#cuff compass

[phoenixiancrystallist]

Can one of my Forspoken peeps with access to Visoria test something for me? There's a certain radius around the north half of the Northern Corridor where Cuff compass doesn't recognize any destination markers set if the compass would have to pass through that area. This applies to map icons like caves (I don't have treasure chests to test on), and just random "go here" markers.

On this half of the canyon, it's fine:

But on this half, I get told no:

Usually I only get that error if I forgot to set a destination, but you can see in the screenshot, I have one. It's less than a thousand feet away. This happens all throughout that side of the corridor. If I'm inside, I can't target anything, even if I'm targeting something outside. If I'm outside, I can't target anything inside. I can set it on the map but Cuff won't show me the way, even if I'm right on top of it :(

Does this happen to anyone else? Any idea what's up with that?

I mean at least I got pretty pictures out of it, but still. It's weird.

[freyholland]

Falling into the same issue with BG3 that I sadly have with most open world games which is that I spend so much time fucking lost that I eventually lose interest

[favefandomimagines]

I Know Places (r.c)

Summary: Y/N has always been the peacekeeper in JJ’s life. Whereas JJ was the chaos in hers. And they only ever had each other. When Rafe finds himself in a sticky situation after a dangerous encounter, Y/N unexpectedly becomes his lifeline. Drawn to her compassion and strength, Rafe tries to change, but his past mistakes—and JJ’s disdain for him—complicate everything.

AN: I’m starting a Rafe Cameron series!! I’ve been going back and forth between a traditional series or an SMAU series. Let me know what you guys think!

The sun dipped low over the horizon, casting the Outer Banks in hues of amber and gold. The Pogues were gathered at the bait shop, wrapping up their day. Y/N Maybank leaned against the counter, her arms crossed as she watched her twin brother JJ count the day’s earnings with uncharacteristic focus.

"Seriously, J," she teased, a playful smirk tugging at her lips. "You’ve been staring at that cash like it’s gonna sprout legs and walk off. What’s the holdup?"

JJ glanced up, his blue eyes sparkling with the mischief that seemed to define his existence. "Just making sure we’re not short, sunshine. John B’s not exactly forgiving when it comes to missing cash."

Y/N rolled her eyes but smiled. It was always like this with JJ—him playing the charming troublemaker and her trying to keep him grounded. Being twins meant they shared everything: a very messed up childhood, an unspoken bond, and a deep understanding of each other’s flaws and strengths.

Where JJ was impulsive and wild, Y/N was pragmatic and quick-thinking. She’d spent years trying to be his voice of reason, the one who pulled him back from the edge when his temper or recklessness threatened to get him in trouble. But it wasn’t a one-way street. JJ had long since appointed himself her protector, ready to throw himself into the fire to keep her safe.

"Y/N’s off-limits." That was the unspoken rule on the island, one everyone seemed to understand. Hurt her, and you’d answer to JJ Maybank—and no one wanted that.

But Y/N wasn’t just JJ’s sister. She was her own person, and she had a way of disarming people that JJ envied. Everyone liked her, even Topper Thornton, though he’d never admit it. She had this ability to make anyone feel at ease, but she was no pushover. Y/N could be a firecracker when needed, her sharp tongue and quick wit making her a force to be reckoned with.

And JJ had no issue reminding everyone.

"Remember last summer?" JJ said suddenly, snapping her out of her thoughts. "When Topper called me a loser, and you laid into him in front of the whole dock?"

Y/N smirked, leaning her elbows on the counter. "Someone had to teach him some manners. You were about two seconds from throwing him into the water."

JJ laughed, the sound rich and unrestrained. "You’re lucky everyone loves you. If it were me, I’d have ended up in cuffs."

"That’s because I use words, J. You use fists."

JJ shrugged, grinning. "Same difference."

Their banter was interrupted by Sarah Cameron strolling into the shop, her blonde hair catching the light of the setting sun.

"Party on the beach tonight," she announced, her voice light but insistent. "Big one. First of the summer. You guys coming?"

The Pogues exchanged glances, the exhaustion from their day already fading.

"Beach party? Hell yeah, we’re going," JJ declared, slamming the cash drawer shut.

Y/N hesitated, her stomach twisting slightly at the thought. She wasn’t a fan of big parties, especially ones where Kooks, Pogues, and Tourons all mingled. The lines blurred too much, and it always felt like trouble was just around the corner.

But she couldn’t say no when the rest of the group looked so excited.

"Fine," she said, feigning nonchalance. "But if this turns into a Kook-Pogue brawl, I’m not breaking it up."

||

The beach was alive with music and laughter when they arrived, the crowd a mix of sunburned Tourons, smug Kooks, and carefree Pogues. Y/N stuck close to her brother at first, the unfamiliar energy of the party making her skin prickle. This wasn’t the Boneyard, their turf. Here, they were outsiders.

JJ nudged her, his protective instincts on high alert. "Stick close, alright? I don’t trust these Kooks not to pull something."

Y/N rolled her eyes, brushing him off. "I’m not a kid, JJ. I don’t need you babysitting me."

JJ shot her a look that was equal parts exasperation and concern. "I’m serious, Y/N."

"Relax," she said with a smirk. "I’ll be fine."

Hours passed, the party raging on as the sun dipped below the horizon. While the rest of the Pogues were still going strong, Y/N had had enough. The unfamiliar crowd and overwhelming noise wore on her nerves, and she was ready to leave.

She didn’t really drink so she was completely sober, which could have contributed to her not having fun.

"Hey, I’m going to head home," she told JJ, who immediately frowned.

"I’ll walk you," he offered, but she shook her head.

"No need, I’ll be fine. Text me when you’re ready to leave and I’ll come back and pick you guys up."

JJ hesitated, his protective instincts warring with his trust in her. Finally, he sighed. "Be careful, alright? And… I love you, sunshine."

Y/N smiled, ruffling his hair. "Love you too, J."

||

The night was quiet as she walked toward the Twinkie, parked on the street just outside Tannyhill. Sarah had assured them it was safe—Rafe wouldn’t be home, so there was no risk of running into him.

But as Y/N approached the gate, something felt off. It was wide open, swinging slightly in the breeze. She stopped, her instincts screaming at her to turn around. Then she saw them—three shadowy figures dressed in black, bolting from the side gate.

Her heart pounded as she froze, watching them disappear into the night. Curiosity gnawed at her, overriding her better judgment. She should have called the police and left. But she didn’t. She stepped cautiously up the driveway, her eyes scanning the area.

The door was ajar, the faint glow of the interior lights spilling onto the porch. She pushed it open slowly, her breath hitching at the scene inside. Glass littered the floor, furniture was overturned, and an eerie silence hung in the air.

"Hello?" she called out, her voice trembling. No response.

As she rounded the corner into the living room, her stomach dropped. Someone was lying on the floor.

Rafe Cameron.

He was unconscious, blood trickling from a gash on his head. Without thinking, Y/N knelt beside him, her hands hovering uncertainly.

"Rafe," she said, her voice shaking. "Rafe, wake up."

A groan escaped his lips, his face scrunching in pain before his eyes fluttered open. "What... Y/N? What are you doing here?"

"I saw the gate open and... I had a feeling something was wrong. Are you okay?"

"Do I look okay?" he muttered, wincing as he tried to sit up.

"Don’t move," Y/N ordered, her tone firm. "You could have a concussion."

He shook his head, grimacing. "I’m fine.” Y/N looked at him incredulously. “Rafe, you need to go to the hospital.” Y/N rebutted. “No, no hospital. Just... do what you do for JJ." Rafe replied.

Y/N frowned but helped him up. "There’s a first aid kit in my bathroom," he said, leaning heavily on her as they made their way upstairs.

Y/N kept her hands on his arm and his back, the last thing they both needed was him falling down the stairs and hurting himself even further.

“Sit down.” She told him. Rafe sat on the closed toilet and watched as Y/N grabbed the first aid kit. She didn’t have to come inside, she could have left him. But she didn’t.

The tension in the bathroom was palpable as Y/N cleaned his wound, the closeness between them stirring something unspoken.

"How do I know it wasn’t you and your friends who robbed me?" Rafe asked suddenly, his tone accusatory.

Y/N froze, glaring at him. "If I had, I’d be halfway to Mexico with all the expensive shit you have in this house. Maybe next time, I’ll think twice about helping you.”

Rafe clenched his jaw, muttering an apology.

He never got along with JJ or the rest of the Pogues, that much was certain. Rafe and JJ had fought on multiple occasions, almost always over Rafe flirting with Rafe a little too seriously for JJ’s comfort.

But he was never harsh to Y/N like he was to the rest of them. He always thought that she was too perfect for the Pogues but he never had the courage to act on his feelings.

Y/N finished cleaning the cut, placing a butterfly bandage over it to hold the two sides together. She sifted through the first aid kit and found a travel sized bottle of Tylenol. Y/N took off the cap and handed him two pills.

"Take these and you probably shouldn’t fall asleep. You might still have a concussion. You really should see a doctor." Y/N told him.

"Yeah, well, lucky for me I had you," he said, his voice softer now.

Y/N moved to leave, her emotions a mix of frustration and something she couldn’t quite name.”Lucky for you, I’m a good person.”

"Thanks," Rafe called after her. "Seriously."

She paused at the door. "Just... don’t make me regret it."

As she walked away, both of them felt it—that unspoken shift. And Rafe, for the first time in a long while, was determined to explore it.

Y/N made her way down the stairs of Tannyhill, the eerie silence of the house settling around her. Her hands trembled slightly as she replayed the events of the night in her head. She’d just patched up Rafe Cameron—a man who, until now, had been little more than a looming presence in her world. His blood on her hands, the weight of his injury—it was all too surreal.

She stepped outside, the cool night air hitting her like a slap. She glanced back at the house, the faint light from the upstairs bathroom glowing in the dark. Rafe was still up there, sitting in silence with whatever thoughts plagued him.

“Lucky for me, I had you.”

His words echoed in her mind, and for a moment, she felt the weight of them. Rafe wasn’t someone she thought about often. Sure, she’d seen him around—he was hard to miss, with his sharp jawline, piercing eyes, and the quiet intensity that seemed to follow him like a shadow. But this? Being alone with him, patching him up after what had clearly been an attack, had cracked the veneer of distance between them.

Upstairs, Rafe leaned against the edge of his sink, staring at his reflection in the mirror. His face was pale, the cut on his head still throbbing. He popped the Tylenol Y/N had given him and ran a hand over his buzzed hair.

He couldn’t get her out of his head—her sharp wit, the way her voice softened when she realized he was hurt, the way she’d scolded him like he was one of her own friends instead of some Kook she barely tolerated.

“Lucky for you, I’m a good person,” she’d said.

He let out a quiet laugh, the memory tugging at the corner of his mouth. She was something else—bright and unflinching, someone who didn’t cower under his sharp edges or the weight of his name.

And then there was the way she’d looked at him. Not like he was the Rafe Cameron, the Kook king of the island. Or the guy who had beaten up her brother countless times. She’d looked at him like he was just a guy who needed help.

That was a first.

Back outside, Y/N stopped halfway down the driveway, glancing over her shoulder at the gate. The memory of the three shadowy figures flashed in her mind, and she frowned. Who would have the audacity to rob Tannyhill? And why?

She pulled her phone out, debating whether she should call JJ. She knew he’d flip if he found out she’d gone into the house alone—or worse, that she’d been the one to find Rafe. JJ and Rafe were like oil and water, and she could already hear the string of colorful curses her brother would throw at her if he found out.

But she also knew JJ would lose his mind if something happened to her.

Sighing, she shot him a quick text:

Y/N: Made a quick pit stop, heading home now. Don’t forget to text me when you’re ready to leave.

She slipped her phone into her pocket and started down the long driveway. Despite herself, she couldn’t shake the image of Rafe’s face—his guarded expression, the vulnerability in his eyes when he muttered, “Thanks.”

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Safe With Me 2

Warnings: non/dubcon, violence, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Steve Rogers

Summary: the Cap makes you his special mission.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

In a blood curdling contrast to his earlier callousness, the Captain stares at you with concern. The lines of his face have rearranged into a perfect mask of compassion. He's convincing, terrifyingly so.

"Tried not to move her too much," he tells the paramedics as they roll the gurney into the ambulance. The jolt makes your groan. "Looked like a back injury."

"Possibly. We'll know back at the site." The man in a dark blue uniform replies. He's not dressed in the bright orange of the other paramedics you've seen and the ambulance isn't painted the same blinding white and red.

"I'll ride with you," The Captain invites himself. No one in this world would say not to him.

"There's room," the man says as he climbs up and locks the gurney in place.

The Captain nods as he cradles his cowl under his arm. His blue eyes drip with worry. He steps up, his weight shifting the boxy vehicle and he angles around to keep his shield from hitting the wall or equipment.

"Miss," the paramedics bends over you. "We're going to do some tests."

You groan and try to nod. The brace around your neck keeps you stiff. You wince.

"Alright," he touches your palm, "can you grip my finger?"

You curl your fingers around his. He wiggles until you release him.

"Good. Lift your hand." You can do that. "Bend your arm." That take more effort. "And how about the whole arm? Can you raise it? Just a little?"

You try. The cuff in your shoulder sears and you squeal as you can only twitch. It hurts.

He hums. "Relax." He taps your hand gently. "Torn ligaments, maybe. Or dislocated."

"But she moved her hand," the Captain argues.

"It's a good sign. Likely no paralysis. But..." The man pauses and looks over his shoulder. "Forgive me asking, do you know this woman?"

The Captain slumps down and puts his hand to his forehead. He could work a film set with that performance. He nods, lip quivering.

"I... It's a secret. To protect her. Or try to," he bends forward and holds his head. "I think... I think it's my fault."

"Captain, you can't do everything. And in this city, it's just as likely a random act of violence," the man affirms.

The Captain gulps and nods. He sniffs and sits up. His eyes are glossy as he looks at you. "I just want her to be okay."

"She will. You know we do good work, Cap. Not like the city."

"Yeah, I know," he utters glumly. "Please, call me Steve." He toys with his cowl. "Just a damn suit."

"We'll take care of her," the paramedics hunches awkwardly, "here, get closer. She needs you."

The Captain moves around the other man in the cramped space, swaying with the motion of the tires. He grabs onto the rail of the gurney. He looks down at you. His jaw ticks.

"Sweetheart, I'm so sorry. I promised..." His voice cracks even as his eyes blaze down on you. "You know, I'll always take care of you. I'll always be around."

To the other man, it must sound sweet, romantic even, but he can't see The Captain's face. It's a threat. A warning. Just like what happened in the alley.

Next time, you'll be worse off, so don't make a next time.

"We're going to be together and we're going to be okay," he gently reaches to pet your cheek.

You close your eyes, holding back your horror as he strokes you gently. As startling as this man, this hero turned villain, is all the unknown. Still that question you asked as you writhed on the ground. Why you? Before that night, you only ever saw The Captain on the news.

[jijournal]

WANDS, WIZARDS, AND WICKED TRADITIONS | D.M

Part 1: Crazy Rich... Wizards? Part 2: Wands, Wizards, And Wicked Traditions Part 3: Wealthy, Witty, Witches

Summary: When your boyfriend drags you into a world of old money, ancient grudges, and fancy robes, you quickly learn that fitting in isn’t about magic—it’s about surviving family dinners.

wc: 2.5k+

cw: muggle!reader x draco, light angst, narcissa and luscious degrades reader, draco comforting reader, draco and luscious fight, draco pov.

A/N: I'm so excited for the next few parts of this!! Hope you guys love this! 🫰

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

Three days. That’s how long it took to finally say yes.

You’d paced your flat in your socks for most of it, Googled “how to act at wizard weddings” and “what to wear when meeting magical parents of your boyfriend,” only to be met with silence and fanfiction.

None of it prepared you for the moment Draco turned to you with that anxious tilt to his mouth and asked, softly, if you’d come to Blaise Zabini’s wedding as his date. His date, sure. But also… his partner. The one he wanted to introduce to his world.

You’d fallen in love with him over walks in the park, late-night pastries, and the way he looked at you like you were the only person in a crowded room. But this—stepping into the reality of his past, of his name, of everything he'd survived after the war—this was different.

Still, you said yes. And once you did, Draco didn't waste a second. Your suitcase was already packed. His wand—yes, the wand you now grudgingly accepted wasn't just a "fancy stick"—was tucked neatly in his coat. And you were holding tightly to his hand as you took your first step into the unknown.

Apparating felt like being squeezed through the eye of a needle. You landed on cobbled pavement, dizzy and breathless, the cool London air rushing into your lungs.

“Welcome to Leaky Cauldron,” Draco murmured, steadying you with a hand around your waist.

A voice interrupted before you could speak. “You took long enough.”

Blaise Zabini stood leaning against a lamppost like he’d been sculpted there. His skin was dark and gleaming in the late morning sun, his emerald green robes layered over tailored black slacks and a shirt with silver embroidery along the cuffs. He wore confidence like cologne—rich, undeniable, and entirely intentional.

Draco laughed. “Still dramatic, I see.”

“You brought her,” Blaise said, stepping forward with a smooth charm. “I almost didn’t believe it.”

You swallowed, managing a nervous smile. "Better believe it! Sorry if I don’t look very… magical.”

“On the contrary,” he said, offering you his hand. “You look exactly like someone Draco would fall for—someone no one else saw coming.”

You barely had time to answer before a sharp voice chimed in. “Blaise, you’re smothering her.”

Daphne Greengrass walked into view like the breeze had parted for her. She was tall, statuesque, with ash-blonde hair that curled at the ends and eyes so pale they seemed to pierce. Her robes were minimalist but elegant, her makeup subtle, her expression far from it.

“Daphne,” she said simply, offering you a hand. Her grip was cool, her eyes cooler. “Fiancée. I also double as Blaise’s moral compass, which is exhausting work.”

You laughed, even though you weren’t entirely sure it was a joke.

Draco leaned in and murmured, “She grows on you.”

“She better,” Daphne added with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

You followed them down a narrow cobblestone alley hidden behind a brick wall at the back of a pub. The bricks shifted when Draco tapped them in a specific pattern with his wand and then the wall melted away to reveal something out of a fairytale.

Diagon Alley was unlike anything you’d ever seen. Cobbled streets wound between crooked shops stacked two or three stories high, with bright, painted signs that swung themselves gently in the breeze. A group of children giggled as they chased a toy broomstick zipping through the air. A woman in violet robes argued with a talking mirror. An owl soared overhead, its feathers flashing silver in the sun.

Your mouth fell open. “Is this... real?”

Draco watched your face with a soft smile. “Every bit of it.”

“Flourish and Blotts,” Blaise pointed out, “where half of wizarding Britain pretends to read.”

“And Slug & Jiggers,” Daphne said, gesturing to a potion shop whose windows steamed ominously, “where teenage boys tried to brew love potions and gave themselves hives instead.”

They took you through boutiques filled with enchanted mirrors that judged your outfit out loud. You tried on robes that changed color with your mood—Daphne raised a brow when yours briefly turned soft pink. Draco insisted you needed something formal, and Blaise chose a set of black velvet robes with silver embroidery along the hem.

“Goes with her eyes,” he said, not even looking at you as he said it—because he didn’t need to.

You laughed more than you expected to. Even Daphne smiled once. And for the first time since you said yes, you let yourself believe maybe you belonged here.

Until you reached the gates of Malfoy Manor.

The laughter died.

The manor loomed like a fortress behind wrought iron gates. The peacocks on the lawn didn’t strut—they watched. You half-expected one to speak.

Inside, the air was crisp and perfumed faintly with lavender and old parchment. Marble floors stretched into shadowed corridors. You didn’t need to be told to take your shoes off; the place demanded silence.

And then they appeared.

Lucius Malfoy entered like a breath of winter—sharp, pale, controlled. His silver hair was tied neatly, his tailored robes immaculate. Narcissa was a wraith of elegance beside him, gliding like she didn’t need to walk, just will herself across the room.

“Draco,” she said softly, leaning in to kiss his cheek.

“Mother.” He nodded to his father. “Father.”

Lucius gave a single, assessing nod, and then his gaze found you.

“This is my girlfriend,” Draco said, his voice quiet but steady.

There was a pause.

“What family are you from?” Lucius asked, his voice like cool silk—dangerous only if you tugged too hard.

You swallowed. “Oh, I’m not actually a wizard. Or a witch. Or… whatever you call it.”

The silence wasn’t loud. It was still. Dead still.

Lucius’s expression didn’t falter, but it hardened. A door closing. A verdict passed.

“I see,” he said shortly. Then to Draco, clipped and final: “A word.”

Draco tensed. “I’ll be right back,” he told you softly, then followed his father down a long corridor.

You were left standing in the echoing marble foyer beside Narcissa, who finally turned toward you with a smile you couldn’t quite trust.

“This way,” she said, leading you to a sitting room you suspected hadn’t changed since the 1700s.

You sat delicately on the edge of an antique settee. Narcissa poured tea without asking. She moved with the precision of someone who’d spent her life mastering appearances.

“I imagine this is all rather overwhelming for you,” she said politely.

“It’s… different,” you said honestly.

She passed you the tea after she poured one herself.

“I’m sure Draco explained how important family is to us,” she said. Her voice was smooth, but there was iron beneath it. “Our legacy is… particular.”

“I know I’m not who you expected,” you began carefully.

“No,” she agreed, stirring her tea. “You’re not. You’re kind. You're decent looking. And, a muggle"

“I don’t say this to be cruel,” she continued, setting her spoon down. “But you must understand—we survived a war that very nearly destroyed us. We rebuilt from ash. Our name, our bloodline… they mean something. Not just to us. To our world.”

You sat straighter, unsure if it was defiance or just instinct.

“I love Draco,” you said.

Narcissa’s smile returned—small, cold, pitiful. “Yes. And love is very pretty. But it doesn’t last forever. It doesn’t stand up to the pressure of our kind. Not in the long run.”

You felt something hollow out in your chest.

“I just want what’s best for him,” you said, quieter now.

“So do I,” she said.

But she didn’t mean the same thing.

⸻

DRACO'S POV

The moment I saw the way my father’s eyes narrowed when he looked at her, I felt the old familiar surge of protectiveness boil up inside me—raw, stubborn, unwilling to back down. I clenched my fists until my nails bit into my palms. This wasn’t just some passing irritation. This was an unspoken warning, an invisible line I was crossing.

In the drawing room, Lucius paced slowly, his long fingers steepled beneath his chin, his gaze sharp and cold like frost on glass.

“She’s not one of us,” he said quietly, but every word was a blade. “A muggle. Do you understand what that means? For the family? For our legacy?”

I swallowed the urge to snap, to argue, to defend her with every fiber of my being. Instead, I squared my shoulders and looked him in the eye.

“She is exactly who I want. And don’t you dare pretend you know better.”

Lucius’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “You don’t understand the weight you carry, Draco. This isn’t about who you want—it’s about what we need.”

“What we need doesn’t mean a thing if I’m miserable,” I shot back, voice low but fierce. “You lost sight of that a long time ago.”

He stopped pacing, fixing me with a look that said he was considering just how far I was willing to go.

“She is not just ‘some girl.’ She’s kind, brave, and the only person who ever looked at me without judgment. You can’t see that because your world is too small. You live in the past.”

I stepped forward, the words finally spilling out, because I couldn’t stand the silence any longer.

“Do you know what it was like, growing up with that shadow of expectation? Having my life decided before I even breathed? She’s the first person who ever made me want to break free, not to fit into a mold someone else carved for me. So, if it means choosing her over the family’s so-called ‘legacy,’ then so be it.”

Lucius’s eyes flickered with something unreadable. “Careful, Draco. These are dangerous words.”

“Maybe it’s time for danger,” I said, voice steady. “Because I’m done living in fear.”

⸻

The dining room is vast and silent, the heavy drapes drawn tight against the fading light outside. You sit at the polished mahogany table, your hands folded neatly in your lap, the cool weight of the silverware beside your plate doing little to ease your nerves. Draco’s presence next to you is the only anchor in this sea of unfamiliarity.

Opposite you, Lucius Malfoy’s pale, calculating eyes study you with an unsettling intensity, as if trying to decipher some hidden flaw. Beside him, Narcissa’s poised elegance barely conceals a sharpness in her gaze that prickles at your skin.

The first silence stretches long enough to make your throat dry before Lucius breaks it.

“So,” he begins smoothly, voice low and measured, “tell us about the home you come from. The people who raised you.”

You clear your throat, choosing your words carefully. “It’s a quiet place. My father is a doctor, while my mother's a teacher. We don’t have... connections to anything magical or unusual.”

Draco’s jaw tightens beside you, and you sense the tension radiating off him.

Lucius’s eyes narrow slightly, lips curling into a faint, disapproving smile. “Doctors and teachers,” he repeats, almost as if tasting the words. “Respectable professions, of course, but hardly the sort of pedigree we were expecting. And your life—how does one like you find their way into the world we live in?”

You blink, uncertain how to answer. Your world is the one you grew up in—the one filled with ordinary things and normal struggles. But here, your answers feel fragile.

“I... met Draco through a friend,” you say simply, counting your Labrador a friend, hoping your answer was enough.

Narcissa leans forward slightly, her voice soft but laced with a quiet edge. “I’m curious,” she says, “how much do you understand about what it means to be part of this world? To bear a name that carries history, responsibility... expectation?”

You swallow hard. You want to say that you’re willing to learn, that you love Draco and want to stand by him. But the words feel small, inadequate against the weight in the room.

Lucius folds his hands neatly on the table. “It’s not a question of love,” he says evenly. “Love is fleeting—like a gust of wind. What matters is legacy. Bloodlines. The company you keep. Do you understand why we’re cautious? Why a history like yours... raises questions?”

You nod, trying to keep your voice steady. “I do. But I don’t want to be an obstacle.”

Narcissa’s eyes glint with something unreadable. “An obstacle... or perhaps a weakness?” she murmurs. “We survived a war that threatened to unravel everything our family stands for. That legacy is fragile.”

You bite your lip, feeling the weight of their judgment settle on your shoulders like a cloak of ice.

Draco squeezes your hand beneath the table, a quiet promise. But you can see the hurt behind his usual composure.

Lucius’s gaze sharpens. “And your future? What plans do you have? Surely, you must understand that our world demands more than... ordinary ambitions.”

“Well, I want to continue my studies further, get a master's degree. And most importantly, I just want to be with Draco,” you say softly. “To support him.”

Narcissa inclines her head slowly, a faint smile curving her lips, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Support is necessary, yes. But it must be the right kind of support. The kind that understands sacrifice, discretion, strength. This world is not kind to those who cannot uphold its demands.”

You feel suddenly small, as if you’re being weighed and found wanting.

The conversation dwindles into strained silences broken only by the delicate clink of cutlery. Draco’s parents exchange glances, their expressions unreadable. You notice how Lucius’s eyes linger on you with a quiet calculation, while Narcissa’s polite smile never wavers, though there’s a coldness beneath it that chills your bones.

You meet Draco’s eyes, finding in them a mixture of reassurance and the "it's going to be okay" look.

When the meal finally ends, and you rise from the table, your legs feel unsteady beneath you. The grand manor feels less like a home and more like a test you weren’t prepared to take.

But still, you hold onto Draco’s hand—the only certainty in a room full of questions.

That night, your room was warm, but your thoughts were not.

The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting flickering shadows along the old stone walls, but its warmth did little to thaw the cold settling in your chest. Your robe was still wrapped tightly around you, more out of habit than comfort, your fingers knotted tensely in your lap as you stared into the flames, watching them dance with quiet detachment.

You didn’t hear Draco at first—only noticed him when the door clicked shut behind him and his soft footsteps padded across the rug. He stopped when he saw you there, curled into the armchair like you were trying to disappear into it. For a long moment, he said nothing.

“They don’t like me,” you murmured, voice flat but fragile. The words dropped between you like stones into deep water.

Draco didn’t answer right away. Instead, he walked closer, slowly, like he wasn’t sure if you’d let him near. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were tired—older than they should have been.

“I think your mother was trying to be civil,” you added, your voice cracking just slightly. “That’s what makes it worse. She was being polite. Careful. Like she didn’t want to soil the tablecloth by saying what she really thought of me.”

Draco exhaled sharply and dropped to his knees in front of you, robe rustling as he settled. His hands hovered for a moment before resting gently on your legs, grounding you. His jaw was tight, clenched with restrained fury, but his eyes—his eyes were heartbreakingly earnest.

“They want me to end up with someone like Daphne,” he said bitterly, spitting the name like a curse. “Someone polished. Someone with a family name carved into every wall of this place. Someone quiet and proper and painfully dull. Someone they can parade around like a bloody heirloom.”

You blinked, your throat closing. “And instead, you brought me.”

Draco’s eyes didn’t waver. “I brought the person I want,” he said, firm and unshaken. “The only one who sees me—really sees me. Past the name. Past the wounds.”

You looked down, blinking fast, but the tears welled anyway. “She said love won’t last in your world. That it's a nice idea—until it gets inconvenient.”

Draco reached up, hand cupping your face, thumb brushing just beneath your eye to catch the tear that had managed to escape. “Then we’ll rewrite the rules,” he said quietly, voice steady despite the tremble in his hand.

You leaned into his touch instinctively, your breath hitching. The manor loomed outside the room, cold and judgmental, every corridor echoing with ghosts and expectations—but here, in this tiny flickering pocket of warmth, was him.

“They’ll never accept me,” you whispered, barely audible. “No matter what I do. No matter how hard I try.”

“Then let them be wrong,” Draco said, his voice low, fierce. “Let them choke on their pride and live in their perfect, polished little world. Because I’m not giving you up. Not for them. Not for anyone.”

You looked at him—really looked at him—and saw the conviction there. The desperation. The choice he’d already made.

And just like that, the cold manor felt a little less cruel.

Because sometimes, love isn’t about being welcomed.

It’s about choosing to stay anyway.

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

masterlist!

[borealing]

WHY DOES DONGSIK LOOK LIKE HES FALLING IN LOVE WHILE JUWON PUTS THE CUFFS ON HIM WHY DOES JUWON LOOK LIKE FOLLOWING HIS RIDICULOUS MORAL COMPASS THAT HAS PROPELLED HIM THROUGH THIS ENTIRE SHOW IS BREAKING HIM INTO PIECES WHY CAN THEY ONLY HOLD HANDS WHEN DONGSIK IS HANDCUFFED WHAT THE HELL

[yuff7e]

Yay! Okay so I'm gonna try this.

Could I please request Tanjiro, Inosuke, Giyu, and Sanemi with a demon male reader with:

...Damaged horns?

Bit of a backstory:

He's a kind demon with healing blood that can cure any illness and help to heal any injury. This also got him to be caught and held captive by humans and "work" in one of the local hospitals. And also because he was a demon and people hate demons.

People treated him badly, putting cuffs and chains on his feet, hands, and mainly on his horns, damaging them in the process. After some time people realized he's not bad and both sides made an arrangement...reader will have a source of food and shelter while continuing to help humans.

His horns used to be long, shiny, and just pride itself but now they look even worse than a rock by a sidewalk. Not only does it affect his self-esteem but it also causes him bad headaches.

The request:

Reader is healing slayers's small injuries until a headache strikes and our demon slayers comfort him (they know about his past and self-esteem) and show a gentle love to his horns as well. Maybe how would they show their love and care to reader and his horns differently.

Also the demon change made reader as closely tall as Gyomei, no matter the gender (if you decide to make this genderneutral).

Thank you so much for the opportunity. 🩷🩷

𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒: 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐁𝐄𝐘𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐒

����𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

— heyy charliedakotariley!! sorry this took forever, i’ve been a bit inactive these past few days but im slowly coming back!! i hope this was what you wanted, enjoy :)

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐝

tanjiro -> inosuke -> giyuu -> sanemi

♬♪ -> lıllılı.ıllı.ılılıı

tanjiro kamado

you’re kneeling beside a wounded villager, your healing blood working its magic to close the injury. as the skin begins to knit together, you suddenly feel a sharp headache, causing your large frame to tremble.

“are you alright, [name]?” tanjiro’s voice is soft and filled with concern as he notices your distress.

“just a headache,” you manage to say, trying to brush it off, but tanjiro isn’t convinced. he’s aware of your past, the harsh treatment you endured, and how it has left its mark on you, especially your horns. without hesitation, he places a gentle hand on your shoulder and helps you to sit down.

“let me see,” he says softly. he carefully touches your horns, feeling the rough, jagged edges where they have been damaged. his touch is tender, almost reverent, as he explores the scars.

“it’s okay,” tanjiro whispers, his voice soothing. “you don’t have to be strong all the time. you’re allowed to hurt.”

his fingers trace the grooves and ridges of your horns with a delicate touch, not shying away from the damaged parts. instead, he focuses on them, showing you that he loves every part of you, including your scars and imperfections. you can’t help but feel a deep sense of comfort from his care.

you close your eyes, allowing yourself to lean into his touch. the warmth of his hands begins to ease the tension in your head, filling you with a sense of peace that you haven’t experienced in a long time. tanjiro’s presence is calming, and his compassion is healing in itself.

“thank you,” you murmur, your voice thick with emotion, feeling tears of gratitude well up.

“you’re not alone,” tanjiro replies with a reassuring smile. “i’m here for you, always. no matter what.”

inosuke hashibira

inosuke barges into the room, his usual boisterous demeanor suddenly faltering when he sees you clutching your head in pain. the injured demon slayer, whom you’ve been healing, looks on with concern.

“hey, what’s wrong with you?” inosuke demands, though the worry in his voice betrays his tough exterior.

“it’s just...a headache,” you manage to say, your voice strained from the pain. inosuke’s frown deepens, and without saying another word, he stomps over and sits beside you.

“let me see,” inosuke says gruffly, his voice softer now. he reaches out to touch your horns, his touch surprisingly gentle as he traces the jagged edges. he’s heard about the mistreatment you suffered, and he knows how much it still affects you.

“they hurt, don’t they?” inosuke asks, his voice uncharacteristically calm.

you nod, unable to speak through the pain. inosuke’s rough fingers continue their gentle exploration, not flinching away from the scars. he looks at you with an intensity that softens as he continues.

“you’re strong,” inosuke says after a moment, his voice filled with genuine admiration. “stronger than anyone i know.”

the unexpected praise catches you off guard. you look up to see inosuke staring at you with fierce determination, and his sincerity is almost overwhelming.

“don’t let anyone make you feel less,” inosuke continues. “your horns, your scars, they’re part of you. and i like you the way you are. don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

the sincerity in inosuke’s words brings tears to your eyes. you lean into his touch, letting the pain ebb away, feeling a new sense of acceptance and warmth from his words.

“thank you, inosuke,” you whisper, your voice choked with emotion.

“yeah, yeah. just don’t forget it,” inosuke grunts, though there’s a softness in his tone.

giyuu tomioka

giyuu watches as you finish healing his wound, the cut on his arm closing seamlessly. he notices the moment you wince, your large frame jolting slightly from the pain of your headache.

“is something wrong?” giyuu asks, his voice calm and even, his eyes never leaving you.

“it’s nothing, just a headache,” you reply, though giyuu can see through your attempt to downplay it. he’s aware of your past, the mistreatment you’ve faced, and how it has left lingering effects, including the headaches. without a word, he moves closer and helps you sit down.

“let me help,” giyuu says softly. he reaches out to touch your horns, his fingers tracing the jagged edges with a tenderness that belies his usually stoic exterior. his touch is light, almost reverent, as he feels the damage.

you tense at first, but giyuu’s gentle touch quickly soothes you. the pain in your head starts to fade, replaced by a soothing warmth. giyuu’s presence is calming, and his compassion is deeply comforting.

“your horns are beautiful,” giyuu says quietly, his eyes meeting yours with genuine affection. “they show your strength, your resilience. don’t let anyone make you feel otherwise. they’re a part of you, and that’s something to be proud of.”

the sincerity in giyuu’s voice brings tears to your eyes. you’ve never heard such words spoken about your horns, never felt such gentle acceptance and care. it’s a balm to your wounded spirit.

“thank you,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion.

giyuu simply nods, his fingers still tracing the contours of your horns. “you’re not alone. i’m here for you, no matter what.”

sanemi shinazugawa

sanemi watches as you heal the wound on his leg, the torn flesh knitting back together under your touch. he notices the moment you wince, flinching from the headache.

“what’s wrong?” sanemi asks, his voice rough but laced with concern.

“it’s just a headache,” you reply, trying to brush it off. but sanemi isn’t convinced. he knows about your past, the mistreatment you endured, and how it has left you with lingering effects, including these painful headaches. without a word, he moves closer and helps you sit down.

“let me see,” sanemi says gruffly. he reaches out to touch your horns, his fingers surprisingly gentle as he traces the jagged edges. he feels the rough, scarred surface with a careful touch, his usual harshness softened by an unspoken empathy.

“they did this to you,” sanemi says quietly, his voice filled with a mix of anger and sorrow.

you nod, unable to speak through the pain. sanemi’s touch is surprisingly tender, his rough hands moving with care and precision. his gaze is intense, but there’s a gentleness in his actions that contrasts with his usual demeanor.

“your horns are a part of you,” sanemi says after a moment, his voice softening. “they’re a sign of your strength, your resilience. don’t let anyone make you feel less. they’ve tried to hurt you, but you’ve survived. that’s something to be proud of.”

the sincerity in sanemi’s words brings tears to your eyes. you lean into his touch, letting the pain fade away, feeling a newfound sense of acceptance and understanding.

“thank you.” you whisper, your headache fading almost instantly.

sanemi simply nods, his fingers still tracing the contours of your horns. “you’re not alone. i’m here for you.”

[saphiccarma]

- Sweet Thing Pt.4

pt.3

Relationships - Agatha Harkness x Rio Vidal x Reader

Summary - You do your best to hold out, to not give away the secret of your home to the new pirates that captured you. Just when you think you're about to give up, your pirates in shining armor arrive to save you

Warnings: descriptions of torture

A/N: Sorry it's a lil' bit short. BUT GUYS when I say that i have spiraled into a whole siren lore and is now completely unrelated to this story...oops

Chains held your arms up, the cold metal digging into your skin harshly and holding you in place. Your knees were sore from how long you had been kneeling on the wooden floor, skin raw and sensitive to the touch. Sweat made your hair stick to your face, and you wanted to wipe it away, but your hands were held in place.

Somehow, these people knew you were a siren. They wanted to know where the rest of your kind was. Your neck ached from where it dangled, falling to rest against your chest. Agatha's shirt was soaked through with sweat and blood, tears on the back of it from how hard they had hit you with the whip. Withholding information led to pain, a biting one that slowly withered down your defenses. You almost told them what they wanted to know, or some form of lie to make it stop.

The door creaked open, wood grating and wood, and your eyes remained shut as you braced for pain. Somone crouched in front of you, a gruff hand tilting your chin up, digging into the bruises and small cuts. You winced but didn't have the energy to flinch away or even try and fight back. Any strength you had was gone. The hand squeezed your cheeks, forcing your mouth open and that caused your eyes to flutter open slowly, your swollen cheek slightly obscuring your vision.

This was your least favorite man. Which at first might seem odd. He looked like the kindest of all the crew. Even with his bulky posture, he kept his lips always curled into a fond smile and his beard made him look almost father-like. He had a tendency to speak softly, deceptively, luring you into a false sense of security. Along with that his blue eyes always shone with compassion, but it was false.

He often came to you after a long session of pain, gently clearing away your blood in a way that was almost caring, or maybe sympathetic. At first you thought he was just trying to be kind, but after he cleaned you up, he would ask you questions. You almost always answered them, seeing as they started off innocent enough before having deeper meanings that you couldn't answer. He told you his name was Henry, and he would repeat his ask, keeping his voice controlled and careful. It was foolish of you to think he actually meant well. If you failed to answer any of his questions it would result in him socking you in the face, his large fist slamming your head to the side and making your nose bleed, mixing with your tears.

The process repeated over and over again. Sometimes he brought food, water, giving you a sip or a bite, then holding it just out of reach. The only way you got it was through answering his questions. And slowly, he chipped away at your defenses, dwindling your mental walls down until you were a jumbled mess.

Henry tapped your bruised cheek with his large thumb, "C'mon, it's time to get up."

You took a moment to process his words, and by the time you had your hands had fallen down to your sides, free from your restraints. Without the chains holding you up, the cold cuffs clamping down on your wrists, you slummed further into the floor. Your shoulders ached from being strained for such a long time, and you sighed in slight relief at the brief pause in pain. That pause didn't last long before you were hauled up, Henry's hand firmly clasped around your forearm, and he was dragging you away.

You stumbled, your legs unsteady and weak, but Henry didn't care. He forced you through the ship, leading you further in. It was only a moment before he paused, slammed you against the wall, and ordered for you to stay. Even if you wanted to, you had no energy to fight his command. Giving you a pointed look that promised pain, Henry crouched, fingers digging into the floorboard. He pried it up, the wood splintering and snapping slightly, but it revealed a small compartment.

It wasn't large by any means, although it looked long, but it was rather short. Your breath caught in your throat when Henry took a hold of you again, his hand cupping the back of your neck, before shoving you towards it. For the briefest of moments, you had some energy to fight, unwilling to be shoved into the tiny area. But you were tired, all your energy was sapped, and you were skinnier than usual, and Henry was a healthy, full grown man. It was no use.

Your legs scraped against the floor as you were slid into the slot like some tool, the walls squeezing your arms tight and your feet pressing against the other end. It was suffocating and your panicked scream was muffled by Henry slamming the floorboard back into place. Wiggling slightly, you were able to pound your hands up against your cage, but it did nothing. Your voice was raw, too sore to scream, even as you tried. Your feet kicked with what minimal space you had, and your hands beat the wood until they were aching even more.

And when you finally stopped, your breath coming in ragged and short gasps, you recognized the sound of pounding footsteps above deck, eerily similar to the day you were taken from Agatha's ship, and orders being shouted out. Anxiety bubbled in your chest, mingling with the fear that coursed through your veins. Your heart thundered in your ears, louder than the thunderstorms you cowered from as a child, and that was one of the only things you could focus on. That and your rapid breathing, so apparent in the small space.

You listened to the sounds above deck, stomach swirling with anticipation as you waited, chest rising and falling rapidly. The wooden floor dug harshly into your back, burning against the cuts that littered your skin and irritating them. Your eyes squeeze shut, and you whine as your back is alight with pain, keeping you on high alert. It felt like forever before you heard footsteps directly above you, and you forced your arms to hit against the wood again, hoping to be let out.

There was a small shuffling above you, muffled voices, before the wood was pried back and you could breathe again. But then you caught sight of who was standing above you and your breath vanished again. Rio's brown eyes stared down at you, her head tilted in concern. She reached down, pausing when you flinched.

"You're not real," you whispered, but still you climbed out of the compartment, shuffling until your back was pressed against the wall, "You're not real." You shook your head, eyes squeezing shut as you tangled your hands into your hair.

Fake-Rio exhaled softly, and you could hear her move some more, shifting closer to you. She had to be fake. There was no way in any universe that they could have found you, or that they would have wanted to find you. You were a plaything for them, a toy, not someone that had any use. You had to be delusional, just hallucinating her as a way to cope with the pain. Your entire body shook as you curled tightly in on yourself, pressing against the wall as a form of support, and tugging on your hair.

Slowly, you rocked back and forth, begging your mind to return to reality. You didn’t want to get your hopes up, especially when Rio wasn't actually her. Fake-Rio's hand landed on your arm, her touch the most gentle than it had ever been, and you flinched away.

"Hey," she said softly, "Look at me." When you whine and shake your head, Fake-Rio's hand moves to grasp your chin, forcing your head up, "Look at me." Her words are repeated, firm, and you meet her eyes. They are shining with the same layer of mischief you have grown used to, and as much as you loathe to admit it, you missed. But above that was a shimmer of concern, one that was so uniquely Rio. Everything about her screamed that she was real. From the confident tilt to her shoulders, the slight tug at her lips, to her brown hair.

"Rio?" you croak, your voice quiet and trembling in the narrow corridor. The woman nods, a small smile tugging at her lips, and that's all you need to launch yourself into your arms. It's a brief moment before she returns your desperate hug, and you hardly care for the way your back burns anymore. Tears stream down your face and sobs rack your body, "You're real." You repeat the words over and over. Your entire body shakes in Rio's grasp, completely tuned out from the world around you.

You don't budge from your position when Rio stands, taking you with her and carrying you like a child. Legs wrapping around her waist, you keep your arms slung around her neck and face buried into her shoulder bone, snot and tears soaking her shirt. Her arms held you steadily, marching up the steps to above deck, and she waltzed through the chaos that was happening. Agatha had killed several people, her brutality shining through clearly, and the rest of the crew had helped.

Ignoring the pure bloodshed around her, Rio's walks the plank onto her ship, shouting something you hardly heard. You were carried all the way down below deck, and panic spiked within you again. You struggled, scared to be trapped once more, but Rio gently shushed you, her voice kind and reassuring. You just barely registered footsteps above deck once more, and the felt the ship spur into motion, sailing across the sea. Rio kicked open and door and you could smell the familiar scent of the bedroom.

She placed you down on your bed, untangling you from your tight grip around her. You whimper, reaching for her, but Rio bats your hands away. Tears well in your eyes, and for a moment, she looks panicked, but as always, Agatha comes to the rescue. Your eyes snap to her and you try to scramble off the bed and get to her. Key word: try. As soon as you are standing, your legs collapse beneath you and fall to the floor with a loud thump and a cry of pain. Agatha can’t help but smile at your eagerness to see her, but her smile is tinted with a dark edge, a clear sign of her corruption that was slowly ebbing away at your heart.

Scoffing, Agatha reaches down, hauling you back into the bed, although her touch is more gentle than usual. She props you up against the wall, taking in your face before brushing away the stray hairs that still clung to your dirty skin.

"Hi, sweet girl," she says softly, her fingers trailing down your face and along the series of bruises and cuts, "Let's get you cleaned up, yeah?"

Her hands dig into the pouch to bring out the cloth. The clean-up process is slow, intimate, and clear. Agatha makes sure to get every inch of your skin, stripping you from her oversized shirt that was now soaked in blood and sweat, stinking heavily, and tossing it to the side. It lands on the floor with a wet plop. While Agatha cleans all the cuts, getting all the dirt, grime, and dried blood out, Rio gently untangles the mess that is your hair. It's messier than it's ever been, ruined by how many times it had been grabbed and yanked backwards, but Rio is patient and kind as she undoes it all. Her fingers work with deliberate care.

And as they clean you up, taking care to treat every single one of your injuries, you stare blankly off into the distance. They ask you questions as they work, trying to bring you back to the land of the living, but you are too absorbed in your own head to take in what they are saying. Memories of the past few days flash in your mind, over and over, and you can hardly believe that you are safe again. Subconsciously, your leg bounces nervously, a steady beat to keep you somewhat present, despite your severe exhaustion.

At some point Billy knocks on the door, peeking his head in. He yelps at the sight of you naked, quickly shutting his eyes. Normally you would've smiled at his reaction, maybe even laughed, but you do neither of those. Instead, you continue to stare blankly at the wall, blinking in slow, long, pauses.

He clears his throat, "Uh, Lillia made some soup that she sent me with," he mumbled, but his eyes remain closed as he reaches a shaky hand through the door, "Here."

Agatha takes hold of the bowl, nodding at Billy to dismiss him, and he slammed the door shut a bit louder than necessary. Both women rolled their eyes as Agatha passes the soup to Rio. The younger woman, cups in in both hands, gently blowing on the side of your face in an attempt to get your attention.

"Sweet girl," she whispers, hoping the term of endearment will get you to focus, "Let's get some food in you."

On queue your stomach rumbles harshly, a clear sign of your hunger, but your eyes never move from their spot on the wall. Your breathing remains steady, but they can both see the silent panic swirling within your eyes as your chest rises and falls.

Agatha presses harshly down on a bruise, and you yelp, glaring at her. She gives you nothing but a sly smirk in return, "Have some food."

You glance at the bowl, lips pressing into a firm line, and despite your deep hunger, you shake your head.

"Not hungry," you mumble, fixing your gaze back on the wall. Agatha huffs, annoyed, and is ready to get your attention again before Rio shakes her head. Sighing, Agatha resumes cleaning you up while Rio shoots her shot.

She taps the side of your cheek softly, taking care to be gentle, "Just one bite please?" Slowly, Rio brings the spoon up to your lips, holding it there patiently while she waits for you to do something. It takes a moment, but you open your lips hesitantly and Rio tips the soup into your mouth. That's all it takes for you to snatch the bowl away from her, unaware of the triumphant glance she trades with Agatha, and down the food in a just a minute.

Your hands shake around the bowl after it is emptied, and it clatters to the floor. You wince at the noise.

"Sorry," your words are hardly audible, but neither women care, both just glad you ate something. Rio smiles softly, her hands cupping your face in the most caring way possible, and she turns you towards her.

"I am glad you are safe," she whispers, pulling you close, before planting a soft, gentle kiss to your lips. You melt into her touch, arms grabbing at her shoulders.

And you thought they were your saviors in that moment, but little did you know that this was just the start of their corruption.

Taglist: @vigilante24ish

[plasticflowersinahistorycemetery]

first meeting

❤︎ Castiel x Aurelia ❤︎

Warnings: biblical/religious themes, I think that's it.

Word Count: 1,465

Castiel hadn't known why he came.

Only that something ancient stirred beneath the layers of reality, humming in frequencies older than Heaven. He followed the vibration like a compass in his Grace. It led him to the bunker—below layers of sigils and mistrust, into the damp cold of stone and salt.

And there you were.

Shackled. Silently sitting.

Golden cuffs bit into your wrists, inscribed with Enochian wards long since buried by time. Angel cuffs. As if you could be held by such things.

Castiel's grace flared inside him, restless, uncoiling.

Dean stood nearby, arms folded, jaw set. Sam hovered close to the edge of the devil's trap they'd etched into the floor.

"You summoned her?" Castiel's voice cracked like thunder muffled through cloth.

"She just... appeared," Sam said, clearly uneasy. "We did what we had to do. She wasn't talking."

"She shouldn't be talking," Dean muttered, eyes flicking toward the glow leaking from your skin. "She looks like Heaven with teeth. We didn't know what she was."

"You still don't."

Castiel stepped forward. His wings, invisible to them but fully unfurled now, cast long shadows against the walls. The pressure in the room shifted.

He looked at you—no, into you—and his breath caught. Your gaze met his, and the veil thinned. Grace recognised Grace. But yours was older. Wilder. Purer. Not diluted by Heaven's hierarchy or Father's commandments. You were not cast or created. You were formed in the silence before sound.

"Unshackle her," Castiel said.

Dean frowned. "She could be dangerous."

"She could unmake you."

That silenced them.

Castiel walked closer to the circle, then knelt outside its edge. "She's choosing to stay. To show peace. If she wanted out, no binding in this realm would hold her."

A moment passed. You tilted your head slightly, just enough to let a strand of light spill from your temple like a falling sunbeam.

"She is not like us," Castiel continued, quietly now. "She is older than the Word. She was the light before light. She is Aurelia. You've caged the first spark of creation."

Sam took a half-step back.

Dean looked shaken. "Then why the hell is she here?"

"To be seen."

Castiel reached toward the edge of the warding sigil, his fingers brushing against it—but he didn't cross. "She's not a threat. She's beginning. And right now, she's choosing to show you mercy."

You smiled. And the room filled with the scent of myrrh and apples.

Castiel rose slowly, the faint buzz of his Grace unsettled beneath his skin. He stepped past the edge of the devil's trap. Sam didn't stop him. Dean made a sound, half-warning, half-surrender.

You didn't move. Not until he did.

His hand hovered above yours—scarred fingers flexing once, unsure. He didn't want to offend you. He didn't want to touch something that preceded touch, something that might undo him just by being real.

But you looked up at him. And you smiled.

"You're not like the others," you said, your voice quiet and slow, like honey cooling in the sun. "You feel more."

He faltered. His hand trembled. "I—"

"You're closer to them," you said, eyes flicking toward the Winchesters. "But it's not weakness. It's warmth."

Castiel dared to lower his hand the final inch, fingers brushing your wrist, just above the cuffs. The moment his skin met yours, a hum moved through him—not pain. Recognition. Like a chord struck true.

He helped you to your feet. Carefully. Reverently. As if you might dissolve into light if he breathed too hard. You stood with the kind of grace Heaven forgot. Your golden cuffs caught the light, but you no longer seemed trapped—just kindly enduring.

"I can't tell you why I'm here," you said softly. "One moment, I was with my sisters—floating in the starless void, drifting through warmth and dark. The next... I was falling."

Castiel stared, unable to look away.

"I hit the earth like a star," you went on, tone light and distant, like you were still remembering how to use your voice. "And they found me."

You tilted your head toward Sam and Dean. Not with anger. With understanding. Like a teacher gazing down at frightened students.

"They didn't ask questions," you said. "They tried to bind me. And when I let them, they became afraid."

Castiel turned. His voice sharpened—not cruel, but cutting with divine disappointment. "You shackled something you didn't understand."

Dean stepped forward, stiff. "You've seen what happens when we trust first and ask later."

"She's not Lucifer," Castiel snapped, his voice low and thunderous. "She's not even an angel."

He turned back to you. The way he looked at you now—there was no fear. Only reverence. "She is something older. She remembers stars being born."

Sam swallowed, visibly shaken. "Then what is she?"

"She is what Heaven tries to rewrite," Castiel said. "Because she reminds us we didn't create anything. We only inherited it."

He looked back at you, and his voice softened.

"I'm sorry," he said. "For them. For all of us. We... still have so much to learn."

You smiled again. Not forgiveness—just understanding.

The cuffs shimmered softly at your wrists, etched in ancient Enochian, but they didn’t hum with resistance. They were already powerless. You allowed them to hold you. You allowed this.

Castiel’s fingers hovered above the bindings, unsure if he was worthy of removing them.

“May I?” He asked quietly.

You nodded once. And then, with a voice like velvet wrapped around starlight, you said his name.

“Castiel.”

He stilled.

It wasn’t surprise that rooted him—it was recognition. The sound of his name on your tongue was like a prayer said backwards, like something being remembered rather than spoken. You didn’t say it like it was borrowed from lore. You said it like it belonged to you.

“I know you,” you said. “Shield of God. Angel of Thursdays. The Watcher. The One Who Does Not Look Away.”

Castiel’s chest rose, then stilled.

You said it so simply. As if you’d always known him. As if you had watched him form from the breath of God Himself and never once looked away. A strange warmth filled his vessel—grace and something more. Not pride. Not entirely. Something more ancient. Something like being seen.

He unclasped the cuffs slowly, reverently, as though removing thorns from holy flesh. As though he might unravel himself in the process. The metal slid away and fell with a soft chime to the stone floor. You rubbed your wrists, not in pain—but almost as if reacquainting yourself with freedom.

He stared at you. He couldn’t help it.

You were…

The most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Not in the way humans spoke of beauty. Not in colour or symmetry. But in truth. You were the closest thing to God he had ever touched.

Your wings, half-unfurled, shimmered with layered gold and starlight. Your eyes held entire lifetimes of suns being born and burnt. Your skin looked like scripture remembered by a weeping prophet. And when you blinked, the air itself listened.

“I am honoured,” Castiel said, his voice hoarse, his eyes still locked to yours.

You tilted your head, considering him. Not like a creature. Not like a soldier. But like a choice.

“No,” you said. “You are worthy.”

And just like that, something in him cracked. Not broken. Freed.

Castiel’s hand lingered near your wrist for a breath too long before he stepped back, eyes still fixed to yours as though tethered. He didn’t blink. He couldn’t. The air shimmered faintly around you, golden and warm, like sunlight filtered through cathedral glass.

Then—

“Well,” Dean muttered from the sidelines, voice cutting through the hush like a beer can cracking open in a church. “Guess we know what gets Cas all hot and bothered. Golden girls with apocalypse eyes.”

Sam closed his eyes like he was begging for death. “Dean.”

“I’m just saying,” Dean said, smirking as he folded his arms. “Little intense back there. Thought Cas was gonna propose or combust.”

Castiel turned to him slowly, face stone-flat, eyes blazing just slightly. “She is older than creation. Have some respect.”

Dean raised an eyebrow, entirely unbothered. “Yeah, well, so’s Crowley. Don’t see you looking at him like he hung the stars.”

“I would sooner tear my Grace from this vessel than equate her with Crowley,” Castiel said stiffly.

You watched this exchange in quiet amusement, head tilted like someone watching children bicker at a funeral. Dean met your eyes briefly—he visibly wavered.

“…Okay, yeah, I see it now,” he muttered. “You’re terrifying.”

Sam cleared his throat and took a half-step forward, clearly eager to change the subject before Dean got smote.

“Uh—Cas, maybe you could… show her around?” He offered, voice a little too high. “Let her get her bearings?”

Castiel nodded once, his expression smoothing back into calm reverence. “Yes. Of course.” He turned to you, posture careful again, gentled by awe. “Would you… walk with me?”

You smiled. “Lead the way, Castiel.”

As you moved side by side, heading down the hallway, the overhead lights flickered slightly—unable to decide whether they should dim in your presence or burn brighter just to be worthy.

Behind you, Dean muttered under his breath, “If she glows in the dark, I’m not sleeping tonight.”

Sam just sighed.

A/N: AHHH! Okay, I love them already. Like honest-to-god, love them. They are gonna be so cute. I have so much planned for Cas and Aurelia. <3

everything taglist (if you don't wanna be tagged in Cas works, please let me know, lovely bbys.)

@blossomingorchids @tinas111 @lunaleah @drakulana @sacr1ficialang3l @liiiilsss <3

[phoenixiancrystallist]

Forspoken Photo Dump 89: Avoalet; Golden Hills, Part 12

[thebibliosphere]

Whenever I get a particularly nasty message, I always check to see if they're following me first. Nine times out of ten, they're not. But they're also, unfortunately, the same people who feel entitled to send me multiple messages in a row, most of them heavily steeped in the language of moralization and purity.

Like whenever I talk about painkillers or pain management, I always get a handful of well-meaning people who are maybe new to my blog or are just young, asking me if I've tried diet/exercise/meditation, etc.

Sometimes I'll respond to them. Other times I'll just ignore them because I get those kinds of messages so often it's like white noise, and maybe part of me hopes if they stick around on my blog, they'll learn it through exposure via my incessant bitching.

When you see me responding to someone offering that kind of advice, it's either because I'm at my fucking limit or because I'm hoping it's a teachable moment and an otherwise seemingly nice person might unlearn some harmful biases.

The people who don't follow me are not interested in any kind of conversation on the subject. They do, however, feel the most qualified to tell me, someone they didn't know existed until one of my posts crossed their dash, how to manage my life, everything I'm doing wrong, and why I'm a bad person.

And for them, my disability is proof that I am a bad person because they view health as a moral issue.

If you're sick, it's because you don't exercise enough, don't eat the right foods, don't pray enough, don't do enough. They genuinely believe that if they say and do all the right things, like a Good Person, they'll never get sick.

It's their security blanket against the harsh reality that anyone is one bad day away from disability. One faulty gene, one bad infection, one bad accident away from a life-long diagnosis. And if they do get sick, it's a test. A challenge to be overcome with Willpower as they learn the True Meaning of Life.

It can never just be a simple fact of life that sickness happens. That disability exists without a moral reason.

And it's suffocating.

Day in, day out. Folks who don't know me from fucking Eve telling me I'm being punished. Not always as outright as that. They don't always use that word. But sometimes I appreciate it when they do because at least then they're being honest. They're not couching it in the softer language of leftist circles. Not hiding it behind concern.

Because the truth is, there are just as many folks who think they're liberal and enlightened who'd be happy if disabled people just stopped existing. They don't like thinking about us because it makes them think about themselves. About their own fragility and mortality, and they hate that. They hate that there's something they can't control with their thoughts and actions. That they can't moralize their way out of.

Honestly, it's a relief when people are just cunts about it because I can hit the block button, safe in the knowledge that they were never the kind of person who would see me as a person. But when it's some 20yo kid with their pronouns, orientation, and "ACAB" in their profile spouting the same kind of moralization, sometimes even with the language of eugenics, it feels like such a betrayal. Like a loss.

And perhaps if I wasn't multiply disabled, I'd have the energy to pull them back. To tell them why they're wrong and hope like hell they realize what they're doing is harmful. But then, if I wasn't disabled, they wouldn't be messaging me, so I wouldn't be dealing with it.

I wouldn't be expected to use my existence as a teachable moment to spoon-feed them compassion. But I am, and I do. When I can. Not always with the grace that's warranted. Not always with the thought and compassion I ought to. (And I don't; I acknowledge that. I'm prone to anger and off-the-cuff remarks that are hurtful too. Though I try to keep most of it to myself or save it for therapy.)

Basically, if you've made it this far through the TED talk, don't be fucking cunts to disabled people. Don't tell chronically ill people to try yoga. Don't moralize pain relief. Suffering is not noble.

You need to kill the cop and the priest in your head telling you otherwise.

And also if you're the nice people sending me nice messages. Thank you. It helps cushion all of *gestures* this.

[hoe4hotchner]

I didn’t know I needed inked!Hotch until now!

Would you ever do a part 2 where he comes home with a tattoo designed specially for reader added to his sleeve? Or maybe somewhere more personal on him?

New addition | [A.H]

Pairing: inked!Hotch x gn!Reader

CW: tattoos, fluff

WC: 0.6k

Summary: Hotch gets a new tattoo

           The soft hum of music filled the living room as you curled up on the couch, a warm cup of tea cradled in your hands. The sun had just begun to set, casting a golden glow through the windows. It was a peaceful evening - you cherished the time alone, sometimes needing to sit in silence without a word spoken - until you heard the familiar sound of keys jingling at the door.

           Aaron stepped inside, his suit jacket slung over one arm and a curious smile playing on his lips. "Hey," he greeted, his eyes lighting up as they met yours.

           "Hey yourself," you replied, setting your mug on the table. "You're home early. Everything okay?"

           "Everything's perfect," he assured, leaning down to place a soft kiss on your forehead. But there was something different about him - a hint of excitement he was trying to contain.

           You raised a brow, noticing that his sleeves were rolled down and buttoned at the cuffs, which was unusual for him at home. "Long day?" you asked, gesturing to his unrolled sleeves.

           He glanced at his wrists and chuckled softly. "Actually, I have something to show you."

           Curiosity piqued, you sat up straighter. "Oh? What is it?"

           Aaron set his jacket aside and took a seat next to you. Slowly, he began unbuttoning the cuff of his left sleeve, carefully rolling it up to reveal the familiar swirl of intricate tattoos that adorned his forearm. Your eyes widened as you noticed a fresh addition covered in plastic - a new design nestled seamlessly among the existing ink.

           Your breath caught as you took in the delicate details. It was a beautiful rendering of a compass with a rose intertwined with your initials. The compass points were intricately shaded, and tiny, meaningful symbols were etched into each direction.

           "Aaron…" you whispered, your fingers gently tracing the new tattoo. "You got this… for me?"

           He nodded, his gaze soft and filled with affection. "I wanted to carry a part of you with me wherever I go," he said quietly. "You navigate me through the chaos."

           Emotion welled up inside you, and you felt a warmth spread through your chest. "It's incredible. I don't know what to say."

           He smiled gently. "You don't have to say anything. Just know how much you mean to me."

           You looked up into his eyes, seeing the sincerity and love reflected there. "When did you do this?"

           "During lunch today," he admitted with a small chuckle. "I've been working with the artist for weeks to get it just right."

           A playful smirk crossed your face. "So that's why you've been sneaking out and being all mysterious lately."

           He laughed, the sound sending a pleasant thrill through you. "Guilty as charged."

           You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss against his lips. "Thank you," you murmured. "It's the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for me."

           He rested his forehead against yours. "You inspire me," he whispered. "It felt right to make it a part of me - just like you've become."

           You sat together in comfortable silence, your hand resting over the new ink. After a moment, a mischievous glint sparkled in your eyes. "You know, this means I get artistic input on any future tattoos."

           He raised an eyebrow playfully. "Oh, does it now?"

           "Absolutely," you teased. "I might just have a few ideas."

           He chuckled, wrapping an arm around you. "I'm open to suggestions - as long as I get to choose the placement."

           "Deal," you agreed, snuggling closer to him.

           "Maybe next time, we can get matching ones," you suggested softly.

           He looked down at you, his eyes reflecting the soft glow of the room. "I'd like that," he replied. "Very much."

           You smiled, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "It's a date, then."

           "Definitely a date," he agreed, holding you a little tighter.

[rrat-king]

some Bad Girls accesory headcannons:

adaine

doesn't need glasses but wears blue light ones because the light gives her migraines. the glasses are round silver wire frames that she has broken and cast mending on too many times

she loses her glasses constantly so gorgug made her a glasses chain so they can just hang when she's not wearing them. it has little star charms and blue and silver beads

it's my hc that adaine didn't actually give kristen her pinky back, keeping the philange instead so she has the bone on a little necklace she wears. its morbid but sweet.

she has a leather book holster that ayda made her after she complimented her's so that they are matching. keeps her spellbook in it

has three bracelets from kristen: a red rubber 'vote for applebees' bracelet as well as two woven friendship bracelets, a purple and blue chevron as well as a orange white and blue striped

elf ears are... so stupidly sensitive so she has a hard time wearing earings but she does steal fig's ear cuffs a lot

kristen

wears dog tags with jawbone's number as her emergency contact in case anything happens. he doesn't legally have custody but its a safe way of making sure he gets called over her parents

got her septum peirced with fig in leviathan, was originally a silver barbell but had to take it out when she realized the silver meant that tracker wouldn't kiss her, so wears a little golden hoop instead

has six trillion bracelets. most of them are friendship bracelets she's made herself, but she also has a rubber sig figs bracelet, a pony bead bracelet that says 'little shrimp' as well as a 'WWCD?' she made with her campaign rubbers

bad at wearing rings but has a number of them that she keeps on a carabiner that tracker got her (most of them found in the river while throwing rocks with riz. don't ask her why there are so many lost rings in the river she doesn't question it)

she got rid of her cross necklace after meeting helio but still has the saint necklace she got at first cornmunion. it's saint iree, patron saint of the lost harvest

fig

has one of gorthalaxes guitar picks as a necklace along with a million others

wears rings around her horns, most of which she makes herself but fabian gifted her a few of his that he doesn't wear cuz 'they interfere with my fighting, thank you' that are nice elven gold

has a matching septum with kristen as well as a million other peircings

she. loves. mixing. metals. she wears a million pieces of jewelry and they are all mishmashed but because none of it matches it works

constantly stealing her mom's earings. it drives sandra lynn crazy

hardcore believer in scrunchys over hairties. always has one either in her hair on on her wrist even they somewhat clash with her aesthetic.

wears compression gloves under her fingerless gloves to help with her joints swelling

has a million pins including: some of her mom's old band pins that she let her have, band pins of her own, kristen's campaign buttons as well as kipperlillys but she doodles over those, pins she's made herself out of bottle caps, a little tin skateboard pin gorgug made her, and a red compass pin that ayda gave her that belonged to one of the previous ayda's

(will make one for the boys eventually when i have time to come to terms with riz's new found accessory addiction this season)

[guilty-ff]

𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐁𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐏𝐭.3

ᡕᠵ᠊ᡃ່࡚ࠢ࠘ ⸝່ࠡࠣ᠊߯᠆ࠣ࠘ᡁࠣ࠘᠊᠊ࠢ࠘𐡏 ˚⁎⁺˳ .

Previously: Wade Wilson was devastated after Y/n's tragic death, blaming himself for not saving her. After passing out from the trauma, he woke in Althea's apartment and learned from Weasel and Dopinder that her body had been sent to the morgue. His grief turned to panic when he received a call- Y/n’s body had mysteriously gone missing.

This story takes place between the second and third movies (warning: not 100% movie/comic accurate)

Pairing: Wade Wilson/Deadpool x (fem!)Reader

Genre: Angst, revenge, Fanfiction, Marvel

Warnings: Movie Spoilers! Explicit content, swearing, torture, mental health, weapons, characters death

Word count: 2464

Y/n's eyes fluttered open, and the world around her slowly came into focus, but it was all wrong, terribly wrong. She was lying on a cold, hard surface, her body aching and her mind foggy.

The first thing she noticed was the harsh, sterile smell that filled her nostrils, a nauseating mix of disinfectant and something far more unpleasant, like rotting meat left out in the sun. Her head throbbed, and she winced as she tried to move, only to find herself restrained.

Panic began to set in as she realized she was strapped to a surgeon's table, thick metal cuffs binding her wrists and ankles. The room around her was dimly lit, the only source of light coming from a single flickering bulb hanging overhead, casting strange shadows that danced along the walls.

The walls themselves were concrete, cracked and stained, with streaks of what looked like dried blood smeared across them. It was a place devoid of life, warmth, or hope- a place where suffering was the only certainty.

She tried to turn her head, but the movement sent a wave of dizziness crashing over her, and she groaned softly. The room seemed to spin, the lights and shadows blurring together in a sickening whirlpool.

Her heart pounded in her chest, her breaths coming in short, ragged gasps as she struggled to remember how she would ended up here.

The last thing she recalled was running...running away from Wade...from the silence that had shattered her heart.  The intensely chest pain. And then...the truck. The impact. And then...nothing.

As her vision cleared, she became aware of a presence in the room with her. From the far corner, just beyond the reach of the flickering light, a figure stepped forward, the sound of heavy boots echoing ominously on the concrete floor.

The figure was a woman, her face partially obscured by dark aura, but Y/n could see the glint of cruel, calculating eyes staring down at her.

"Huh, you're finally up?" the woman said, her voice cold and indifferent, as if Y/n's suffering was nothing more than a mild inconvenience. There was no warmth, no compassion- only a chilling detachment that sent a shiver down Y/n's spine.

The woman did not wait for a response. She turned and walked out of the room, her footsteps receding into the distance. Y/n's heart raced as she strained against her restraints, but they held firm, the metal biting painfully into her skin. She was trapped, helpless, with no idea what was going to happen next.

A few moments later, the woman returned, but she was not alone. She was followed by a man who immediately commanded the room's attention. He wore a pristine doctors's coat, the stark white fabric almost glowing in the dim light.

His face was gaunt, his skin pale and sickly, and a small, rounded scar ran painted his forehead, a jagged reminder of some past violence. His eyes were dark, filled with a mix of hatred and sadistic glee as they settled on Y/n.

"Finally," the man said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that sent chills down her spine. "Getting my hands on the other girlfriend of the infamous Wade Wilson. You know, it wasn't easy tracking you down, living in the shadows, making sure no one noticed. But here we are, and I have a new toy to play with."

Y/n's confusion gave way to a burning anger. "Get me the fuck off this bed," she snarled, her voice trembling with a mix of fear and fury.

The man's lips curled into a twisted smile, but there was no warmth in it- only cold, unfeeling malice. "You know," he continued, his tone mocking, "I don't like getting my hands dirty with a woman. But she—" he nodded toward the woman who stood silently by his side,

"-she enjoys it."

Before Y/n could react, the woman stepped forward and delivered a brutal punch to her face. The impact was like a sledgehammer, sending her head snapping to the side, and pain exploded across her cheek, radiating down to her jaw.

She tasted blood, the metallic taste filling her mouth as it dripped from her split lip. She spat it out, the crimson drops splattering on the floor beside the table.

"Ew, disgusting," the man sneered, looking down at his coat with a disdainful expression. "Don't overdo it next time. Her blood almost got on my coat."

Y/n's vision swam, her head pounding from the blow. The room seemed to spin around her, the edges of her sight darkening as she struggled to stay conscious.

The dizziness was overwhelming, but she fought against it, her anger fueling her will to survive. She pulled against the restraints, her muscles straining as she tried to break free, but the cuffs held firm, cutting into her wrists.

The man ignored her struggles, continuing as if nothing had happened. "It wasn't easy monitoring your body and getting you here without raising suspicion. Our members didn't do their job properly when they replaced your body at the morgue. But who the fuck knows, right?"

Y/n's mind was a whirlwind of fear, anger, and confusion. She could barely process what he was saying, her thoughts scattered by the pain and disorientation. But one thing was clear: she was in serious trouble, and these people had no intention of letting her go.

"Fuck off," she spat, her voice hoarse but defiant. "I'm going to fucking rip your eyeballs out of your face and stuff them down your throat."

The man's twisted smile widened, his eyes narrowing with sadistic pleasure. "That'll do," he said calmly, as if her threats were nothing more than idle chatter.

Y/n's confusion deepened, her mind struggling to make sense of his words. But before she could react, pain erupted through her body, a searing, all-consuming agony that made her scream.

It was as if her veins had turned to fire, the pain spreading from her core to every nerve ending in her body. Her muscles seized, her body twitching uncontrollably as electricity surged through her, the current burning her from the inside out.

The pain was unlike anything she had ever experienced, a relentless, unbearable torment that consumed her completely. She could feel her consciousness slipping, the world around her fading as the pain dragged her down into darkness. But it would not let her go. It held her there, on the edge of oblivion, her mind going insane between the waking world and the merciful release of unconsciousness.

As the electricity coursed through her, Y/n's hearing began to fade, replaced by a high-pitched ringing that grew louder and louder until it drowned out everything else. The man's voice became a distant echo, his words distorted and garbled, lost in the cacophony of sound and pain.

"It just continues to get funnier and more interesting to see your loose face and cursing me out. Haven't seen you do that for a long time. We kept an eye on Wade's close ones for my plan," the man continued, though his words barely registered in Y/n's pain-devastated mind.

"We even got samples of your blood. When analyzing your DNA, we discovered something interesting: We actually discovered that you have mutant genes that were deactivated the whole time by an oppressor. We kept the blood sample in track with our systems and waited for the moment. In order for your mutant genes to be activated, the oppressor needs to detach itself from the gene in order for it to be read and, therefore, activated. Your body, desperate to survive, activated those dormant genes, probably by an inhumane amount of cortisol, trauma and adrenalin. It all triggered something in you, and voilà: you became a living curse. You were lucky that your little outburster activated the genes before you were sandwiched by the truck. Fucking awesome."

As Y/n lay chained to the surgical bed, her mind raced with confusion and fear. He loomed over her, his eyes gleaming with a twisted mix of triumph and malice. He seemed to savor the moment, taking his time before finally breaking the silence.

"You probably think you're some sort of miracle, don't you?" he began, his voice dripping with contempt. "Some kind of invincible freak, just like your boyfriend, Wade Wilson."

Y/n glared at him, anger flickering in her eyes despite the pain. "What the hell are you talking about?" she spat, though her voice wavered with uncertainty.

The unknown man chuckled darkly, shaking his head. "You really don't know, do you? Well, allow me to enlighten you."

He leaned in closer, his face inches from hers, the stench of disinfectant and blood clinging to him. "You're not special. You're just a parasite. Your so called 'powers'- they're nothing but a sick twist of fate."

Y/n frowned, trying to make sense of his words. "Parasite? What the fuck does that mean?"

"It means," he hissed, his tone laced with venom, "that every time you heal, every time your body repairs itself from the brink of death, someone else takes your place. The pain, the injury, the death- they're all transferred to some poor bastard unlucky enough to be near you."

Y/n's breath caught in her throat, the weight of his words crushing her. "No... that can't be true..."

He began to pace around the room, his movements deliberate and menacing. "But you're not like Deadpool. He heals on his own, no strings attached. You, on the other hand... every time you survive, someone else pays the price. That night, when you should have died under that truck, someone else did instead. You killed them, whether you meant to or not."

Y/n shook her head, refusing to believe it. "You're lying. This is just some sick game you're playing."

The man's eyes hardened, his expression turning cold. "I don't play games, sweetheart. I deal in reality. You think that pain you felt earlier was just a heart attack? No, it was your body trying to reconcile what it had done—what you had done. You're a walking time bomb, a freak show that drags others down with you."

He stopped in front of her again, his gaze boring into hers. "And here, in my little slice of hell, I'm going to make sure that your hands get even dirtier. Your boyfriend already destroyed one of my labs, but now I have something even better- leverage. You."

Y/n's stomach turned as the full horror of her situation sank in. Her abilities were not a gift- they were a curse, one that condemned others to suffer in her place.

"You're lying," she whispered, her voice trembling with fear and anger. "I would never hurt anyone..."

"But you already have," he said, a cruel smile twisting his lips. "And you will again. Because every time I push you to the edge, every time I make you scream in pain, someone else is going to feel it too. You'll kill them, just like you did that night."

Y/n's vision blurred with tears as she struggled against the chains, desperate to escape the nightmare she was trapped in.

"You're sick. You're fucking sick!"

"Maybe," the man shrugged, unbothered by her outburst. "But you? You're something far worse. A monster who doesn't even know it yet. But don't worry," he added with a sadistic grin, "by the time I'm done with you, you'll understand exactly what you are."

He picked up a surgical tool, the cold metal glinting in the dim light as he held it up to her face. "And we're going to have so much fun finding out just how much you can take before you break."

As he moved closer, the room seemed to close in on her, the reality of her situation crashing down with unbearable weight. Y/n could only hope for a quick end, though deep down, she knew that the unknown man had no intention of letting her off that easily.

Y/n could barely hear him over the ringing in her ears, the sound so intense it felt like her skull was about to split open. Her vision blurred, the world around her reduced to a haze of shadows and flickering light. The pain was all-consuming, relentless, and she could feel herself slipping further away, her thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind.

The man stepped closer, his face looming over hers as he held up a series of twisted, gleaming instruments. They glinted ominously in the dim light, their sharp edges reflecting the flickering bulb overhead. His grin widened, a sadistic gleam in his eyes as he looked down at her, relishing in her torment.

"Your boyfriend, Wade Wilson, was in this same room once... but instead of serving me as a slave, he decided to leave and blew the fuck off my laboratory and all my researches, as well as shooting me right between the eyes!", he said, his voice filled with hatred. "But this time, you're the one who'll be paying the price for his sins."

Y/n's heart pounded in her chest, fear gripping her as she stared up at him. She wanted to scream, to fight, to do anything to escape this nightmare. But she was trapped, helpless, and the darkness was closing in fast.

All she could do was pray for a quick death.

If death was even possible anymore.

But deep down, she knew that this was only the beginning of the torment that awaited her. The man's twisted grin was the last thing she saw before the darkness swallowed her.

As Y/n's vision blurred and the darkness crept closer, she strained to focus on anything that could anchor her to reality. Her gaze landed on the man's pristine white coat, the only thing untouched by the surrounding filth and decay. Amid the chaos, her eyes caught a detail- one that sent a cold shiver down her spine.

Embroidered in neat, black letters over his chest pocket was a name: "Francis."

The word echoed in her mind, a twisted familiarity clawing at the edges of her memory. She tried to make sense of it, but the pain, the fear, and the overwhelming fatigue clouded her thoughts.

"Francis..." she mumbled weakly, her voice barely more than a whisper as her lips struggled to form the word.

Her eyelids grew heavy, the effort to keep them open becoming too much. The world around her faded, the edges of her vision darkening until only the name remained, etched in her mind like a cruel joke.

And then, just as her consciousness slipped away entirely, the darkness finally claimed her.

[wholoveseggs]

Hey, happy new year! Love your Elijah fics. Maybe you could do one where he turns off his humanity and the reader gets him to turn it back on again. :)

Cold Truth

{Masterlist}

You and Klaus are on a mission to turn Elijah's humanity switch back on. The only problem is that you are the reason he turned it off in the first place.

~♡♡ Thanks for the request @originals23 - this one hurt! ♡♡~

4.3k words - Warnings: no smut, but so much angst, dramatic as fuck, violence, kidnapping, Klaus being Klaus, slightly spicy right at the end.

The air was thick with tension as you struggled in your restraints, glancing at Klaus as he drove down an empty street. He was humming to himself, looking very relaxed despite the fact that he was holding you hostage.

"I still don't understand what this has to do with me," you muttered, tugging on the cuffs that were binding your hands together. "We broke up, it's not a big deal," you added.

"Well, it seems to be a big deal to him," Klaus said, shooting you a knowing smirk. "And it's been affecting my life, so now it's a big deal to me."

You sighed and stared out the window, watching the scenery blur as you moved through the town. You didn't want to tell Klaus the details of your break up with Elijah, it was all too painful. But here you were, getting kidnapped by him, on your way to see Elijah, probably about to get murdered by the man you still loved. Great. 

"It won't work you know," you said, staring blankly out the windshield, feeling that little bit of hope in your chest die out. 

"I get that he doesn't have emotions anymore," you continued, "so he definitely doesn't care about you. Whatever little plan you have going, won't work." You sounded desperate to even your own ears, and you hated it, but at least Elijah's lack of feelings gave you an excuse not to be a complete mess when you were in his presence again. He wouldn't care, he was devoid of compassion and guilt. The thought filled your heart with an emptiness that spread to the rest of your body. You let the feeling encompass you, numbing yourself against the pain, because once this ordeal was over, you would be forced to finally accept that Elijah was really, truly, lost forever.

Klaus laughed and turned, shooting you a smirk. "I've done my fair share of terrible things," he began.

"But," he sighed and stopped laughing, "even I can see what a complete shit show this is. You broke up with him a week ago, and he flipped the switch immediately. This whole thing has been dramatic, even for my tastes."

"Oh please," you sneered, turning to glare at him. "You live for drama," you said, rolling your eyes.

Klaus snickered, shaking his head as if it were the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard. "Yes, well, as fun as this has been, there's only so much of it I can take."

You huffed and sighed, slumping in your seat as the light turned green. You turned away from him and tried not to let your anxiety show.

"Look," Klaus began, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. "I'm going to be straight with you, love. Your break up with Elijah has been, inconvenient, to put it simply. He no longer cares about my well-being or the things I do. All he wants to do is feed, kill, drink and maim. I thought I would enjoy this side of him, but it turns out, the guy's a bloody asshole. And since you might have the ability to bring him out of this mess, it's in my best interest to try and help you."

You turned your head slowly, glaring at him with narrowed eyes. "You sure do have a way of showing it. Kidnapping is pretty terrible Klaus. Do you have any idea how scared I am right now? Not only have you kidnapped me, you are forcing me to confront my ex-boyfriend after I dumped him."

"I've done plenty to upset Elijah, but he's never flipped the switch over it. What exactly did you do to him?" Klaus demanded. He leaned closer to you, and his grip on the steering wheel tightened as he parked the car. "I'd suggest you start talking, sweetheart," he drawled, giving you a pointed look.

You bit your lip nervously, breaking under his intense gaze. Your shoulders dropped in defeat and you looked at your lap, chewing the inside of your cheek. You told him the truth, finally letting someone in on the secret you had kept from everyone.

"I told him that I didn't love him anymore, okay? I don't know," you trailed off, tears threatening to escape your eyes. "Look, I just, I needed to tell him something and that seemed easier than telling him the truth."

"So what's the truth?" Klaus asked gently. You couldn't bear to look him in the eye, so you stayed still and stayed quiet, trying to ignore the sound of blood rushing in your ears as you fought the urge to cry. After a few seconds, Klaus said your name softly, and when you looked up at him, there was genuine sympathy in his eyes.

You swallowed, trying to get ahold of yourself before you fell apart completely. "I want children, Klaus," you admitted. "And he can't give them to me. But it's okay, we broke up, and I'm fine." You were most definitely not fine, but that was beside the point. You finally confessed the truth, and felt a small bit of relief.

"Oh," he said. "Do you not want to adopt? Wouldn't surrogacy be an option? I can make a phone call and have a baby delivered to your door by tomorrow," he offered. You laughed, appreciating his attempts to make you feel better.

"No, Klaus. I'm sorry. I appreciate you trying, really I do," you said, giving him a sincere smile. "I want to have his child, and that is... well... impossible," you sighed.

There was a moment of silence, and you wondered what he was thinking. Klaus could be a lot of things, but you could tell he truly loved his siblings, no matter how much he claimed otherwise. His devotion was almost as intense as Elijah's and fear bubbled up in your stomach, knowing you were now in the crossfire of his affections for his older brother.

"You aren't still in love with him, are you?" Klaus asked. You felt your insides tremble at the mere mention of Elijah, but it wasn't enough to make your heart skip a beat or your head swirl. All you could feel was sorrow, because you knew how painful it would be to see him again. To be near him, but unable to touch him.

Klaus tilted his head, waiting for your answer. When he didn't get one, he asked again. "Answer the question, love," he said.

"Of course I still love him," you mumbled. "How could I not? I will always love him." You chuckled sadly, shaking your head and shrugging. 

"Good, that will make this easier," Klaus said cheerfully, not sure how to react as he began fiddling with the radio station.

"He's going to kill me Klaus," you said, your voice flat and emotionless. "You're dragging me to him, and he's going to torture me or compel me into doing something bad and then when he's finished, he's going to kill me."

"Yes, possibly," Klaus agreed. "However, you could also bring him back and thus make my life a bit easier."

"We can only hope," you sighed. Klaus started driving towards the docks and you squeezed your eyes shut, trying to control the terror building within you.

"Klaus, where are we going?" you asked warily, looking around.

"Well, my dear brother isn't answering his phone, so I'm tracking it instead," he said, gritting his teeth as he continued driving.

"Can we please just leave him alone?" you begged, but he didn't seem to hear you.

"Please," you added. "I'm begging you, Klaus. Don't torture me like this, I'm not strong enough to lose him twice."

"I really don't care how you feel about this, darling," he said, reaching a hand up and patting your head, before returning it to the steering wheel. "But don't worry, I promise I won't let him kill you."

You would have responded, but Klaus took the last turn and parked in front of one of the ships on the docks. He removed the handcuffs, his eyes darting about your surroundings in paranoia as he grabbed your wrists and dragged you out of the car. You didn't put up a fight and let him pull you along, too frightened and confused to even think about struggling. This wasn't what you had been expecting when Klaus took you, and now you didn't know what to say, so you remained silent and obedient. Klaus released his grip and took a step back, heading up the ramp to the ship.

You took a shaky breath and followed him, shivering a bit as you stepped on board. There was music playing, and while the exterior of the boat looked fairly plain, the inside was quite posh and immaculately decorated. You hesitated, glancing at Klaus, but he nodded his head and you followed him into a room. You could sense that Elijah was close. You slowly breathed in and your nose twitched when you caught the strong scent of bourbon.

"I see you have already begun celebrating, brother," Klaus drawled, glancing around the room.

"That depends on how you define celebration," came a quiet response, and you shuddered at the sound of his voice. It was Elijah, your Elijah, his words ringing with a lack of inflection that wasn't entirely evident in his tone. It had a falsely polite, and strangely charming touch, like the cold indifference and arrogance that comes from experiencing and achieving total freedom.

You watched as he poured himself another glass, sitting back in a chair. He stared straight ahead, not meeting your eyes as he lifted the glass to his lips, swirling the alcohol, tipping it slightly, and watching it roll around, before putting it down again, not even having taken a sip. You sniffed, doing your best to control your emotions and expression as you watched him, but your mask was slipping, and you couldn't hide the raw pain in your voice when you spoke.

"Are you okay?" you asked, sounding raspy and hoarse, even to your own ears. Normally, it would have made him feel guilty to hear you like this. Maybe he would have replied in his usual soft, intimate tone, grabbing your chin and kissing your lips gently, holding you close. But your Elijah was dead, and there was nothing left but the monster the switch had transformed him into. You glanced at his face and looked away immediately, the coldness in his dark eyes sinking into your soul. They were beautiful, and deadly, gazing at you in cold assessment, and his expression did not change as he gave you a humorless smile.

"I have never been better," he replied, not moving from his relaxed position on the chair, though you noticed a slight tightening in his jaw when you opened your mouth to speak again. You quickly snapped it shut and watched as he tapped the glass with his finger, gazing around the room and sighing. You didn't know if his admission was a good or a bad thing, but the way he carried himself, all arrogant grace and calculated casualness, had alarm bells ringing in your head, telling you that you were in great danger.

It was worse than you had expected. The man you loved, the one who had treated you with such gentleness and tenderness, the man whose heart was filled with love, loyalty and affection for you, was not present at all.

"We shouldn't have come here," you blurted out, your throat constricting at the sudden fear gripping you. His eyes flicked up to look at you, his brow furrowed as he stared. You cleared your throat, casting a worried glance at Klaus, who was standing by the bar, sipping his own drink and watching the whole scene play out.

"Why? What is the problem?" Elijah asked, and you couldn't tell if he was acting cavalier or genuinely didn't care. "You said you wanted to break up, and I obliged you. So tell me," he said, his dark eyes meeting yours, "why are you here?"

"Because," you began, but quickly lost your train of thought, shaking your head and trying to shake the overwhelming urge to cry. You sucked in a deep breath, tilting your chin up as you spoke. "Because we still have stuff we need to talk about, and we can't when you are like this."

"Like what?" he asked, sounding bored. Your jaw clenched as he casually poured himself more alcohol, draining the contents of his glass quickly and sighing.

"Well," Klaus interrupted, walking over and leaning forward on his knees, "You could start by being a tad less cocky, and try actually listening."

Elijah smirked at him, arching an eyebrow. "Niklaus, I suggest you shut your mouth before I rip your tongue out."

"That would be amusing," Klaus shot back, rolling his eyes. "I'd like to see you try, or have you forgotten I am stronger than you? You can't hurt me."

"Hmm," Elijah hummed thoughtfully, staring intently at his younger brother. "Let's test that."

Before either of you could react, Elijah reached out and grabbed the back of Klaus' head, yanking him forward and bringing his face inches from his own. He glared at him, snarling as Klaus groaned in pain.

"Don't be ridiculous," Klaus growled, his fingers flexing. Klaus easily pried his hands off of him and forced him to release him. He shoved Elijah back into the chair, a vicious smirk on his face as he crossed his arms.

"Eli," you said, tears welling up in your eyes. You moved to touch his arm, but he snatched it out of your reach and pushed it back, baring his fangs at you, his eyes completely black.

"Do not call me that," he responded coldly, shaking his head.

"You shouldn't have brought her," Elijah said to his brother, and you felt the sadness you had been suppressing all day come rushing back full force. You would not be strong enough to get through this.

"Oh don't blame me, dear brother," Klaus retorted, clasping his hands together and glaring at him in frustration. "It's very much her fault that you turned your humanity off, so I brought her here to fix her mistake."

"A mistake I care not to rectify," Elijah said, lifting his chin up haughtily.

"Oh," Klaus scoffed, fixing him with a nasty glare, "I bet you don't."

"Shut up," you mumbled, blinking furiously. Your legs were shaking, your knees about to give out as you wrapped your arms around yourself. Klaus stepped closer to you and you leaned against him, trembling, clinging to his shirt.

"Get a grip," Klaus hissed, glaring down at you in annoyance. He wrapped a hand around your throat and turned you around to face Elijah. His grip tightened, and you gasped in surprise and pain, your eyes wide as they met Elijah's intense gaze. He couldn't take his eyes off of you, something within him stirred at the sight of your fear, but it was buried beneath the ice of his indifference. Elijah narrowed his eyes as he stood up, smoothing down his tie as he approached.

"Niklaus, you are so painfully transparent," he began, an edge of amusement coloring his tone, "I do not care if you hurt her," he added, and his words cut deeper than any physical blow could.

"Eli," you pleaded, a soft whisper of pure agony coming from your lips, "How could you possibly say that? You swore you would always take care of me, protect me." He lowered his eyes, studying your features carefully. He looked down at you, stroking his chin.

"Hmm, you know, now that you say that, I'm feeling a little thirsty," he said, chuckling and stepping closer.

You shut your eyes, stifling a sob and trying to hide the fact that his words had broken your heart, shattering it into pieces. You couldn't bear his mockery, it was almost worse than not having him at all. It made the excruciating pain much more unbearable. Elijah stared at you, leaning closer and brushing a stray hair off of your cheek.

His lips hovered over yours for a split second, causing your lips to part in surprise and confusion, wanting his mouth to capture yours, knowing that the press of his lips was something you would always miss. Even when he was a monster, you felt yourself reacting to him instinctively, wanting nothing more than to be with him. But the kiss did not come, and he pulled away before you could rise to meet him.

"Do you think she knows how many ways she can die?" Elijah asked his brother, and Klaus sighed heavily, rubbing his temples in frustration. "I mean, with enough patience and creativity, even the simplest forms of death, can be quite extraordinary," he drawled.

Klaus pulled you back from Elijah, his grip on you tightening, you weren't sure who you feared more in that moment. "Elijah, I made a promise that I would not let you kill her," Klaus said, and Elijah rolled his eyes, his jaw clenching and his eyes narrowing.

"That promise can easily be broken," he said, as if talking about the weather.

"Actually, I thought I would take a page out of your book, find a loophole in the promise I made," Klaus said, his voice taunting as he smiled cruelly. You stopped breathing at his words, your body going rigid, Klaus was going to kill you.

"Elijah?" you whispered desperately, praying that he would protect you from Klaus. You were so cold, and you couldn't move, rooted in place with fear. He turned around abruptly, shrugging his shoulders as he walked across the room to make a new drink.

"You can go ahead and drain her if you so wish. It makes no difference to me," he said.

"Sorry love, I have to call his bluff," Klaus said, patting your head and then running a hand through your hair as his fangs grazed your neck. His voice was dark and malicious. "Say your goodbyes," he smirked.

"Klaus, please," you cried, panic coursing through you, but before he could do anything more, Elijah lunged at him, tearing him away from you. Your back hit the floor hard, your head snapping against the wood, causing you to see stars. You cradled your head, tasting blood in your mouth as you rolled on the floor. Elijah tackled Klaus, growling and snarling viciously, his fingers clenched around his brother's neck as he pinned him to the ground.

"Don't you dare lay a finger on her," Elijah warned, but Klaus only smirked, using all his strength to shove Elijah off of him. Elijah's back connected with a pillar, falling to the floor as he clutched his head. He just sat there, head in his hands, his shoulders slumped, taking quick, shuddering breaths, attempting to regain some sort of composure. You crawled your way over to him, too dazed to stand up.

"Eli," you gasped, lifting his face up and forcing him to look at you. He didn't try to pull away, letting you caress his jaw. You slowly stroked his hair, shushing him gently as your fingers trailed over his cheekbones.

"Get away from me," he groaned, grabbing your wrist to keep you from touching him. His mind was reeling from the violent overload of emotions coursing through him. Having you here, so close to him, wanting him, loving him, it overwhelmed him, bringing back every single moment he had spent with you, every beautiful, painful, joyous moment of his entire existence.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," you sobbed, reaching out to touch him. He wasn't pushing you away, he was just sitting there, hunched over, breathing heavily. Your mind was too foggy to think about the consequences of your actions. There was an excruciating ache in your chest, and you needed Elijah to hold you.

You threw your arms around his shoulders and pressed your lips to the back of his neck, nuzzling him and letting tears stream down your face. He stilled, not fighting you, but not holding you.

"I lied to you Elijah, I'm sorry," you whispered, pressing your face into the crook of his neck as you hugged him tighter. "I love you, I never stopped. I'm sorry, please forgive me."

He didn't move, keeping his expression guarded as he put an arm around you, turning his body slightly to pull you in closer. He tilted his chin down and pressed his lips to the side of your head in a gentle kiss. His eyes were closed, your scent invading his nose, your hair tickling his neck. He sighed, your words, your presence, it was like a spark lighting up a flame of emotions in his chest as the switch in his head turned back on.

"I could never stop loving you," he murmured, opening his eyes and sitting up a bit, keeping you close to him.

"Well, looks like my work is done. Do give her a ride home when you are done, Elijah," Klaus drawled, smirking in triumph as he stood watching you, before swiftly making his way out of the room.

Elijah gripped your chin gently and forced you to turn to face him. You were horrified by the sadness in his dark eyes, but the relief you felt at seeing the love there tore you apart, and you burst into tears, gripping his face and pulling him towards you, kissing his lips, his jaw, his forehead, wrapping your arms tightly around his waist.

"Darling," he sighed, looking down at your tear stained face. He gently ran his thumb over your cheekbone, bringing your forehead to his as he just held you.

"Forgive me, I-I-was so scared," you managed to get out, but he hushed you, your breathing synchronizing as he hugged you tightly, running a hand through your hair.

"Why did you lie to me?" he asked, pulling away and stroking your neck, your pulse fluttering beneath his touch.

"I was afraid," you replied, sniffing and wiping your tears. "I didn't want to hurt you, I thought it would be easier to let you go if I pushed you away instead."

"What were you afraid of?" he questioned, guiding your face up, needing to see your beautiful, tear filled eyes.

"I was terrified at the prospect of getting old, growing old, and putting you through that. You'd have to watch as you lived a lifetime with me, and eventually I would be gone and you would be left alone," you gasped out, the words flowing out unbidden, unable to control yourself now that the gates had been opened. "and.. I want children of my own, and a family, I can't have all of that with you. This past week I've been so torn, I thought leaving you was the best thing to do, because I knew my choice would hurt you, and you didn't deserve that, and I didn't know how else to do this."

Elijah smiled sadly, shaking his head and cupping your cheeks. "None of that matters, my darling, and it never will. Don't you understand that? You are worth the heartache, the pain, the loss. You are worth being human for."

He kissed you gently, brushing your hair out of your face, causing more tears to slip down your cheeks as you fisted your hands in his shirt, allowing him to pour all of his love and heartache into the kiss. You were left breathless, staring into his eyes, seeing the sadness there that matched yours.

"As for children, I know a few witches that could help us solve that issue," he said. You blinked rapidly, stunned that his answer was so easy, simple. The corners of his lips quirked up, and you felt your heart thundering in your chest, desperate to have him, keep him forever.

"Do you want that? To have children with me?" you asked, your hands in his, hoping, praying, that he truly understood what he was getting himself into.

"With you, yes, anything you wish for, I will give you," he replied, resting his head on your shoulder, and nuzzling your neck. You drew in a deep breath, so relieved and overcome with a surge of emotions that you grabbed his head and planted another firm, passionate kiss on his lips.

He chuckled, a deep, soothing sound that had you smiling despite all the tears you were shedding. Your fingers were clutching at his shirt, dragging him closer to you as you continued to kiss him, memorizing everything, his taste, the curves of his lips, the way his tongue felt against yours. He put his arm around your waist, and shifted, scooping you up into his lap, and into his arms.

"When was the last time we made love?" he whispered against your lips, pulling away and looking into your eyes, his gaze caressing your features softly.

"Three months," you whispered, stroking his stubbled jaw, running your fingers over his lips, marveling at the feel of his warm, soft skin, thinking that you almost never had the chance to be with him again.

"That's much too long," he murmured, sliding his hands up your thighs and grinning seductively. You chuckled, feeling a heated blush creep up your neck and spread across your cheeks. His fingers traced the edge of your thighs, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

"I love you, Elijah Mikaelson," you said, grinning broadly as your fingers threaded through his hair, savoring the feel of it. He just sat, staring at you with warmth and adoration, unspoken love shining in his deep brown eyes.

"For eternity, I will love you, my y/n," he whispered, pressing his lips gently against yours, and you melted into him, gripping the back of his neck as you felt a piece of your soul slide back into place, wrapped tightly around his heart.

[lucianhuntress]

Baek Yoon-ho x Reader: #69 “Didn’t think it would be this hard.”

This was honestly supposed to be a drabble but I just got way too inspired and the drabble, well... it kept going and going. I hate that I love it so much and my teeth melted while writing this one. Wordcount: 3557 Warnings: Reader has a big and slightly shitty family, I guess?

A phone vibrates next to your keyboard, painfully reminding you of your cousin’s cat’s fiancée’s daughter’s wedding. You don’t even know why you’re invited — the person seems distantly related, yet somehow close enough to include you, of all people. You, who would rather raid gates and reap rewards than socialize with strange relatives.

Obviously, it’s your mother and grandmother giving you no other option but to attend — possibly hoping, or worse, scheming — to set you up with potential boyfriend material. And who else is there to blame but yourself, always showing up to parties and dinners alone while your siblings and cousins are already building nests for the future?

“You’re up late,” your boss sighs, walking over to your desk.

“Likewise,” you quip sourly, ignoring the notification flashing on your phone’s screen just long enough for it to catch his attention.

The day has already dimmed outside; dozens of square lights shine from the dark walls of the building across the street, and the sounds of traffic have died down.

“Going to a wedding?” he asks, sounding both amused and curious — like it’s the first time he’s seen you going anywhere other than a gate or the gym.

You hum quietly, squinting at him as he leans over your desk to read the report you’ve been typing for the past hour. Baek Yoon-ho — an S-rank hunter, the leader of the White Tiger Guild, and your boss.

“Say, wanna do me a favor and be my plus-one?” you toss out casually, batting your eyes in exaggerated jest. A tiny part of you kindles the flame of hope — because he is your type, and showing up with a good-looking man like him wouldn’t be too far-fetched. But since he’s your boss, he’s obviously going to decline —

“What time am I picking you up?” he asks nonchalantly, backing away to tug at his tie, loosening it after a long day at the office. He’s been cooped up in his room, attending meetings and doing whatever it is guild leaders do.

“Wait — what? You’re my boss. You can’t just come to a wedding as my boyfriend.”

He quirks a brow and adjusts the cuff of his coat. “Yeah, but I think I owe you one.”

A groan mixed with a frustrated sigh escapes your throat as you collapse into your chair. Mister Baek had asked you — no, beseeched you — to pretend to be his one-night stand after his ex wouldn’t stop lingering post-breakup. You’d answered the door to his apartment wearing nothing but his dress shirt, leaving said ex dumbfounded and heartbroken. He hadn’t wanted to go that far, but when his ex refused to back off, he’d resorted to stronger measures.

“It’s the least I can do after that,” he admits, looking slightly dejected. You can’t really blame the man for going against his moral compass. His vermilion eyes drop to the floor as he sits on a desk next to yours.

You save the file with a couple of swift clicks and stand up as your PC begins its well-earned weekend shutdown. “I know you’re a good man,” you sigh, moving over to pat his shoulder — awkwardly.

It’s always a miracle to see him fall from confident, strong hunter to emotional mess, and you’re not sure anyone else has ever seen this side of him. You’ve been there for him whenever his relationships turned sour. You don’t want to see him so crestfallen again.

“Thanks,” he says, straightening up. He’s a rather tall man — intimidating, even. You’ve seen him turn into a white tiger a few times, and never have you seen another hunter strike fear and awe quite like he does. But when it’s just the two of you, he’s just a man — kind and respectable. You’d follow him anywhere if he asked.

Mister Baek gives you an expectant look while sitting on a wooden desk he could easily break. You can’t help but smile at him warmly. His kicked puppy — or tiger cub — demeanor has become a weakness of yours.

“If you really want to help me out, pick me up at 2 p.m. tomorrow.”

------------------------------------------- You’ve never been so nervous about attending a wedding before. You’re used to being the lone rider, facing lovebirds left and right at weddings and birthday parties. Hell, you’ve almost become a cautionary tale among your relatives — the one who adopts a dozen kittens as she grows old alone.

Yet this time, even if it’s all pretend and play, you feel actual butterflies in your stomach as you get into a black car driven by the man who is both your boss and one of the strongest hunters in the country.

Normally, you wouldn’t have put this much thought into your outfit — like you’re on a mission to outshine the bride. Not that you’d actually do that, but it sure feels like it. You need to look like someone worthy of standing next to the man pretending to be your boyfriend. S-rank hunters are rare enough to be picky about who they date.

“Hey there,” Mister Baek greets you, his eyes taking in your outfit — lingering a little longer than what might be considered appropriate. You feel triumphant but keep it to yourself; if he’s impressed, then your family should be too.

“You look different.”

“Is that a compliment?” you ask, cocking your brow and poking at his bicep as he starts the car.

He lets out an amused chuckle, clearly entertained by your rebellious attitude. “Yes — I’ve never seen you all dolled up before.”

You want to say neither have I, but decide against it and reply, “I need to convince my parents and grandparents that I’m happily in a relationship so they’ll leave my love life alone.”

“I get that,” he nods, gesturing for you to enter the address into the car’s navigator. “I trust they don’t know I’m your boss, then?”

“They barely know what I do for a living,” you scoff, gently tapping the address into the screen. “I think your identity is safe.”

-------------------------------------------

The ceremony is straight out of a Hollywood movie — an outdoor wedding arch, rows of white chairs and pillars decorated with flowers. The two of you clearly turn heads as you arrive, your arm tightly linked with your boss, who radiates more heat than you would have imagined. Maybe it’s a tiger thing? Who knows. The suit he’s wearing is black and looks far more expensive than what you usually see him in.

“Everyone’s looking at you,” he muses, and you feel his body vibrate as he speaks.

“I think their eyes are on you, Yoon-ho,” you counter, your tone overly adoring — which doesn’t feel like you at all. Calling him by his first name makes you gag inside, and clearly he isn’t used to it either. But for the sake of a good act, you need to behave like a couple. His cheeks turn mildly pink, which you find rather cute but decide to keep to yourself.

The most touching ceremony is followed by the most bewildering — and probably the most expensive — wedding party you’ve ever attended. The luxury doesn’t stop: multiple buffet tables, a couple of dance floors, a live band, more flowers, more people than you can count, a fountain, and even swans swimming in a nearby pond to top it all off.

The variety of snacks alone leaves you dumbstruck — normally, this would feel like paradise. Unfortunately, arriving with a man who’s basically a walking snack raises more eyebrows and questions than you’d like: How does someone like you land a man like him? Relatives constantly seek you out like you’re celebrities, stopping you from getting near the buffet as your hunger grows.

Mister Baek, however, is excellent at playing the part of a devoted boyfriend — and at times, you even buy into the lie yourself.

“Am I doing good?” he whispers after yet another tedious chat with your cousin’s neighbors. His breath tickles your ear, making your blood roar and sending an uncomfortable spark straight to your abdomen.

You turn to smile at him, and seeing his handsome face this close sends shivers down your spine. “Better than I expected,” you chuckle, then add in a hushed tone, “If I didn’t know the truth, I’d say we’ve been together for a while.”

“Well, you have been in the guild for quite a while,” he admits. “We’ve worked together for some time now.”

You’re interrupted when your mother suddenly appears from the crowd, your grandmother following closely behind. You flash an awkward smile at your boss and turn to face the very reason you have a fake date in the first place.

First, your mother gushes over the two of you, awestruck that you’ve managed to land a dreamboat like him. Then she begins chatting with Mister Baek, revealing every embarrassing secret from your years of flying solo in family gatherings.

“I think your daughter is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met,” he replies smoothly, sending a flutter of butterflies into your chest. “And she can pack a mean punch, too.”

“Yoon-ho is a hunter too, Mom,” you add, blushing furiously as you avoid looking him in the eye. He seems unfazed — maybe even slightly amused — by your flustered state.

Your mother rolls her eyes, clearly displeased with your career choice but satisfied that you’ve “found love” in the end. She eventually pulls you aside, leaving Mister Baek to your grandmother’s mercy.

You’re hounded with questions: how did you two meet, does he treat you well, and most importantly — why didn’t you tell anyone about him sooner?

It’s not a lie that you met him through work — he is your boss, after all — but your mother’s better off not knowing that tiny detail. Eventually, she gets distracted by the newlyweds, and you return to your boss’s side.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” you groan at his smug expression.

“I think your grandmother is lovely,” he says as you link your arm with his again. Your body responds to his warmth immediately, a tiny shiver running down your spine. “She called me her future grandson-in-law. I’m invested now.”

You cock a brow at him and can feel him laugh heartily more than hear it.

“Can we get something to eat now? I’m starving.” You promptly ignore his obvious teasing that leaves your ears glowing with heat as his voice still rings in your ears.

The two of you walk to the buffet and fill your plates with cakes, pastries, fruit — everything you’ve been eyeing all night — while people continue to stop by to poke fun at your “single days” being over and to admire Mister Baek up close. You notice how some seem slightly intimidated by his fierce appearance — a distant echo of the white tiger he transforms into.

As the day shifts into evening and the sky begins to darken, the party goes on. Tiny lanterns light up the venue in a romantic glow, and the two of you finally manage to steal a quiet moment — walking side by side, hands brushing now and then, away from the dancing and the music.

“Thanks for coming today,” you tell him meekly, the champagne bubbling joyfully in your stomach and making you feel uncomfortably warm. On the flip side, it’s also given you a bit of extra confidence.

Mister Baek hasn’t had a drop to drink — he’s supposed to drive the two of you home after the party.

“I’ve had a good time,” he sighs, helping you sit down on a bench facing away from the festivities. “Nothing compared to what you did for me.”

You let out a tipsy giggle and lean your head against his shoulder. His body tenses briefly, but relaxes almost immediately. “Yeah…”

“Think your parents are convinced now?” he asks.

“I hope so. I don’t want to drag you out for every family gathering.”

Silence falls between the two of you, filled only with the joyful sounds of singing and music from the party behind. You lift your head and notice him looking at you with an unreadable expression. Your gaze drops to his lips, just slightly parted, and you feel his warm exhale brush against your skin. A glint of gold flashes in his eyes, and you’re not sure if you imagined it.

“You don’t?” he finally asks, and there’s a hint of wistfulness in his tone.

You bite your lip and pull away, the cool night air sliding into the space between you. “I don’t think it’d be a good idea. I’ll have to come up with a reason why we broke up.”

The sentence plays back in your head, making you chuckle — the idea of breaking up with someone you aren’t even dating.

“Can we go home now? I think we’ve been here long enough to prove I’m in a happy relationship.”

“If that’s what you wish,” he says, and you miss the disappointment laced in his voice.

The two of you stand, arms linked, and walk back in silence to give the newlyweds your final congratulations and let your parents know you're leaving for the night. As you near the dance floor — where most of the guests, including your parents, have gathered — the music shifts to a slow, romantic song. You spot your mother across the crowd, dancing with your father, clearly enjoying the moment.

“Fuck,” you mutter, as the dancing couples block your path.

“Want to dance?” Mister Baek asks nonchalantly from behind you. You turn, stunned to see him holding out his hand expectantly.

“What?” you ask in disbelief. “We were supposed to go home.”

“Your parents are clearly occupied,” he sighs. “And this would really seal the deal — let everyone know you’re already spoken for.”

You take his hand, letting him pull your body close to his. His warmth envelops you, and an involuntary gasp slips from your lips as he gently leads you to the dance floor, swaying to the music.

“I hope you’re not just doing this to impress my grandma,” you jab, teasing.

He chuckles, the sound soft and genuine. You hook your arms over his neck, gazing up at him defiantly — as if daring him to fluster you again. You’re determined not to let him.

“She’s a lovely lady — but not my type,” he replies.

“Oh? And what is your type?” you ask, a cocky smile curling on your lips — unintentional, like your heart has bought into the lie all over again. It’s easy to forget, just for a moment, that he’s your boss. And definitely not your boyfriend.

He falls silent, carefully choosing his next words. His hands on your hips squeeze just a little tighter — not enough to hurt, but enough to be noticed. The vermilion in his eyes locks with yours, and his wild brows furrow in thought. A word falls from his lips — short, but too quiet to catch over the loud yell of a nearby partygoer.

One of his hands moves from your waist to your jaw, and his thumb brushes your cheek. You feel his nail beginning to lengthen, and gold pools into his irises. His gaze drops to your lips and he breathes, “May I kiss you?”

“Why?” you ask, clueless, swallowing hard as heat pools low in your stomach.

To prove a point to everyone, obviously. You know you’ll regret it — or maybe not — but the part of you that’s always fantasized about something more than friendship with your boss grows stronger and greedier by the second. Still too befuddled — and maybe slightly irritated you never got a real answer about his “type” — you nod hesitantly before he can explain.

He leans in, close enough for you to smell his cologne and feel his lips ghosting over yours — like he’s hesitating too. His thumb swipes over your lower lip before he finally closes the gap between you, his soft lips capturing yours in a gentle kiss. His body tenses, as if he’s holding something back — the tiger, maybe — but when you respond to his careful kiss, he relaxes. One hand moves to cradle your chin as he deepens the kiss just enough to leave you breathless.

You pull away after a moment and immediately notice too many eyes on you, but Mister Baek ignores them. Instead, he meets your gaze and lets out an embarrassed, but quiet, chuckle that sounds almost like a subdued howl. The gold in his eyes is gone, his nails back to normal — not that it matters with the alcohol swirling through your system.

“Didn’t think it would be this hard,” you exhale, unsure if the warmth radiating through you is from his hands or your own blood roaring in your veins.

“What, the kiss? Don’t tell me you’ve never kissed anyone before.”

You resist the urge to punch him in his finely sculpted abdomen — which you unfortunately know well, thanks to his shirtless gym habits. Instead, you let out a frustrated groan and, fueled by alcohol and reckless confidence, lean in just enough to whisper:

“No. I meant not having feelings for you, dork.”

You squint at him, puffing your cheeks as if to intimidate him, but your only reward is his joy.

“Then don’t try so hard not to,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead gently against yours. A wave of calm washes over you. His tone is soothing, and the weight of his hand on your hip feels comforting — like it’s meant to be there.

You bite your lower lip as the two of you continue swaying in silence until the slow, intimate song ends. You feel the loss of his warmth as he pulls away, walking you over to your parents, who now seem to have shed the last remnants of doubt about your relationship after that small display of affection on the dance floor.

As the two of you finally make your way back to Mister Baek’s car, a strange anxiety settles in your chest. Was that kiss real? Did it mean something? Was it just part of the act? What happens now?

“You’re lucky I didn’t turn into a tiger back there,” he says suddenly, offering you an apologetic smile.

His comment catches you off guard, and you snort at the unexpected confession.

“Are you serious?” you ask, incredulous, but unable to hide your smile. He seems pleased that the tension and awkwardness have shattered like glass.

He opens the car door for you like the gentleman he’s been all day — though it isn’t far from his true self. He’s always treated you well, as both a boss and a friend. You sink into the seat with a long exhale, feeling the toll of a day filled with socializing, walking, and emotional whiplash.

Mister Baek slips into the driver’s seat, his cheeks suddenly blooming red as he turns to glance at you — shamelessly splayed across the passenger seat.

“What?” you tease. “Can’t a girl relax after a long day?”

“I just…” He swallows and pauses, visibly anxious enough that you sit up and lean in closer.

“I meant what I said back there,” he whispers, honesty glinting in his eyes.

“Which part?” you ask, though you already know. You just want to hear him say it again — when it’s just the two of you.

“Everything.”

You tilt your head, a small smile tugging at your lips as you reach to swipe a stray strand of blood-red hair from his forehead. It’s an intimate gesture — one that probably crosses a line between boss and subordinate. But you don’t care. Not tonight.

Instead of pressing him further, you close the distance and kiss him.

The kiss starts cautious, exploratory — your lips brushing his, softly pressing, testing. But soon, the embers in your stomach ignite into a roaring fire. He responds like a man starved, and the kiss deepens quickly, feverishly. His hand moves to the back of your neck, guiding you closer as your lips devour each other. You’ve never wanted anything, or anyone, this badly. Your tongue traces the seam of his lips — which part without hesitation, inviting you in.

Then, suddenly, he pulls back. Panting.

His face is flushed, his hair now a shock of white, and his irises shine with brilliant gold.

“I can’t control it. Not with you,” he admits, ashamed — but still licking his lips, like his hunger hasn’t been sated. Not yet.

You feel triumphant. An S-rank hunter at your mercy, unable to control his transformation abilities — all because of you.

“Maybe we should go home, then,” you purr, blinking slowly at him.

He nods — quickly. And as the gold in his eyes fades and his hair gradually returns to red, you both know this act is far from over. The car starts, and you gaze out the window, cheeks flushed and lips still swollen, watching as the landscape blurs and the streetlights flash past in the darkness.

“So…” your boss finally says, his voice breaking the silence once he's calmed down.

You turn your head to face him, but he keeps his eyes locked on the road — like he's afraid that looking at you might make him lose control again.

“One hell of an act,” you murmur dreamily.

“Yeah,” he says, a wry smirk tugging at his lips, “ so when do we stop pretending?”

His side glance is brief but pointed, and it’s enough to make you flustered all over again.

Part 2 ->