#and you can barely even see the flicker of the flame above his hand

[suguwu]

thinking about nanami smoking when he's stressed and how big his hands look against the lighter and the cigarette

[societyfolklore]

Hiiiii 😍 can I pretty please ask for an imagine where Bucky and you are a couple and you're there with him in Wakanda when he is freed from the word controlling him. Like the heartbreaking scene around the fire, where he knows he's free, and you are there for him and he's holding you close like he would fall apart without you. Then later in his hut it's all fluffy maybe a bit smutty, but only if you want. Thank youuuu !

Title:  Freed

Pairing: Wakanda!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary:  After years of torment, Bucky is finally free from the words that once controlled him. You’re by his side when it happens.

Word Count:  2k

Warnings: /Explicit Content / 18+, Minors DNI, Established relationship, Emotional hurt/comfort, canon-level trauma, soft/romantic smut, post-deprogramming intimacy, light angst with a healing ending, one-arm Bucky (but Vibranium shoulder)  unprotected sex, slow burn tenderness, praise, body worship, crying during sex, firelight sex, fluff A/N:  Thank you for this request, but want to take this chance to recommend @angelremnants series HEAT WAVES Part One (There are three parts) which explores Bucky's recovery in Wakanda. ALSO I’m so hoping I got the trigger words right.. google translate is a bit iffy sometimes) The fire crackled softly under the Wakandan sky, casting flickering gold across Bucky’s face, making the lines of pain and exhaustion etched into his features all the more visible. You watched him from a few feet away, your heart in your throat, barely daring to breathe. Ayo stood across from him, on the other side of the fire, quiet and focused, her voice calm and unwavering as she said the word that once meant devastation.

"Zhelaniye. Rzhaviy."

He flinched.

Your breath caught painfully in your chest.

"Semyadca"

He shuddered, his shoulders jerking like the word had pierced straight through bone.

"It's not going to work."

His voice cracked with quiet despair, thick and raw with fear, barely above a whisper, as if speaking the words too loudly might make them real. His eyes stayed locked on the fire, unblinking, like it held the answer to his freedom- or the confirmation of his doom. The flames reflected in the blue of his eyes, dancing like ghosts of the past he couldn't escape.

His jaw trembled, the muscle there feathering with the effort to stay composed. His shoulders were rigid, locked in place as though even the smallest movement might shatter him. You saw the tear before it fell, clinging stubbornly to his lower lashes, glistening in the firelight. A single bead of grief, of fear, of decades of pain refusing to be contained any longer.

You ached for him to look at you instead, to see your face, to feel your presence- to remember that he wasn’t alone in this, that he never had to face it alone again. But he couldn’t. Not yet. He was caught in it, drowning in the weight of what might come next, and all you could do was be near enough to catch him when he fell.

"Rassvet. Pech."

Tears welled in your eyes. You hated those words. Hated the way they twisted into him like claws. But he wasn’t breaking- not this time. His lips were trembling, jaw clenched like he was holding the whole damn world together.

"Devyat. Dobroserdechnyy. "

His breathing got rough, chest rising and falling like he’d run miles- but this was no physical exertion. He was fighting ghosts, memories clawing their way through the cracks in his mind, each word like a trigger detonating deep within his soul. His hands were fists at his sides, not from rage, but desperation- as if gripping reality with all he had left. You could see the tension in his neck, how close he was to shattering. His eyes were filling with water, not just from pain, but from the unbearable weight of trying- fighting a battle no one else could see, but you felt every ounce of it with him. 

"Vozvrashcheniye na rodinu. Odin."

One last time. You watched his face.

"Tovarnyy vagon."

And then- nothing.

Silence, except for the fire.

The world seemed to hold its breath. Even the wind stilled, as if it too was waiting to see what came next. You felt your heart pounding in your chest, echoing in your ears as your gaze never left him.

You stepped closer as Ayo said softly, "You are free."

Bucky didn’t move for a second. The words hung in the air between you, too powerful to fully believe. A single tear slipped down his cheek, catching in the firelight like a falling star. His chest heaved with a shaky breath. Then his eyes- wide, almost wild- snapped to yours. And you saw it. That tiny glimmer of disbelief. Of hope. Of something long buried beginning to rise.

He was free.

You crossed the space in an instant, barely aware of your feet hitting the earth.

His arms were around you before you could even speak. He buried his face in your shoulder, his body trembling with the aftershocks of a battle no one else could see. He clutched you like a man who’d been drowning and finally found air, fingers digging into your back like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go. His breath hitched in your ear, uneven and broken and real.

"I thought it would never stop," he whispered, voice breaking like a dam under pressure. "I thought I’d always be... that thing. A weapon. A monster." His hands tightened in the fabric of your clothes, as if anchoring himself to something real, something good. "I didn’t think I’d ever come back from it."

You held him tighter, your arms circling him like a shield, running your fingers through his tangled hair, your lips brushing against his temple with reverence. "You were never just that. You were always more. But now? You're free, baby. You’re finally free." You felt his breath stutter against your neck, and your own eyes burned with unshed tears.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his expression cracked wide open, vulnerable and bare. His eyes were glassy, red-rimmed, but soft, so full of aching. "Don’t let go of me." His voice was small, almost childlike.

"Never," you whispered fiercely, your forehead resting against his. "Not now. Not ever."

Later, after the tears and the fire and the quiet walk back to his hut, you found yourself draped over him on the narrow bed, like one of the soft Wakandan blankets he’d grown so fond of. Your legs tangled with his, your head tucked beneath his chin, nestled against the curve of his body under his remaining arm. His vibranium shoulder shifted slightly as he breathed, but it was his right arm that held you, his warm hand resting against your back, protective, steady, and so achingly human.

Your fingers traced lazy lines over his new shoulder and up to trace little patters on his neck. He was quieter now, still raw but grounded, like the weight had finally been lifted from his soul.

"You stayed," he murmured. He sounded tired still, no wonder tonight had taken a lot out of him. 

"Of course I did."

"I wouldn’t have made it through without you."

You sat up a little to look into those wondrous blue eyes of his, your hand cradling his cheek as he blinked up at you, content and vulnerable in the soft light. Then you pressed soft kisses into his forehead, lingering there like a promise. "You did this, Bucky. You fought. I just loved you through it."

He smiled against your skin, a real one. Soft and tired and safe.

Your touch drifted lower, skimming the line of his waist. His breath caught when your fingers teased beneath the hem of his waistband.

"Wanna show you how grateful I am," he whispered, voice husky now, warm and low in the dark. His hand brushed your hip, thumb moving in slow, reverent circles, like he was grounding himself in the reality of your body, your presence, the moment. There was no urgency, only need, the quiet, aching kind born from survival, from still being here.

"Yeah?" you breathed, heart fluttering.

You climbed over him, slow and careful, straddling his hips as he lay back against the bed. His vibranium shoulder shifted beneath him as he adjusted, but it was his right arm- his only hand- that reached for you, fingers brushing your cheek, then settling over your hip with a grounding, tender grip. The kiss he gave you was reverent, gentle, as if he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to have you like this. To feel.

His hand roamed with quiet purpose, memorizing you like a map, fingertips trailing over your skin in soft devotion- like now, finally, he could touch you without shadows. He watched you through heavy-lidded eyes, jaw slack with awe, as you shifted above him with reverence.

You reached for the fabric tied low on his hips- loose Wakandan linen he’d gotten used to wearing. With deliberate care, you untied the knot and pushed it aside, revealing him to the cool air. You could feel his breath stutter as you slid your folds along the length of him, not taking him in, just gliding your slick heat over him in slow, languid passes. Your arousal coated him in wet desire, the glide of your body an erotic, intimate tease that made his jaw clench and a low growl rise in his throat. Each slow grind of your hips was deliberate, worshipful, as if marking him with the proof of how deeply you ached for him.

A low groan rumbled in his chest, and his right hand gripped your hip, fingertips pressing into your skin. You ground your hips against him, sliding up and down the length of him without taking him in, the friction enough to make you both tremble. The air was thick with heat and reverence, the firelight painting your bodies in gold and shadow.

When you finally shifted your hips and sank onto him, a shaky gasp spilled from both your lips. He filled you slowly, deeply, and you paused with him fully seated inside, your forehead resting against his.

"Fuck," he whispered, reverent and wrecked. "You feel like home."

Bucky sat up with effort, his shoulders bracing behind him as his right arm circled your waist. His lips found yours again, hungry, grateful. He kissed you like he was memorizing it, like he never wanted to come up for air.

"God, you feel so good," he murmured against your lips, breath hot and shaky. "So warm… so alive."

You whimpered softly, your forehead pressed to his. "You're here, baby. You're really here. I've got you."

His hand found your breast, cupping and kneading with aching tenderness, his thumb brushing over your nipple in time with your slow rolls of your hips. You gasped, your nails digging lightly into his shoulder as your body pulsed around him.

"That’s it, doll," he whispered, his voice rough and reverent. "Take your time… I wanna feel every damn second of this."

You rocked against him with lazy purpose, each motion deep and drawn out. Your head tipped back, a breathless moan escaping you as you felt him fill you again, stretching you just right, grounding you in a way nothing else ever had. "Nothing- no one- feels like you do, Bucky," you gasped, your voice breaking on the edges of pleasure. "You’re the only one I want..."

He groaned softly, kissing along your jaw, your throat, like he couldn’t get enough of your skin. The glow of the firelight cast you both in amber, your skin shining with sweat and reverence, the shadows flickering across the planes of his chest and the curves of your back.

He whispered your name like a prayer between kisses, like it grounded him to this world. "Tell me this is real," he murmured. "Tell me I’m not dreaming."

You cupped his cheek, voice thick with emotion. "It’s real. You’re mine, Bucky. You're here, really here."

You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, pressing your chest flush to his, your skin slick and warm where it met his. Each roll of your hips was met with a soft rock of his own, his thighs flexing beneath you, pushing deeper, drawing out breathy moans that tangled with the crackle of firelight.

His right hand held tight to your waist, guiding you gently, as if every movement was sacred. "You’re everything," he groaned. "You saved me."

"We saved each other," you whispered into his ear.

You stayed like that, chest to chest, sweat mingling, hearts beating in time, until the world outside that bed no longer existed, and all that remained was the rhythm you made together.

This was what it meant to be free. To feel, to be loved, to live.

You came first, your body tensing as the wave crested, your thighs shaking, your hips bucking slightly against him as your climax crashed through you. His name tumbled from your lips in a broken moan, high and desperate, as your walls clenched and spasmed around him, gripping him so tightly it dragged him right over the edge with you.

Bucky gasped your name with a raw, wrecked sound, trembling beneath you as he spilled inside, his grip tightening on your waist like he was holding on for dear life. You held him close through the shuddering aftershocks, your forehead pressed to his, grounding him in your touch.

Reminding him he was safe.

Reminding him he was loved. 

[kateschi]

into the ashes

synopsis: amid the chaos of flames and debris, dabi bares witness to you getting injured. he does not like it.

pairing: dabi x f!reader

⊹ ࣪ ˖ notes: behold i have forced my bestie into liking him

the air reeks of smoke and burnt metal, debris scattering across the alley as another explosion rocks the street. you’re cornered, body trembling from the impact, struggling to regain your footing.

blood trickles down your arm from a gash on your shoulder, and the sharp sting makes your vision blur for a moment.

dabi stands a few feet away, eyes locked on the thug who had dared to strike you. his entire frame is tense, shadows dancing across his scarred skin, the blue flames licking at his fingertips ready to erupt.

he doesn’t even glance your way at first—his gaze is trained solely on the scum in front of him.

"you’re going to regret that," he says, voice low and lethal, a dark promise wrapped in fire.

the thug grins, clearly underestimating the depth of dabi’s rage. but you can see it—the way his blue eyes darken, how the flames around him burn hotter, more unstable.

there’s no room for banter now, no time for him to throw his usual sarcastic remarks. the second you hit the ground, his entire focus narrowed to one thing: absolute destruction.

but as much as his fury is directed outward, there’s something more dangerous in his posture—something sharp and suffocating in the way his hands shake, just barely under control.

for once, he’s not just mad. he’s terrified.

"dabi—" you start, trying to push yourself up, the pain shooting through your side forcing you back down.

he whirls around at the sound of your voice, and for a split second, you see something in his eyes that you’ve never seen before.

it’s brief, but the fear is there, raw and unchecked, the kind of fear that cracks through the facade he wears so well. his lips curl back into a snarl, but the flames flicker dangerously as he rushes toward you, the thug all but forgotten in that moment.

"don’t move." his voice is harsh, sharper than usual, but there’s an edge of desperation beneath it. "just—stay still, alright?"

you blink up at him, dazed, but you manage a weak nod. he kneels beside you, one of his hands hovering just above your wound, hesitating.

his touch is scorching, his quirk on the verge of slipping out of control, and he knows it. the last thing he wants is to hurt you more.

"fuck…" his breath comes out in a shaky exhale as he forces himself to calm down, though the fury in his eyes hasn’t diminished.

"you—you're so goddamn stubborn, you know that?" his voice wavers for a second, betraying the vulnerability he’s trying so hard to conceal.

you manage a faint smile despite the pain. "takes one to know one."

his lips twitch, almost forming a smile, but the moment is fleeting as the sound of movement snaps his attention back to the thug behind him. instantly, his entire demeanor changes.

his hand slips away from yours, blue flames surging to life once more, but this time, they’re different—brighter, hotter, more dangerous. the air around him pulses with a terrifying heat, and the ground beneath his feet begins to blacken.

"you think you can touch her and walk away?" dabi’s voice is venomous now, dripping with pure hatred. "I’ll burn you until there’s nothing left."

there’s no mercy in him anymore, no restraint. you can barely keep up with what happens next as he moves in a blur, his flames surging forward like a wildfire.

you can hear the thug’s screams as dabi unleashes the full force of his power, the blue fire consuming everything in its path.

the heat is suffocating, but you can’t look away. you’ve seen dabi angry before, but this is something else entirely.

this is him unhinged, relentless, the raw intensity of his emotions laid bare for the world to see. it’s terrifying and yet… there’s a twisted kind of beauty in it, in how fiercely he fights for you.

in minutes, it’s over.

the alley falls silent, save for the crackling of dying flames, and dabi stands amidst the ashes of what used to be the thug. his chest rises and falls heavily, his skin gleaming with sweat, but his eyes find you immediately.

without a word, he’s back at your side, kneeling down, his hand reaching for yours again. his fingers are still warm, but gentler now, as though he’s scared you’ll break under his touch.

"don’t you ever—" his voice is hoarse, ragged with emotion. "don’t you ever get hurt like that again."

there’s no teasing this time, no snide remark to hide behind. his grip tightens, not enough to hurt but enough to let you know just how much this is affecting him.

he doesn’t want to say the words, doesn’t want to admit just how deep you’ve gotten under his skin, but it’s there, in the way he holds onto you like he’s scared you’ll slip away.

you give his hand a gentle squeeze, offering him the only comfort you can in that moment. "I’m okay, dabi."

his jaw clenches, and he shakes his head. "you’re not. and that’s the problem."

for a moment, he just sits there, staring down at your intertwined hands. his flames have finally receded, the heat dissipating, leaving only the cool night air around you both.

when he speaks again, his voice is quieter, almost vulnerable. "I can’t—" he stops himself, frustration flashing across his face as if the words themselves are too hard to say. "I can’t watch you get hurt. not you."

it’s not an outright confession, but it’s close. as close as dabi can get. and in the way his hand trembles slightly in yours, in the way his gaze softens, just for you, you realize that maybe that’s enough.

for now.

kofi — navigation — masterlist

do not copy, translate, or plagarize

[mintyys-blog]

Can you pls do a robin!reader(from teen titans) x viltrumite mark.but after viltrumite mark takes over the world,robin!reader have to fight him to save the world.

FAILED | viltrumite mark x reader

INVINCIBLE MASTERLIST | WARNINGS: fighting, no good ending.

Smoke rose from the wreckage of Jump City.

Cracked buildings loomed like tombstones, and the T-shaped Titan Tower lay broken in half, its silhouette a mockery of the heroes who once lived there. Fires raged in the distance, unchecked—because no one was left to put them out.

You stood on the roof of what remained of city hall, battered and bloody in your torn Robin uniform. Your hands trembled as you loaded your last birdarang. The wind whipped your cape around like it was trying to drag you away, away from this moment. But you wouldn’t run. You never did.

Not even from him.

A sonic boom shattered the sky. And then, he was there.

Mark Grayson—Invincible. No… not anymore.

Now he was something else. Something far worse.

Red eyes. Bloodstained Viltrumite armor. Hovering inches off the rooftop, looking down at you like you were just a memory from a dream he’d outgrown.

“…Y/N,” he said, voice softer than you expected. “Why are you doing this?”

You grit your teeth, stepping forward. “You know why. You’re not the Mark I knew. The Mark I—” You swallowed the lump in your throat. “The Mark I loved wouldn’t have burned cities. He wouldn’t have made graves of children.”

His face twitched. Just for a second. And you saw it—him. A flicker of guilt. Remorse.

But it vanished as quickly as it came.

“I gave you a chance,” he murmured. “I asked you to stand beside me. You could’ve ruled by my side.”

“I’d rather die on my feet than kneel at yours.”

The words stung, and you knew they did—because his expression darkened, and the wind howled louder around him. But you moved first, launching yourself into the air, baton in one hand, birdarang in the other.

You hit him. Once. Twice.

A clean strike to the jaw. Another to the side of his temple. You flipped and landed behind him, launching a grapple line, yanking him down into the concrete.

But then— Everything stopped.

He blurred. And before you could blink, he was behind you. You felt a cold hand on the back of your neck, two fingers pressing against your spine.

There was a sickening pop.

Your body hit the ground before your mind caught up. You couldn’t feel your legs. Your arms twitched once—then went still.

“…No,” you whispered, your voice barely above the crackle of flames nearby.

Mark kneeled beside you, his face unreadable. “You’re not dead,” he said, quietly. “I made sure of that. Your spine is severed. You won’t walk again. You won’t fight me again.”

Tears welled in your eyes—not from pain, but from betrayal. “You… you could’ve killed me. Why didn’t you?”

He looked away, jaw clenched.

“Because I still love you,” he admitted, and for the first time, his voice cracked. “And I can’t keep watching you throw your life away fighting me. So I made sure you wouldn’t.”

You stared at him, tears streaking down your dirt-smeared face.

“You monster,” you whispered.

Mark stood, hovering again, cape flowing behind him like some cruel god’s shroud. “I’ll rebuild the world. A better one. You’ll see, Y/N. And maybe… maybe someday, you’ll forgive me.”

You screamed his name, screamed until your voice broke, as he vanished into the sky.

And you were left there, broken, paralyzed, staring at the sky, wondering how love could survive in the ruins of the world.

The world didn’t know what had become of you.

To the surviving humans, you were another lost Titan—another hero buried beneath Viltrumite boots. And in a way, they weren’t wrong.

You were taken.

Mark didn’t leave you to die on that rooftop. Instead, as you slipped in and out of consciousness from shock and blood loss, he cradled your limp body in his arms and flew—fast, like he was afraid the sky itself would try to steal you back.

When you woke, it was in a place far removed from the war-torn Earth. A tower of alien alloy, shining white and gold, perched above the clouds like a monument to his new empire. You were in a room made just for you—comfortable, warm, luxurious. But it was still a prison.

You couldn’t move from the neck down. Couldn’t fight. Couldn’t run.

You were wheeled to the window every morning by silent drones, always facing the skyline, always with Mark watching from a distance.

He came to see you every night.

Tonight was no different.

The doors hissed open and closed with a soft chime. You didn’t look at him, just stared at the stars bleeding into dusk.

He stood behind you, silent.

“You shouldn’t have brought me here,” you said flatly. Your voice had regained some strength in the past weeks, but the hatred in it never faded. “You should’ve let me die fighting.”

Mark’s voice was low. “I couldn’t.”

“Because you love me?” You laughed bitterly. “You paralyzed me, Mark. Took away my life. My friends. My purpose. What part of this is love?”

He walked to your side slowly, crouched to eye level. His face was calmer now—like he wasn’t the conqueror anymore, just the boy you used to know. But you weren’t fooled.

“You were never going to stop fighting,” he said. “Even if it killed you.”

“That’s what heroes do,” you spat.

He didn’t flinch. “Not anymore. There are no more heroes. Just survivors. And I didn’t want to lose you too.”

You wanted to slap him, to scream, to do something. But your body wouldn’t obey. All you had were words—and hatred.

“So what now?” you asked. “You keep me here like a trophy? A reminder of who you used to be? Or are you hoping I’ll forget everything and fall back in love with you?”

Mark didn’t answer right away. He just looked out the window.

“I hope,” he said quietly, “that one day, you’ll stop hating me long enough to see the world I’m building. And maybe… you’ll want to be part of it.”

You looked at him then—really looked. The blood was gone from his armor. His hands were clean. But nothing he could build would ever erase what he’d done.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to.

The silence said it all.

And still, he stayed there at your side, like he couldn’t bear to leave you again.

Even if he already had.

[prettynpinkputhy]

Cat and mouse

Warning: MDNI⚠️, Language, penetrative sex, raw sex, sexual themes, praise, breeding etc

Word count: 1.1k

Summary: Sylus wants to switch things up

Sylus likes pain. Biting, scratching , choking the list goes on and on. You’ve explored the more vanilla side of things. Letting him take control and submitting yourself completely. tonight was different. he wanted a change of pace. You lay sprawled over the satin sheets of his California king bed, legs spread and face flushed. Sylus stepped away for a moment, leaving you needy and curious. Your hips wiggle with anticipation.

What was he doing? You could never predict the onychinus leader's next moves. After What feels like an eternity, he comes back. You admire his bare chiseled chest and low ride of his boxer briefs, that delicious V line is deep and prominent. A thick vein roots from his navel to the ungodly places you craved to explore. He stalks toward you, unraveling something you can’t make out in the dark.

you whimper helplessly. “Mmm such sweet purrs from my kitten.” He rumbles.

“On your feet.” He caresses your chin with the tip of his finger, tilting your low eyes to meet his. Your body moves on its own, dragging your weight up and over the edge of the bed. He takes your place, crawling up to the rumbled spot you’d been laying in.

You can see it now. A single wine colored tie, a lighter and a candle you’d recently bought together on a couples shopping trip. Your brow arches.

“We’re going to play a game of cat and mouse.” He smirks.

”take that there and bind my wrist.” Regardless of how out of place this dynamic feels, you obey. His body is huge in comparison to yours meaning you had to quite literally climb the length of him till you were face to face with his intense red stare.

You do a simple knot, mindful of his wrist.

”Tighter, sweetie.”

you swallow nervously at the familiar nickname. It still makes your pussy throb every time you hear it. With a nod you tug firmly, securing it so tight it might bruise. A deep rumbling moan vibrates through his chest.

”That's it. Don’t be afraid. You could never hurt me and even if you could I would enjoy every second.” This ignites something in you.

your hands are steady as you reach for the candle and light. You flick it, touching flame to wick. It flickers and the wax starts to liquify, filling the air with a sweet woody scent. Sylus picked the fragrance himself.

In no time a pool of hot wax forms on the surface. You swish it around unsure what comes next.

”Don’t be shy kitten. You know what to do.” You dip your finger in and hiss—it's hot. Very hot.

”I'll let it cool a bit.” You say.

”no. I want it now.”

”-but…”

”now.” He rasps desperately. His abs flex as you raise the candle above his torso.

He sucks in air as the first drop falls down the line of chest, it slides down his stomach before solidifying just above his belly button. His eyes are squeezed shut, his lower lip latched between his teeth. Something stirs inside you. A sense of power. Your movements are confident now as you pour a steady drip all over his upper body. His cock jumps in his boxers, twitching with every drop of hot wax.

“Ah, mmm, it seems my dove has transformed into a ravenous raven.” He pants, the veins in his arms pulsing under the confines of the silk tie.

”Do you want it?” You whisper close to his ear. He takes advantage of the proximity to turn his head and nip your neck.

”Show me all your tricks, Ms.hunter” your resolve snaps like a twig. You don’t bother with taking off your panties, you simply hook two fingers in the crotch and yank them to the side. Your fingers work his boxers down at a blurring pace. His rock solid pulsing length bobs free, slapping his lower stomach upon exit. The tip is beaded with sticky pre, a testament to his overwhelming arousal. You can feel him, the heady undeniable carnal lust brewing inside him. His cheeks are feverish, his lips parted as he holds your gaze hostage.

His brows scrunch. “Don’t make me beg.” He nods down to his throbbing engorged cock. The bulbous head leaks clear fluid on his stomach, your clit throbs in sync with your racing pulse. Your own slickness seeps from within, coating your thighs. As much as you wanted to take his swollen sensitive tip into your mouth you couldn’t wait. He had to be inside of you now. You straddle his waist, his hands fight his bonds frivolously as you hover above his needy manhood.

“Please.” His hips buck upward, seeking even just an inch of your warmth. Your chest heaves as you grasp his shaft, angling him at your slipper slit. It’s pure ecstasy as he breaches your tight channel. His cock head pulses in time with his beating heart. You can’t hold back, anymore. Those crimson fluttering eyes cast a spell on you. Your hips slam down in one fluid motion, taking him all in one go. It’s compact, the stretch leaving no room inside you.

Your head falls back as you howl in pleasure, he’s touching the very back of your cunt—the spot that leaves you breathless.

“Fuck. You’re being greedy, kitten.” He growls, pumping his hips up to grind into your G Spot. You back arches like a cat on top of him as you try to acclimate to his ridiculous size. You get your rhythm and soon find yourself bouncing up and down with ease. His nails dig into the fabric of the tie as you roll your waist, swirling his hardness deep inside your heat.

“No no wait, not like that. Fuck I’ll cum to fucking quick if you-“ he hisses, trying to break free. You take that as your que to move harder, faster. Your ass slaps against his pelvis with every stroke, the pressure in your pussy an intoxicating ache. Every drop of your hips forced him into your weak spot. Sweat mixes with the smell of the candle making your head spin. You bend over to bite the smooth skin of his chest as you fuck down onto him harder.

“Fuck fuck fuck no I’m close fuck slow down y/n…” he groans, his silver head falling back into the pillows. The words barely leave his lips before you feel him spasm inside your clenching soaked pussy. A hot flood fills your womb as your own release washes over you. You fall into his neck, panting and exhausted.

“Untie me. We aren’t finished.” His cock is iron stiff inside of you.

[chericos]

the night air was cold—biting, seeping through the layers of your clothing. if not for the fire burning steadily before you, crackling and spitting embers into the dark, you were sure you’d have long perished to the frigid temperatures. of course, you were just being dramatic, but who could blame you? the chill was relentless, clinging to your skin, creeping its way into your bones despite the flickering warmth just a few feet away. what you would give to be peacefully resting in your bed back at the base. (you’d give anything).

yet, nothing ever seemed to go your way. not when xeno had casually informed you of your impromptu trip to collect data on the group—boat? colony? whatever they were—that had decided to take refuge on your lands.

with a quiet sigh, you tore your gaze away from the dancing flames, their golden glow casting fleeting shadows across the ground, and instead, let your eyes settle on something—or rather, someone—far more captivating.

stanley.

the glow of the fire painted him in hues of amber and burnt orange, accentuating the sharp cut of his jaw, emphasizing the intensity of his amber eyes, the way they seemed to gaze into your very soul. you peer down to his lips, the faintest smirk seemed to permanently linger at their edge. a cigarette burned between his fingers, the glowing ember pulsing each time he took a slow, measured drag. the smoke curled around him like a specter, twisting into the cold air before vanishing into the dark.

there was something almost hypnotic about the way he moved—deliberate, calculated, never a motion wasted. even in something as simple as smoking, there was precision, an ease that came with routine. his golden eyes, always sharp, flicked toward you, catching you in the act of watching him.

the smirk on his face deepened. “see something you like?” he drawled, voice low, almost seductive.

you groan, rolling your eyes, feigning disinterest. you tear your gaze away to look at the vast forest where you both have set up camp, trying to distract yourself. his amusement was palpable, something knowing glinting in his gaze as he took another slow inhale of his cigarette, the ember burning hot against the dark.

with a lazy exhale, he let the smoke slip past his lips in a slow, curling stream. you caught it out of the corner of your eye, doing your best not to make it obvious that you were staring again.

“wanna try something?” he murmured, his voice low and teasing.

you quirked a brow. “depends.”

“breathe in,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

you hesitated for a second, your eyes locking with his. you wanted to say something, to dignify his question with a response, but your brain was so scattered, your thoughts clouded by the warmth of his touch, that you couldn’t seem to think straight. so with no other choice, you nod wordlessly.

then, without warning, he exhaled—warm, slow, the smoke slipping past his lips and into yours, invading your lungs with the intoxicating mix of nicotine and something unmistakably him. your heart stuttered, the heat of his breath chasing away the biting cold you were feeling just minutes prior as you inhaled, letting the sensation settle deep before slowly releasing it into the space between you.

stanley leaned back just slightly, his amber eyes studying you through half-lidded lashes, smirking. “not bad,” he muttered, bringing the cigarette back to his mouth. the ember flared again as he took another drag, watching you over the rim of his fingers. “think you can handle another?”

you swallowed, trying to steady your racing heartbeat. it was a challenge. a tease.

and damn it, you were tempted to say yes.

but before you could respond, stanley moved in again, his hand still beneath your chin, pulling you closer, just enough that your lips brushed against his—soft and fleeting. the taste of smoke clung to him, the heat of his kiss stealing the air from your lungs. the world around you seemed to vanish for a moment, and you knew that you were completely, irrevocably consumed by him. when he finally pulled back, there was no teasing glint in his eyes—only an intense, searching look.

he didn’t say anything. and neither did you.

the night stretched on in a haze, the fire still flickering, the smoke drifting lazily into the air, and you both left in that unspoken tension, uncertain where the evening would go, but knowing that whatever happened next... neither of you were in a hurry to leave.

fuck my stupid baka life (reference for bae[ @lo1itado11 ], aka the one who got me to write this)

cooked this up QUICK, on nothing but a random "hey, i've never seen a stanley shotgunning fic" and a dream.

is this my formal introduction to the dr stone fandom? i like it here!

@ CHERICOS 2025 all rights reserved do not repost, edit, copy, translate or plagiarise my works

[cruel-hiraeth]

꒰ AS YOU WISH ꒱ DILUC RAGNVINDR X READER

warnings ⟢ minors do not interact—i will block you! bondage. slight dubcon (but not really...trust). cunnilingus. reader has a vagina, wears panties, is shorter than diluc, and is referred to as “dearest” once.

word count ⟢ 952

notes ⟢ this fic is part of @ficsforgaza’s kinktober event! my prompt was diluc + bondage. i want to give a HUGE thank you to my beloved zebra (@tartagliove) for the beautiful redraw of darknight hero diluc in the banner. ze—i’m in awe of your talent, and i feel honored to have your artwork at the top of my fic!

The sounds of gore cease suddenly.

You hold your breath and listen, straining to hear signs of who won the battle. Tendrils of smoke drift into the air and the ripe stench of death coats your tongue; gooseflesh skitters across your limbs. When the blindfold is ripped from your head, you let out a shriek, chest heaving as you regain composure. A mere pace from you is a masked figure who is renowned in Mondstadt, more legend than man: the Darknight Hero.

His entire body is obscured by an inky cloak, a birdlike mask covering all but the lower half of his face. A shock of crimson hair is gathered high into a ponytail at his crown, his tresses a cascade of flames that lick down his neck and back. His irises are the same color: the glowing embers of a dying fire, sparking hot then fizzling out.

Before you can so much as thank him, he gestures to your arms. They are bound with rope that looks like it was dipped in the cosmos—indigo charmeuse pinpricked with wandering stars—intricately woven with Abyssal magic to suspend your wrists above your head.

“It’s going to be a while until that magic wears off.”

His voice is rich and flinty; it reminds you of charcoal. When his gaze flickers to your flimsy nightwear, you squirm against your restraints, acutely aware of your vulnerability.

“What would an Abyss Herald want to do with you, I wonder?” The hero slowly circles you, appraising, an umbertail falcon stalking his prey. “You have no vision. And you certainly aren’t prepared to fight.” A gloved fingertip, sooty with ash and ichor, grazes the hem of your shorts—much too close to your inner thigh.

“Is this an interrogation?” you snap. “Because I’d also love to know why I’m here.”

An amused smile tugs at the man’s lips. He’s so near that you can see the puckered flesh of a scar that cuts across his cheek; he grasps your chin with surprising gentleness. While his words are terse, they drip with honey. “You’re a mouthy one, hm? So tell me, then,” he pulls your shorts down and they fall to your ankles, a digit moving to stroke the waistband of your panties, “were you touched here?”

“S-stop,” you stutter, swallowing thickly. “This hardly seems appropriate for the hero of Mondstadt.”

One strong hand steadies your waist while the other pets the pubic hair that curls out from beneath your lacy briefs. He chuckles and leans in, lips brushing the shell of your ear in a whisper, “Are you claiming you don’t want this?”

From the moment you first spied the tall, broad figure of your savior, a simmering warmth ignited in your belly, kindling into a roaring fire. Lust seeps through the thin garment that barely preserves your modesty, clinging to your labia. Even in the dim, flickering light of the room, your need is apparent in your smoldering stare and spit-slick pout.

Swiftly, he withdraws. “I will not stoop so low as to force myself on—”

“Don’t play the proper gentleman all of a sudden. Touch me.”

Without another word, the Darknight Hero drops to his knees. His eyes are a dusky glass of dandelion wine, drinking you in as he mouths at your clit through sopping fabric, his tongue pressed flat, savoring your arousal. But he doesn’t tease you for long; he tears off your final layer and discards it like an afterthought, humming at the sight of your exposed cunt. The stubble on his cheek scrapes the plush of your thighs as he spreads your legs. You wobble with the movement, the rope burning your wrists as your arms stretch uncomfortably.

A sweet peck to your clit is your only warning before he slips between your folds. He starts with tender licks and caresses, occasionally dipping down to lave at your hole, then returning to where you need him most, sloppily sucking until your head grows fuzzy with pleasure. You try to focus on and decipher the patterns that his slippery muscle weaves. His mouth melds perfectly with your heat, and his deep, rumbling groans heighten your bliss.

But your shoulders ache, and you’re worried that your ankles are going to give out on you.

“Diluc,” you whimper.

In an instant, your husband stands up—chin dewy with your desire. He rips off a glove and singes the rope; your body floods with relief as your arms fall slack. He removes his mask to reveal his drawn expression: brow furrowed and jaw firmly set. “I pushed you too far,” he states, examining the bands of raw flesh that encircle your wrists.

You shake your head vehemently. “No—not at all. I agreed to this, you know.”

His visage softens with your reassurance, though his eyes still shine with concern. He presses a featherlight kiss to each of your injuries. “Shall we return home? I’d like to get some salve on your wounds as soon as possible. In fact, I may visit Sucrose for a fresh jar. Of course I won’t detail what happened or why we need the salve...”

Diluc’s anxious rambling trails off, and he soaks in your palpable irritation as you frown.

“What is it, dearest?”

“Well, I was hoping the Darknight Hero would finish what he started,” you huff, ignoring the heat that blooms in your face at the admission.

“Oh,” he smirks, stepping closer, “is that right?”

“Don’t make fun of me—I’ll make you regret it.”

“I would never dream of such a thing.”

“So…” You press your palms to his chest, rising to your toes. “You’ll take me up to Mr. Ragnvindr’s study, hero?”

His lips ghost yours, sticky, heady with you. “As you wish.”

[christopher-bangnaldoskzz]

Paring : Chan x female reader

Genre: Drama

Word count : 700

Warnings: my contain moments of anger and yelling, hints of depression and a tone of self loathing.



“Damn right, I’m angry!” Chan exclaimed, his voice cutting sharply through the small, dimly lit room. The air felt thick with tension, almost palpable, as he forcefully swung the door shut, the echo of the slam reverberating against the bare walls and amplifying his visible frustration. You could feel the atmosphere change, thickening with unspoken words and unresolved conflicts. He advanced further into the cramped space, each heavy footstep on the worn wooden floor echoing his inner turmoil, while a storm brewed behind his clenched fists.

Spinning on your heel with a fiery conviction, you shot back, “It’s my choice, Chris!” Your voice, fueled by a blend of determination and defiance, surged through the air like a jolt of static electricity, creating an almost electric tension between you. You felt the weight of your words and the stubbornness behind them, eager to assert your independence despite the tumult surrounding you.

“I spent my whole life healing from trauma I should have been protected from,” he said, his tone shifting from anger to a profound plea, his eyes glistening with concern. “I’ll be damned if I'm going to let this happen to you.” His words hung in the air—a mixture of desperation and protective fervor, revealing the depth of his emotions and the scars from his past. It was a moment suspended in time, both of you caught in the collision of fear, love, and an unyielding desire to shield one another from the pains of life.

“You can't save me,” you whisper, your voice softening as you reach out and gently grasp his hand, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your fingers.

“You're not doing this... that's final,” he replies, his tone unwavering and resolute. He stands tall, shoulders squared, as if his very presence can ward off your intention. “I've sacrificed my childhood to be here,” he continues, his voice low and intense, “and don’t even suggest that I could be someone different without all the struggles I’ve faced.” His words come out with a growl, a raw edge that hints at the pain buried deep within him.

As you watch him, you see the flicker of emotions in his eyes—shimmering with regret, as if he’s reliving moments he wishes he could erase. “I was just a kid,” his heart aching as you take in the depth of his turmoil.

“What happened to me was something that no amount of healing could ever truly change. I understand that… I really do. But it infuriates me to think that you’re so determined to follow me into this tumultuous life, y/n,” he said, his tone a mix of frustration and concern. His hand gently cupped your face, his fingers brushing against your skin as if he could somehow shield you from the darkness that surrounded him. “You have no idea how dangerous it can be, and yet here you are, wanting to share in it all.”

Leaning into his gentle touch, you felt the warmth radiating from his fingertips, sending shivers down your spine. “I would follow you anywhere,” you breathed, your voice barely above a whisper, laced with an intensity that reflected the depths of your feelings. “Even if it meant burning alongside you, feeling the searing heat of the flames. Even if it means enduring pain because of your choices… I would gladly lay down my own comfort and safety if it meant protecting you from harm.” The weight of your words hung in the air, a declaration of unwavering devotion and sacrifice, as you gazed into his eyes, hoping he could see the truth of your heart.

With a soft breath, you lean in closer, your lips just inches from his, feeling the warmth radiating between you. “We do this together,” you whisper, your voice barely above a murmur, charged with emotion. You hold his gaze, searching for the trust that you hope to see reflected back. “Let me do what those in your childhood could never accomplish,” you continue, your heart racing as you feel the weight of those unspoken memories in the air between you. “Let me protect you,” you add, your voice trembling slightly, revealing the depth of your sincerity. His hands find their place on your hips, steadying you, his touch both reassuring and grounding. In that moment, everything else fades away as you both stand on the precipice of something profound.

Taglist: @daceydeath @krishastumblernow @bakedlilgoonie @armystay89 @cakeracha

[with-my-calamitous-love]

INTERROGATION

dazai x reader

afab! reader

smut, minors DNI (ageless blogs will be blocked)

had a dream about this and had to write it. dazai gets you to talk the best way he knows how to

bondage, candle-play, overstimulation, slight dubcon

you had lost track of how long you had been on that bed.

he cuffed your hands above your head, attached to the bed frame. he left them just loose enough for you to squirm and struggle, but tight enough to draw the line at just that. the only thing he had bothered to cover were your eyes; the rest he had stripped bare. every touch felt like fire against your skin. your senses were heightened and every part of you was shaking. like a puppet on strings, he had left you helpless.

dazai reached out and traced a finger along your exposed skin, down your chest and dangerously close to the in-between on your thighs. he relished in the tremble that ran through your body, letting out a chuckle at your reactions. his breath slowly traced down your neck lower, lower, and lower. he made sure his lips abstained from contact- for now.

he continued to tease and touch you, enjoying your reactions. but even as he took pleasure in the moment, he never lost sight of what he needed from you.

"come on, angel, give me something. anything. i promise, i'll make it worth your while." he whispered into your ear, his tongue making the slightest contact with your neck. your head jerked back at the feeling, dazai ghosting his mouth over your neck and completing it with a heavy lick.

"fuck you." you grit your teeth. you were going to play this game. dazai could get anyone to talk, and you loved being the first to achieve things.

he chuckled. "stubborn little thing, aren't you?" he suddenly removed his contact, and you let out a breath of relief. luckily, your blindfold hid the ever-increasing hunger in his eyes. "i was almost hoping you’d hold out. lets see how long you can last when i do this…”

you suddenly feel a hot, liquid burn on your breasts. he must've lit a candle, letting it drip down you at an agonizingly slow pace. dazai's eyes observed with satisfaction as you gasped at the burning sensation. the flickering flame of the candle illuminated the room, casting dancing shadows that added to the intensity of the situation. but you were unaware, and could only focus on the mental games he played with you.

"poor thing, if only you had just talked….. this would all be over so soon." dazai teased you as you bit your lip. he continued to pour the hot wax down your body, moving down from your chest and to your thighs. he strategically avoided your most sensitive areas, for now. "i only save the best for last, angel."

dazai revelled in the power he had over you, watching the mix of pleasure and agony on your face. each droplet served as a testament to your willpower. he wanted to be impressed, but he knew he had more in for you.

after what felt like forever, you heard a clunk! on the table as he set down the candle. you gasped for air, the burning feeling lingering even after he finished. “i'm impressed, but we're just getting started."

“i-i’m not telling you shit.” you gasped.

"then don't." he slipped his fingers into your mouth, forcing you to suck. "i wanted to play with you more anyway.”

he moved his fingers in and out of your mouth, playing with your tongue and basking in the desperate noises you made. finally, he abruptly pulled out and left you to gasp. without warning, he pressed the two fingers to your clit. you cried out, feeling as he circled your folds before slowly spreading you out. he watched as your fluids ran down your pussy, admiring the sight as your wrists rattled furiously against the headboard.

slowly and deliberately, he pushed one finger inside of you. you screamed.

"how sensitive you are angel... i wonder what else i can do to you..”

he pushed two more fingers inside you, admiring how you dripped around him. your walls clung to his fingers as he slowly moved in and out of you. you felt everything, every inch of him as he fingered you at a torturous pace.

"its almost like you're enjoying this.. come on, tell me what i need to know angel.”

he grabs a chunk of your hair and yanks it, forcing your head to tilt. his tongue meets the skin of your neck once more as the pace of his fingers begins to increase. your body is on fire, your pussy clenches around his fingers as he drags his tongue down to your collarbone. his mouth finally reaches your breast, taking your nipple into his mouth. he sucks the sensitive bud, rolling it between his teeth before moving to the other side of your chest and repeating.

dazai moves in a messy pattern, licking and biting down all over your breasts as his other hand works diligently on your clit. your reaching your limit, but he isn't even close to being done. your wrists rattle against the cuffs as your legs shake like an earthquake had occurred.

"my my angel... are you ready to speak for me?"

he grabs your chin and forces you to face upwards. his thumb drags your lower lip down, daring you to talk for him. you want to spill your guts, to tell him everything. but right now your mind is blank, only focusing on the sweet nectar that dripped down your thighs. your speechless.

all is still for a moment.

that is, until you feel his the tip of his cock tease your folds.

you want to scream but he slaps his hand over your mouth, subduing your moans.

dazai drags the tip of his cock up and down your pussy, daring to push himself inside. you hands clutch the cuffs as you moan against his hand.

"awh, my poor little slut wants to talk now?" he leans in, whispering into your ear.

"too fucking late."

you feel him slowly, agonizingly slowly push his cock inside of you. you scream a moan against his hand as he begins to fuck into your pussy. he pounds into you with no mercy, the sound of slapping and your gagged moans fill the room.

your mind is completely blank. the feeling of his cock pulling out all the way before slamming right back into you is all you can comprehend. dazai fucks you with a savage hunger, gripping your hips as drives his cock inside of you ruthlessly. he lets his hand off from your mouth, allowing you to scream and moan to your heart’s content.

"such a good fucking slut you are.. taking my cock for me so well. beg more. beg for more." he commands.

"f-fuck, fuck. please. please, please." you cry out, forgetting how to speak entirely.

dazai grips the blindfold and pulls it off from you, allowing him to make eye contact with you for the first time.

he looks down at your body. covered in wax, breasts bouncing, wrists tied and your pussy full of him.

"lets interrogate you further, shall we?"

[wrxangel]

Getting Caught in the Rain with Johnny Joestar

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Johnny Joestar had never been a man to believe in fate. But the moment he saw you back in San Diego, something in him stirred. It wasn’t just the way you walked through the bustling streets of the town, or how your eyes seemed to linger on things with a thoughtful kind of curiosity—it was something else, something unspoken. And Johnny couldn’t quite shake it, even now.

He was still a paraplegic at that point, still figuring out how to navigate the world from his horse, Slow Dancer. That was where he’d been when he caught sight of you, watching from a distance. He couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to talk to you, to be close enough to see those thoughtful eyes up close. But the Steel Ball Run wasn’t a place for lingering.

Now, miles from San Diego and separated from Gyro after an ambush, Johnny found himself lost in the rugged plains, dusk creeping over the horizon. Slow Dancer trotted slowly, the weight of exhaustion heavy on both of them. Then, through the trees, a flicker of light—someone had set up camp.

As he rode closer, he saw you. You were kneeling by a small fire, eyes soft with focus as you added a few more branches to the flames. Johnny’s heart quickened. Of all the places, of all the nights, it had to be you.

“Hey,” Johnny called softly, his Kentucky accent creeping in as it always did when he felt unsure of himself. “Mind if I… join you for a while?”

You looked up, your gaze settling on him. Recognition flickered in your eyes, followed by a smile that made his heart skip a beat.

“Joestar, right?” you asked, rising to your feet. “You can rest here. I’ve got enough room for one more.”

Johnny nodded gratefully, easing himself off Slow Dancer and settling on the ground with an ungraceful thud. He looked over at you to see if you noticed. Part of him expected a look of pity or an offer of help. You did neither, just spared him a quick glance and rose a brow, as if to ask if he's got it. He sent you a reassuring nod, grateful that you didn't think of him as helpless.

Another part of him was slightly disappointed you didn't get all worked up over making sure he was okay.

You offered him a spot closer to the fire, and he gladly took it, feeling the warmth seep into his weary bones. For a while, the two of you sat in silence, the crackle of the fire and the distant rustle of leaves filling the air. He glanced at you, noticing how the flames danced in your eyes, casting shadows that highlighted the soft curves of your face.

“You always camp alone?” Johnny asked, trying to keep his tone casual, though his voice held a gentle curiosity.

“Most of the time,” you replied, your voice steady and calm. “It’s quieter that way, and safer when you’re not looking after someone else.”

Johnny chuckled softly. “Guess you’re right. Ain’t many guys out here looking to make friends.”

A pause settled between you two, the kind of quiet that was comfortable, not forced. Johnny looked down at his hands, the roughness of his knuckles a stark contrast to the softness he imagined when he thought of you. He’d never been one to easily talk about his feelings, but there was something about this moment, about you, that made him feel a little braver.

“I saw you back in San Diego,” Johnny said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Didn’t get the chance to say hello then.”

You smiled, glancing over at him. “I remember seeing you too. You were with that other guy—Zeppeli, right?”

Johnny nodded. “Yeah, Gyro’s… well, he’s something. But I'm not used to being around guys like him. He’s loud, always tryin’ to prove something You’re different.”

Your brow lifted slightly, your curiosity piqued by his words. “Different how?”

Johnny hesitated, his fingers tracing the lines of his palm. “I don’t know, just… quieter, I guess. But not in a bad way. It’s like you’re thinking about things, not just actin’ all the time.”

The campfire crackled louder as the wind began to pick up, and suddenly, there was a soft patter in the distance. It took a moment, but the first drop hit Johnny’s shoulder, and before long, the sky opened up. Rain began to fall in a gentle, steady rhythm, tapping against the ground in harmony with the stillness of the moment.

"Ah, shit." You muttered, jumping to your feet and shuffling through your supplies.

You scrambled to pull a tarp over the fire, protecting it from the sudden downpour. Johnny, still sitting there, felt a strange kind of peace despite the rain. He watched as you worked, admiring the ease with which you moved, your every action graceful and purposeful.

Once the tarp was secure, you sat down beside him again, closer this time, the rain drumming lightly on the fabric overhead. Johnny could feel the warmth of your body next to his, could smell the faint scent of rain mixed with the earth. He glanced at you, your face so close, and his heart thudded louder than the rain.

“Guess we’re stuck here for a bit,” you said with a small laugh, your voice a little softer, the rain making everything feel more intimate.

Johnny’s mouth went dry as he swallowed hard. “Yeah, looks like it.”

The rain wasn’t stopping anytime soon, and Johnny wasn’t sure if it was the rain or his nerves, but he found himself leaning a little closer, just enough to brush his arm against yours. You didn’t pull away.

“Y’know,” Johnny began, his voice low, “I never thought I’d be the kind of guy to find someone like you out here. There aren't many things that surprise me anymore.”

You turned to him, your gaze meeting his. “What do you mean?”

He let out a breath, the words hanging heavy on his tongue. “I mean, I’ve seen a lot of things in my life. Lost a lot too. But there’s something about you. Ever since I saw you, I ain’t been able to stop thinkin’ about you.”

Your eyes softened, and Johnny felt a surge of vulnerability. He wasn’t the smoothest talker, but he knew this feeling wasn’t something he could just ignore.

“Johnny…” you began, your voice carrying a note of tenderness.

Before you could say more, the rain began to fall harder, drowning out the world around you. But there, under the tarp, with the rain all around, Johnny felt like he’d finally found something worth holding onto.

Before Johnny could muster a reply, his attention was yanked away by the sound of a familiar voice echoing through the rain.

"JOHNNY!" Gyro's voice cut through the pattering downpour, a mix of urgency and frustration. "Where the hell are you, Johnny?!"

Johnny sighed, his eyes lingering on you for just a moment longer before he turned toward the sound of Gyro’s call. “Dammit,” he muttered under his breath, rubbing a hand across his face. Of course Gyro would show up now, just when things were starting to get… well, something.

You smiled softly, sensing his frustration but not taking it personally. “Looks like your friend’s found you,” you said, your voice light despite the interruption. There was a tenderness in your tone that Johnny picked up on, something that made his heart squeeze just a bit tighter in his chest.

Johnny sighed again, this time with a half-hearted smile as he looked over at you. “Yeah. He’s got a knack for showin’ up at the wrong time.”

“Johnny!” Gyro’s voice called again, closer this time, followed by the sound of hurried footsteps. In seconds, the flamboyant Italian came into view, his clothes soaked from the rain. He stopped short when he saw the two of you sitting together under the tarp. A knowing grin spread across his face despite the situation.

“Nyohoho~! There you are!” Gyro exclaimed, hands on his hips as he took in the sight of Johnny and you huddled close under the small shelter. “You gettin' cozy without me?”

Johnny shot him a deadpan look. “Don’t start, Gyro.”

But Gyro was already enjoying himself too much. He raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening. “So this is what happens when I leave you alone for five minutes, huh? Find yourself a nice companion while I’m out searching for you in the rain?”

You chuckled, the sound light and amused, though Johnny could feel the heat creeping up his neck. “It’s not what you think,” Johnny muttered, trying to shake off the embarrassment.

“Oh, sure,” Gyro teased, winking at you. “Don’t mind him—he gets all shy when he likes someone.”

Johnny shot Gyro a glare, though the Kentucky drawl in his voice softened as he mumbled, “You’re gonna make me regret tellin’ you anything.”

You laughed again, this time more openly, and Johnny found himself relaxing a bit despite Gyro’s relentless teasing. The rain continued to fall in steady sheets, drumming against the tarp above you. For a moment, it felt like the rest of the world had faded away, leaving just the three of you under the flimsy shelter.

“You should sit,” you said, motioning for Gyro to join the small camp. “No sense in standing out there gettin’ drenched.”

Gyro’s grin softened as he wiped the rain from his brow and plopped down beside you. “Well, I won’t say no to that.” He settled in, glancing between you and Johnny with a knowing look. “So… did I interrupt somethin’ important?”

Johnny glanced at you, his heart pounding a little harder than he’d like to admit. “Maybe.”

You smiled softly, meeting his gaze. “Maybe,” you echoed, your voice gentle, leaving a quiet promise hanging in the air.

For the first time in a long while, Johnny felt something other than the ache of what he’d lost. There, under the rain, with you beside him and Gyro grinning like a fool, Johnny felt the tiniest spark of hope flicker to life.

And maybe that was enough for now.

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[moons-and-mobility-aids]

Spoil Me Gently: Prologue - masterlist

Chapter Summary: A quiet evening, a glowing screen, and a profile that stops everything. What begins as idle scrolling shifts into stillness, focus, gravity. Three men, each with their own ghosts and rhythms, pause for something—or someone—that doesn’t feel like coincidence. This isn’t the start of a love story. It’s the moment before the fall.

Tags: fem!reader, disabled!reader, sugar baby!reader, soft!marauders, emotional hurt/comfort, hurt/comfort, emotional slow burn, classism, ableism, protective!marauders, sugar daddy!marauders, famous!marauders, chronic pain, ptsd recovery, emotional angst, reader was in an abusive relationship, reader is poor.

James is the one who finds it first—half by accident, half by fate. He's sprawled across the oversized velvet sectional in their living room, his long legs stretched out and one arm draped over the backrest. Sirius' legs are tossed casually over his lap, a testament to their easy comfort with each other. The room is a blend of opulence and warmth, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering an unobstructed view of the sea.

A glass of wine sits in James' hand, the rich red liquid casting faint shadows on his fingers as he lifts it to his lips. His other hand holds his phone, the screen glowing softly in the dim light. He's been scrolling through the sugar dating app for a while now, eyes half-focused, half-distracted as he skims through profiles. The app's hidden profile system means most people can't see them unless they message first, but they've got a short list of potential sugar babies marked for soft vetting.

His thumb pauses mid-scroll, hovering over the screen. It's not the usual reaction—the quick swipe left or right, the dismissive flick of his finger. No, this is different. This is—

He blinks, leans forward slightly, and the wine glass nearly tips from his hand. It's a small shift, barely noticeable, but it signals a change in the air. The casual indifference that marked his previous actions has evaporated, replaced by a keen interest that sharpens his gaze and slows his breathing.

Because there you are.

The photo on the screen holds him captive: a beach at sunset, where the golden light bleeds into the sky, casting everything in warm hues. There's no pose, no forced smile or calculated angle. Just you, standing against the backdrop of the sea, your silhouette outlined by the fading sun. The wind plays through your hair, tousling it like an old friend, and a cigarette glows between your fingers—a small, rebellious flare punctuating the scene.

The coat you wear is long, vintage, evoking images of old French films where every detail matters. It billows slightly in the breeze, creating a sense of movement even in stillness. Your hand rests lightly on a mobility scooter, its presence not diminishing but enhancing the picture. It's as much a part of you as the coat, the cigarette, the way you stand against the dying light.

James lets out a low whistle, the sound slipping past his lips before he can catch it. It's an involuntary reaction, a testament to the impact of the image on the screen. "Guys," he calls, his voice barely above a whisper, yet carrying weight. "Come look at this."

Sirius is the first to move, a panther's grace in his limbs as he leans closer to the screen. His eyes narrow—not with suspicion but with a kind of hunger, an artistic appreciation for beauty and chaos that has always been his compass. He's drawn to the image like a moth to a flame, unable to look away.

"She's—" he starts, but words fail him. Instead, he gestures wildly, fingers tracing an outline in the air before hitting the profile to delve deeper.

Remus doesn't react immediately. He's always been the observer, the one who sees things others miss. His eyes flicker over the screen, taking in the details—the subtle lines of your face, the way your eyes hold a story even in stillness. Then he shifts, his body language betraying a keen interest as he reads your profile, absorbing each line with a silent intensity.

There's the faintest sound of skin against fabric as Sirius's fingers drum lightly on the armrest. It's a nervous habit, one he's never quite shaken, even in moments like these when he should feel anything but anxious. Yet here he is, caught off guard by the words on the screen.

"I plan wild nights out like it's a heist and schedule recovery like it's sacred ritual," he repeats, eyes gleaming with a mix of amusement and something deeper—a recognition of kindred spirits. "I like her already."

James, still sprawled on the couch, runs a hand through his hair. The gesture is slow, almost thoughtful, as if he's trying to process what he's just read. His eyes narrow slightly, not in suspicion but in focus, as if he's looking at something rare and precious. This isn't just another profile; it's a manifesto written in poetry and prose, each line a brushstroke painting a picture of someone who refuses to be anything less than authentic.

Remus's reaction is more subtle but no less telling. His fingers graze the edge of the screen, not quite touching it, as if he's hesitant to break the spell your words have woven around them. He reads each line carefully, eyes flicking back and forth as he takes in the depth of your self-description. When he reaches the end, he leans back slightly, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

It's Sirius who speaks first, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. He throws his head back, eyes gleaming with amusement and something else—admiration, perhaps? "She's not just clever; she's... real."

James leans back, his hand running through his hair as he rereads the lines. The corners of his mouth twitch upward, but it's not a smile—it's a moment of clarity, a connection made. "Fucking hell," he mutters, his voice barely audible over the faint hum of the sea outside.

Remus doesn't speak immediately. Instead, his eyes trace the lines of text, absorbing each word like a sponge. His fingers graze the screen, lingering on the phrases that stand out—'softness like a challenge,' 'sarcasm like armor,' 'loyalty like religion.' They're not just words; they're declarations, each one pulling at his heartstrings in ways he can't quite explain.

The room is quiet save for the faint hum of the sea outside and the soft clink of glass as James sets his wine down. Your words hang in the air between them, each sentence echoing with a truth that resonates deeply. It's not just that you're beautiful or interesting; it's that you are... you.

James runs a hand through his hair; the gesture is slow, almost thoughtful, as if he's trying to process what he's just read. His eyes narrow slightly, not in suspicion but in focus, as if he's looking at something rare and precious.

This isn't just another profile; it's a manifesto written in poetry and prose, each line a brushstroke painting a picture of someone who refuses to be anything less than authentic.

Remus's reaction is more subtle but no less telling. His fingers graze the edge of the screen, not quite touching it, as if he's hesitant to break the spell your words have woven around them. He reads each line carefully, eyes flicking back and forth as he takes in the depth of your self-description. When he reaches the end, he leans back slightly, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

They look at each other, and in that moment, something unspoken passes between them. It's more than just attraction—it's understanding, shared and deepened by years of knowing each other's thoughts before they're spoken aloud. Sirius is the first to break the silence, his voice low and steady.

"She's not asking for anything we wouldn't already give."

James's thumb taps against his lips as he considers this. "No fragile egos, no saviours, no liars," he recites, each word a beat in the rhythm of their thoughts. "It's not just a list; it's a gauntlet thrown."

Remus's eyes flicker, a spark igniting within their depths. "And we're the ones who've picked it up."

Your words paint a picture of someone who understands the complexity of human connection—someone who seeks depth without drowning, intimacy without obligation. You want emotional intensity without the pressure of conventional labels, a relationship built on mutual respect and understanding. They can give you that, and more.

This isn't about saving you or fixing you. It's about meeting you where you are, understanding your boundaries, and giving you the space to grow. The list of requirements you've laid out isn't a mere checklist; it's a challenge, a gauntlet thrown at the feet of anyone daring enough to pick it up. And they? They're more than ready.

Sirius's gaze shifts from the screen to his partners, a silent question hanging in the air between them. James meets his eyes first, then Remus, and something passes among them—an understanding, unspoken yet palpable. They're all thinking the same thing: this could be her.

They scroll through your photos, each one a snapshot of a life lived on your own terms. There's a duality to them that's hard to ignore—chaos and calm, beauty and rebellion, all wrapped up in one compelling package.

The first is a glitter-laced rooftop party, city lights flickering like stars against the night sky. You're there, crutches by your sides, standing defiant amidst the revelry. The energy is palpable, a beat that thrums through the screen and into their chests. It's not just a party—it's a statement, a dare to anyone who thinks they can define you by your limitations.

Then comes a quieter moment, captured mid-action. You're in bed, legs tangled in sheets, hands moving deftly over an embroidery hoop. The threads weave together under your fingers, creating something beautiful out of nothing but fabric and time. There's a fire there, too—not the loud blaze of a wildfire, but a steady burn that refuses to be extinguished. It's a different kind of rebellion—a silent one, waged in the small hours of the night when the world is asleep and you are awake, creating.

And then there's the mirror selfie. You're in your wheelchair, fairy lights strung across the handles, casting a soft glow over the room. It's like a personal rave, your own universe where you hold court. The defiance in your gaze is unmistakable, a challenge thrown at anyone who dares to look away.

Sirius's gaze lingers on each photo, his fingers twitching slightly as if already imagining how he would frame the shot, capture the light. There's a spark in his grey eyes, something that wasn't there before—an artist recognising a muse, a firebrand seeing another who burns just as brightly. He can see you through his lens, your rebellion and grace captured in every frame.

James is quieter, his brow furrowed as he studies the images. His thoughts are far away, caught on the edges of a dream. He's not just seeing you—he's imagining the moments in between. The way you'd laugh at one of his jokes, the softness in your eyes when you speak about something you love. How you take your coffee, whether you're a morning person or if you need a few moments to wake up properly. It's not just about the photos—it's about the stories they tell.

Remus watches, his own eyes tracing the lines of your body, the curve of a smile here, the defiant tilt of your chin there. He sees more than just a collection of pretty pictures; he sees a narrative woven through each frame, a story told in the language of light and shadow. Your intelligence, your passion, your fire—they're all there, captured in still life. And Remus, who has always loved stories, finds himself drawn to yours.

They don't say it out loud—not yet—but they all know it. It's that stillness-before-the-storm kind of moment, like something cosmic just clicked into place. You're not just beautiful. You're right. The vibe, the values, the attitude, the honesty. You feel like someone who could split them open in the best way, someone who doesn't want saving but might just change everything. And for the first time in a long time, they all feel it at once: this could be her. This could be ours.

For a moment, they don't move. It's as if the air in the room has changed, becoming heavier, sharper—like the world has shifted just slightly on its axis. They sit there, caught in the silence, hearts beating in time with the rhythmic crash of waves against the shore outside.

But they are not naïve men, prone to flights of fancy without grounding themselves first. Not even Sirius, for all his wild heart and impulsive nature. They know better than to act on a whim, especially when it comes to something—or rather, someone—as significant as you.

Remus shifts first, his voice a quiet anchor amidst the storm brewing in their minds. "Let's find her socials," he murmurs, the words cutting through the silence like a knife through butter.

James is already moving, lifting his phone from where it rests on the arm of the couch. The screen's glow casts a soft light on his features, highlighting the determination etched into every line of his face. "I'll start with this photo," he says, fingers flying over the device as he initiates a reverse image search.

The tension in the room grows, the rhythmic sound of the sea outside a counterpoint to their anticipation. Sirius is still caught in the moment, his eyes reflecting the same artistic hunger that drew him to you in the first place. He's always been a collector of beauty, of chaos, and it seems he's just found his next muse.

Remus leans back slightly, his gaze distant yet focused. He's already thinking through the possibilities, cataloguing every detail they've gleaned from your profile. His mind works in tandem with James's hands, a well-oiled machine grinding out the answers they seek.

It takes less than a minute.

"Got it," James says, triumph threading through his voice. He turns the phone towards them, the screen displaying your Instagram profile. The handle is different, but there's no mistaking the face that greets them.

Your Instagram is public. So is your Twitter, linked conveniently in your bio. And from there, it takes only moments to find your TikTok as well.

Everything is public. Everything is real. Everything is... you.

The room's energy shifts again, now charged with an intensity that mirrors the storm outside. They have you—an even clearer picture of who you are, painted not just by words on a screen but by the moments you choose to share with the world.

The Instagram grid hits like a punch wrapped in velvet. It's a curated chaos, each square a testament to your existence—a striking mix of glamour and rawness that defies easy categorization. You're magnetic, yes, but there's something more beneath the surface, something that calls to them on a level beyond simple attraction.

The selfies are a study in contrast and cohesion. Lace peeking out from under a vintage blouse, lipstick bold against your pale skin, legs draped over the side of your wheelchair as if you were a queen holding court. Every image captures you in moments of defiant beauty, your gaze meeting the camera with an intensity that demands attention. But it's not just the visuals that draw them in; it's the captions beneath each photo crack the surface—rage disguised as poetry, survival as subtext.

One reads, "romanticising survival because it's the only kind of romance I get these days," and James's thumb freezes mid-scroll. Another: "He used to choke me awake. Now I just wake up screaming and stitch through it." The words aren't dramatic. They're clinical. Quiet. Like confession dressed up in thrift-store lace.

There's pain there, etched into the lines of your words like scars on a battlefield. The rage is palpable too—sharp, unyielding, and aimed at the injustices that have shaped your world. And then there's the intelligence, not just in what you say but in how you say it, each sentence crafted with the precision of a surgeon's scalpel.

Sirius swipes through the grid slowly, almost reverent as he takes in each image. His usual bravado is stripped away, leaving only the raw edges of a man who understands too well what it means to live a life on fire. He pauses at a photo of you, eyes closed and head tilted back, lost in a moment of peace that seems almost fragile against the backdrop of your existence.

"She makes rage look like religion," he says, voice barely above a whisper.

James breathes out, his eyes still fixed on the screen. He's absorbing the captions, too, feeling their weight settle into his chest. Each one is a story in itself—brief, poignant, and laced with the kind of honesty that leaves a mark. There's no pretense here, no attempt to soften the edges for anyone's comfort. Just you, as you are.

"She makes survival look like art," he says, the words slipping out before he can stop them.

There's a silence then, not uncomfortable but filled with the weight of shared understanding. Sirius shifts, his gaze still fixed on the screen. He doesn't need to look at James or Remus to know they're thinking the same thing—about how rare it is to find someone who understands what it means to live on the edge, to be both creator and destroyer in a world that doesn't always make room for either.

And yet, here you are. A woman who turns rage into religion and survival into art. A woman who lives her life unapologetically, defying the constraints placed upon her by society and circumstance alike.

The Instagram story highlights next, and it's like stepping into another world—unfiltered, raw. The videos are taken from your bed, the camera propped up on a nightstand or held in a trembling hand. The lighting is soft, ambient, casting long shadows that dance across the walls. Outside your window, the city hums—a distant, muted symphony of life continuing beyond the confines of your room.

In one, your voice is hoarse as you whisper, "My ex said I'd never survive without him. Joke's on him—I'm still here. And he's still blocked. Mostly."

There's laughter at the end, but it's the kind that hides something sharp underneath. Remus winces. Not visibly. Just a slight shift in his jaw.

In another, you're lying back against a mountain of pillows, your face pale and eyes hooded but still sharp. The camera catches every detail: the curve of your lips as they form words, the slight twitch of your brow when you pause to think.

"Today I managed to get down the stairs without blacking out," you say in one video, your voice a soft rasp against the silence. "That's the win. That's it."

Remus's eyes flutter closed as he listens, the tension in his jaw easing into something softer, almost tender. He doesn't need to see the screen to know what's there—to know you.

Because now it's not just about intrigue or fascination; it's about understanding. It's about seeing you not as a concept or a profile but as a person—someone who's been through hell and back, someone who fights battles they can't even begin to imagine.

"She doesn't want saving," he murmurs, the words barely more than a breath against the stillness. "But God, she deserves relief."

Sirius and James exchange a look, a silent conversation that passes between them like lightning—quick, bright, and full of unspoken words. They know what Remus is thinking because it's written all over his face, in the slight furrow of his brow and the way his fingers tighten around the edge of the sofa.

But then again, they don't need to see his face to know it. They feel it too, this pull towards you—not just because you're beautiful or interesting but because you are real, raw, and unfiltered in a world that often demands otherwise.

The air hangs heavy between them, not with tension but something else—something that feels like understanding and heartbreak all rolled into one. They don't speak for a moment, each lost in his own thoughts, each feeling the weight of your words settle into the depths of his mind.

It's Sirius who loads your Twitter page. The username alone has him smirking, something feral and intrigued sparking in his grey eyes; he's always had a soft spot for rebellion, a weakness for those who refuse to play by the rules. And you? You seem to have taken the rulebook, shredded it, and set the pieces ablaze.

The link loads, and they're plunged into a world that's equal parts righteous, hilarious, and feral. Your feed is a tapestry of thoughts and emotions, each thread woven with precision and intent. It's a chaotic symphony of brilliance—a place where intellect meets gallows humour, where anger is an art form, and truth is served unfiltered.

Sirius's fingers scroll through your tweets. Each one is a testament to your wit, your intelligence, your refusal to be anything less than unapologetically you. He pauses on a tweet from earlier in the week, the words sharp and elegant against the stark white background.

The way you dissect complex issues with such clarity and elegance reminds him of a poet's hand, each word chosen with care, each line a brushstroke in a larger picture. Sirius can almost hear your voice in his head, each word punctuated by the quiet intensity that seems to define you.

He scrolls further, his grin widening as he reads a tweet that memes a recent event with biting humour. The image accompanying the tweet is a low-res screengrab of a politician mid-speech, mouth open in what looks like a particularly unflattering yawn. Below it, you've added the caption: "When you realise you've been talking for ten minutes and still haven't said anything coherent."

Sirius chuckles, the sound low and warm as it vibrates through his chest. He's always appreciated those who can find humour amidst chaos, who can laugh in the face of adversity. And you? You're practically a beacon, lighting up the darkness with your sharp wit and unapologetic truth.

James leans closer, peering over Sirius's shoulder. His eyes flicker over the screen, taking in each tweet with a growing sense of admiration. "She's brilliant," he murmurs, a soft smile tugging at his lips. "And funny. God, I love a girl who can meme."

But it's not just the humour that draws them in—it's the way you wield your words like weapons, cutting through the noise with a precision that leaves no room for doubt. They find themselves captivated by a series of tweets—some witty, some brutal.

One sticks out to Remus, stark against the rest: "When you report stalking and the police ask if you're sure it's not a misunderstanding, you learn very quickly how loud you have to scream before anyone listens." Another reads: "The word 'slut' only started healing when I used it like armor instead of letting him use it like a blade."

James leans closer, his eyes scanning the screen with a mixture of amusement and respect. "She's got a way with words, doesn't she?" he says, his voice low and warm. "Like she's carving her thoughts out of stone."

Remus's fingers hover over the keys, not pressing but close enough to feel the heat of the moment. He's been following the thread, his brows knitting together with each new piece of information. These are not the tweets of someone looking for applause or validation—these are the words of someone who has lived through hell and come out the other side, scarred but unbroken.

"It's not just her words," Remus says quietly, his gaze fixed on the screen. "It's the way she uses them. She doesn't just speak—she communicates. She understands the power of language, how it can be both weapon and shield."

The room falls silent as they absorb this new layer of complexity. Your tweets are more than just words on a screen—they're pieces of you, fragmented thoughts stitched together into a tapestry of raw emotion and unfiltered truth. You don't just exist online; you inhabit the space, making it your own with every post, every interaction.

And it's not just Sirius who's captivated—James feels it too, the pull of your intelligence and humour like gravity. He's always been drawn to those who can match his wit, who can keep up with the constant barrage of thoughts and ideas that race through his mind. And you? You seem to not only keep pace but set it, your tweets a symphony of sharp edges and soft undertones that resonate with something deep within him.

Remus, ever the observer, watches the interplay between his partners and the screen. He sees the way Sirius's eyes light up with each tweet, the way James's fingers twitch as if itching to respond. But more than that, he feels the undercurrent of something stronger—a connection that goes beyond words, beyond the digital realm.

Because your tweets aren't just clever quips or biting retorts—they're pieces of you, fragmented thoughts stitched together into a tapestry of raw emotion and unfiltered truth. You don't just exist online; you inhabit the space, making it your own with every post, every interaction.

And as they sit there, phones in hand, eyes scanning the screen for more pieces of you, they realise something else—something that tightens around their hearts like a vice.

You're not just a pretty face or a clever mind. You're real, raw, unfiltered in a way that makes their carefully curated lives feel almost... hollow. They've seen enough fake smiles and rehearsed lines to last a lifetime, but you? You're different. You're genuine.

And that? That's what draws them in. That's what makes them want to know more, to see if the woman behind the screen is as captivating in person as she is online.

Their world is about to change, and they know it. Because this isn't just a passing interest or a fleeting fancy—they're drawn to you, pulled into your orbit by a force they can't quite explain.

And as they sit there, phones in hand, eyes scanning the screen for more pieces of you, they realise something else—something that tightens around their hearts like a vice.

They're already falling, and they haven't even spoken to you yet.

Remus finally loads the TikTok app, the soft glow from his phone casting delicate shadows across their faces, and he scrolls through your videos, pausing at one that catches his eye. James leans forward, his gaze sharp as he watches you on the screen. Your hands move with deft precision, the needle catching the light as it dips and weaves through the fabric. Each stitch is a testament to your skill, deliberate and confident.

But it's not just your hands that hold their attention—it's your voice. Your words flow smoothly, dismantling systemic ableism with a calm confidence that leaves no room for doubt. You speak as though you're delivering a well-rehearsed monologue, each point hitting its mark with surgical precision.

James's jaw tightens with each of your incisive comments, the lines of his face hardening in a way that speaks volumes about his deepening interest. He's always been drawn to intelligence, to those who can challenge him and hold their own in a battle of wits. And you? You're doing more than that—you're eviscerating ignorance with a grace that leaves him breathless.

Sirius nudges him gently, drawing him back from the brink of his intense focus. It's a small gesture, but one that speaks to their bond—a shared admiration, an unspoken understanding.

"Look at her hands," Sirius whispers, his eyes never leaving the screen. "She's not just talking—she's creating. Every stitch, every word... it's art."

James follows Sirius's gaze, watching as your hands move with practiced ease. The needle dips and weaves, each stitch precise and deliberate. It's a dance of sorts, one that speaks volumes about your skill and dedication.

And then there's your voice—steady, confident, laced with a hint of mirth as you dismantle systemic ableism with an ease that suggests this is far from your first rodeo. Your words cut through the silence, each point landing with the force of a well-aimed strike.

"Systemic ableism isn't just about physical barriers," you say, your tone measured yet intense. "It's the policies that ignore us, the societal norms that exclude us, the everyday interactions that remind us we're 'other.'"

Your commentary is sharp, each word carrying the weight of lived experience and hard-earned knowledge. It's a stark contrast to the delicate embroidery in your hands, yet somehow, it fits perfectly—a testament to the duality that defines you.

Sirius's voice cuts through the silence, a note of genuine awe threading through his words. "That's a goddamn monologue," he says, his usual bravado tempered by something softer, more reverent.

Remus watches you with a soft-eyed gaze, his expression one of quiet admiration. He's seen many people speak their minds, but few who do so with the same conviction, the same raw honesty that you display. It's as if he's seeing beyond the surface, understanding not just the words you say but the weight they carry.

"She's brilliant," he murmurs, almost to himself. But the words hang in the air, a testament to the impact you've made.

And you are—brilliant, that is. Your intelligence, your skill, your ability to weave threads into stories and stories into threads—it's all there, on display for anyone willing to look.

But it's more than that. It's the way you hold their attention, the way your words resonate with each of them in different ways. Sirius, drawn to your fire and passion. James, captivated by your intellect and skill. Remus, seeing the depth beneath your defiance.

Then, in the next TikTok stitched from a trending sound, you're sitting cross-legged in bed, saying quietly, "POV: dating a man twice your age at 16 and thinking he loved you. Plot twist: it was a hostage situation." The comments are filled with people writing "I see you," and "same." Sirius scrolls back to watch it again, face unreadable.

The living room falls silent after that, the only sound the distant crash of waves against the shore. Sirius leans into Remus, allowing the steady rhythm of his partner's breath to ground him. His usual vivacity is tempered, replaced by a quiet intensity that mirrors the gravity of the moment. James moves to stand by the window, his gaze fixed on the expanse of sea beyond. The soft light casts shadows across his face, highlighting the lines of concentration etched into his features.

The air feels charged, as though their collective decision has settled into the space around them, solid and unyielding. They don't need to speak to know what the others are thinking—it's there in the tension of Sirius's shoulders, the furrow in James's brow, the way Remus's hand rests on Sirius's back, fingers tracing idle patterns.

Remus breaks the silence first, his voice barely above a whisper but carrying the weight of their shared understanding. "We have to be careful," he says, his eyes never leaving the screen. "She's been through hell." His words are a gentle reminder, an echo of the caution that has guided them through so many storms. There's no accusation in his tone, only a deep-seated concern that's as much a part of him as the scars that mark his skin.

James nods, his gaze still fixed on the vast expanse of sea outside the window. His fingers drum a silent rhythm against the glass, each tap a testament to the thoughts swirling in his mind. "Then we walk through fire if we have to," he says simply, turning to face them. His eyes meet Remus's, then Sirius's, and there's a spark there—a promise, a challenge, a commitment. "Whatever it takes."

Because it's already decided, hasn't it? Not by logic or plan, but by something older, deeper. Something that recognises kindred spirits and calls them home.

For the first time in what feels like forever, they feel like all this time searching wasn't a wait. They don't know you yet—not really—but they already know they'll do this right. They'll earn you.

---

The living room is a study in contrasts—soft light filtering through gauzy curtains, casting a warm glow over plush furnishings and sleek, modern lines. It's a space that feels lived-in despite its extravagance, filled with the quiet hum of existence. James, Sirius, and Remus sit around a laptop, its screen illuminating their faces as they lean in, each man wearing a different expression but sharing the same focus.

James is the first to speak, breaking the silence with a low murmur. He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, his gaze never leaving the screen. His glasses reflect the soft light of the laptop, hiding the intensity in his eyes but not the determination etched into his features.

"We should start casual, like we're not trying to sweep her off her feet, just stand in front of her honestly." He runs a hand through his already tousled hair, the gesture more habit than necessity. He's always been the one to take charge, to lead with his heart as much as his head. This is no different.

Remus's fingers move steadily over the keyboard, each tap deliberate and measured. His brow furrows slightly in concentration, but there's a softness around his eyes, a calm that belies the storm of thoughts swirling within. He's the anchor, grounding them in reality even as they navigate these uncharted waters.

Across from him, Sirius lounges back in his chair, one leg draped over the armrest. His usual smirk plays at the corners of his lips, but it's tempered by something more serious—a glint in his grey eyes that speaks of thoughtfulness beneath the bravado. He leans over Remus's shoulder, tossing in jokes that are immediately deleted, the light-hearted banter a shield against the vulnerability of their task.

James insists on confirming their names straight off the bat, cutting through the potential fog of disbelief with a clear, straightforward approach. "Clarity before charm," he mutters, his voice low but firm. He's always been one for honesty, even when it's uncomfortable.

Remus follows suit, his calm demeanor never wavering as he types out the next line. His eyes flicker back and forth, reading the words on the screen, making sure they convey the right message. It's a delicate balance, one he's determined to master. We keep a low profile on here for obvious reasons, but everything's ID-verified, and we promise we're not catfishing.

Sirius, half-joking, half-serious, suggests offering video proof. His smirk fades into a thoughtful expression, reflective of his understanding of the importance of transparency. "She deserves to know who she's dealing with," he says, his voice dropping an octave.

The next paragraph is trickier, a minefield of implications and unspoken truths. Remus insists on honesty, his voice a steady anchor amidst the rising tide of their emotions. "If we don't tell her we looked, she'll find out anyway because one of us will let it slip. Better she hears it right away—unapologetic, but respectful."

His fingers hover over the keyboard, a pause in the rhythmic tapping that has filled the room. It's a small gesture, but it speaks volumes—of the care he takes with his words, the weight of each sentence as it forms under his command. The air is thick with anticipation, charged by the electricity of shared purpose.

Which brings us to the part where we're honest with you: we did a bit of digging. A reverse image search led us to your socials—and we looked. Remus types, the words appearing on the screen with soft taps. His brow furrows slightly, each line etched deeper by the weight of their task. Not to invade, but to protect ourselves.

James sits back, his fingers steepled under his chin as he watches the words take shape. His eyes, usually so full of mischief, are serious now. "She'll understand that part," he murmurs, almost to himself. "She has to protect herself too."

Sirius leans forward, his gaze flicking between the screen and Remus's face. There's a tension in his posture, a stillness that belies the usual fluidity of his movements. His finger taps against the edge of the table, a rhythm that mirrors the beat of their hearts. "With you?" he adds, his voice low but clear. "It didn't feel like surveillance. It felt like getting lost in someone we weren't expecting to find."

The room falls silent, the only sound the soft hum of the laptop. James's head tilts slightly, his brow furrowing as he considers Sirius's words. Remus's fingers pause mid-air, hovering over the keys like a pianist about to strike the final chord of a masterpiece. Even Sirius, usually so quick to fill the void with his own voice, remains still, his gaze fixed on the screen.

Remus's fingers resume their dance across the keyboard, the rhythm steady and sure. James's gaze softens, the hard lines of his face easing into a thoughtful frown. Sirius's eyes flicker with a spark of understanding, his smirk returning, but tempered now with a hint of something deeper.

They know the line is too good to cut. They know because it's the kind of truth that sticks, that refuses to be ignored. And as they watch the words appear on the screen, they can't help but feel a sense of anticipation, of waiting for the moment when the rest of the world will catch up to what they already know.

Because it's true—and because none of them had expected to be unravelled by someone they hadn't even met yet.

James leans forward again, his elbows resting on his knees as he studies the screen. His eyes flicker with a light that's half determination, half something softer—an earnestness that cuts through the usual bravado. "We're not reaching out because she's beautiful—though, she really is." He pauses, the words hanging in the air like a confession. "It's more than that."

Sirius begins pacing, unable to sit still. His movements are fluid, almost feline, but there's a tension in the set of his shoulders that belies his outward calm. "It can't be pity. Or rescue," he says, voice low but firm. The lines of his face are sharp in the dim light, casting shadows that dance with the flicker of his intensity. "She'd see through that in a heartbeat." His eyes meet James's, then Remus's, each glance a silent plea for understanding.

Remus's gaze shifts, his eyes unfocusing as if he's looking at something only he can see. "She's... electric," he says, the word almost a whisper. His hand halts on the keyboard, fingers stilling as he searches for the right way to convey the connection they all feel. "It's not just about what we see. It's about who she is, how she makes us feel, even just through her posts." A soft smile touches his lips, and he leans back slightly, the lines of his face softening in the dim light. "Her duality. That's what draws us in."

The way you write, the way you see the world, the way you hold space for both softness and fury—we felt it in our chests. He types with slow precision, each word a brushstroke on the canvas of their truth. The screen glows with the soft light of understanding, casting shadows that dance across the planes of Remus's face.

James's eyes widen slightly, and he straightens up, his body a line of tension. "You don't just survive fire, you match it," he says, his voice carrying the weight of the words. He turns to Remus, a slow smile spreading across his face. "That's the line."

Sirius's head tilts slightly, his eyes narrowing in thought. His fingers drum against the edge of the table, creating a soft, irregular beat. "Say something about the fact our love doesn't get diluted. It just expands." He looks at the screen, where the words hang in the air between them, unspoken but understood. A small smile curves his lips, a hint of satisfaction in his eyes. "We need that to be clear."

James nods, his gaze softening as he watches Sirius. "And say we just knew from the minute we saw her profile," he echoes, his voice low but firm. He leans back slightly, the tension in his posture easing as he processes the significance of their words.

The fourth paragraph takes the longest.

They write, and rewrite, and write again—each version a delicate balance between openness and caution. Words are deleted, sentences restructured, meaning distilled to its purest form. The cursor blinks impatiently, waiting for a decision that feels monumental in its simplicity. They want to be clear, not coy; honest, not harsh. And above all, they want to make sure you understand: this isn't about rushing in or overwhelming you.

It's Sirius who breaks the silence, his voice low and measured. "She's had people come in like hurricanes before. If we come in, it has to be like rain—soft, needed, welcome."

James nods, his eyes never leaving the screen. "We're not here to rush or overwhelm."

And then, the offer: If you're curious—about us, about what this could be—we'd love to talk.

The words hang in the air, a testament to their intent. James leans back, his expression thoughtful but not anxious. His gaze is steady, meeting each of theirs in turn. "We need to be clear. This isn't about winning someone over or sweeping them off their feet. It's about connection, and that only happens if she wants it too."

His words are met with a silence that feels heavier than before, each of them absorbing the weight of what they've just agreed to. The final line James suggests hangs in the air, unspoken but understood: And if not, we'll disappear as quietly as we came in.

It's an offer, not a demand. A door, gently cracked open, waiting for you to decide whether to step through.

The room falls silent, the air heavy with the weight of the unspoken. No one moves, no one speaks—a stark contrast to the flurry of activity just moments before. Sirius leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, his usual bravado replaced by a tension that radiates from his posture. His eyes are fixed on the laptop screen, the cursor blinking back at him as if it too is holding its breath.

James runs a hand through his hair for the fifth time in as many minutes, each pass a testament to the restless energy coursing through him. His gaze is distant, lost somewhere beyond the glass, but his body remains tethered to the here and now, a line of tension drawing him back.

Remus is the first to move, his fingers hovering over the trackpad. He clicks once—clean, quiet, certain—and the message is sent. Out there, somewhere in the ether, it lands gently in your inbox, waiting to be seen.

There's no dramatic exhale, no whoops of triumph or high-fives exchanged. Just the thick, warm weight of having done something that matters. The soft, ambient lighting casts a warm glow over the room, illuminating the lines of their faces and the subtle shifts in their expressions. Shadows play across Remus's features as he watches the screen, his eyes reflecting the quiet intensity of the moment.

The room feels quieter now, not expectant but full. Like whatever this is, it's already changed something, filled a space they didn't know was empty. The silence presses in, not uncomfortable but dense, laden with the significance of what they've just done.

It's Sirius who breaks it, a soft sigh escaping his lips as he leans back into the cushions. His eyes are still on the screen, but the tension in his shoulders has eased, replaced by a different kind of anticipation. He doesn't say anything, doesn't need to; the set of his jaw, the slight crease between his brows, speaks volumes.

James leans against the window frame, his fingers tapping a rhythm against his thigh. His gaze flickers between the laptop and the view outside, a silent sentinel keeping watch over both worlds. He's still for once, the usual restlessness replaced by a quiet patience that belies the storm brewing beneath.

Remus remains seated, his posture relaxed but alert. His hand rests on the arm of his chair, fingers tracing the worn fabric in an absent-minded caress. His expression is calm, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth—a stark contrast to the tension radiating from his partners.

The air feels thick, charged with the weight of their collective hope. No one speaks, the silence more telling than words could ever be. Each man is lost in his own thoughts, but their minds are aligned, circling back to the same point over and over again.

God, I hope she writes back.

[rosemuc]

mmm something something zhongli and ex god harbinger reader…

1.3k words (believe me when i say that this was supposed to be like a paragraph). very conceptually loose. might not be completely lore accurate; i do not play the game (for the sake of my mental health) but i have scoured the wiki pages to no end, watched infinite playthroughs, and am utterly captivated by its world. no gendered pronouns are specified for the reader. english is very difficult and i brought out my grammar sheets for this but i hope you can forgive me for the mistakes. dividers are by the wonderful @/saradika-graphics! more notes at the end

Before anyone else, there is you. It is practically law — wherever Rex Lapis goes, the God of Flowers is to follow. Wherever you go, the Geo Archon has already tread. You wait by his side. You are patient. Your title is soft but you bare your teeth and you fight for him unflinchingly. If Guizhong is his right hand, you are his left, his axe and executioner, and maybe you are the first love he has ever known aside from Liyue itself. 

(You will also be the last.)

Then the Archon War comes. Morax kills like he was made for it and you kill because you were. You try to save Guizhong and you fail, dust stinging wild eyes. Eventually the chaos bleeds into desolation and you finally collapse; even gods have their limits, and now the vengeful spirits of the vengeful fallen have their chance. They seize you with cold hands and drag you into deep waters where the solitude is heavy and pitch black. You are weak. You reach out for your lord; your companion; your saviour until now.

He makes no motion to see you. All you remember from that time are a flash of amber eyes and the wrists bearing the raw marks of manacles he seemed to be tending to while you were dying.

But then you awake. Not in the bed of grass and stone you are used to but in a cot of ice. Cold, pure ice shimmering incandescent in morning light that brings no warmth, in blue-flame torches that crackle with frost. 

This mysterious place is lonely. Your bare feet pad, new-born and unsteady, on smooth, glassy floors, through wide arches and empty air. You do not know the style of build. Every little movement echoes off these tall walls.

Then you come across wide-set doors. Unfamiliar again. You do not feel like a god when you push them open; your full strength has not yet returned. You struggle, but they act on their own once set in motion.

A cold, pure gaze greets you from above. She does not smile. Her face seems frozen in time. Her mouth does not move, but from it comes a voice that cuts like moonshine through the pitch black. 

“You’ve awoken.” 

Your fingers prickle.

“Who are you?” you ask, a sound you do not recognise.

A gust of wind rushes through the long hall and some part of you crumbles away with it. Suddenly she is before you, the air chilling until you feel yourself rendered immobile by its burn. Warm fingers brush your cheeks. 

She murmurs: “I am your queen.”

Your bones scream that she is not before they fall silent, and your jaws snap shut with them. The ghosts die down under her touch. This woman holds you like she could teach you what remains without them. 

Softer, frailer, this time, you ask: “Who am I?”

Does she laugh? You cannot tell.

“The fact of who you are is not important.” She says. “The fact of who you will be is.” The porcelain pad of her thumb presses into fractured flesh. “And you will be my liege.”

Frost willows up your skin in pale spirals. My liege my liege my liege. This is a song you know. The world flickers around you, chanting in your ears, low hymns set to the percussive thump of a heart you had not realised was beating until now. 

What more can you do but nod, programmed, innate? What more can you do but watch the smile lance her eyes, a spear splicing through lake ice, as if it were seeing the sun rise?

(She watches you carefully. Intimately, if you could ever believe it. You will forget many things in the hundreds of years to come, when you stand wreathed in diamonds and look another god you once called home in the red-lined eye, but you will never forget this moment. She will make sure of it.)

You do not know how much longer you are left there for. Her touch never leaves you. It persists through the hallowed halls you later put a name to in a clumsy patchwork of foreign sounds, and through those weeks on end which you spend learning what it is to move. To eat. To draw air into your lungs, each movement marred by a vestige of familiarity, the origin of which you cannot place. Language warps white-hot, scrambled, on your tongue. Gone are the contoured bows and dips in sound your ears strain to make out – but even in their strange forms, they come to carry the things that you, in turn, come to cradle.

Pierro, you learn first, came here before you. He is as carved from ice as anything else in this arctic dome and speaks to rattle your buried bones. Zapolyarny. Matushka, you murmur, sometimes. Tsarina. 

Rybka, she murmurs back, smile diaphanous in the waning light. Little fish. She spoke your tongue the first time you met, and now she bestows hers upon you. Her fingers weave through your own like riverbed streams. This is peace; nothing like the red you once bathed in. 

Eventually the clouds wisp away with the moon’s rise, and the past is set alight. You start to remember, if only a little — clear waters ringed in stone, amber and jade, gold-leafed trees shimmering with ichor. The names drift limply to the surface soon after. Yanwang Dijun rings strongest in fractal patterns, but already your mouth struggles to translate to the empty air, body recoiling at mismatched tones. You repeat it until your tongue clicks, and an inexplicable warmth pulses through your meridians. Yanwang Dijun. Yanwang Dijun. 

(Xingan.) 

The word (an endearment– an indictment– a fallacy) makes your head pound. You stumble. Xingan. You search for something to attach it to– but there is nothing in the din; only clawing hands, and cold, empty waters, and eyes of molten amber turned away from you–

Yes. 

Your eyes flicker open, and for a moment it is like you are sinking all over again .

That’s what it is. 

Revelation clasped in hand, you return, as you always have, to her. 

Who is Yanwang Dijun? You ask that evening, brittle edges stark against the blur of snow outside. Who am I, really? 

Many questions. Many answers. She holds you again, through the night, and the story unfolds in her white palms. First: to the northeast, there is a rolling land rife with plains and cloud-skimming mountains and pearls lying in wait beneath a harbour’s gilded legs…

I know that place, you say, because you do. Your body remembers; the trek south of a summit that stretched beyond the sky, lanterns and promises in tow. Someone had held your hand, then. 

All know of that place, she replies, but I cannot expect it to be in the way that you do. The harbour, or at least the harbour carved into the stones of today, was built on your blood and in your absence. Rex Lapis did not look for you, she says, mournful, molten eyes slipping through the cracks in your skin. Liyue flourishes still; much of your time has been forgotten over these many years. No monuments, I’m afraid. Her eyes are like glass. No halls. I do not know if there is anything for you there, rybka; not like how there is here. 

And this is all you know, so you nod. 

Seven suns later, when you finally clasp an arctic-blue star in between your palms and feel winter course through your veins, you understand: this is who you are. You are the Second of the Fatui Harbingers. You are loyal to the Tsaritsa of Snezhnaya and the Tsaritsa alone. 

(Over five hundred years later, you find yourself face-to-face with a man. He has fair, unmarred skin and sharp fingers and red-lined eyes that behold you with the kind of horror that only accompanies the deepest love there is — the one she taught to you.

Xingan, he murmurs, as if it is the only word ever to be penned.

You stay silent. But you know.)

language notes:

forgive me; both my chinese and russian are quite rusty lmao. i'm not claiming to be any sort of linguistics expert so please please please correct me if i have misused anything!

岩王帝君 (yanwang dijun) is the original chinese name for 'rex lapis'! i decided to use it because i thought it would resonate better with the little bits about language i was putting in haha

心肝 (xin gan) is a term of endearment which literally translates to 'heart and liver' and thus has a sense of the recipient being vital to the speaker. generally it is localised as 'darling' or 'treasure'

матушка (matushka) is a more intimate version of the standard 'mother'. in combination with царица (tsarina), which referred both officially and unofficially to a russian empress at least before 1917, it was historically used as a form of address for female monarchs in russia.

рыбка (rybka) is a term of endearment in many slavic languages literally translating to 'little fish'. i thought it would be funny because poor reader was literally pulled from the dark sea lmao

i started writing this as an all lowercase blurb but then it started getting kind of clunky and i realised that i would have to put in proper capitalisation (this is also why the phrasing is especially strange at the start)... so yeah this ended up having much less zhongli and much more words than i anticipated. sorry. he's still there though i promise

(also. please remember that the narration is quite unreliable... there's more to the story i swear! i think.)

anyways, if you're here, thank you for making it to the end and have a great day :)

[stbeck]

pairing: aaron hotchner x reader synopsis: sacred midnight moments spent with the love of your life, mulling over the doubts that are beginning to drive you insane.

“Are you awake?”

It’s whispered words in the dead of night while the rest of the world rests, the moon illuminating the dark skies above. A sliver of light creeps in through the condensation  on the window, dancing along the rumpled sheets strewn over a tangled mess of limbs. It’s in the slow breath of Aaron as he leans over you, forehead pressed down to rest against your bare shoulder, the warmth of his breath dancing flames across your skin.

“I used to think that nothing could break us.”

His hand finds yours, thumb brushing over your knuckles as he presses an open-mouthed kiss to your neck. It’s intimate, soft even, something sacred in the world of blood, murder, and undeniable tragedy. He presses another feather-light kiss against your skin, moving upwards slightly so that his hair is brushing against your jawline, his scent overwhelming you. His touch makes the room warmer somehow, and your future within its walls seems a little less bleak with every passing moment that you’re wrapped up in him.

“I was naive, Aaron.”

“Don’t───”

“How can this life not? How can it not break you?”

He sighs, closing his eyes. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Maybe,” you placate, then add, “for now.”

His gaze is piercing as he reaches across, pulling you into his chest. His arm wraps around your waist, and despite the heaviness in your stomach, it flutters at the sensation of his body pressed up against yours. Almost like the first time you saw him propped up against the back wall of the bar your friends had dragged you to, watching you move in time with the low, intoxicating music: a siren calling out to prey. He fell for you, hook, line and sinker just as much as you fell for him.

“I can take care of myself.”

A flash of jarring memories fuels your anxiety───

Aaron in the hospital, his skin gaunt and body lifeless under harsh, fluorescent lighting. Aaron, bloody and bruised, knuckles cut and sliced open as he tells tales of defending himself and his team. There’s so many moments that flicker through your mind, so many instances where it’s tortured your heart, seeing him hurt and broken, waiting for you to patch him up, softening his barbed edges.

“Not always,” you say, voice barely a whisper.

“I’ll always protect you and our family. Whatever it takes.”

It’s a promise he’ll keep until his last dying breath; a promise that’ll take him to the grave. But it’s also the promise that’s likely to get himself killed if it meant saving you. Aaron is the stoic Unit Chief, cold and heartless, keeping all his emotions close to his chest except for when it comes to his family. That’s the only time he’ll break every single rule to keep you safe, to protect you.

“Don’t you know that’s what I’m worried about?”

He smiles sadly, thumb brushing your lips. “Is that what’s keeping you up?”

“I always worry about you. It comes with the territory of loving you.”

Aaron hums in response, rolling over quickly so that he’s on top of you, his weight pressing you down further into the bed. He looks serious for a moment, the humour no longer visible against the darkness of his eyes as he leans down, pressing his lips against yours. It’s not a kiss that’s fuelled by intense desire or lust, it’s not filled with passion, it’s not rushed or messy, it’s just this: a kiss that barely lasts a minute, but is somehow enough for you to sink into. It overwhelms you: how soft he is when it’s just the two of you falling in love all over again with only the moon as a witness.

It feels a bit like coming home; comfortable; safe.

“I’ve got people watching my back,” he replies when he pulls back, his forehead resting gently against yours. “We’re a family. Nothing will change that.”

“Aaron───”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

It’s empty promises at best but you can tell Aaron doesn’t want to continue this conversation. He adjusts his body against you, running a hand through his unkempt hair. He glances up at the window, the light hitting his face in a way that only seems to emphasise his boyish features and it looks like the weight of the future has finally been lifted off his shoulders by the sheer strength of the moonlight. It’s a moment where you can see the warmth back in his eyes, his genuine smile erasing the sunken years he’d taken on in the last few months, and it’s as if he’s never been as happy as he is right now.

He looks content, almost.

It feels surreal.

Jack coughs, the sound echoing through the dark house, shattering the suspended moment where the world had dwindled down to just the two of you. He’s the wake-up call to reality, a constant reminder of the struggle that’s still ahead as Aaron tries to balance his commitment to the BAU and his commitment to his family. Sometimes his obligation to his job outweighs his responsibility to you, and the arguments in the aftermath leave you feeling hollow. But for every disagreement, every missed date night, every fight, it only serves to fuel your determination to fight harder because you’re not sure you can survive the fallout if this fragile thing between you breaks, and you don’t want to lose him.

“I love you.”

His lips twitch upwards. “I know.”

He leans over the side of the bed, grabbing some clothes to throw on before he goes to check on Jack, the crisp chill of the house ensuring that he doesn’t walk around half naked, much to your disappointment. He smiles fondly back at you, the sight of you wrapped up in his bed igniting a familiar warmth in his chest. He likes to think he’ll have you forever. He reminds himself that you’re not something he’ll ever give up without a fight, a promise he made to himself on the day you’d first said you loved him. 

He knows that you’d never let him leave without one either.

“Don’t be long,” you murmur, adding, “I’ve missed you.”

Between the endless cases, keeping his team in line, and his own demons that he’s still learning to live with, he rarely sees you anymore. This is the first time in a week that he’s spent longer than an hour in your presence. He watches you stretch your body out, rolling into the abandoned warmth of his side of the bed, like seeking him out has become one of your basic human instincts. He watches you for a moment, allowing his guard to drop long enough to treasure this singular moment with you.

It tugs at his aching heart; he knew you felt lonely.

But not to the extent where you’d willingly admit it to him.

“I’ve missed you too,” his voice is soft, gentle.

He thinks about the last week where you’d settled for salvaging a spare moment in the brief spaces in his busy schedule, sneaking around like teenagers, hiding in the shadows with Aaron’s lips on your neck. He’s kissed you a thousand times, pressing you up against the wall, stolen fragments in his office with the blinds drawn shut, away from prying eyes.

He’d wanted to apologise for it; to make up for it somehow. 

Except for you, there’s nothing to forgive him for.

He smiles to himself, saying, “I love you.”

A pause, and then, “I know.”

He stumbles at the open tenderness in your voice, back at your side within a second so he can lean down long enough to press a kiss against your temple. He only lingers for a moment, but there’s a faint curve to his lips as he’s leaving the room, knowing that he’ll be back in your arms before he knows it.

[softpascalito]

Dulcissima I Marcus Acacius x Vestal!Reader I Chapter XIX - Dulce

Summary: Set before and during Gladiator II. General Acacius finds himself entranced by a highly valued priestess of Rome – A Vestal Virgin. But you both have taken vows that make sure your paths may never cross. Until they do.

Aka a fix-it fanfic where Acacius survives the Colosseum.

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Vestal Virgin Reader Rating: Explicit / MDNI Word count: 57k+ Tags: Secret Relationship, Vestal Virgins, Religious Guilt, Gladiator fights, Gladiator II compliant (more or less), Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Ancient Rome, Age Difference, Slow Burn (ish), Injury, Kissing, Historical Inaccuracy, (Attempted) Sexual Harassment, Smut, First Time, Oral Sex (f receiving), Vaginal Sex, Unprotected Sex, Slight Breeding Kink, Semi-Public Sex, Pining, More tags to be added

AO3 // Series Masterlist // Masterlist // Fic Playlist // Ko-Fi

notes: hi! this one took a little longer but i've been so swamped with my other work that i didn't get to uploading until now. as always, comments and support are greatly appreciated ♡

(art by Gökberk Kaya)

Chapter XIX - Dulce

Acacius’s cubiculum is off to the other side of the landing above the atrium and you let him take the lead, allowing the gentle pull of his hand to drag you behind him. You have half a mind to cast a glance around the quiet space, checking whether or not your sudden rush has any witnesses. But you seem to be alone.

“Here,” he hums as he lets go of your hand and stops in front of the door, pushing it open to reveal a bedroom not unlike yours. The curtains that frame the windows have the same color, the same airiness to them that seems to carry throughout the whole villa. The walls that may have once been white are more of a comfortable creamy color now, several alcoves decorating them. They’re not too big, raised a few feet off the floor and barely big enough to fit a small statue. But the largest of them, the one beside the bed, is decorated with a mosaic.

A woman facing away from her viewer, her garments floating around her while she holds a fresh bundle of flowers in one arm, the other outstretched to touch those that still rise from the ground, maybe not quite tall enough for picking. Her form is such a stark contrast against the deep green and blue tiles that are all around her, filling the rest of the alcove from top to bottom, that it makes you pause for a moment, stepping closer to the piece of art as Acacius locks the door behind you.

“She is beautiful,” you hum softly, catching his attention. You listen to his footsteps coming up behind you and then his hands settle on your waist once more and he hums in agreement, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“She reminds me of you.”

“Why?” You ask bluntly. For the woman does not wear a veil or carry a flame. “You cannot even see her face.”

“I do not need to.” Acacius explains simply. “I know beauty and brains when they find my presence. Even if they are turned away. Even if they are veiled.”

“Acacius–” You start but he tuts softly, shaking his head.

“Allow me.” He whispers, nudging you until you turn to face him instead of the nameless woman on the wall. He has put the wine onto the table beside the bed– and you find that he is holding something else, a package shaped like a small square that fits perfectly into the palm of his hand. “I know I have hurt you.”

“I already told you, you are forgiven,” you repeat quietly but you can tell he’s not satisfied with tha. Which, really, who would not be satisfied with the forgiveness of a Vestal so easily given?

“I wish for you to have this,” his eyes flicker back and forth between both of yours and you can tell he is nervous. “My hope is that it will show you where my … true intentions lie. Where they have been.”

You take the small parcel from him, the size of a small honeycake wrapped into brown, worn paper, held together with red string. Carefully, you begin to open the present, making sure to neatly unwrap it. Your mind is already going miles and miles an hour, wondering what exactly he can mean. You thought you knew where his priorities lied and it clearly was not you. Not fully, anyway.

The skillfully melted gold, that seems to lighten up the room with a dim glow the moment you unwrap it, makes your breath catch in your throat. So does the green stone that sits on the side of the bracelet.

But not because of their worth, even though you are sure they could not have come cheap. But because of where they are from.

The shop he found you in in Beneventum. You were holding this very bracelet when Acacius stormed in with panic in his eyes and hurried you back to the villa and into the confines of your new guard before you had a chance to protest. You still remember the tremble you thought you saw in his hands that day, when he left you to be in your room. And it raises the one question.

“You went back to buy it?” You whisper, only able to raise your gaze from the bracelet resting in your hand with immense willpower.

“The same day, yes.” He confirms quietly and now you understand why he wanted you to have this. Because it shows that he did care. “I meant to give it to you. I thought it may lighten your mood but when I came to the villa in the morning, you were nowhere to be found.”

“I was with Rusticus,” you quickly explain. “He allowed me to visit the temple to say my prayers.”

“Yes. I saw you return with him.”

It’s like reading a book you loved as a child after you’ve become older, after you’ve turned wiser. You let the morning pass through your mind once more. The temple, the old man with his cart, buying baked goods. Laughing with Rusticus on the way back to the villa. Of course that is the part that Acacius would have seen.

“Either way–” He starts again and you’ve been quiet long enough that you know Acacius has understood where your thoughts have gone. And his eager attempt to distract from them only solidifies your belief that you are right in thinking that he did not enjoy seeing you with the other man. “I meant to give it to you. But I was not sure how.”

“I have it now,” you offer weakly, a smile playing around your lips as you put the paper and string to the side and push the bracelet against your free hand.

“May I?” Acacius hums and you nod, stilling as he carefully takes the bracelet from you. One hand comes to steady your arm. “The woman refused to sell it to me at first. I think I came off a little … strong when I came into her shop.” With seemingly no effort, the gold slips over your knuckles and onto your arm, the cool metal sending a small shiver through your body.

“You were worried,” you defend him quietly, even though you know he is right. And you were livid. But that night, you imagined how you’d have felt if you had shown up to the villa to find him missing. You believe your reaction would have been similar. “You paid her handsomely, I hope.”

“More than.” Acacius nods but unlike yours, there is no joy in his voice. You’re not sure how or why but you can tell you have hit a nerve. You quirk an eyebrow in question and he sighs in response, unfastening the leather pouch he used to pay the lady earlier from his belt and throwing it for you to catch. You just barely manage to, your hands weighed down with how heavy it is. And when you loosen the string that holds it together and peek inside, you almost gasp.

“These are all–” You press out, taking one of the gold coins out to inspect it. “This is half a fortune, Acacius.”

You are no stranger to money, not in your position. It is something you have to understand, both for yourself and the many people the Vestals have business with. But this is … a lot, even for you.

“I do not care for the gold,” Acacius says quietly and you watch as he lowers himself onto the bed, propping his elbows up on his knees and brushing his hands over his face. “It is cursed.” It is just a whisper, one slipping between the fingers covering his face.

“Why?” You question softly, like you are scared he may take offense to your question.

“It is gold I get paid for sending young men to their deaths.” A sad smile plays around his lips. “Like I said. Cursed.”

You sigh as well, slowly padding over to him and getting on your knees in front of him. You reach for his hands, drawing them away from his face and into yours instead. “I do not believe in curses, my General.”

His smile changes, from sad to something you can’t quite name. “I know you said you did not wish for grace or gifts tonight,” Acacius hums, his eyes fixed on yours, his thumb stroking your fingers in the gentle motions you’ve become so accustomed to. “I am sorry I failed you on at least one of those accounts.”

“You did not fail me,” you whisper, bowing your head to press your lips against the back of his hand. You place a gentle kiss onto his skin and whisper your words against it, like they will travel into his body this way. “You are here now. That is what matters.”

You can tell he does not fully believe you but he nods anyway, his voice cracking slightly. “Come here, anaticula.” He pulls you up and into him so that you’re perched on his thigh, not unlike the way you were below the pavilion in his gardens so many moons and suns ago.

Acacius takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with air and with you, pressing his nose into your shoulder while his arm wraps around your waist to make sure you won’t fall. Slowly but surely, you find yourself able to relax, much more than you have in the last few weeks. Even when there has not been actual danger to your life, quite literally having no one to lean on has been rough.

“Have you been on a ship before?” He muses, posing the question without judgement. You shake your head, your right hand tracing the fine golden lines on his toga, those that form tiny leaves.

“No. But I have seen them in the colosseum. And at Ostia, of course.” You dimly remember visiting the port of Ostia a few times as a child, before you were chosen. But the visits were brief and while impressive, you were not too occupied with the ships lining up along the shore.

Acacius nods and you can almost see the thoughts swirling in his eyes. “We will leave in a few days time, when everything is prepared. These waters are not as dangerous but it is naive to think any waters can not be deadly if treaded the wrong way.”

“Well, I am sure it will be an interesting experience. It must be fascinating, seeing no land. Being so far away from everything.” In truth, you have been looking forward to this part of the journey, something that you are certain not many of your kind have gotten to witness.

“Beautiful and treacherous,” Acacius agrees quietly. “I assume you know how to swim?”

You can practically watch the surprise spreading over his face when you shake your head again. “No. It was not exactly on the curriculum for a Vestal. I used to step into the river, play on the bank. Then one time, I stepped too far in and the current took me.”

Acacius has tensed slightly below you and you think you feel his grip tighten even more at hearing your story. “And then?”

“And then my father was there. He did not even yell. He just pulled me out and carried me back to land.” It feels so far away, like it was a completely different lifetime and you realize that you haven't thought about that day in a long while. “After that, I never strayed very far from the bank. And then I was chosen and life changed.”

“Let me teach you,” he says suddenly and you frown, needing a few seconds to figure out what he means.

“Teach me to swim?” You echo to make sure you’ve understood him correctly. And he nods, like it is the most natural thing in the world for a Roman General to take a day off his duties to teach a priestess how to keep herself above water. “Our dancing may have gone undiscovered but I doubt a swimming lesson would.”

He laughs softly at that, a brown strand of hair falling in front of his face as Acacius shakes his head. “No. No, I do not intend to teach you here. But there is a place that would work.” The familiar concern is back in his eyes but you find that it doesn’t bother you as much anymore. Not if he is allowing you to help him soothe his worries.

“Very well. Tomorrow, then?”

“Tomorrow,” Acacius hums in agreement, his eyes following you as you stand and step back from him, your form throwing a soft shadow into his direction, the windows to your back. His hand is still in yours, his arm outstretched so that you will not pull away.

“Is there anything else, my General?”

He almost growls at the way you address him, his fingers tightening around yours. “There is indeed.” His eyes seem to follow your curves once more. “I like how you think I would let you sleep in your own bed after tonight.”

You know very well that it is an empty threat, that Acacius would escort you back to your own bed yourself if you made it clear that was your wish. But the way he’s looking at you right now, combined with the idea of spending the night with him– it is almost too good to be true. “You consider it unsafe then, I take it?”

Your words are merely a breath spoken into the quiet room but you see the smirk that spreads over the mans face, more than ready to play the game you just started. “I do.” In one quick motion, he pulls you into him. Before you even know what has hit you, you’re straddling him while he sits on the edge of his bed, legs spread. “What if Rusticus decided to ask for another dance?”

His hand trails over your leg, fingers ghosting under the hem of your stola that has already ridden up quite a bit thanks to your position on top of the General. “You really hate his guts, don’t you?”

The hand on your thigh squeezes down at that and Acacius tuts softly. “No, I don’t. I just don’t like when others touch what is mine.”

A rush of warmth spreads through your body at his words, at his implication. For a moment, you consider if it’s nerves or if he’s being too much for you, especially after so many weeks of being apart from him. But then you feel your core clench around nothing and a frustrated whine escapes your throat, making you realize that it is not too much– it is not enough.

“I am yours?” You breathe, your hands wandering over his body, one cupping his cheek. Chocolate brown eyes watch you as he nods softly, his other hand cupping the curve of your ass.

“As far as I am concerned,” Acacius hums and you see him almost holding his breath at the question that follows. “Is that alright, dulce?”

“More than,” you agree immediately, leaning in to chase his lips. You don’t even have to. He meets you halfway, his mouth on yours in the blink of an eye. And it’s like all the worries, all the hardships fall off your shoulders when you are so close to him; when you have his hands on your skin and his lips on yours.

“Hold on–” Acacius rasps when you both break the kiss for a few moments and you withdraw reluctantly, wrapping your arms around his neck in silent protest to not let him leave. You hear him grunt at that and after a moment, you’re up in the air as he carries you through the room and to the windows. “Will you open one of these for me?”

You nod and do as told, extending one arm to the small piece of wood that keeps the windows closed at wish. A wave of cold air rushes in as soon as you do and with it the voices from the people below, some evidently still dancing around the piazza. “You enjoy hearing the sounds of the night?”

Acacius shifts you in his arms, shaking his head. “I will not deny that I do. But more than that–” He groans slightly as he lowers you back onto the bed, two arms caging you in on either side, his teeth scarping over that sensitive part of your ear. “I enjoy letting them hear you.”

[isalisewrites]

TERRIBLE, BUT GREAT - CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

SUMMARY:

“Harry Potter.”

The cold burrowed into his flesh, the scent of cloying death and molding earth clogged his senses.

“The Boy Who Lived.”

A strange sense of loss and disappointment rose within him. That brilliant, yet cruel boy could’ve been so much more if he’d not stepped down this bloodied path.

Terrible, but great. He pitied this creature.

“Come to die.”

Harry Potter faced the flash of green light with the bravery of a Gryffindor and the broken heart of a Hufflepuff.

—

When Death gives Harry a third option, one that can save everyone he ever cared about, he takes it unflinchingly. Even when that means doing the impossible: falling in love with the enemy, Tom Riddle.

—

FIFTY-THREE EXCERPT:

White rushed out, surrounding Tom; the edges were distorted, sharp and tinged with a hint of black. Dumbledore stood beside Harry, who looked exactly as the boy who Tom had met on the train. An odd, wrinkled creature lay near their feet.

A voice cried with joy, “My baby!” and a woman with flaming red hair threw her arms around the memory of Harry.

“Harry, my boy, listen to me, the longer you stay here, the more people will die,”said Dumbledore. “You must go back to fulfill the prophecy.”

“Fuck the prophecy,” snapped the woman, glaring at Dumbledore as she hugged Harry even tighter.

He has her eyes. It’s her… his mother, but that’s impossible. She died—

The memory rippled with distortion, pieces of it breaking and cracking, the edges growing darker with ink. A headache bloomed within the center of Tom’s forehead. The images flipped from crystal clear to out of focus, voices becoming muffled. A number of adults he didn’t know—though, two of the men bore resemblances to Alphard and Quintus—gathered around Harry; they greeted him with love and adoration.

And then… a terrible voice spoke, raspy and low; it crawled up Tom’s spine and set his soul on edge. He knew this voice—he’d heard it when the dementors had almost taken Harry’s soul. He hadn’t known what the voice had said, but it was unmistakable. This voice… who was it?

‘If you go with them, you can’t save him.’

A tall being materialized behind Harry; the creature on the ground wailed. Tom’s soul screamed in agony, twisting, crying, wanting nothing more than to flee from this being’s presence. Tom dropped to his knees and clapped his hands over his ears. Its voice reverberated through the memory, but its words warbled in Tom’s ears. The being loomed over Harry, its unnatural smile never moving, stalking Harry as if he were prey.

“What do I have to do?”

“You must fix this abysmal timeline.”

What is this being? Who has the power to send someone back in time like this?

“If you can do that, well… Master, then the timeline will shift. These souls here will be reborn into a world with no Dark Lord.”

“I’ll do it,” said Harry.

He didn’t even hesitate. He just… accepted it.

The macabre smile of this hideous entity widened to an unnatural stretch. “You please me, Master.” 

What?

The memory vanished, as did the overbearing pressure of that being. Tom slowly got to his feet. They were in a graveyard now, the sky dark as a fog settled over. Harry, back as a child—god, he’s still so young—was locked behind a massive gravestone. The memory was wispy, some of the edges missing. There was a splash and Tom turned around to see a man groveling at a cauldron, whimpering in pain as the stump of his wrist bled out.

The cauldron bubbled.

A bare, sallow monster with red serpentine eyes rose; the sight chilled Tom’s blood.

“Robe me.”

The memory flickered to a moment of a duel, red and green spells clashing in a brilliant blast; it created a familiar golden dome above Harry and the serpentine man. Brother wands—wait, Harry said we had brother wands. That means… The child and the monster battled—no, Voldemort was torturing Harry with a familiar white wand; a grown man versus a child was no fair fight. The whirl of memories came in a blur, streaks of light in the mind’s eye. The scene was there a second, before it melded into a forest—a new memory.

That wand… It’s mine, isn’t it? That monster was holding my wand. 

That monster… 

It really is me.

“No—let me see all of it,” said Tom sharply, his heart broken in half. Disgust and horror threatened to choke his lungs. Bile coiled in his throat. “It’s worse, isn’t it? Harry, don’t hide it from me—don’t protect me from this. Show me.”

Show me this putrid side of myself.

He believed him. He believed Harry. And, oh, how did it hurt.

The Forbidden Forest hung over them like a shade of dementor.

“Harry Potter.”

It was cold, dark, and suffocating. The memory of Harry stepped forward, blood and dirt staining his muggle trousers. Tom’s protests died in his throat. A crowd of wizards in skeletal masks, cackling madly, were gathered around their lord.

His wand isn’t out. Why isn’t his wand drawn?

“The Boy Who Lived.”

Draw your wand. Fight him.

The memory of Harry let out a low breath. He locked gazes with those red eyes. The tension that had roiled around him relaxed as a powerful resignation came over his stance.

“Come to die.”

Harry, draw your fucking wand.

Pity glowed emerald in those eyes.

NO!

Green flared out around them. The connection between them broke and the solidness of their surrounding rushed back into his senses, overwhelming him immediately. Tom staggered away from Harry, legs weak and shaky. Harry reached for him, gripping him by the underarm with concern in his bright eyes—those eyes—and all for him. 

“Tom!”

[criticallyinneedofadar]

A Life Lost in Time

A/N: I'm so sorry in advance. This is a sad one. I just can't get over the 'he promised me children' bit.

Pairing: Adar x Reader

Warnings: Main character death, childloss, infertility,

*This could be read in connection to Beyond Hope if you want a happy ending for this couple.

____________________________________________________________

Adar stood alone, cloaked in the deepening twilight, staring into the darkness of the rivers surrounding the elvish city. The winds carried a faint whisper, almost like a distant echo of voices long dead, warning him of what was to come. 

Eregion.

It’s fall was imminent, and he would be the one to see it burn- Sauron with it. Yet, even with the grim satisfaction of his enemies broken and his children safe, a heaviness hung in the air that he could not shake. He had fought for so long, carved his paths of pain through the centuries, yet the weight of a memory far more agonizing than any battle weighed on his mind. 

Aruvian. 

The name stirred within him like a half-remembered song. She had been the last one to use that name for him. Before he had become Adar. Before everything had changed. 

The present seemed to slip away as his thoughts drifted to a time when his heart had still known the light. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

You were sitting by the fire, staring into the flickering flames, pensive and deep in thought. You felt it before you heard his steps. The familiar presence within your fae, that of your husband Aruvian, approaching from behind. He sat beside you, his dark eyes filled with the same sorrow that had haunted you both for centuries. 

“I spoke to her again today,” you say quietly, your voice barely above a whisper, “The healer.” 

Aruvian’s hand gently found yours, his grip firm and warm “And?”

You turn your gaze to him, eyes brimming with tears. “There is nothing to be done meleth nin. She said it would take a miracle for us to bear a child,” 

A heavy silence filled the air. You had spent centuries trying to fill that silence- trying and failing to bring the life you both longed for into the world. 

You could feel Aruvian’s heart clench as he saw the weariness in your eyes, the shadow that had settled over you like a shadow. 

He knelt beside you, taking your hand in his. “We’ll find a way,” he said, though his voice lacked the conviction it once held. He had said those words too many times and both of you knew it. 

“We’ve tried everything,” you whispered, shaking your head. “There’s no hope left.”

Aruvian’s jaw tightened, but he forced a small smile. “There is always hope. I’ve heard talk of someone- a great sorcerer. They say he can do what no other can.” 

You looked at him, your eyes widening slightly. “A sorcerer? Aruvian you can’t mean-” 

“He is different,” he interrupted gently. “They say he can perform miracles. He can give us what we have always yearned for.”

You hesitate, glancing into the fire again. “What would he ask in return? Sorcerers… they never grant anything without asking something in return.” 

Aruvian’s hand tightened over yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Let me worry about that. You’ve suffered enough, and I can’t bear to see you in pain any longer. Please, my love, trust me.” 

Your gaze softened and after a long moment, you nodded. “I trust you,” you whispered, resting your forehead against his. 

The journey had been long, taking you both to the edge of the world, to a place where the stars seemed to dim and the air grew colder with every step. The tower loomed before you like a jagged tooth against the darkened sky. As you stood before it, unease crept into your heart. 

Aruvian had been calm, resolute. He had always been your strength. He had always known what to do. 

When the sorcerer- Sauron, though at the time he did not reveal his name, appeared his presence was overwhelming. His eyes gleaned with ancient power and his red hair seemed to emit it’s own light. You felt small under his gaze, but Aruvian stood firm. 

“My wife and I seek your aid,” he said, his voice steady. “We desire a child. We have tried everything but none have succeeded.” 

Sauron’s eyes flickered toward you, lingering for a moment before looking back at Aruvian. “And you are prepared to continue, knowing my price?” 

Aruvian hesitated for only a second, though you did not see it- too busy working out what the price could be and how your husband would have already agreed to it. You did not hear the unspoken exchange between the two males- the one in which Aruvian silently offered his servitude, his loyalty, in exchange for the one thing you both desired above all else. 

“I know the cost,” he said, his voice low but firm. 

Sauron smiled- a cold, cruel smile that made your skin prickle. “Very well. You shall have what you seek.” 

The sorcerer’s magic had woven through the air like tendrils of ice touched shadows, creeping into your body and warping you from within. You felt it immediately- the dark energy coiling around your soul, reshaping you, twisting your flesh in ways that felt unnatural and wrong. But Aruvian had held you, whispering words of comfort in your ear, words of love and strength. 

And for a time, you believed him. 

________________________________

Adar snapped back to the present, his breath catching in his throat as the memory tore through him like a blade. His hands clenched into fists, and he forced himself to look once again toward Eregion. But the pain lingered, gnawing at him like a warg with a bone. 

You had trusted him. He had convinced you that it would all be worth it, that the suffering would pass, and soon you would hold your child in your arms. But the sorcerer’s magic had not been a blessing; it had been a curse. 

As the months passed, your body had weakened, twisted by the dark power that had been forced into you. You grew frail, sickly, and still, you clung to hope. But Adar had known, even then, that something was terribly wrong. He had seen the price you were paying and yet he said nothing. He had remained silent, too afraid to lose the chance he had bargained for. 

When the time came for the child to be born, your body had been too fragile to survive. Your screams of agony echoing through the cold, empty halls. You died there in that tower. Your final breath slipping away as the child- the one you so longed for- took its first and last.  

Adar had held your lifeless bodies in his arms, his heart shattered and soul broken. He had traded everything for a child, and in doing so, he had lost the one person who had meant the most to him. The one person who had trusted him, even when she shouldn’t have. 

_____________________________

The winds howled around him as Adar stood at the edge of the battlefield, his eyes cold and empty. Eregion would fall, and with it, the last remnants of the world he once knew. His servitude to Sauron had begun with a lie, and now, centuries later, he would finally end it for good. 

There were no more promises, no more bargains to be made. Only darkness remained. And Adar would see it through to the very end.