#i will be alive tomorrow and that is a THREAT

[electric-ecclectic]

OUCH

[callsign-fox]

Dance with Me? - Bob/Robert Reynolds

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/Sentry x Fem!Reader/Superhero

Super fluffy, no warnings xo

I knew this movie would get me to write again, and I haven't even seen it yet! Don't worry, I am seeing it tomorrow ;)

Bucky’s apartment wasn’t home—but it was the closest thing to it. Nestled in a secured corner of Brooklyn, reinforced by his new position as a Congressman, it was a safe haven. A quiet place to hide. It was where Y/N had been laying low ever since she’d turned into a massive, flaming Phoenix above Manhattan—an event that had sent the world into a panic. The headlines hadn’t stopped. Neither had the government’s search.

The Phoenix inside her was too new. Too wild. Too dangerous. So, she stayed hidden. Waiting. Healing.

But that quiet broke the moment the Thunderbolts burst through Bucky’s door, weapons holstered but tension palpable—and someone new in their midst.

Something inside her shifted.

Light moved over her skin like a breeze—curious, tingling, alive. She felt it before she even saw him. From her place curled on the couch, Y/N lifted her head, gaze narrowing on the stranger. Her voice was calm, but her instincts were alert.

“Who's your new friend?”

“This is Bob,” Bucky replied casually, already heading toward the kitchen like this was just another Tuesday.

But Bob… wasn’t just another face.

Y/N’s eyes lingered longer than they should have. She could feel it—that coiled, restrained power humming beneath his skin. But deeper than that was something raw. Broken. Familiar.

He met her gaze, but didn’t smile.

She wondered if he felt her too.

Rising from the couch, Y/N moved a step closer, her voice soft. “He’s not like the rest of you.”

“No,” Yelena cut in, her eyes sharp. “Is this where you’ve been hiding the past few months?”

“Maybe,” Y/N answered, a sly grin tugging at her lips as she picked up her empty mug and headed to the kitchen.

“You’re a terrible government official,” Yelena called after Bucky. “Hiding a nuclear-level threat under your own roof. Cute.”

“I’m not a threat,” Y/N muttered, rolling her eyes.

Yelena mumbled something under her breath that Y/N chose to ignore. Bob quietly slipped into one of the armchairs while Yelena turned to the group.

“We’ve got things to discuss. Mind babysitting, Phoenix?”

“I don’t need a babysitter,” Bob said, barely louder than a breath. But even he didn’t sound convinced.

Y/N moved back into the living room, her fingers trailing along the back of the couch as she sat, perching at its edge. Yelena took the hint and filed out, Bucky following her with a last glance.

“You two don’t get into any trouble,” he said before the door clicked shut behind him.

Silence settled over the apartment like dust in sunlight.

Y/N rose slowly, her bare feet brushing over the cool hardwood floor. She could feel him watching her—his presence tugging at something inside her chest. It was strange. Electric. Right.

“You don’t talk much,” she said quietly.

Bob’s voice was rough, but not unfriendly. “Not a lot to say.”

She didn’t push. Instead, she turned to the bookshelf, flipping through the records until her fingers landed on something smooth and timeless—Sam Cooke. She dropped the needle, and the music filled the apartment like warmth spilling from an open window.

Turning to face him, she lifted a brow. “When’s the last time you smiled?”

He blinked. “I don’t really know.”

A small smile tugged at her lips. “Well… I don’t know you yet, Bob, but I have a feeling I can fix that.”

She held out her hand. He stared at it, confused.

“What?”

“Dance with me?”

A flicker of something crossed his face—surprise, maybe. Hope. He didn’t move, not at first.

“You want me to dance with you?”

“You heard me,” she teased, her grin growing. “A pretty girl is asking you to dance, you’re not going to turn her down, are you?”

He opened his mouth—maybe to argue, maybe to laugh—but no words came. Instead, he slipped his hand into hers and stood, slow and uncertain.

His hand was warm in hers. Solid. Real.

“One song,” she said softly. “No brooding. No worrying. Just… be human with me. Just for a moment.”

She guided him in, gently placing his hand on her waist, her other hand resting against his chest. It had been years since someone touched him like that—like he wasn’t dangerous. Like he wasn’t broken.

She moved first—swaying slowly, fluid and graceful. Bob was stiff at first, clumsy and hesitant, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t watching his feet.

She was watching his face.

“What are you, anyway?” she asked, her voice soft but steady.

His eyes narrowed, shadows flickering behind them. “Something powerful. Too powerful.”

She studied him for a beat, then nodded with a hint of a smirk. “Sounds like you’d give me a run for my money.”

He gave a small shrug, unreadable. “Maybe.”

But he didn’t look away, his eyes locked on hers.

“You’re allowed to let go sometimes you know,” she whispered, her breath brushing against his cheek. “I do.”

His eyes met hers, flickering with something fragile. “What happens if I let go… and everything falls apart?”

She tilted her head, inching closer. “Then we dance in the ashes.”

Something in him unraveled.

His shoulders dropped, his arm relaxed against her waist—and then, for the first time in what might’ve been forever, he smiled.

Y/N’s heart skipped, and she beamed back at him.

“There it is,” she said. “And it’s even more beautiful than I imagined.”

His smile lingered, shy and uncertain, but real. Y/N felt it again—like a pull deep in her chest, a thread tying her to him. It wasn’t just the dance or the song. It was him. The quiet storm beneath his surface. The sense that somehow, even though they'd just met, he wasn’t a stranger.

Their movements slowed until they were barely swaying, just standing in each other’s space. Close. Breath mingling.

Her hand slid up from his chest to rest just over his heart. “That smile looks good on you.”

Bob looked down at her, his brow furrowed like he was trying to solve a rather difficult puzzle. “You feel… familiar,” he murmured, his voice soft and reverent, like he was afraid of breaking whatever moment they’d stumbled into. 

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat. “I was thinking the same thing.”

The air between them shifted—charged, magnetic. Her eyes flicked to his lips just as he leaned the smallest bit closer. His hand at her waist tightened, just slightly, anchoring them in that fragile, suspended second.

It felt like the world had gone still, like the Phoenix inside her was holding its breath.

Then—

Click.

The front door swung open.

“You leave them alone for five minutes,” Bucky’s voice filled the room, too casual and far too loud, “and they throw a damn prom.”

Y/N took a sharp step back, cheeks flushed, pretending she hadn’t just been about to kiss a man she’d known for less than an hour.

Bob ran a hand through his hair and turned away, the moment shattered like glass underfoot.

Bucky blinked, then narrowed his eyes. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Nope,” Y/N said, voice an octave too high as she reached to turn off the record player. “Just... entertaining your guest.”

Bob sat back down without a word, his eyes carefully avoiding hers now, like if he looked again, he’d lean right back in.

Bucky raised an eyebrow but didn’t push. “Right. Well. We’ve got updates. Let’s all have a chat, shall we?”

Y/N nodded, but as she brushed past Bob on her way to the kitchen, her fingers grazed his—and just for a second, she felt that spark again. That pull.

Whatever this was between them—it wasn’t done yet.

Technically Part 2 - Space to Breathe

[hoe4hotchner]

can i request aaron x prosecutor!reader where there's a case or smth and he's worried about her being a victim so in the middle of her preparing for an upcoming court hearing he forces her into his office. he swears it's for her safety but she's irritated and they may or may not have a little argument in front of the team 🤷🏾‍♀️

bonus if the unsub contacts her directly 👀

Overruled | [A.H]

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Prosecutor Fem!reader | WC: 0.8k | CW: Threats mentioned, argument, mention of death, power dynamics.

The knock on your office door was curt and authoritative. You didn’t look up from your notes, flipping through the organized chaos of case law and precedents sprawled across your desk. The highlighter cap clenched between your teeth shifted as you marked a line in a recent appellate decision, your mind already structuring the argument you would present in court.

“If it’s not an evidentiary ruling or a direct confession, I don’t have time,” you called without missing a beat, barely sparing a second to acknowledge the interruption.

The door opened anyway.

“You’re coming with me.”

That unmistakable voice had your hands freezing mid-scribble. Aaron Hotchner.

Slowly, you lifted your gaze, arching a brow. He was standing in your doorway, tie slightly loosened, his usual rigid posture even stiffer than normal. His jaw was locked, and his eyes—dark, serious, resolute—they left no room for negotiation. There was an energy about him, one you recognized as equal parts command and concern. He wasn’t here to discuss, he was here to dictate.

You exhaled through your nose, placing your pen down deliberately. “I have a hearing in less than—”

“I don’t care.”

You narrowed your eyes, fingers tightening against the polished wood of your desk. “Excuse me?”

“You’re not safe.” His voice was a low, unwavering command. “Pack up your things.”

You scoffed, leaning back in your chair, arms crossing over your chest. “Oh, that’s rich. Is this about the threats? Because unless they’ve escalated to something actionable, you know as well as I do that speculation isn’t grounds for detainment. I deal with threats all the time, Aaron. Occupational hazard.”

“This isn’t a debate, counselor,” he shot back, stepping further into the room, the movement subtle but deliberate, reinforcing his presence. “We have credible intelligence that your involvement in the Martinez case has made you a target. That’s more than enough reason to remove you from your office.”

Your fingers curled around the stack of legal briefs on your desk, grip tightening. “Credible intelligence or speculation?”

“I’m not arguing with you about this.” His tone was clipped and controlled, but you could hear the underlying frustration laced beneath his professionalism.

“Well, you’re going to have to,” you countered, standing now, matching his intensity. “Because I don’t answer to the FBI, and I sure as hell don’t answer to you, Agent Hotchner.”

Something flickered in his gaze, a fleeting flash of something you couldn’t quite place. His jaw tensed, his hands flexing at his sides as if physically restraining himself from saying something he knew he shouldn’t.

“You’re being reckless,” he ground out.

“No, I’m doing my job,” you shot back, stepping around your desk to meet him head-on. “A job that requires me to be in that courtroom tomorrow, not hidden away in protective custody like some fragile witness.”

“A job that requires you to be alive to argue it.”

The air between you crackled, the tension no longer just about your safety, but about something deeper—an unspoken battle of wills, of concern masquerading as control, of autonomy clashing with protectiveness.

And then, of course, it had to get worse.

“Uh, should we—”

You turned your head sharply at the sound of a voice, only to find the rest of the BAU team gathered near your doorway, watching the unfolding showdown with varying degrees of concern, amusement, and outright alarm.

Prentiss cleared her throat, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. “Should we leave you two alone, or…?”

Hotch’s jaw flexed, his already strained patience thinning. “Go back to work.”

Morgan chuckled under his breath but raised his hands in surrender, retreating with a murmured, “Man’s on a mission.”

You exhaled sharply, rubbing at your temple, frustration giving way to something more complicated.

“Aaron.”

He stiffened at the use of his first name. The team had disappeared, but the weight of the conversation remained, pressing down on both of you like an unseen force.

“I’m not asking you to like this,” he said, voice lower now, edged with something almost—pleading? “But I need you to trust me.”

Your throat tightened. You wanted to fight him on this, wanted to push back, but beneath the stubbornness was something undeniable—the quiet and insistent worry in his eyes.

“You’re going to miss my closing argument,” you muttered, trying to salvage the last shreds of control you had over this situation.

His lips pressed together, as though he were biting back the words he really wanted to say. Then, finally: “I’d rather miss it than have to give your eulogy.”

The fight drained out of you all at once. You swallowed hard. “Damn it, Aaron.”

“Pack your things.” Softer now, but no less firm.

You exhaled, shaking your head, but finally, you reached for your briefcase. The gravity of his words settled in your chest, heavier than you wanted to admit.

“Fine,” you muttered. “But if I miss my hearing, you owe me dinner.”

His eyes softened just a fraction. “Done.”

[subbmissivesuccubus]

I will get on all fours and bark for you to make the “oh my god you were going to die” thing but with the upper moons and muzan 😭🙏(IT SUCKS THAT WE CANT ADD LINKS)

Thank you guys for 3K followers! I'm glad so many of you enjoy my stuff and I can't wait to keep providing more smut to feed <3

By popular demand, here's part 2 of this! Enjoy~

Disclaimer : Fem Reader X Muzan | Kokushibo | Akaza | Douma | Hantengu clones

As a demon living an immortal life, you knew that death and hell wasn't something you were going to experience anytime soon.

But unfortunately for you, your husband seems insistent on giving you a preview.

You tried to take in deep breaths, having never felt this exhausted even when fighting against demon slayers who were actively trying to kill you. You don't even remember why your partner was mad at you! Sure, you didn't manage to kill the Hashira you recently fought but you came back alive! Isn't that a thing worthy of celebration?

Instead, he took you to the bedroom to really teach your the consequences of failure.

Which is how you found yourself naked, sweaty and exhausted, lying flat on your back as your brain started to work again- just to realize your husband was sliding between your legs to start another round, jerking his cock as he got ready to slip inside you once more.

You gasped and on instinct started to move away, your elbows digging into the mattress as you pathetically dragged yourself towards the headboard to try and get some distance but-

Muzan suddenly shifted positions, your brain so muddled by the pleasure and over stimulation that you didn't realize you were now straddling him until he slapped your tits harshly. He was angry- his eyes glowing that dangerous red that usually got you hot and bothered but now- sent a shiver of fear down your spine. Not only did you let a Hashira escape- but now you're trying to run from him?

He won't have it.

"Ride me. Now." he said, hands on your hips as his cock stood erect underneath you, throbbing in anticipation, covered in your sticky juices.

"M-My Lord-" you babbled, tears filling your eyes and you didn't dare to try and escape again, "I-I can't. Too s-sensitive-"

"Ride my cock or you won't live to see tomorrow."

With a broken sob, you quickly placed one hand on Muzan's chest, your body crying for a break as the other one slid underneath you to grab his cock and keep it steady, your poor thighs trembling as you lifted yourself up before sinking down on his member. You knew his threat was empty but...it was always best to not risk it.

Kokushibo noticed you were about to crawl away but instead of grabbing your hips and pulling you back like you expected he would, his hand instead shot out to clamp around your neck. You gasped, air caught in your throat as his many eyes narrowed at you, giving you a look of disappointment as you writhed against his choking. Did you necessarily need air to live? No. Was it uncomfortable? Yes.

Was it sexy? Also yes-

"What do you say?"

Your face was turning red, tears prickling your eyes as his fingers seem to tighten. "S-Sorry- m' s-sorry-" you managed to choke out despite his best attempts.

"Good girl. Now present yourself to me."

With his hand still on your neck, your spread your legs wide, even bringing your hands down to push apart your pussy lips, baring you every inch of your cum stuffed cunt. With a grunt of approval, Kokushibo slipped inside you, giving you a break as he let go of your neck just as he started his intense pace.

"D-Darling- oh fuck- please-" you babbled between gasps and pants, tits bouncing as your poor cunt was once again pounded within an inch of her life, not even given a minute to rest and recover.

"Cease your pointless crying." he simply stated, his abs flexing as he rutted into you, "If you find it so unpleasant, don't fail next time."

Akaza is usually so sweet when you two have sex. But when he's frustrated with you- he will let. you. know.

The second he saw you trying to move away from him, he grabbed you by the knees before flipping you onto you stomach like you weighed nothing. The next moment, he was lying on top of you, his body weight keeping you pinned down as he slipped his cock back inside you in a classic prone bone. You squealed, unable to move as he started rolling his hips into you, the position making his cock reach deep- deep- deep inside you.

"A-Akazaaaa-" you squeal, your cries a bit muffled by the mattress, "S-slow down- please-c-can't take it-"

"You can't take it?" Akaza growled into your ear, rolling his hips in circles so his fat tip can bully your g-spot mercilessly, "No wonder you couldn't kill that Hashira. If you can't handle- hah- this, then you can't handle a battle. So consider this your training, my love."

"P-Please- I just need a break- I can't- ah fuck- you're so deep!"

"You can take it. Be my good girl. Besides, our Lord wants to know if you can get pregnant, remember? You're not getting away from me until you're knocked up."

Douma simply laughed as he watched you try and escape him, his kaleidoscopic eyes twinkling even more beautifully than usual as his sadistic tendencies got satiated seeing your fear and exhaustion. But of course, he wasn't going to let you go. With a flick of the wrist, you gasped as your ankles were suddenly encased in ice that trailed down to the floor, keeping you in place. You could try to break out of it, but your husbands hand on your cunt rid you of all thoughts except for pleas.

"D-Douma- honey- please-"

"Shhhh, sweet thing." He purred, giving your kitty gentle pets, "I'm just going to teach you a lesson before I breed you again~ Let's make this pretty pussy as red as your ass is, hmm?"

"No please- i'll be good- I promise!"

"Why are you so scared honey?" Douma asked in mock concern, his bottom lip jutting out in a pout as he cooed at you, "Oh, you really don't like it when I spank your cunt, do you? It hurts so badly, doesn't it?"

"Yes- it hurts so much!" you complained, your eyes welling up with tears at the threat. You loved it when he punished you but fuck- it hurt!

"Poor sweet thing! I have an idea then." you watched as an ice cube materialized in his hand, clutched between his fingers as he said:

"How about we make her numb first then?"

It was difficult enough to take on the Hantengu clones even when they were being nice, but when they were punishing you? It was downright impossible. But they didn't care.

"And where do you think you're going, missy?" Urogi asked, a grin on his face as he slid in to sit behind you, quickly stopping your attempt at getting away. He grabbed your arms and pulled them above your head, catching your wrists with one hand and restraining you.

"Is it too much for you?" Karaku teased on your right, holding your knee and pushing it open to expose your sex. His hand slid between your legs and his fingers glided between your pussy lips, cooing as he made contact with your slick and cum, "Your poor, sweet cunny is all fucking and stuffed huh? Must be so difficult to take more~"

Aizetsu whined even as he bent down to take your left nipple into his mouth, whining even more as you squealed at the sensation of his tongue against your raw, sensitive nipple. "M-Maybe we should give her a break..." he suggested after giving your bud a few sucks, still laying his head against the fat of your breast as he pulled at your left knee, "We've made her cum...and cum inside her so many times...i'm sure she's learned her lesson."

Before you could latch onto Aizetsu's words and beg for mercy, Sekido slid between your legs, his frown even angrier if that was even possible. He glared at you as he tugged at his cock, clicking his tongue as you tried to wiggle your hips away when he pressed his tip against your entrance.

"Don't you dare try to fucking run away." he snarled as he pushed into you, his cock sliding back into your poor, fucked out cunt. You gasped, tossing your head back against Urogi's shoulder as you were filled up once more, instantly knowing that you had pissed off Sekido by your anticts by his instant break-neck pace.

"You're only done when we say you're done." Karaku purred against your ear, licking said ear as Sekido pounded your pussy, making you babble stupidly as his cock slammed against your cervix, "And you're not going to be done for a long time~"

[neodymiumcuilz]

HELP ETAF ( @pgetpg ) AND HER FAMILY FROM GAZA - DONATIONS NEEDED 🍉🍉

Hello everyone - we must never forget about Gaza. Don't forget about the children currently starving, currently being burned alive, currently being bombed. Don't forget that just under half of the children in Gaza expressed a desire to die. Don't forget the threat of death is constantly hanging over their heads - it is a privledge to know you will be alive tomorrow, a privledge many take for granted. It is a privledge to have a safe area, where you know you are protected and won't be killed. It is a privledge to grow up healthy, and in a stable environment. It is a privledge to be operated on with anesthetic, or have health care at all. These are all privledges people in Gaza don't enjoy. They are experiencing a genocide, and we must never forget that - don't continue to ignore Gaza, the city where not a single building isn't destroyed.

Here on tumblr, people from Gaza are asking for donations. They pour their hearts out for us, share their stories and are hopeful we will help them despite everything. Imagine the disappointment when they don't receive any donations? Imagine living in a litteral hell, and the privledged people that can donate aren't bothered to help you? If you can donate - I implore you. Help them out, they are human beings, not robots or numbers. The children of Gaza should get to grow up, don't leave them. Don't ignore them. Helping people has never been easier.

Just put a small contribution into this fundraiser - no donation is too small. Any amount has a significant impact.

They are vetted, (#088) on the list.

Please support @pgetpg, send thoughts and prayers their way, they need it.

[mosskissed]

i think mydei would love kids, but would never have any himself between the state of amphoreus and his immortality.

he's very hands-on with the children in okhema as a result — those left orphaned by the black tide or whose parents are alive but busy, working hard to provide for their kids and community. they all love him, no matter where they hail from originally.

he makes time to play with them as much as he can when he isn't tied up in his role; from hide-and-seek and chasing to tea parties and dolls, whatever they tug on his hand to come join.

he's on his way back to you one day when he passes a crying boy, maybe 7 years old, not far from your home. he's sniffling on the ground, hugging his knee to his chest after he must've fallen and grazed it.

mydei pulls him back to his feet when the boy tells him between sobs that his friends all ran off and left him, scowling in the direction the boy points at.

mydei takes him to your home to clean his knee, sitting him on the step at your front door so he can hear if his parents or friends come looking for him while mydei asks you for a damp washcloth. he doesn't coddle the kid while he cleans him up, but he tells him in a gruff voice that it's alright to cry as long as he makes sure to get up and keep going afterwards.

you fall a little bit more in love with him each time you're shown this side of him.

they bring him gifts sometimes — deep red pomegranates that the most agile had to scale trees for; crude drawings carved into stone of them holding his hand, sometimes with you by his side holding the other; a clumsily crocheted heart made from an outgrown shirt, unravelled just to recycle the yarn for him.

he keeps everything that's given to him, and he can place every child's face to each gift. your home is overflowing with symbols of okhema's appreciation of your lover, an ode to his heart and what he chooses to do with it.

sometimes, a kid goes missing.

the walls of okhema are a challenge as much as they are a shield in the eyes of the brash youth, with the children so well-protected that they can forget just how real the threat is at times. some sneak out on dares to prove their bravery — others distraught, looking for their home, their parents.

they save as many as they can, but it's never enough.

the face of every child lost haunts mydei as he stands in his home, surrounded by the tokens of their implicit trust in him.

then, it's your turn.

there isn't anything you can say that will ease the burden he feels, the permanent weight he drags behind himself — but you can give him a shoulder to rest on, a hand to drag him back up when he stumbles. you can cradle his head to your chest when he drops to his knees, his legs no longer stable enough to keep him upright. you can run your hands through his hair as his arms wind tight around you, as if he's afraid of losing you next.

you can mask your rage at a world with titan's so cruel. you can whisper your prayers for a better tomorrow.

[agalychnisspranneusroseus]

Genuinely feeling inspired by Wolf, E. (1982) "Europe and the People Without History" ch. III F.C.E., México 2005, (pp 97-130)

Trying to use my amphibia obsession to help me studying by applying concepts from my textbooks to worldbuinding analysis

[writtencrone]

The Devil Still Has A Halo

You're a priest in a small-ish village, and your life has been relatively peaceful. Yes, you had a bit of a rough past, but you've passed that now. All of this changes when a new parishioner joins your congregation and starts asking questions. Stray dogs go mute at the site of him, house animals in his neighbourhood go missing, and it seems like someone is hunting him. Still, you don't connect all of this to him because, well, he seems like such a polite young man.

Demon Oc x Bottom Priest Reader

Religious guilt, anal sex, improper items used as lube (olive oil...wine...), allusions to fires, burns, physical violence, low-key body horror implied, dubious consent (?), strange penis (it got ridges...)kind of monster-fucking? You do it on the Altar, allusions to past violence, allusions to past gang activity on readers part, dracryphilia, lying, spanking, choking, manipulation, stalking, blackmail, threats, degrading behaviour, lots and lots of religious guilt and religious discussion, injury discussion (bruises), and violence, biting, and mentions of previous fire, and minor religious delirium

One thing about me is that I will never proofread or write a story chronologically. Goodnight chat.

Also, discussions around religion, the nature of god, the nature of good and evil.

The question of sin was always an easy one for you. Your principles were always sound. You leave the door to the old church rectory open for homeless people, you’ve stood outside of shops and gathered food for the community fridge.

In your down time you visit orphanages, participate in outreach programmes for foster kids, and you play puzzles. When the summer is just so, and the evening is bright, you slip off your clerical collar and leave it curled on your drawing table. You take your car keys and drive up the dirt brown road to the highest point in town, and overlook everything. Up there, you find yourself marvelling at the creations of God, and, more so, you feel your blood pulse under your skin.

Sin was mere daily weakness, so everyday you regaled against the small impulses of debauchery and lived the RIGHT way.

It was Autumn when your perfect life was changed. Fitting. The season for change, and like all the worst sorts of changes it started with something old. It started with a friend.

“Star,” you called out. “Could you take these donated items down to the children's home, if it’s not too much. I just finished organising them, so I figured it would be best to get it down sooner rather than later. I can do it tomorrow, but—”

Star clicked her tongue at you, and her silver piercing was visible. Star was one of the newer members of the church, that being that she had only been in the village for a year. She was… troubled. Withdrawn. You were glad to see at church, happier still to see her name on the volunteer sheet.

So, there’s you, Star, and the quiet evening of the town filtering in through the colourful depiction of Jesus being betrayed in the garden.

“Sure,” She tells you. “Just help me load it into the boot of my car.”

So you do, and whilst you’re out there on the old cement road, the cemetery to your right and a little beyond it — your home — you spot a faint pair of headlights winding down the road. They must have taken a different turn, and you watch that light disappear into the forest. Then you think nothing of it whilst you wave Star goodbye .

The old rectory, though still standing, had a nasty fire incident a decade or so prior. That’s to say the old priest was so old that he fell asleep and forgot to turn the stove off. It was a small miracle that no one died, but the old priest retired to a monastery and you were brought in to replace him. You hadn’t left since.

The night is alive with crickets, the drone of cicadas, the occasional rustle and skitter of lizards across landscapes and into bushes. In the distance, a stray dog barks.

The Church had been saying they would make you a new rectory for a while (since you arrived). Since then, you’ve been renting a small two-room cottage. It isn’t much, but you didn’t really need much since all you did was sleep, and sometimes eat, there. Maybe you should start checking the locks more often, because when you entered and flicked on the lights there was a man in a cassock lying on your sofa.

Father Ananda Teppikat, christened Michael, colloquially “Moo”, was an old friend from the days you were student. Time may change everything, but his… debauchery. Was persistent. He was perhaps one of the more liberal pastors, and it was liberal-nature that kept him from becoming a fully fledged priest.

Although he claimed he was fine with it, the way he was lazily sprawled over your third-hand sofa told another story. The half-empty beer bottle on your coffee table added a narrative twist to that story.

“Moo,” you seethe. “What are you doing?”

Moo shifts, and murmurs something along the line of. “Sleeping.”

In the end, you don’t have the heart to force the guy up. So, instead, you resolve to confront him in the morning. When you do, you have to contain yourself. Sin is found in everyday irritants, and Moo was a test personally sent from God.

He explains, whilst nursing a headache and fighting with a packet of ibuprofen (you eventually take the pack from his hand and push the pills out for him) that he’s been sent to assist you with any and all things – also that he got into a fist fight at his last parrish and needed to be sent away whilst things cooled down.

Then, he leaned across the small table and informs you that—

“-- I’m also hunting demons for the Bishop.”

You have to put your tea down before you choke.

“Okay Moo,” you say, instead of calling him insane. It’s the little things in life that help you attain inner peace. “Maybe you still need to sleep off some of this booze.”

At this he gives you a look. It’s as if he was aware of the absurdity of this claim, but told you anyway. The disappointment in his eyes tells you that he thinks that, quite frankly, you’ve failed.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes.

Whilst you leave him to the aftermath of his booze binge, you head off to start preparations for morning mass. It’s a weekday, so you’re just expecting the usual retiree and elderly crowd of people – those who come in before they open their tuck shops, or go to their food carts, and sweet sellers. Imagine your surprise when the first person through those doors is a young man.

He would be handsome if not for his black eye and the bulbous swelling along what was probably a nice cheekbone if facial symmetry has any justice in this world. There was a still wet cut at his lips, and his jaw was bruised. It was as if he had been battered. His clothes finished the story — a fur lined black puffer jacket, horrible for this humid weather, an artistically torn black shirt and trousers with so many chains he jingled a little when he moved.

He was fresh off the scene of some high-end night club. Black hair is long enough to dust his shoulders, and has an artistic white streak shooting through it.

You look at him, then retreat to a side room. When you come back out, you have an ice pack wrapped in a towel, and some ointment.

Now you were closer to him, you noticed he was shorter than you.

“Most of what this church has was gifted by its parishioners,” you say, in lieu of hello. “Please, take a seat. You look tired.”

That was also true. When you approach him, he flinches. You stop, reconsider.

“Don’t be afraid,” you reassure him. “The house of God is a refuge to everyone. Come, sit down. I can’t say that the house of God is an urgent care, but I can say that I can drive you to—”

“Shut up,” the man rasped, collapsing into one of the pews. “And give me the ointment, Father.”

Tch. Young people these days have a foul attitude. Still, you handed over the items with a placid forced smile. The youth had enough reasons not to go to church these days, a priest with a foul attitude need not be added to the list of reasons.

“My offer still stands,” you remind him before stepping back .

“Why?” the man broke off into a laugh. “I’m a stranger, look at me. You must know what I am, what I’ve done.”

“The confessional is always open,” you remind him. “And, how are you a stranger to God? I’m just doing his bidding.”

Yeah, don’t mind little old me – you stepped away from the figure who was now pressing that ice pack to his face. You had to light the candles, and prepare the wafers for communion (Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, Sundays – your communion schedule. You had it tacked up on your refrigerator, alongside drawings from some of the children), and…

The man stays throughout all your actions, your mundane chores, from sweeping the church, wiping down the altar, and dusting the saints’ halos.

“Does your back hurt sitting like that?” You ask, playfully.

The man doesn’t respond, he just stares at out with his black eyes that are somehow a shade too dark.

It’s only when the first few parishioners start to file in that he takes off, and you’re ready to accept that this was the end of it. That he would go back to whence he came from. Instead, he came back wearing his Sunday best. A crisp white dress shirt, straight black trousers, and shoes so shiny they gleamed with every step he took. It all accentuated a rather handsome figure — just an innocent observation from your part.

That cold and aloof man was gone with the clothes, and although his face was bandaged and the swelling had lessened considerably he smiled around it when he greeted elderly parishioners.

You don’t know exactly what game he’s playing, but you do remember reading about scammers who target the elderly. Seeing that man who was once so expressionless seemingly light up at the chance to help an elderly woman to her seat is nothing if not deceptive.. It would be best to keep an eye on him for that purpose. Only that purpose. Of course.

Your sermon starts as they all do, with a parable. Then it’s followed by collective reading from certain chapters in the bible, all in the faded itineraries. You watch as an elderly man takes the younger bible, giving him his at the right pages.

Then you’re talking, explaining, and there’s something magical in this. In how your voice rises into the high ceilings, and how you can see the belief and faith of your parishioners follow. Soaring upwards to a great, great—

“Father, I had a question!” A familiar voice called out, interrupting your discussion on Abraham and sacrifice, and just who was this person.

It was the beaten man - a young adult. Whatever. He was standing up, and you could see how half of his lip curled upwards.

“If god is so loving, then why has he destroyed nations?”

This is a common question, and eye question, so why was it that under that dark gaze you felt yourself falter.

“Let me answer that question with another one: Who built those nations?” You asked in turn. But it wasn’t enough. There was meant to be something more descriptive, more poetic, in the utter old testament devastation. It was meant to say something, something you couldn’t put your tongue to.

The man could see you struggling, and he smiled. Then he sat down, and did nothing more.

It can’t be worse than that. You console yourself whilst hurting to pick up where you last left off.

When you invite the congregation to come up for communion, you did not expect to see the dissenting young man among them. Asking questions does not make you a sinner, it merely makes you curious. At least, that’s what you tell yourself. When it’s his turn to receive the wafer, he kneels before the altar.

When you offer him the bread, he merely opens his mouth. His tongue lolls out in what is nearly obscene – it only obscene to someone weak. You let the wafer fall onto his expected tongue, and when he closes his mouth he licks his lips.

That’s not the worst of it. No. What’s the worst of it is when he takes a sip from the chalice of wine, a stray drop artfully rolls down his chin and onto his exposed collar bones. You stare.

Oh. Oh no.

When did he even get time to unbutton his shirt, you had been watching him this entire time.

After you had bid farewell to most of the parishioners, one lingered behind. He leans against the doorframe, the bird bath bowl of holy water stands beneath you.

“So, just because he created it — it means he can destroy it?” the young man asked. “Seems like god is more of the angriest toddler, but who am I to judge.”

“Yes,” you say, tilting your head at him. “Who are you? I’m Father (L/n), apologies for not introducing myself sooner.”

“Weise,” the young man kicked off from the wall and offered you his hand. “You can call me Weise. It’s a foreign name.”

You take it. His skin is soft, like it had never known trouble.

“Ah,” you say, in lieu of a remark about city kids and traditional values going as well together as magnets of opposite ends being smushed together by a resilient child. “Well, Weise, I believe that destruction is a metaphor for might. God can build and destroy nations, why can’t he take care of you?”

You let go of his hands, but he holds on for a second longer. His finger grazes along your wrist.

“You want a guy like that to take care of you?” Weise barked a laugh. The appearance of a respectful, but curious, churchgoer is dropped around you. “Seems like you’re attracted to red flags, Father (L/n).”

“I think you misunderstand,” you say. It’s hard to put it into words, his feelings in your chest, your faith, your doubts, your own struggles, and how faith was a line through them. “He can do anything, anything.”

“Yet he does nothing.”

“We’re standing here, talking, breathing, and a thousand other microscopic functions that keep up going are all operating fine enough. Isn’t that something?”

“Ah, but we won’t mention all the horrid things in the world.”

You smile. This is something you’re familiar with — the question of why do we have free will when all we do is destroy.

“We all have our challenges, some greater than others.”

Weise doesn’t seem to be as amused by this little debate. He smacks his lips, irritated.

“This feels cliche. Doesn’t this feel cliche to you, Father (L/n)? You ever watched films? Of course you don’t, look at you—” Ouch? You're not that old. “This is just such a cliche.”

“Well, if you’d like to switch it up as it’s known, you could volunteer?” You suggest, mostly because you need all the manpower you can get. “See God's work for yourself, come to your own decisions. It’s all good for us to sit here and discuss, debate, but practice and life experiences are the only true way to—”

“We weren’t debating, we were arguing,” Weise snaps.

“We were?” You ask, thrown off kilter.

Weise tuts, crossing his arms over his chest. “Fine. I’ll sign up for your volunteer thing — Why doesn’t it work with you? Why are you so impossibly irritating?”

You force a smile.

“The sign up sheet is on the bulletin board.”

Weise doesn’t say much after that. He only signs the sheet and walks away, stepping into a sleek car and driving off. It’s only then that you realise — the forest is dead. The cicadas have been silenced in their perpetual hum, and the stray dogs you feed after mass haven’t arrived.

What’s happening?

It's not just the animals. Moo has been moving things in your house. Your dishes are going missing – not going into the sink or anything, just going missing. You've lost just about everything. A cup, a plate, a spoon, a fork. Before Moo came, you had at least two of each now you scrape by with just one.

Worse, you're feeling sort of…watched. You draw your blinds earlier than you normally do, you stay out later with the church – but even there you feel the heavy weight of watchful eyes peering at you.

It culminates in the shower – or. Your bucket bath. It’s not even like you lived in an absurdly rural place, you were just on the outskirts of the city. You could have showers. It was just that the cottage was so old, and the new house that was never coming was meant to have a shower – and well. You just. Always forgot to get one installed. Sad times. Sitting in a tub and pouring water over yourself.

(A/N: author is also an asian who has taken bucket baths - and in every good protagonist there is a little bit of the author. This is where I leave my little bit.).

You pour a pauldron of water over your sudsy hair, and through the watery, drowned, blur you swear you see two eyes staring at you.

You don’t go to bed until you’ve said five hail marys.

Over time, you watch Weise recover and integrate into the community.

When his bruise is a blooming purple you are organising children's toys and clothes — separating the usable from the unusable and organising each one and he listens as you fret over the Papal Legate’s visit.

“It’s unlikely he’ll come here,” you say, tossing another unusable childrens onesie into the recycling bag. “But everyone is in such a tiff about it.”

“Yeah, you and two other people,” Weise snickered, folding girls shirts (for ages 8 to 9).

“Surely there’s something you must care about as well. Or, someone,” you say, carefully watching him.

He looks away, letting his hair fall over his face. If his face betrayed anything, you wouldn’t get to know.

“Once, but that doesn’t matter.”

“It always matters,” you say. “Even when it’s not supposed to.”

You want to reach out, put your hand on his shoulder, tell him everything will be okay. Instead you open another bag of donations. When he lifts a heavy bag his shirt rides up, showing that soft stomach and a flash of belly button. You resist the urge to run your hands down him.

When his bruise is a garish green, you’re both collecting food for the community fridge. Somehow, despite the fact you’ve arranged the rota so that you and Weise only clash a respectable amount of times, he somehow always swaps, or fills in, at just the right time to be by your side.

You watch him talk so passionately to a passer-by. He convinces her to donate some canned food, and waves her off. Only when she’s suitably far enough, and it’s just the two of you, his face falls into a cold neutral look.

“You know, the point of charity is that it needs to be freely given,” you say. “You don’t need to put on an act for it, just be honest. This isn’t a competition.”

You watch him roll his eyes.

“Everything is a competition, and I’m going to win,” he says with a nearly frightful look in his eyes.

When his bruise is yellow he tells you that he ran in a bad crowd, got kicked out of his parents house for it, and doesn't have anywhere to go. You're sitting in the church after mass, something that's become a part of your routine, and talking about religion.

You felt your hand twang with a sympathy so strong its gaze soared above all of the other remarks made by Weise.

“I'm sorry. You're welcome to stay with us at anytime –” yes, us, because to an extent you were a community leader. “ — I… also got into some trouble in my youth. But I found solace in a church, and that's what sent me on the path to priesthood.”

To be that mentor, that shining white hand to tug Weise into God's good graces. You smiled at him with all the appreciation in the world.

“Wow, I never knew you were a bad boy Father?” He joked, and you laughed more for the sake of it. He threw his head back, and the long stretch of delicate throat bared itself.

You ran your tongue over your teeth.

By the time his bruise is brown you think you’ve built a real connection with him. Worse, your attraction to him grows. Every slight movement, every flash of skin or midriff sends a gross flash of heat up to your head and down to your groin.

It’s a test. It’s a challenge. It’s Freud or something psychological because this friend who sees you as a mentor is not an appropriate— you’re a priest. None of this is appropriate. He feels safe enough to be his true self around

And here you are, jerking yourself off to memories of unblemished necks, midriffs, the slight pant he makes when he's worked too hard. You still don't know if you want to fuck him or be funked by him, mostly because you didn't linger on the idea of it for too long.

When you cum you stifle your cry into your pillow panting and struggling – riding the aftershock. Suddenly, you felt watched. You turn to the window, you'd left the curtains whide open.

Maybe it was just God, you reassure yourself whilst cleaning up. Then you realised you thought ‘just’ god like you hadn't spent the better half of your life preaching his word, pouring over his wisdom. The shame consumed you – you needed to confess.

Unfortunately, you couldn't quite spare the half an hour drive to the next nearest priest so instead you turn to the increasingly annoyed Moo.

You catch him in the living room, consulting brown files and clicking away at a laptop that looked too new for a priest's salary.

“Moo,” You start. Then you stop. Moo was only a pastor, he couldn't take your confession as a representative of God.

“What!” He snapped, sliding his files into his bags. “God, can't you see I'm busy. Why do you send this fool to bother me.,”

Your shame is momentarily forgotten in front of his audacity.

The regret comes shortly after, and Moo stumbles his way through an apology before leaving. Spouting something about a lead. You leave as well, because the feeling of being watched is tooo much. You will find solace in a walk, through the forest, looping through town. You make your way up a familiar street, and you recognise the name.

It's Weises’ address.

You immediately turn around. This has gone far enough, you need to go back. Go back to when you were good, when you were happy with the stars in the skies and not watching the light in his eyes twinkle.

A cry of pain stops you, and you're going before you can really process what is being said.

“Be cast down foul demon!” You hear Moo call out and you round the corner into a dingy alleyway. It's impossible to think that anyone can live here, but there's an open door and you catch half of Moo and someone else Sprawled onto the ground.

You know it's Weise because of the way he cries, and covers his delicate, sensitive, face. You're pulling Moo off as he's screaming verses from the old testament, and Weise rolls onto his side weeping into the floor.

“Y/n!” Moo calls. “You don't understand – he's—”

There's a sickening crunch when your fist makes contact with his jaw.

When the police come you renounce your ies to him, and when you visit Moo in prison you let him know that the church has evaluated the report you gave and has decided to - for lack of a better term - cut him loose.

It's all a blur. Moo's delusions, your aching knuckles, all of it seems unreal compared to the fresh bruises on Weise's face.

“I’m sorry you had to experience that,” you say, meeting his eyes. “I hope this doesn’t dissuade you from coming to church, but I would understand if it has impacted your view of religion. You were attacked by a crazy zealot. Either Way, I— myself and the parishioners would certainly appreciate your attendance, and miss you for the lack of it.”

The man took your hand in his, and squeezed. “Of course, father, but there’s one thing more than Pastor Michael’s actions that had altered my view on religion.”

Then he didn’t stop, and you were beginning to lose sensation in the tips of your fingers. When in this situation, your non-confrontational attitude took hold. “And what is that?”

You loosen your hand, but he held tight and tugged. Your shoulder began to ache. He was peering down at you, and now that the sun was rising you could see that his expression was frighteningly blank.

“The good priest may just be a pervert,” he whispered, the ghost of a smile rising from the dead to grace his lips.

You tugged your hand away from him, but he held on tight Too tight, and his palm was fiery with its warmth.

“What are you doing?” You ask.

“Feeling exposed?” he croons like a therapist who may or may not actually care about the answer. “How does this make you feel dear Father (L/n). The fact you helped incarcerate a man who was probably right.”

If it were any darker you could have tried to excuse what you saw as just the shadows, just the fatigue. Yet, in the colourful light of the final meal you see Wiese change. Moo's chants of demons and devils suddenly seem delirious.

You watch as slender ivory horns sprout from his forehead, as a tail flicks behind him. Worse, the sound of his bones cracking to give him the hind legs of some feline creature would haunt him forever. You yelp, and Weise’s suddenly sharp nails are dragging along your wrist – leaving angry red lines.

“What's wrong, Father (L/n)?” He whispers, his face paling. “I thought you said god loved all his creatures, and you're here to do god's work. Shouldn't you love me too?”

“Get behind me, Satan!” You cry, because what else are you meant to say? The fact that Moo was right, and you had just ruined an innocent (eh…) man's life over a lie. Over a demon.

“Only when you bend over,” Weise cackles.

His grip loosens, and you wheel back. You're going up the aisle now, and he's following. His tail swishes slowly, but you're looking beyond that – you're looking at the effigy of the crucifix carved into the stone wall above the entrance. You're praying.

Your lips are moving, mouthing the hail Mary and you're praying with all your soul – like you used to when you were young and hungry. You're praying that this isn't real.

“Weise, is this really you?”

You ask, appalled. Your eyes finally meet his. His new, inhumanly pale skin has eaten at his bruises (were they ever real) and his eyes are pitch black (was anything real?).

“I always have been me. I never lied to you, Y/n.”

You let out an audacious laugh, because what was this if not an audacious lie.

“I'm seriously I never lied. I did run with a bad crowd, but in my defence Satan - Lucifer - whatever he calls himself these days – was a fun guy before all the fire and brimstone. The smell of sulphur, which smells of rotten eggs, would do that to anyone.”

He rolled his eyes. Like he was complaining about the weather and not— the fall of angels? You choke out a what.

But then he's on you, walking faster than his short statute should allow but he's in front of you now, smiling like the cat who got the cream.

“You jerked off to the image of me,” He exposes you, casually.

Worse, he takes out a Polaroid of you curled in bed, your hand around your cock and your cassock pulled high for easy access. Even though your face is in your pillow, people will still know that it was you.

“What do you want?” You ask, raw.

“Entertain me,” he crooned. “I could be human again, if that's what you need to get your rocks off.”

He doesn't tear you apart and ravage you on the cold, stone, floor. No, the demon makes you undress yourself. He whispers pretty, appreciative words of endearment as you strip. He wraps the rosary around your wrist as if you might break if it's too tight. Then he was on you, pushing you down onto the altar.

He does become human.

The demon doesn't force you to do anything, he just sits in the front pew and smiles.

“Was any of it real?” You ask.

He shrugs, and you let your cassock drop although your chest is caving in.

When he fingers you it's gentle, accompanied by coaxing tugs at your cock. You jolt with every impact. He pours whine over his enticing fingers, easing the initial burn. Before he enters you, puts the flared opening of the whine bottle to your hole, and you moan as heat boils in your abdomen.

His penis is big, bigger than it should be. It has a line of ridges across the top, and they catch on your hole as he enters you. He encourages you to breathe through it all, and you wheep.

Your mouth opens, and sounds you never knew you could make pour out. The demon does not ravish you. He takes his time, fucking you into the marble altar. You feel it all throughout your body, you feel how tight you are around him.

You're taught, ready to snap.

“Go on then,” he said, slowing to incremental. “Fuck yourself on me.”

His fingers pinched at your thigh, then your hip, then his hands are on you in a fascination that is much more wholesome than the situation you're in.

You make this low keening sound — this sex, this defilement, this sin has returned you to your base instinct. To the saliva pooling at the corner of your mouth, the tears rolling down the sides of your face spurred by every slow, hard, thrust. Your fingers were curled along the edge, and your tailbone bit into the cold marble.

Before you realised, you were hitching your hips in tandem. You were riding this storm in every literal way possible – and the pure mind-numbing pleasure was building. You let your head fall back against the marble, surrendering. You’re sorry, but you’re enjoying this too much to ever stop.

“Please,” you half-sob.

“What?” Weise stops moving and you actually whimper. “What did you say? Did the lowly scum speak — silly little Priest. Why would you do that when all you have to do is shut your disgusting mouth and take what I give you.”

You hear it all and quietly imagine your dignity and pride packing up, telling you they love you but they can’t sit here and watch you destroy yourself, and leaving you with a child (the shame) as you became so achingly hard against Weise.

“Please, just fuck me— mmph– I feel like I’m dying—” you whine, throwing your head back.

“Oh, please. You’ll know when you die,” Weise whispered, reverentially. Like he was sharing a secret. He leaned in close, resting his chest against yours. “It will be so much worse than this.”

You are naked in the early morning of the church, and this is a new madness you never knew you were capable of.

His hands work his way up to your throat and give a testing squeeze. Your breath hitches, and you whimper when he pulls away.

“It will feel amazing. For you, and for me.”

Then he pulls back his hips, and the tip of a strange cock catches on your hole. He moans, and you let out a little whimper. Then he slammed back in, and set an obscene yet steady pace. Every thrust, every obscene squelch, down to the predictability of the fullness and the ridges along his cock against you – in you.

It’s obscene. You turn your head into the crook of your arm, abashed. His hands trail down to your chest, grazing over your nipples. Even that place is set ablaze in the light of all of this.

“You would bleed so beautifully,” he croons, his hands curling just under your rib cage. “So deeply, so holy. Your suffering would be divine, don’t you want that?”

This dirty talk was weird, and maybe he saw some of that distaste on your face because he hitched one of your legs on his shoulder and tried to fuck the second-hand embarassment out of you. If you weren’t being railed so hard you were losing sensation in your legs and lower extremities, you would almost get the sense that maybe this guy just has some self esteem issues. Might come with the whole demon thing.

Then he raised his hand and struck your behind. You yelped, and he did it again. Each time the sharpness increased, and the remaining stinging sensation numbed your mind.

Instead, he turns you on your side so you're facing the altar cloth you had just laid out. Each thrust sent the cloth and the candelabra you had spent so long polishing to the ground.

“Wait–hm—” you shudder. “Pick it— pick itt—” You can barely choke out a sentence around all the pleasure building inside you.

You feel every thrust in the back of your throat.

“Seriously— can’t you just focus on me,” he scolds, tugging at your hair. Your scalp burns and you moan louder than you thought you could or would.

Somehow, it was nice to let go of all your inhibitions. The wider world faded away as all that became important was how badly you needed this right now. When you come it almost startles you – it feels like you had been going forever and now you were at your destination with little else to do other than twitch and realise that some stains are never going to come out – especially that semen stain on your altar cloth. You let out a wanton cry.

Weise fucks you through it, he pins you down as you writhe and moan and proclaim that it’s too much, because it really is — and he hunched over your turned figure to put his teeth to your neck. When he comes he bites down so hard you’re too busy wailing to notice just how much of his seed there is until he pulls out, soft, and you feel it cascade down your thigh in rivulets.

You flop onto your back. Sweating, debauched, and probably experiencing the world’s worst case of post-nut clarity. You had been fucked, not a first for you but it was the first in a long Time. You were bleeding from it, shaking, and spilling yourself across the altar like a final meal.

Weise whistles whilst he pulls up his trousers and tightens his belt. He looks down on your panting figure with something akin to hunger, then he says.

“No, I want to savour you. If I could, I would do after care but uh.. I don't want to, also you have church in an hour. I'm not the cuddling sort of guy.”

And that's that. You have to pick yourself up, limp over to a bathroom, reset the altar and try to stand without your knees shaking throughout it all.

🍽

Moo's cell was damp, unkempt, and stunk of horse shit. Still, it was his alone. Knowing the Church, this was either a final mercy or something more sinister.

Of course, the church he knew what very different from whatever you knew. As a pastor he was elevated beyond status, and initiated into the Hunters of Heaven, purely because he was discrete.

This time he hadn't been, and it was likely he would never hunt another demon again (if he was lucky).

The door clicked open, a guard held it for a blonde man. The man simply nodded to the guard, and the guard stepped out.

“Hello Moo,” the man said, tilting his head towards him.

Everything about him was almost adonic. Strong jeekbones, elegant round eyes, proud … everything, last he remembered.

“What do you want,” Moo said, not meeting his eyes.

The man clicked his tongue.

“Well, since you're so eagre I'll skip the formalities. Your work is no longer required from us. As a gesture of kindness the church will pay your bail, but you will be stripped of your garments. Permanently.”

Moo snorted. “Let me guess, the moment I leave this cell I'll be jumped by a gang of ruffians. No one will be arrested, terrible accident.”

“Or you could stay in here and, well, the official report will read something like ‘suicide’.”

“Die or die, hmm…what a difficult question. Give me a day to think about it.”

“You don't get a day, not after the little stunt you pulled. Screaming demon, god, Moo, you're insane and need an insane ending to end this.”

Moo fell silent. Nobody wanted to die, not really. There was a third way out of it.

“What if I told you I knew how to lure more of them to us, rather than the other way around?” Moo asks, his eyes sliding over to the other. “Would that guarantee my survival.”

“Depends—”

“No ‘if’, ‘buts’, or ‘depends’. My survival comes first, you'll get your information later. You have my word.”

The man was skeptical, and he had the right to be. Moo had given his word at the initiation ceremony, before God and his closest stand in – and he went back on it.

Still, the two men have history.

“I'll check with the deacon,” he says, then he leaves.

--

That little bit at the end was a semi-intro for the priest oc! I do love a good manipulative relationship, I wonder how Weise and Reader's relationship can work going forward? Pt 2 probably won't have a lot of smut...

[utterlyotterlyx]

A Ballad of Storm and Shadow

Azriel x F!Reader

Part One

Summary - Rhys had been content in taking the darkest secret of his family to the grave, but when the threat of Hybern increases, he has no choice but to send a message to another world and pray to the Mother that his call is answered.

Warnings - angst, mentions of war, tension, fluff, touch of sadness and longing

This is a crossover series, some aspects will differ from that in the books. Physical attributes are described in this fic, it is essential to the storyline of the character

Rain spattered against the ledge, the open window allowing the tears of the sky to coat the black glossed paint with their sadness. Azriel watched them inquisitively, noting how each droplet fell further into the room than the last, his shadows pecked along the ground to dry the dampened spots and it was a welcome distraction from the conversation encircling the room.

The storm raged on overhead, cracks of lightening slicing across the sky every few moments, the clouds rumbling their anger throughout the city. A harmony to the idea of war.

There was no avoiding it. The war, that is. It had consumed Azriel's every thought as he played out every possible scenario in his mind, ones where they all made it out alive, and the ones where they all perished alongside Prythian. It was those visions that kept him up at night, flashes of Cassian's bloodied face lifeless against the earth, wings torn and soul withered, were enough to make him desperate enough to the point that he'd give anything to avoid it.

Azriel ran his marred hands over the curve of his leathers, soothing down each muscle and drifting over every glowering siphon attached to his body, doing his best to pull himself from the images that plagued his waking moments and sleepless nights.

If Rhys were speaking then Azriel would have been listening, but, surprisingly, he wasn't. Rhys stared dead ahead, nails digging into his nails beds and jaw clenching along with the reeling thoughts plaguing his own mind, staring right ahead at the corner of the table placed in the centre of the seating area at the River House. Azriel wasn't the only one who noticed, Amren had halted her words to slice through his train his thought, "Are you going to say anything?"

Rhys' gaze pulled from its formerly trained spot at the table edge toward his second in command, and it was clear that there was something he wasn't sharing with his family. His eyes drifted about the room, landing on each one of them in turn before they landed on Feyre and wavered slightly. Azriel couldn't blame his brother for his fear, he had finally gotten everything he had ever wanted after all the horrors he had endured, and now that picture perfect life was being threatened.

But something still wasn't right. Rhys was too consumed in his mind to pay any real attention to what Amren was saying, what plans were being spoken of, and that wasn't like Rhys. It wasn't like Rhys at all to blatantly ignore words spoken that could aid them in their collective efforts against Hybern. Azriel couldn't exactly be too picky about it though, considering he too was ignoring the firedrake fumbling plans into fruition, also too consumed by his own demons.

"The High Lords will be convening in three days time," his words were tense, his eyes burning, "Give me one night to think. We can start on this tomorrow," Rhys ran his hand over his face and leaned back in his chair, inhaling deeply and pinching the bridge of his now.

"The future of this continent, your home, is threatened, and you wish to speak of this tomorrow?" Amren scoffed, her silver eyes dancing under the faelight in warning.

Rhys rose from his seat, having had enough of the incessant drawls of war and death and offered Feyre his hand, a hand that she took willingly and stood at his side, fingers wrapped around his forearm and body drifting beside him, "Yes, I do. I cannot think when this is all you're speaking of, Amren. I am High Lord, and I need to think about how to spare my family and my people from this."

Instead of retorting in a way only she could, Amren contained her fury and buried it deep within her core, "Fine." Amren almost spat at his feet, but he paid no mind to it, he didn’t have the energy to go head-to-head with Amren that night, not when there was a much more pressing matter to attend to.

So, Rhys took Feyre to bed, and made sure that she was sound asleep before removing himself from her embrace. He threw an onyx silken shirt over his body but didn’t bother strewing up any of the buttons, content in allowing the night air to glide across his skin, he wasn’t sure how long he was going to able to appreciate its touch.

The High Lord of Night paced through the River House swiftly, not wanting to disturb any member of his family or alert them to his movements, and as soon as he stood on an ornately stunning balcony, the same he had stood on with Feyre that night on Starfall, did he unfurl his glorious wings and take to the skies, determined to reach the place that he hadn’t visited in over 200 years. A pool of starlight lay within a small valley within the mountains, not too far from the cabin but recluse enough for no one to be able to find it unless they knew that it lay there.

It had been too long since he had been there, but the all too familiar aura curled around him like a lost hound and pulled him down to it. The pool twinkled in greeting, reflecting the endless wonder of the sky above, and Rhys then remembered just how small it was, and just how long it had been since he peered into it or drifted his fingers along its rippling surface.

None other than he knew of what it truly was - not even his mate- it was a thin veil between worlds, a veil he used to send messages through often in hope that they’d find the one intended for, and he would wait for hours at a time for a whisper of a response. One time he had waited an entire day, desperate to hear her voice on the wind, hauntingly mesmerising like a siren to a sea captain, replying to his message with her usual level of warmth and understanding.

Then one day he just stopped visiting the place, the weight of her void had become too much to bear, too much that he had made the selfish decision to try and move on, to live his life in anyway that he could. Part of Rhys thought that she would have commended him for it, that she would have understood and that she was somewhere and knew of his strength, pain, and success of finding his mate.

But it had been so long. Rhys wasn’t sure if the pool was being monitored from her end, and he was terrified that his plea would fall upon deaf ears. But she was the only one who could help them, the only one powerful enough to give them any real chance of surviving. That power was the reason she had been sent away in the first place.

Rhys fell to his knees at the bank of the water, the contact of his markings without their twin flames in the snow causing the pool to ripple and hum with eons old yearning, and the stars within it began to glow, eager and ready to pull his words from his lips and sail them through the veil. He lowered himself to the surface, his face reflecting in the water showing him just how exhausted he had appeared, and the pool knew it, it knew of his desperation and rippled in a way that Rhys was sure it would split open at any given moment.

But, the water settled and shuddered, the gate between him and the one he thought of often still firmly in place.

"I'm sorry that it's been so long," he began, not knowing what to say to soften the blow but wanting to believe that she wasn't angry at him for it, and hoping that she too was thriving wherever her feet carried her. "If it means anything, I have missed you, and not a day has passed where I haven't thought of you," he fiddled with his fingers, his breath sending gentle wisps of steam rising into the air, "I found my mate. You'd like her, I think. She's my High Lady now, things have certainly changed."

"We are going to war. The Cauldron is in the grasp of our enemy and it threatens to devour the continent as we know it, and I fear that none of us with survive the destruction. I suppose I just wanted to speak to you, to say that I'm sorry I haven't visited in so long, and to let you know that I love you despite our distance. I may not survive what's to come, but I just wanted you to know that, and if there's any way you could come and save my ass then that would be greatly appreciated," he spoke the last words with a soft chuckle.

Rhys often thought of what she looked like, she had been only a girl when she was sent away, thrust through a portal with no way of knowing how to get back if she wished it. The day he heard her whisper through the pool had been the best day of his life, and on some level, he knew it still was in a sense. In those days, Rhys knew that she was alive, she may have been struggling but at least her heart was still beating and soul was raining havoc.

He wasn't sure of what he was expecting, he knew the chances of a reply were slim to nothing, but his heart still sank when the pool rippled with intoxicating silence.

Rhys waited another hour at least, but when the stars within the pool began to dim, he knew that it was time to leave. He rose to his feet, his soul solemn and heavy, and he couldn't bring himself to glance backward at the water as he ascended to the skies.

It was a pity really, for if he had turned around for but a moment, he would have seen the pool sparkle to life.

Azriel was curious.

It wasn't often that he found Rhys to be hiding something from him, or any of them for that matter. It was the beauty of their shared family, they knew all of the worst things about one another, from actions to thoughts, and nothing was counted as being too ferocious to accept.

But Azriel knew that Rhys was hiding something, his High Lord had been on edge from the moment he had returned to the River House after sneaking out that night, under the impression that no one had known of his time away. But Azriel knew everything, every single move was accounted for thanks to his shadows and his own keen hearing.

The Shadowsinger had merely thought that Rhys needed a moment to himself to think, but as the time stretched on, it seemed that Rhys was on a mission of sorts, and Azriel's suspicions became clear when he saw his brother the next morning, hair askew and eyes occasionally flickering through the window to a certain spot against the mountain face.

Rhys had worn the same expression for three days, not even Feyre could get him to talk to her about what it was that had him so concerned. But Azriel couldn't miss the longing in his eyes each time he passed by the window, like he was expecting someone to float up to the glass pane and solve all of their problems.

The day had come to meet with the High Lords, and the location had been set at the Dawn Court Palace, Thesan had always been the perfect mediator, besides, Cassian had been banned from Summer which automatically ruled that location from the list.

To Azriel's understanding, Rhys hadn't uttered a single word to anyone all morning, not even a single scold toward Cassian and Mor for their incessant bickering. It was worrying Feyre, Azriel noticed, he saw the emotion sketched into her furrowed brow each time she would try and speak to her mate to only be ignored. It seemed as though only Azriel and Feyre, and perhaps Amren, had noticed it.

The silence continued all the way to the Dawn Court, and Rhys' brooding only lightened when Helion appeared after his lacklustre greeting to Kallias and Viviane, spurring Rhys to remember the reason why they were there, what they had to do in order to give Prythian a fighting chance against Hybern and the Cauldron.

Helion jerked his chin toward Feyre, asking, "Does Tamlin know what she is?"

Rhys, his sadness wavering for a moment as they stood before the doors to the meeting chamber, spoke, "If you mean beautiful and clever, then yes - I think he does."

Azriel watched Helion closely, taking a tentative step toward his High Lord and Lady as the High Lord of Day sent Rhys a unimpressed flat glare, "Does he know that she is your mate, and High Lady?"

Ignoring Viviane's squeal, Rhys answered, picking a loose thread from his jacket and allowing it to float to the ground, "If he arrives then I suppose we will find out."

"I always liked you, Rhysand," Helion said after a lethally dark chuckle, knowing just how powerful he was in comparison to Rhys' brothers; he rolled his shoulders and glanced to Nesta, his gaze lingering whilst he enquired of who she was.

"She is my sister," Azriel didn't miss the muffled flinch that sliced across Rhys' face, "She will tell her story when the others are here."

Skittering steps against the pale golden stone pulled the attention of the Inner Circle toward Thesan who was surrounded by his highly alert Peregryns, beings who seemed a little too on edge.

"I hate to interrupt," Thesan drawled with wary eyes before they landed on Rhys, "But there is a woman I have never seen before in the meeting chamber, she says that you sent for her."

No one could miss how Rhys' entire body language changed from lax to urgent, his posture straightening and eyes boring into the doors of the chamber as though he could see through them; his breathing quickened, and it became apparent that whoever the woman was had been the cause of his ire for the last three days.

Begrudgingly, Rhys followed Thesan's order to wait for the others, Tarquin seemed less than pleased to be stood before Rhys, and it wasn't long until Beron and Eris rounded the corner of the corridor, sneering and spitting their horrid words, sending warning glares to Cassian and Azriel in particular for the scuffle between the two courts over the now High Lady of the Night Court and Lucien Vanserra.

Opening the doors, the woman lounging in the chair facing their entrance was not the person Rhys had been longing to see, Azriel deduced that much from the instant droop of his shoulders before he fully even saw her face. She sat in one of the deep rooted chairs, legs strewn over the arm and a dagger pricking into each one of her fingers, not hard enough to break the skin.

She was glad in a green dress that extenuated her long legs and her utterly wild scent had enveloped the room, a scent of lemon verbena and crackling embers, her blonde hair was well tamed and pinned backward in a loose yet luxurious ensemble, and power poured off of her in searing waves.

"And who exactly are you?"

A grin formed on her lips at the defensive question directed her way by Helion, and she rolled her eyes incredulously in response, sliding her legs from the arm and propping her elbows upon them, "Is that any way to greet a guest?" The tip of her dagger scratched into the wood of her seat, a curved and lethal weapon not of Prythian, "They really don't have any manners," she spoke loudly, directing the comment elsewhere.

Large hands clasped around the back of her seat and a flash of white hair reflected against the dying sunlight, "She did tell us that they were going to be apprehensive of us, Fireheart." The woman hummed, seemingly unphased by who she was trapped in a room with, anyone else would have been quaking in their boots at the knowledge of it.

"I didn't think she was being serious-"

"You haven't answered the question. Tell us who you are and why you're here, or-"

"Or what?" The woman's gold ringed eyes glistened, hungry and bristling with a flame Rhys, nor any of them, had ever witnessed. She rose from the seat, "You'll hurt us? I'd like to see you try."

Azriel stuck to Feyre and Rhys, sizing up the male with the tattoos in an ancient language littered down the side of his face, and that only seemed to make the male smirk, "Don't think about it. You wouldn't last a minute."

Tension simmered in the chamber, the High Lords of Prythian bar one faced the two strangers who looked much like them but were different in every single way imaginable.

Only when a click of heels entered the room followed by an exasperated sigh, did the two strangers grin, their offensive stance dissipating before Rhys' very eyes as they turned to make room for another.

"You'll come to rather enjoy Aelin's wit," a voice as mesmerising as the crashing summer waves called into the simmering silence, a voice so perfect that it had Rhys almost whimpering in disbelief as he took a step forward. Another woman appeared adorning a playful smirk, "And the vein in Rowan's forehead."

Azriel studied her, even his shadows couldn't stop themselves from peeking over his shoulders at the sound of her melodic voice, one so calming that it had them dancing toward it. She was by far one of the most incredible creatures Azriel had ever seen, dressed in an impeccable midnight blue gown that exposed her taut legs, allowing Azriel to see the two markings delicately placed below her knees, the twins to Rhys' own. Her hair was as dark as the night and swaying with each step, eyes as violet as the summer horizon that were lovingly teasing her companions, and she moved with a grace Azriel had never encountered in all of his years. A crown composed of onyx stone flowers and jewels curled around her head and glittered in the slowly decaying light, it was delicate and rested just over her ears, keeping her skin free from the imprint of it.

But it wasn't the crown nor the dress that had really stolen Azriel's eye, no, it was the pristine pair of feathered wings that were tucked neatly behind her back, not wings of an Illyrian, but wings of some form of angel Azriel presumed. They resembled the night sky, black and speckled with silver, and the longer Azriel focused on them, the more he struggled to believe that they weren't enriched feathers of pure starlight.

Rhys loosened a breath of disbelief, and his bottom lip quaked softly as he took her in, eyes trailing up her form and resting on her face, not believing who was stood before him but thanking the Mother all the same, "You came."

With her dress swaying in the breeze infiltrating the room from the open arches of the chamber, she faced Rhys and smiled sadly, taking a moment to drink him in just as he had with her before she answered, "You called."

"I didn't think you heard me," he took another step toward the curve of the pool, slowly but surely closing the gap between them, "You've grown."

"I've always heard you," their features were so strikingly similar, and Azriel was grasping onto any memory or mention of the female before his eyes, "And, if I hadn't have grown in over 500 years I'd be quite concerned."

Rhys laughed, throwing his head back and lips stretching into a smile of pure bliss, he didn't stop his steps this time, no, he allowed his feet to carry him all the way to her and bundled her up in his embrace, inhaling the scent of her deeply into his lungs "Hello sister."

Sister.

The two strangers, Aelin and Rowan, took a step back, serene smiles on their faces as they watched, seemingly understanding what it meant for the Rhys and the female, "Hello you," she replied, wrapping her arms around him and holding him tightly, "Someone mentioned that you have a mate now?"

Rhys pulled backward and sent her a look of wonderment, "I do. Feyre, darling? Would you?" He extended an arm out to her and Feyre wasted no time in joining him, "This is y/n. My sister."

"Well, half-sister, but we don't take notice of the specifics," she grinned at Rhys and softly nudged him, "It's an honour to meet you, Feyre Cursebreaker."

"How do you-"

She waved her hand dismissively, "I know many things."

"It's true, it's extremely annoying," Aelin spoke flatly nestled under Rowan's arm, the fire in her eyes softening.

Glancing about, Azriel became completely aware of just how much the beauty of y/n had captured the attention of all within the room, from the hue of her skin to the glossy black of her hair, from the curve of her jaw to the strikingly vibrant eyes that had stolen Azriel's breath from the moment the light had hit them.

She was undeniably Rhys' sister, but Azriel was sure that Rhys had only ever had one, and she died years ago.

"I'm sorry, but how?" Cassian couldn't help but ask, drawing the attention of everyone to him, he glanced to Azriel who shrugged, confirming that he knew nothing of the female before their very eyes.

Y/N smiled softly, her eyes dimming slightly and promised, "My," she looked to Rhys for a moment, "Our story-" her gaze returned to Cassian, but not before gently floating over Azriel and widening slightly, "-is one for a different day. Prythian is in danger and you need help, I'm here to provide it."

"What about us?"

"One more word Aelin and I'll send you back home, I'm sure Aedion would love to take your place."

Aelin gasped, "You don't mean that."

"Try me. See where you land this time round."

Aelin grimaced, recounting the time y/n had shoved her through one of her fancy test portals to only land in the foulest smelling swamp she had ever experienced. She kept her lips sealed and moved to the seat where she had been sat minutes before with a forced smile, prompting the rest of the occupants of the chamber to do the same.

The Shadowsinger moved with the rest of the Inner Circle, finding his place beside his High Lord and Lady, which was just a stones throw away from y/n, and he found himself completely lost in the scent of a brewing storm, his shadows unwinding from his body as it flooded his lungs and fighting through invisible storm clouds in order to brush against her for even a moment, to taste her skin and shudder at the power laced within it.

Crossing her leg over the other, Azriel watched y/n recline into the comfort of the seat, doing his best to not make his awe so obvious whilst she took a moment to gaze upon every person in the room, her eye lingering on a certain Autumn heir with a level of intrigue before she spoke with a feline grin, "So, you're all on the verge of death. Tell me more."

Author's Note

Trying a different writing style with this one - let me know what you think x

[rose24207]

no wall is strong enough to keep us apart

Summary: A family torn apart by the Berlin Wall reunites in an emotional embrace the night it falls, proving that love endures even the strongest barriers.

'89s!Dad!Lando x '89s!Mum!Reader

Genre: angst, fluff, historical

TW: mention of DDR, Stasi, Berlin wall, propaganda, separation, timeline is not chronological correct for the sake of the story, I know the wall has been up 28 years!

A/N: Yes I know it’s completely different from what I normally post but I really like the topic and the stories behind the families and friends that were separated back then! Let me know if you want more of historical events - btw I’m listening to Pink Floyd rn.

Navigation

Berlin, 1959

The air smelled of fresh bread and strong coffee as the bustling streets of Berlin came alive in the early morning sun. You weaved through the crowd, your fingers laced with Lando’s as your little daughter, Emma, skipped ahead, her blonde curls bouncing.

“Slow down, liebe,” (love) you called after her, but she only giggled, twirling in her little dress.

Lando laughed, pulling you closer. “She’s got your energy.”

“She’s got your stubbornness.”

“And your smile.”

Life was simple, full of love. The three of you lived in a small apartment in Mitte, not far from Alexanderplatz. Lando worked as a mechanic, saving up to open his own shop, while you worked part-time at a bakery. You didn’t have much, but you had enough.

West Berlin was only a tram ride away. You’d sometimes take Emma to see the grand department stores on Kurfürstendamm, or visit family in Charlottenburg. There were no checkpoints, no barbed wire—only a city still healing from the war, divided but still connected.

You never imagined that in just two years, everything would change.

August 12-13, 1961

The night was humid, the air heavy with something unspoken. You stood by the window, unable to sleep, watching the city lights flicker in the distance. Lando was in West Berlin, fixing a car for a client. He was supposed to come home tomorrow.

But then—

A knock at the door.

Your neighbor, Frau Keller, stood there, her face pale. “Turn on the radio.”

Confused, you hurried to the small wooden set in the corner. As the static cleared, a voice crackled through:

"Starting at midnight, the borders between East and West Berlin will be sealed off indefinitely. All crossings will be closed. A new security measure to protect the people of the DDR from imperialist threats."

Your heart stopped.

“No,” you whispered. “No, no—”

You ran outside, past confused neighbors, past uniformed officers already unrolling barbed wire. In the distance, at the Brandenburg Gate, soldiers hammered wooden posts into the ground.

The wall was already being built.

Your stomach dropped.

Lando.

Morning came, and with it, devastation.

A crude barrier of barbed wire and armed guards now split the city in two. Families screamed across the divide, reaching for loved ones they could no longer touch. Desperate people jumped from windows in border buildings, trying to land in West Berlin before they were sealed in. Some made it. Others did not.

You stood among the crowd, Emma clutching your waist, sobbing.

You spotted him—Lando.

On the other side.

“Lando!” You screamed, your voice drowned by the chaos.

His head snapped up. His blue eyes met yours, wide with horror. He tried to run forward, but soldiers blocked him, rifles raised.

“Bitte!” (please!) he shouted. “Meine Frau! Mein Kind!” (my wife! My child!)

“Step back!” a soldier barked.

Lando’s fists clenched. His face twisted in anguish as he reached toward you, separated only by meters—but it might as well have been a world away.

Emma wailed. “Papa!”

Lando pressed his hand against the barbed wire, his knuckles white. “I’ll find a way! I promise!”

Then—

A soldier raised his gun.

“MOVE BACK!”

Your scream died in your throat. Lando’s face twisted with helpless rage, but he stepped back, his hands trembling.

The last thing you saw before being forced away was his eyes, burning with a promise neither of you knew if he could keep.

And just like that, your family was torn in half.

The months that followed were a blur of despair. Overnight, the DDR had become a prison. The border was reinforced—first with more barbed wire, then concrete. Guard towers rose along its length, manned by soldiers under orders to shoot anyone who tried to escape.

Friends and family disappeared. Some fled in hidden tunnels, others were caught and sent to Stasi prisons. Fear seeped into every corner of life.

Emma stopped asking about Lando. Not because she didn’t miss him—but because it hurt too much.

One night, as you listened to a smuggled West German broadcast in secret, you heard his name.

"A man attempted to swim across the Spree River today in an effort to reunite with his family in East Berlin. He was spotted by DDR border guards and forced to retreat before he could reach land. Sources confirm his name as Lando Norris."

Your hands trembled. He was trying. He hadn’t given up.

But the wall still stood.

And so did the distance between you.

In the Night of November 9, 1989

For years, the wall had been unbreakable. But tonight, the whispers began.

You sat by the radio, Emma—now seventeen—beside you. Your hands gripped hers as the news played.

"A government official has announced that, effective immediately, citizens of the DDR will be allowed to cross freely into West Berlin."

The words hit like lightning.

Emma shot to her feet. “Mama—”

You didn’t hesitate. You grabbed her hand and ran.

The streets were chaos—thousands of people surging toward the border, tears streaming down faces, disbelief mixing with hope. Some shouted in joy, others in fear.

You reached the Bornholmer Straße checkpoint, breathless. Soldiers stood rigid, gripping their weapons, unsure whether to enforce the wall or let history decide its fate.

Then—one man stepped forward.

Then another.

And suddenly—

The guards stepped back.

The gates opened.

The crowd surged forward.

Emma yanked your hand. “Mama, we have to find him!”

You pushed through the sea of bodies, your heart hammering, your breath ragged. People embraced, wept, screamed with joy.

And then—

There.

Lando.

Standing at the barrier, his face frozen in shock.

For a moment, the world stood still.

Then you ran.

Your feet barely touched the ground before you crashed into him, your arms locking around his neck. He held you so tightly it hurt, his chest heaving with sobs against yours.

“Mein Gott,” (my god) he choked out. “It’s real. You’re real.”

Tears blurred your vision as you pulled back, your fingers trembling against his face. “I never stopped waiting.”

Emma stood a few feet away, her lips parted, her entire body shaking.

Lando turned, his breath catching as he saw her properly for the first time in years.

“My baby,” he whispered.

Emma exhaled a broken sob before throwing herself into his arms. Lando held her, his hands buried in her hair, rocking her like she was still the little girl he’d lost.

“I missed everything,” he whispered. “I missed everything.”

She clung to him. “But you’re here now.”

The three of you held each other, shaking, crying, whole again for the first time in years.

Around you, the wall crumbled—not just in stone, but in the hearts of the people who had been divided for too long.

And after all these years, Berlin was finally one again.

Just like your family.

One Year Later

The remnants of the Berlin Wall stood in pieces, now just another relic of the past.

Lando’s hands ran over the rough surface, his fingers brushing against the graffiti left by those who had longed for freedom.

Beside him, Emma held his other hand, her eyes bright. “I think you should take a piece.”

Lando smiled, chipping off a small fragment and tucking it into his pocket.

You leaned into him, inhaling the crisp autumn air. “What will you do with it?”

He turned, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Keep it. To remind me that no wall is strong enough to keep us apart.”

And for the first time in decades, you believed it.

Because the wall had fallen.

And love had won.

Thank you for reading!

Taglist: @ipushhimback, @ladyoflynx, @lewishamiltonismybf, @cmleitora, @hmma3 , @same1995, @amatswimming, @llando4norris, @dr3wstarkey, @hurtblossom, @ernegren, @esposamultifandom, @darleneslane

[sun-and-flames]

A Rising Dawn - Chapter 1

Mydei x (female) Reader

Fic Rating: Mature (will change for a later chapter)

Chapter Length: 4.5k

Fic Status: Ongoing

Tags/Warnings: Fluff, Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Falling in Love, Learning to Trust, Sweet, Wholesome, basically no angst, no use of y/n, smut in a later chapter, set before the events of 3.0

Author's Notes: This entire fic was supposed to be a long one-shot with a lot of scenes that made it seem like a montage. It turned out much longer than anticipated, though, so I'm splitting it up. We're gonna end up with probably around 30k words altogether. Anyway, this fic is really dear to me, so I hope you'll like it <3

AO3 Link

Summary: In the Holy City, daily life remained the same for the citizens despite the threat of the Black Tide lurking beyond the city's borders.

But sometimes, a brief encounter can bring about a new dawn for its residents. Chrysos Heirs and regular citizens alike.

Even more so when the Golden Thread has tied your fates together a long time ago.

The breeze remained subtle on this early Entry Hour in the streets of Okhema, the air crisp and clean while carrying a hint of something vaguely floral as Kephale’s light flooded the streets.

Nothing truly changed. People went about their daily lives, working and striving for tomorrow, not knowing how many days there were still to come.

While Mydei appreciated the constant, the sense of peace and normality the people - his people among them - found within these streets, the lack of change, of feeling rooted in place unable to move forwards, always left a bitter taste in his mouth that not even the blessings of Phagousa could wash off.

Few duties waited for him that day. Attending Lady Tribios’s class, following up with a Kremnoan young man who had asked for his assistance some days ago, and patrol duty during Parting Hour.

He hoped during patrol he could get rid of the itch in his veins. Though, at these times, maddened Titankin were not a rarity to find in the outskirts of Okhema.

Until then, ample time to ponder and look after his detachment.

Marmoreal Market buzzed with life. The scent of fresh fruits mixed with the aroma of freshly baked bread as the stalls and shops came to life and greeted the people as they began their daily lives in the city.

Even at this hour, Marmoreal Diner was crowded, people waiting in line for a seat or a special breakfast to take home with them. He spotted some Kremnoans among them and he couldn’t fault them. Kyros’s offered the best bread and olive oil in all of Okhema if one did not have the muse to make it from scratch themselves.

While Mydei didn’t favor the crowds around here, the lively atmosphere stirred something within him. He saw the smiles on people’s faces, the excitement of children frolicking about, the relief of the employee’s as they continued - that they could continue- business yet another day.

Laughter and joy.

Fun.

Rare as it was to come across during these dire times, a part of himself - hidden behind walls of duties and responsibilities and questions no one else but him should deal with and which kept him away day in and day out - longed to engage in it all the same.

He knew his place.

In this town.

For the Kremnoan people.

In the Flame-Chase Journey.

People passed him by as he crossed the street, some greeted him, some acknowledged him, others avoided him. All the same, another constant in the Holy City. It mattered not but he greeted them back with a nod, spared words only for the little children that brushed past him as they indulged in their games.

The Fruit and Veg Store invited everyone with fresh and colorful fruits displayed on plates and in bowls that made them look like a painting come alive rather than real food. One didn’t have to know their way around vegetables and fruits to recognize the quality and care Demetria, the store owner, put into her work.

The elderly lady chatted with a customer, handling the balance coins on the scale with a cheerful smile on her face.

Though the deep red and luscious pomegranates, resting in bronze-colored bowls on a long table behind Demetria caught his gaze more so than the rest of the produce or the people surrounding the store.

Until a hand appeared on one of the fruits disrupted his staring.

As he followed the hand, delicate and too small to grab the fruit with one hand, up a slender arm, he saw you.

Your face remained calm. The focus on your work simmered in your gaze, but it did not show in the curve of your brows or the line of your mouth. You placed two of the pomegranates in a little basket, where they joined an array of apples, before you put the basket on the small table next to Demetria.

You retreated into the back of the store immediately, working on arranging the fruits and vegetables with a care to avoid damaging them that looked as meticulous as devoted to your task as Mydei was used to see from Demetria. Surrounded by the shelves and tables, the crowd in Marmoreal Market didn’t reach you as you kept working, wiping your hands on your apron when the warm air around you showed itself on your skin.

Why his gaze lingered, he could not tell.

Maybe because he frequented the store so often and he’s never seen you before? A relative of the store owner? Simply a new employee? Maybe because such little changes occurred so rarely in the daily lives of Okheman’s these days that it caught a person’s eye naturally so?

Maybe because a spark in the back of his mind whispered that you seemed familiar to him, though the thought sounded odd, so Mydei dismissed it and continued on his way.

His gaze didn’t find yours nor did it linger on you again when he bought his own pomegranates and indulged the store owner in the smalltalk she so enjoyed engaging in.

———————

Mydei spotted you at the store almost regularly after that first vague encounter. You tended to the fruits and vegetables in the back of the store, focused and not paying much attention to the crowds and buzz around you. Colorful patches stained the white apron you wore over your dress. Mydei couldn’t help but think they made you look more like an artist spending your time painting and drawing but not arranging and selling fruits.

The only time you came out from the back was when you placed a customer’s order on the table by the owner’s side, only to retreat again.

A peculiar nature given you found yourself in the busiest place of all of Okhema.

When Mydei approached the store days later again, Demetria thanked him for his patronage as she usually did but spared him the smalltalk. Too many customers, too much money to make. Despite her kindness and dedication she was a business lady through and through.

He didn’t mind. The sooner his order got processed the earlier he could leave the store and avoid the gazes he drew whenever he made his way here. He crossed his arms in front of his chest while he waited.

Neither a word left your lips nor did any hesitation appear in your steps, even though he caught a flash of something - recognition? Remembrance? - cross your eyes as you threw a glimpse up at him when you approached the store’s front with a bag in your hands.

You placed the bag on the small table next to Demetria. Mydei leaned down to pick it up before you managed to pull back again. Your fingers still lingered on the bag when he grabbed it and the flash of panic on your face made him frown.

No physical contact, no skin on skin, not the metal of his gauntlets on your skin, not even fabrics brushing and yet your hands recoiled as if you got burned by the flames of Kremnos’s Soul-Forging Zone.

That terror-stricken expression faded an instant later and you tried to hide the trembling of your hands by clasping them together in front of you.

Mydei watched you with a frown on his face, gaze hard and his mouth a straight line, as you bowed slightly - an instinct to remain respectful to your customer? - and retreated back into the store as if you found safety there. Safety from him.

People being intimidated - scared - by him was not an all too rare occurrence. He was aware to be not the most approachable man, people never shook his hand in greeting, many cowered at the mere sight of him - the Kremnoan beast, a brute. Not something he cared about much, but it has been a long time since anyone has been this blatant in their display of it in front of him.

He didn’t comment on it. The paper of the bag crackled in his his grasp as he left the store and crowded area of the Holy City.

And yet, as he crossed Marmoreal Market in the Parting Hour on his way home many hours later and his eyes fell upon the closed store, he couldn’t help but wonder what your issue has been.

Prejudices still prevailed to this day and their eradication has been everything he has striven for since he and the Kremnoan detachment joined Okhema.

He tended to overthink these things a lot, he knew that.

But if anything, his time here has proven him that his concern and wariness was justified. His first months and years in this city have been plagued by preventing assassinations - on children - of his people, by witnessing discriminations in his people’s everyday lives and filing complaints and seeking audiences with the Council. While the situation has improved, notably when Lady Aglaea handled matters herself, these bad clouds lingered in the corners of the streets still.

Was that what it was for you? A prejudice? Or had it nothing to do with his heritage and origin at all?

He made a small sound in the back of his throat and averted his gaze.

Yes, he tended to overthink these things a lot.

———————

His duties and missions as a Chrysos Heir kept him away from the city for a few days but when he returned, nothing has changed.

A pleasant outcome, one would say. Given the impending catastrophe, to see the people buzzing and thriving despite the situation in the dark outside of Okhema was… relieving.

Yet, it also showed a lack of progress on this tedious and long-lasting journey. Castrum Kremnos still remained lost in the fog, Nikador’s Titankin have been driven further towards Okhema in their madness. The safety he sought for his people in this city was as fragile as glass…

Mydei’s hand clenched into a fist, though he released the tension the moment he stepped into the streets. It wasn’t his place to reveal his frustrations to the people when they deemed them the only glimmer of hope this world had left.

Marmoreal Market came into view and the scent of Golden Honeycakes and freshly cut fruits reached his nose before he even rounded the corner.

A part of him tingled, arose that desire to indulge in the joys the pancakes could provide temporarily, though he had no time for it. He needed to report his mission’s results to Aglaea and then a hot bath would do wonders for his muscles after spending so much time in the Evernight of Amphoreus.

A pomegranate in-between duties had to make due for now. It’s been a few days since he’s had one and waiting until tomorrow was not worth it just so he could prepare juice from it.

And pre-made juice didn’t scratch that craving in his soul for it.

He saw you at the store, but instead of your usual spot in the back you stood by the side of the store, a small group of kids surrounding you. All talking over each other with big eyes and smiles as if they all had to tell you they’ve seen or experienced the most amazing thing today while you were at work.

You were talking to them. He couldn’t make out any words in the chatter and laughter but your face remained calm, a gentle smile as you engaged with them. Whatever was happening this wasn’t the first time you dealt with these children.

Not a scene he expected to witness.

Yours, perhaps?

Though he didn’t deem you old enough to have children of that age yet. He paused that thought. Lady Tribios came to mind and he almost grimaced at himself.

Looking young didn’t mean a lot in Amphoreus while demigoods existed.

Mydei approached Demetria but his gaze didn’t leave those kids surrounding you. He watched how you took off your apron and placed it in a box in the back of the store, all the while not ceasing to talk to the children who not once lost an ounce of their energy and cheerfulness.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Demetria,” you said and it was the first time he heard your voice. Clear and tinged with the contagious laughter of the boys and girls eagerly waiting for you. Pleasant.

“Take care, dear,” the old lady said and she watched how you left with the kids until you vanished around the street corner. Mydei followed your form as well. Once the chatter of the children faded, Marmoreal Market seemed strangely empty.

Demetria sighed, a content smile on her lips. Mydei didn’t say a word. He knew the store owner was about to share her thoughts with him as she often did with customers anyway.

“Endearing, is it not?” she asked. “These kids pick her up from work a lot.”

“These? So not hers?” he asked before he could stop himself. He crossed his arms in front of his chest.

“Oh no, no.” Demetria laughed as if Mydei had told her a joke.

“Then, who are they?” he asked. If only to satiate the owner’s need for conversation - not to quell some curiosity of his own. Undoubtedly not.

“Orphans, mostly. They almost all lost their parents to the war in one way or another.” Demetria’s smile grew smaller, weighed down with the mourning and grief of remembering the tragedies she’s no doubt experienced over the years herself. “She gives them a chance to come together and have some fun once she’s done with her wok.”

Demetria looked up at him and he met the elderly woman’s gaze. “Children should never be the ones to suffer the consequences of the adults’ actions.”

“Indeed.”

Children should not suffer. They shouldn’t have to pay the price for the failures and mistakes of their parents and adults who failed to protect them and willfully put them through pain and misery for their own selfish gains.

His jaw clenched and he found it difficult to relax. He hoped the elderly woman remained ignorant to the sudden tension in his body.

He could still recall.

The cold and might of the water, of his father and his guards blurring and then fading from view as the depths grabbed a hold of him from the neverending abyss, engulfing him, suffocating him until he drew a new breath - painful, agonizing - and started the cycle anew.

Young as he had been - an infant - yet that image stayed vivid in his mind until this day.

He closed his eyes for a moment to shake off the memory. It didn’t leave. It remained in the back of his mind like waves crashing against a cliff. He forced himself to look ahead, down the street where you had left with the kids.

Admirable. Regardless of that first and odd impression of you, what you were doing deserved his respect.

After tending to his remaining duties for the day and while on his way to finally have that hot bath, he crossed Kephale Plaza. At this hour of day it grew quieter with less people gathering here, though a group of children would always drown out any other noise.

You sat on the small wall in front of the trees and flowers, girls and boys in front of you. There were more now than before. They didn’t hang on every word you said, more did they appear to be busy with each other, chatting and playing, while running up to you to let you know something or to drag you into their games.

Your smile never wavered.

Nor did that expression on your face.

Serene. Content. Happy.

No matter the reasons for why you were doing this, dedicating your time and efforts to children you perhaps did not even know, you enjoyed it. The appreciation for such an act of kindness - altruism - towards children flourished among the flames and burning blood surging through his veins, showing only in the vague upwards twitch of his lips.

Mydei didn’t linger as he passed the plaza.

———————

Seeing you at the store has become a regular occurrence, Demetria employed you after all.

What he didn’t come to expect was to see two Kremnoan children at the store. He’s seen them before. No orphans, both their parents were alive and warriors of Kremnos - no, Okhema - and people he valued. He’s played with these two kids before. The boy liked to train, asked for Mydei’s approval all the time, the girl took more after the Okheman’s, she danced and sang, playing around the theater all the time but wasn’t opposed to fighting either.

He didn’t expect to see them - two Kremnoan kids - here. Not after his first impression of you, writing off your reaction to prejudice - intimidation - as there were no Kremnoan kids in the group the other day either.

He stayed back, opted to observe rather than engage and allowed his curiosity to rule his actions.

The children lingered by the side of the store, fidgeting - eager and excited - as they stretched their necks to see into the store to watch what you were doing.

He tilted his head. You balanced a pomegranate in one hand, a knife in the other. This wasn’t your first time cutting one. The cuts were deliberate, the pressure rooted in experience - as expected from someone who made fruits their income. The deep red seeds anything but glowed in your hand, even from a distance he could make them out, a reminder why he only ever purchased them at this store.

You threw parts of the peel away and took the open fruit to the boy and the girl who waited for you as if expecting birthday gifts. As they popped the seeds into their mouths they talked to you. All their words - and your replies - got lost in the sea of voices flooding the market but the children’s smiles sounded as loud as the songs of victory after the Kremnoan army returned home from battle.

He smiled at the scene.

Witnessing their happiness came akin to a small victory indeed. A little - but precious nonetheless - moment to show him that the decision he’s made a long time ago has been the right one after all.

You ruffled the boy’s hair - to which he pouted and stemmed his hands in his hips - and after a few more exchanged words, the kids turned around and left, waving and laughing. You waved after them before retreating back into the store, a subtle smile on your lips, though a hint of something - amusement? Surprise? Approval? - sprouted in his chest when you popped a few of the remaining pomegranate seeds into your own mouth before you discarded the remains in the trash.

———————

There were days when the Fruit and Veg store found itself flooded by customers. More so than usual. Mydei came to know this always happened when the seasons changed or after the weekly delivery arrived.

Such as today.

Demetria never lost her smile as she dealt with customer after customer. Neither did you, even though you barely ever came out from the back of the store, opting to prepare the baskets and bags of orders and place them on the ground and table next to the owner for further handling.

It was then that he noticed how you avoided any contact to anyone. Not just avoided. You made an effort to not even allow your dress to brush along the clothes of a customer, not even Demetria herself. He frowned and yet, it rendered his first impression of you utterly void.

He didn’t dwell on the thought, it was stupid to begin with - too much overthinking, maybe a premature judgment of his own - but he couldn’t help but to feel… at ease anyway.

It, however, didn’t explain why you were going out of your way to avoid physical contact.

Mydei was reluctant to it himself, but - the battlefield aside - in the crowds of a city one could not avoid running into people, brushing up against them.

Your behavior at least looked unusual enough to make him pause, to make him think.

And he had no idea why he even pondered the reasons at all.

Mydei approached the store, got in line as any other citizen. He easily towered over the others, and the quiet mumbling of people around him reached his ears. He paid them no mind as he waited.

After another customer left, Demetria turned around to you and called out your name - the sound of it repeated in his head as if it was somehow important information - and you looked up from where you were gathering apples from the bowls as if surprised anyone required your attention. Amusing. Especially when you were working.

“Dear, please help out here for a bit,” Demetria said, a chuckle accompanying her words. “We have a lot of customers today.”

You didn’t hesitate to follow her request, though you fidgeted a whole lot more as you stood next to her and took orders as the owner herself did. Your smile polite, the curve of your brows soft, your shoulders lowered.

Only the subtle trembling of your hands revealed your anxiety at the risk of facing physical contact - voluntarily or not - by working in the front of the store.

He furrowed his brows. Unnatural behavior. Never without reason and he still wondered why he even thought about it. Yet again.

Demetria was deeply engaged in a customer who seemed to purchase the entire store’s stock of figs, so when it was his turn, you had to tend to him.

You stood in front of him with a smile on your face, a hint of patience surrounding you that wasn’t anywhere noticeable in the busy store around you. Nor in the unease in your hands and feet.

“Sir, what can I do for you?” you asked him, your head tilted slightly.

You had… pretty eyes, he acknowledged as you met his gaze. They reminded him of a field of flowers in the earliest rays of Kephale’s light. Gentle. Kind.

An expression that led him to assume that caring for children came easy to you. Made it easy for them to approach you. A sincerity that wasn’t shielded or covered by masks or facades.

Respectable. Admirable even.

It made him believe you either forgot your first reaction to him or didn’t pay it any mind, choosing to move on or try again instead. Something within him stirred at the sentiment. Even so, he didn’t mind.

“Pomegranates, please,” he said, “four of them.”

You nodded and retreated to the back, bagged four of the fruits before coming back to him. When you handed him the bag you held it at the top, preventing any chance of possibly brushing his hands or even clothes when he took it from you.

Attentive. Though, he wasn’t entirely sure if he approved of your actions or his own.

“That’s 400 balance coins,” you said and he handed you the money by letting it fall into your open palm, as you’ve done with the customers before from what he’s witnessed. You certainly knew your way around your… issue.

“Lord Mydei!”

The calls - two voices in unison - made him pause before he had managed to turn away from the store. When he looked behind him, he spotted the same two Kremnoan kids running towards him he’s seen the other day at your store.

They were smiling and his shoulders felt lighter immediately at the realization.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Are you buying pomegranates, Lord Mydei?”

They beamed at him as if they just made the discovery of a lifetime when even children knew the significance of pomegranates for Kremnoans. A child’s mind worked in fascinating ways - although he pondered how much of his own consumption of it was because of his enjoyment of it rather than tradition.

He allowed himself to smile. “But of course.”

“Woah!” the kids exclaimed before he could elaborate. He chuckled. A sound that resonated in his chest but never made it past his lips.

“Now, what are you two doing here by yourself?”

“We wanted to ask her for games,” the girl said and pointed at you behind him. He did turn his head, saw the amused smile on your face as you waved at the kids while taking another customer’s payment out of his peripheral vision.

Your popularity among these kids was… astounding.

“But when you’re here, Crown Prince, can you train with us?” the boy asked. His big round eyes contained a fire that was hard to come by even among adults. Sheer determination. And even more so, courage.

“What do your parents say about this?”

“They are alright with it!”

His lips twitched upwards. These kids didn’t know he would be here so that was a lie. He tilted his head at them.

“Really?”

They both froze until a moment later the girl began to sway from side to side, her cheeks as red as a pomegranate. The boy’s cheeks rivaled the fruit’s as well but he held Mydei’s gaze nonetheless.

Impressive.

Deep inside, Mydei wished more people would dare to meet him face to face like this. This little boy had more of Nikador’s virtues than most adults ever would. That alone was praiseworthy and his resolve to send the two kids home faltered.

“Alright, not really,” the girl said, pouting.

“But they know we were going to meet her!” the boy added, pointing at you again. The girl looked up and tapped the boy’s shoulder.

“Oh, oh, she can come with us,” she said. The boy’s eyes widened.

“Yeah, she can watch us get stronger!” he agreed.

“I can do what?” your voice sounded behind Mydei and he looked to the side as you stepped next to him. The crowd of the store had dissipated a bit by now.

“We wanna train with Lord Mydei and you can be there too and watch us,” the girl explained.

Mydei saw on your face that the idea caught you off guard, though he wondered if it was the training part or accompanying him that rendered you speechless for a moment.

For a short moment only however because the smile returned to your face, your expression softening. “I still have a lot of work to do here, I can’t leave just yet.”

“Then after work.”

“We’ll see later, alright?”

To the kids it was more than enough of an answer and they turned to him again, their eyes wide.

“Please, Lord Mydei? We’ll be good and go home afterwards right away. Promise!”

He relented. He had the time to spare and indulging these kids for a bit would both provide a distraction for him and make the children’s day so much better. In the end, he never could fully decline a kid’s request.

Not when nothing harmful was involved in any capacity.

And training them came more akin to playing House but with wooden swords rather than actual sparring.

Whether or not you would tag along, he couldn’t tell as you had to tend to your work again, and your reply had been ambiguous at best. The kids wanted you there. And him? He didn’t know.

He supposed it wouldn’t make much of a difference either.

[luvly-writer]

Bliss: Stressful situations

Xaden Riorson x Gamlyn! Reader

Masterlist

The war room was colder than usual, the fire in the hearth crackling low. Maps littered the table. Reports. Threat assessments. Requests from outposts. Royal eyes watching their every move. And silence hung sharp between the Duke and Duchess of Tyrrendor.

“I told you we shouldn’t have promised the supplies yet,” Xaden snapped, pacing. “We don’t have the numbers. We can’t protect everyone.”

Y/n’s jaw clenched. “And what do you want me to do, Xaden? Let them starve?”

“I want you to think, not act on emotions. You’re not just a rider anymore.”

Her eyes flared. “And you’re not just a commander. You’re a leader, my husband—maybe try not treating me like one of your lieutenants.”

Xaden stopped, turning to face her. His voice was low, hard. “You act like your heart is more important than the people depending on us.”

Y/n’s breath caught in her throat. Her heart stung, like he’d sliced straight through it.

“And you act like your logic is the only thing keeping this duchy alive.” Her voice cracked. “Like you have to carry the world on your own and anyone who cares too loudly is a liability.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“No, don’t,” she said, holding up a hand. “You did. And maybe you’re right. Maybe I do feel too much. But at least I still feel. At least I still remember why we fought, why we bled, and why we lead.”

He flinched like she’d slapped him.

A long, painful silence filled the space between them. Two hearts still aching for each other, but bristling with everything left unsaid.

Y/n swallowed hard and looked away, blinking quickly. “I’m gonna sleep in Ridoc’s quarters tonight.”

Xaden didn’t stop her. His jaw locked, eyes heavy with regret, but he nodded once, barely.

She turned, hand resting on the doorframe. “I love you,” she said softly, without looking back.

“I love you too,” he whispered, but she was already gone.

And the war room fell silent again—colder than ever.

The hallway outside Ridoc’s quarters was dim, lit only by the low hum of lanterns along the stone walls. Xaden stood there, silent for a long moment, knuckles hovering just short of the door.

He hated this. The tension. The space between them. The weight of the fight still clinging to his chest like ash.

They had promised—no matter what, they wouldn’t go to sleep angry.

So he knocked.

The door creaked open a few seconds later, revealing Ridoc shirtless, hair a mess, blinking like he’d just been dragged out of the deepest sleep imaginable.

“What,” Ridoc said flatly, narrowing his eyes, “do you want, Riorson?”

Xaden didn’t hesitate. “I need to see her.”

Ridoc sighed, scratching the back of his head. “She’s asleep. Or trying to be.”

“I just... We never go to bed mad. That’s always been our rule.”

Ridoc leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed now, brows drawn together. “And normally, I’d tell you to get in there and fix it.” A pause. “But not tonight.”

Xaden stiffened. “Ridoc—”

“She’s hurting. You’re hurting. You both said things you regret, but if you go in there right now, raw and exhausted, it might make it worse.” His tone wasn’t cruel, just… protective. Steady. “Let her breathe, Xaden. Let her rest.”

Xaden looked down, jaw clenching. “I hate this.”

Ridoc sighed. “Yeah. Me too.” He stepped forward just a bit. “But she’s my sister, and you’re my friend. So trust me when I say—give her the night. Talk to her tomorrow when your head isn’t still clouded with war maps and guilt.”

The weight of it all settled over Xaden’s shoulders, but he finally nodded.

“Tell her…” His voice cracked slightly. “Tell her I still love her.”

Ridoc’s expression softened just a touch. “She knows.”

And then the door closed gently.

Xaden stood there for a long while, staring at the wood. Then he turned back toward their quarters, empty and cold without her—counting down the hours until morning.

Y/n sat on the edge of Ridoc’s bed, legs drawn up to her chest, hair messily braided over one shoulder. She hadn’t slept much. Not with the argument still echoing in her mind, not with the hollow ache of regret lodged deep in her chest.

She heard Ridoc move about quietly in the adjoining room, giving her space. Always giving her space when she needed it most.

But then came the soft knock at the door.

Her heart stilled.

Ridoc’s voice drifted in, quiet and almost amused. “It’s for you.”

She blinked. Stood. Walked toward the door like her body moved on instinct, not entirely ready—but still needing to see him.

Xaden was there, in the hallway. Dark circles under his eyes. Hands tucked in the pockets of his coat like he didn’t know what else to do with them. And when his eyes lifted to meet hers—

Gods.

There was so much in that look.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice rough with sleep and guilt. “For everything I said. For the way I snapped. For forgetting I’m not doing this alone.”

She blinked, throat tightening. “I said things I didn’t mean either.”

He took a slow step closer. “You were right about the pressure. About how I shut you out sometimes. But I need you. Not just beside me in court. I need you.”

A pause.

“I hate waking up without you.”

Y/n’s breath hitched. Her walls crumbled.

And before she could think twice, she stepped into his arms, burying her face into his chest as his arms wrapped around her tightly, like he’d never let go again.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she whispered.

“Me neither,” he murmured into her hair. “It’s like the air goes still when you’re not near me.”

She laughed softly against his chest, then pulled back just enough to cup his face.

“We’re both learning,” she said, brushing her thumb over his cheekbone. “And we’ll keep learning. Together.”

He leaned down, forehead pressed to hers. “Together.”

And when their lips met, it was slow. Healing. The kind of kiss that sealed the cracks they’d caused in the night.

Later that morning, when they returned to their own quarters hand in hand—Ridoc took one look at them, grumbled something about “soft idiots,” and walked away with a smirk.

But the way Xaden kept his hand tightly clasped in hers?

Y/n knew they’d be just fine.

They sat together in their quarters, curled on the couch beneath a shared blanket. The first light of morning filtered through the windows, golden and soft, casting a glow over the room. The fire in the hearth crackled low, comforting. Xaden had made tea—well, burnt it slightly—but Y/n still sipped it like it was the best thing she’d ever tasted.

They hadn’t said much since returning, just stayed close. Reassuring. Steadying.

Finally, Y/n broke the silence.

“I hate that we let them get to us,” she said softly, staring into her mug. “The advisors, the court, the expectations. I feel like I’m constantly trying to prove that I belong here… and sometimes I wonder if I’m failing.”

Xaden looked over at her, something dark and fierce softening in his expression. “You’re not failing. You never were. They don’t know the woman who’s won battles and built bridges with her bare hands. They don’t see what I see.”

She looked up at him. “And what do you see?”

His voice lowered, steady and sure. “A force of nature in pearls and gold. The strongest person in any room—and the kindest. The reason I can even breathe through any of this.”

Y/n blinked fast. “I just… I want to do this right. For Tyrrendor. For us.”

“You are,” he said, gently taking her tea and setting it aside. His hand came to rest on her knee, thumb brushing in circles. “But we can’t forget us in all this. I think I got so wrapped up in the title—trying to be who my father never could be—that I stopped listening.”

“And I stopped giving you the benefit of the doubt,” she admitted. “I forgot that it’s always been us against the world.”

He leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to her temple. “Then let’s remember it now.”

She leaned into him, her voice muffled against his neck. “We promised to always talk before bed. No more silence. Even when it’s messy.”

“No more silence,” he echoed, wrapping his arms tighter around her. “And maybe fewer meetings at sunrise.”

Y/n laughed softly. “Agreed.”

They stayed there for a long time. No thrones, no court, no titles—just Y/n and Xaden, reminding each other that their love had always been the strongest thing they carried.

Author's note: IM CRYING?! I can't believe this is over. This story meant so much to me! I hope you all enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing and reading it. I have a small surprise for you guys and it is that I made a Of Light and Shadow incorrect post cause I wanted something cute. It will be linked to the masterlist. As for updates, I currently have a post with all my drafts so be sure to check it out to know more of my next project from The Empyrean Universe. Thank you so much for reading!

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[orellazalonia]

The Soft Thing He Shouldn’t Have Touched

Summary: You were supposed to be just another protection assignment for Bucky Barnes: high-risk, high-reward, but temporary. However, what begins begins as quiet protection turns into control and the man assigned to keep you alive becomes the one rewriting the boundaries of your freedom. (Bodyguard AU | Dark!Bucky Barnes x reader)

Warnings/Disclaimer: Minors DNI. Dark Bucky Barnes. Implied stalking. Controlling/Possessive Bucky. You are responsible for the media you consume.

Word Count: 3.1k+

A/N: I feel like it’s been such a long time since the last dark fic. So, this was a nice change of pace. Let me know if I should add something else to the warnings, tags, or anything else. Happy reading!!

Main Masterlist

You weren’t the kind of girl who needed a bodyguard.

Or at least, that’s what you told yourself when your father called from his office and told you the news.

“You’re being watched,” He stated flatly, like it wasn’t even a warning, just a fact. “We’re tightening security. New man starts tomorrow. James Barnes. Don’t argue with me, sweetheart.”

You had tried to argue half-heartedly, but the tension in his voice told you it wouldn’t go anywhere. There had been a few odd things lately. A car that followed you from the studio. Two packages with no return address. Your driver calling out sick and never came back. You’d brushed it all off, but clearly your father hadn’t.

“Isn’t he overkill?” You mumbled, hugging your arms as you stared out the window of your apartment overlooking the park. “Don’t we already have cameras and gates and–”

“Gates don’t stop people like this,” he interrupted. “Barnes will.”

You didn’t ask how your father knew him. You knew better than to ask how your family made their money, or where all the shadows in your life came from.

So instead, you sat in your living room the next day in an oversized sweater, clutching a mug of tea, and pretending not to be nervous while you waited to meet your new shadow.

You knew the moment he arrived by the way he didn’t knocked. Instead, the security panel on your wall buzzed, then clicked. A guard opened the door, nodded once, and stepped aside.

And then he walked in.

James Barnes was taller than you imagined, shoulders tense under a black jacket, jaw sharp and eyes unreadable. His presence filled the room like smoke: quiet, heavy, and lingering. His stare flicked from corner to corner, scanning exits, windows, lines of sight, and then finally, finally, landed on you.

You blinked. He didn’t.

“I’m Barnes,” He said, voice low, clipped. “I’ll be handling your protection detail until the current threat is neutralized.”

You tilted your head. “You don’t look like someone who neutralizes. You look like someone who ends things.”

That got you a blink, barely. He didn’t smile, but something about the way his gaze lingered on you sent a ripple through you. Not fear exactly. Just… awareness.

You didn’t think much of it. He was here to keep you safe after all.

As he settled into your usual routine, things changed.

You weren’t used to rules. Not real ones. Not the kind that came with consequences.

You’d grown up cushioned in luxury from your father’s fortune, your mother’s perfect social masks, and the world softened by assistants and doors held open for you. You didn’t flaunt it. You didn’t really want it. But you were used to having space. To being alone when you wanted to be. To choosing your own schedule and slipping away when the house got too loud, or the walls too stiff.

James Barnes didn’t ask for permission to change that.

The first morning after his arrival, you came down the stairs in your usual routine. Barefoot, still in pajamas, eyes half-shut, heading for the kitchen, only to find him already there. Leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. Gun holstered at his hip like it belonged there more than he ever could in your sunlit apartment.

He didn’t greet you. Didn’t flinch when you stopped short in the doorway. Just handed you a small, black notebook. Inside was a schedule, blocks of time filled with words like “accompanied outings only” and “no unscheduled exits.”

You blinked down at it. “You’re serious?”

He met your gaze with something unreadable. “I don’t do half-assed measures. You stick to this. I keep you alive.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it, letting the silence stretch. “I didn’t ask for you.”

“No. Your father did.” He pushed off the counter. “And I accepted which means I’m in charge.”

You laughed once, dry and disbelieving. “You think I’m going to just follow orders?”

His expression didn’t change. “I think you’re smart, scared, and stubborn. But not stupid enough to test me.”

You didn’t like how steady his voice was. You didn’t like how right he sounded.

So you tried to prove him wrong. You started with little things.

You tried to slip out the back door while he was “on the phone.” (He wasn’t. The line was dead. He was testing you.) You stayed up too late reading in the garden. (He stood in the dark under the trees until 3AM, making sure no one touched you.) You didn’t answer your phone once when he called. (The next time you looked up, he was already inside the café, staring down your barista like he was a threat.)

You pushed. He didn’t snap. He never raised his voice. Never touched you.

But you could feel the leash tightening. Not in violence, but in attention.

His eyes never left you for long. You’d glance up during breakfast and find him watching. Quiet, calculating, and memorizing the way you held your fork or twirled your hair. You started locking the door to your room, even though no one told you to.

Three days later, the lock was disabled. Silently, effortlessly. Nothing was said.

He wasn’t trying to scare you. That was the worst part. He wasn’t trying to hurt you.

He just didn’t believe you were capable of keeping yourself safe. So he did it for you.

You tried confronting him once.

“You’re not my father, you’re a bodyguard.”

He’d looked at you from the armchair by the fireplace, one hand resting on his thigh, muscles relaxed, but his eyes stayed sharp. “You think I want to be here?”

That caught you off guard. He stood slowly, and you backed up before you realized it.

“I didn’t come here to play house,” He said quietly, stepping closer. “I came because someone put a price on your head. Because people don’t just want to scare you, they want to ruin you. And because your father offered me more money than God to make sure they don’t.”

He stopped just short of touching you. His voice dropped to a murmur. “But if you think I’m staying because of him, you’re wrong.”

You looked up at him, heart pounding.

“I’m staying,” He said, “Because now I’ve seen you, and I know you wouldn’t survive long in a world like this.”

After that, you didn’t argue anymore.

Not out loud.

But part of you, the stubborn, lonely part that resented being watched and kept, burned quietly under your skin.

You weren’t his prisoner. You weren’t some doll to protect.

And no matter how warm his voice could sound when you cried in your sleep, or how gently he covered you with a blanket when you passed out on the couch, or how intently he watched the world for danger–

You knew what men like him were.

The shift happened on a Thursday.

A slow, golden morning. You had woken early, not because you meant to but because you’d had another dream. One of those anxious ones that made you sit up sweating, heart pounding, with no memory of what exactly had gone wrong. You didn’t call for anyone. You didn’t want Bucky to know. So you got dressed in silence, tugging a soft sweater over your head, and crept down the stairs to breathe.

The air was cool outside, still damp with mist curling through the hedges.

You weren’t supposed to leave the property without telling him. You knew that. But you weren’t going far, just to the far edge of the garden path, past the statues and the wild roses, where you could sit on the stone bench with a book and be alone for ten minutes.

Ten minutes was all you wanted. But ten minutes is all it took.

The sound came first. Fast heavy footsteps, then a flash of something that was too quick to register. You looked up just as a man stepped out from behind a hedge, black cap low over his face, and a silver flash in his hand.

You froze.

The man didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. Instead, he lunged.

Your scream barely left your throat before the man was yanked backward like a rag doll. You didn’t even hear Bucky approach, but you saw the silent blur of motion and violence. You heard the sound of the attacker’s back hitting the stone wall with a sickening thud. And then another. And another. You could hear the bone break on the fourth one.

“James!” You yelled, voice hoarse. “He’s down–stop!”

But he didn’t stop. Not until the man slumped forward unmoving, blood pooling beneath his cheek. Only then did Bucky step back, chest heaving. His hands were red, but his face was calm. Too calm.

He turned to you.

You didn’t flinch, but your knees wobbled.

His jaw clenched. He crossed to you in two strides, checking your wrists, your arms, your neck. “Did he touch you?”

“No,” You whispered.

He exhaled hard. And then he grabbed you.

It wasn’t the most gentle but not rough. Like his body didn’t know how to be anything but muscle and instinct. He pulled you to him and held you against his chest, arms wrapping around you, your cheek pressed into the place just beneath his collarbone where you could feel the thunder of his pulse.

“I told you not to go out alone.”

His voice was low, shaking slightly.

“I didn’t think–“ You tried to explain, but he cut you off with a whisper.

“You don’t get to think. Not anymore.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, and the expression on his face terrified you more than the attack.

It wasn’t rage. It was fear. The kind that twisted his features in ways he couldn’t hide.

“You don’t know what it would do to me,” He murmured. “If something happened to you.”

And there it was.

The shift.

Not from professional to personal, because you were never just a job. He had been watching, learning, cataloguing your habits like a scientist watching a rare, soft thing he never thought he’d get close to. You weren’t being protected.

You were being kept.

And now?

Now he wasn’t even trying to pretend otherwise.

He didn’t let you out of his sight after that.

Not for meals. Not for phone calls. Not even for sleep. You woke up two nights later and found him asleep in the armchair across the room, arms crossed, and head tilted back.

He was always watching you now.

He didn’t trust the rest of the world. But more than that, he didn’t trust you anymore.

He never yelled. Never laid a hand on you. But the quiet control grew like ivy, slow and subtle. You started finding your shoes already brought up from the foyer. Your calls answered by someone else. Your plans canceled before you could confirm them.

“I’m trying to live,” You snapped at him once.

He met your eyes. “I’m trying to make sure you still get to.”

And it wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t even cold.

It was just… true.

Later that night, you found your door slightly ajar. He never knocked, just stepped in and stood there, framed in shadow.

“I need you to stop running from me,” He said, voice raw. “I’m not your enemy.”

You looked at him from your bed, heart thudding. “Then what are you?”

He stared at you. And then came the answer. Quiet and final.

“Yours.”

From the beginning, you weren’t supposed to matter to Bucky.

You were just another assignment. A well-protected heiress with too much money and too little awareness of how fragile your world really was. Bucky had handled people like you before. Porcelain girls with high security, shallow problems, and an inflated sense of danger. You were supposed to be one more name, one more paycheck, one more job that ended quietly.

But the second he saw you, he knew something was off.

You were soft.

Not weak. Not stupid. Just open in a way people like him weren’t used to. You said thank you too easily. You smiled at the doormen, asked the names of the guards, made eye contact with people like they hadn’t all learned to look away.

You gave kindness like it cost nothing.

And it made him furious.

Because softness like that? It didn’t survive. It was the first thing people tore apart. The first thing people ruined. And yet there you were, handing it out like sunlight, like you didn’t know the world would swallow it whole and spit you out.

So he watched you.

Closely, quietly, and constantly.

Not because he didn’t trust the threat. But because he didn’t trust you to protect yourself from it. From them. From him.

He memorized your routines. Every careless movement. Every time you stepped too close to a railing, turned your back to a crowd, got distracted by some meaningless thing while someone could have been closing in. He saw your softness, your distraction, your warmth, and he hated how much it hurt to look at you.

Because there was something inside you he had never had. And all he wanted was to keep it, even if he had to cage it.

And the night you were attacked, something in him snapped.

He didn’t remember crossing the garden. Didn’t hear your gasp or the scuffle. He only saw the man, hands reaching for you, and then there was blood, bone, then silence. His hands were red and his vision tunneled, but the only thing he could hear was your breath, sharp and panicked behind him.

He’d nearly killed a man.

And still, his only thought was, Did he touch her?

When he turned to you, he saw it. The fear but not of him, but of the moment. The loss of control. And for the first time, he stepped over the line without hesitation.

He held you. Not because you asked but because he needed to. Because you were shaking and he was shaking, and the thought of you being hurt was something he couldn’t tolerate. Something he couldn’t survive.

And that’s when it changed. You weren’t a job anymore. You were his.

So he stopped pretending after that.

He stayed outside your door, even when you tried to lock it. He started answering your calls, canceling your appointments. Deciding what you wore, where you went, how long you stayed. He didn’t shout nor threaten. He simply… filled in all the spaces you thought were yours.

You noticed it slowly. At first, it felt like care or protection. Someone seeing you, anticipating you. But care becomes control when it never lets you go.

And you were starting to realize you were being caged, controlled. Not because you were in danger anymore.

But because he couldn’t let you go.

As your world became more and more constricting, you resorted to going to the one responsible for it all. Your father.

You’d always known your father dealt in shadows. He wore power like a tailored suit, always sharp, always controlled, and always five steps ahead of anyone who dared threaten his peace. He wasn’t affectionate in the traditional way, but he made sure you were protected, safe, and untouchable.

So when Bucky started taking up too much space in your life by deciding your schedule, answering your calls, dismissing your friends, you didn’t run. You went to the one person who could end it.

You started by waiting until Bucky was gone from the apartment. Or so you thought. You’d been very careful. You left your phone behind, caught a cab with cash, and kept your eyes down.

When you reached the office, your father’s sleek high-rise overlooking the city, you didn’t go through the lobby. You used the old back elevator he’d told you never to use unless it was serious.

This was serious.

Because you weren’t scared of Bucky, not exactly. It wasn’t fear that curled in your gut when he stood too close or tracked your movements with those unreadable eyes. It wasn’t even hatred.

It was something worse.

It was some form of twisted comfort. It was knowing someone was always there, always watching. That you could fall asleep and wake up untouched. That the nightmares stayed far away with him on the other side of the door.

And that’s why you knew you had to stop it.

Before you forgot what it meant to belong to yourself.

Your father looked up from behind his desk when you entered, surprise flickering across his face.

“Sweetheart,” He said, folding his hands. “What’s wrong?”

You sat across from him, heart pounding, words gathering like a storm. You explained everything quickly and shakily, your hands twisting in your lap.

“James is… not right. He’s controlling everything. I think he’s–he’s watching me while I sleep. I think he’s…” You stopped. Swallowed. “He’s not protecting me anymore. He’s controlling me, caging me.”

Your father’s expression didn’t change. He leaned back slowly in his chair. Silent and thoughtful.

Then: “Has he hurt you?”

The question struck you harder than expected. You hesitated. “…No, not physically.”

Your father nodded once. “Has he threatened you?”

“…Well, no. Not really.”

“Has he failed to keep you safe?”

You flinched. “That’s not the point. He–he won’t let me live.”

And still, your father said nothing. Just opened a drawer, pulled out a small folder, and set it on the desk in front of you.

Inside was a photo. Your photo. Taken a few days ago of you smiling politely at a café worker, unaware. There in the background was a man, half-shadowed with a gun tucked into his waistband.

“Do you know who this is?”

Your blood went cold.

Your father closed the folder. “Barnes intercepted him before he got within thirty feet of you.”

“…What?”

“He didn’t tell you, probably didn’t want to scare you. But if he hadn’t followed you that day, hadn’t broken protocol, you wouldn’t be sitting here.”

You sat back in your chair, numb.

“He’s good at what he does,” Your father continued. “And more importantly, he’s loyal to you. Obsessively so it appears.”

You stared at him, throat dry. “That’s the problem.”

He looked at you for a long moment. And then, with no malice, only finality, he said: “Then maybe you shouldn’t have let him care.”

You didn’t remember the elevator ride down.

You didn’t remember the street, or the car, or the fact that somehow, Bucky was waiting at the bottom of your apartment steps when you returned. His gloved hands in his pockets, hair wind-swept, and eyes calm like nothing had changed.

You didn’t say anything. Neither did he.

He just opened the door for you, and you walked inside like nothing had happened.

But everything had. Because you knew now: there was no report to make. No exit plan. No help coming.

Your father had practically given you to him and Bucky was never going to give you back.

[aliceinborderlandsquidgame]

Because you are my partner | Jun-ho x Fem!Detective!Reader

Warnings: Takes place after the end of S1 - Some events from S2 - Does not follow canon events in order - Angst - Guns - Unspoked feelings -

The first thing Jun-ho never expected to listen when he woke up at the hospital after being shot by his brother no less were cries and insults.

Insults that were for him.

"You stubborn idiot! Why did you not tell me, why did you go alone, look at you now. Fucker if you dont wake up im killing you myself, you little-"

"I thought you would be more worried" Jun-ho said, voice hoarse since he havent drank any water in a long time. His vision was still a bit blurry, but he could locate your voice anywhere.

"You! YOU ARE ALIVE!!" You revealed your red face from crying and went to hug him, trying not to hurt him. "Never do something like that again"

~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○

Time passed, Jun-ho got demoted from detective, even when you, the second best in the division besides him, you had threated to leave as well, but In-ho insisted you not to. He knew how much you had worked for this position, he would not let you fall behind cause of him.

"Its not fair" You said one night at his aparment being a bit drunk "Yeah, what you said its kind of crazy and you have no proof but..."

"(Y/N) stop it, its pointless"

"But you would never make a lie like that. You dont like crime, you hate it. Since your brother went missing...no you would never play with something like that" You said convinced taking a big gulp of your beer.

"I think you had enough beer for tonight" Jun-ho went to take the beer can from you but you held his hand.

"I believe you, I dont care how crazy it sounds I believe you Jun-ho"

Like that, he felt less lonely.

~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~

"I think I told you this was not something you should keep doing" Jun-ho told you as you passed iced coffee to his fellow companion and him. "We are not allowed to drink when working..."

"Then take a dam breath, its summer. The streets feels like they are on fire" You told him on a stern tone taking a sip from your own drink

"Should you not be at the sitation?" He asked

"You wont believe how much criminals like to do nothing when its as hot as today. We mostly get calls at night. Nothing like, well nothing like what you are looking for" You added in a quiet voice

"I told you, I left that behind"

"Yeah sure you did, you dont give up that easily, always has been like that. Since we were at the police school. And, you cant lie to me. Im your partner, remember ?"

"Actually-"

"Shut up and drink the dam ice coffee your cheecks are red as a fruit"

~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~

One year went on. You were assigned anothet partner but you were being a bit childish and did not like working with him.

It was not his fault, you were just so used to Jun-ho that any other person just felt....wrong.

"(Y/N) you need to stop it" Jun-ho said while you two ate some lunch

"I know, but can you blame me? I cant work well with him, he is too-"

He is not you. Thats what you wanted to say but you had to bite your tongue.

"Is he misstreating you?" Jun-ho asked getting protective, he knew you had pass for hard situations during your training just because you were a women.

He would be on your side during these moments, both when you faked feeling strong and when you needed to vent out and cry.

"No. He is...different. I just need to get used to him"

"It has been almost a year..."

"I know just- give me some more time. Also I want to meet that captain that saved you. Maybe we can go and fish together.

Jun-ho went silent after it. He was reclutant to do so, since he had been looking for the island he was in, but he had told you he had long stopped, he did not want to put you at risk.

"Maybe tomorrow..." He said in a low voice, knowing that you would kept insisting. And maybe he would be able to keep the lie.

~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○

Things have been good so far, In-ho managed to convince you to meet him and the captain at a near restaurant.

The three were drinking in just enjoying the time. Sharing stories, jokes, just having a good time.

"Thanks for saving his ass, he can be quiet a pain" You said to the older men who just smiled.

"Dont say it Lass, he still has me looking around for that dam island..."

And the good time shattered, your eyes turned cold as you looked at him.

"Is he? Please tell me more captain"

~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○

"You told me you had stopped" You said angry at him. "Told me to stop looking into details at the deparment, do you know how much I did risk!"

"Yes! I know, thats why I told you to stop. I did not want you to put your career in danger"

"When will you understand ? You dont have to do this alone. Im your friend! Fuck we have know each other for years, if I want to help you and put my career at risk, then let me do it. Im an adult I know what im doing.

"No, I could never ask you for something like that. You know the story, these peopel are dangerous and well prepared if something would happen to you..."

"Do you think it was easy? For me? When you dissapear? There was no way on finding you, some told me to move on. But I never stopped beliving in you, knowing that you would not leave like that"

Of course not, I would never leave you.

"Listen, I understand. Really, but you cant stop me. I want to help you, and I will do so. Let me lend you a hand. Maybe this time you will catch them"

Jun-ho was conflicted, he knew having some backup would help him. But he did not want you at risk, why if you ended like him? Trapped there ? Or worse ?

But he also knew you were a hard one. Someone who once they had set their mind on something were not easy to give up. Maybe it would be better that way, making sure on having you at his side while he worked and looked for information.

"Alright, no more secrets. We will work on this together, but if something seems to be just a little bit dangerous you are out"

~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~

And like that another year went by. Both looking to find that island and whatever information (Y/N) could get from the station.

"Most are peopel with big debts" Jun-ho said one afternoon, the cold of the winter hitting their noses leaving them red. "Maybe some have criminal record"

"Yeah but their families would have to denounce then as lost. If these peopel just vanish some would think they ran away because of their debts. I will still check on the records..."

Jun-ho nodded grateful to have her working with him.

"You dont remember any name? Or face?" (Y/N) asked him, making him stop. He did remember his brother shooting him but he could never say it out loud. "The players used numbers..." Still him mind was working like he was missing something...

And then it clicked

"Wait...I may know someone"

"Really? You can tell me their name and I will look into it"

"Seong Gi-hun, thats the name"

~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○

"Are you sure he is here?" Jun-ho asked a faint blush on his cheecks as both of you looked up from inside the car.

"Yes, I asked a friend from another work to look up, he owns this place and has no direction of a current home. Maybe he manages the place or lives here..."

"Well, last time I saw him he did not look like someone who would manage a love hotel" Jun-ho said, voice trying to hide his nerves.

His mind wondering to things, like you. You two on a date, that would end with something more. He would be a gentlemen during all it. And he would take you to his home and do it on his bed, not a meaningless place like a love hotel.

And he would do that and more because he...

"Hey look!! That one, is not him?" You asked seeing a man getting from a car and going inside the hotel.

"It is. Stay here" Jun-ho ordered but before he could get out from the car you held his arm back.

"What? No!" You said not beliving his words "Im going in with you, we are a team, get it in that tick skull of yours"

"Listen (Y/N) I saw these games, if he is here then its because he won. He murdered peopel. He cant be trusted"

"These are just more reasons for me to go in with you" You declared, "You have my back and I have yours, thats how this relationship works"

Jun-ho looked to the side to hide his blush and recluntantly nodded "Alright..."

Unkown to them Gi-hun had been checking the cameras and had spotted their car. He held his gun not knowing who they were.

~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~

Reunions are never easy. Even less when its with peopel you dont trust.

"Who are you? Why are you following me?"

And less when guns are involved.

Maybe Jun-ho had lost his touch, his day giving out speed tickets have passed him consequences. Otherwise he would never have let himself be jumped and have a gun pressed against his head.

"Im a police officer, I just want to talk" Jun-ho said trying to ease the situation but only got Gi-hun to press the gun harder.

"How do I know you are not with them?"

"Cause we have been looking for them too" You said gun raised at Gi-hun who looked suprised for a moment but did not move. "Drop the gun Seong Gi-hun we are aiming for the same goal"

"Yeah? How can I trust any of you? Or what you said?"

"We want to stop the games too" Jun-ho said from beneath him "Thats why we have been following you, you are our only lead"

Slowly Gi-hun removed his gun and let Jun-ho get on his feet.

"I never said a thing about games..."

"Yeah...thats why we have been looking for you. Jun-ho here was in but doing kind of a double agent work. Without help"

Gi-hun had to supress a smile at your stern tone.

"Wait, you are the police who asked me about it. During that time.."

"Im, and this is (Y/N) a fellow police officer and the person I trust the most to end this"

~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~

"Train stations? A Man in a suit? Ddakji and getting slapped?" You asked while counting with your fingers the major things Gi-hun and told you and Jun-ho.

He had a big map of the stations with lots of marks and points. He was indeed looking for someone.

"Yes, I know it sounds crazy, but its like that. You get a card with a number, you call it and then you are part of the games" He said serving three coffees "It has been two years and i havent been able to find him"

"Well, now you have two more peopel to count with" You said smiling a bit "We can ignore the criminals that are working for you..."

"(Y/N)...." Jun-ho said but you cut him off.

"What? More peopel means more eyes and less space to cover. Besides its not like we have proof that they do something bad, and you know with. Without proof theres nothing you can do"

Gi-hun had departed both of you. Giving one of his many phone numbers and warning that these peopel were dangerous.

But deep down he was grateful, grateful that there was someone else out here who had seen the same.

"Dont worry, we will catch them" You shaked his hand noticing how he seemed to be sad and stressed, you could only imagine how bad things have been for him.

~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~

"What do you think?" Jun-ho asked as he drove back to your aparment.

"I think he is being honest and will accept our help. Besides no one does so much without a reason" You said having take note of his deep search for that man, the multiple guns he had and the cameras around. "He is scared too"

"Well...he does have a reason to be" Jun-ho softly said stopping outside your complex "I never asked you, why help me so much? I know we are friends but this is a big league, worse than any case you had ever seen"

Because I love you. I have been in love with you for so long. I cant seem to live knowing you put your life at risk without any help. I dont want to repeat the time when you vanish and I see my life with you in it-

"Cause you are my partner, and...I care for you" You said and left the car before he could respond to hide your blushing face

"Wait!! (Y/N)" Jun-ho screamed pulling the window down. You stopped looking over your shoulder "I- I care for you too"

He started the car leaving the window down, too nervous, he could track down dangerous criminals and be undercover for the worse criminal gangs, but confessing his feelings to you...

He was not ready, at least not yet.

~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○

You went into your aparment, heart beating fast as you went in. The darkness welcomed you, just as you turned for the lights you hear a click.

A gun click.

"Well, you must be (Y/N)...I must admit you are more beautiful than what the photos show"

You turned around one hand ready to go for your own gun. Before you stood a man, tall dark hair, and black eyes, wearing a expensive suit.

"I recommend you to not try anything stupid. I just want to talk. And maybe we can play game"

~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○

Final note: *evil laught*

[neodymiumcuilz]

Hello my friend, your donation for my children is necessary and humane 🌷 in order to buy food, medicine, milk and clothes to overcome the dangers of the war of extermination 💔 Your generous donation is the reason for saving the lives of my children from death 🍉 A donation of 30 pounds will do a lot for my children, even if it is small, I will be grateful for your help 💔🫂🇵🇸

SAVE A FAMILY FROM GAZA 🍉🍉

Youssef ( @yosefgaza3 / @yosefgaza2 ) has three children - Lana, Aboud and Adam and his wife Hanan. They live in Gaza, a city where children are forced to see and experience things far beyond their age. Things they cannot even comprehend. The city where people suffer every day, where you could die at any second. Imagine the threat of death constantly hanging over your head? Imagine not knowing if you'll be alive tomorrow? They are deprived of the most basic needs, no shelter, no safe home to return to. No food, no clean water, no clean clothes. Nothing. No education, no guaranteed future. With even a small donation, you can help them survive.

You can help them eat tonight, you can help them stay warm, or evacuate to a safe place where they won't worry about death. You can donate with a small amount - if you have money to spend at a coffee shop, you have money to help them. If you have money to but a chocolate bar, you have money to help them. Don't leave them in the dark - be a light.

PAYPAL HERE

Read his story HERE.

[ihrthoney]

promise

pairings: obanai iguro x f!reader

warnings: some angst, fluff!

word count: 1.4k

an: muzan is dead and everyone is still alive, everyone’s scars healed just fine😁 also, if this flops ill kms 🫶🏼

Never would he have imagined actually committing to someone in this lifetime. This body of his was dirty, even after defeating Muzan, being reborn is the only way to cleanse the sins of his upbringing.

He tried to ignore your obvious advancements, he really did. There was no threat stopping him but he was stubborn if anything. Although, Kaburamaru, to no surprise, loves you. Whenever you and Obanai talk, the white snake slithers from his shoulders to your own. Iguro always scolds Kaburamaru when walking back to his estate knowing well the snake refuses to leave your shoulders so you guys can converse more.

Being so close to Mitsuri had helped him get over his fear of women, while not completely comfortable, he’s a lot more confident in conversation. Besides Mitsuri, Shinobu is another woman he isn’t afraid of, they send letters often and give each other advice.

Although, surprisingly, neither of them were the ones to give him advice about you. Sanemi, his best friend, had given him quite a lecture about letting go of the past. Sanemi didn’t say those exact words, given Iguro’s life, but he understood the gist. Apparently, the wind hashira had feelings towards Shinobu’s older sister Kanae, “We don’t have to fear for our loved ones every single day, but we still only live once. Don’t wait until the next to tell her.”

He knew he was right, but it didn’t stop him from feeling unworthy. A sick part of him hopes you reject him so that he can try again in the next life, one where he doesn’t have voices in the back of his head. Even so, the hashira wrote you a letter, confessing his feelings while sending some treats (with the help of Mitsuri).

You had knocked on his door in the wee hours of the morning, apparently making your way to his home as soon as the letter reached you. As he scolded you for being so impatient, he couldn’t hide the blush from his face as you beamed at him. After that night, you’ve both grown exponentially as individuals and as a couple.

In your eyes, everything was perfect. No threats of demons, your feelings were reciprocated and your relationship was flourishing, everyone has grown closer! So your dear love giving you the cold shoulder was very confusing and albeit a little hurtful.

Walking into your shared estate, Obanai walks past you and into your shared room. Lightly, you tug on his sleeve, “My love, what’s the matter?”

Despite his inner turmoil, he wouldn’t dare be harsh towards you. A little hypocritical given that he hasn’t spoken to you since he saw the interaction but he didn’t have any time to be alone and rid of the thoughts, so they stuck to him like a parasite even as you held hands on the walk home.

“I don’t feel like talking about it right now, I’m sorry. Would it be okay if we talked about it in the morning?” He begs, he just wants the warmth of your arms around him to shield him from such awful thoughts.

Saying no to Obanai was impossible, something you wouldn’t do even if you wanted to (which is never, you want to give him the whole world), “Anything you want my love. Just promise me we’ll talk about it first thing tomorrow?”

“I promise.”

The rest of the night was spent with you both attached to the hip. As you both washed the day away, you scrubbed at his back, smoothing your fingers through his hair as he leaned back into you. During dinner you insisted on cooking as he lay on the sofa. He didn’t listen, of course, itching to be near you and help you out as much as he can.

You both decide to eat outside in the back patio, enjoying the quiet, watching the stars shine down upon you after such achievements.

Both bowls are finished, set nearest to Obanai as he took them and turned towards you, adoring the details of your beautiful face. Unfortunately, the bliss was short-lived as he remembered today’s occurrences, “What were you talking about with… Tomioka?”

Moving your gaze from the stars to your lover's face, past the scars, you see a man who deserves everything good. A man who was once a boy who didn’t do anything to be treated and used. Iguro Obanai was the love of your life, in this and the next, you hope your soul finds him.

“He was insisting we go to the spa he recently visited with Uzui and his wives. I’ve never seen him smile before or laugh or talk so much, it was interesting, to say the least, in a good way of course! Anyways, he had asked if you still hated him which made me laugh because of course you don…” You’re cut off by the sheepish look Obanai is currently giving you,

“My love..” in his defense, he doesn’t dislike him anymore. Tomioka does look a lot happier, it was weird and he had the urge to make fun of him but Sanemi was also smiling which was frightening given the smile he usually wore was one of anger.

To your understanding, Obanai didn’t like Tomioka because he seemed miserable and such an attitude irritated him. It was valid to an extent, you didn’t really like how meanly he spoke, which you’ve told him so, “I knew you didn’t like him, but hate?” Quickly, Obanai jumps to his own defense, “I don’t hate him, I never did. Just… strongly disliked.”

Sighing, you slowly move his gaze back to your own, “If seeing me near Tomioka bothers you, I will keep my distance.” It honestly aches his heart, you’re so considerate of his feelings that despite your own view on people, there’s not a second of hesitation for you when it comes to him.

As much as he would like that, it wouldn’t be fair to hold you back from socializing. By nature you’re a friendly person, he was drawn to you like a moth to a flame. To a fault, you were very honest, from what he has learned throughout the years of knowing you, you’re honest without even realizing it. He loves you, so much, more than anything ever.

Obanai Iguro swallows his pride, he promised you that he would try to move on in this lifetime, what good would it be if he tried to halt your guys’ progress?

“What are you thinking in that head of yours, my love?” Your hands move to place his head in your lap, he lays on his back and staring up at you, like you were the sun and moon itself.

Even though he wanted to repress these thoughts until the new day, the way your eyes shone with love made the words scratch out of his throat, “I was jealous,” is all he could bring himself to say. Obanai wants to elaborate but it seems he didn’t need to,

“Thank you for telling me how you feel. Is there anything I can do to avoid making you feel like that?” The former hashira closes his eyes, embarrassed to admit his request, “For the time being, could you keep your distance from Tomioka? I’m still getting used to seeing that expression on his face.” You laugh at his disturbed tone, he opens his eyes to see his favorite sound play in front of him.

Your laugh. You. You’ve saved him in ways he will never be able to repay.

But for you, he’ll do anything too.

“You know I’ll do anything for you. When you’re ready and comfortable, you say the words and your wish is my command.” His face scrunches at the last word, “Bleh, don’t speak to me like I’m royalty.”

“I hope you know that you are more than what was. Who you are now and will be is all that matters. I love you, Iguro Obanai.”

Sitting up, it’s his turn to cup your face, slowly he inches your faces together. Your eyes never cut contact until yours close, before closing the gap he whispers against your lips,

“I love you more than anything.”

© ihrthoney. reblogs & feedback are greatly appreciated𑁤