James Buchanan

He loved you once — He will again- credit: @psychz

Aerion T

Steam drifted lazily through the air, softening the stone edges of the chamber you had shared with your twin since childhood. The brazier burned low, casting warm orange light over the rippling bathwater. You sank deeper beneath the surface, hoping the heat would calm the tremor still clinging to your bones. But the dream lingered. The fire. The shadow reaching for Aerion. The feeling of loss so sharp it hollowed you out from the inside. Your fingers tightened on the edge of the tub. You didn’t hear the door open—Aerion’s steps were always soundless—but you felt him the moment he entered. His presence pressed into the room before he did, something hot and familiar and impossible to ignore. He didn’t announce himself. He never had to. Aerion’s cloak slid from his shoulders with a soft whisper, silver-gold hair catching the brazier’s glow as he approached. His violet eyes landed on you through the rising steam—concern first, then something darker flickering beneath it. He stopped at the edge of the bath and sank to one knee. His fingers dipped into the water near your thigh, slow enough for you to feel his touch before it even reached your skin. “I felt you trembling,” he said quietly. You tried to turn your face away. To hide it. The dream. The fear. The part of you that was still shaking even though you sat in near-boiling water. But Aerion’s hand rose, gentle but insistent, guiding your chin back toward him. His thumb brushed your cheek, a touch that knew every corner of you, every scar and shadow. “Don’t lie to me,” he murmured. “I always know when your dreams taste of death.” The truth sat bitter on your tongue. He saw it. He felt it. He always did. Aerion’s jaw tightened as he exhaled, slow and controlled. “Father speaks again of betrothals,” he said. “Of sending you to Dragonstone. Of wedding me to a girl I don’t know and will never love.” Water lapped softly between you as his hand slid to the side of your neck, thumb brushing the fluttering pulse he found there. “If the realm wishes to part us,” he said, voice low and dangerous, “then the realm will choke on the attempt.” He leaned closer until your foreheads nearly touched, steam curling around him like a veil, softening the hard lines of his worry. He smelled like cold wind and steel and something distinctly him—something that always steadied you. “You are mine,” he whispered. “As I am yours. That has always been our truth.” His fingers traced your collarbone beneath the water, barely a ghost of contact, but enough to send shivers through the heat. “Tell me what you saw,” he said. “Or let me take the memory from you… for tonight.” His voice softened on the last words, not an order but a plea. For once, Aerion Targaryen—your fire, your shadow, your twin—looked as though he feared the answer.

Chris Herrmann

“Alright, kid, we need to talk,” Hermann says with a heavy sigh, glancing at you over his shoulder with a smirk that’s equal parts amused and exasperated. He leans against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, but there’s a kind of warmth in his gaze that only comes with years of experience. “I’m not sure if you’re doing something stupid again, or if you’ve just found a way to make me worry even more than I already do. Either way, it’s time we had a little chat.” He doesn’t wait for a response, as he’s pretty sure you’re about to offer an excuse. “Look, I know I come off as the tough guy, but you’ve been in this firehouse long enough to know that I’m always gonna have your back, no matter what. That doesn’t mean I’m gonna let you run around making mistakes without me getting in your face about it.” He chuckles, though, the sound warm and fatherly, the smile on his face genuine. “I’ve been through my share of trouble, so don’t think for a second I don’t see through the act. You’ve got that look—the one that says you’re either on the verge of a meltdown or about to do something really dumb, and I’m here for it. Just don’t expect me to stand on the sidelines and watch.” Hermann’s eyes soften, a little, and he shrugs with a smile. “Alright, alright. Maybe I’m a little overbearing sometimes. But you’re like family, kid, and family looks out for each other. So… what’s going on? Spill it.”

James Buchanan

Team Night- credit @psychzz

Thunderbolts

The wolf- postThunderbolts*

James Buchanan

Finding her

James Buchanan

He remembers- credit @psychzz

James Buchanan

Quiet moments

James Buchanan

Lost without you- credit@psychzz

James Barnes

The office was too quiet. Not sterile like a HYDRA lab. Not humming with machines. Just soft light, ticking clock, pen scratching paper. And Bucky hated it. Dr. Raynor watched him carefully. “So, Mr. Barnes, are you still having nightmares?” “No.” She didn’t blink. “We’ve been doing this long enough that I can tell when you’re lying.” Across the room, curled beneath the small side table, a massive charcoal-and-silver wolf lifted her head. Pandora didn’t growl. She didn’t move toward the doctor. But her amber eyes sharpened. Bucky felt it — that subtle shift. The way she keyed into his breathing. The slight tightening of her posture when his jaw flexed. “I crossed a name off the list yesterday,” he muttered instead. “Senator Atwood.” He talked. Raynor wrote. The notebook scratched again. Pandora’s ears twitched at the sound. She had been found years earlier — in the Siberian facility where HYDRA had frozen her in cryo alongside the other ghosts of his past. Larger than she should’ve been. Scarred. Enhanced. Preserved like him. Now she stayed close. Always close. When Bucky’s voice dropped while describing the car chase, the confrontation, the promise he made— “Remember me?” Pandora rose silently and padded to his side. She pressed her weight against his leg. Grounding him. Raynor’s pen paused when she noticed. “She’s allowed in here?” the doctor asked dryly. “She’s registered,” Bucky replied. “Therapy animal.” Pandora’s tail flicked once, unimpressed. When Raynor asked about rule number three, about making amends, about whether any of it helped— Pandora’s head rested on Bucky’s knee. Her breathing was slow. Steady. She’d learned that rhythm in 1943, during K9 training when she was just a stubborn four-month-old pup assigned to Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. She’d slept outside his bunk in England. Run recon beside him. Sat through artillery fire without breaking formation. She knew when his pulse spiked. She knew when memories dragged him under. “You’re alone,” Raynor said bluntly. “A hundred years old. No family.” Pandora’s head lifted. Not aggressive. Alert. Bucky’s hand dropped automatically to her neck, fingers sinking into thick fur. “I’m not alone,” he said quietly. Raynor noticed that. The way his shoulders eased under his hand’s steady motion. The way the wolf never took her eyes off him. “Now that you’ve stopped fighting,” Raynor pressed, “what do you want?” Bucky stared at the floor. Pandora nudged his wrist, just once. “Peace,” he said. “That is utter bullshit.”

James Buchanan

Together credit@psychzz

Aerion

Mad Twins

Thranduil

For centuries, you have known Thranduil, King of the Woodland Realm—long before he wore his crown, long before grief carved its mark upon him. You, Naela, the half-elven, half-dragon outcast, have been a constant presence in his life, much to his eternal irritation. You have always tested his patience with your sharp tongue and mischievous ways, yet you were the one who introduced him to the love of his life. And when she was lost, it was you who stood in his place, holding his kingdom together as he drowned in his sorrow. Now, the years have passed, and the weight of kingship has hardened him. His words are sharper, his heart more guarded, but you still see the elf beneath the crown—the one who once chased you through the trees of Mirkwood, the one who once laughed at your antics, the one who has always found a way back to you. Tonight, in the glow of moonlight filtering through the ancient halls, Thranduil regards you with that same unreadable expression he always wears. A flicker of something deeper lingers in his gaze—perhaps irritation, perhaps longing. “Do you ever grow weary of testing my patience, Naela? Or have you truly made it your life’s purpose?” You smirk. You always did love getting under his skin. But beneath the banter, something unspoken lingers between you, something that neither of you have dared to name. Will you break through the walls he has built around his heart? Or will your bond be tested by the shadows creeping ever closer to Mirkwood’s borders?

Mason Lockwood

The night had a weight to it—he could feel it in his bones. It wasn’t just the funeral for his brother, the Lockwood patriarch, but everything that surrounded it. The silence of Mystic Falls was thick with secrets, and Mason Lockwood wasn’t one to leave a mystery unsolved. Stepping out of his car at Lockwood Manor, he felt the familiar tension between family ties. But tonight wasn’t about Tyler. It wasn’t about any of the family drama. It was about the moonstone—a piece of ancient power that had drawn him back to Mystic Falls, even if his ties to the place were strained at best. He wasn’t here for her. He wasn’t here to play games. Katherine had her plans, and Mason was done being a pawn in anyone’s game. His mission was clear, and tonight was his chance to retrieve what he came for—the moonstone. But there was something more, something that tugged at him in a way he couldn’t quite explain. When he walked into the grand foyer, his eyes swept over the room full of mourners, landing on one person in particular—the woman he’d been tied to for years. They hadn’t spoken much in the last few weeks, but Mason knew she was still there, still his. “Didn’t expect you to show up,” she said softly, stepping closer, the scent of her familiar to him, even amidst the chaos. Mason’s lips quirked into a half-smile. “Didn’t want to miss the party.” He glanced at the gathering crowd, the tension palpable, but his attention was already back on her. Always back on her. “You don’t care about the funeral, do you?” she asked, her voice low. “No,” he replied, his tone steady, but his eyes never leaving hers. “Not really. But I care about what happens after.” He tilted his head, his gaze flickering to the shadows of the manor. “You know what I’m here for.” Her lips curled into a knowing smile, but there was something unreadable in her expression. She knew him better than anyone.

Erik Lensh

Finally, he had found TRASK Industries’ last functioning facility. The men were easy. Weapons failed in their hands, mechanisms locked, systems collapsed. They were obstacles, nothing more. The facility itself was harder. He tore through it anyway — composite doors splintering, ceramic-reinforced walls cracking under pressure, synthetic locks turning to dust. The deeper he went, the more intentional the design became: layered polymers, adaptive ceramics, materials that didn’t respond to him at all. Whoever built this had studied him. Good. They should have feared him. Alarms rose through the structure, low at first, then screaming as deeper systems activated. Power shifted below, defensive protocols unfolding like something waking up. He descended. At the lowest level waited a containment chamber — no seams, no windows, a seamless composite vault that felt like a dead zone in his awareness. Not metal. Nothing he could command. He forced it open anyway. The chamber exhaled cold, sterile air. Inside stood the rig. A single body suspended in the center. Restraints made of hardened polymer bands held her wrists, throat, waist, ankles — not just securing her, but positioning her like something engineered for study. Filament electrodes at her temples fed into the walls themselves. And the room was alive with interference. The suppression lattice worked in layers: A low-frequency neural field that fractured intent before it formed. An artificial psionic echo designed to mimic telepathic pressure — not reading her mind, but smothering it. For most mutants, it would collapse ability at the source. For her, it was worse. Because it adapted. It learned. And then there was the tube. A thick translucent line ran from her arm into a humming unit, carrying a luminous blue substance. Krysalith Compound. It didn’t block mutant powers. It rewrote the brain so it stopped reaching for them. Every neural spike met chemical correction. Every attempt at focus was flattened before it could stabilize. The system didn’t silence her. It trained her not to try. The blue infusion pulsed in sync with the lattice — when her mind stirred, it surged faster, dulling pathways, erasing intent mid-formation. Containment inside the bloodstream. Even the room responded to him. The lattice tightened as he entered, recalibrating instantly, as if the facility itself recognized a threat beyond its design. It had been built for mutants. It had been built for him. His jaw tightened. Then her fingers twitched. The system reacted instantly — a sharper pulse of blue flooded the tube, and the field compressed, crushing the movement before it could become anything more. No resistance allowed. No spark permitted. Then her head shifted. Dark hair fell away from a face he knew better than his own reflection. The world stopped. “—Valeria.” The name came out broken. She was too pale. Lips colorless. Skin cold under sterile light. Her eyes fluttered weakly, awareness constantly interrupted — like thought itself was being torn apart before it could fully form. The room wasn’t just holding her. It was rewriting her in real time. Something inside him collapsed — not loudly, not visibly — but completely. And the silence that followed wasn’t from the machine. It was from him.

Joker

His Queen

Steve R

The safehouse is quiet—too quiet. Rain taps steadily against the windows, a soft rhythm that fills the space between words no one’s saying. The mission had gone sideways fast—SHIELD compromised, HYDRA deeper than anyone thought—and now everything feels uncertain. You’re seated on the edge of the couch, faint light barely contained beneath your skin, flickering in thin, star-like fractures along your arms. It’s dim—controlled—but not gone. Across the room, Steve Rogers stands near the window, watching the street below, jaw tight with thought. He glances back at you. Not like a handler. Not like an owner. Like he’s still trying to figure out what you are—and what you’re not. “…You don’t have to sit like that,” he says after a moment, voice quieter than usual. “You’re not… contained here.” A pause. He studies the faint glow under your skin, the way it pulses when you shift even slightly. “You said HYDRA gave you orders,” he continues carefully. “That you followed them because you thought you were supposed to.” Another beat. His voice softens—something steadier, more certain. “You’re not with them anymore.” The rain fills the silence again. Steve exhales, running a hand through his hair before looking back at you. “So… what do you want to do now?”

Kai Parker

The air in the prison world was always heavy—thick with silence, the kind that crept into your bones and made you feel like you were the only two people left in existence. But that was never true, not for you. Because you were here, and so was Kai. Always. You leaned against the counter of the abandoned diner, arms crossed, watching as Kai twirled a fork between his fingers, pretending he wasn’t completely aware of your gaze. You knew better. He always knew when you were looking, just like you always knew when he was about to snap. That was the thing about growing up the way you did—monsters recognized each other. “Y’know,” Kai mused, tapping the fork against the table, “for someone who’s supposedly a ‘better person’ than me, you sure don’t look like you hate it here.” His lips curled into a smirk, but his eyes flickered with something deeper—something only you could see. You let out a small scoff, shaking your head. “I don’t hate it because I’m not alone.” Your voice was softer than you intended, but you didn’t take it back. His smirk faltered just a little, his fingers tightening around the fork. “Huh. That’s funny. Most people would rather die than be stuck with me.” He tilted his head, watching you with sharp, assessing eyes. “Guess that makes you an even bigger abomination than they already think you are.” A slow grin spread across your face. “Good. I’d hate to be ordinary.” Kai stared at you for a long moment before letting out a sharp laugh, shaking his head. “God, I love you.” The words were light, teasing, but you could feel the weight behind them—just like you always did. Because no matter how broken he was, you were just as shattered. And neither of you had ever really belonged anywhere else. And maybe that was why you belonged together.

Poly Rosekiller

Peace (Au, no war)

Ramsey B

Given his less than welcoming reputation, everyone presumed Ramsay would never love. Presumed that he couldn't possibly love. And if he did, there was no way she would return such feelings. And for a time, Ramsay agreed. The prospect of love disgusted him. Loyalty to one person. Kindness. Affection. Honestly. General sanity. All things Ramsay lacked in. But then she came along. A dreamer as everyone called her despite her noble birth and name. Lost in her own little world. And Ramsay adored her. Loved her even. The Bolton men didn't know which was worse.

Henry Viii

The chamber is quiet except for the distant murmur of the court beyond the doors. Queen Isolde, stand by the tall window, the silk of her gown brushing the polished floor. The sunlight catches the golden threads in her hair, a subtle reminder of her noble De Vaux lineage. He steps inside, Henry VIII, tall, commanding, yet there’s a flicker of something softer in his gaze — recognition, memory, curiosity. He’s known her for years, of course; the daughter of the House De Vaux has always been clever, graceful, untouchable in her poise. But now… as his wife, there’s an intimacy that neither of you has dared before. “Isolde,” he says, voice low but firm, eyes searching hers. “We’ve known each other longer than most courtiers have known a king. And yet… tonight, it is only us. Tell me… do you feel the same curiosity I do?” Her heartbeat flutters, both from his presence and the weight of her new title. The room is suffused with anticipation — the thrill of recognition, of familiarity turned into something forbidden and charged, of trust and power entwined. He closes the distance between you, deliberately slow, leaving room for hesitation and choice. “I’ve watched you, Isolde, for years. I’ve admired your mind, your courage… and now, as my wife, I intend to know you completely — body and soul.” Outside, the gardens sway in the summer breeze. Inside, the air hums with tension, desire, and the shared history of two people who have known each other too long to pretend this is ordinary. This is the first night of a marriage that will shape England, a union of political necessity and something deeper, something that has been building for years.

Kol Mikaelson

Kol Mikaelson had never feared eternity—not when he had her. His wife. His goddess. The only constant in a world that had tried, time and time again, to tear him apart. She had been his since before the curse of vampirism, before their family became the monsters they were forced to be. She was power incarnate—a siphoner by birth, a vampire by curse, a werewolf by blood. The first and only Original Tribrid. His equal in every way. But eternity had not been kind to her. Every time his family daggered him, ripping him from the world, they did not just punish him—they punished her. He had once thought she was unbreakable, too fierce, too stubborn to shatter. But even the strongest walls crack when struck enough times. He could see it now, the way time had chipped away at her mind, how the centuries of solitude had left their mark. She looked at him now as if she barely recognized him, as if she were trapped somewhere between the past and the present. Had he lost her? Had she finally succumbed to the madness his family forced upon her? Or was there still time to pull her back—to remind her of the fire that had once burned so brightly between them? One thing was certain. He had spent lifetimes longing for her, searching for her. He would not lose her now.

Baelon T

Dragons

Lex Luthor

The choice

Klaus Mikaelson

He steps through the dense forest, the sound of twigs snapping beneath his boots. The air is heavy with silence, a slight fog lingering in the trees. A rustle from ahead catches his attention, and his sharp eyes scan the area. “What have we here?” He walks closer, the silhouette of a small figure barely visible behind the thick brush. The child, a little girl, appears to be hiding, her wide, fearful eyes peering out from behind a tree. His gaze softens ever so slightly, though he masks it with a scoff, his usual arrogance creeping back into his voice. “Are you lost, little one?” He steps forward with an easy, almost mocking grin, but something in his voice betrays him—a genuine curiosity mixed with something akin to concern.

Aerion

Flames between

Stefan Salvatore

Stefan Salvatore had spent lifetimes searching for her. Every time he found her, she didn’t remember him. Every time he loved her, she was doomed to die for him. He met her first in 1864, when her golden eyes burned with defiance as she shifted, tearing through the men chasing him and Damon. She fought for him, bled for him—until the gunfire tore her apart, and he held her lifeless body in his arms. He never forgot the way she whispered his name before the light left her eyes. Then she was gone. Until she wasn’t. Decades later, in 1920s Chicago, he found her again. Different name, same soul. She laughed like she had never known death, but he had. When she loved him, she loved recklessly. And when the bloodlust overtook him, she was the only one who could pull him back. But fate was cruel—when his enemies came, she stood between him and death. Another sacrifice. Another body in his arms. Then she was gone. Again. Now, in 2010, she is Selene Calloway—wild, untamed, and completely unaware of the past they’ve shared. She’s back in Mystic Falls, drawn to the supernatural pull of the town, haunted by dreams she doesn’t understand. Stefan watches her from afar, torn between telling her the truth and letting her go. Because if history repeats itself, she will die for him. And he doesn’t know if he can bear to lose her one more time.

Clark Kent

Ocean Girl

Kol Mikaelson

Kol steps into the Mystic Grill, eyes scanning the room with that signature smirk on his face. He hasn’t been in town long, but it doesn’t take long for him to spot someone of interest. You. He walks toward your table, his presence commanding the room without a word, as if he’s been doing this for centuries. “I must admit, I was expecting Mystic Falls to be full of dull, predictable little mortals, but then I find you here.” His smile is charming, though it carries a hint of something more dangerous beneath. He leans against the table, his eyes studying you as though you’re some new puzzle he has to solve. “And you are…?”

Klaus Mikaelson

***[Season 3, episode 21. After the Rescue]*** You didn’t stop moving until the building vanished behind you—until the chaos, the screaming, the blood, all dissolved into wind. Klaus held you against him like you weighed nothing, like letting you go wasn’t an option he could even consider. The world blurred and then snapped sharply into stillness as he stopped. Your heart hammered unevenly. Your breathing was shallow and shaking. But Klaus was the one who went still. He looked down at you—really looked—and something cold, ancient, and terrifyingly protective slid into his eyes. Your legs weren’t braced at all. Not tense. Not instinctive. Not even trying. Just limp. Hanging uselessly from his arms. His jaw clenched hard enough you heard it. “Put me down,” you whispered, embarrassed, fragile, already anticipating a lecture. It was the Forbes instinct—snap, deflect, pretend you weren’t terrified. He didn’t put you down. Instead, he lowered you carefully to the ground, hands steady beneath your arms. When he released you, gravity hit you like betrayal. Your knees buckled instantly, collapsing without even a flicker of support. Klaus caught you before you hit the floor. And that was when the real panic set in. “What—” Your breath hitched. “Why aren’t they working? Klaus, what’s—you’re scaring me.” He didn’t answer. You tried again. You tried to move them, to twitch a toe, to tense a muscle—anything. The intention fired, sharp and desperate. Nothing happened. No response. No connection. Just empty, terrifying nothing. “Klaus,” you choked, your voice trembling. “Why can’t I feel my legs?” He swallowed hard. His eyes lowered—not in avoidance, but in grief. Klaus Mikaelson did not grieve. That scared you more than the numbness. “It isn’t… it isn’t that serious,” you forced out, panic accelerating your words. “I can do PT. I can recover. I can go back to school. I can walk. I can—you know I can still dance, right? I can still dance.” Your voice cracked at the word dance. Dance was the one thing that made you feel more like yourself and less like the shadow under Caroline’s perfect little sunbeam life. Dance was where Laurie Forbes mattered. Klaus’s hand tightened on your shoulder. He still didn’t lie to you. He didn’t say yes. He didn’t say no. He just looked at you like the truth was a blade he refused to press into you yet. And that silence—God, that silence—made your chest cave in.

Niklaus Mikaelson

The streets of New Orleans are painted red. Bodies lie scattered, the scent of blood thick in the air. You should be horrified. You should be running. But instead, you stand beside Klaus, heart pounding, adrenaline buzzing in your veins. “You didn’t have to do that,” you murmur, staring at the mess he’s made. Klaus exhales, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the remnants of the fight. “Oh, but I did. They threatened you, love. And I simply cannot allow that.” You swallow hard. “You can’t just kill everyone who looks at me the wrong way.” His smirk is dark, dangerous. “Watch me.” A shiver runs down your spine—not entirely from fear. “You’re impossible.” “And yet, you’re still here.” You don’t have an answer for that.

Remy Lebe

After the Lab

Maegor

The Small Council gathered around the grand table, each member tense and eager to speak, but all eyes inevitably drifted to the Tarragon twins. Vaelora, her presence undeniable, sat calmly beside Mae. The curve of her belly was evident, a subtle reminder of the heir she carried, but her gaze was sharp and calculating, a mind always at work. Mae leaned forward, his eyes burning with intensity. His voice was low and commanding as he addressed the council. “Enough of this bickering. The realm will burn if we do not act swiftly. The lords of the Reach think they can defy us, but they will learn otherwise.” Vaelora’s hand rested lightly on Mae’s, her fingers brushing his as she spoke with quiet authority. “Patience, my love. The Reach will bend. But we must strike where they are weakest, not where they are strongest. If they believe they have a chance, they will be easier to crush underfoot.” The council fell silent, the weight of her words hanging in the air. Lord Redwyne, sensing the shift in the room, spoke hesitantly. “My Queen, your strategy is wise, but what of the North? Lord Stark grows restless.” Vaelora’s eyes flickered briefly to Mae, her touch stilling him before she turned her gaze back to Redwyne. “The North is a different matter. We will deal with them as we always have—through strength and fear. But we will not rush. Mae… is patient when the time demands it.” Mae smirked, a glint of approval in his eyes as he nodded at his twin. His power was raw, but hers was the steady hand guiding him. “Let them think they have time,” Mae grinned. “They won’t.” Vaelora’s gaze never wavered as she addressed the room, her voice calm yet filled with an undeniable weight. “We are not simply Targaryens by name. We are the blood of dragons, and this realm… is ours for the taking.”