but it still didn’t seem like enough. Your knees hiked up to his hips in a silent plea, but he did not give in quite yet, wanting to prolong things for as long as he could.

Still, unable to resist a little bit of mutual torment, he slid upwards until his hips were aligned with yours. You gasped as you felt the velvety underside of his erection against your slick folds, each small movement making you tremble. Your brows furrowed and your lips parted in a wanton expression, your eyes shiny and half lidded as you looked at him.

“Lucius,” you whimpered.

“I know,” he murmured soothingly, kissing your neck. “I know.”

Neither of you were willing to break apart from your embrace, so there wasn’t actually much of a preamble. Feverish, he sank into you slowly, your nails digging into his biceps as he stretched you open. That first round was frantic, almost animalistic, all the pent up longing finally being released. His body rolled over yours with the power of the sea’s waves, leaving you awash in ecstasy.

Neither of you lasted very long, but it didn’t matter, as you were nowhere near spent. Lucius, still in the afterglow of his orgasm, lazily began to kiss you all over, wanting to discover every mole and freckle, every tender spot that made you squirm, and every other little detail that made you you.

He settled between your thighs, his hot breath fanning over your sensitive bundle of nerves. You tried to prop yourself up on your elbows to look at him, but he wrapped his arms around your thighs and pulled you closer.

“What are you– Oh,” you gasped at the first flick of his tongue, the entirely new sensation disarming you.

He tasted his essence mixed with yours, a groan rumbling in his chest. You tightly grasped the sheets under you, arching against his face. You bit your lip to stop yourself from making the most undignified sounds, but it was hard to focus, especially as his fingers were added into the mix. Your body burned brighter than any brazier, his arms pinning you down as he conquered you with his mouth. You shattered once more, crying out as he helped you ride it all the way through.

After, you lied side by side, facing each other. You’d still not had your fill of him, but you needed to gather your strength for the long night ahead. You shared a breathy chuckle, as if still in disbelief it had finally happened, and he kissed your sweat-slick forehead.

“Now that was poetry,” you said jokingly, making him laugh again.

“You put every verse to shame, my love,” he said, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

You kissed his palm, adoring, and tangled your legs with his. A swell of emotion unlike anything you had ever felt rose within you. It was as if he had awakened a new part of you that you hadn’t known was dormant, bringing you back from an existence that consisted solely of drifting through days that blended into one another.

He was just as grateful to have found you, his peace, his solace, the woman who would always guard his heart. He murmured your name reverently, a reminder that you were his, and he was yours. You drew closer to him, like a moth to flame, and pushed him onto his back, straddling him. His hands came to rest on your hips and your eyes were full of mirth as you held his gaze.

“As it happens, I find myself compelled to compose some more with you.” You grinned playfully, hands sliding up his chest.

He mirrored your grin, not minding the idea one bit. “Relentless, just like the great muse Calliope.”

“Well, when inspiration strikes… It can’t be helped, can it?”

“No,” he said. “Not when it comes to you.”

------

#lucius verus x reader #lucius verus x fem!reader #lucius verus smut #lucius verus fanfiction #gladiator fanfiction #lucius verus #x reader #minors dni

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colouredbyd · 23 days ago

Text

We Heal, At Last

poly!marauders x fem!reader part two of we will be okay

summary: After your attack, you pull away, wounds still aching beneath fragile skin. But love finds you again, gentle and patient, slipping through the cracks you thought would never heal. Happiness blooms slowly, fragile and fierce, proof that even after ruin, there can still be light.

w/c: 8.8k (i got so carried away..)

warnings: Angst, emotional vulnerability, emotional hurt, extremely graphic violence, panic attacks,depression, slut shaming, bullying, hurt/comfort, happy ending. read with caution!

a/n: part 2 is finally here!! this took so long but justice has been served, angst has been delivered, and fluff hopefully has been recieved <3

part one masterlist

It has been four weeks since the incident and three since you broke up with them. Broke up, not drifted apart or slowly unraveled but broke. Snapped like the last brittle thread of something that once felt unbreakable. You wonder sometimes if they have moved on, if the pieces of what you once had are just scattered ashes to them now.

You wonder if it still hurts them, too.

Your ribs still ache where curses struck—hexes hurled with sharp precision, spite spun into spellwork. They hadn't even looked you in the eye when they did it, wands raised with whispered incantations that cut through the air like knives. Retaliation, they called it. Retribution for the Marauders' chaos, for pranks that left them humiliated and furious. You hadn't cast a single one, but it hadn’t mattered. Guilt by association is the cruelest kind.

Now, the wounds are still tender beneath fresh scars, a web of silvery lines stretching over your skin like the universe’s own mark. The kind of scars that never quite fade, that linger like whispers against your skin, reminders of how fragile the body is.

There are nights when you trace them absently, sometimes your fingertips hover over the jagged lines, pressing down just hard enough to feel the edge of them, sharp and unyielding, as if pain is the only proof that you are still here, still breathing. Madam Pomfrey did what she could, but there are some wounds magic cannot touch, and you wear them now like sad jewelry, draped over your skin in silver lines.

The nights are the hardest. When the world is silent and there is nothing left to distract you from the emptiness stretching out beside you, where warmth once was. It’s worse when it rains.

You can almost pretend you hear their footsteps, the soft shuffle of James’s boots, Sirius’s careless swagger, Remus’s quiet tread like he’s afraid to wake the floorboards. But the footsteps never come, and the silence is louder than any scream you could ever muster.

You haven’t seen them since. Not Remus with his soft eyes and ink-stained fingers, the ones that used to brush stray strands of hair from your face with a gentleness that felt like a promise. Not Sirius, whose laughter once felt like rebellion, like breaking the rules could be beautiful if you did it together. Not James, whose grin used to be brighter than dawn breaking through the trees, a kind of light that made everything else fade to shadows.

Sometimes you close your eyes and try to remember the way they looked at you, but the memories are beginning to fray at the edges, like old photographs left too long in the sun.

It is better this way, or so you tell yourself. Distance is its own kind of mercy. It is easier to breathe without the weight of their stares, without the heavy press of their questions and their guilt.

You repeat it to yourself like a prayer, like a mantra that might one day become truth: It is better this way. It is better this way.

Grief lingers in the corners of your room, heavy and uninvited, pooling like rainwater that refuses to drain. It seeps into the walls, stains the air, curls up beneath the floorboards where no amount of scrubbing will dislodge it. The walls whisper with memories, echoes of laughter that do not belong to this version of you.

You sleep too much or not at all. Some nights, sleep is an anchor, dragging you beneath the surface where dreams twist into nightmares that you can’t claw your way out of. Other nights, it is a distant shore, unreachable no matter how long you swim.

You watch the hours bleed into each other, the moon sliding across your windowpane like it’s running from something, too. And some mornings, the sunlight feels like a knife edge, too sharp against your skin. It pierces through the curtains, splits the room in half, light and shadow at war with each other.

Other days, you stay locked inside, curtains drawn, breathing dust and silence. It’s easier not to feel when the world is reduced to shadows and stillness. Easier to pretend the ache is just part of you now, a ghost you’ve learned to carry.

But there are moments—small, sharp moments—when you remember the way things were. Before. How Sirius would drape his arm around your shoulders, careless and warm, like nothing in the world could ever touch you as long as he was there. How Remus would read to you by the fire, voice steady and soft like the promise of something safe, something constant. How James would spin you around in the courtyard, loud and unrestrained, like joy was something infinite and untouchable, a thing that could never be taken.

You let those memories come and go, like ghosts slipping through the cracks. You do not cling to them. You cannot afford to. Holding on would mean believing there is something left to salvage, and that is a hope too dangerous to cradle.

It is easier to pretend they are gone. Easier to pretend that you are, too. To become just another shadow in the corners of your own life, fading into the wallpaper, slipping through the days like you are made of smoke.

If you do not exist, you cannot be hurt. If you do not exist, you cannot miss them.

You drift through the castle like a shadow, slipping past curious eyes and lingering whispers. They watch you, you can feel it—a hundred pairs of eyes trying to piece together the story you refuse to tell.

Dumbledore has called you in three times now, each meeting a quiet battle of wills. His eyes are soft but unyielding, his voice always gentle when he asks, “Are you ready to talk about it?” And every time, you shake your head.

Silence has become your refuge, a place where no one can follow, where the truth remains yours alone. McGonagall tried too, her hand light on your shoulder as she murmured something about safety and understanding, but you only nodded, eyes fixed on the space between your hands.

They don’t understand that the words won’t come, that they are tangled and knotted somewhere deep in your chest. Speaking would be unraveling, and you are not sure you could bear it.

You slip through hallways and dodge conversations with the precision of someone who has made invisibility an art. The Great Hall is a battlefield of glances you avoid, quick steps carrying you through shadows and side doors.

You haven’t eaten there since you left them. The empty spot on the bench where you used to sit remains untouched, a ghost of what once was.

It’s in the middle of this fragile solitude that Lily finds you. She approaches slowly, hands tucked into the sleeves of her robe, eyes wary but kind.

“I’ve been looking for you,” she says, voice soft but unyielding. You don’t meet her gaze. You don’t know how to anymore.

“You know you’d be safe if you told someone,” she presses gently. “They can help. You don’t have to carry it alone.”

Her words are petals landing on stone. You feel them settle but they don’t sink in. You shake your head, a tiny, fragile movement.

She watches you for a long time, something sad and patient in her eyes before she finally sighs, stepping back. “When you’re ready,” she says, voice barely above a whisper, and then she’s gone, leaving only the scent of lilies and the soft echo of footsteps fading into silence.

You trudge back to your room with footsteps too heavy for the fragile silence of the castle corridors. The air is brittle with winter's chill, creeping through cracks and ghosting across your skin. Your hands are tucked deep into your sleeves, hidden away like secrets, fingertips still aching from the cold and the endless prodding of Dumbledore's questions. How many times had they asked? How many times had you sat there, lips sealed, eyes on the floor, heart clenched so tightly it felt like it would shatter if you spoke? His eyes were always kind, too kind, like he already knew the answers but wanted to hear you say it.

Turning the corner, you nearly stumble to a halt. James and Remus are standing at the far end of the hall, their voices low and faces drawn tight with exhaustion. Shadows carve hollows beneath their eyes, and Remus looks paler than you’ve ever seen him.

It must have been the full moon a few days ago, the first one he's gone through without you by his side since the night you both first whispered the words that changed everything. You remember how you used to sit with him after, hands in his hair, soft words spilling like water to fill the spaces where the pain had been. Now, that space is empty.

You wonder if it still hurts him the same way it hurts you, a wound that refuses to close, a memory that festers beneath the surface.

You want to run to them, to press yourself into the warmth of their presence and let it thaw the ice that’s settled into your bones. But you can’t. You wrap your arms tighter around yourself and keep walking, pretending not to notice when James’ gaze flickers to you, holding on just a second too long.

For a moment, you think he might call out, that his voice might crack through the silence and shatter it all to pieces. But the hallway remains still, his eyes dropping back to the floor, and you are left with the whisper of what-could-have-been trailing like smoke in your wake.

You don’t stop until you round the next corner. That’s when you see them.

Rosier and Mulciber, lounging by the tapestry as if they own the space it hangs in. Their eyes track you with lazy contempt, lips curled just enough to make the meaning clear.

Mulciber’s gaze lingers a little too long, flicking over your arms, your throat, the faint line of scars that peek above your collar. His mouth quirks into something that isn’t quite a smile, isn’t quite a threat—but you know exactly what it means. I dare you to speak up. I dare you to tell them.

You look away before you can drown in it, shoulders drawn up tight, steps carrying you forward even though it feels like you’re moving through water.

You don’t stop, you don’t speak, and when you finally reach the door to your room, your hands are shaking too much to turn the handle. The echoes of their laughter follow you down the hall, snaking into your ears and coiling around your thoughts like a vice.

You press your forehead against the door, eyes squeezed shut, breaths coming in ragged bursts as you try to steady the tremor in your fingers.

You step inside, close the door, and let your back slide down its surface until you are sitting on the cold stone floor, legs drawn to your chest.

It takes you far too long to realize you are crying.

You don’t remember falling asleep. Only the rough drag of exhaustion pulling you under the moment you crossed the threshold of your room. The floor was cool against your cheek, and there was a comfort in its solidity, in the way it didn’t move or breathe or demand anything from you. It was just stone and silence, and that was enough.

When you wake, morning light is spilling across the floor in pale strips, catching dust motes in its glow. Your body protests as you sit up, muscles stiff and aching, bruises flaring back to life with each movement.

Outside.

You need air. Fresh air might do you good. The castle feels too heavy today, its walls pressing in, its whispers scraping against your skin. So you leave.

The grounds are cool with morning mist, tendrils of fog curling around the grass like smoke. You pull your cloak tighter around you, ignoring the soft twinge of your ribs as you settle down beneath the shade of a willow tree near the lake. The world is still at this hour, untouched by the footsteps of students or the echo of laughter.

You close your eyes and breathe. In. Out. Pretend for a moment that nothing has changed, that you are whole and untouched and—

“Well, look who’s crawled out of her hole.”

The voice cuts through the silence like a blade, and your eyes snap open. Mulciber, flanked by two Slytherins you don’t recognize, stands a few feet away, hands stuffed casually in his pockets, smile sharp and unkind. And behind them, a crowd is beginning to gather, whispers spreading like wildfire, thick with something sour and unspoken.

“Didn’t think we’d see you out here, all things considered.” His friends chuckle, low and mean. “Thought you’d be hiding under Black’s cloak, like the little whore you are.”

The word slaps you across the face, sharp and sudden, and laughter swells around you. You stand frozen, spine rigid, hands clenched so tightly your nails bite into your palms. Students watch, some with smirks, some with whispers, no one stepping forward. Your heart hammers against your ribs, sharp and insistent, and you force yourself to stare straight ahead, eyes fixed on the horizon, fingers digging crescent moons into your palms.

Mulciber’s eyes flash with something cruel, a glimmer of delight at your silence. He steps closer, his voice dropping to a whisper that somehow carries across the space between you, dripping with venom.

“Bet they’re regretting it now, huh? Messing around with a filthy little slag like you. Thought you were special, did you? Thought you meant something?”

His words spill like oil over water, slick and suffocating. The crowd presses closer, whispers sharpening into accusations. “Desperate.” “Pathetic.” “Begging for it.”

The words pile on, each one another weight around your chest. “Heard she threw herself at all of them,” someone sneers from the back, and the laughter that follows is sharp and jagged, cutting through your skin like glass.

You can feel your cheeks flame, but you don’t move. You don’t speak. Your heart is a drumbeat of pain in your chest, loud and insistent, and you know if you open your mouth, it will all spill out. The hurt, the betrayal, the rage that coils beneath your ribs like a living thing. But you say nothing.

You don’t cry. Not here. Not in front of them. You will not give them that.

But your hands shake. You clench them tighter, nails digging so hard that the sting almost grounds you. Almost. You want to vanish. You want the earth to split and swallow you whole just so you don’t have to hear them anymore.

But you stand there, knees locked, jaw tight, eyes burning with unshed tears that you refuse to let fall.

Mulciber’s smile widens, satisfied. He leans back, hands still in his pockets, eyes glittering with triumph.

“That’s what I thought.” His friends chuckle, cruel and victorious, and they turn away, leaving you standing there with the whispers still hanging in the air like smoke.

The crowd begins to disperse, their interest spent, but the shame lingers, thick and choking, settling into your bones.

You are alone again, the lake still rippling gently at your back, the willow branches swaying in the wind. But the air feels colder now, the silence sharper, and you know deep down that you will never be able to stand beneath this tree again without hearing their laughter echoing through the leaves.

Your legs buckle then, giving way to the weight of it all, and you sink to the ground, fingers clawing at the grass as if trying to anchor yourself to something real, something solid, something that is not this. But there is nothing. Only the wind, only the whispers that still linger, only the sound of your own ragged breathing as you press your forehead to the dirt and try not to break.

They must have heard what happened, whispers of it skittering through the hallways like leaves caught in a storm. Their expressions are painted with worry and a kind of gentle, unspoken rage that simmers just beneath the surface.

Lily’s hands are soft as she tilts your chin up, her gaze searching your eyes for any fracture, any sign that you might break apart right here in her arms. Her touch is steady, grounding, like she is stitching you back together with each brush of her thumb.

Mary is already brushing your hair back, her fingers gentle as if you might shatter from too much pressure.

"Come on," Lily whispers, voice gentle but unyielding. "We’re getting you out of here." Her eyes are wet and blazing, fire and water all at once, and you feel your throat close up at the sight of it. There is fury there, and tenderness too, woven so tightly together you cannot tell where one ends and the other begins.

You don’t resist when they guide you back to the dormitory. Their hands never leave yours, fingers threaded together with a kind of desperation, as if afraid you might dissolve into dust if they let go. Lily’s grip is firm, Mary’s softer, but neither wavers as they lead you up the winding staircases, past whispers and sideways glances.

Inside, the curtains are drawn and the light is dim, pooling in soft amber shadows along the walls.

There is a steaming cup of tea waiting for you on the nightstand, and Mary helps you sit down like you are something fragile, something precious. Her hands are steady at your shoulders, smoothing back the wrinkles in your cloak, her fingers lingering for just a moment longer than necessary.

Lily starts sorting through the pile of unfinished assignments stacked haphazardly at the edge of your desk, her jaw set, eyes sharp as flint.

"You’ve been missing a lot," she murmurs, more to herself than to you. Her fingers trace the edges of your parchment, straightening the crumpled corners with something that looks like reverence.

"But that’s alright. We’ll catch you up." Her voice is a lifeline, thin but unbreakable, and you cling to it because there is nothing else to hold onto.

Mary sits down beside you, pulling a thick stack of notes into her lap. "I swear, if I hear one more person whispering about you, I’m going to hex their tongues right out of their mouths," she mutters, and the ferocity in her voice startles you. "You don’t deserve any of this. Not a single bit."

Lily nods, her hands still busy with your scattered assignments. "They don’t know anything. They just want something to talk about. Gossip is easier when it’s cruel."

Mary’s hand finds yours, squeezing tightly. "We’re here," she says fiercely. "And we’re not going anywhere. If they try anything, anything at all—"

Lily cuts in, her voice like steel wrapped in velvet. "They’ll regret it."

You stare at them, the warmth of their hands, the resolve in their voices, and something inside you cracks just a little. "Why are you doing this?" you whisper, voice thin and shaking. "Why are you still here?"

Lily’s eyes soften, and she kneels in front of you, her hands finding yours. "Because you’re our friend," she says simply, voice steady and sure. "And friends don’t abandon each other. Not ever. I don’t care what they say or how cruel they get. None of it is true. You hear me? None of it. You are not what they say you are. You never were."

Mary nods, her hand still warm against yours. "We’re not going anywhere," she echoes.

They spend the afternoon with you, sifting through essays and practice exams, Lily’s handwriting neat and sure as she explains the charms you’ve missed. Her voice is clear and patient, unhurried, like she is building something steady and unshakable with each word she speaks.

Mary reads aloud passages from Defense Against the Dark Arts with a dramatic flourish, her hands sweeping through the air as if she is casting the spells herself. Her voice dips and rises, pulling you along with it, and you find yourself nodding, almost smiling, the weight on your chest lifting just a little.

It is soft and girlish and good, the kind of daydream you might’ve imagined in simpler days. When Mary braids your hair back from your face, she hums under her breath, something sweet and familiar. Her fingers are gentle as they weave through your hair, and Lily watches with a sad sort of smile, her hands stilling over the pile of parchment in front of her.

When the sun dips below the windowpane and shadows crawl across the room, Mary clears her throat. "They’re worried, you know."

You don’t need to ask who. Your hands tense in your lap, but she keeps going, her voice soft and steady. "James looks like he hasn’t slept in days. Remus has been snapping at everyone. Sirius is... well, you know how he gets."

A lump forms in your throat, thick and unyielding. You don’t trust your voice enough to speak, but Mary squeezes your hand instead, grounding you back to the present.

"I know you’re hurting," she whispers, her voice gentle but firm. "I know they are too. Maybe... maybe you should talk to them."

You blink, shaking your head before the thought can even settle. "I can’t," you whisper, voice cracking at the edges. "They..." Your words falter, throat constricting painfully. "They wouldn’t want me like this."

Lily’s head lifts from her pile of parchment, eyes bright with something fragile and true. "What do you mean?" she asks, voice soft but probing.

Your gaze drops to the floor, fingers grazing the edges of your sleeves where scars lay hidden. "Not with all these... marks," you murmur, voice barely above a whisper. "Not after everything that happened."

Mary’s hand tightens around yours, her eyes soft and resolute. "That’s not true," she says gently, voice firm with conviction.

"They care about you. More than you know. Those scars? They wouldn’t push them away. They’d hold them like they hold you, like something precious that survived. You haven’t seen the way they look at you when you’re not watching. It’s like losing you took the light out of them." She brushes a stray strand of hair from your face, her fingers warm and steady. "You’re not too broken. You’re not too much. You’re just... you. And they miss you more than anything."

Lily scoots closer, the chair creaking beneath her. Her eyes search your face, determination flickering there. "They’re scared," she says, her voice steady and sure. "Scared they’ve hurt you too much. Scared you won’t want to see them. But it doesn’t mean they don’t care."

You shake your head, blinking back the burn in your eyes. "I don’t... I don’t know if I can," you whisper, voice trembling. "It hurts too much."

Lily’s hands find yours, her grip firm and grounding. "Because you love them," she says simply, her voice threaded with iron beneath the softness. "And they love you. And sometimes... sometimes love is messy and awful, and it breaks you into pieces. But that doesn’t mean it’s gone. It just means it’s real."

Her words settle into the hollow spaces inside you, planting roots in the cracks you thought would never heal. You want to believe her. You want to believe that love is enough to cover the scars, the whispers, the shattered thing inside your chest that still bleeds every time you pass them in the corridor.

Lily and Mary don’t leave your side until you’ve washed up and changed into fresh clothes, their hands gentle and sure as they help you braid your hair and button up your sweater.

The mirror reflects a version of you that feels almost like a ghost, eyes sunken and skin pale, but there’s warmth now where their hands linger on your shoulders, where their voices spill over with soft conversation to fill the silence you’ve let fester for weeks.

You wonder if they notice the way your hands tremble when you reach for the buttons of your sweater, how the fabric feels foreign against your fingertips as if it belongs to someone else. But they say nothing, only exchanging a glance above your bowed head, and you pretend not to see it.

When they convince you to come down to the Great Hall for dinner, it feels like you’re being led out of hiding. The stone corridors stretch wide and unforgiving, the walls pressing in like they remember every secret you’ve whispered to them. But Lily’s arm is looped through yours, and Mary’s hand is at your back, anchoring you to the present.

Their voices swell and ripple, filling the silence with talk of homework and spring creeping back into the world, of flowers blooming near the edge of the Black Lake and sunlight pooling in the cracks of the courtyard. You nod along, letting the sound of it drown out the whispers that always seem to follow you, ghosts that cling to your shadow and trail behind your footsteps.

You almost forget the world is still sharp-edged and unkind until Mary’s hand goes stiff on your back and Lily’s grip tightens around your arm.

The shift is subtle but heavy, dragging you back to the present with a jolt that settles like ice in your veins.

It takes a moment for your gaze to follow theirs, to trace the line of their stiffened shoulders and the tension coiling tight between their blades.

They’re farther down the corridor, draped in shadow and arrogance, Mulciber and a few others leaning against the stone walls like they own them.

His gaze finds yours immediately, sharp and gleaming with something that makes your stomach twist. His mouth curves into a smile that doesn’t belong on human faces, something feral and cruel, a stretch of teeth that feels like a promise.

He straightens up slowly, whispering something to the boy beside him, and the boy laughs, the sound cracking through the hall like breaking glass.

You can feel Lily’s arm tighten around yours, her knuckles white where they grip your sleeve. Mary’s hand is a brand against your back, steady and unyielding, but there’s a tremor in her touch that wasn’t there before. You swallow hard, the taste of iron and ash heavy on your tongue, and force yourself to breathe past the knot coiling tight in your chest. It’s just Mulciber.

Mulciber doesn’t move, his gaze unrelenting, a hunter with its prey already caught in its sights. He whispers something again, too soft for you to hear, but you watch the way his mouth curves around the words, deliberate and sharp. It feels like a curse, slipping through the air like smoke, curling around your throat until you can’t quite breathe right.

Lily tugs at your arm, gentle but firm, her eyes not leaving his face. Mary’s hand presses harder at your back, grounding you, reminding you to move, to breathe, to blink.

But your feet are heavy, rooted to the stone beneath them, and for a heartbeat, you are back in that empty corridor, small and shivering beneath Mulciber’s shadow, the memory so sharp it carves itself into the present.

You remember the way his laughter had filled the air like broken glass, how his grip had left bruises that bloomed dark and aching beneath your sleeves. He remembers too, you can see it in the way he watches you now, head tilted just slightly, his eyes flickering with something sharp and cruel.

You remember the curse he spat at you four weeks ago, the flash of green light that clawed through your skin, ripping you apart from the inside out.

His laughter had echoed in the empty corridor as you crumpled to the floor, your body convulsing with pain so raw it stole the breath from your lungs.

When it was over, when the world returned in fractured pieces, your body was a battlefield, marred with scars and bruises that still burn beneath your clothes.

You think of this morning, of the way his voice had sliced through the Great Hall, that filthy word spilling from his mouth like venom.

Whore. A word meant to bruise deeper than magic ever could.

It’s Mary who finally breaks the silence, her voice low and unyielding.

“Come on,” she murmurs, the sound a lifeline you didn’t know you needed. She tugs you forward, and Lily follows, her hand slipping into yours, squeezing once, twice, a rhythm you recognize as comfort, as solidarity.

The world slows, sound draining from the corridor until all that’s left is the sickening thud of your heartbeat, heavy and unrelenting. Mulciber’s eyes flicker back to you, his grin spreading like oil across his face, dark and slick with satisfaction. He’s still laughing, still whispering something venomous to the boy beside him, his shoulders shaking with it.

But before you can flinch, before you can even think of turning back, there’s a blur of black and silver storming through the hall. It’s like watching a storm take shape, shadows converging into something feral and unyielding.

Sirius.

You recognize him instantly—wild hair flying, eyes sharp with fury, jaw clenched so tight it looks like it might crack.

He doesn’t slow, doesn’t stop. He barrels straight into Mulciber with the force of a tidal wave, something primal and unrestrained snapping loose. The sound of Mulciber’s back hitting the stone wall echoes through the corridor, sharp and brutal.

Sirius doesn’t give him a chance to breathe. His fist collides with Mulciber’s jaw with a sickening crunch, and the crack of bone reverberates like thunder. Mulciber staggers, a spray of blood arching across the stone floor, but Sirius is unyielding.

He shoves him harder against the wall, the back of his head cracking against stone with a sound that sends whispers skittering back into shadows. Mulciber splutters, eyes wide with shock, but Sirius is feral, fists driving into his ribs, his stomach, each blow heavier than the last.

A flick of Sirius's wand sends Mulciber flying back, his body crashing against the stone like a ragdoll, limbs twisted and graceless.

There’s a flash of light—red and searing—and Mulciber screams, the sound ripping through the corridor. You watch, heart lodged in your throat, as Sirius stalks forward, his eyes gleaming with something untamed. His wand is steady, unflinching, as he mutters another incantation, and Mulciber’s body convulses, writhing against the floor, the echo of his screams stretching thin and sharp.

You can’t breathe. The world narrows to the slick smear of blood across stone, the shattering crack of bone against brick, the way Mulciber’s screams splinter and echo like the wails of the damned. It’s carnage, raw and unfiltered, each blow landing with a sickening finality that makes your stomach twist.

But it’s Sirius that steals your breath, that roots you to the spot with horror threading up your spine.

There is nothing human in his eyes. They are wild, storm-tossed things, pupils blown wide, irises almost swallowed by shadow. His hair is a dark snarl, tangled and streaked with Mulciber’s blood, damp and clinging to his cheeks, sweat-slick and unyielding.

His lips are pulled back in something that is not quite a smile, not quite a snarl, baring his teeth like a wolf scenting blood.

It’s as if he’s been unchained—something feral and starved let loose, his fists a blur of motion, each strike heavier than the last.

Mulciber tries to scream again, but it’s cut short—Sirius’s hand lashes out, fingers curling around his throat, shoving him back against the wall so hard the stone cracks, dust cascading from the ceiling like ash. You hear whispers—sharp, horrified gasps skittering through the crowd—but no one moves.

Sirius’s knuckles are raw and split, streaked with crimson that drips down his wrist, pooling at his fingertips. His breaths are ragged, chest heaving with exertion, but his grip on Mulciber’s throat only tightens.

Mulciber is gasping, choking, his hands clawing at Sirius’s forearm, nails raking desperate lines into his skin. It doesn’t matter.

Sirius doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink. His eyes are fixed—dark and gleaming with something that makes your skin prickle, that makes your legs feel like water.

He doesn’t even look like he’s seeing Mulciber anymore. His gaze is faraway, distant, like he’s waging a war somewhere deep in his mind, and Mulciber is just the sacrifice.

You take a step back, and your heel scuffs against the stone—loud in the unnatural hush. Sirius’s head snaps up, eyes locking onto yours for a heartbeat, and the violence in his stare is enough to send ice through your veins.

You know him—knew him—but this is not the boy who smirked at you across bonfires or slung an arm over your shoulders in crowded hallways. This is something darker, something forged in iron and shadow.

His lip curls, eyes narrowing before he turns back to Mulciber, slamming his head back against the stone with a force that sends a ripple of horror through the gathered crowd. There’s a sickening crack—jagged and wet—and Mulciber’s eyes roll back, his limbs going limp.

For a second, you think it’s over, think Sirius has sated whatever bloodlust had taken root. But then Sirius crouches down, fingers slick with blood as he grabs Mulciber’s face, forcing it up, forcing him to look into his eyes. His voice is low, guttural.

“Look at me. I want you to remember this.” he whispers, the words slipping out like venom, Mulciber tries to turn his head, tries to shift away from that burning gaze, but Sirius’s grip is iron.

And then, with a snarl that rips through the corridor, he slams Mulciber’s skull back into the ground. Once. Twice. A third time. Blood spatters up in an arc, warm and wet, slicking the stone with crimson.

Sirius kneels, boots splashing in the pool of blood spreading slick and dark across the stone.

He grips Mulciber by the hair, yanking his head back with a ferocity that sends a spray of red arcing through the air.

Mulciber’s face is a ruin—swollen and unrecognizable, eyes barely slits beneath the purple bloom of bruises. Blood seeps from his nose, his mouth, trickling over cracked lips and pooling in the hollow of his throat. His breaths come in ragged, shuddering bursts, each one gurgling wetly as if he’s drowning on his own blood.

But Sirius doesn’t care. His fingers tighten in the matted hair, jerking Mulciber upright with a force that sends another snap reverberating through the hall. There’s a fresh gush of red, thicker this time, streaking down Mulciber’s cheek and dripping in fat droplets to the floor.

“Look at him!” Sirius roars, and the sound is a living thing—ripping through the corridor like a knife, sharp and jagged.

His voice is thick with fury, eyes gleaming with something feral, something unhinged. He shakes Mulciber like he’s nothing more than a sack of meat, and blood spatters across the stone, painting crimson streaks that drip and pool like ink.

Sirius yanks harder, forcing Mulciber’s head up, twisting his fingers until the strands of hair snap under his grip. Mulciber groans, a wet, rasping sound that cracks in his throat, but Sirius only digs his fingers in deeper, nails scraping scalp, knuckles white and shaking.

“Look at him!” he snarls, voice vibrating with venom, the words ricocheting off the stone walls, echoing back like a promise. He jerks Mulciber higher, dragging him to his knees, forcing him to face the growing crowd, their eyes wide and wet with horror.

You can smell the blood—thick and coppery, cloying as it seeps into the cracks of the stone, spreading in sticky pools beneath Mulciber’s twitching hands.

“Now,” Sirius growls, voice lowering to a snarl that drips with contempt, “which one of you fuckers wants to call my girlfriend a whore to my face?” His gaze sweeps the crowd, daring, inviting, eyes gleaming with the kind of madness you only read about in horror stories.

Sirius yanks his head back farther, exposing the pale column of his throat slick with sweat and crimson.

No one speaks. No one breathes. The corridor is thick with silence, heavy and oppressive, pressing down like a weighted blanket.

The boy Mulciber had been laughing with is gone, vanished into the crowd, footsteps echoing faintly like a death knell.

Sirius’s smile is a terrible thing—sharp and crooked, dripping with something dark and unyielding.

“Well?” Sirius spits, shaking Mulciber for emphasis, and his head lolls back, eyes rolling like a doll’s, lips parting with a wet gurgle.

His voice is raw, splintered at the edges, but there’s something almost unhinged in the way he looks at them, like he’s only just getting started.

“Come on!” he shouts, voice cracking against the silence. His eyes blaze, dark and endless, pinning each face in the crowd with the weight of his gaze.

“I’m fucking waiting!” His grip on Mulciber tightens, jerking his head to the side, forcing the battered boy to meet the crowd’s gaze.

“You were laughing this morning, you bloody fuckers weren’t you?” Sirius snarls, shaking him again. “You had something to say, didn’t you? Where’s your fucking courage now?”

He shoves him forward, forcing him to his knees, hands still twisted in his hair, and turns him to face the crowd like he’s displaying some kind of broken trophy.

The silence is suffocating now, stretching too long, too taut, threatening to snap. You watch as Sirius’s eyes rake across the faces in the crowd, daring, seething. His chest heaves with each breath, his fingers still twisted in Mulciber’s blood-matted hair, and you realize with a cold jolt that he’s waiting. Waiting for someone to speak. Waiting for someone to move.

And god help them when they do

When James and Remus finally appear, it’s like the room takes a collective breath, sharp and shuddering, the kind of relief that tastes metallic on the tongue. But it’s not over. Not even close. It takes both of them, James with his arms locked around Sirius’s shoulders, muscles straining with the effort, and Remus prying his fingers loose from Mulciber’s hair, slick with blood and tangled like roots, to drag him back.

Sirius thrashes like something feral, feet skidding across the slick stone, leaving smears of crimson in his wake.

His eyes are still locked onto Mulciber, dark and blazing, teeth bared in a snarl that is more animal than human. There is blood on his hands, splattered across his cheek, streaking through his hair, and he doesn’t seem to notice, doesn’t seem to care. His breath is coming in ragged bursts, chest heaving like he has just run for miles, but his strength is unyielding.

It takes everything James has to hold him back, feet braced against the stone, arms hooked beneath Sirius’s shoulders in a grip that is half desperation, half restraint.

“Sirius!” James’s voice is sharp, cracking through the stillness. But Sirius doesn’t even flinch. His eyes are still locked on Mulciber’s crumpled form, lips curling back with each breath like he is tasting blood on his tongue and finding it sweet.

“Let me go,” Sirius spits, voice raw and splintered. He jerks against James’s hold, almost breaking free, fingertips grazing the stone before Remus lunges forward, gripping his wrists and yanking him back.

Sirius’s eyes snap to Remus then, wild and burning, and for a heartbeat, it looks like he might lash out, like he might tear Remus apart too, just for the crime of standing in his way. But Remus doesn’t flinch. His hands are steady, his eyes hard, jaw clenched tight enough that you can see the muscle flicker beneath his skin.

“Sirius, it’s over.” Remus’s voice is low, firm, cutting through the haze of violence with the sharpness of a blade.

“It’s not over,” Sirius hisses, voice dripping with venom. His eyes flicker back to Mulciber, who is slumped against the wall, blood still pooling beneath him, staining the cracks of the stone like dark veins. “He is still breathing.”

James’s grip tightens, arms wrapping tighter around Sirius’s chest. “Enough. You made your point.” But Sirius shakes his head, gaze fixed and unyielding.

His hands are still curled into fists, knuckles split and bleeding, trembling with the need to finish what he started.

Remus steps in front of him, blocking his view of Mulciber, forcing Sirius to look at him instead. His voice drops, steady and unyielding. “We’re done here. You’re done here.”

Sirius’s breathing is ragged, harsh and scraping, but his fists slowly uncurl. His shoulders slump, only slightly, but it is enough for James to loosen his grip, for Remus to let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Sirius’s gaze drops to his hands, smeared with blood, the knuckles swollen and raw.

But you are not looking at his hands. You are looking at his face, at the wild gleam still simmering beneath the surface, at the way his eyes still track Mulciber’s crumpled form, as if he is counting every breath, every twitch.

And you, your hands are shaking. Your heart is in your throat. But for the first time in weeks, the ice around your ribs feels like it’s starting to thaw.

You don’t remember how Lily and Mary managed to drag you away from the chaos. It’s all a blur, familiar hands gripping your sleeves, soft voices murmuring something that slips right through you.

You only realize you’re back at the common room when your knees buckle, dropping hard onto the unforgiving stone floor beneath the shadow of the staircase. The impact jolts through your bones, sharp and jarring, but you barely feel it. Numbness settles in its place, spreading through your limbs like ice.

The world shrinks, sounds fading to distant echoes, footsteps and whispers smudging into the background like charcoal smeared across paper.

All that remains is the ragged pull of your breath, harsh and uneven, scraping its way up your throat. Your palms are pressed against the stone, fingertips digging into the rough surface as if anchoring yourself to reality, but it’s not enough.

The walls feel like they are folding inward, creeping closer with each shallow breath you take, pressing tighter and tighter until the air is thin and ragged in your lungs.

You try to focus. You try to count your breaths, but they slip away from you, shattering into fragments before you can hold on.

Your hands tremble against the floor, fingers scraping against the stone until the skin splits, tiny bursts of pain sparking in your fingertips. It hurts, but you latch onto it, welcoming the sting, clinging to it as if it is the only real thing left.

The room tilts, spinning in slow, deliberate circles, and you clutch harder at the stone, nails scraping against it until they crack. The edges of your vision darken, shadows creeping inward, but it’s not darkness that finds you. I

t’s panic, raw and unyielding, clawing up your throat with razor-tipped fingers. It coils there, tight and suffocating, strangling the air from your lungs. Your mouth opens, a sharp gasp slicing through the silence, but no sound follows.

Your heart is hammering, the beat erratic and furious, slamming against your ribs like it is trying to break free. You press your palms harder against the stone, grounding yourself, forcing yourself to feel every crack, every jagged edge. It’s the only thing keeping you tethered, the sharp sting of your hands scraping raw against the floor, the way your nails splinter against the stone. Somewhere distant, you hear Lily’s voice, soft and desperate, but it is muffled, submerged beneath the rush of blood in your ears.

Slow and steady. It takes minutes or hours—you can’t tell which—for the feeling to ebb. When it finally does, you’re left hollow, emptied out and aching, slumped against the wall with your head tilted back, eyes fixed on the ceiling as if it holds some secret you are not yet worthy to know.

I highly suggest playing nothing’s gonna hurt you baby by cas here

It is the softness of his touch that pulls you back from the edge of nothingness, a quiet warmth folding over your trembling hand like a whispered promise.

You do not remember how the world fell away beneath you, how the weight of all the darkness pressed so heavy that your knees gave out and the air fled from your lungs.

But now, as your eyes flutter open to the dim light, there is only him—Remus—kneeling beside you like a guardian carved from shadow and light.

His face is pale, drawn with the exhaustion of too many sleepless nights and tears no one witnessed. His eyes glisten with a mixture of sorrow and fierce hope, the kind that burns quietly beneath the surface of a heart refusing to break completely.

When he looks at you, it feels as if he is trying to hold every broken piece of you gently in his gaze, as though your fragile spirit might shatter under the weight of a single careless glance.

His hands are steady, unwavering, resting lightly on yours like the roots of a tree gripping soil after a violent storm.

His thumb moves slowly in circles over the back of your hand, a small rhythm, a sacred chant meant to calm the trembling that threatens to consume you. It is a touch that speaks of devotion and fear and the desperate need to keep you tethered to this moment, to this fragile thread of life.

“Hey,” he breathes, voice cracking like a fragile song stretched too thin, yet filled with a tenderness so profound it makes the world still around you. “Look at me, baby. Right here. Do not slip away.”

You find his eyes through the haze, and in their depths, you see the weight of grief carried silently like a cloak woven from memories and regret.

But there is also something else—something like a fierce, burning hope that refuses to be extinguished.

His gaze is a lifeline, a promise that you are not alone, even when the darkness presses in from all sides.

“You are okay,” he murmurs, words soft and certain, wrapping around you like a warm breath against cold skin.

“I swear you are okay. Just breathe with me. In… and out.” The rhythm of his voice, steady and slow, becomes the anchor your heart clings to, a fragile pulse beating through the storm.

With every breath, you feel yourself coming back, piece by aching piece, as if his presence is the only thing keeping the world from fracturing completely

He breathes with you, slow and steady, exaggerating each rise and fall of his chest like he’s teaching you how to exist again.

His breaths are deep and measured, a rhythm you can follow, and you find yourself mirroring him, even when your own lungs stutter and hitch.

In and out. In and out.

The pattern is simple, the kind of simplicity that feels sacred when the world is crumbling.

His hand never leaves yours, warm and firm, an anchor in the storm. His thumb continues its slow circles, the motion steady and unyielding, even when your fingers flex and shake, even when the tremor won’t stop.

His eyes stay locked on your face, searching for something—some flicker of recognition, some sign that you’re still here with him.

There’s desperation there, thinly veiled beneath the tenderness, like he’s holding his breath, waiting for you to come back to him.

“I’m right here,” he whispers, softer this time, like it’s a secret meant only for you. His voice is a thread of warmth curling through the cold, a fragile light in the shadows pressing in. His eyes are so full of something you can’t name—something raw and aching and real.

Your lips part, and his name spills out like it’s been trapped inside you for too long. “Remus…” It’s barely a whisper, almost a sob, almost a prayer.

His breath catches for just a moment, and you watch as something flickers in his gaze, something bright and sharp and painfully tender.

“Yeah,” he breathes, voice breaking just a little, like it costs him something to say it.

“Yeah, it’s me. Your Remmy, yeah? I’m here. I’m not goin’ anywhere.” His hands don’t waver, don’t shake, even though his voice does. He says it with a kind of certainty that you want to believe in, a kind of faith you want to wrap yourself in and never let go.

He exhales, the sound fragile and trembling, as if the weight of it alone might shatter him. His touch is warm and familiar, a reminder of constellations traced on moonlit nights and whispered promises that never quite faded.

His voice, when it comes, is barely more than a breath, a sacred murmur cradled between his lips. “Come back to me, love. Come back.”

Your breath catches, fragile and unsteady, the rhythm of your heart stuttering beneath the weight of his words.

Your eyes flutter open, vision blurred and hazy, like waking from a dream you are not ready to leave.

“Where?” you whisper, the word splintering at the edges, raw and unguarded.

For a heartbeat, his gaze holds yours, and you see it—something fragile and aching and impossibly bright. It flickers across his features like sunlight through cracked glass, illuminating the sharp curve of his cheekbone, the shadowed crescent beneath his eyes, the part of his mouth that trembles just slightly when he swallows.

He does not speak at first, but you feel it in the way his thumb brushes over your knuckles, tracing slow, deliberate circles as if mapping the fragile landscape of your bones. His hand slips from yours, and for a heartbeat, the world feels colder.

But then his fingers find your palm, guiding it with infinite care to his chest, right over the steady, unyielding rhythm of his heart.

“Right here,” he breathes, the words soft and weighted, each syllable spilling from his lips like a promise.

His forehead dips, coming to rest against yours, his eyes fluttering closed as if the mere act of touching you is a prayer answered. His breath mingles with yours, slow and steady, a rhythm that feels older than time itself.

You can feel the whisper of it against your lips, soft and aching, a confession spoken in the language of ghosts.

“Home.” he whispers, and the word slips between you, curling around your heart like a tether, binding you to him in a way that is as inevitable as the turning of the stars.

And you know, in that moment, that this is what it means to belong to someone—not in pieces or fractured glances, but entirely, endlessly, with every breath and every heartbeat. To be tethered across distance and time, to find your way back through the darkness, guided only by the sound of his voice and the echo of his heartbeat. To come back to him, always.

He holds you for what feels like forever, the world shrinking down to the steady rhythm of his breathing, the solid press of his hand over yours, the way his thumb never stops tracing those slow, grounding circles against your skin.

Time bends and blurs, the sharp edges of reality softening until there’s nothing left but the warmth of his touch and the low murmur of his voice, coaxing you back to the surface one breath at a time.

His heartbeat is steady and constant beneath your palm, a metronome against the chaos that still lingers at the edges of your mind.

The world around you is a distant hum, muffled and far away, but then footsteps echo down the stone corridor, cutting through the silence like the whisper of a blade.

You barely register the sound at first, too wrapped up in the quiet safety of Remus’s hands, but the footsteps grow louder, hurried and unsteady, until they come to a halt just beyond the curve of the staircase. There’s a pause, thick and heavy, before two shadows spill into view.

James and Sirius stand there, both breathless and pale, their faces drawn tight with worry and something darker that lingers just beneath the surface.

Sirius’s hair is wild, curling around his face in tangled waves, and there’s a fresh bandage wrapped around his temple, the edge of it tinged with dried blood.

His eyes find yours immediately, dark and sharp, and you watch as something flickers across his expression—something raw and aching, something that softens the hard line of his jaw and makes his hands tremble at his sides.

It isn’t pain that makes him shake; you can tell from the way his shoulders are squared, from the way his gaze doesn’t waver.

No, it’s the distance that does it—the ache of being away from you for too long, of knowing you were hurting and he wasn’t there to stop it. His fists clench once, twice, and then he lets out a breath, the tension bleeding from his knuckles as his eyes search yours, wild and desperate, like he’s counting every breath you take just to be sure you’re still here.

Remus looks back over his shoulder, his hand still cupping yours, and there’s something unspoken that passes between the three of them. It’s a conversation of glances and shadows, of nods and clenched jaws, of something that runs deeper than words.

Sirius follows, but slower, his movements measured, like he’s afraid the air might splinter if he comes too close.

His eyes are locked on you, unblinking and glassy, and there’s something fierce and unyielding in the way he watches you, like he’s memorizing every detail, every breath, every flicker of your lashes.

He hesitates just a moment, and then he’s there, dropping to his knees in front of you, his hands reaching for your face with a kind of desperation that unravels the breath from your lungs.

His hands are rough but gentle, cradling your face like you’re made of glass, like you might shatter if he holds you too tight. His thumbs brush your cheeks, wiping away remnants of tears you didn’t even realize were still there, and his eyes never leave yours, dark and unyielding.

His forehead stays pressed to yours, his breath mingling with yours in soft, uneven shudders. His thumbs brush gentle arcs against your cheeks, wiping away the remnants of tears with a tenderness that nearly undoes you.

His eyes flutter open, dark and glassy, and he looks at you like he’s searching for something, like he’s afraid he might miss it if he blinks. His voice, when it comes, is cracked and raw, like it’s been clawed out from somewhere deep.

“Please don’t ever leave me.” It’s a whisper, but it echoes, latching onto the spaces between your ribs and burrowing there. His hands tighten just slightly, his fingertips pressing into your skin like he’s anchoring himself to you, like you’re the only thing

Your vision blurs, the world smearing at the edges, but you don’t look away. You can’t. A sob claws its way up your throat, silent and shattering, and your hands come up to cover his, pressing them closer, holding him there like you’re afraid he might vanish if you don’t.

“Never, siri,” you breathe, voice shaking but certain, the word spilling from your lips like a promise. “Never again.” You say it again, firmer this time, your gaze locked with his, eyes wet and unflinching. “I swear it. Never.”

His eyes squeeze shut, and you watch the way his shoulders shudder with the force of it, the way his hands tremble against your skin.

His arms wrap around you, strong and unyielding, and you feel the way he presses his face into your shoulder, how his breath hitches against your neck like he’s trying to hold himself together.

You don’t know how long you stay like that, the world blurring into the edges of Sirius’s heartbeat. James is already there, just at the edge of the shadows, waiting with eyes rimmed red and hands wringing together. He watches you with a kind of fragile hope, like he’s afraid the moment will break if he breathes too loudly. When you finally turn, he’s already moving, steps careful and soft as he closes the space between you.

“Hey,” he whispers, his voice rough with the weight of waiting. His hands are gentle when they find your shoulders, smoothing down your arms like he’s checking you’re real.

“Hey, love.” His thumb sweeps across your cheek, catching a tear you didn’t know had fallen. “Missed you,” he murmurs, eyes glassy. “Missed you so much, baby,”

His hands are shaking when he cradles your face, his gaze drinking you in like he’s memorizing you all over again. “You’re here,” he breathes out, voice splintering with the softness of it. “You’re really here.”

“‘M here,” you whisper back, and he exhales, something breaking and mending all at once.

He pulls you into his chest, arms locking around you, and you feel the way his heartbeat stutters and catches, like it’s finally finding its rhythm again. His chin tucks over your shoulder, his breath shaky and warm against your neck. “Don’t leave again,” he whispers, and it’s not a demand—it’s a plea. “Promise me.”

Your hands curl into the fabric of his sweater, your voice trembling but resolute. “I promise.”

For a long moment, none of you speak. There are only the sounds of breathing—steady, uneven, real—and the feeling of four heartbeats pressed close, thrumming with life and warmth and something that tastes like salvation.

There’s no space for words, no need for them. The silence is enough, heavy and sacred, stitched together by the threads of everything unspoken.

You close your eyes, and you hold on.

And then, in a voice that is barely a whisper but echoes like a promise, Remus says, “We’re okay.”

“You’ve gone quiet,” James says, his voice warm and teasing as you walk beside him down the winding path toward Hogsmeade. His hand brushes against yours, tentative and soft, and you find yourself smiling despite the cold.

“Just thinking,” you reply, glancing up at him. His eyes crinkle at the corners when he grins, and it’s the kind of smile that feels like sunlight cracking through storm clouds.

It’s been a month and a half since that night.

A month and a half of finding your way back to each other, slowly, carefully. A month and a half of healing and mending, of long talks beneath the covers and quiet touches that spoke of promise and patience.

You told Dumbledore everything, finally spilling the truth that had been lodged in your throat like glass. Mulciber was punished, suspended and stripped of privileges, though not without the snarl of a family name dragging behind him.

Even Sirius had to serve detention for his outburst, though he did so with a grin, never once apologizing for the way he painted his knuckles with Mulciber’s blood.

He even received a ton of letters from his mother, though Remus made sure they got discarded before Sirius read them.

“Do it again if I had to.” he had said with a shrug, and you believed him.

The scars are still there, some fading to pale silver, others stubborn and aching when you move too quickly.

But Remus is there to help, his touch always gentle, his hands warm and steady as he traces the lines of your skin with reverence. He doesn’t flinch anymore when you reach for him, doesn’t pull away when your fingers brush his own scars. If anything, it makes him hold you tighter, closer, like two broken pieces that finally found the right way to fit.

There is laughter again, soft and hesitant at first but growing stronger with each day. You catch Sirius sneaking sweets from the kitchens and blaming it on James, and you find Remus with ink smudges on his hands, poring over his notes beside the common room fire. James tries to drag you into every prank, every adventure, his arm slung around your shoulders with that familiar ease that makes you feel like maybe, just maybe, you can breathe again.

They are gentle with you, protective but not suffocating.

And when the nightmares come, when you wake up gasping with phantom hands and whispered threats, they are there. Always.

James with his warm hands and soft murmurs, Sirius with his fierce eyes and crushing hugs, and Remus with his steady presence, his hands soothing the ache from your muscles, whispering that you’re safe now, you’re home.

The air wraps around you like a gentle promise, the soft sway of the willow’s branches echoing the steady rhythm of your breath.

Each heartbeat beneath your palm is a reminder — a fragile, beautiful testament — that you have survived. You have stumbled through the darkest storms and emerged here, in this place of quiet light.

You think of the weight you carried — the nights when pain was a fierce, unforgiving companion; the moments when your own reflection was a stranger, marked by scars that run deeper than the skin.

Some of those marks may never fade, etched like whispers of battles fought and wounds endured. But here, with James, Remus, and Sirius holding you close, those scars have become part of a larger story — one of resilience, of love that mends what once felt broken beyond repair.

You trace the curve of the willow’s bark, fingers finding comfort in its roughness, the way it stands tall and unwavering despite every season’s storm. Like the tree, you have bent but not broken, rooted by the quiet strength that comes from being held, from holding others in return.

Sirius’s laughter bubbles up again, light and wild, and you catch the way his eyes search yours. James’s steady presence hums through the air, calm and fierce, a grounding force that keeps you tethered to the here and now. Remus’s touch lingers, soft and sure, a silent vow that this moment, this peace, is yours to keep.

Together, beneath the willow’s tender shade, you find more than survival. You find a home woven from laughter and tears, from scars and healing, from the fierce and fragile threads of love that bind you all. It is not the absence of pain that defines this moment but the courage to keep walking forward — to keep reaching for light even when the night was long.

And in that quiet truth, you know this is only the beginning.

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moonlight-joy · 5 months ago

Text

Protector's Fury

Fandom: Kraven the hunter

Summary: The fire crackled softly as Sergei Kravinoff’s imposing presence filled the room, his fierce devotion radiating from every fiber of his being. After chasing off a would-be threat with deadly precision, Sergei’s sharp, unyielding exterior melted as he turned to you, his concern replacing fury. His protective nature shone through in every word and touch, a vow of unwavering loyalty and strength. In his embrace, as the danger faded into the shadows, you realized that no force in the world could ever rival Sergei’s fierce love and resolve to keep you safe—always.

Pairing: Reader/Sergei Kravinoff

The fire crackled in the hearth as Sergei loomed over you, his broad frame casting a shadow that danced with the flickering light. His eyes, sharp and unyielding, bore into yours, the intensity in them unmistakable. You could feel the weight of his gaze, the challenge in his stance, and you knew better than to underestimate the moment. Sergei Kravinoff didn’t play games lightly, and when he did, the stakes were always high.

“Don’t you dare lay a finger on her!” Sergei’s voice thundered, cutting through the tense air like a knife. His tone was sharp, commanding, and left no room for negotiation.

Your heart raced as you turned to face him, his presence filling the room like a storm. He stood at the door, shoulders squared, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. The firelight highlighted the hard set of his jaw, the dangerous glint in his eyes that promised swift retribution. His gaze flickered to you, softening for the briefest moment before shifting back to the intruder, colder than ice.

The man standing opposite Sergei—a rogue hunter, one of many who foolishly sought to challenge him—froze in place, his hand halfway to the knife at his belt. The tension in the room was palpable, the kind that pressed against your chest and made it hard to breathe.

“This has nothing to do with you, Kravinoff,” the rogue sneered, though his voice lacked conviction. His eyes darted nervously to Sergei, then back to you. “Stay out of it.”

Sergei’s laugh was low and menacing, devoid of humor. He took a step forward, the weight of his presence bearing down on everyone in the room. “Everything that concerns her has to do with me,” he said, his voice a growl. “And you, my foolish friend, have made a grave mistake.”

The rogue hesitated, and in that moment, Sergei struck. With the speed and precision of a predator, he closed the distance between them, his hand snapping out to grab the man by the collar. Sergei’s strength was on full display as he lifted the rogue off his feet, pinning him against the wall with effortless force.

“You thought you could threaten her?” Sergei snarled, his face inches from the rogue’s. “Did you truly believe you’d walk away unscathed?”

The rogue’s breath hitched, his bravado crumbling under Sergei’s relentless glare. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean…” he stammered, but Sergei silenced him with a dangerous squeeze.

“Enough,” Sergei said, his voice low and venomous. “Your cowardice disgusts me. Leave, now, and pray I don’t decide to hunt you down.”

He released the rogue, letting him crumple to the floor in a heap. The man scrambled to his feet, casting one last terrified glance at Sergei before bolting out the door. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the crackle of the fire.

Sergei turned to you, his expression softening as he closed the distance between you. His hands, still warm from the heat of his anger, cupped your face gently. “Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice low and filled with concern.

You shook your head, though your heart was still pounding. “No,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m fine.”

His eyes searched yours, as if confirming your words for himself. Finally, he exhaled, pulling you into his arms. The tension in his body slowly melted away as he held you, his chin resting atop your head. “I won’t let anyone harm you,” he murmured, his voice a vow. “Not now. Not ever.”

You clung to him, the safety of his embrace a balm to your frayed nerves. Sergei was many things—a hunter, a warrior, a man of unyielding intensity—but in that moment, he was your protector, your anchor in the storm.

“Thank you,” you whispered against his chest, your voice trembling with emotion. “For coming for me.”

He pulled back just enough to look down at you, his hand brushing a strand of hair from your face. “I will always come for you,” he said, his voice steady and sure. “No one lays a finger on what is mine.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, not from fear but from the weight of his devotion. Sergei wasn’t a man who loved lightly; his feelings burned as fiercely as the fire in the hearth. And in that moment, you knew—no matter what challenges lay ahead, you would face them together.

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#kraven #kraven the hunter #kraven x reader #kraven movie #kraven x you #sergei kravinoff #kraven the hunter movie #kraven the hunter x reader #aaron taylor johnson #aarontaylorjohnson

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5eraphim · 1 year ago

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Okay so this has been stuck in my head for WEEKS and I finally decided to stop bein scared and ask you to write about it lol

So as a DBD player, I got to thinking that it would be kinda cool if survivors could fight the killer even if it was just once per round and then this scenario popped into my head.

How would Killer react to Survivor!Reader biting them as a defense/distraction/etc? My favs are The Shape, The Executioner, and The Mastermind! Headcannons would be amazing but if you could maybe branch out to make one a one-shot kinda deal? Maybe NSFW if you feel spicy?

P.S your writing and fics LITERALLY give me life YOU’RE SO GOOD 😭🧡

My deepest apologies for how long this has been rotting in my inbox, I thought this prompt was a lot of fun, and again, I'm sorry it took forever for me to get around to answering this. Hope you enjoy all the same!

Characters: Michael Meyers, Albert Wesker, Pyramid Head (Dead By Daylight)

Rating: R (MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, GO PLAY OUTSIDE!!)

Content Warnings: Yandere, smut, noncon, stalking, choking, violence, sacrificed to the entity, predator/prey dynamics, obsession, sadism and masochism, reader is kept gender neutral

Word Count: 1.6k

MASTER LIST

TIP JAR

The Shape

It's almost too predictable for a killer like Michael Myers to wind up in a situation like this. As the survivor he brought with him into the entity's realm made physical payback, her signature, Micheal can't help but attract the "feisty" type.

A man hiding behind a mask, Michael competes with fierce determination and an almost primal compulsion to hunt, stalk, and slaughter like no other. Of the three, Myers would be the most likely to anticipate physical retribution from a survivor, according to him, all part of the hunt.

Myers prefers to remain hidden by shadows as long as possible, awaiting his perfect opportunity to go in for a decisive kill. But remaining hidden in the dark is a luxury you don't have at your disposal on account of being Myer's obsession.

You didn't want it to come to this. Even before the match started, you prayed to fight any killer, but Myers, your disappointment only grew as you realized minutes later that you were his obsession.

The idea of fighting back physically was a spur-of-the-moment decision; you knew you only had one chance of pulling this off, and if you missed, your fate would be sealed. You usually weren't one to opt for such a risky strategy, but you were too blinded by your fear of Myers. You would do anything to get away.

Even though you couldn't see him, you could feel Myers' eyes locked in on you, no doubt following and trailing you from behind. The paranoia was torture, but you forced yourself to stay strong and ignore Myers, to focus solely on supporting your team.

When Myers inevitably tracked you down and caught you after getting distracted by something else, you had so much pent-up nervous aggression that you couldn't hold back your body's instinct to fight back.

Fear overtook any lingering traces of rationality as you struggled blindly against Myers, but you had just enough determination reserved to take aim and fire a single punch, aiming for his head, landing against the cheek of the mask; it was just enough to disorient him long enough for you to wriggle free.

Despite the offense, Myers didn't think you had it in you to fight back like that. It excited him! As though you were holding back on him before, and now you were starting to fight back like you really meant it!

After enduring the pressure of being his obsession and succumbing to the fear of it all, you little humanity left to hold onto, almost nothing but your primal fight or flight instincts; it was truly a beautiful sight for him to behold.

The next time he cornered you, Myers decided he ought to follow your lead, only instead of going for your head, he would go for your throat, not with the knife, but with his hand.

And for just a moment, he'd keep you there. Only needing one hand around your throat to keep your entire body pinned into place on the wall behind you. Wood planks made contact with your back at odd angles, the dull pain radiating up and down your spine as you were face to face with Myers, close enough to hear his breathing behind the mask while he observed your face- knowing you believed he was seconds away from slitting your throat.

Likely, as Myers holds you in such a compromising position, he takes out all his own pent-up frustrations on you. Leaving bitemarks all over your neck and shoulders while he quickly shreds the clothes from your body.

Just as you gave into primal fight-or-flight instincts, he was giving into his own primal urges. He'd won the hunt, and now it was time to let his libido take charge. Half-undressed, he ruts against you, and you can hear his heartbeat racing. Maybe even feel his body warming as his blood flows rapidly, but he remains as silent as a corpse.

After having his fun, Myers will take great pleasure in sacrificing you to the entity. Even if he couldn't take down everyone on your team before this, the opportunity to sacrifice his obsession in such a thrilling bloodbath overshadowed any regular trial as a ruthless killer.

The Mastermind

It wouldn't take more than an instance of fighting back physically against him for Wesker to decide to hunt you down right away. He would've never suspected another survivor would be bold enough to try something like this on him. Wesker wants to know what makes you think you're strong enough to try something like this.

His reaction would be determined primarily by what point in the trial you try this.

Albert might think it's insufficient enough to ignore if it's early or if he's doing well.

But given how infamous of a hothead he can be, more often than not, any time you try this, expect to be met with hostility.

Wants to see you go from physically resistant to begging him for mercy. On the outside, he pretends to see brats like you as nothing but a petty annoyance to be dealt with, but on the inside, he absolutely loves doing this; keeping the weak in check is how he stays strong.

Wesker doesn't exactly get any legitimate pleasure from being hurt, but he will tap into the pain when fighting back. He does this partly out of loyalty and obligation to the entity but equally out of a petty vengeance to hurt you back twice as hard as you hurt him.

Wesker waits patiently before fighting back, taking care of those annoying teammates first to give you his undivided attention. As well as strategically lying in wait after the confrontation before striking while your guard is down.

The very first thing Wesker does after tracking you down is wounding you exactly where you hurt him, though he's sure not to let you go until he's drawn blood.

Don't expect him to show you any mercy from here. Might go as far as pushing you down, wiping his shoes against your back as you writhe below, trying to squirm out from under his boot.

It's good foreplay for him, seeing the foolish survivor who dared to fight back, bleeding and barely alive. He won't fuck you in the muck for his own sake, of course. Wesker will push you up against a wall face first while he is taking you from behind.

If he's feeling especially good after sweeping a trial, he might leave you with just enough life to hold onto while you crawl to the hatch. More likely, you won't live long after such a brutal session. But even if you don't die, Wesker will be sure to leave you so beaten and tormented you'll regret trying to fight him like that and won't want to try again. Even if Wesker secretly hopes you will.

The Executioner

While the others welcome the resistance, even if only to crush it, Pyramid Head would likely resent you for trying to physically challenge the killer and disrupt the natural order of things. It was an injustice, and it was imperative to punish you for this.

Imagine playing as a "Gen-Jockey" survivor, the kind of teammate who provides the bare minimum to the rest of the team, putting your own survival above the lives of your teammates, the type of survivor Pyramid Head hated the most. A coward.

All that to say, it was an extreme shock after he cornered you and felt your teeth sinking into the exposed flesh above his glove.

While you were combative and aggressive now, Pyramid Head knew you couldn't keep this up forever. You were, to him, nothing but a coward deep down. Even if you wanted to pretend like you had any real fight of your own, it wouldn't be long before you surrendered to your own exhaustion. Perhaps he was even doing this as his way of offering you a "fair shot" to find your way out before he got his hands on you. Like he would ever let that happen.

Since you tried to bite him earlier, he'd punish you by fucking you from behind, bent over a broken desk crushing your face against the hardwood surface. He was an inescapable force while you were powerless to stop any of this from below.

Would only give into his beastial nature to hurt and fuck you if he's already managed to kill the rest of your team. It's not his style to slaughter his obsession until he's taken care of the others, and he doesn't want to let anyone pass by without judgment.

If he doesn't get this opportunity during the trial, Pyramid Head will fantasize about killing you off last while staying buried inside you, feeling your pathetic body crumbling and going limp beneath him.

Paradoxical feelings of sadism and protectiveness for you as Pyramid Head is obsessed with being the only one alloweed to hurt you, judge your soul, or torture you. But all this cruelty is undermined by his motivation to keep you from getting hurt by others.

He is most likely to let you live after making love because the instant gratification of an orgasm, as well as the satisfaction of punishing you himself, will keep him from sending you up to the entity.

Consider this Pyramid Head's very niche kind of post-nut clarity.

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feyrischan · 7 months ago

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What the fuck did you just fucking dare say about me, you little cutsleeve? I’ll have you know I graduated top of my sect in the cloud recesses, and I’ve been involved in numerous secret raids in the sunshot campaign, and I have tortured over 300 demonic cultivators. I am trained in uncle warfare and I’m the top leader in the entire Yunmeng armed forces. You are nothing to me but just another frog in a well. I will whip you the fuck out with precision the likes of which has never been seen before in the mortal realm, mark my fucking words. You think you can get away with saying that shit to me at the annual conference? Think again, impudent. As we speak I am contacting my secret network of spies across China and your clan's location is being traced right now so you better prepare for the storm, maggot. The storm that wipes out the pathetic little thing you call your core. You're the mantis that stalks the cicada, unaware of the oriole behind, fucker. I can be anywhere, anytime, and I can break your legs in over seven hundred ways, and that’s just with my bare hands. Not only am I extensively trained in martial art, but I have access to the entire arsenal of the yiling laozu fierce corpses and I will use it to its full extent to fuck your ancestors to the eighteenth generation, you little shit. If only you could have known what unholy retribution your little “clever” comment about my nephew was about to bring down upon you, maybe you would have held your fucking tongue. But you couldn’t, you didn’t, and now you’re courting death, you dog fucked idiot. I will shit fury all over you until you don't know whether to laugh or cry. You’re fucking dead, sect leader Yao

#jiang cheng #mdzs

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sadnymi · 1 year ago

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「 ✦ Slytherin Boys' Reaction to Another Boy Making You Laugh: ✦ 」

[Mattheo Riddle / theodore Nott / Lorenzo Berkshire ]

Mattheo Riddle:

Mattheo's piercing gaze followed every move, every interaction, like a hawk tracking its prey. His eyes narrowed as he observed another boy successfully drawing laughter from you, his jaw tightening with suppressed frustration. From across the room, he watched with a simmering intensity, his possessive instincts flaring to life.

As the laughter bubbled from your lips, Mattheo's expression darkened, his features contorting into a scowl. With a deliberate stride, he approached the source of your amusement, his presence commanding attention. The room seemed to hush in his wake, the atmosphere charged with an undercurrent of tension.

Standing before the unsuspecting individual, Mattheo's gaze bore into him with an intensity that could make even the bravest falter. "Mind keeping your jokes to yourself, mate?" His voice was laced with a dangerous edge, causing the boy's smile to falter.

With a menacing step forward, Mattheo loomed over the boy, his aura pulsating with authority. "Let me make something abundantly clear. She belongs to me, and I won't tolerate anyone else trying to steal her laughter." His words hung heavy in the air, a silent promise of retribution.

turned away with you in his arms , his expression remained steely, his watchful gaze never wavering. For Mattheo Riddle, guarding what was his was a duty he took very seriously, and no one dared to challenge the boundaries he had set.

theodore Nott :

Theo's eyes narrowed with a hint of jealousy as he watched another boy's attempt at humor elicit a smile from you. A surge of possessiveness surged through him, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. He couldn't bear the thought of anyone else making you laugh, his determination to assert his claim growing stronger with each passing moment.

As your laughter filled the air, Theo's resolve solidified, his determination to stake his claim unyielding. With a determined stride, he made his way towards you, his movements purposeful and unwavering. Each step was a silent declaration of his devotion, a warning to anyone who dared vie for your attention.

Approaching the other boy, Theo's voice was calm yet tinged with an unmistakable edge."You think you're cute, making her laugh like that?"His words held a subtle possessiveness, a reminder that you were his to cherish."Well, let me tell you something. if I catch you trying to charm her again, you'll wish you never crossed paths with her understood?"His gaze bore into the intruder's, daring him to challenge Theo's claim.

With a protective arm around your waist, Theo guided you away from the scene, his touch possessive yet reassuring. As he led you to a quieter corner of the room, his eyes never strayed from yours, a silent reassurance passing between you. For Theo Nott, seeing you laugh with another was a reminder of just how fiercely he cherished you.

Lorenzo Berkshire:

Lorenzo's easy smile faltered as he watched another boy's joke draw out your laughter. A surge of jealousy coursed through him, his heart clenching at the sight. He couldn't bear the thought of anyone else making you smile, his fingers twitching with the urge to intervene.

As your laughter filled the room, Lorenzo's resolve solidified, his determination to stake his claim unwavering. With a sense of urgency, he made his way through the crowd, his movements swift and purposeful. Each step was fueled by a desire to protect what was his at all costs.

Approaching the other boy, Lorenzo's voice was calm yet tinged with a hint of warning. "Got something to say, funny guy?" His words held a subtle possessiveness, a reminder that you were his. His gaze bore into the intruder's, a silent challenge daring him .

"Consider this your only warning. Make her laugh again, and you'll regret it."

With a protective arm around your shoulder, Lorenzo guided you away from the scene, his touch comforting yet possessive. As he led you to a quieter corner of the room, his eyes never left yours, a silent promise of his unwavering devotion.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

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onlyangel4 · 2 months ago

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always been there. cm punk. final part.

toxic!roman reigns x reader. cm punk x reader.

synopsis: you and punk have been best friends (with undeniable tension) for years, but you’re in a long-term relationship with roman reigns. when that relationship turns toxic, punk is forced to watch from the sidelines, helpless as you start fading, losing yourself piece by piece. the night you finally break free, he’s the one who picks up the pieces.

author's note: this is the final part, thank you guys for all the love on this !

warnings: toxic relationship. mainpulation. cursing.

taglist: @leo4242564 @reebs-luvs-rhodes-and-wrestling @tinyxrose @pyro-romantic @jihyowrrld @gamer-carat @amandairene88 @thelastemzy

part one // part two // part three // part four // part five // part six // part seven // part eight

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

the sun had already started to dip behind the skyline when you laced up your boots.

backstage buzzed with energy, staff running between curtain calls, pyro cues echoing through the hallways, commentary teams resetting, but where you were, in the small locker room tucked in the far corridor, it felt like the calm before a storm.

you sat on the bench, head bowed, fingers wrapped tight around your wrist tape.

your gear was flawless. hair done. eyes sharp. but your heart? racing.

this was it.

your redemption. your retribution. your wrestlemania moment.

the knock was gentle.

"hey", punk’s voice called softly.

you looked up, and he stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind him.

he’d showered and changed since his match the night before, but he still looked like the war hadn’t quite left him. a faint bruise at his jaw, his hand still taped from the fight. but when he looked at you there was nothing but pride.

"you ready?" he asked.

you tried to smile. "trying to be."

he crossed the room in a few slow steps, crouching in front of you. his hands found yours, thumbs brushing over your knuckles.

"you don’t need to try", he said. "you’ve been ready. since the moment they told you no. since the moment you stood up to roman. since the second you walked away."

your throat tightened.

he leaned in, resting his forehead against yours.

"you’re not proving anything to them tonight. you already did that."

you nodded, just barely. "then what am i doing?"

punk smiled. soft. fierce.

"taking what’s yours."

silence.

then his lips brushed yours, gentle, reverent. just for a second. but it felt like forever.

"i’ll be waiting," he whispered. "right by gorilla."

you watched him stand, that little crooked grin on his face as he turned for the door. just before he left, he looked over his shoulder.

"go make history my love."

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

the stadium was bathed in violet light.

a slow hum rolled across the arena, vibrating under the feet of thousands. on the big screen there were flashes of fire, fragments of past promos, shattered glass transitions of the words "you don’t get to rewrite my story."

Then there was a sudden boom.

pyro exploded across the top of the stadium like lightning cracking open the sky.

and the music hit.

not soft. not subtle. but thunderous. powerful. a new entrance theme, custom-made, slow building, then crashing into gritty guitars and a pulsing beat that felt like a heartbeat.

your heartbeat.

you stepped onto the stage, and the crowd lost it.

the lights caught on your gear a deep, midnight purple and obsidian black, trimmed with molten silver that shimmered like armour. your jacket was long, structured like a warrior’s cape, with a jagged collar that curled like broken wings.

on the back, words embroidered in bold white, "the one they couldn't break."

your hair was slicked into a sharp braid, makeup dark and cutting, a streak of silver tracing along your cheekbone like warpaint.

the camera caught your eyes as you looked into the lens, steady, calm, ready.

you started walking.

the fans reached for you. chanted your name. held signs that told your story.

and when you reached the bottom of the ramp, you stopped.

you looked straight into the ring where iyo waited, title over her shoulder, watching you with the expression of a woman who understood.

tonight wasn’t just another defence.

it was survival.

you slid into the ring.

unclipped your jacket.

tossed it aside.

then turned, stared down the hard cam, and whispered, "let’s finish this."

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the moment the match started, the air thickened. you and iyo circled one another, the crowd still riding the wave of your entrance. the energy was split, respect for Iyo, but overwhelming support for you. the underdog. the survivor. the moment.

iyo struck first, sharp, fast, like lightning. a low dropkick to your thigh, followed by a springboard armdrag that sent you tumbling.

but you popped up. calm. calculated.

you caught her with a hard forearm as she charged again the sound of the impact echoing through the stadium. iyo staggered, and you followed it with a brutal exploder suplex into the corner. the crowd roared.

iyo tried to rely on her speed, dodging, flipping, springboarding. she got some good hits in, a snap hurricanrana, a handspring back elbow, a missile dropkick off the top that landed square on your chest.

you rolled out of the ring to regroup, heart pounding.

but iyo didn’t let you rest she hit you with suicide dive she launched through the ropes and crashed into you, sending you hard into the barricade.

the ref counted.

you got up, teeth gritted, dragging yourself upright as the count hit 6.

you were back in the ring at 7.

iyo climbed the turnbuckle, looking for the moonsault early. but you scrambled up, met her on the top rope delivering an insane superplex.

in the middle of the match you found your footing. the match slowed, and you started grinding her down.

strong-style elbows. a stiff spinebuster. a beautifully timed slingshot ddt. you locked in a modified crossface, wrenching back on iyo’s neck.

she screamed but refused to tap. She broke the hold by kicking on the bottom rope.

the crowd was split between gasps and chants of "this is awesome!"

iyo came back hard, hitting a sick combo of offense consisting of double knees to the face in the corner, springboard dropkick and a brutal german suplex that folded you up like paper

she went for the pin 1, 2... kickout.

she rushed to the ropes, looking for the over the moonsault.

but you caught her. shifting into a powerbomb

straight into a knee to the face.

you didn’t pin her. not yet. you wanted more. you needed finality.

both of you looked half-dead on your feet. you traded strikes in the middle of the ring, iyo’s knife-edge chops, your elbow strikes.

crowd on their feet.

then iyo ducked a lariat and got you into a poisonrana

you landed high on your neck. she rolled you over for the pin but at 2.9 you got the strength to kick out.

she screamed in frustration.

iyo went up top again. looking for an over the moonsault.

but at the last second, you rolled.

she crashed. you pulled yourself up by the ropes, barely standing. the camera caught your face, blood at your lip, mascara smudged, and a fire in your eyes that hadn’t been there before.

you pulled iyo up.

hitting a stiff knee to the gut going into a spinning elbow to the temple

then your finisher

and you went for the pin.

and then the bell rang, announcing your victory.

you had proved everyone wrong.

you were the champion.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

the bell rang.

The stadium exploded deafening, euphoric. Fans jumped to their feet as the graphic flashed on-screen

you sat there on your knees in the centre of the ring, the championship cradled in your hands like something holy. your chest heaved, eyes glassy. the lights above turned golden, showering the ring in warmth like the sun finally broke through.

bayley was the first to slide into the ring.

she crashed into you, wrapping you in a tight, laughing, sobbing hug. she clutched the back of your head, her forehead pressed to yours.

"you did it" she whispered, voice cracking. "you fucking did it."

then came cody wearing an all white suit and megawatt grin. he jumped in like a proud big brother, lifting you halfway off your feet, spinning you around.

"i told you!" he shouted, practically giddy. "i told you this was your moment!"

but it was the last person who stepped through the ropes that made your breath hitch.

punk.

still bandaged from the night before. still limping a little. but his eyes?

all for you.

he walked straight to you, everything else blurring around him, and stopped just inches away.

no words.

just a smile, soft and crooked, the kind of look that felt like a vow.

you dropped the title against your chest, grabbed his face with both hands, and pulled him in.

the kiss was electric. earned. real.

the stadium lost it.

bayley whooped in celebration, slapping the mat. cody mock-fainted in the corner, laughing.

and you, still wrapped in punk’s arms, lifted the title over your head.

fireworks lit up the stadium. gold confetti rained down.

the four of you stood together in the middle of the ring, chosen family, bruised and shining, the war behind you.

you weren’t just the champion now.

you were home.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

it was well after midnight.

the stadium was long empty. the buzz of the crowd replaced by a comforting hush, the kind of stillness that only arrives after a storm has passed.

you were sitting on the floor of the hotel room balcony, legs crossed, hair damp from a shower, wearing one of punk’s old shirts and your title belt nestled beside you like it had always belonged there.

the air was cool. quiet. you could hear the city below, distant and faraway.

behind you, the glass door slid open.

punk stepped out, hoodie half-zipped, hair still tousled from the night’s chaos. he had two mugs in hand, coffee for him, tea for you. he didn’t say anything as he passed it to you. just sank down beside you, his knee bumping yours.

for a while, neither of you spoke.

you just sat there, shoulders touching, eyes on the skyline. you held the mug in both hands, letting the warmth seep into your skin.

then, softly you broke the silence.

"feels different now", you murmured.

punk turned to look at you. "you mean the belt?"

you nodded. "yeah. and everything else. like i can breathe again."

he leaned back on his hands, watching you with that quiet gaze only he could pull off, part amused, part reverent, part in awe.

"you should’ve never had to fight that hard just to be seen", he said.

you looked down at the title.

"at least i wasn’t alone."

he didn’t respond right away. just gently reached out and ran his thumb across your cheek, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

"i don’t think i've ever been prouder of someone in my life", he whispered.

your throat tightened. you turned your face into his palm.

and when he leaned in, the kiss wasn’t electric this time. It was slow. soft. the kind of kiss that said we survived this and I’m not going anywhere.

when you pulled apart, he rested his forehead against yours.

"what's next?" you whispered.

punk smiled. "sleep. Maybe pancakes. then whatever the hell we want."

you laughed softly, heart light for the first time in a long, long while.

the city below sparkled.

and above it all quiet, steady. you and punk stayed wrapped in that moment. no crowd. no chaos. no noise.

just peace.

and love.

and finally you could rest.

#wwe #wwe fic #wwe fandom #wwe fanfiction #wwe raw #wwe smackdown #wwe x reader #cm punk #cm punk x reader #cm punk fanfiction #cm punk x fem reader #cm punk x y/n #cm punk fluff #cm punk angst #wwe angst #wwe fluff #roman reigns #roman reigns angst

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serpentface · 7 months ago

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GUARDIAN LIONS

An Odomache guardian lion cult statue (alabaster with gold plating and inlaid pearl and lapis lazuli), of the curved-reposed maned lioness variant.

Guardian lions are a Wardi architectural/artistic motif that confers protective benefits to the buildings or utilitarian objects on which they are placed. The practice of artworks depicting lions as place-guardians long predates the Faith of the Seven Faced God, and has been translated into contemporary practice as aspects of the Face Odomache.

This Face has core functions as a representation of sovereignty and military might, but additionally is interpreted as both a protective patriarch and nurturing mother to Its people. Lions represent this function well, as a powerful and venerated animal capable of both tremendous ferocity and gentleness (these functions combined in their renowned fierce protection of their own cubs).

Guardian lions come in three distinct sex variants, which impart different meanings.

Male guardian lions most typically are used to represent the Patriarch Odomache, the Face as a divine father that watches over the collective household of Its people. This iconography is most common in architectural guardian lions placed upon homes, as a representative of the father's intended function as the protector and arbiter of his family. They effectively 'guard' the culturally important private familial sphere, with their presence being a reminder to potential trespassers (literal and figurative) that retribution will be severe.

Maneless guardian lionesses are used to represent Odomache as a protector of pregnant women and children, in a form that suggests both an underlying ferocity and a feminine ideal of gentle nurturing. These are less common than the other variants, and mostly appear on smaller art and ritual objects used in conjunction with pregnancy and childrearing. Their most prominent core use is being a standard decoration on the carved ox horns used by midwives to bear oil (anointed upon mothers and newborns) and to pass over women in labor for spiritual protection. They're also common as small art objects or toys for babies and young children.

Maned guardian lionesses express a totality of these functions. Core depictions of the Face Odomache usually use a maned lioness, with the androgyny unifying Its functions as the Patriarch and the nurturing mother into a protective guardian mother to the collective people. These depictions have ubiquitous uses (the only context you Rarely see them in are as household guardians), and are the typical variant seen in important public spaces, and standard as cult statues to Odomache.

The guardian lion is a very old motif with regional variants, and comes in a variety of stylistic forms. There is very little standardization to the style (with some standardized elements only just beginning to develop in cult objects in recent history). However, there are very well-established conventions for the lion's posture that often distinguishes these guardian figures from non-functional, generic lion art, and imply more specified meanings.

STANDARD POSTURES:

Nursing lioness:

Glazed pottery nursing lioness. This is a decorative art object with guardian functions, likely to be placed near a child's bed.

The lion is at rest, belly turned out to the side to expose teats (occasionally accompanied by suckling cubs). Some unique variants are partially anthropomorphized, placing humanoid breasts in the chest area (rather than the more typical anatomically accurate teats). The posture is relaxed but alert, and will be positioned so that the face looks upon the point of approach. This pose is almost exclusively used for guardian lions as protectors for children, displaying a fierce animal mother figure in an entirely gentle, nurturing form.

Reposed:

Unpainted stone statue of a reposed male lion.

The lion is at rest. There is little active threat in its pose, instead invoking a relaxed, self-assured guardian. This motif appears often in non location-specific decoration or general public spaces.

Curved reposed:

Sketch of the curved-reposed alabaster maned lioness as seen from above, as it would appear in a temple shrine. A bowl is placed for libations, a tray for small offerings of flowers and grain.

The lion is at rest, with its front positioned to confront the viewer while the length of its body is simultaneously visible. It is a relaxed pose in a resting position, but the body's contortion makes it more confrontational towards onlookers, suggesting that a cautious and humble approach is necessary. This is most common in cult statues (where offerings will be placed along the length of its body).

Seated:

Seated Loberan house statue guardian, painted stone.

The lion is seated on its haunches, suggesting watchful alertness and an implied threat, but that the animal is secure in its strength and at rest. This type is the most common as an architectural feature for homes, representing patriarchal guardianship of the family and the domestic sphere within. This pose is almost always male, with very occasional maned lioness variants.

Standing/Striding:

Painted marble statue showing a standing/striding maned lioness. The statue is three dimensional with its sides carved in high relief; the pose will appear to be static when viewed from the front, and is mid-stride from the sides. The tail between the legs is unusual for a guardian lion motif and its placement is entirely due to the physical restrictions of this statue's form.

The lion is standing at attention or depicted mid-stride (often both simultaneously), suggesting readiness to strike. This confers a sense active protection and intimidation, and most often appears flanking the entrance in high status public spaces like temples and palaces. As a person approaches a standing+striding variant, they are greeted with a static front staring them down, and the lion appears to walk as they pass, suggesting they have entered an important space being guarded with high alertness- they can feel safe under its active protection (or know that it can and will (figuratively) come after them if they are a trespasser).

Conquering:

An oil lamp depicting a conquering maned lioness. The trampled figure's nudity in this context codifies him as a 'barbarian', while the artificially lengthened skull and long beard distinctly identifies him as a Finn king. This is a piece in the ancient artistic tradition known as 'seething and coping'.

The guardian lion stands over and/or actively tramples a prone form, usually human. It shows the conclusion of the guardian lion's function- the defeat and subduing of a threatening enemy. This enemy figure will often be expressed as a generic 'barbarian' (usually coded via nudity) or representing a specific population by depicting recognizable (real or imagined) practices of dress and adornment. Animals sometimes appear as 'enemies' instead, which can vary depending on the purpose- a dog (generally disliked animal) casts the enemy figure as pathetic and easily destroyed, a king hyena or crocodile (respected/feared large predators) casts the enemy as powerful but overcome by greater might.

This motif most often occurs in art used in state/military contexts (where it quite literally shows an embodiment of the state trampling a foreign enemy to death), but is used in everyday objects as well. The 'enemy' figure (whether a human caricature or an animal) can represent any number of threats perceived by an everyday person - bad luck, curses, a hated neighbor, thieves, livestock predators - and conveys a guardian spirit overcoming these threats.

#imperial wardin

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lillotte17 · 6 months ago

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Mythal thoughts this morning:

Morrigan said that the "closest" word for the kind of spirit Mythal came from was 'Benevolence' and my immediate reaction was:

Because even her idea that 'when kindness is denied it becomes retribution' doesn't really hold water. That's...not really how kindness works. I would think that a spirit formed around the idea of benevolence would have the same sort of path as Compassion if it became corrupted. Something more like Desperation or Despair.

To me, the idea that seems to fit her is Protection.

Protection is good! It's a feeling and impulse born from kindness and a desire to take care of others! It is also one of the oldest and most primary emotions people have. Desire and Fear came into being, and then Protection must have followed soon after. Because what else can you feel when someone you love is afraid? And a universal symbol for that feeling is a mother guarding her children, which is what Mythal always touted herself as being. "She was the Mother, protective and fierce." The Caretaker calls her 'the protector'. And the name of Solas' regret that you have to fight about her is called 'Fall of the Protector.'

But protection pushed too far becomes overbearing and oppressive. Controlling. 'Just do what I say, this is for your own good.' The cat who eats her kittens so they don't starve. The mother who breaks a precious golden mirror to teach her daughter a lesson.

Solas was Wisdom. He wanted to learn and to teach and to reflect, but even as a spirit, I think he wanted to give his knowledge purpose, and it suits him that he would be drawn to an embodiment of Protection. He could share what he knows and she could use it to keep others safe, and they will both find fulfillment in the exchange. It was mutually beneficial for them, and it was helping other people. A kind of symbiosis and even dependency, to some extent.

And then Elgar'nan makes a body. And he convinces Mythal to do so as well. And it's all downhill from there.

But you can see the thread of how Protection could convince Solas as that kind of spirit, not only as his friend, but because of what she embodies. For example, “it’s not wrong to build bodies from the titans, it gives us strength to protect ourselves and others” and “it’s not wrong to sever the titans' dreams, we’re protecting our people by ending the war” and “it’s not wrong to become a god, because the people need someone to watch over them.” Every bad step she asks him to take with her still echoes with the purpose of her original being, even though it is being pushed to harsh and terrible extremes.

Solas being Wisdom sees how she is wrong, but also doubts his convictions because protection is her nature. They have had a mutually beneficial partnership for thousands of years. He relies on her for fulfillment of his nature just as much as he believes she still relies on him for hers. And he loves her. And he trusts her. And for so many thousands of years, she has wanted to do nothing but good, so what she wants can’t be THAT bad, right?

Narrator Voice: It was, in fact, Much Worse.

And everything spins outward. He is Wisdom and he is a spirit, and spirits don't handle sudden change well, and Wisdom does not handle being wrong well, and the more things fall apart, the more he has to try and fix them. The more he has to justify the choices he made as being right. The more he has to defend the idea and the memory of Mythal being Inherently Good. Because if she wasn't good, then he put his trust in the wrong place. He was not Wise. He has lost not only Mythal, but himself and his true nature in allowing her to lead him to horrible places even when he knew better. He has to make the world the way she wanted it not only to soothe his conscience about what happened to the elves after the Veil, but because he is still clinging to the base of his initial partnership with Mythal. Mythal wanted the world this way because she was Good, and I was helping her which made me Good, and anything I have to do to achieve this goal is Acceptable because the results are Good. He can do what they have always done together. He will give his Wisdom for what she wanted to achieve, and the people will be Protected. Their contract and their natures will be fulfilled. And maybe everything else he did can be justified, even if it cannot be forgiven.

#dragon age: the veilguard #mythal #solas #oops this got much longer than i intended #who is surprised lol

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practicalgauntlet · 4 months ago

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τότε μείνε μαζί μου

"Then stay with me."

Spencer's POV

Synopsis- They say there are 5 stages of grief. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Well, I'd like to add one more- Revenge.

Category- Heavy angst, retribution

Warnings- feral Spencer, angry Spencer, grieving Spencer, beating someone half to death, blood and gore, thoughts of violence, actual violence, Spencer goes ape shit the way Hotch beat Foyet. Vivid details of someone's nose breaking, blood, lots and lots of blood, OOC, I paint a very graphic image of Spencer's snap.

Notes- I love writing angst, I don't know why I just hope you enjoy it. And I'll make good on my promise for something tooth-rottingly sweet, so don't get too angry with me <3 This goes out to @slipk-holy for helping me edit, you're the best!!!

Wordcount- 3,123

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Spencer sits in the middle of his apartment, his last words to your lifeless body still echoing throughout his otherwise empty mind.

"I'll wait for you my darling, you better be waiting for me on the other side."

Spencer was not a religious man. But when it came to you, he believed in miracles. He believed that someone out there plucked you from your divine path and placed you in his life. Spencer prayed to whoever had put you in his life to return you. He pleaded to hold you in his arms once more, but there was no answer.

He never believed in the afterlife. He thought of it as nothingness, a lack of consciousness where one ceases to exist on any plane. The idea of holding you, of seeing you once more clung to the fibers of his mind. It kept him from breaking entirely.

So maybe Spencer was a man of religion if only it meant you awaited him with open arms.

He hadn't moved in such a long time, his back aching from the upright and cross-legged position on his hardwood floors. Spencer lacked the motivation to crawl onto the couch or drag his body into the shower. He hadn't had the motivation to do anything really, other than replay the memories he held so dear to his heart.

But as he looked around his apartment, still teeming with the life you lived there, disdain rose up his throat like bile; burning a path through his body until he was boiling over with it.

Your most recent book was still open on the coffee table, the collection you brought with you still mixed with his on the massive bookshelf. Your slippers were still haphazardly strewn across the floor where you left them that morning, the echo of your halfhearted attempt to convince him to call in sick was still so fresh.

He felt something hot and putrid clawing its way out of him, singing every piece of skin and bone it touched on its way out. It was nasty, and vile, leaving a trail of change in its wake. Spencer could feel the mutation in his soul. He could feel the emptiness devour him whole, chewing on his bones for every last morsel he had to offer.

All that was left was a devastating rage. A fury that threatened the world around him. An indignation that promised singed handprints wherever he touched. A wrath so powerful he was no longer the man he was proud of. He was a stranger, an offensive mockery of what once was.

And the best part?

Spencer didn't care.

Spencer didn't care as he stood up and kicked the coffee table into the wall sending glass shattering all over the floor. He plucked the book out of the pile of carnage, not giving a shit about the splinters of glass embedded into his fingertips.

Spencer didn't care as he ripped the pages out of the book, hurling the empty hardback through the window. He watched with a sick satisfaction as the destruction sparkled around him.

Next was his bookshelf, the stories and words he'd share with you when the two of you couldn't sleep now flung across the room. The bookshelf was toppled, and not a care in the world was given as it crashed to the floor.

Spencer was a whirlwind of devastation, a tornado of obliteration so fierce there wasn't a corner nor cabinet that was untouched by rage.

Wherever you lingered, he destroyed. The chair you'd always sit at was slammed into the wall. The mug you favored was shattered against the floor. Every instance of your memory, of your ghost, was annihilated by his hand.

When he got to the bedroom, his chest heaving with firey vengeance, he paused.

Your side of the bed was still crinkled, the indention of your head imprinted on the pillow. Your Kindle was still charging on your nightstand. Your knickknacks and decorations still hung in every corner and on every shelf.

It was like you were just at the store and he should start dinner so it would be hot for when you got home. Like you were in the shower or on call. Anything but dead.

He couldn't tear apart the last remaining proof that you lived, that you had grasped his heart with your bare hands and allowed him the same privilege.

No, he couldn't bring himself to taint the preserved capsule of the life he shared with you with anger. Or sadness. Or the grief that left him raw and vulnerable. He couldn't even step one foot past the doorway.

He closed the door.

There was no use in even trying.

Before he could move on to the bathroom, the itch in his fist for more destruction too tempting for someone so usually non-violent, his phone rang somewhere in the apartment.

Spencer didn't feel like answering it or talking to someone about his wife and the chokehold her death has on him. He was perfectly content in watching his world crumble around him alone.

But it rang. And it rang. And it rang.

In a sudden burst of energy, Spencer marched right up to the source of the maddening noise. His mobile phone was neatly tucked into his satchel pocket, at fifty percent, just the way he left it after unceremoniously tossing the stupid fucking bag to the floor.

Spencer grabbed the phone in one hand and his heaviest lamp in the other. There was something so twisted about the relief that flooded him every time he brought the base of the lamp down on the phone.

His teammates would call it overkill if the phone was a person and the lamp was a knife. They would profile him as someone who was devolving, someone so close to snapping almost entirely that they had to act swiftly. In a way, he was. In a way, he was exactly like the monsters they hunted for the bloodlust that raged through him was for one thing only.

No amount of superficial destruction could keep his need for violence a bay. No, Spencer needed something organic to put his fists through. But for now, the insistent ringing of his phone has stopped, and he felt just a tad bit better.

Until his landline rang.

There was no breaking this phone, the technology old but surprisingly durable. So he only had one choice left if he were to save the last remaining shred of sanity he was clinging to.

"What the fuck is so important that you have to call me every six seconds?!"

He seethes, face hot with ire.

"Woah," J.J, breathes into the phone. "Calm down, Spence. I'm just calling to check up on you."

"Don't call me that."

"Sorry, Spen-. I'm sorry. I just needed to know you were okay."

Spencer was beyond annoyed, beyond aggravated. He could feel himself splitting at the seems with hatred and violence.

And Spencer didn't care if he was taking it out on his friend. Spencer stopped caring a long time ago.

"Oh, I'm fucking fantastic J.J. Just beaming with joy! It's not like my wife died not even twenty four hours ago. No, everything's happy unicorns and God damn rainbows."

J.J. just sighed.

"Spencer, I'm just trying to be there for you."

He could hear the desperation in her voice. But instead of comforting him like it should have, like it had done in the past, it irritated him even more.

"Sure, thanks."

Spencer was ready to hang up, ready to unplug the phone and toss it out of the broken window. But he heard something in the background, and his attention was once again drawn away from his agony.

It sounded as if someone were speaking to J.J., their tone urgent and dead serious. Spencer couldn't make out the words, but he could make out the importance of them.

"What's going on?"

"Nothing. We're just having some problems with an unsub."

He knew exactly who she was talking about, knew why she was purposefully vague with him. And the second it all clicked, the second a plan swiftly formed in his head, he was dead set on a path.

"Okay... just- stop calling me for a while."

He played into the grieving husband shtick, not letting a drop of indignation seep through his voice. Arousing suspicion would nip his brilliant plan in the bud, and Spencer just couldn't have that.

J.J. was hesitant to agree, with her being an amazing friend and all, but ultimately relented. Spencer just needed space is all, at least that's what she told herself.

Spencer gently sat the receiver down, an eerie calm settling over him. It was a rage he'd never felt before, one that guaranteed an end. A retribution.

Revenge.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

It was easy for Spencer to just walk into headquarters.

Too easy.

Maybe it was because of the pallor of his skin, or the dark bags that had become so much darker. Maybe it was even the shabby robe he still wore; his pajamas reeking of depression.

Either way, Spencer didn't linger for long. The faster he was in and out, the less suspicion he'd raise. The less suspicion he arose, the longer he'd have with his ultimate agenda.

It was calculated perfectly, executed just so. Swiftly enter the building, sadly waving to the guards all the while mumbling about friends, and help, and shoulders to cry on. Sympathy was so easy to wrangle, so easy to manipulate.

They let him in, their eyes downcast to avoid the miserable expression on his face. He should be upset at how easy it was to get in. There really should be more security. But then again, he didn't really care, did he?

He breezed passed the main office, passed the badge check, and into the elevator. Now would probably be the point where reality would hit. Was he really planning on interfering with an ongoing investigation, just to get answers he could deduce himself?

But none of that even registered as he watched the numbers slowly click up.

The lobby leading into the bullpen was empty, void of his friends or the others he knew only in passing. He was alone. The perfect environment to enable his downward spiral.

That collected calmness puppeteered him like a marionette, its hooked claws pulling the strings of his limbs towards the hallway that led to the interrogation rooms.

This is where he heard the commotion of the BAU in action. Hushed demands, muffled yelling, the occasional sigh of frustration. They hadn't noticed him yet, his socked feet concealing his footsteps.

He popped his head around the corner, watching as Hotch, Morgan, and Emily whisper to each other in front of the viewing window. J.J. and Rossi were sitting inside the room, their backs towards the window and their undivided attention upon Dimitri Cain.

Just the sight of the man had his blood boiling, his fingers twitching, and his throat closing around a violent burst of every emotion possible.

Anger- because his wife was dead and he was the man responsible.

Sadness- because he was reminded that he could never look upon the love of his life ever again.

Jealousy- because he wasn't the one in the room, demanding answers and getting them.

Joy- because he was closer to scratching that itch than he thought possible.

J.J. and Rossi exit the room, their faces grim and arms crossed with frustration. The five of them move away from the interrogation room.

"We need to form another plan,"

He heard Hotch say, his voice tight and stern.

The team agreed and left the door in the hands of a guard whilst they plotted. Now was the perfect time. He couldn't believe the luck he was having.

Maybe there was such a thing as the divine.

"You're not supposed to be here, Dr. Reid."

The guard said as Spencer approached.

"I was called in to help, you can ask Hotch but I doubt he'd enjoy being second-guessed."

"I just don't think-"

"Please..."

Spencer pleaded, and the tone he used was genuine this time. There was no manipulation nor tactic to persuade, only unadulterated desperation.

"I need something to do."

The words unsaid seemed to be as loud as those spoken, the guard's face falling with sympathy as he hesitated.

I need something to distract me.

Only a brief second did Spencer play with the idea of attacking the guard. He knew of all the pressure points to swiftly and quietly take him down; it wouldn't be hard to get what he needed.

But the guard stepped aside.

"Thank you."

The heavy door was opened.

Spencer stepped through, his body tingling with a blazing fire.

The door clicked shut.

He was alone with the object of his undoing. The breaker of his world. And there was nothing more dangerous than a desperate man with nothing to lose.

Spencer sat across from Dimirti, the man in question eyeing him with a speculating gaze.

"You're gettin' nothin' outta me."

Dimitri leaned back and blatantly challenged Spencer.

"I just have a few questions."

"Are you even a fuckin' fed? You look like shit."

Spencer unconsciously mimicked Dimirti's stance, staring the man down with an unbreaking mask of tranquil fury. He let his silence answer for him, folding his arms across his chest and leaning back in the chair.

"Alright, I see how it is."

"And how is it, Dimitri?"

"It's that reverse psychology shit, not gonna work on me."

Spencer just shook his head.

"Just ask me the stupid fuckin' questions already so I can get this shit over with."

Spencer hummed, clasping his hands in front of him and leaning forward on his elbows.

"Why did you take her?"

"Again with this bitch-"

"Watch your fucking mouth."

Eyes wide, Dimitri stilled. Then, realization glided across his face. A slow smile spread, tainting Spencer with its wickedness.

"You're the husband."

It wasn't a question but a mere statement.

You got what you want, I have a husband-

Please! I don't want to die!

Spencer pounced like a lion, toppling the table with Dimitri still cuffed to it. He was lost in the rage, mind, and body willingly subject to the agonizing fury that was slowly becoming a shield.

He couldn't hear anything, not a thought registered. Only the broken screams of his wife as she pleaded to live.

Spencer straddled Dimitri, completly in control as the man beneath him writhed.

Something sick and twisted bloomed inside him with the first punch. With the second, that evil forged a bond with his soul. Once pure and golden, Spencer Reid was now as dark as the blood that seeped from Dimitri's nose.

On the third punch, Spencer could feel the cartilage break. The splintering of his knuckles was nothing but an afterthought to the satisfaction and relief that plagued him.

Dimitri wiggled under him, trying with all his might to kick him off or slide his hands out of the cuffs. But Spencer kept going.

He brought his fist down again, Dimitri's face already swollen beyond recognition. The deep burgundy of Dimitri's blood sprayed across Spencer's face, across his chest, and outward into the air.

Unbeknownst to Spencer, he was giddy. His face stretched in a feral grin, every tooth shining with glee as he continued to pummel Dimitri into the stained marble floor.

Someone was screaming, the ragged and unfamiliar sound muffled like it was underwater. His ears were ringing, adrenaline and undiluted grief pushing everything Spencer ever was deep into an iron box and tossing it down the hole you left in his heart.

It wasn't until he was ripped from Dimirti, that he realized he was the one screaming.

"You killed her!"

Spencer thrashed against the strong body behind him, the grip under his arms unmoving despite his best efforts.

"You killed my wife!"

Feebly, Spencer tried to continue the beating, swinging his long legs towards the motionless body lying on the floor. Something wet hit his face, the sensation shocking his senses back into the present.

Derek was behind him, growling his name like Spencer was a rogue unsub who refused to listen.

He was dragged out of the room, his limbs now hanging numbly at his sides. Cold metal was wrapped around his wrists before anyone even tried talking to him.

Spencer welcomed the bite, savoring the only thing he could feel.

"What the hell were you thinking?"

Hotch was in his face, his eyes wide with frustration. The team was behind him, but Spencer didn't even spare them a glance. He just looked past Hotch, unseeing and unfeeling.

"Spencer!"

Finally, he dragged his emotionless gaze towards his boss who was frothing at the mouth with anger.

"I don't know."

"I don't know, I don't know? What do you mean, 'I don't know'? I should fire you!"

"Then do it."

What did he have to live for anyways?

A team that would only look at him with pity? A family that would treat him like he were made of glass, cracked and begging to be shattered.

Hotch huffed a sigh, hands on his hips.

"Listen, kid. I know exactly what you're going through. Vengeance isn't the answer."

"Says the man who did the same exact thing I just did. The only difference between you and me is that you got your retribution immediately."

Spencer hated the look of understanding that creased Hotch's brows, the empathy that threatened to undo all the apathy that was holding him together.

"This anger isn't going to bring her back..."

Spencer knew this. He knew nothing could bring you back. No amount of praying, religious devotion, and possible rituals would bring you back to him.

The simple truth was that he was lost without you.

He didn't know how to live without you by his side.

Something dripped onto his hands clasped in his lap. When he looked up and could see nothing but his swimming vision, he realized he was crying.

An unstoppable sob wracked his body, forcing his shoulders to cave in and his chest to implode. The damn was bursting, his walls cracking with each broken cry.

When he took a deep breath, a feeble attempt to control the crumbling mess that was his mental state, it all crashed around him.

His throat burned with the intensity of his scream. All his grief, all his anger, and sadness, and desolation were unleashed. He curled in on himself, hugging his sides as if he were able to replicate the feeling of your embrace.

The team surrounded him, hushed assurances, and murmured comfort as they all wrapped their arms around him. It still wasn't enough.

It still wasn't you.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

A/N- This was supposed to cure my writer's block, but it still has its claws in me. I keep comparing my writing and my stories to those I see on my feed and I only get discouraged. But comparison is the thief of joy, so please let me know if you enjoy this. Feedback is very much welcome in any form but I need to know if I'm doing something right.

#spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #no use of y/n #angst #angst no comfort #dealing with grief #crashing out #canon typical violence #last part

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