#unshackled-instinct

[bravesung]

❛  hello,  welcome  to  hinamori!   ❜  namine,  the  hostess,  does  her  greeting  as  usual.  this  time,  however,  sachiko  was  approaching  to  brief  the  young  woman  on  the  restaurants  number  of  covers  for  the  night.  once  sachiko  saw  the  tall  redhead,  there’s  an  obvious  look  of  shock  that  crosses  her  features.  ❛ .  .  .  THE  mister  iori  yagami  is  here  in  .  .  .  ?!  ❜  trying  her  best  to  conceal  a  squeal  from  being  face  to  face  with  one  of  her  favourite  musicians,  she  quickly  regains  her  composure  and  bows  along  with  namine,   ❛  g-good  evening,  mister  yagami.  my  name  is  kanzaki  sachiko  and  I  am  the  owner  of  hinamori.  please  let  me  know  if  you  need  anything  and  thank  you  for  choosing  us  for  your  dining  experience.  namine  will  guide  you  to  your  seat.  ❜  upon  whispering  to  the  hostess  to  escort  him  to  the  garden  room  ––  also  known  as  hinamori’s  vip  suite  ––  she  heads  back  towards  the  bar  where  you  sat,  conversing  with  the  new  bartender,  evangeline.

❛  .  .  .  it’s  never  too  late  to  be  a  model,  miss  evangeline,  don’t  give  up  on  your  dreams!  ❜  you  enjoyed  talking  to  the  platinum  haired  woman  (  you  also  wondered  if  sachiko  also  hired  her  because  they  both  bore  striking  white  hair,  but  she  was  still  a  wonderful  asset,  regardless.  ).  as  evangeline  was  about  to  answer,  sachiko  excitedly  grabs  your  hand,  trying  her  best  to  speak.  ❛  hana  .  .  .  oh  my  goodness  .  .  .  y-you  will  never  guess  .  .  .  who  just  came  in!!  ❜  sachiko  sounded  as  though  she  was  on  the  verge  of  hyperventilation,  concerning  you.   ❛  sachi,  calm  down!  take  deep  breaths  .  .  .  who  just  walked  in  here?  ❜  you’re  looking  left  and  right,  attempting  to  identify  the  person  she  was  referring  to  visually.  leaning  closer,  sachiko  whispers,  ❛  iori.  yagami.  the  most  awesome  jazz  musician  to  ever  exist!  he’s  the  reason  I  got  those  limited-edition  vinyls!  ❜  when  you  heard  the  name,  your  eyes  widen  dramatically  ––  which  sachiko  seemed  to  has  mistook  for  your  being  just  as  excited.  oh,  how  wrong  she  was.  

❛  oh  .  .  .  u-uhm  .  .  .  I  see  .  .  .  ❜  you  were  not  sure  when  you’d  see  iori  next,  but  you  didn’t  think  it  would  be  in  shinjuku  and  in  your  best  friend’s  restaurant.  how,  exactly,  could  you  explain  to  sachiko  that  you  not  only  almost  beheaded  the  individual  while  training,  then  proceeded  to  get  into  an  argument  with  him?  you  were  about  to  speak  again,  but  this  time  evangeline  cuts  in.  ❛  hey,  boss  lady,  if  you  are  okay  with  it,  I  can  bring  something  special  to  the  table  as  a  gift  from  you.  back  at  my  old  job,  we  had  celebrities  come  in  all  the  time,  so  it  won’t  really  take  me  out  of  character  if  I  see  him.  ❜  she  suggests  nonchalantly,   ❛  is  he  a  whiskey  kind  of  guy?  most  guys  are,  but  I  don’t  want  to  assume.  probably  can  do  a  dessert  too,  yeah?  ❜   this  gave  you  an  idea,  ❛  miss  evangeline,  can  you  add  that  to  my  account  here?  i’ll  take  care  of  whatever  he  orders  tonight.  ❜  you  reasoned  that  as  an  apology,  you  can  cover  his  dinner  and  maybe  bring  over  a  fruit  basket  when  it’s  less  busy.  looking  back  towards  you,  sachiko  raises  an  eyebrow,  ❛  you’d  do  that,  hana?  that’s  really  sweet  of  you  .  .  .  but,  why?  I  didn’t  know  you  were  a  superfan  too!  ❜  in  turn,  you  smile  and  tap  sachiko’s  hand,  ❛  it’s  because  if  miss  evangeline  delivers  everything,  the  food  will  make  it  to  the  table  and  not  on  the  floor  because  you  fainted  in  attempt  to  tell  him.  ❜  (  nice  save,  right?  )

with  sachiko  in  agreement  (  and  a  slight,  jestful  push  to  you  ),  evangeline  clears  her  throat  then  leaves  the  bar  to  head  to  the  table,  but  not  before  you  whisper  something  in  her  ear.  evangeline  makes  a  face,  shrugs,  then  proceeds  to  walk  over  to  the  garden  room.  finding  his  table,  she  bows  then  smiles  to  iori.   ❛  mister  yagami,  I  wanted  to  let  you  know  that  your  dinner  has  been  comped  for  tonight.  a  hanamaru  kazama  has  asked  to  take  care  of  your  bill. ❜

@unshackled-instinct. / storyline continuation!

[codedred]

             ❛  what am I trying to accomplish? that  we  go  on  a  nice  romantic  walk  on  the  beach.   ❜  you  answer  sarcastically,  rolling  your  eyes.  ❛  I  told  you  already.  besides,  who  still  questions  and  complains  after  they’ve  been  told  they’re  being  treated  to  dinner?  ❜   shaking  your  head,  you  grab  the  rest  of  the  shopping  bags,  looking  in  the  window  of  another  department  store  to  see  if  the  red-bottoms  would  match  your  new  suit.  ❛  it  would  help  if  you  went  out  more  anyway,  get  some  fresh  air,  maybe  learn  to  smile  more,  it  won’t  hurt  you.   ❜    

@unshackled-instinct. / ask response continuation!

[burnxngslash]

As their paths crossed Jin felt something SINISTER coming off the stranger..hell maybe he sensed the samething coming off of Jin considering he stopped in his tracks rather coldly as well.  ❝   𝐊𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠.   ❞ The young man utters softly, such a wicked and cursed power..the other should feel grateful their getting the chance to walk.

𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐃𝐄𝐌 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒 𝐃𝐎 𝐒𝐂 / @unshackled-instinct

[immolatiism]

FIRST MEETING PROMPTS - accepting

unshackled-instinct asked: [ ABANDONED ] :  for  our  muses  to  meet  in  an  abandoned  building 

The human world... was boring. It was full of weak, boring humans, leading meaningless, boring lives. And under Reikai's watchful eye, he wasn't allowed to mess with any of them. So Hiei tried to stay out of their way.

This in itself proved to be nearly impossible. There were just too damned many of them to avoid. Even in a place like this.

Hiei had thought the building was abandoned. It certainly appeared as if it wasn't being used for anything in particular, and there hadn't been anyone around the first time he'd circled the place. But by the time he'd settled himself down to rest in the shell of a boarded up window, he could hear the telltale sound of footsteps approaching.

He sighed. It would be a pain to find another location even remotely as deserted as this one. And so, knowing that it would give away his location to whatever idiot had decided to come in here after him, he called out instead.

" Go away, whoever you are. "

[thuganomxcs]

❝ poltergeist report: 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐃⚔️𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐕𝐒 𝐐𝐔𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒 | 𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍: ⚔️ | client: @unshackled-instinct | 𝙰𝙲𝙲𝙴𝙿𝚃𝙸𝙽𝙶.

Battle intro: "You feelin' okay chief?" Victory: "What kinda power was that? Screw it, we should really do this again sometime. Defeat: "Dammit..yer..too strong." Assist: "I got ya Haircut!!" Taunt: "What's the matter Haircut? Can't keep up?" Reacting to Taunt: "You..son of a bitch!!" Tie: "Damn you're a tough one aren't ya!?" perfect Victory: "Get up you friggin' novice, I'm not done kickin' your ass!"

[psiidol]

(unshackled-instinct)

✨️

@unshackled-instinct

If there was one thing about being an idol she didn't enjoy, it was performing outside, especially in warmer climates. The greatest period for outdoor events was in the spring, albeit spring does have some iffy weather. Thank god the air conditioners backstage were better than those on stage. The stage performers gave it their all, but there is only so much you can do when you're jumping, singing, moving, and dancing all at once.

the loud, never-ending audience clapping for her. Since she regrettably ran out of time for her customary encore, she waved to the audience one final time before leaving the stage and returning to the back. Since being perspirant was not on the agenda, she grabbed the closest piece of paper to fan herself off. After a while of standing there, she realized she had invited a very significant visitor!

She knocked on his door after fanning herself all the way to the dressing rooms. ❝Yagami? Are you still—❞ When she opened his door and saw him standing in front of an electric fan without a shirt on, she felt her cheeks start to heat up. Was he getting dressed at the moment? She abruptly burst in without giving him a chance to respond! She quickly turned her back on it and shut the door out of pure humiliation.

❝ S-Sorry! Please forgive me, I didn't know you were in the middle of changing! I'll just come back later! ❞

[touchyoudown]

@unshackled-instinct : continued from here.

         ❛ Nah, I'm fully aware of where I am. I just don't care. ❜

         The inhabitants of Santa Destroy weren't exactly known for their courteousness, however, it was rare that someone would interrupt a musical performance with their negative commentary in such a loud-mouthed manner that the band itself would pause and answer back to the offender.

         ❛ Y'all gonna wrap up soon or what ? I came here to enjoy a beer without all this extra racket. ❜

[sentofight]

-----------continue x \\ @unshackled-instinct

If he thinks that is going to make her shut up then he is mistakenly wrong. That only made her even more angry for losing her precious ice cream! Not even an apology! Big sister Whip said people should apologize when they drop your ice cream! (actually not ice cream per se but she understood it like that.)

"Beeehhh!!" she stuck out her tongue to the taller male. "You should've watched where you were going! I was carrying the ice cream! You move away from way!"

[littledancingphoenix]

For @unshackled-instinct continued from here <3

"No, stop! What are you doing?!" She ran in front of Panda, holding her arms out to shield her. "Panda was just trying to protect me! Now you're just bullying an animal. Don't you have any shame?! And there are people starting to watch now, so good job with that too!"

[bravesung]

( unshackled-instinct. ) ━━━━ "I don't need your sympathy."

          ❛  mister  yagami,  I  know  you  don’t  need  the  sympathy  .  .  .  but  is  it  truly  a  crime  for  someone  to  still  want  to  extend  their  hand  to  help  you?  you  do  not  have  to  keep  avoiding  it.  you  may  not  want  to  believe  it,  but  I,  and  miss  evangeline,  are  in  your  corner.  ❜

[codedred]

Iori: *pushes Hana and leaves to smoke.* That should take care of that problem.

Evangeline, walking up: NOPE. WELCOME TO PART 2 MOTHERFUCKER.

[burnxngslash]

🕯️ 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 | @unshackled-instinct | 𝐀𝐂𝐂𝐄𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆

('Can't believe they think HE'S evil, Tch I've SEEN Evil..this guy's just off his rocker. Bet he kicks puppies.')

[shortnspidey]

CHAPTER FOUR: UNSHACKLED

Bucky Barnes x Fem!Stark!reader || WC: 4K

WARNINGS: Talks of past trauma, minor injuries, tiny bit of fluff, long overdue hurt-comfort

A/N: How are we feeling with all the Thunderbolts/Doomsday announcements?! I’m so excited!! Now without further ado, here's the next chapter! Hope you guys enjoy! <3

previous chapter || next chapter

➩ main masterlist

➩ series masterlist

Upon hearing the faint, rhythmic beeping of medical monitors, your eyelids fluttered open slowly, the light too harsh against the blurry haze in your vision. Your body screamed in protest, aching like every muscle and bone was protesting being awake. Despite the pain, you pushed through the fog, using every ounce of strength to prop yourself up on what felt like an unfamiliar cot.

The effort was too much, bad idea!

Almost immediately, the world around you tilted and spun violently, as if gravity itself had shifted in a cruel game of its own. "Woah, be careful," A voice, thick with an accent you couldn't quite place, called out sharply. You blinked rapidly, attempting to focus, and slowly, the figure of a young woman came into view. Her face was gentle, her eyes filled with a mixture of concern. She hovered close, almost like she was ready to catch you should you fall again.

You met her gaze, your mind still foggy, but there was something about her presence that felt oddly reassuring. She was probably around your age, her features soft but hardened with something unspoken, as though she had seen far too much already. "Where am I?" Your voice was rough, barely a whisper, as confusion still swirled around in your mind. "Wakanda," She muttered softly, her tone gentle yet confident. "You are safe." The words barely registered. Wakanda? The name triggered something deep in your mind.

Yet it quickly dissolved as your thoughts wandered back to the last thing you could remember. Bucky, Steve, your dad, that video, Zemo, a gun. The images flashed one after another, each one a sharp stab to your chest. "I... What happened? How—?" Your breathing quickened as you tried to clear your mind, pushing the fog aside to focus. "You have a minor concussion, a broken wrist, and a few fractured ribs," The girl interrupted gently, her eyes never leaving you as she assessed your every movement, waiting for signs of distress.

"But nothing more serious. You are lucky." Her words felt like a fragile assurance, but they didn’t ease the tension gnawing at your insides. Before you could stop it, the question spilled from your lips. "Bucky… and Steve… are they okay?" Your heart hammered in your chest, a mixture of hope and dread clashing inside you. Before she could respond, you saw a shadow moving in your peripheral vision. Instinctively, your eyes snapped toward it, and there he was—Steve. His figure stood framed in the doorway, and with just his presence, the tight coil of fear in your chest began to loosen slightly.

A wave of relief washed over you, but the exhaustion still weighed you down. Without thinking, you pushed yourself up from the bed, your legs unsteady beneath you, but you didn’t care. You limped toward him, the sharp ache in your side forgotten as you reached for him, enveloping him in a tight hug. "I've got it from here." His voice cut through the moment, low but commanding, as he spoke to the girl in the room. She hesitated for a second, but then, with a nod, she quietly left, the door clicking shut behind her, leaving the two of you alone. As you pulled away, the breath caught in your throat.

His face was now marred by a series of dark, blossoming bruises. You swallowed, trying to suppress the nausea that crawled up your throat. "What happened?" He offered you a faint, reassuring smile, the kind that didn’t quite reached his eyes. "My dad did that, didn’t he?" You asked, your voice barely above a whisper, the bile rising in your throat as you forced yourself to speak the words. The weight of them settled heavily in the room, and for a second, you couldn’t breathe. "Nothing I can’t handle," He muttered, but there was a tremor in his voice, a crack that betrayed the bravado. You wanted to believe him, but the doubt lingered.

You hesitated, eyes searching his face as a fresh wave of fear surfaced in your chest. The one question you’d been avoiding bubbled to the surface. "Zemo, is he—" Steve’s jaw tightened so sharply you thought it might crack. "He won’t hurt you or anyone else again." His words were low, firm, but something in the way he said them made you feel like there was more to the story. However, you decided to drop it for the time being. “Is Bucky okay? Please tell me my dad didn’t manage to get his hands on him.” You whispered, the tremor in your voice betraying you.

Your breath caught in your throat as the thought of Bucky lying hurt or worse at the hands of your father's blinded rage. A tight knot formed in your stomach as you waited for an answer, your chest tightening with every passing second. “You could see for yourself.” Without hesitation, you nodded, your body moving almost on autopilot. You allowed him to gently guide you, his hand steady on your arm as he carefully maneuvered you down the dimly lit hallway toward a room you didn’t recognize. Each step felt like an eternity, but you followed, desperate to see for yourself that Bucky was alright.

When you finally reached the door to the room, the sight before you felt like a punch to the gut, stealing the air from your chest. Inside, Bucky sat slumped on a medical bed, his posture defeated, as though the weight of everything that had happened, everything he had endured was too much for him to carry. His face was marred with deep, dark bruises across his jaw and under his eyes. His usual, sharp features were softened by pain, and the once unshakable Winter Soldier now looked vulnerable, shattered even. You winced, the sight of him so broken sending an ache through your chest.

But it was his left arm or, more accurately, the lack of it brought up more questions. Your mind screamed with confusion, and a sense of helplessness that only deepened as your eyes shifted around the room. In the center of the space, a cryo-chamber stood ominously, the metal casing reflecting the harsh lights of the room. It was a chilling reminder of what Bucky had been subjected through. Almost as if sensing the shift in your gaze, Steve's eyes followed yours, and without a word, he urged you forward toward Bucky, the weight of unspoken understanding passing between the two of you.

Only then did Bucky stir, lifting his head with a slow, painful movement. The moment his eyes met yours, your heart broke. “You sure about this?” Steve’s voice echoed through the room softly. Bucky’s laugh was a dry, hollow sound, a forced exhale that barely escaped his chest. "I can't trust my own mind," He muttered, his words heavy with exhaustion and defeat. His attempt at a smile faltered before it even began. "So until they figure out how to get this stuff out of my head, I think going back under is the best thing," He paused, his gaze drifting to you, settling there, and something flickered in his eyes.

"For everybody." A cold shiver ran down your spine, and you swallowed hard, the weight of his words sinking in. But you couldn’t ignore the part of you that still clung to the hope that there was something, anything that could bring him back, that could save him from the darkness of his own thoughts. “Steve," You found your voice, and it was softer than you had intended, trembling with an emotion you couldn’t quite name. "Do you think I can talk to Bucky alone?" Steve gave a subtle nod, his face unreadable as he silently left the room, closing the door behind him with a quiet click that echoed louder than anything. In the silence that followed, Bucky braced himself, his body tense, rigid.

He knew the look in your eyes too well, the look of someone who had every right to be angry, to lash out at him for the things he had done, the choices he had been forced into. And he was sure, so sure that as soon as you were alone, you’d finally do what he feared most. You’d strike him, unleash the fury he’d deserved for too long. But when you finally moved toward him, it was not with the anger and fury he anticipated. Instead, you sat down next to him, the space between you barely enough to count. The proximity made him stiffen, his heart hammering in his chest, the air thick with the tension of everything unsaid.

He couldn’t bring himself to look at you directly, so he stared at the floor, steeling himself for whatever was coming. But when you did meet his eyes, it wasn’t with hatred or disgust. It wasn’t even with pity. Instead, there was only softness, tenderness, a quiet understanding. And then, without hesitation, you placed your hand on his, on his flesh hand, the one that hadn’t been replaced, the one still capable of feeling warmth. Your touch was gentle, but it carried more than just comfort; it carried a message that Bucky wasn’t sure he deserved but needed more than anything.

You squeezed his hand lightly, a small, simple gesture, but it was enough. For the first time in years, Bucky didn’t flinch at the touch. His body, usually so conditioned to retreat from even the slightest form of contact, melted into your warmth. The walls he had so carefully constructed over time, built out of fear and trauma, seemed to crumble under the simplest act of kindness. He could feel the warmth of your hand seep into his skin, calming the storm that raged inside him. "Bucky," Your voice was soft, barely above a whisper, but it felt like a lifeline.

His eyes flickered from your face to where your hands were joined, a silent question in them. He could hardly believe what was happening. How your simple touch was making him feel something other than numb. His breath caught in his throat, and for a moment, everything else faded away, the room, the pain, the guilt. It was just you and him. And for the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself to believe, just for a moment, that maybe there was still a chance for something good to come from all of this.

"Bucky," You repeated again, softer this time. It was almost as if you were pulling him out of a fog, trying to anchor him to the present. His eyes were distant, somewhere far away, and for a moment, you wondered if he could even hear you. But then, after a long, aching pause, his cerulean eyes slowly lifted to meet yours. You could see the struggle in his eyes, the layers of guilt and shame that he couldn’t quite shed. The soldier, the man, and all the ghosts he carried within him, the pain was written all over his face.

And in that moment, you knew you had to say something that would shatter the walls he had so carefully built around himself. You needed him to hear you, to believe you, even if it was the hardest thing for him to do. "I want you to listen to me very carefully," You coaxed, your voice steady but laced with an emotion that made your chest tighten. Your hand still holding his, trembling slightly tightened its grip. It wasn’t a forceful move, but it was a silent plea, an unspoken promise that you would be there, that he wasn’t alone. "And I will say these words as many times as you need me to, until you believe me."

Bucky’s breath hitched as your words sank in, but still, you could feel the weight of his skepticism, the doubt that clouded his thoughts. He had heard too many lies, too many things that weren’t true about who he was. And yet, you pressed on, because you knew you had to. "None of what happened was your fault." The words hung between you, thick with an emotion that made it hard to breathe. Saying them was one thing. Believing them, hearing them from someone else was another. But you couldn’t hold back now. Not after everything he had been through.

"You, Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, are and will always be an innocent man who did nothing wrong." A small shudder ran through him, and his eyes flickered with a storm of conflicting emotions. There was disbelief, shame, but also something deeper something that looked a lot like hope, even though he couldn’t fully reach for it yet. The words, though true, seemed to weigh him down more than they lifted him, as if he didn’t feel worthy of hearing them. As if his past had branded him forever, leaving a scar that no one could erase, not even you.

And then, almost as if he couldn’t bear the tenderness in your voice, he spoke, his words raw, vulnerable, and laced with guilt. "You should hate me." The sentence hung between you both, thick and suffocating. It wasn’t a question. It was a confession, a truth he carried like a burden. His voice cracked, just slightly, betraying the jagged edge of pain buried within him. “I’ve done… things. I’ve hurt people, people I cared about…” His eyes dropped to the space between you, avoiding your gaze, as if ashamed to meet your soft, understanding eyes.

But you refused to look away. You wouldn’t let him shrink into the darkness again. "No, Bucky," You whispered, shaking your head, your voice firm, steady despite the overwhelming tide of emotions crashing over you both. "I don’t hate you. I could never hate you." Your voice was filled with an intensity that made your breath catch, the truth of it sinking deep into your own soul. "I will never hate you." Your eyes locked with his, your gaze unwavering, as if to silently say that you weren’t going to let him carry that burden alone.

Not anymore.

Bucky swallowed hard, his chest rising and falling with every shaky breath. The vulnerability in his eyes, the fragile hope that flickered there, was something you would never forget. He had never allowed himself to be this open with anyone, especially not when it came to the parts of himself he felt were broken beyond repair. But there you were, holding him together with your words, with your mere presence. "You’re not a monster, Bucky," You added softly. "And as long as I'm around, I won’t let you believe that."

For a long moment, there was nothing but silence. The kind of silence that wasn’t heavy, but full of everything that had yet to be said. Bucky’s gaze softened, just a little. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. For the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, there could be forgiveness. Maybe he wasn’t as lost as he had thought. "Thank you." The words were soft, a little unsteady, but sincere. It was a rare vulnerability, the kind that was hard-earned and even harder to give.

As if guided by an unknown force, Bucky’s fingers tightly curled around yours, and for the briefest of moments, the world seemed to stand still. It was him who initiated the touch, a gesture that carried with it a thousand unspoken words, an offering of trust that he had withheld for so long. And as his hand gently pressed against yours, a flutter of warmth and something inexplicably light spread through you. However, the moment was short-lived. Bucky’s fingers slipped from yours, the warmth of his touch fading as he gently let go. It was a small, deliberate movement, but one that sent a subtle pang through your chest.

Before you could fully process the loss of that connection, Steve re-entered the room, his presence pulling you both back into the reality of the situation. “You ready, pal?” Steve’s voice was casual, but there was an undercurrent of something deeper, something unspoken, in the way he looked between you and Bucky. His eyes caught the soft flush on both your faces, and you could see the flicker of amusement he was trying unsuccessfully to hide. A small, knowing smile tugged at the corners of his lips, but he quickly masked it with a more serious expression, as though he didn’t want to intrude on the delicate moment that had just passed between you two.

Bucky’s eyes flicked to Steve, the briefest hesitation in his gaze, before he nodded slowly, deliberately. With a final glance in your direction, he turned away and walked toward the Cryo chamber, his footsteps soft but purposeful. As he approached, the chamber hummed to life, the metallic walls shimmering in the faint light. The cold, mechanical hiss of the doors opening seemed to echo in the stillness of the room, a sharp contrast to the warm, fragile connection that had just been forged only moments ago.

Bucky stood at the threshold for a moment, the weight of everything he'd been carrying settling into his posture. Then, without another word, he stepped inside. The gust of cold air enveloped him in a rush, the wind sharp and biting, but his expression remained unchanging, serene, almost tranquil. The whirring of the chamber grew louder, a steady, mechanical sound as the freezing process began. For a moment, you could almost see it in his face the way he surrendered to the cold, allowing it to swallow him whole. He looked at peace, the turmoil that had once defined him slipping away.

You couldn’t say how long you stood there beside Steve. Time felt like it had slipped away, leaving nothing but the quiet hum of the Cryo chamber in the background. After all, Steve had just gotten his best friend back, only to lose him again, only this time to a sleep that might stretch on for days, months, or even longer. The silence between you stretched, thick and palpable, until Steve finally placed a comforting hand on your shoulder. The gesture, simple as it was, anchored you in that moment. With a slight nod, he led the way, and you both exited the room, walking in silence down the hallway.

As you moved further down the hall, the glass gave way to a breathtaking view that overlooked all of Wakanda. The vibrant landscape stretched endlessly below, the jungle below alive with color and the city shimmering in the distance. For a few moments, you both stood there allowing the weight of everything to settle over you. You watched the horizon, lost in thought, until the sound of footsteps broke through the stillness. Your gaze instinctively shifted, meeting the piercing eyes of King T’Challa as he approached. His posture was regal, confident, yet there was a kindness in the way he regarded you.

"Miss Stark," He greeted, his voice as smooth and measured as ever. You straightened, instinctively reaching out to shake his hand. His gaze lingered on you for a moment before moving to Steve. Steve didn’t even flinch, his eyes still fixed on the view outside. "Thank you for this," Steve muttered, his voice low and earnest. T'Challa nodded. “Your friend and my father, they were both victims. If I can help one of them find peace…” You watched as Steve’s gaze finally shifted from the window, locking with T’Challa’s.

"You know if they find out he's here, they'll come for him." T’Challa’s response was calm yet held purpose. “Let them try.” In that moment, you realized that this place was not just a refuge for Bucky, but a place where, perhaps, even the most broken of souls could find peace. "So you're a fugitive," Your voice cut through the quiet. You swallowed hard, trying to push down the rising panic, but the uncertainty clawed its way to the surface. "Where does that leave me?" The question hung in the air, and for a moment, you didn’t think anyone would answer.

Your breath caught in your throat, and you could feel the tension knotting in your stomach. There was no chance of reaching out to your father now, not after everything that had happened in Germany and Siberia. No, you were alone now. You had known that this moment was coming, but now that it was here, it was more terrifying than you could have anticipated. One of your greatest fears, the thing you had tried so hard to avoid, was finally real. You officially had no safety net left. "Hey," Steve coaxed almost as if sensing your inner turmoil.

“You’re not alone, as far as Ross' concerned you weren't involved in any of this." His words were meant to soothe, to ease the panic that was slowly suffocating you, but it wasn’t enough. Before you could muster any response, the familiar voice you'd heard earlier pierced the silence. “Y/N Stark, NYU transfer studying abroad for the remainder of the semester.” You whipped around to the sound of her voice, as everything started to slowly click into place. You hadn’t been able to see it before, but now, with clarity, you realized who she was. Shuri, princess of Wakanda.“I never had the chance to apply to NYU.” Your voice came out in a disbelieving whisper, your mind still trying to piece together how this all fit.

“You’re not the only one who can hack into other people's phones,” She declared smugly, a playful grin tugging at the corners of her lips. Oh, you liked her already. She handed you something, and you took it instinctively, your hands trembling slightly as you unfolded it. Your eyes scanned the words, disbelief taking root in your mind. An official acceptance letter from the Department of Psychology at NYU. Your dream school. It was almost too much to process, too perfect, too unreal. But the reality of the letter was in your hands, in black and white.

“They won’t come looking for you,” She insisted, her voice firm, reassuring. For the first time in a long time, you were speechless. This wasn’t just about a school or a chance at a degree. This was about a future, one that no longer seemed impossible, one that you hadn’t even dared to hope for in years. Your Mind-Weaver was still just an idea, a prototype in desperate need of a better name. But now? Now it didn’t feel so far out of your grasp. “After all, we’re going to need your assistance,” Shuri coaxed, her smile warm and purposeful. “When you aren’t studying, that is.”

You didn’t hesitate. “Anything. Name it.” The words came out before you could stop them. It was the least you could do after everything they had done for you, after how they had practically saved your life. “When Sergeant Barnes wakes up, he’s going to need a new arm,” She stated matter-of-factly, her gaze steady as she looked at you. “Care to live up to your reputation?” The weight of her words settled in your chest, but for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel the crushing pressure of your last name holding you back.

In that moment you weren’t “Tony Stark’s Daughter”. There was no legacy to live up to in that moment, no expectations suffocating you. You were you. And you could feel the spark of hope flickering inside of you, growing brighter with every passing second. As you turned to face Steve, the look on his face was more than just reassurance. Maybe this was exactly what you needed, what you had always needed. To be somewhere you could be yourself, without the weight of family history pressing down on you. Maybe, just maybe, Wakanda was the place where you could find peace.

thanks for reading! likes, reblogs, and comments are always appreciated! <3

[thyras]

→ of ashes & flame ( I )

PAIRING → mairon | sauron x female!elf!reader

WORD COUNT → 4.2k words

SERIES → of ashes & flame (osatm universe)

WARNINGS → just all the fluff you could ever want, redemption au, ooc!sauron, fix-it fic

SUMMARY → what if mairon kept the door shut? what if he never went back to morgoth? how would middle-earth look? and how would morgoth have faired without his faithful lieutenant?

AUTHORS NOTE → so i know there has been some stuff said around this type of fic, and it has been why i've held back on releasing it into the world here on tumblr but I really needed to cleanse my palette before finishing of sauron & the moriquendi, it was making so angered by him, and this has been sitting in my drafts SO long. i am not a redemption girlie, I love my men irredeemable and just evil but I was having so many thoughts that it sprang into this. this will kind of just be a thing I touch whenever I'm inspired. i have a bunch of fics planned for when I finish my current one so stay tuned. this story picks up right after chapter three of the main fic.

masterlist

“And what draws you from our marriage bed, husband?” you asked, rolling onto your side to face him.

Mairon stood at the window, his bare form silhouetted against the moonlight streaming in. His hair gleamed like molten copper, cascading down his muscular back. You propped yourself up on an elbow, admiring the sculpted lines of his body—the power and grace contained within his frame.

"I could not sleep, my love," he replied softly, his gaze fixed on the vast expanse of the night sky. "My mind is restless, even with you by my side."

You rose from the bed, the sheets slipping from your naked form as you padded toward him. Wrapping your arms around his waist from behind, you pressed yourself against the warmth of his back, resting your cheek against the smooth expanse of his skin. The steady rise and fall of his breath was a quiet rhythm beneath you, grounding yet distant.

"What troubles you, Mairon? On this night of all nights, when our union has been blessed and celebrated?"

He sighed, his fingers covering yours where they lay against his stomach. “Nothing that I wish to burden you with,” he murmured, though when he glanced over his shoulder, he offered you a small, fleeting smile.

Mairon did not need sleep. In truth, he had never truly yearned for it, though there were times when he had indulged in its embrace for your sake, if only to lie beside you in quiet companionship. But tonight, sleep was the furthest thing from his mind. His thoughts raced, though they carried a newfound clarity—sharp and unfettered.

He could go anywhere now. Do anything.

For the first time in an age, he was free. Free of the chains that had bound him to his master, free of the suffocating will that had once governed his every move. He could breathe in his own mind again, unshackled and unafraid.

His fingers trailed up to the red stone resting against his chest. He had feared it would burn him, that it would taint his flesh the moment it was placed upon him. But it did not. It pulsed gently against his skin, warm yet harmless, as if it had always belonged to him.

It was you who had tempered his wayward soul, who had reached into the depths of his darkness and drawn him back into the light. Though there had been moments of temptation—instances where the pull of his past had threatened to consume him once more—it was your unwavering presence that had anchored him.

That elf who had sought to claim you, to take you from him, had nearly been his undoing. The fury had burned hot, his hands had itched to remind the world that you were his. And yet, in the very moment when his resolve had wavered, when his instincts had nearly won, it was your voice—calm and steady, unshaken in your faith in him—that had guided him back.

He wanted to be better for you.

No—he would be better for you.

And now that he was free to do so, nothing in all of Arda would stand in his way.

"Tell me, my love," you whispered, your lips brushing against his shoulder blade, "what thoughts race through your mind on this night of our union?" Your voice was soft, yet there was something deeper in it, an unspoken plea to share in the labyrinth of his mind.

Mairon turned within your embrace, his sea-foam eyes locking onto yours with such intensity that your breath hitched. His hands found your hips, his grip neither possessive nor tentative—just warm, steady, reverent. "I think of the future, Tintilmë," he murmured, your new name slipping from his lips like a sacred vow. "Our future, and all that it may hold."

You tilted your head, a knowing smile curving your lips. "And what do you see in that future, husband?"

Your fingers trailed up his chest, tracing the elegant lines of his form with a touch so featherlight it sent a shiver through him. He leaned into your caress, his own hands rising to meet yours, lacing his fingers between them.

Every time he looked at you, he was struck by the sheer radiance you carried. It was not merely beauty—though you were beyond compare—it was something deeper, something woven into the very essence of your being. You were light incarnate, and he was drawn to you as the tides were to the moon.

It was no wonder the ellyn had come from near and far to seek your hand in those early days. You had been a beacon, a vision of the finest artistry the Valar had ever bestowed upon the world. Mairon imagined that the very earth from which you had sprung must have been cradled in Yavanna’s tender hands, kissed by Varda’s starlight, blessed by the dewdrops of a moonlit eve.

And yet, for all the world’s adoration, it was he whom you had chosen. He, who had been marred by shadow and flame, who had been unworthy of your light. That you had bound yourself to.

In the beginning, his deeds had been utterly nefarious toward you. He had sought only to taint what was most pure, to twist and claim that which had been untouched by shadow. You had been a challenge, a radiant flame that he had once longed to snuff out—or perhaps, more truthfully, to bend until it burned only for him.

But the more he dwelled in this flesh he had fashioned for you, and only you, the more he found himself… changed. Humbled.

What had begun as a game of corruption had become something far greater, something he had never anticipated. He had come to see the unspoiled beauty of it all—not only in you, but in the world you belonged to.

Mairon had always craved beauty. He had shaped the world with his hands, refining and perfecting, striving to mold all things into their most exquisite form. And here, in this budding elven village, he had found a beauty beyond his own making. A beauty that did not need to be altered or reforged, but simply was.

He had found that in you.

You, who had once been a prize to claim, had become something else entirely. You had become his purpose. His guiding star.

And he, for all his countless years of forging and shaping the world, had never before been shaped in return.

But you had changed him. And he had let you.

Your raised brow brought him back to your question, grounding him in the moment. His fingers traced a slow path up your chest, coming to rest against the shimmering blue moonstone that lay nestled above your heart.

He had fashioned it for you with his own hands, carefully shaping the gem to perfection. It was not of Varda’s divine craft, but Mairon’s mastery of jewel-making was unparalleled, and the stone gleamed with a brilliance that rivaled the stars.

One of his apprentices had once mentioned, as they toiled over its design, that a moonstone was the ideal gift for a wife. A talisman of protection, its power was said to watch over its bearer, especially through the sacred journey of motherhood. It aided in fertility, in healing, in ensuring the well-being of the one who wore it.

And so, when he had set about crafting something worthy of you, it could be nothing else.

The stone pulsed softly beneath his touch, and for a fleeting moment, he imagined the life it might safeguard—the promise of a future yet unwritten, one that belonged to both of you.

At last, Mairon spoke.

“I see us,” he murmured, his voice low and certain. “With bountiful life, gleaming in the joys of parenthood, walking through the Ages hand in hand. Only knowing love and light in this world we now call our own.”

His words hung between you, a vow woven into the night, a vision of a future where darkness could never touch you again.

Nor could it touch him.

Your breath caught at his words, your heart swelling with a joy so profound it threatened to overwhelm you. The vision he painted—of a life bathed in love and light, untouched by shadow—was more radiant than anything you had ever dared to dream.

For so long, you had lived in the uncertainty of what the future might hold, walking a path where light and darkness wove together in an intricate, perilous dance. But now, standing in the embrace of the one who had once been fire and wrath, and who now wished only to be warmth and devotion, you could see that future clearly.

A future that belonged to both of you.

"Mairon," you breathed, emotion thickening your voice. Your fingers brushed over his cheek, tracing the sharp elegance of his features as you gazed up at him with reverence. His skin was warm beneath your touch, as if the fire that once consumed him had softened, tempered into something gentler—something he had made just for you.

"There is nothing I desire more than to walk that path with you," you whispered. "To bring forth life born of our love, to nurture it together beneath the stars."

A flicker of something passed through his eyes—something deeper than longing, something ancient and unspoken. His hands tightened around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer as if afraid you might slip away.

But you wouldn’t. You never would.

You leaned in, seeking his lips with your own, and he met you in kind. The kiss was soft, reverent—no longer a battle of wills, no longer a conquest, but a silent affirmation of the promise you had made to one another. A vow that no force in the world could break.

When you parted, Mairon rested his forehead against yours, his eyes drifting shut as if savoring the moment, as if committing every breath, every heartbeat to memory.

"I would move the very foundations of Arda to make it so," he vowed quietly.

And you believed him.

For Mairon was a maker of worlds, a weaver of great works. And now, his greatest creation would be the life you built together.

After he had settled you back into bed, his warmth wrapped around you like a cocoon, lulling you into a slumber so deep that not even the passing of time could rouse you. He lingered there for a moment, watching the gentle rise and fall of your breath, the peaceful way you surrendered to sleep in the safety of his arms.

Leaving you was not easy.

For a long moment, he simply remained, his fingers ghosting over your skin, memorizing the way you fit against him as though you had been made for no other. He had always been reluctant to part from you, but tonight, the weight of his resolve made it even harder.

Still, he knew what had to be done. And it would take every ounce of his cunning and persuasion to make his dream a reality.

With silent precision, he slipped from the bed, retrieving his garments from where they had been carelessly discarded hours earlier. The rich fabric clung to him as he dressed, his movements slow, deliberate, as if each layer added another shield between him and the vulnerability of the moment he had just shared with you.

Then, without another glance—lest he lose his resolve entirely—he made his way downstairs toward his study.

The air was cool, the stone beneath his feet colder still, but he paid it no mind. As he entered the room, the heavy wooden door creaked slightly before closing behind him with a whisper. Shadows stretched long across the space, remnants of the night’s darkness clinging stubbornly to the corners.

With a flick of his fingers, the once-extinguished candles flared to life, their flames casting a warm, golden glow upon the walls. The soft flicker of light illuminated the intricate designs carved into his desk, the carefully arranged stacks of parchment, the countless designs and correspondence that had been left unfulfilled due to the nature of the day.

Though he rarely indulged in the use of his power, there were moments—quiet, unseen moments—where the smallest exertion of will made life infinitely easier. And here, alone in the stillness of his sanctuary, there was no one to watch. No one to question.

With a measured breath, he took a fresh sheet of parchment from the neatly stacked pile and settled into his chair. The wood creaked beneath his weight, a familiar sound in the stillness of the room.

Reaching for his quill, he dipped it into the inkwell, watching as the dark liquid clung to the tip before pressing it to the page. The scratch of ink against parchment filled the quiet space as he began to write, each stroke deliberate, each word chosen with precision.

He only knew of one person who might grant him an audience—one who was wise, perhaps even wiser than himself. One who bore the same timeless grace as the elves he now lived among.

Someone who, if he played his cards right, might welcome his efforts, might see the sincerity in his desire to walk the path of light once more.

Or so he hoped.

His fingers tightened around the quill. Hope. It was a fickle thing, a dangerous thing. But he had you now. You, who had reshaped him in ways even he could not fully comprehend. If ever there was a time for hope, it was now.

He exhaled slowly, steadying his thoughts, then continued writing.

This letter would be the first step toward the future he had promised you. And he would see it through—no matter the cost.

Weeks had passed, each day stretching with quiet anticipation, but Mairon had remained patient. He had long since mastered the art of waiting.

Now, as he stood in the forge, assisting one of his apprentices in tempering a blade, he felt it—the familiar, delicate trickle of your fëa brushing against his own. Even before he turned, he knew you were near, your presence a warmth that never failed to reach him, even in the heart of his work.

When he did turn, his sharp gaze immediately caught the smile adorning your face, the way your eyes gleamed with excitement. But it was the beautifully decorated parchment you held in your hands that truly caught his attention.

The heraldry was unmistakable.

The response he had been waiting for.

Mairon removed his gloves with practiced ease, passing them to his apprentice before offering a curt nod of dismissal. Without another word, he crossed the forge toward you, his expression unreadable, but his mind already racing through possibilities.

As you stepped through the threshold, he greeted you with a soft kiss on your cheek, and in return, your fëa glowed warmly against his own, sending a pleasant heat across his skin.

“I did not expect to see you today,” Mairon mused, tilting his head as he studied you. “I thought you were taking your little ducklings to Aldavírin.”

He always took great pleasure in teasing you about your students, knowing well that it never failed to draw a bright, exasperated smile from you.

Sure enough, you huffed a small laugh, rolling your eyes before holding up the parchment between you, tapping it lightly against his chest in playful reproach.

“I was,” you said, “but this arrived just as I was leaving.” Your expression shifted, curiosity flickering in your gaze as you tilted your head at him. “So tell me, melda, why did you write to Queen Melian?”

Mairon allowed himself the smallest of smirks.

There were few who could surprise you, fewer still who could elicit that careful suspicion in your tone.

He reached for the parchment, his fingers grazing yours as he took it from your grasp.

“Can’t it be a surprise?” he purred, amusement lacing his tone as he watched your brow arch even higher in suspicion.

Your lips pressed into a thin line. “You know I hate secrets,” you said, crossing your arms, the annoyance in your voice unmistakable.

Mairon sighed, though there was no true frustration in it—only quiet indulgence. He had always known you to be unwavering in your need for honesty, unwilling to be left in the dark about matters that concerned the both of you.

Even if he had held onto the lie of his true nature, of what he really was.

He stepped closer, closing the space between you as he reached up, his fingers grazing your cheek before tilting your chin just enough to hold your gaze. Then, with slow intent, he leaned in and pressed a lingering kiss to your temple, his lips barely brushing against your skin as he exhaled softly.

“Just trust me,” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin. “I am doing this for us.”

His voice was low, steady, filled with something deeper than mere reassurance. It was a promise, woven with the same conviction that had burned in his eyes when he first spoke of the future he wished to build with you.

His fingers trailed down the side of your face before settling lightly against your collarbone, just above the moonstone pendant he had crafted for you.

“For the future I promised you,” he added, his words carrying the weight of something far greater than a simple secret.

Something already set into motion.

You sighed, the tension in your shoulders softening as your fingers curled into the fabric of his tunic, gripping the material as if to anchor yourself to him. Then, with quiet resolve, you lifted onto your toes and pressed a kiss to his lips—soft, unhurried, yet filled with the weight of something undeniable.

“I trust you with my life, melda,” you whispered against his mouth.

Once, long ago, had he still been the being he once was, those words would have been a deliciously cruel irony. A trap of your own making. To entrust him—him—with something as sacred as your very existence would have been nothing short of folly.

Back then, he might have smiled, slow and dangerous, reveling in the power of your misplaced faith.

But here and now, your words did not feed his pride.

They filled him instead with warmth, with purpose, with something far greater than any triumph he had ever known.

His hands came to rest at your waist, grounding himself in the quiet certainty of your touch.

And for the first time in all his long years, Mairon found himself wanting, more than anything, to be worthy of the trust you so freely gave.

“Go,” Mairon said, releasing you with a final brush of his fingers against your waist. “I do not wish to keep your ducklings waiting.”

His lips curled slightly as he watched you, amusement flickering in his gaze. He knew well enough that if you were late, it would be his fault, and though you would never blame him outright, your students would surely hear a heavily implied tale of his distractions.

You huffed a small laugh, taking a step back toward the entrance, but not before tilting your head at him playfully.

“I will see you at dinner,” he promised.

“Of course,” you added, taking another step back, now walking in reverse as if reluctant to part from him just yet. “Though I expect a full report on what she says. It’s not every day one gets to hear the words of a Maia.”

Mairon snorted softly to himself at that, shaking his head as he reached for the parchment once more.

If only you knew.

The irony of it all did not escape him.

If you only knew the countless words he had exchanged with beings far beyond the realm of elves—some benevolent, others far less so. If you only knew how easily he could speak the tongue of the Ainur, how once, long ago, his voice had shaped the very world you now walked upon.

And yet, for all his past, all his power, it was your words, your voice, that held him here.

That mattered more than all the whispers of the Ainur combined.

After settling into his workshop’s study, Mairon unfurled the parchment with careful precision, his fingers smoothing over the delicate script as his eyes began to trace each meticulously penned word.

The handwriting was unmistakable—graceful, deliberate, woven with an elegance that could only belong to one of the Ainur.

Melian.

Her response was brief yet cordial, her tone warm but still carrying the weight of regality, of wisdom beyond even his own years.

"Dearest Mairon," it began.

"Your request has been received and considered with great interest. The path you seek to walk is one of great importance, and your sincerity has not gone unnoticed."

His brow furrowed slightly as he read on, his mind already parsing the careful phrasing, weighing each word for the deeper meaning beneath the surface.

Melian had always been a weaver—not only of enchantments, but of words, of diplomacy, of foresight. She revealed only what she wished, and yet even in her measured responses, she spoke volumes.

"I would be most pleased to grant you an audience, to discuss further the matters you have raised. Your presence is requested in Menegroth at your earliest convenience. We have much to speak of, you and I."

Mairon exhaled slowly, fingers tapping against the edge of the parchment.

It was not a dismissal, nor a denial, which meant she was willing to entertain the notion that he could be something other than what he had once been. That in itself was progress.

But it was also a test.

He knew better than to believe that Melian would accept his words at face value. She would weigh his every syllable, his every glance, the very cadence of his fëa itself, and determine for herself if he was truly what he claimed to be.

Still, she had not rejected him outright. That, too, was telling.

A slow smile curved his lips.

It had been an age since he had last stood before one of his own kind who did not look upon him with scorn. Who did not see him as a threat, a being tainted beyond redemption.

Melian, for all her wisdom, was neither fool nor coward.

If she was willing to listen, then perhaps, just perhaps, his path had already begun to unfold exactly as he had intended.

"Must you go alone?" you pouted, arms crossing as you watched Mairon tighten the cinch on his horse. The beast let out a soft huff, shifting beneath his firm touch, but Mairon barely seemed to notice—his focus remained entirely on his preparations, methodical and precise.

"I would love to see the great halls of Menegroth," you added, stepping closer, your voice carrying the unmistakable lilt of longing.

Mairon turned then, chuckling softly before leaning down to capture your lips in a lingering kiss. His hands, still roughened by the forge, came to rest against your waist, holding you close for a fleeting moment before he pulled back just enough to meet your gaze.

"I know, melda," he murmured against your lips, his voice warm with understanding. "But this journey, I must make alone. There are matters I must discuss with Queen Melian that require… discretion, for now."

Your brow furrowed slightly at his words, a flicker of concern shadowing the light in your eyes. "Discretion?" you echoed, tilting your head, your fingers tightening where they clutched at the fabric of his tunic. "What could be so secret that you cannot share it with me, your wife?"

Mairon exhaled slowly, the breath warm against your skin as he reached up, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face with a tenderness that belied the weight in his gaze. His fingertips lingered, a silent reassurance, before he cupped your cheek, thumb tracing soothing circles against your skin.

"It is not a matter of trust, Mori," he said, voice low and steady. "You know I trust you with all that I am. But there are some paths that must be walked alone before they can be shared." He paused, his green eyes searching yours, his next words softer, yet no less resolute. "Even with one's beloved."

You held his gaze, searching for something—some reassurance that this journey would not take him further from you, that whatever lay ahead would not put an unseen distance between your hearts.

Finally, with a reluctant sigh, you loosened your grip on his tunic, your hands falling away to rest at your sides.

“I will miss you greatly,” you admitted, your voice tinged with sadness. “Hurry back to me.”

Mairon’s expression softened, and though he did not say it, you felt the silent promise in the way he pressed one last kiss to your forehead before stepping away.

He took the reins of his horse, mounting in one smooth, effortless motion. With a final glance back at you, his lips parted as if to speak—but instead, he simply offered you a knowing smile before turning toward the road ahead.

And with that, he was gone, the steady rhythm of hoofbeats carrying him away toward the twilight-shrouded horizon.

[chadillacboseman]

Can't stop thinking about Makarov....

Makarov who sees you cuffed to a chair in a low-res photo sent to him by his intel officers. They all instinctively take a step back in earnest fear of his wrath.

Makarov who puts a bullet between the eyes of the men who were supposed to keep watch over you. But not before he makes them suffer. The others try to ignore the screams that come from the interrogation room.

Makarov who hunts down your captors like a predatory animal, blood staining his face, his fatigues, his hands. He looks less a human and more a visage of pure rage.

Makarov who watches the light fade from the eyes of the soldier guarding your cell, hands wound tightly around his neck. Then he's unshackling you quickly, blood-caked forehead touched to yours as he slips the metal rings from your wrists, rough hands massaging the indents left behind.

Makarov who washes the blood from your sore body, his own bloodied skin pressed against your back in the steam of the shower. His hands wander lower on you, calloused fingers brushing over your thighs, the curve your ass, all the while his mouth is on your neck or your ear, murmuring against your skin.

Oh the things he whispers.

He tells you how he killed for you. How he wrung the very life from every man who dared lay a finger on you. As the blood washes down the drain, he promises you he'd do it over and over to keep you safe.

[fantasyandshit]

The light and the dark

Type: series

Part: 3/?

Other parts here

Pairing: Azriel x Archeron sister reader

Summary: That was not expected.

Four guards open my cell yet again and unshackle me, roughly grabbing me. one stands in front of us, one behind, and one holding each arm. I struggle in the males grips, my clothes are ripped to shreds, my hair is so matted you couldn’t brush it, blood and dirt cake my skin from various cuts and bruises and I’m thin, much thinner than I was, but I’d made sure to keep whatever muscle I could. As I’m brought to the so-called ‘king’s’ room, I notice Elain and Nesta, both are a bit thinner, then again they always were and more pale but I was glad to see they had very minimal damage other than Nesta matted hair. I look around the room as I’m pulled forward and completely freeze when I see it…them.

Feyre and Azriel…with a bolt through his chest… I’m shoved to the ground and take this as my moment, twisting around and kicking one of the guards in the shins, then sweeping another’s legs from under him, grabbing the sword one dropped and stabbing it through one of the others abdomen, then. Finally, I tackle the other to the ground, the blade lodging in his skull. I stand up, my breath fast and shallow and turn, looking from Nesta and Elain to Feyre and her friends, then finally my gaze lands on Hybern, who’s slowly applauding.

“That was quite the show darling.” I almost vomit at the way the last word rolls from his mouth, the only other times he’d used it were when- god I can’t even think about it as I make my way in front of my human sisters. I know the fae can handle themselves, my only concern about them is Azriel who is uncharacteristically pale, and hold the sword in front of me, my arm latching around them. “Start with her.” Before I know what’s happening four men pick me up, snapping the wrist that holds the sword and im forced to drop it.

“Get off me!” I scream and claw with my good hand as I’m brought up the stairs and forced into the cauldron, my head pops up until it’s held under. The sensation is weird… to say the least.

It’s cold yet hot, agonizing yet peaceful, it brings sadness and joy, light and dark, life and death, before I can think anymore wise opposites I’m thrown to the floor, an unknown weight sitting on my back as I splutter, lifting my head and seeing shocked faces. What- My thought is cut off by the sound of a thump and Nesta is thrown beside me, then Elain. I notice it now, they’re different- they have pointed ears, limbs longer- They are fae. What the hell?

I slowly stand on shaky feet, stomach cramping and nearly falling to my back just before I see Hyberm raising his hand and instinctively I do just as Cassian does-I jump. I throw myself over my newly fae sisters and white hot agony flows over the unknown weight on my back and I don’t even realize I’m screaming till it’s all over and I collapse to the side.

I look over to check on my sister when I see it-them. Wings, wings attached to my body that are shredded beyond belief, blood pooling around them. Wings- no I couldn’t-I couldn’t have wings. I hear people shouting my name and a cold sensation envelopes me before it all goes dark.

I groan as I’m jostled before I’m placed in a cot, back up, wings. Wings-holy shit. Draping over the edges, i loom to my right to see Azriel and Cassian in the cots beside me and a voice-a voice I’ve fantasized about yells for me, over and over, begging me to stay awake but it’s just too hard so I close my eyes and peace washes over me finally.

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I know it’s short but I took medicine to sleep so I can’t write more tonight. I’ll give you more tomorrow. Love y’all!

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