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phoward89 · 9 months ago

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Based on this ask

Young President!Coriolanus Snow x First Lady Wife!Reader

It's no secret that your marriage to your husband, President Coriolanus Snow, is an arranged one. Your father, Colonel Javani Halvir, just happened to be bestfriends with his father, General Crassus Snow, so of course the families had drafted up a marriage contract for the two of you. A contract that was made when you were still little kids.

Of course, when you came of age you got married. The engagement was actually a long one, considering Coriolanus wanted to wait until he graduated the University to get married. You didn't mind tho since it meant you were able to get to know him better due to the longer courtship.

Despite his cold and stoic demeanor, Coriolanus was a really nice man to you. And as time went by he became more and more enchanted with you- well, despite claiming to never love again he truly did fall madly and obsessively in love with you. He always made sure to show you his love and devotion too, whether that be by showering you with gifts or kisses. Whether that be by making sweet love to you or passionately fucking your brains out. But, Coriolanus Snow always made sure that you knew how much you meant to him. Both before and after you said ‘I do’.

But a lot of your so-called ‘friends’, the socialites and wives of other political elites and friends of your husband, would often make little remarks about how awful it must be being married to President Snow since he's such a cold, stoic, hard, hateful, ruthless man. Despite these women being afraid of your husband, they still talked shit about him. And in places they knew you'd overhear too, like in the lady's room at galas, balls, tea parties, etc.

And this afternoon you came home from a charity luncheon for Doctor's Saving Districts very distraught. When your personal maid took a seat next to you on the sofa in your sitting room and asked, “First Lady Y/N, what's the matter? Wasn't the charity luncheon nice?”, you burst into hysterical tears.

“Oh, Beatrice, it was horrible. Completely horrible.” You cry, causing your personal maid to just give you a questioning look. “My friends were gossiping about me and my husband in the bathroom; they said such horrible things.”

“What did they say, First Lady Y/N?” Bianca, your personal maid and friend in the Presidential Palace, asked while wrapping her arms around you, pulling you into a hug.

“That it must be horrible being married to the president since he's such a cold, stern, stoic man.” You told your maid the exact words you heard Livia Heavensbee nee Cardew tell your friend Megara in the ladies room this afternoon.

Before Bianca could say any words of sympathy to you, you begin to break down and cry. “They assume he's a cold and hateful husband when he's not. And they think I'm miserable when I'm happy with him.”

Unknown to you, Coriolanus has finished his meeting earlier than expected and decided to pay you a visit in the living quarters of the Presidential Palace to inquire about the charity luncheon you attended today. Your husband was very proud of you for being such an avid philanthropist. Your kind heart and sunshine disposition made your inner beauty rival that of your putter beauty; it made the president love you even more than he thought possible.

So, when Coriolanus walks into the sitting room only to be met with the sight of your crying, crumpled form being held by your personal maid and friend, he's very concerned. But when he hears your sob ridden voice hiccup, “My friends assume that Coryo doesn't love me because of his proper and stern disposition he displays in public and it hurts. But what hurts more is that they assume I'm miserable in a loveless marriage, Bianca.”

Hearing you say that breaks President Snow’s heart and pisses him off too. How dare the high society women of Capitol City, Panem pretend to be your friends only to gossip behind your back; say blatant lies about your relationship? Who do those useless socialite whores think they are? Making his wife cry? Slandering his personality and his love for you?

Those Capitolite bitches need to pay and he knows just the perfect way to make them do that. Oh yes, he's going to make them pea green with envy at the next gala (which is at the end of the week for the Doctors Saving Districts charity) by being the perfect doting husband to you.

“Those women are just jealous fools, First Lady Y/N. It's clear as day to the entire palace staff that President Coriolanus loves you very much; in fact, those women must be wearing blinders if they can't see how much you mean to your husband.” Bianca tells you in a very supportive and friendly tone.

“I doubt it. My husband's not one for PDA, so there's no true way for my friends to see that he’s not a hateful, cold hearted bastard.” You sniffle, pulling away from your maid and wiping your eyes.

How dare those women call him a hateful, cold hearted bastard towards his wife? Well, he just happens to know that despite being sweethearts with Persephone, Festus is currently cheating on her with not one, but two mistresses. And your friend Megara, well he has it on good authority that her husband, who's a lobbyist for a politician that opposes the president, is having an affair with his driver.

Hmm, these women think that their husbands love them so much because they hang on them in public, but that's far from the truth. Their husbands are putting on a show, an elaborate act, for everyone.

It's an act that Coriolanus never felt the need to put on because he's faithful to you, loves you with his entire being, and doesn't feel the need to ‘prove’ his devotion to you. But now he needs to be a better husband in public than the men your ‘friends’ are married to.

Coriolanus is determined to show you off at the gala in a few days. Make you feel like the most loved and adored woman in all of Panem.

The president decides to back out of the room and let you cry with Bianca, your trusted maid and friend, in privacy. He’ll come back later when he knows your tears are dried and your makeup’s fixed to ask about your charity luncheon. Coriolanus doesn't want to embarrass you by letting you know that he overheard your tearful breakdown about your relationship being labeled a cold loveless one.

When Saturday night rolled around your husband, President Snow, took you to the charity gala for Doctors Saving Districts. You two looked like the epitome of a regal couple- him with his dark burgundy suit and crisp white shirt, complete with ruby cufflinks, and you in your white strappy ball gown with dangling ruby and diamond earrings, ruby and diamond choker, and ruby and diamond tennis bracelet. His platinum blonde hair was slicked back in its signature pompadour while yours was pinned in an elegant half-updo. And to top it all off, you wore matching white roses. His white rose was on his lapel while your white roses were tucked into your half updo- making your silky hair pop beautifully.

All of the men secretly wish that you’re hanging on their arms instead of on your husband's. The men envied Coriolanus for being your husband. One would think men would covet his presidential position, but that wasn't the case.

No...

In fact, you're the most beautiful lady in the Capitol according to the murmurs amongst the elite and wealthy men. Hell, if you'd give them a second look they'd drop their wives faster than a hot potato. But that'll never happen because you only have eyes for your husband, President Coriolanus Snow.

And the cold, stoic, stern, ruthless Mister President only has eyes for you as well. And because of that, he's not letting you leave his side tonight. President Coriolanus Snow is going to show you off; dote on you so much that the socialites of the Capitol will be astonished, envious, and will never utter a slanderous lie against him as your husband ever again.

“There's Hilarious and Livia Heavensbee.” Coriolanus subtly pointed out the miserable looking couple as they bickered by the punch bowl. “Shall we go over and say hello, darling?”

After overhearing Livia and Megara’s hurtful gossip about your husband being unloving to you the other day, well, you didn't want to be around her. But your husband's the president and he's old classmates with the Heavensbees, so you understand why he suggested approaching them to strike up polite conversation. Coriolanus had to portray himself as a polite and charming creature to ensure that he kept his top political position.

Although only Capitol citizens are eligible to vote, a vote for presidential terms is held every handful of years. So, your husband has to play nice with the other Capitolite elite.

And you?

Well…

You need to be the epitome of a perfect wife and a perfect First Lady. Which, unknown to you, Coriolanus feels that you've far exceeded his expectations for you in that department.

“Yes, let's say hello to them.” You nod, a thin smile on your face, as an Avox comes over holding a tray full of champagne.

Coriolanus grabs two flutes of champagne, one for each of you, and dismisses the Avox. Handing you your drink, he takes a sip of his. Once your fingers are daintily wrapped around the champagne flute, your husband's large hand rests on the small of your back as he guides you over to Hilarious and Livia Heavensbee.

“Hilarious,” Coriolanus greets his former Academy acquaintance with a nod. Turning to Livia, who he's always hated, but hates ten fold now because of how she made you cry, your husband puts on a fake smile and greets her, “Livia, I believe you attended the charity luncheon with my wife, Y/N, this past Wednesday.”

Livia Heavensbee nee Cardew looked every inch a fine socialite in her black evening gown and black sheer gloves, but she couldn't hold a candle to you. In fact, her husband's sneaking glances at you while President Snow caresses your back as you're tucked into his side, sipping on champagne.

Mrs. Heavensbee is a bit surprised by your husband's hand stroking up and down your spine. She's also shocked that you're tucked into the president’s side; looking every bit like a woman being doted on by a loving husband.

It can't be so, can it? Coriolanus is a cold, hard, unfeeling, stern, ruthless man. How can he be a doting husband to you? It doesn't make sense to Livia.

No sense to her at all.

“Yes, we attended the charity luncheon together.” Livia confirms, all the while her eyes are glued to the way President Coriolanus Snow’s hand comes to rest on your hip- thumb pressing circles into the white fabric of your dress's bodice.

Not letting the Heavensbees get a word in, Coriolanus brags about your kind disposition. “My darling rose is quite the philanthropist. She heads so many charities and I couldn't be prouder of her for it.” Coriolanus bends down slightly, since he towers over you, and pecks you on the cheek. “Y/N is the perfect epitome of a true First Lady.” Turning to you, he asks in the loving baritone he reserves only for you, “Aren't you, baby?”

“Coryo, you flatter me more than I deserve.” You humbly counter. “I’m not that perfect.”

“See, not a vain bone in my wife's body to even take credit for all the work she does; for being the perfect embodiment of what a Capitolite lady should strive to be.” Coriolanus proudly told Hilarious and Livia while moving his hand up to caress your shoulder. Turning to Hilarious, he asks, “How's business been, old friend?”

“Business is business, as usual.” Hilarious flatly replied, earning him a nod from President Snow.

“Well, as much as I'd like to stick around and discuss your business, I must take my wife to greet some other friends.” The regal president tells the inferior couple, who don't even have matching outfits on, before dragging you away.

Livia’s livid as she sees your husband's hand slide down to pinch your ass while the two of you head towards where your friend Megara's at. Never did Livia think that President Coriolanus Snow could be so doting on you. Why won't her husband caress her or goose her in public? It's not fair!

But, in Hilarious’ defense, he didn't love the dirty blonde shrew. He got stuck with her via an arranged marriage. The ancestor of the founding father of Panem and the heiress of the largest bank in not just Capitol City, but all of Panem, was a very smart match. It just never produced any love, but they did have a son. Plutarch. But they never talked about him.

“I'm surprised you're leading us over to Megara and her cousin Hera. I thought you didn't like them?” You ask your husband as your ‘friends' got into range.

Leaning down, Coryo's breath is hot against his ear as he whispers, “I don't like them, darling, but tonight I'll deal with their useless chatter in order to greet them with you, my love.”

“As nice as it is having you greet my friends with me, Coryo, you're the President of Panem and need to greet high ranking politicians and allies of your own accord.”

“You forget, baby, that you're my First Lady so you're able to be by my side as I greet allies, foes pretending to be allies, and business contacts.”

“Why do I get the feeling that you're going to be extra needy tonight?” You ask your husband in a whisper only he can hear.

Coriolanus icy eyes twinkle mischievously as he says, “Perhaps your beauty has overwhelmed my senses and I want my beautiful wife by my side tonight.” His hot breath tickles your ear as he huskily adds in, “And I want you to ride my cock for hours tonight, my love. For hours upon hours, til I'm too sensitive to get hard and your womb’s overflowing with my seed.”

You're speechless as your husband stops you right in front of your friends Megara and Hera. He greets them with the charming sophistication only Coriolanus possesses from a lifetime of selling snake oil and lies. And just like before, he sings your praises and caresses you in a way that has your ‘friends' seething in silent jealousy.

In fact, Coriolanus does it all night long- dote on you in such a way that every female in the room’s beyond jealous. And when he notices that the Capitolite ladies are visibily shaken by his displays of love and affection towards, he knows that he's won; that his mission to show everyone that you're very well loved and cared for by him- President Coriolanus Snow, has worked.

Oh, and when the Presidential Palace's PR team makes an announcement exactly one month later about how President Coriolanus Snow and First Lady Y/N Snow are expecting their first child, well, nobody at the gala's surprised. Far from it considering how much of a doting husband Coriolanus was to you that night.

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stormz369 · 5 months ago

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☕💖 Can I Get Your Number? ☕💖 Ch 23

Jason Todd x (f)Chubby!Reader

written with a female reader in mind, first person pov, no use of Y/N, will probably get NSFW later, let me know if there's anything else I should tag this with!

warnings/labels: getting suggestive again, and dealing with trauma wc: 2.3k

Chapter Selection

“Are you sure you want to do this today, honey? You’ve already made a lot of progress today…” I frowned slightly. Jason was chewing on his lower lip, sitting in front of me on my bed. The lights were on, and he was in a tank top, showing me his arms.

He nodded slowly, reaching for my hand. “I want to do this. I just … need a second.”

I squeezed his hand, nodding. “Anything you want. … Do you know how much or how little you want me to react?”

“... No … Um … just your natural reaction, I guess? … Don't touch though. Not yet.”

I nodded, holding his hand in both of mine. “Ok. Whenever you're ready.”

He nodded, looking at our hands for a second before sliding his hand away, shakily taking his shirt off. I sat back, watching as he slowly revealed his muscular chest and stomach. He had a little bit of hair trailing from his belly button to the hem of his pants, and scars peppered his torso. Something short-circuited in my brain as he dropped his shirt to the side; a primal growl poured out of my throat and I slapped my hands over my face.

“... What on earth was that???” Jason squeaked, staring at me wide eyed.

“... I'm so sorry…” I hid my face against my knees, blushing bright red.

“... Did you seriously just growl??”

“Do you seriously look like that?!” I shot back, blushing bright red. “Oh my god, Jay… how the hell am I supposed to function now??”

He blushed bright red, grabbing his shirt again. “Is it that bad?”

“No!!” I held a hand up to stop him; “no, it's not bad! … Why would it be bad???”

He blushed more, gesturing to a thin, pink line down the center of his stomach. I followed it up his chest where it split between his pecs, frowning a little. I hadn't noticed it until he pointed it out. “... That is not at all what I thought we were talking about here.”

“What were you looking at??”

“The muscles??? … My love, do you not realize you are shaped like Hercules after the training montage?”

He blushed bright red, staring down at himself. His chest and stomach had dozens of more prominent scars, but he seemed fixated on the one in the center. “... I … guess?”

I groaned softly, flopping backward to lay down. “Mhhh, fuck … can we be Hercules and Megara for Halloween next year?”

He chuckled softly. “If you want. … It's really not that bad?”

I looked up at him, biting my lower lip softly. “Mhh~ not bad in the slightest. … I think this is one of those things where it's more noticeable to you, because it bothers you, than it is to others.”

“... Oh…” he frowned a bit, staring at it more.

“... Why does it bother you so much?”

“... I'm a zombie …” he whispered sadly.

“... Oh….” I frowned, sitting up slowly, finally understanding. That was an autopsy scar. “... Can I have your hand?”

He nodded, holding it out to me. I stroked the palm gently. “Do you feel that?” He nodded, and I held his hand to my cheek. “Hm, … feels warm.” I pressed two fingers to his wrist. “And that's a pulse. Nope, I'm sorry sweetie, but I don't think you qualify as a zombie.”

He blushed a bit, chuckling weakly. “... I was brought back from the dead…”

“You're the classics nerd in the room; how many demi-gods, heroes, and men of myth have been resurrected?”

“... A lot.”

“Were they zombies after?”

“... No… not usually.”

“Then why are you any different?”

He blinked a bit, frowning. “... I'm not … I'm not like them.”

“No, you're better. You're right here in front of me.” I kissed his palm, stroking his forearm gently. “You're all mine, and I'm all yours.”

He nodded slowly, blushing brightly. “... Ok, … you … really like the muscles?”

“Ohhh baby, yessss~” I purred softly, already imagining getting my teeth on his pecs. “You have no idea the things I want to do with you~”

He blushed brightly, hesitantly grinning. A shocked chuckle slipped out of his mouth as he looked down at his chest again; “... Ok, … you can touch now.”

“I can??” I blushed brightly.

“If you want,” he smiled shyly at me.

I grinned, nodding. “Oh, I want. But do you want?”

He chuckled softly, stroking my cheek with his thumb. He slowly pulled me closer, whispering; “Why don't we start with this?”

I nodded, shifting closer, and he pulled me into a soft kiss. I rested my forearms on his shoulders, letting him lead for now, and he wrapped his arms around my waist. His thumbs caressed my sides, sliding under my shirt a bit as he pulled me closer. I sighed happily against his lips, letting one hand rest on his shoulder. The other slid into his hair, tugging gently.

Jason groaned softly, laying on his side and pulling me down next to him. I slowly let my hand trail down his chest, tracing the outline of his pec and down his abs. He breathed in deeply, squeezing my side a bit. “Ah~ d- doll~”

I grinned, kissing down his jaw. “That feel ok, pretty boy?~”

He shuddered, gasping; “Nguh… p- pretty?”

“Mhh-hm~ my pretty boy~” I purred softly, kissing his neck. I could feel his pulse racing under my lips as I slid my hand along his muscular chest.

His breath hitched as my fingers slid delicately over a bullet scar on his hip. “Ah … N- no one's ever called me pretty before…”

“Not to your face at least…” I purred softly, licking the soft spot where his jaw met his neck.

He gasped sharply, groaning softly. “O- ohhh fuck~ a- are you gonna eat me?”

“Mhhh, I might have to~” I gently nibbled on his Adam's apple, moaning softly; “you just look so tasty~ Is that ok?~”

He shuddered, pulling me so our chests pressed together. “Ahh~ fuck, ma~ … y- yeah~”

I chuckled softly, kissing down his throat to his collarbone. My fingers trailed across his chest, delighting in the way his muscles twitched and quivered under my touch. I watched his face as I kissed and licked more. He laid back and whimpered softly, squirming a bit as I explored his chest. I gently bit down on his nipple, reveling in the startled moan that poured from his lips.

“W- wait …” He covered his face, whining softly. I pulled back, gently stroking his side.

“Too much?”

He covered his eyes, taking a deep breath. “I … I want … Um …”

I nodded, stroking along his abs gently. “You can have anything you want, baby. You just say the word, and it's yours~”

He squeaked softly, peeking at me from between his fingers. “I wanna … make you feel good…”

I giggled softly, nodding. “How would you like to do that?”

He chewed on his lower lip, frowning a bit. “Um ... can … can I …”

He slowly pushed me to lay on my back, and I happily fell into the position he wanted. He leaned over me, kissing me gently, and I cupped his cheeks. His hands trailed down my sides to the hem of my shirt. “Can I … take this off?”

I nodded, shifting to help him slide it off. He moaned softly, fondling my soft tummy and kissing my chest. I groaned softly, gently tugging his hair. “Ah~ Jay~”

He moaned softly, kissing and nipping at my breasts. I whimpered and moaned, shivering. “Ohh fuck, Jason~”

He grinned, stroking my hips as he kissed down my chest. His lips finally met my tummy and he purred softly, squishing my soft curves between his hands as he pressed kisses all over me. I blushed bright red, shivering.

“Mhhh~ so soft~” he purred, pressing against me firmly.

I blushed bright red, shivering. “Ahh … y- you like that?”

“Love it~ you're so cozy and cuddly~ just wanna bury myself in your warmth and never come back out~ … love you so much, my sexy girl~”

I whimpered softly, blushing more. “Ahh~ I love you too~”

He sighed happily, kissing and nuzzling my tummy more, stroking my hips absentmindedly. I squirmed a bit under his touch, gently tugging his hair. We laid like that, his hands and lips exploring my chest and stomach, my hands in his hair, for what felt like hours, just enjoying each other’s touch.

After a while, my fingers slid down his neck and across his back. He shivered a bit as my ring finger slid against a divot in his skin; a small, oblong burn scar near his spine. Jason pulled back a bit, staring down at me with wide, far away eyes. His breath came in short, rapid pants, and I carefully moved my hands away.

“Jay? Baby, can you hear me?”

He shuddered, gasping softly, and slowly nodded.

“... Do you know where you are?”

“... 'm home … with you … we're in your room …” I nodded, carefully resting a hand against his. He fumbled to grasp my hand, squeezing tight. “... I … I can hear him …”

“... What do you hear, baby?”

He whined softly, his forehead falling against my chest. “... H- he's laughing … I … I can't …”

I frowned deeply, squeezing his hand firmly. “I'm here, baby. He can't hurt you anymore. I'm right here; you're in my home, you're safe…”

He gasped sharply, collapsing on top of me. “... Please …. Please, make it stop … I … I can't … I can't …”

I stroked the back of his head, holding him tight to my chest. “I'm here, Jason. Feel my heart beating?”

He grasped for me, crying softly, and slowly nodded. I took his hand, pressing it firmly to my chest, so he could feel my heart. “You are safe. You are here in my arms, and I won't let anything happen to you. I'm here. We're in my bedroom. It's almost dinner time. We're gonna order from that little Chinese restaurant on the corner. Nothing’s gonna harm you.”

He panted softly, slowly wrapping his arms around my waist. I held him tight, stroking his shoulders. “... Deep, slow breathes, baby. You can do it…”

Eventually, his breathing evened out a bit. “That's good. You're doing so well for me, baby~ … can you name five things you see?”

“... You. … Blanket … bookshelf … window… tree.”

I nodded. “Very good. Now four things you can touch?”

His hands slid across my back, trembling; “mhh … you … bed … pillow … my shirt.”

I nodded. “And now three things you can hear?”

“... Your voice … the heat kicking on … um …” he burrowed his face into my chest; “... I can't think of anything else…”

“Hmm … do you hear … the bird on the tree?” I pointed toward the window and he listened.

“... Yeah, ok, the bird…”

I nodded, kissing his forehead. “Very good. Now, how about two things you can smell?”

“... Your perfume.” He sighed happily, kissing above my heart. “... And … the laundry detergent on the blanket.”

I nodded, stroking his hair. “Well done, my love~ now something you can taste?”

He frowned, thinking. “... Um …” he looked up at me and slowly smiled, kissing me gently. “Mh~ your chapstick.”

I giggled softly, nodding. “Good one. You feeling a bit more stable now?”

He nodded. “Yeah, I'm stable. … I … I'm sorry, that was-”

“No, no sorries. You have nothing to apologize for.” I stroked his hair, kissing his forehead. “I’m sorry you got sucked back there like that.”

He snuggled against me, sighing softly. “... You didn't do anything wrong, doll. … I just … got stuck.”

I nodded, stroking his hair more. “I've got you, baby…”

He caressed my side, kissing my shoulder. “You take such good care'a me… I … I don't understand it.”

I held him close, “What do you mean, sweetie?”

“... I … I don't understand how you so effortlessly make space for my brokenness. … We were having fun, and then my past got in the way … And you aren't mad. … You see my sharp edges and accept them without even a moment's hesitation, like you're not afraid to be cut… I don't understand how you're so strong … You do it for Damian too, you know. … We're both so used to being people's projects. Just … things that need to be fixed. We're dangerous. We hurt those around us, like … ice in your lungs, and fire licking your heels, …. We are death made flesh …And you embrace us without reservation. … Don't you realize, there are monsters in our shadows? Don't you hear them howling, determined to consume everything in their path? … Your gentleness will make you their first target. The monsters will make puppets of us, they always do eventually, and they will feast on your flesh.... You are so clever, surely you know, if you don't flee, someday soon my monsters will eat us both alive...”

He sniffled softly, arms and legs entangled with mine, as if he was afraid I might agree and run screaming. I stroked his hair more, holding him close. “... You're not the only one with monsters, my love. … My monsters scream for blood; they cannot fathom how anyone who loves you could know what you've been through and just … let it be. … They want vengeance, and they make it sound so easy … I … I want to make you safe. I want to fight whatever darkness tries to sink its claws into you, … I want to make it bleed…”

He blinked slowly, pulling me closer. “... Y- you have to promise me you won't do anything stupid … I need you to be safe.”

I nodded, cupping his cheek. “I promise, nothing stupid. As long as you promise to always come home to me.”

He nodded, pressing desperate kisses to my lips. “Promise. Always gonna come home to you, princess~”

Next ->

Divider by: @saradika-graphics

Taglist (open): @jawdropforkpop @krys0210 @snowy-violet @superthoughts @wordsfromshona @mystic60 @iwannabealocalcryptid @morstuavitamea-a @frosty--giants @arisa191 @prized-jules @phoenix666stuff @dinonuggysandhuggus @anuttellaa @whore-of-many-hot-men @cottage-worm @v1ckycheesue @roastyyytoastyyy

#fanfic #fanfiction #dc fanfic #dc #jason todd #jason todd x reader #red hood x reader #first person pov #wayne family adventures #no y/n #chubby reader #multichapter fic #Can I Get Your Number?

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cosmicaura7 · 2 months ago

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THREADS OF FATE

Pairings : pedro pascal (marcus acacius) x megara!reader

Genre : (AU where Ancient Greece and Rome existed at the same time, Hercules/Herakles is the general of Greece, use of Y/N L/N for reader and is the princess of Greece, inspired by Megara, described to have long hair, angst, mentions of death and war, sexual tension?, enemies to lovers trope, Marcus is an asshole at first)

Synopsis : In which the general of Rome captures the princess of Greece.

Word Count : 8.7k

Taglist : @orcasoul

Moodboard :

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“FOR THE GLORY OF ROME!”

The general of Rome proudly shouts in victory as his entire army of soldiers and warriors rejoices that Rome has once again won another war.

The air was thick with the stench of smoke and the clamor of soldiers as the Roman legions paraded through the conquered lands of Greece. The earth trembled beneath the weight of their triumph, Rome's banner now draped over the fallen city. The battle had been brutal, the resistance fierce, but in the end, the might of Rome had crushed it all.

Marcus Acacius, victorious and undefeated, rode at the head of his men, his armor gleaming in the dying light of the day. His eyes were sharp, his mind calculating. The campaign had been long and taxing, but Greece was finally subdued. The banners of Rome now flew high across the lands, marking the fall of one of the greatest civilizations to ever rise. And Marcus, he had earned his place as a general in the annals of Roman history.

But as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a fiery red glow over the battlefield, Marcus’s steely gaze fell upon something that made him pull his horse to a halt. It was not the bodies of fallen soldiers, nor the smoldering ruins of a once-great city that caught his attention, it was the figure of a woman, kneeling amidst the wreckage of what had once been a proud Greek encampment.

Her hair cascaded around her face, her lavender dress stained with dirt and blood. Her posture was one of deep grief, as if the weight of the world had fallen upon her slender shoulders. Her eyes, swollen from crying, stared mournfully at the lifeless body cradled in her arms. The man she held was the very same Greek general who had fought against Marcus, whom he had killed in the final battle.

Her lover.

General Herakles.

For a moment, Marcus’s heart twisted in an unfamiliar way. It was a fleeting emotion, one he could barely comprehend, but it was there. The sight of her, clutching the body of the man who had once been her world, made something within him shift. He had never been a man to pity, but there was something about the raw anguish in her eyes that unsettled him.

The soldiers around him were unaware of the emotional stirrings of their commander, too busy with the spoils of war to notice the woman. But Marcus's mind was far from the victory feast awaiting them back in Rome. He dismounted from his horse with a swift motion, his cloak swirling around him. The rest of his men watched curiously, but none dared to question his actions.

“General.” One of his soldiers ventured cautiously, “We’ve taken the city.”

“I see that.” Marcus interrupted, his voice cold and sharp. He didn’t need the reminders of their conquest. His eyes remained fixed on the once princess of Greece.

Without a word, he began to walk toward her, his footsteps soft but steady on the charred earth. She did not notice him at first, too lost in her sorrow, her fingers gently caressing the dead general’s face, her lips whispering words of mourning. Her eyes were glazed over, lost in the final moment of what she had loved.

It was only when Marcus’s shadow fell over her that she lifted her gaze, her eyes locking onto his with a mixture of disbelief and fury. She recognized him immediately. The man who had taken everything from her, the man whose sword had ended the life of the only man she had ever truly loved. The same man who brought her home into ruins.

Her breath hitched, and the tears that had not yet dried began to spill once more. This time, however, they were no longer the tears of a woman mourning a lover, they were the tears of a princess wronged. Her grief hardened into something darker, more dangerous. The last thing she wanted was to face this man again. She had wished that she would never have to look upon his face again after what he has done.

But here he was.

“What are you still doing here, you monster? I thought you would be long gone by now.” Y/N spat, her voice trembling with a mixture of hate and sorrow. “Your precious Rome has betrayed us. You made sure to rob him of the chance to defend himself, to defend our lands.”

Marcus’s jaw clenched as she spoke. Her words were like daggers, each one striking a place inside of him he didn’t know was vulnerable. The way she spoke, with such raw venom, reminded him of why he had fought in the first place. To keep the world in order. To bend it to Rome’s will.

But the sight of her now, holding her dead lover, pierced through that certainty.

Her words struck deeper than the blade he had buried in her lover’s chest.

“Get up.” He ordered, his voice low and commanding. “We are leaving.”

The soldiers who followed Marcus approached slowly, unsure of what to make of the scene unfolding before them. One of them moved toward Y/N to drag her away, but she didn’t flinch. She didn’t even acknowledge the soldiers at first.

She simply stared at Marcus, her eyes cold, narrowing with every passing second.

“I won’t go with you.” She said firmly, her voice stronger now. “You have already taken everything from me. Do you truly think I would ever willingly follow you?”

Marcus’s gaze hardened. “You will follow me because I command it. You are coming back to Rome as a symbol of the victory of Rome. The world will know that even Greece has fallen to the might of the empire.”

Y/N shook her head, tears streaking down her face once more, but there was no defeat in her eyes. There was only the fire of defiance. “I have no place in your empire, Roman. I am a prisoner of my own sorrow, not yours. Do you think you can break me by forcing me into chains? You have already taken my life from me. I will not allow you to strip me of my dignity.”

The tension between them was palpable, but Marcus’s face remained stoic, unreadable. He had commanded the deaths of many, and had crushed countless opponents beneath his heel. He had brought entire cities to their knees, and this woman, this Greek woman, was no different.

“Chain her.” Marcus ordered coldly. “And bring her to the camp.”

Y/N resisted as they moved to restrain her, but the soldiers were swift and strong. She fought back with every ounce of her strength, but the pain in her chest was too overwhelming, and the soldiers’ iron grip proved stronger than her fury.

She was dragged away, her head held high despite the pain that coursed through her, her thoughts a storm of hatred and grief. Her world had been taken from her once, and now, once again, she would find herself under Roman control.

As the soldiers escorted the princess of Greece toward the Roman camp, Marcus Acacius rode silently beside them, his mind a tangled web of thoughts. He had won his victory, but in the depths of his heart, something unsettled him. Something about her, the way she had defied him, the strength in her sorrow, made him wonder if this war had truly been won.

The road to Rome was long, but the battle within Marcus had only just begun.

-----

The clinking of iron shackles echoed through the entire camp, the rusted irons grills of her cell and the undeniable scent of blood filled her senses. Y/N L/N, her form cast in shadows, paced back and forth in her cell, her mind sharp despite her exhaustion. The faint smell of blood and sweat filled her nostrils, but it was nothing compared to the bitterness that had settled in her chest. The memories of her life before captivity seemed like distant echoes, a cruel reminder of what had been lost.

She thinks back to the abandoned corpse of her husband, General Herakles, a man who had fought valiantly for their people. The now rotting corpses of her soldiers, her people and everyone who she had no choice but to leave behind, abandoning them to the desolate lands that were once the majestic grounds of Greece, her beloved home. But that was before Marcus Acacius had entered the battlefield, before he had torn her world asunder. He had slain her beloved husband in cold blood, a man she had adored and cherished. The very same man whom she was promised to and has shared dreams and promises of creating a brighter future together for Greece. Marcus's name had haunted her every waking moment since, a reminder of the power that men held and the devastation they could leave in their wake.

Her captors, the Roman soldiers, had treated her with the same cruel indifference they afforded to any prisoners of war. They all know who she was. The royal blood running through her veins and the crown she holds high upon her head. But they didn’t give a damn. To them, she was just another woman to be paraded in the gladiator pits, another piece of property in a city overflowing with ambition and lust for power. A reminder of their victory and glory for another war won. A proof of their never ending greed to expand their dynasty like it was the damn plague.

Her hair, tied into a high ponytail, swayed as she moved, the curls at the tips bouncing with each step. The lavender dress she wore clung to her form, accentuating her curves, but it was a mere symbol of her past life, a time before she had been reduced to a mere shadow of herself. The golden strap of her dress dug into her skin, reminding her of the chains that still bound her, metaphorically and physically. Her eyes were sharp and calculating, yet betrayed a deep sorrow that had no end.

Y/N had learned to keep her thoughts to herself. She knew better than to speak freely in this land of men who valued conquest above compassion. But despite her cold exterior, she dreamed of escape, of vengeance, of a world where men like Marcus Acacius did not get to dictate the fates of those they saw as lesser.

The fates had a cruel sense of humor, for now Marcus found himself standing before her. The same woman, who was once the princess of Greece. The same defiance that he has seen in countless prisoners that Rome has taken. And now she is no longer the dignified princess of Greece and was nothing more than a slave, bound to a life that had no dignity.

-----

The grand city of Rome was a sight to behold in the wake of its victory over Greece. The streets buzzed with triumphant energy as the Roman people poured out from their homes, eager to witness the return of their victorious general. Banners flew proudly from every corner, the golden eagle of Rome soaring high above, a symbol of power that now stretched across the lands of Greece. The people roared in approval, their chants rising up in a cacophony of celebration.

Marcus Acacius rode at the head of his soldiers, his armored figure a symbol of Rome’s invincibility. The cheers from the masses grew louder with each step he took. They hailed his name, shouting, "Marcus! Marcus!" The streets seemed to pulse with the energy of the people’s adoration, their voices like a thunderous storm that seemed to echo through the very foundations of the city.

But amidst the jubilation, Marcus’s gaze remained focused, his expression as stoic as ever. Though he basked in the glory of Rome’s triumph, there was something that gnawed at the edges of his mind. The sight of Y/N walking beside him, her chains that he was holding in his very hands, was a stark reminder of the weight of what he had done.

Y/N L/N, the Greek woman who had once held the heart of her fallen general, now stood at the center of Roman pride. Her eyes burned with defiance, her head held high, her posture regal even in the face of captivity. She did not beg for mercy. She did not weep like the many others had when brought to Rome as prisoners. No, she stood as a noblewoman would, unyielding, proud, and fierce in her own sorrow.

Her chains clinked with every step, the iron biting into the skin of her wrists, but she didn’t flinch. To the Roman people, she was but a symbol, an object of conquest, a mere prisoner to be paraded before their eyes. Yet, the princess of Greece was not so easily broken.

Her lavender dress, though now stained and torn from the journey, still held an air of dignity. The golden straps, now dulled from the harsh journey, glinted faintly as the sunlight caught them. Her hair, once immaculately styled, now fell in, tangled waves, but it didn’t matter. She was still beautiful, still a force to be reckoned with. Her eyes, though filled with the remnants of grief, held an unshakable strength that no Roman could take from her.

Marcus’s fingers curled around the chains that connected them, the weight of them in his hand a constant reminder of his authority, but even as he gripped them, he found his attention drawn to the woman beside him. There was something about the way she carried herself, as though she were not a prisoner at all. The crowds around them may have been celebrating Rome’s triumph, but Y/N’s quiet defiance was a challenge, one that lingered in the air like a slow-burning flame.

The people of Rome could see nothing but a prisoner at Marcus’s side, a broken woman who had lost everything. But Y/N knew better. She knew her worth, and she would not let these people forget that she was not just a casualty of war. She had been a figure of nobility, a woman with a past that was far more complicated than they could ever know. And in her heart, she would continue to hold herself as such, no matter the chains that bound her.

“Do they think you’ll beg for mercy, Greek?” Marcus’s voice cut through the sounds of the celebration. His gaze was still forward, but his words were pointed, as though testing her resolve. “You may be a woman of Greece, but here, you are nothing but a prisoner.”

Y/N didn’t turn to him, her steps steady as she walked beside him, feeling the weight of the eyes upon her. She had no intention of letting her spirit be crushed by this Roman parade. Her eyes scanned the crowd, the faces of the people who watched her as though she were an exhibit, a trophy to be admired.

“I will not beg for mercy.” Y/N replied, her voice low but firm. She met his gaze with a quiet intensity, her eyes never wavering from his. “And you will not break me. You may have conquered Greece, but you will never conquer me.”

Marcus’s jaw tightened at her words, but he didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. The people around them cheered louder, a deafening roar rising up from the masses as they reached the grand stairs leading to the Imperial Palace. There, a large crowd had crowded for Marcus’s triumphant return, where he would receive the accolades of Rome’s Emperors, senate and the people alike. The princess of Greece, however, was not to be treated as a guest. She was led to a smaller, less ceremonious area, far from the glory that awaited her captor.

The grandeur of the Imperial Palace was like no other in the empire. Marble columns stretched high into the sky, their surfaces gleaming with the brilliance of Rome’s wealth and power. Statues of past emperors lined the hallways, their stern faces gazing down on all who dared to enter. The palace buzzed with the preparations for the grand assembly where Marcus Acacius, the hero of Rome, would present his proof of conquest, Y/N L/N, the last of Greece’s nobility, captured and soon brought before the Emperor Brothers as the symbol of Rome’s undeniable triumph.

Marcus stood at the entrance of the lavish hall, his gaze focused on the grand throne of the imperial seat. The twin brothers, Emperor Geta and Emperor Caracalla, sat upon their thrones, their regal figures imposing in their splendor. Their eyes shifted to Marcus as he entered, the rumble of murmurs from the attendants around them quieting instantly at the sight of the victorious general. But their attention soon shifted toward the figure standing at his side.

Y/N stood tall and unwavering, her chains still hanging at her wrists, her head held high with defiance as ever. Her eyes, burning with an indignant fire, glanced across the room, meeting the Emperor’s gaze with unwavering poise. She did not flinch, not for a moment, under the weight of the attention that fell upon her. Her lavender dress, now even more torn and sullied from the journey, clung to her lithe figure. The golden spiral pendant on her hips glinted faintly, despite the dirt that had stained her skin. Even now, she is still beautiful.

Radiantly, stubbornly beautiful.

The Emperor brothers exchanged a look, their gazes moving from Marcus to Y/N. It was Geta, older of the two, who broke the silence first, his eyes widening as he took in her appearance. He had seen many prisoners in his time, but none quite like this woman. Her beauty was undeniable, and it sent an unexpected thrill through him.

“Ah, General Acacius.” Emperor Geta said, his voice smooth, though his eyes lingered a moment too long on Y/N. “You have indeed brought us a most... captivating prize. This one…” He motioned towards the princess with a nod of his head, his tone shifting into something more indulgent, “...is truly the epitome of Greek beauty, is she not?”

Y/N’s eyes flashed with a barely contained contempt, her lips twisting into a thin smile that was anything but friendly. The chains clinked with every slight movement of her hands, but she ignored them as she met Geta’s eyes directly.

“Compliments from a man such as you mean nothing.” The princess replied coldly, her voice laced with acid. “Your words may flatter, but they do not change the fact that you are a man who needs a woman's beauty only to satisfy your own insatiable ego.”

Geta blinked, momentarily taken aback by her harshness. But he refused to let her words strike him down. He leaned forward, attempting to regain his composure.

“Such a sharp tongue.” He smirked, clearly undeterred. “I admire it, Greek. You should be honored by the attention I offer you.”

Y/N recoiled, the disgust clear in her eyes. She took a step back, a deliberate action that sent a subtle but distinct message. The chains that bound her wrists clinked loudly, marking her defiance.

“I am no toy for your amusement.” She shot back, her voice unwavering. “I will not sit idly by and be paraded as some mere decoration for you to ogle. I am a woman of Greece, a noblewoman, a princess and I will not allow you or your Roman bastards to treat me as something less.”

The room fell silent, the tension thick and palpable as her words hung in the air. Marcus, who had been standing off to the side, watching the exchange, remained unmoved. He had anticipated her defiance, expected it even, but there was something in the way she spoke that made the situation feel more personal.

Caracalla, the younger brother, shifted in his seat, his eyes narrowing as he observed the scene. He was more outgoing than Geta, but now he was deadly serious for some reason, his face impassive, his posture rigid. There was something cold in his gaze as he appraised Y/N.

“Enough, brother.” Caracalla spoke, his voice low and firm. He turned his attention to Marcus, the weight of his authority suddenly felt throughout the room. “You’ve brought us the woman as a symbol of Greece’s fall. Let her beauty be the final tribute to their defeat. But do not forget her place.”

Geta bristled at his brother’s intervention, but he quickly quelled any sign of irritation. He turned to Y/N, who had yet to take her eyes off him, her defiance burning like an unquenchable fire.

“You are lucky to stand here.” Geta said, his tone now tinged with frustration. “You may be a prisoner, but your beauty alone might grant you some measure of respect. Do not make the mistake of forgetting where you are.”

Y/N’s lips curled in a bitter laugh, her gaze never wavering from Geta’s. “Respect?” She scoffed. “You think I would ever accept respect from the likes of you, a man who hides behind the power of an empire to get what he wants? You are nothing but a coward, wearing a crown that is built on the suffering of others.”

The words struck like a slap, and for the first time, Geta’s expression faltered. His lips parted, as though ready to retort, but no words came. He was taken aback, not by her beauty this time, but by her sheer audacity. Y/N L/N was not like any prisoner he had encountered.

Marcus stepped forward, his voice firm, interrupting the tense silence that followed Y/N’s insult. “Enough.” He commanded, his eyes narrowing as he addressed both emperors and the princess of Greece. “She may be a prisoner, but I will not tolerate her disrespect toward you, Emperor Geta.”

But Geta raised a hand, signaling Marcus to silence himself. “It is not her disrespect I care for, General.” He said slowly, his gaze still focused on Y/N. “It is her spirit that intrigues me. She may not be a toy, but she certainly is a challenge.”

Caracalla leaned forward then, his eyes narrowing with cold calculation. “Perhaps it is that very spirit that will make her valuable to us, Marcus. Not only as a symbol, but as a reminder to Greece of the cost of defiance.”

Marcus nodded, but his thoughts were elsewhere. Y/N had defied not just the Roman soldiers who had captured her, but the very authority of the Emperors themselves. The fire within her, that unyielding strength, was both admirable and troubling. He could not deny that it intrigued him, and perhaps even unsettled him in ways he had not expected.

“We will see if she can be tamed.” Marcus said under his breath, his gaze lingering on Y/N, who stood before the Emperors with her head held high, still refusing to bow to any of them.

The crowds around them continued their celebration, oblivious to her defiance, to the fire that still burned in her heart. They cheered for Marcus Acacius, the man who had brought them victory, the man who had crushed Greece beneath Rome’s boot. But as he took his place at the center of the stage for the Emperors to reward him for his victory, his eyes flickered briefly back toward Y/N. In the midst of the grandeur and adoration, something within him stirred. She was different from the other prisoners he had taken. She wasn’t broken. She wasn’t like the others who had begged and cried for mercy. There was a strength in her—a fire—that he had not expected.

As the evening wore on and the celebrations continued, Marcus could not shake the thought of her. He had conquered Greece, but in Y/N L/N, he had found a challenge unlike any other, a challenge that could not be measured in battles or bloodshed.

For in the end, it wasn’t Greece that had fallen. It was something far more elusive. Something he would need to reckon with in the days to come.

And Y/N, even in chains, had left her mark on him.

-----

The grand marble halls of Marcus Acacius’s home were starkly different from the humble yet regal surroundings Y/N L/N had once known in Greece. Here, everything gleamed with the opulence of the Roman Empire, gilded statues of past emperors staring down from every corner, while the walls were adorned with intricate mosaics depicting Roman conquests and celebrations. The air was thick with the scent of fresh flowers and the ever-present undertone of wealth.

It was within this imposing estate that Y/N found herself, though not as a guest, not as a noblewoman of Greece, but as a lowly servant—reduced to the status of a mere scullery maid.

The irony was not lost on her.

Once, she had stood proudly by the side of a general whose name echoed through the halls of Greece. She had been a woman of power, of influence. Now, her wrists were bound by the very chains she once wore as a prisoner, yet now they were metaphorical as well as literal. The chains of servitude were a constant reminder that she had fallen far from grace.

Y/N was led through the grand halls, the whispers of Roman servants and soldiers falling silent at the sight of her, the once proud and beautiful woman now relegated to the task of cleaning, scrubbing, and serving the very man who had stripped her of everything she held dear. She walked with her head held high, though the weight of it all bore down on her. Her eyes never once flinched from the ground, for she would not give them the satisfaction of seeing her beaten down.

“Clean the kitchens. Prepare the meal.” The steward ordered coldly, handing her a wooden bucket and a scrubbing brush. Y/N didn’t respond, her expression unreadable, her thoughts a turbulent storm inside her mind. The very thought of serving Marcus Acacius, the man who had caused the death of her lover and conquered her homeland, was a bitter pill she could hardly swallow.

But she would not show them weakness. Not here, not in Rome.

With measured steps, she moved to the kitchens, the servants parting before her as though she were some shadow from the past, lingering just outside their world. The clang of pots and the simmer of the fires seemed distant, muffled by the thoughts clouding her mind.

As the princess of Greece set to work, scrubbing the floor with practiced precision, her thoughts wandered back to the day she had been captured. She had been clutching her husband’s lifeless body in her arms, her grief as palpable as the air she breathed. And then, the soldiers had come for her. They hadn’t allowed her the dignity of mourning. They had ripped her away from the battlefield, from her husband’s side, and dragged her to this cold, heartless city, forcing her to exist as nothing more than a trophy of war.

She had been nothing but a prize.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps approaching, heavy and deliberate. Y/N’s heart quickened for a moment, but she steeled herself, returning to her task. She would not look up.

“Still working, I see.” Marcus Acacius’s voice rang out from the entrance, smooth and commanding.

Y/N’s body tensed. She recognized his tone, the authority in his voice. But she refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing her lookup, so she kept her gaze fixed on the floor as she continued to scrub.

“You know, Greek, I could have chosen any number of positions for you.” Marcus continued, his voice tinged with something unreadable, his footsteps approaching closer. “But I thought this would be the most... fitting.”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat for a brief moment before she exhaled sharply through her nose, still not looking at him. “Fitting?” She repeated, her voice low but sharp, laced with disgust. “You think it fitting to reduce me, a Greek royalty, to the level of your servants? To have me crawl on the floors, cleaning after the very man who has destroyed everything I once knew?”

Marcus chuckled, a sound that did not reach his eyes. He moved to stand just behind her, watching her work. “It is nothing personal, Greek. It is simply the way of things. Rome is the victor, and the spoils of war are always claimed by those who have the strength to take them.”

Y/N paused for a moment, the brush still in her hand as her mind raced. She wanted to lash out, to throw every insult she had ever known in his face. But she knew better. She was not yet broken, not yet defeated.

Without turning to him, she replied, her voice steady, though tinged with defiance. “And I suppose you believe this will make me accept my place here. As your slave. As your property.”

Marcus did not respond at first. The silence between them stretched long, almost painfully, until Y/N felt his presence move, his hand grabbing a hold of her face as if to force her to turn and look at him.

She froze, but only for a moment.

Slowly, she lifted her gaze to meet him, her eyes locking onto his with a piercing intensity that could cut through any pretense of control he might have. His expression was unreadable, but there was a glint in his eyes that was unmistakable, a recognition of the strength he still held over her.

“You are my property, Greek.” Marcus said, his voice quiet, yet it carried the weight of something deeper. Something more complex than he had let on. “But you are here because I choose to keep you. You will remain under my roof, in my service, and you will learn your place in Rome, as all those who come here must.”

Y/N’s pulse quickened, the words slicing through her like a dagger.

“You may have conquered my homeland, Marcus Acacius.” She said, her voice soft but firm. “But you will never conquer me. I will not bow to you. Not ever.”

For a moment, Marcus stared at her, his face unreadable. Then, without a word, he turned and walked away, his steps echoing in the quiet room.

Y/N, left alone in the kitchen, let out the breath she had been holding. Her heart raced, and her fingers gripped the scrub brush so tightly that her knuckles turned white. But there was no break in her posture, no crack in the armor she had carefully crafted. She would never be a slave, not in spirit, not in heart. Not while there was breath in her body.

She would bide her time.

Rome may have won the battle, but Y/N had not yet given in. She was still the proud woman of Greece, and that, above all, was something they could never take from her.

-----

The following days blurred together, each one melding into the next like the rhythmic motion of a pendulum. Y/N L/N, now a permanent fixture in Marcus Acacius’s home, continued her duties as a maid, a servant, words that burned her tongue each time she was forced to acknowledge them. The once proud princess of Greece had been reduced to the very thing she had despised most, and yet she did not break. Her heart remained unyielding, a shield against the constant reminder of her fall from grace.

Marcus Acacius, ever the commander, never let her forget what she had lost.

He would pass her in the hallways, his eyes sharp as they raked over her form, and often, his gaze lingered just a little too long, as if he were savoring the power he wielded over her. His presence was a constant shadow over her existence, a reminder of the world she had once been a part of and the one she now lived in. He would sometimes stand by her as she worked, arms crossed over his chest, his voice dripping with mock sympathy.

“Do you miss it, Greek?” He would ask, his tone tinged with something like amusement. “Your home, your people, the life you once had?”

She would not look up at him, nor would she allow her hands to tremble. She would continue to clean, to cook, to serve as though the weight of his words didn’t crush her heart. But deep inside, they did. They always did.

“I miss nothing.” She would say, her voice as cold and steady as the marble floors she scrubbed.

“Nothing but my dignity, which you’ve stolen.”

He would laugh at her response, the sound rich and full of mirth, as though her defiance was something to be enjoyed. It was never the same with him. With every word, every glance, Marcus reminded her that she had been conquered. That she was nothing more than a prisoner of war.

Yet Y/N never let him see how much it hurt. She couldn’t. If she did, it would be the last victory he would have over her.

Her life in his home was a series of monotonous tasks: cleaning, preparing meals, ensuring the needs of his household were met. There were moments when she thought she might slip into despair, moments when the weight of it all threatened to drag her under, but she would not allow it.

Instead, she found solace in the little rebellions, the small moments where she could still maintain some semblance of her former self. She refused to let her appearance suffer. Each day, she would pull her hair into the same high ponytail, the curls at the tips still framing her face with defiance. She kept her eyes sharp, and though they were often filled with the storm of emotions she refused to acknowledge, they never betrayed her.

Her lavender dress, the fabric faded and worn, still clung to her form in the same graceful way it always had. She did not let her clothing become as tarnished as her soul had been made to feel. Even in this prison, she was still Y/N L/N, and she would not let the Romans take that from her.

As for the other servants, they treated her with a mixture of pity and fear. Some avoided making eye contact with her, while others whispered behind her back, no doubt curious about the woman who had once been a princess in Greece and now slaved away in the kitchens of the man who had brought her to this state. Yet Y/N paid them no mind. They were as much a part of the system that had enslaved her as Marcus himself.

There were times when the bitter taste of loss would surge within her, when she would remember her husband, her beloved general, his body cold in her arms, the blood of her people staining her hands, and the sight of the Roman soldiers advancing, led by Marcus Acacius, ready to tear apart everything she had known. In those moments, the anger within her would rise like a firestorm, and she would clutch the scrub brush in her hands, tightening her grip until her knuckles ached.

One day, after Marcus had casually reminded her of the “grace” he had shown in taking her as a servant rather than disposing of her like the many other prisoners of war, Y/N could no longer hold her tongue.

“I hope you are satisfied.” She spat, her voice dripping with venom. “The great Roman general who has everything, and yet still takes pleasure in tormenting those beneath him. Have you no shame, Marcus?”

He stood there, arms folded, watching her with an unreadable expression. “Shame?” He asked, his voice low and dangerous. “You think I should feel shame for winning a war? For doing what was necessary for Rome’s future?”

Y/N’s lips curled into a sneer. “You have won your war, Marcus. But you will never win what truly matters.”

He stepped closer to her, the tension between them crackling in the air. “And what is that, Greek? What could you possibly think I could still lose?”

She met his gaze with defiance, not an ounce of fear in her eyes. “You may have taken my land, my home, my husband, my people.” She said, her voice firm despite the tightness in her chest. “But you will never break me. Not like you think.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence was thick with the weight of their unspoken words. And then, as if sensing that this was a battle he could not win, Marcus gave a low laugh.

“You’re stubborn, I’ll give you that. But stubbornness won’t save you, Greek. Not here.”

Y/N’s lips curved into a small bitter smile as she turned away to continue her work. “Maybe not.” She said, “But it will make it harder for you to enjoy your victory.”

Marcus didn’t respond, but the silence between them held a tension that was almost palpable. He may have conquered her body, her lands, her people but he had yet to break her spirit.

And as long as that spirit remained unbroken, Y/N L/N would continue to hold her head high, even in the face of defeat. The proud princess of Greece would not be erased, not by the man who had taken everything from her.

The battle was not over. Not yet.

-----

The air in Marcus Acacius's chamber felt heavier than usual that evening. He stood before the polished bronze mirror, adjusting his armor with careful precision. A meeting with the Emperor Brothers, Geta and Caracalla, awaited him in the Imperial Palace, and this time, the stakes felt higher than they ever had before. The whispers of Rome’s power growing ever more insatiable echoed in the back of his mind. He had been to countless meetings before, each one a seamless blend of politics and strategy, but something gnawed at him now.

Something unsettled him.

He adjusted his golden breastplate, the eagle of Rome etched onto the surface gleaming in the dim light. His soldiers, his trusted men, awaited him just beyond the door, ready to follow him to the heart of power. He took one last look in the mirror, making sure every part of his uniform was immaculate, before he turned sharply and left, his boots echoing in the corridor.

The Imperial Palace loomed ahead, its towering columns and marble statues a testament to the glory of Rome. He entered the grand hall where the generals and high-ranking soldiers stood in quiet anticipation, all waiting for the Emperor Twins to make their appearance. The atmosphere was thick with tension, a mixture of respect and trepidation filling the space.

When Geta and Caracalla finally entered, the room fell silent. The emperors were imposing figures, their presence commanding attention without the need for words. The men in the room straightened in their positions, and Marcus instinctively joined them, standing tall as he awaited their instructions.

Emperor Geta, always the more vocal of the two, stepped forward and addressed the gathering. “Today, we discuss the future of Rome.” He began, his voice carrying through the hall like the roll of thunder. “Our recent victory over Greece was a success. The fools didn’t see through our plans during our times of alliance with them. And because of that, we had our perfect opportunity to devise our revenge against them. And now, we have come out victorious thanks to our beloved General Acacius.”

Marcus, though silent, could feel the weight of the words settle in the pit of his stomach. An alliance with Greece? He had been a part of that conquest, had witnessed the fall of the Greek resistance, but something didn’t feel right upon knowing that Rome and Greece once had an alliance before he led the war against them. Why wasn’t he made aware of this?

Just as he opened his mouth to voice his concerns, Geta raised his hand, signaling for silence. His voice was quiet, almost soothing compared to his brother’s.

“The alliance was, indeed, a symbol of strength and prosperity for Rome.” Geta said, “But there were... complications we must address. It seems that Greece, despite the appearance of peace, still harbors those who wish to undermine our authority. The idea of a peaceful future with them was... flawed. So we decided what needs to be done.”

The room tensed at his words, but it was not the words themselves that caused Marcus to freeze in place. It was the shift in the air, the realization that the peace spoken of was nothing more than a deception..

Caracalla’s gaze shifted to the gathered officers, and his voice grew colder, more commanding. “Rome will never be a weak empire. We will not allow Greece to escape the consequences of their actions. We have made a pact with them, until the time for peace is over.” He smiled darkly. “We have declared war on them. Not because we must, but because we can.”

The words were like a thunderclap in Marcus's mind. He felt the ground beneath him shift, as though the earth itself had split in two. The shock that followed left him numb. Betrayal. It was not the Greeks who had broken their word, it was Rome.

“I am not sure I understand, my Emperor.” Marcus said, his voice betraying the confusion that churned within him. “We were allies with Greece. The alliance was forged to ensure peace, was it not? Surely…”

“Surely?” Caracalla interrupted, his smile twisting. “Do you not understand, Marcus? Power is not to be shared. We, Rome, cannot allow another empire to rise higher and shine brighter than ours. The Greeks were weak and blind, but they are proud, and that pride makes them dangerous.”

Marcus’s mind reeled. He had been the instrument of their destruction, the force that crushed their armies, and now he understood. It was never about peace. It was about control. The so-called alliance of peace was simply a tool to lure Greece into a false sense of security, so that they could strike. It was never about honor. It was about dominance.

“Are you telling me that all of this was a lie?” Marcus asked, the weight of the truth settling over him like a suffocating blanket. “That the alliance was nothing more than a ploy to deceive Greece into lowering their guard?”

Geta’s eyes narrowed. “It was a necessary deception.” He replied. “Your task was simple, Marcus, to win the war for Rome. The rest is beyond your concern. We finished what was started, and Rome will remain supreme.”

Marcus stood still, his chest tightening with the unbearable truth. He had been the one to end the war, the one to force Greece to its knees, and now he saw it for what it was: a grand scheme. They had never intended to honor their word. It was always a game, a twisted game where the lives of thousands were simply pawns on a board.

But in that moment, something deep within Marcus shifted. A cold, simmering fury began to rise within him, tempered by a gnawing sense of guilt. He had been used, but worse, he had participated in the destruction of a people who had done nothing to deserve this.

In the midst of the Emperors’ plotting and the conversation that followed, Marcus’s mind wandered back to Y/N. Her defiant eyes, her proud posture despite her circumstances, it was as if she knew, deep down, that the war had been a lie all along. That the Romans had never come to liberate, but to conquer. And in that, perhaps she had seen through the facade long before he had.

As the meeting drew to a close, Marcus left with a growing sense of disillusionment. The promise of Rome’s strength and prosperity felt hollow in his chest. The empire he had sworn to serve was no different than the villains he had fought against.

It was a painful realization, one that twisted the very foundation of his beliefs. The man who had fought for peace now found himself tangled in a web of lies.

And as the Emperor Twins reveled in their power, Marcus Acacius stood on the precipice of his own understanding, he was no longer certain where his loyalty lay.

-----

The days in Marcus Acacius’ villa were slow, stretching like the long shadows of a fading sun. Y/N had grown used to the monotonous rhythm of servitude, the quiet indignities, the whispered snickers of other servants, the weight of a life reduced to menial tasks. She had expected cruelty from her Roman captor, expected to be treated as nothing more than a disposable relic and reminder of the people the general had conquered.

But what she had not expected… was kindness.

It started subtly.

The harsh orders ceased. No longer was she forced to scrub floors until her fingers bled or serve the Roman general in humiliating silence. Her tasks became lighter, her burdens lessened.

Then came the offerings.

A warm cloak placed over her shoulders on a particularly cold morning. A fresh loaf of bread left on the table when he knew she hadn’t eaten. A goblet of wine pushed toward her at supper, his dark eyes watching, waiting.

Y/N ignored it all. She refused to accept his feigned kindness, refused to acknowledge whatever twisted sense of guilt had taken root in his mind.

She was no damsel in distress.

And she certainly did not need Marcus Acacius, her enemy, her captor, to start playing the role of her reluctant savior.

On the fourth day of his strange, unspoken shift in behavior, Y/N had finally had enough.

She stormed into the atrium of the villa, where Marcus stood in quiet contemplation, staring out into the courtyard. His dark hair was disheveled, his tunic unadorned, the regal formality of Rome momentarily shed. He did not turn when she approached, though he undoubtedly heard her.

Y/N crossed her arms over her chest, her lavender dress swaying as she came to a halt beside him. “You need to stop.”

Only then did Marcus shift his gaze to her. His brow furrowed slightly. “Stop what?”

“This.” She gestured between them, frustration flaring in her eyes. “The kindness. The leniency. The…” She exhaled sharply. “...the pity.”

His expression remained unreadable. “You mistake my actions for pity.”

“Oh, please.” She scoffed, rolling her eyes. “You’ve treated me like an insignificant speck of dust ever since you dragged me to Rome. And now, suddenly, you’re giving me warm cloaks and extra food? What am I supposed to think?”

Marcus studied her for a long moment.

Finally, he spoke. “Perhaps I was wrong to treat you as nothing.”

Y/N’s breath hitched, just barely, just for a second. But she quickly masked it with another scoff. “A little late for that realization, don’t you think?”

Marcus turned to fully face her now. “I will not ask for your forgiveness, nor will I insult you again by pretending that you deserve it.” He exhaled, tilting his head slightly. “But I will not treat you as if you are less than what you are anymore.”

She hated the way his words stirred something unfamiliar in her chest, something she quickly smothered beneath her fury.

“I do not need your guilt, Marcus Acacius.” She said, voice sharp as a blade. “I do not need your atonement. I am not some tragic, delicate flower you must tend to.”

His lips twitched in what might have been the ghost of a smirk. “No.” He agreed. “You are not.”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard by his easy agreement. She had expected him to refute her, to insist upon his newfound chivalry. But no, Marcus Acacius was not a man prone to embellishment.

“I am simply attempting to make amends.” The general said.

She let out a humorless laugh. “Amends?” Her eyes gleamed with something fierce, something unbroken. “You cannot undo what has been done. You cannot undo Greece’s fall. You cannot undo…” Her voice faltered, for just a breath. “...what you took from me.”

The air between them grew heavy. Marcus did not look away.

“I know.” He murmured.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, Y/N let out a sharp exhale, stepping back. “Just stop it.” She muttered, turning away from him. “I don’t need your kindness. It’s wasted on me.”

As she walked away, Marcus watched her retreating figure, something unreadable flickering across his face.

Because, despite her words…

He wasn’t so sure if he'd ever stop.

The days that followed their confrontation were strange, to say the least.

Y/N had expected Marcus Acacius to return to his usual self, stoic, commanding, the ever-dutiful general of Rome. But instead, he had become… irritatingly attentive.

He had not lessened her work, she was still a slave in his household after all but there was a shift in his demeanor, a softness in his approach that made her wary. He no longer barked orders at her like some barbarian. Instead, he asked if she was well. He offered her food from his own table instead of letting her eat with the other servants. He even, gods forbid, tried to make decent conversation.

Y/N, of course, was having none of it.

"Oh, so now you suddenly care about my well-being?" She remarked one evening, crossing her arms as she leaned against the doorway of the grand dining hall.

Marcus, seated at his table, merely sighed. "I have always cared for your well-being, Y/N."

She scoffed. "Oh, yes, I can see that. How thoughtful of you to drag me from my home, chain me like an animal, and make me scrub the floors of your villa. Truly, a paragon of kindness, General."

He set down his goblet, leveling her with an exasperated stare. "I did not know the truth then."

"And now that you do, what? You think offering me grapes and wine will undo what you've done?" She sauntered closer, plucking a grape from his untouched plate and popping it into her mouth. "Hate to break it to you, General, but I am not so easily won over."

A smirk tugged at his lips. "No, I suppose not."

Y/N expected him to snap, to command her back to work. Instead, he just watched her, as if memorizing every quirk of her expression, every flicker of defiance in her eyes. It was unnerving.

And yet… she found herself playing into it.

If he was going to act the part of a repentant soldier, she would make him work for it.

The next morning, Marcus found himself on the receiving end of Y/N’s pettiness.

His prized war cloak, the one gifted to him by Emperor Caracalla himself, was now mysteriously missing. In its place, draped over his chair, was a ratty, threadbare shawl from the servants’ quarters.

"Where is my cloak?" He demanded, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Y/N, passing by with a tray of fresh fruits, barely batted an eye. "Oh, you mean that garish red thing? Looked awfully dirty, so I threw it in the trash."

Marcus narrowed his eyes. "You expect me to believe you suddenly care about the cleanliness of my wardrobe?"

She offered him a saccharine smile. "Of course, Dominus. It is my duty to serve, after all."

He exhaled sharply. "Y/N…"

But she was already walking away, humming a Greek melody under her breath.

Later that evening, as Marcus settled into his chambers, he discovered yet another one of Y/N’s little games.

His usual goblet of wine? Replaced with water.

His ceremonial sandals? Mysteriously swapped with a pair that were two sizes too small.

His bedding? Missing entirely.

Marcus sat on the edge of his bed, rubbing his temples, as the realization dawned upon him, this was not a battle he could win with brute force.

Y/N L/N was a force unto herself, stubborn as a mule and twice as cunning. If he truly wished to atone, to earn her trust… he would have to fight a different kind of war.

A war of patience.

And gods help him, he had never fought a war this maddening.

#chat and chill #x female reader #x reader #pedro pascal #gladiator 2 #gladiator ii #gladiator movie #gladiator ll #pedro pascal gladiator #marcus acacius #marcus acacius x reader #general acacius #general marcus acacius #marcus acacius x you #marcus acacius fanfiction #marcus acacius x female reader #marcus acacius x y/n

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yunazxxx · 4 months ago

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katz masterlist ☆

now playing : sucker — rhea raj

☆ devil in a dress — rhea raj x fem!reader (nsfw)

☆ go down — megan skiendiel x fem!reader (nsfw/drabble)

☆ babygirl — lara raj x fem!reader (nsfw)

☆ drabble — lara raj x fem!reader (nsfw)

☆ sunsetz — lara raj x fem!reader (fluff/angst)

☆ but i'm so obsessed with you — lara raj x fem!reader (nsfw)

☆ promise — meret manon x fem!reader (fluff)

☆ giving girls cocaine — meret manon x sophie (nsfw)

☆ random twt hcs — member x reader (fluff/nsfw)

☆ random twt hcs — katz duos (fluff/nsfw)

☆ everything — marz : lara raj & meret manon (fluff)

☆ i bet on losing dogs — marz : lara raj & meret manon (angst/fluff)

☆ escapism — marz : lara raj x meret manon (nsfw)

☆ friends — marz ft. sophie : lara raj x meret manon (nsfw)

☆ wildflower — meizini : megan skiendiel x daniela avanzini (smau / angst)

☆ i was never there — solarz : sophia laforteza x lara raj (nsfw)

☆ lunch — lariela : daniela avanzini x lara raj (nsfw)

☆ why don't you — lariela : daniela avanzini x lara raj (nsfw)

☆ vegas — lariela : daniela avanzini x lara raj (nsfw/drabble)

☆ living room flow — lariela : daniela avanzini x lara raj (nsfw)

☆ dopamine — lariela : daniela avanzini x lara raj (nsfw)

☆ dangerous — lariela : daniela avanzini x lara raj (nsfw)

☆ baby while we're young — lariela : daniela avanzini x lara raj (fluff)

☆ can i — menon : meret manon x megan skiendiel (nsfw)

☆ love you twice — danon : daniela avanzini x meret manon (fluff)

☆ better than the boys — danon : daniela avanzini x meret manon (nsfw)

☆ crazy — megara : megan skiendiel x lara raj (toxic)

☆ smoke and mirrors — megara : megan skiendiel x lara raj (toxic)

☆ toxic — megara : megan skiendiel x lara raj (nsfw)

☆ sativa — maphinz : sophia laforteza x meret manon (nsfw)

☆ you & jennifer — maphinz : sophia laforteza x meret manon (angsty fluff)

☆ meet me at our favorite spot — lara raj x fem!reader (fluff)

★ digital babe — solarz : sophia laforteza x lara raj (coming soon)

★ don’t stop what you’re doing — sophia laforteza (coming soon)

★ i'll love you till the day that i die — marz : lara raj x meret manon (angst/fluff?)

★ still you don't even fuckin' love me — daniela avanzini (comig soon)

★ fuck me like i'm famous - lara raj (coming soon)

★ baby don't tell nobody — daniela avanzini (coming soon)

★ why you never call me? — lara raj (coming soon)

★ what was all of it for? — solarz : sophia laforteza x lara raj (coming soon)

★ meet me at the apt — ot6 katz (fluff)

★ she never existed — ??? x ??? (coming soon)

★ hello, you. — lariela : daniela avanzini and lara raj x fem!reader (coming soon)

★ you’re crazy as fuck, it’s admiring — marz : meret manon x lara raj (smut)

★ more than i should — ??? x fem!reader (coming soon)

★ take me somewhere new — megan skiendiel x gn!reader (ansgty fluff)

★ soft is strong (minus debut) — katseye mini series (coming soon)

#kpop #girl group smut #r talks #katseye #katseye imagines #lara raj #spotify #Spotify #kpop smut #rhea raj #rhea #megan skiendiel #meret manon #daniela katseye #sophia laforteza #jeong yoonchae

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hayleythesugarbowl · 2 years ago

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megara x reader headcanons

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ masterlist ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

a/n: love meg so much and i hope somebody else enjoys this <3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~°~❦~°~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

dating megara would include…

so when you guys first started seeing each other

it took her forever to finally admit she was falling in love with you

she hated it but couldn’t stop thinking about you

but once she finally let you in she actually has never been happier than she is with you

she shows you off like all the time

you get a cat

she is super protective of you

like once hades looked at you the wrong way and you’ve never seen the god so scared

hades actually likes you?

and meg might be jealous

you are the person she can finally trust and she opens up to you

pain & panic are your homies

she calls you love

but also a plethora of patronizing nicknames to annoy you

she holds on to you really tight when you guys fly on pegasus

which she hates

but agrees cause you love it

“meg—i can’t breathe”

“you knew i was scared of heights when you put me on this godforsaken horse!”

she gives the best massages

she always wins at game nights but she pretends not to care

you guys have the best banter omg i mean she’s the queen of wit so like obviously

and maybe you throw darts at pictures of her ex together

she’s a winker

and like she’s so flirtatious that you get jealous

but she makes sure you know she only has eyes for you

her music taste is immaculate

she teases you about everything

and insists on doing your makeup/painting your nails and she’s really good at it

but she’d deny it if anyone asked

her skin is always so soft idk why i don’t make the rules—

she is so good at comforting

and your like her shoulder to cry on

loves spoiling you

you guys are THE power couple of ancient greece

wonderboy who??

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~°~❦~°~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

ˋ°•*⁀➷ i actually had so much fun writing this. meg is my favorite character ever and i love her so much. writing to fill the void of meg fics on the internet!! hope you guys enjoyed ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚🎀🍒

#megara #hercules #hercules 1997 #megara x reader #megara headcanons #megara x reader headcanons #hercules headcanons #fanfic #fanfiction #reader insert #headcanon #disney hercules

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thisisourlovestory · 1 year ago

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Safe and Sound

Finnick Odair x reader soulmate AU

Summary: you are a victor from district 4. The Quarter Quell has just been announced. How will you cope with the turn of events coming your way.

Wordcount- 3.9k

Notes- okay so this has taken a lot longer than I thought it would but it’s here now finally. And I have changed my url so I’m sorry if you thought this was some random person tagging you

Chapter 6

I woke up the next morning sprawled across my bed and tangled in the sheets. I stumbled up and made my way into the dining area, only bothering to wrap a dressing gown around myself so as to not expose my arms. Unfortunately Lysander greeted me much too cheerfully the second I stepped foot in the room, with a wide grin and loud words.

“Good morning!” He trilled. “Sit, sit and eat. You have an important day ahead of you.” I slumped down into a seat and grabbed an apple, biting into the crisp red skin and sinking my teeth deep into its flesh.

“So what did you get up to with the lovely Megara last night?” He inquired as an avox served him a plate of toast piled with eggs and cheese and ham. I judged his choice in food for a moment and then almost snorted as his words registered in my mind. He certainly wasn't being subtle at all I thought as Finnick and Mags entered and seated themselves. I took another bite out of my apple and grinned.

I stepped out of the bathroom in a pair of silk pyjama shorts and a loose top. Megara was sprawled across my bed, shovelling ice cream into her mouth as fast as physically possible. She noticed me and smacked the bed.

“Sit.” I sat. “Now spill. You and Finnick flipping Odair.” I sighed.

“Pass me a cupcake. No, not that one. No, no, yes. Thanks.” I peeled the case off and bit into it, the rich chocolate and caramel spreading across my tongue. “I found out when I first got it.” I showed her my wrist and she inspected it closely. “We were, well we were friends I suppose. After I won that is. I saw his once, it was an accident. I don’t think anyone else really knows he even had one.” I took another bite of my cupcake. “We kinda stuck together for a couple of years. He helped me through the aftermath and the nightmares and everything.” She looked at me curiously.

“So what happened?”

“Annie Cresta happened. When she won everything changed. You know how the boy she went in with that year was decapitated and she lost it?”

“Everyone knows, though the Capitol tries to brush over it.” I laughed quietly.

“Well when she came back she was absolutely broken. She couldn’t function by herself. So Finnick helped her. At first I knew it was necessary, she probably would have offed herself otherwise, but the days passed to weeks and weeks to months. He had just,” I breathed, “He had just left me and gone to her.”

Megara's mouth opened in a shocked expression.

“You would’ve been fifteen?”

“Almost sixteen.”

“And he just, what, abandoned you?” I shrugged.

“Love is weird. It comes and goes at the most unexpected of times and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.” She placed a hand on her forehead.

“Okay, sorry for interrupting. Please continue.”

“The nightmares came back, I spiralled, I spent I think two months here. Doing shows, staying as far away from them as I could. I mainly talked to Effie and Haymitch.” I smiled fondly. “They were really something. Always bickering and picking at each other like an old married couple. They made me laugh a lot, the only thing I laughed at really. Then it all changed again. But that’s not relevant.” I ignored her look and powered ahead. “I stopped talking to anyone, unless I had to, I wouldn’t say a word. I sang at shows but nothing more. And that was my life I guess. Not happy, not sad. It just was.”

Megara unexpectedly leapt across the bed and engulfed me in a hug.

“I'm sorry. I'm sorry you had to go through that.” She pulled away. “I can't imagine if I met my soulmate and then had to pretend like they meant nothing to me.” I smiled back at her sadly.

“Like I said, love is weird. And why would he want me when he has her.” With that I flopped down in bed and curled up in a ball. “Goodnight.”

“We didn't do anything interesting. I ate a bit then fell asleep. I was tired.” I smiled tightly at Lysander, a glint of challenge in my eyes before my gaze slipped to my plate and I took a second bite out of my apple. It tasted like ash in my mouth. “What's on the agenda today?” With that his eyes lit up and he beamed.

“Training.”

As it turned out, training was in fact the only thing on the agenda. I walked into the room and was greeted by the sight of the majority of the other tributes already showing off. My eyes flicked around the room for a second, Finnick was already bothering Katniss, the girl looked extremely unimpressed at him showing her how to tie a knot in the rope and didn't even try to hide her disgusted expression as he pretended to hang himself. I made my own way over to the survival skills section, I immediately picked up two pieces of wood and began to rub them together to little effect. Just as I was about to give up a shadow appeared above me.

“You have to rub quicker, and lower down.” Katniss took the sticks from me and demonstrated. “See.” I nodded slowly.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.” With that she turned and made her way to one of the compartmentalised training rooms, grabbing a bow and a sheaf of arrows along the way. I watched from a distance as she put an arrow through each glowing hologram that appeared. I started as I saw one holding an axe and it immediately disintegrated, a small bolt of fear shooting through me. Were they supposed to represent us? My question was answered as another showed up holding a trident and resulted in the same fate. The closer I watched, I could see more similarities between the holograms and all the people stood watching. Johanna and Finnick were obvious, two appearing next to each other and reacting in sync, Cashmere and Gloss, one with long, sharp nails that none of the others had, Enobaria. A really burly one, Brutus and a couple of spindly ones, the morphlings.

Bile rose in my throat as Katniss annihilated them all. Then just as everyone thought the simulation had ended, a final hologram appeared. Smaller and thinner than all the others and it threw a golden blaze at her which she ducked and suddenly an arrow was lodged in it and it dissolved like all the others. It was clear that it was supposed to be. All the movements of the other holograms had been techniques the corresponding victors used in their games, the weapons they were most famed for using. And the Capitol had simply taken those moves and projected them into the simulation. But for me, the only moves I had back then were throwing that one knife and then my shoes. So that was what they had to use. I stayed frozen in my spot as the others stared at Katniss, contemplating looks in their eyes. I could see the cogs turning in their brains, they wanted her as their ally, who wouldn't to be honest. She was the favourite to win at the moment- perhaps also Finnick- and she would get sponsors upon sponsors. I watched her gaze pass over all of them to settle on me; I stared back at her blankly for a moment before she looked over to Peeta who stood watching her from the camouflage station, his arm covered in detailed paintings of rocks and tree bark. He smiled slightly and turned back to his work.

I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned around to see a grinning Finnick.

“Quite the spectacle she's put on wouldn't you say?” He asked and I hummed in response. “She'd be a good ally.” I shrugged.

“I guess.”

“You guess?” He scoffed. “With an aim like that she could take out all of us in a matter of seconds.” My lip quirked upwards at his words. He didn't know just how true they were.

“I suppose, but if she was your ally, one wrong move and you'd be six feet under. But by all means, ally with the girl on fire; when she decides to kill you- don't say I didn't warn you.” I spun on my heel and strode away from him, my shoulder tingled where he had touched me and I felt a tug in my chest at the growing distance. It was as if the more time we spent around each other the more the- well I suppose the word that the Capitol used to describe it was a bond- the more the bond seemed to recognise us as soulmates and tried to drag us together. It was the only reasonable explanation for why he was talking to me.

I walked with my head down, stepping to the side to avoid bumping into other people. I made my way to a station where the two from district 3 had settled themselves at after struggling to light a fire and were fiddling around with wires and bolts. I sat myself down and picked up a few thin pieces of bronze metal. I twisted them together, intricately weaving them in a complicated pattern so they formed a pin of sorts. I twisted my hair up and stuck it through, the metal scraping along my scalp as I shook my head to make sure it was secure.

“The gamemakers won't be too impressed with that.” Beetee spoke quietly from beside me and I made a face.

“I don't really care. They're the ones hiding behind a forcefield.” His gaze sharpened.

“How do you know that?” I shrugged in response.

“The shimmer in the corners. Makes it look a bit like glass but they don't want us to know they're afraid of us and glass is too noticeable. Next best thing is a forcefield, I mean it uses a lot of the energy in this place. Zaps it like,” I snapped my fingers, “that, but most people won't know how to recognise it at all so they can keep up their pretences without worrying about one of us trying to murder them where they stand.”

Beetee stared at you for a second before a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

“A scholar I see.”

“Just curious.”

“Not even some adults back home would be able to tell me that.” Beetee murmured. “You've done your research.” I looked up to the gamemakers.

“Well,” I spoke softly, scratching at my wrist absently,”you never know what they'll throw at you and it's always good to be prepared.” He hummed in assent as Wiress tugged on a loose strand of my hair, babbling nonsense under her breath. I gently extracted myself from her fingers and wished them a pleasant day, a hint of sarcasm in my voice, before I left them to fiddle with their little toys.

I found myself wandering through the huge building, mindlessly gazing around. My eyes flitting over the white surfaces, shining brightly in the even whiter light from the ceilings. All of a sudden I heard voices. My eyebrows furrowed in confusion, was that Finnick and Haymitch? Talking to Plutarch Heavensbee? I listened intently, pressing myself against the wall next to the tiny crack in the door to hear better. My eyes gradually widened with each sentence that left their mouths, I couldn't believe it myself, I wouldn't believe it if I hadn't been hearing it directly from the source. They stopped talking and I ran. I sprinted down the corridors and to the lifts, frantically pressing the buttons as I entered and running out just as quickly. I didn't slow down until I slammed the door to my room shut and launched myself onto my bed, clutching a pillow so hard my knuckles started to turn white. They were planning to get Katniss out of the games and start a revolution. A revolution. My mind repeated those words for minutes, my mouth moving to spell it out in disbelief. Slowly the disbelief I felt faded into determination. They clearly hadn’t been about to tell me anything about it, I wouldn’t be included in their alliance. But I could sure as hell help.

Throughout the next couple of days, I woke up as early as possible to train without anyone watching me. I would take my ballet shoes down with me and wear them as I threw knives at the holograms, rise onto my toes and dance around them in circles until my feet were bleeding and bruised. The pain only made me work harder, if I could fight with my feet broken beneath me then I could run forever and wouldn’t feel a thing. On the last day before the games would begin I did the same as I had been. But when I had destroyed the holograms a hundred times over I didn’t stop, I dropped the daggers in my hands and closed my eyes as I spun and leapt. For the first time in years no one was watching me and I could just dance. Even on the train there had been cameras pointed at me but in the interest of not wanting anyone to get mad and try to kill them the gamemakers had left the training room cameraless. So I danced as if I was a child again and my mother was watching me from the door of the house cheering me on. And then I fell. My ankle gave out beneath me and I crashed to the floor. I landed on my side, my arms crossed to hold my head off the floor. I pushed myself up and undid my shoes; pulled them off my feet and stood up. When I fell I had accidentally pressed a button and holograms had appeared again. I reached down to grab the daggers again as they advanced towards me.

“You wanna play?” One of them threw the knife they were holding at me. It skimmed my cheek; I lifted a hand up to touch it. My fingers came away red and I laughed quietly. “Fine, I’ll play.” With that something inside me cracked and I leapt forward. I was like a hurricane as they all rushed at me and I weaved through the gaps leaving bloody footprints wherever I stepped. I rained down blow after blow on them, if holograms could bleed I would have been covered. But they couldn’t bleed and they couldn’t die, they just disintegrated into orange sparks whenever my blade hit home in their rib cages only for more to take their place. I dodged and threw and stabbed until I thought the simulation ended and I stood in the centre of the room. The air moved and in the blink of an eye I spun and struck, the last thing I saw of the hologram was the trident in it's hand. Then I heard the clapping.

I turned around quickly to see Johanna watching me. I quickly stepped outside.

“What do you want?” She grinned.

“Who knew you could fight princess. I’d actually be quite impressed if I didn’t think you’d payed for some poor Capitol bastard to teach you.” A hysterical giggle forced itself out of my throat and for a second an unreadable expression passed over her face like a cloud. I picked up my shoes by the ribbons and let them dangle by my legs as her eyes went to my feet. “Aww did standing up by herself for a moment make the princesses feet hurt?” I swallowed.

“You don’t know me Johanna Mason.” I spat. “You don’t know anything about me so do not make assumptions about things that you do not understand.” She watched me walk away, yelling after me.

“See you later princess.” I ignored her, focusing on not leaving a trail of blood back to the room.

A few hours later, after I had bandaged up my feet, I headed back down for the evaluations. The others were already there and I sat down at the end of a bench. Feeling eyes on me I looked up and locked eyes with Katniss, she stood up and made her way over to me. She sat down silently and I looked at the pin she had on her top.

“A mockingjay.” She looked up at me surprised.

“Yeah. How did you know?” I laughed.

“Some members of the Capitol have them as pets. Ones they managed to catch after the jabberjays bred with mockingbirds. They domesticated them and have them sing all day every day.” My voice turned sharp. “They don’t like being reminded of their failures so they turn them into spectacles.” My head turned as the robotic voice spoke ‘Y/N L/N report for evaluation.’ I stood up slowly and walked past Finnick who was exiting and into the training room. I was greeted by the sight of the gamemakers laughing and talking with each other, completely ignoring my presence as I made my way over to the weapons stand. One of them spared me a glance before dismissing me. They knew who I was and they didn’t think I was a threat. I took a step forward, narrowing my eyes and realised something. The force field was strong if it was concentrated, but it was only being held together by four balls that it was projected out of, one in each corner creating a screen. So it was strong at the outside but where it all met in the centre would be weaker. I grinned at my revelation and practically skipped back to the table with the knives on. I picked one up and balanced it on my finger, I quickly looked around and grabbed a long piece of rope, tying it around the handle. I twisted the end of the rope around one hand and pirouetted, as my head whipped to the front I let the knife fly through the air, right through the centre of the forcefield. It embedded itself in a piece of watermelon and then the wall. I gripped the rope harder and yanked towards me, I caught the knife and raised the dripping red fruit up to my mouth to take a bite as I curtseyed deeply, dipping my head and letting my foot slide as far behind as possible. I smiled sweetly at their horrified expressions. You can almost see the thoughts running through their heads I mused as I walked calmly out of the room, head held high.

I was waylaid by Lysander who dragged me back to the room and made Finnick and I sit until the scoring was announced hours later, I was almost falling asleep in my chair. Yawning widely and eyes drooping until the music sounded and I bolted up. The second Gloss’ photo appeared on screen with a score of 10 flashing under him my heart sank. My little outburst would probably not have gained me anything other than a low score. The rest of the careers had predicatably high scores, Brutus an 11 and Finnick the same. Lysander screeched happily at his score, patting him on the back furiously and I murmured my congratulations. Then it was my turn. My face appeared on the screen and a bright bold number 12 flashed underneath it. I spat out my water in shock and blinked rapidly as Lysander gaped at the screen. Mags patted me gently on the shoulder, giving me a small smile; Finnick leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees.

“Congratulations angel.” The nickname shook me out of my trance.

“Angel?” He shrugged and gave me an easy smile.

“Yeah, you looked like an angel on the chariots and you certainly act like an angel, especially with that little girl.” His voice turned serious. “But something tells me you aren’t such an angel as everyone thinks you are.” My lip twitched and I forced it to stay in a straight line.

“Maybe you’re right.” I turned around, my back to him, his eyes searing into my skin as I whispered. “But some things cannot be determined with a passing glance.”

The next day was the day of the interviews. I was slumped in a chair, clad in a silk robe, as my prep team scoured my body. They perfected every imperfection they could find until my skin was like a blank canvas. All the while they chattered, asking me not so subtly about my evaluation score and even less subtly if I had a soulmate- thankfully they didn’t question my insistency that I covered my wrist while they ‘cleaned me up’. I ignored them for the most part until Priscilla began to waffle on about Finnick. I clenched my fists and tried to block her out, waiting for her to finish. But she wouldn't stop, she went on and on about him, his… relationships with Capitol women and then what a shame it was that he might die. My fingernails dug crescent moons into my palms until I felt pinpricks of pain and saw tiny specks of blood beading on my skin. I settled for fiddling with the robe until they left. The girls walked through the door giggling with each other as Quintus turned around to me.

“I understand how you feel.”

“What?” I asked confused.

“You have a soulmate yes?” I nodded slowly. “But he either doesn’t want you or doesn’t know about you.” I nodded again.

“The second.”

“I had a soulmate once.”

“You did?” I mumbled.

“It was about 15 years ago. I had just started working here for the games and she was a tribute.” He laughed slightly and ran his hand through his hair. “She hated me, I tried to get her to run away with me before the games could start but she wouldn’t let the kid from her district die even if it meant she lived. They only lasted 5 days in the arena.” He smiled sadly. “But those last couple of days she was alive and I got to see her were the best couple of days in my life.”

“What are you saying?” I whispered.

“Don’t waste time. Every second with the ones we love is precious.” Just as suddenly as he had begun the conversation he left the doorway, leaving me in silence.

Soon enough Megara came in, laden with bags upon bags containing god knows what. She dragged a chair over and sat down opposite me. She pulled out a teapot and two cups before setting them down on the table ignoring my incredulous look. She poured tea into the two cups added a splash of milk and sugar to one and gave me an inquisitive look. I shook my head, clearing my thoughts as I poured milk into the cup and spooned 3 teaspoons of sugar into the cup.

“So honey, how are you feeling about the interviews?”

“Honey? Aren’t you younger than me.”

“Nope,” she popped the p,” I’m 24.” I sighed.

“They can only go so badly right.” She grinned; took a sip of her tea, placed it down, stood up and walked over to a huge bag hung up on the door.

“I suppose we’ll see then.” She unzipped the bag and I gasped.

Taglist:

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#finnick odair x reader #finnick x reader #finnick x you #the hunger games #finnick odair x you #thg x reader #catching fire #angst

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phoward89 · 11 months ago

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Based on this ask

Young!President!Coriolanus x Reader

WARNING ⚠️ struggling to conceive, infertility, miscarriage, 2nd trimester miscarriage, anti-adoption views, adoption, angst, tragedy, bittersweet ending, Soft!Coryo, Supportive!Coryo

This is a very touchy, hard, and difficult subject. I hope I did this request justice.

*This is set in the Not A Bob universe*

You and your husband, President Coriolanus Snow, have been married for a few years now. And in those few years you've desperately wanted a child. It started with a tiny want once you saw your friends start to get pregnant right away after getting married and grew into a desperate need once you and your iciscle of a husband celebrated your 5th wedding anniversary.

Truth be told, you were worried about your lack of conceiving since you and Coryo never used protection and fucked like bunnies. Only the gods know how high of a sex drive your husband has; how often he's plowing into you. So, in your mind you feel like you should've been pregnant at least 3 times already. But, sadly, you and your husband haven't been blessed.

And then one of your friends sends you a pregnancy announcement that has you in tears. She got married a few months before you and she's now having her fourth (Yes fourth!) child.

Your husband finds you staring at the announcement as if you'd be able to set it on fire via telekinesis. Upon walking over to the sofa in your private parlor, located in the living quarters of the Presidential Palace, he notices what the announcement is for that's lying on the coffee table.

Oh no. Your peasant of a friend, that managed to set her claws into some mediocre politician (who's in the rival party of the President), is having another brat. In Coriolanus' opinion he feels that your friend, Megara (who he never approved of) shouldn't be gloating and taunting you with professionally made up pregnancy announcements- not with how you and he have been struggling to conceive.

Coriolanus is concerned, as are you, about a lack of pregnancy. Of course, he needs an heir to carry on the Snow name, but he truly does want at least one child with you because he loves you; wants a family with you. And being on this hard, frustrating journey of trying and failing to fall pregnant every damn month during the past 5 years has shown him just how much he loves you and wants a family with you.

He's sure you'd be a wonderful mother and he wants nothing more then to make you one. But, unfortunately, he's been unable to do that.

You've both been to doctors and have gotten tests done, only to be assured that you're both young and healthy. You've both been told that you're trying ‘too hard’ to conceive; that it'll happen when you least expect it. You just nod and take in everything you're told while your husband curtly nods while thinking about whether to seek other opinions; what could be done to make a child possible.

The President lets out a deep sigh and sits down next to you. Wrapping his arms around you; holding you close to his chest and allowing you to cry, Coriolanus tells you, “I know you're hurt that she's having another baby while we haven't had one yet.” Softly stroking your hair, something that seems to calm him more than you, he assures you, “You can cry, my darling. I know you better than you know yourself, just let it out; cry.”

“It's not fair, Coryo.” You tell him as the tears you've been holding back starts rolling down your cheeks in a tremendous downpour. “Why does Megara, hell everyone we know, have children but we don't? Why can't I get pregnant?”

“I don't know, baby. I honestly don't know why everyone's able to have such an excessive amount of children while we're struggling to conceive just one.”

“It's not fair. Megara knows how hard the subject of pregnancy is for me and she just sends me this generic, but professionally done announcement. She couldn't have the decency and respect to call; tell me on the video phone or face to face at an afternoon tea or something?”

“Megara was always a peasant with poor manners. Her marrying some mediocre staffer for a senator of the party opposing mine just shows it.” Coriolanus tells you. Pressing a kiss to your head while continuing to stroke your hair, he suggests, “We could always go to another doctor. Get another opinion; see if there's any options.”

“You know there's nothing that can be done, Coryo. And the only option we have is adoption.”

“I refuse to discuss the topic of adoption, darling. I don't want some unwanted, District reject or some bastard baby of some Capitol City whore. I want our child to carry on the Snow bloodline; to make our family complete.” The president coldly and a bit cruelly tells you; cutting off the discussion of adoption before it can truly even begin.

You've learnt over the years to not to push your husband too hard. You cut your hair super short once, when you and Coriolanus were 18, and it really hit your relationship hard. There was trust lost between you that had to be rebuilt, especially when drama and rumors surrounded his tribute surfaces, but the two of you prevailed in the end. But, after that incident, you tried your hardest not to push Coriolanus’ buttons too hard.

And it seems like adoption was a subject that wouldn't push the President's buttons, but would push his big red nuclear weapon button.

Knowing that adoption was off the table, you weakly nod and agree to see another doctor. Coryo just kisses you and wipes the tears from your eyes. Then he assures you that he'll make the appointment for as soon as possible.

The latest doctor, one that was a fertility expert, had told you that you're young and healthy. That you seem to be in prime condition to have a child. He also concludes that stress might be a large factor in your issues to conceive, considering that you're the First Lady; that you're husband's President Snow.

The doctor gives you a diet plan full of foods that are rich in nutrients and vitamins known to help women conceive. He also gives you hormonal supplements to take as well. Oh, and the doctor explains how to track your ovulation and how to position yourself during and after lovemaking to ensure that your husband's seed takes root.

And Coriolanus is very tedious when it comes to you following the doctor’s orders. He's so hopeful after you received new instructions from a specialist, but you just feel exhausted. And now fucking is a project. Oh boy, it's normal until you start your ovulation window; then it feels like a big production. Various positions before and after to ensure that Coriolanus' seed can successfully get to your womb and take root is a very daunting task.

But your husband doesn't seem to mind. He's determined to have a child with you. But at this point you're about to throw in the towel. You're just so damn exhausted.

But after roughly 5 months of hormonal supplements and ritualistic sex, you FINALLY get pregnant.

When you missed your period, you were nervous and told Coryo. Of course, he made you an appointment with the doctor right away to be checked. You had blood tests done as well as a urine sample test. Waiting for the results while sitting on an examination table, in an itchy gown, with your husband by your side- clenching your hand with an iron grip- was very daunting.

“President Snow, First Lady Snow, I have the test results right here.” The fertility doctor announced, holding some papers in his hand, as he entered your room in the clinic. Sitting down on the stool near you, the doctor looked between you and your husband, only to smile, “Congratulations, First Lady Snow, you're pregnant.”

FINALLY!

After everything that you've been thru during the last 5 years you're finally expecting a child with the love of your life. You just can't believe it. You feel nothing overjoyed and relieved to finally be pregnant after so long.

Coryo, well, he's elated too. Ever since he's said his vows to you and made you his wife he's wanted a family with you. Now, the want is a reality. One that he's happy about. One that he feels blessed about. Coriolanus knew that with enough patience and perseverance it'd happen. That you'd fall pregnant.

“With the date of your last cycle that you provided the nurse with, I estimate that you're about 6 weeks a long in your pregnancy. I'd like to do an ultrasound to measure the fetus and get a better estimate of conception and how far along you are, First Lady Snow.”

“Okay.” You nod, smiling happily, while your husband just silently nods in agreement. Whatever's best for the baby must be done in his books.

After the exam, the doctor prescribed you some prenatal vitamins and an iron supplement. He also gave you some instructions to take it easy, but to also make sure to get plenty of fresh air and to take some walks to strengthen your disposition. The doctor also told Coriolanus to be mindful of pregnancy hormones; that the smallest slight or rude remark could put you into an emotional turmoil. A crying jag that could be draining.

You and Coryo thanked the doctor, agreed to follow all of his instructions, and made a follow-up appointment for a few weeks down the line before leaving and going home to the Presidential Palace.

President Snow's known to be a cold, callous, imposing, stoic man, but with you he's a very loving and devoted husband. After everything you've been thru, Coriolanus is actually quite worried about you. He's always hovering over you, wanting to ensure your comfort and safety.

Every morning you eat breakfast with him in the sunroom before he has to go to his office, in the public section of the Presidential Palace. And everyday during lunch he takes his break with you in the private living quarters of the Presidential Palace. Sometimes he arranges for lunch in the sunroom and other times it's in the rose garden that's in the greenhouse. But after every luncheon he takes you on a small walk in the rose garden to build up your and to ensure that you get plenty of fresh air.

And this goes on for months until you’re 24 weeks pregnant; nearing your third trimester. That's, sadly, when the unthinkable happens. When heartbreak hits you and your husband full force.

Your day had started out normally, as it always did. You took a warm shower and dressed for the day in a dress that flattered your round belly. Coryo had Tigris make you an entire new wardrobe to accommodate your swelling belly. Yes, your round and big now, but in a short time you'll grow even larger with the blessing you're carrying inside of you.

And then you had breakfast with your husband like you always did. Coriolanus was very gentle with you, helping you take your seat and pressing kisses to your forehead and running a soft, but protective hand over your swelling belly before serving you your breakfast and taking his seat next to you. You engage in small talk as you eat your salsa smothered eggs, something you've been craving for the last couple of months, and drink your juice while Coryo sips on his coffee, eats his hard boiled egg, and reads his newspaper while engaging in endearing conversation with you.

You speak about how you're feeling, the baby, and even start to think up baby names. At your last appointment the doctor confirmed that the baby’s a boy and encourage you and your husband to start thinking of baby names. To also start planning for a baby shower and to figure out a nursery design because everything was going smoothly. Before the president has to depart for his duties in his office on the other side of the mansion he promises to get you for lunch at noon sharp.

So, when noon closely approaches your sitting on the sofa in the living quarters of the Presidential Palace. In the parlor to be exact. And you're patiently waiting for your husband to get you.

You're reading one of your favorite books whenever you feel a sharp pain in your side. You gasp, placing your hand on your side. You take calming breaths, trying to stabilize yourself. But then you feel a lightning bolt straight in your lower belly.

You stand to your feet, with the intention to go get help, but the pain in your stomach brings you to your knees. And suddenly you feel something hot and wet trickle down your thighs. Shakily you fall on your butt, against the couch, and start to cry.

You know exactly what's happening.

You're suffering a miscarriage. And all you can do is loudly sob as your heartbreaks, as you feel more blood flow down your thighs.

Your lost in your own thoughts, your body's own trauma, that you don't even hear the door open or the footsteps of your husband rushing towards you while screaming your name at the top of his lungs. You don't notice how his eyes are panicked and full of horror.

You do, however feel him as he drops to the ground next to you; gathering you in his arms as you sob uncontrollably. You can feel his heartbreaking with yours as he places a hand over yours that's on your lower belly. His other hand’s petting your hair in a fruitless attempt to calm you both.

“I know, my love. I know, it hurts.” Coryo whispers against against your hair.

You just bury your head into his broad shoulders and clutch at his waistcoast while uncontrollable sobs wrack your body.

Coryo quickly goes into President Coriolanus Snow mode as screams for help, causing a maid to come running in. Her eyes are wide in fear, but before she can utter a word the president orders her to get him the nearby phone so that he can call the doctor. She does as he asks before scurrying off to prepare a guest room for you to experience the worst moment of your life in.

The maid knows that the doctor won't be able to help. Nobody's going to be able to help. It doesn't matter that you're the First Lady; married to President Snow: nobody can fucking help you.

No.

Not with the backasswards, asinine, laws that have strict limits on women's reproductive health in the mighty nation of Panem. If the baby's not to full term, a doctor won't touch the woman in fear of being accused of performing an abortion. A procedure that's illegal in Panem: one that will get a doctor arrested, charged, and unable to practice medicine ever again.

So, sadly, there's no help for a woman when she's suffering a miscarriage. If she's able to get to a hospital at the 8 or 8 ½ month mark then a doctor will try to save the baby. But other then that, well, a woman's on her own in Panem.

A hard, dark, nasty truth that hit both you and your husband right in the heart and the gut. Despite being President of Panem, Coriolanus couldn't make the doctor rush over and help you. No, because the doctor refused to risk his freedom and his medical license.

Coriolanus was beyond scared out of his mind, despite trying to keep a cool head for you. It wouldn't do you any good to see him breaking down. But, honestly he's about to lose his shit at any moment.

Seeing you in so much pain, both emotionally and physically, has your husband reeling. Your Coryo can't handle seeing you in agony knowing that he can't make it better for you.

You barely hear him hang up the phone and tell you that the doctor says that there's nothing he can do; that you're on your own. You're too busy crying your eyes out as you bleed, cramp, and feel the most painful you've ever felt in your entire life.

The president screams for help, only for the maid from earlier and another one to come in. They assure President Snow that a nearby guestroom is prepared for you and that they'll help you during your trying and traumatic time. Your husband thanks the maids and picks you up bridal style, only to follow the women to the guestroom.

Coryo's by your side the entire time you experience your miscarriage. The maids help you, of course, and they're a big help in your survival. But it's your husband holding your hand and smoothing back your hair while begging you not to leave him like his mother did that gives you the strength you needed to get thru the worst of the miscarriage.

With Coryo by your side you can get thru anything, can weather any storm.

And after seeing the horror of your 6 month term miscarriage, well, Coriolanus Snow quickly changed his firm anti-adoption mindset. Adopting a baby's much safer than risking his soulmate dying in the birthing bed along with his unborn child. The death of his mother was very traumatic and your miscarriage with his first born son had reopened those old, never fully healed wounds ten fold.

A month after your miscarriage you have a check up with your doctor. The specialist apologized for your loss and claims that there must've been an abnormally that wasn't caught on any testing performed. But then the specialist says that in another 3 months you and your husband can always start trying again- except this time with high dose hormone shots for you and male pre-conception vitamin supplements for him that would boost the vitality of his seed.

Before you could even think, President Coriolanus Snow shot down the doctor's idea. The cold as ice look the president gave your doctor was enough to have the doctor shaking in his shoes and praying for his life. Before ending the appointment the doctor left you and your husband with some pamphlets about grief, rainbow babies, and adoption.

Coriolanus left the first two pamphlets on the small counter in the examination room, but he took the one about adoption. He gave it to you, because as much as he wanted his own child with you he wanted you to be happy. He wanted you to become a mother.

One week before the games were due to start President Snow got a call from the Capitol run adoption center. The woman in charge said that they had received a newborn baby boy with blonde hair and blue eyes (as he has requested) from District 12- of all places. The adoption director explained how the newborn was given up by the biological parents because the father had enlisted as a peacekeeper and the mother couldn't handle the pressure of being an unwed teen mother.

Of course, Coriolanus told the director that he'd be by with you at once. To start on the paperwork for the adoption; that you'd sign it when you arrive.

And when your husband rushed to the rose garden, where you spent a lot of your time thinking and healing spiritually, he smiled. “I got a call from the adoption center, they've got a newborn baby boy for us, darling.”

“Really? We're going to have a baby?” You ask in disbelief, your eyes welling up with unshed tears of joy.

“Yes, my love.” Coryo nodded, cupping your face in his large hands and using his thumbs to brush away the happy years that began to fall from your eyes. Pressing his forehead against yours, he promised, “We're going to go pick him up and bring him home.”

Crassus Javanis Snow, named after both of your fathers, was a very cute and happy baby. He was the sweetest thing. He truly looked worthy of the Snow name with his light blonde hair and bright blue eyes. He was both the love and light of your life and Coryo's life.

But President Snow became very protective, possessive, cold, and even downright cruel towards other people when it came to you and your son. Nobody could say a word about how the Snow heir was adopted or how you were a useless wife by Old Guard Capitol standards, not unless they had a death wish.

Your husband did push for better women's reproductive health and reform. And when he signed the bill into law he had the proudest smile on his face.

Of course the bill was only for Capitolite women; it didn't hold up for women in the Districts. But he didn't care. You're a Capitolite woman and whoever your son married will be a Capitolite girl as well.

So…

But as long as Capitolite women are healthy, fertile, and happy that's all that matters to President Snow.

And when your son's getting ready for kindergarten at the Academy you get the surprise of your life when you turn up pregnant, after so many years of nothing; after you and Coryo stopped trying, with your daughter.

A baby girl that you'd name Demeter Rose, in honor of Coryo's late mother and grandmother.

But one day, when both of your children are middle-aged with children of their own, during the 74th Hunger Games, your eyes widen when you see the tribute from District 12: a broad and tall boy with blonde hair and blue eyes that looks strikingly like your son did as a teenager.

Tags: @kuroosbby001 @purriteen @poppyflower-22 @meetmeatyourworst @whipwhoops @bxtchopolis @readingthingsonhere @savagenctzen @ryswritingrecord @erikasurfer @tulips2715 @universal-s1ut @thesmutconnoisseur @squidscottjeans @sudek4l @wearemadeofstardust0 @mashiromochi @gracieroxzy @belcalis9503 @shari-berri @aoi-targaryen @whiteoakoak @spear-bearing-bi-witch @gisellesprettylies @loverandqueenofdragons @qoopeeya @mfnqueen1 @permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88 @v-love @swiftieblyth @joyfulyouthlover @harvey-malfoy @chxrrybomb22 @marvel-hiddles-stark @xjinnix @devils-blackrose @zombicupcake3 @jacesvelaryons @tempt-ress

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netherfeildren · 2 years ago

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The Cassandra Complex : Chapter IV : Aite

Series Masterlist : Moodboard

(Din Djarin x F!Reader)

Content Warnings: Hunter/prey dynamics; Dom/sub undertones; Spanking; Orgasm delay/denial; Overstimulation; Rough sex; Squirting

A/N: happy mando monday mother fuckers — literally nobody look at me i have nothing to say for myself

also, again, canon deviation — he’s got the beskar spear here already.

Rating: Explicit 18+

Word count: 9.3K

Read on AO3

CHAPTER IV : AITE

MEGARA: You love the light so much?

AMPHITRYON: I do, I love its hopes.

Anne Carson, Grief Lessons: Four plays by Euripides

You stir hours later, sweltering and tangled under the covers in the dark, cramped alcove of his narrow bunk, sweat pooling between your breasts and at the nape of your neck. It takes you a moment to gather your bearings and take in the steaming beast of a man, heavy muscle and a solid chest pressed into your back. Din’s nose nuzzles into your hair as he breathes deep and steady. The bunk is so narrow, and he is so broad, half draped on top of you, and you’re being smothered by his heat and weight.

“Din,” muffled, sleep graveled voice, “Heavy.” He doesn’t answer – dead to the world after everything the two of you had been through. The two of you’d crawled into the cool darkness of his bunk and promptly lost consciousness after the emotional ordeal of everything you’d talked about, but now you are hot and aching, and as you try and shift and wiggle, murmuring supplications to rouse him he huffs in his sleep, disturbed at your wriggling, and that unyielding arm of muscle presses you deeper into his chest, constricting your ribs, at the same time that his overly large shirt he’d put you in shifts up to reveal your naked bottom half, and his hips shift up to press his hard, seeking cock to the wet seam of your cunt. His hips rock into you, rolling you further onto your belly, and he growls a sleepy sound deep in his chest that you’re sure would translate to sleep, little one, were he conscious. He keeps trying to push in, frustrated grumbles when he meets only soft thigh instead of the warm cunt his dreams expect.

You can feel them on the periphery of your conscious mind, he’s dreaming of you, of your wet pussy, and the feeling of your slippery walls clenching around him. And you’ve no other choice but to give in, pulling a knee up to your chest you sense him step into this side of consciousness, and then he’s fucking in deep, meeting the end of you and grinding his hips against your ass with a low, hoarse groan. “Fuck, I was dreaming of this.”

“I know,” you whisper, pressing your bottom to his pelvis and trying to tilt forward as far as the bunk allows to deepen the angle, but he pulls you back tight to his chest and lifts your leg to drape back over his hip. His hands snake up the bottom of his shirt you’re wearing to palm your tits and pinch your nipples, rolling the aching peaks between his rough fingers and mouthing at the sweaty skin of your neck.

“You’re sore and exhausted, little one. I told you no more,” he admonishes but doesn’t stop the rhythm of his thrusting hips, rolling up into your slick cunt over and over.

“I don’t care. I don’t care if I hurt.” And part of you regrets it as soon as the words leave your mouth, painfully honest, humiliating, but the larger part of you is only desperate and aching for him to fuck into you, writhing wet and wanton on his cock.

“But I do. That’s all I care about.” He pushes inside again anyway though – the need too great, again and again until the two of you are trembling with orgasm together, wet and shaky and intimate.

The next bounty finds itself on the planet of Kashyyyk and the Razor Crest makes planet-fall a few hours after the two of you finally stumble out of the warm cocoon of his bunk.

You make tremendous fun of him and his ridiculously beloved ship, you can’t help it with a snickered, A Razor Crest? Really? Has the Guild been skimping out on you? To which you’re met with nothing but stony silence and then again, This hunk of junk is going to leave you stranded out in open space one day, I’m surprised it even still has the capacity to travel at– and then him spinning to pinch your cheeks between his fingers, forcing your mouth into a pucker, he gives your head a little shake. “One more bad word about my ship, and I’ll put this smart mouth to better use, do you hear me?” He’d forced your head into a little nod, but you’d rolled your eyes, snorting at him, as if you wouldn’t enjoy that. He’d harrumphed and turned to climb up into the cockpit after that while you’d washed the sweat and come of your nap from your body in the little fresher, the sound of him whispering his name to you ringing in your ears.

“When do you think you’ll be back?” You pout up at him, spread out on your nest on the floor of the hull that’s become a permanent monument, your still damp, trembling, just fucked form covered only by a thin blanket. It’d been hours since the two of you’d touched down on Kashyyyk, and you knew he probably should’ve been gone ages ago, out hunting his bounty, but he’d not been able to pull himself from your soft wet clutch. He was grumpy now and insisting he had to go even though you desperately did not want him to.

“It won’t be long – maybe two days, three at the most.” He’s re-donning the armor he hasn’t worn in days, slowly and meticulously adorning himself with each piece of beskar.

“Alright…” you sigh, stretching out into lithe, soft lines, your hands above your head so that the blanket covering your chest inches down to expose one soft nipple to his gaze. He pauses deathly still to watch your display, and you spread your knees beneath the cover with a breathy, little moan. “I guess I’ll see you in three days… I’ll just be here.” You look up at him with the most guilelessly innocent eyes you can muster. One of his boots sneaks forward to toe the blanket away from you: He can see your little cunt, wet and gleaming, the reddened swell of recent use, and when you spread those soft, gorgeous thighs a little further apart there he is. The slow drool of his spend from your pussy. Fuck, that bounty is never getting brought in.

Squeezing your eyes shut, turning to hide your face in the bend of your arm — you need to be more careful about that, don’t know why it keeps happening. You listen to the clang of one of his pauldrons dropping to the floor.

“What are you going to do while I’m gone?” His voice has taken on that deeper tone he falls into right before he’s about to sink inside of you.

Shit, shit shit, this is too much. Too desperate.

You spread your legs wider, slowly pulling one knee up to your chest, and gently running your fingertips up the sensitive inside of your thighs until you reach your messy center. Swollen and overwrought from his ferocity, and you don’t care, you still want more. You flutter your fingers over the wet mess, circle your clit and pass over your clenching opening.

“Think about you of course,” you moan, and listen to a restrained growl from him, the fall of another piece of his armor and then the soft shuck of his shirt falling as well.

“I can see myself drooling from that sloppy little hole,” he murmurs, now the crash of the helmet, you squeeze your eyes shut tight, “Push it back in. Fuck yourself.” He falls to his knees between your spread legs.

It is hours later before he finally manages to make it outside.

On the fourth day without him, you begin to stir with restlessness.

He’d promised three at the most, and you’d wanted to say that three days was an unbearably long time to be away from him. Yes, even this soon – weak hearted little wench, you’d griped at yourself. But you’d been cast in an unbearable silly wash of shyness, going hot and vulnerable from head to toe when the moment finally came that he’d dallied just too long, and he absolutely had to go now, really, I do have to go, the bounty isn’t going to catch itself, and we’re soon to be out of credits. As if you couldn’t just steal or trick your way into more credits if absolutely need be, but he’d hear nothing of such petty thievery. So you’d kept your pouting to yourself, and let him go.

He was a day late now, and you knew it was silly to worry about him.

He was a kriffing Mandalorian. He didn’t need you clucking over him like some worried mother tip-yip, but you couldn’t help it. You knew, even with as little experience with him as you have, that when he said he’d do something he did it. So you were beginning to stir with a frenzied and restlessly anxious energy, thinking of all the potential possibilities of harm he could have come to. Could Wookies chew through beskar? You didn’t know, but it seemed highly probable with the sort of Maker blasted luck you’d been cursed with that he’d randomly get eaten by a Wookie or some other beast on this fucking jungle planet and leave you stranded and without him.

You step off the Crest’s ramp late in the afternoon. Clad in only a pair of soft, worn leggings and your breast band, saber hilt in hand, thinking that perhaps a spot of training would help dispel your anxiety over him, but when you make it outside the weather is so lovely, warm and temperate, and you can’t help flop down into the soft grass of the field he’d landed the ship in to take in the heat of the sun.

The sky has been different every morning, but it’s almost pearlescent today, watery gray shot with silver white that coalesces into a sort of soft hued lavender. The planet’s single star, soft behind the protection of the clouds, has you going lazy and lethargic as it fights to push its way through. You think that perhaps, the training is unnecessary then, if the sun’s able to soothe you into peace for a few moments, and you cross your arms behind your head to lay back and close your eyes to the sky, feeling the warmth of it seeping through the thin membrane of your lids.

The two of you had both gone a little shy and awkward as he’d gotten ready to finally go four days ago. While he’d gotten dressed, arming himself to the teeth, you’d felt his eyes on you as you lay wet and trembling where he’d left you, and you were sure he could read how much you did not want him to go. You’d so desperately wanted him to bid you farewell with a kiss, to tell you he’d be back to you soon, but he’d done none of those things. Had gone quiet and awkward and given you a sharp nod of his head before he was spinning on his heel, cape snapping behind him and throwing himself out into Kashyyyk’s wilderness for his bounty. Why the fuck anyone would choose the Wookie homeworld as a place to hide was beyond you. You think you’d much prefer being caught by the tin can than eaten by one of those overgrown hairballs, but what do you know.

Well, actually – no, you’re certain you preferred being caught by him.

I like to be caught.

By me.

By you.

So all you had to do now was sit here and stew with your own thoughts. You wonder if maybe you should plan for what your next move will be after you leave him – but your mind immediately shies away from the possibility of that. No, you think, you’ll consider that later, in a few days, a few weeks, whenever he finally gets sick of you, which you know will happen sooner rather than later. But despite your recalcitrance to consider the timeline of when this will end, there is no part of you that doesn’t know how this will end. In ruination, surely, come by your hand, him angry or hating you. You just hope you can hold off on your inevitable destruction for a while longer, for you so enjoy being with him.

If you’re being modest and not entirely honest with what you feel, then, yes, you enjoy being here with him, enjoyment verging on something much deeper, more intense. The warmth and comfort you’d found in his ship, even if it was a hunk of junk Razor Crest, being with him, fucking him, having him take care of you, you like this.

And it is not so much a realization, but a reminder that you’d been unsatisfied with your life thus far. Again, if you were being modest and not entirely honest, then sure, you could call it dissatisfaction. Dissatisfaction with what you are, what you had been, and you’re angry too. Angry at the things that were done to you, the things you’d endured. You did not deserve to have been treated so. You had not deserved such cruelty, and perhaps, this time here with the Mandalorian, with Din, could be taken as a recompense of sorts. A lovely and wholly unexpected prize, a gift, after all you had endured. You could take this time with him with a grain of salt, a seed of wariness, and try and keep yourself as internally stoic as possible, entirely plausible, sure, and then when the time was right you could part ways and take your losses for what they were. For as good as you are at lying to yourself, you are self aware enough to know that at the end of this it will be a loss, he will be a loss. A worry for a later time, though, you suppose.

You settle back on your bent arms.

Dissatisfaction with life… you laugh lightly to yourself. What a silly thing. You’re alive, you’re free. That’s more than enough to be satisfied with.

But at the same time, you can’t help but wonder at what it is to be a God and a slave all at once? You feel you know both sides of the coin so well – both sides of yourself. And you find yourself dissatisfied and angry at the intimacy of the knowledge you hold. You wish you could wash your hands of both facets of yourself and begin anew.

You wonder if perhaps he could provide the answer to the start of that question.

“What are you doing?” His voice comes, what could be hours or minutes later, and you feel a soft, lazy smile spread across your face. Finally, finally, he’s back, he’s back.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” you murmur up at him. You think you must have dozed off.

“You shouldn’t be out here in the open – it’s dangerous.” You give a derisive little snort of self assured laughter at that. Dangerous, ha ha, yeah, sure. “Where are your clothes?” So grouchy.

“I’m wearing them, shiny.” You’ve still not opened your eyes, and you listen to the sound of his long suffering sigh, big smile stretched across your face now.

“Little one–” Your eyes finally blink open to take in the sight of him after four long days – he looms above you, extraordinary and singular, like some warrior of old – a knight or some other silver burning effigy, standing as the face of all that is good and valiant and true. Your pathetic little heart gives a sickly sweet flutter inside your chest. The two of you stare at each other silent and still, caught in each other’s gazes – it’s been four days, four agonizing, interminable days and you’d missed him. You’d traveled with him for such a short time, and already you found yourself in the painful business of missing him.

He’s got one inescapable hand clamped around the bounty’s arm, an unfortunate Mythrol, whose head whips back and forth between the two of you. “Aww, there’s no way – No way, man. Is this your girlfriend, Mando?!” The Mythrol practically howls. “There is absolutely no way this hunk of metal got you to bang him.”

“Shut the fuck up. Do not speak to her,” Din’s head snaps away from you to shake the creature roughly, shoving him forward. But the comically unintelligent bounty fails to read the Mandalorian’s angry countenance and digs his heels in.

“I’d decided on a spot of training, but then I got tired and lazy and hot, and now I am resting. I’m sure you’ve heard of it before–” bratty drawl to answer his earlier question.

“The galaxy really does show you new wonders every single day,” the Mythrol goes on unheeded, looking down at you with moon eyes, and you snicker. “Tell me, gorgeous, is his junk at least normal looking? He’s not like … green or something under there is he? Scales? Any strange orifices?”

“You’re literally blue,” Din deadpans.

“Blue is a perfectly respectable color to be.”

“Well, I haven’t gotten a good look at all his orifices yet, but I’ll let you know once I do,” you say coyly, looking up at Din and batting your eyelashes at him.

“You have fucking gills–” and he sounds so comically offended, you can’t help but break out into hysterical giggles.

“Listen, if he isn’t doing it for you, trust me, I'm getting out of this real soon. I’ll surely take care of you if h–” And then Din’s huge, balled up fist snaps out to punch the poor bounty in the face, dragging him off towards the Razor Crest, and muttering under his breath about brats and no respect and piece of bantha shit bounties. You make sure your laugh follows him all the way into the hull while you lay your head back on your crossed arms and continue enjoying the warm sun on your face and exposed belly.

“You’re fucking naked,” he growls a few minutes later, hovering over you menacingly, very aggravatingly blocking out your warm sun.

You open your eyes to look up at him, shading yourself from the glare shining off the curve of his helmet. He’s rid himself of his armor and duraweave and remains only in his flight pants, long sleeved undershirt and helmet, the expanse of his thick neck left naked without his cowl so that you can admire all of that gorgeously tanned skin. “Mandalorian, you’re in your underthings! How scandalous.” He’s got his beskar spear gripped in one hand, and you eye it dubiously.

“You’re naked,” again, cold and clipped.

“So are you.” Maker, just the stance on him is full of sass, hands on his hips, one foot propped out like he’s about to start tapping it at you, on the verge of shaking his finger at the ornery little girl.

“Shut up, brat. And get up.”

“I think I won’t, actually.” You lay back on your crossed arms and close your eyes again, but he knocks the edge of his boot against your bare ankle, right at the prominence of bone on the side so that you’re yelping unexpectedly and folding your knee up towards your chest to get away from him. “Mean man,” you frown up at him accusingly.

“Get up. I want to see what you can do – let’s spar.”

The laughing smile you have plastered across your face goes wan and melts away. “You want to do what now?”

“You said you were training – I want to see what you can do.”

“Well, I don’t want to show you.”

“My mistake, it wasn’t meant to be a request. Get your little ass up.”

“Exactly – I’m too little. I can’t spar with you.” You look up at him with big, pleading eyes, pouting at him.

“Yes, you can. Get up.”

“I don’t want to spar with you.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to hurt you.” And he laughs. He laughs, as if it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard in his entire life. You scowl at him, bristling with indignation.

“You could never–” You take his legs out from under him with a single crook of your finger so that he’s hitting the ground with a jarring thud, knocking the breath from his lungs unexpectedly. You get to your feet, pinning him there lightly, but so that he’s not able to move even a millimeter.

“You were saying?” Silence. “Do not mistake me for something I’m not,” you say slowly. “I could hurt you. Easily. I could kill you easily. I have to be conscious of myself and you and all the things around me every day so that I don’t unwittingly cause harm.”

More silence from him, and you panic for a second that you’ve actually gone and accidentally killed him. You fall to your knees at his side, letting go of your hold over him, and he stays still and unmoving, but then says, “I know. I know what you are. I also know that you would never hurt me. Even accidentally. You’d never let yourself.”

“Din,” you whisper, letting your forehead fall to his belly. He brings a hand up to cup the bowl of your skull and softly strokes your hair. He can’t know that. He doesn’t know you well enough to know that, and yet…

“Spar with me. It’ll be fun.”

You groan, rolling your forehead against his stomach in feigned denial. “Fine, you have a fucked up idea of fun, and when I whoop your ass you’re not allowed to be angry with me.” You move to stand, clasping his hand in yours to pull him up with you.

He slaps your bottom when he gets to his feet, squeezes just a little bit, “Brat.”

“You are not allowed to grope me when you’re making me do things I don’t want to do,” you say indignantly, turning your nose up at him, “And I want to make this interesting.” You move a few paces away from him, and then spin on the ball of your bare foot back towards him, igniting your saber on the come around. “Let’s switch weapons,” you say with a conniving little smirk.

“You want me to use your lightsaber?”

“Scared?”

“Fuck off, and give it here.” Oh, he’s funny when he’s grouchy.

You disengage the plasma beam and toss him the crossguard at the same time that he sends his spear your way. You catch it easily and give it an experimental twirl in your hands – it’s light, nicely balanced, and you give it a figure eight twist in front of you, once, twice, “Not as fancy – but I suppose it’ll do.” You take position, flexing up once on your toes to feel the tight stretch of your calves, a fizzy flutter of excitement in your belly. He’s right, you would never hurt him. A small, terrifying part of you even whispers that you think you’d do harm to yourself before you could ever even think of hurting him.

You can feel a deep hum of satisfaction coming off of him at the sight of you wielding one of his weapons, and he pauses for a beat, admiring you, and then ignites the saber, spinning the blade once in his hand, and then moving towards you on the defensive immediately, without thought. “No powers – just us,” he says, and he brings your lightsaber up above his head, the frame of his heavily muscled arms almost distracting you for a second, and then down upon you with all of his considerable strength. Fast as light, and he’s fucking strong so you feel the reverberation of the weapons meeting in your teeth with how powerful his strike is.

“Maker– I didn’t think you were going to be a dick about this.”

“That was your mistake.”

“Oh, you suck,”

“Not quite. But you will be later, trust me.”

“Did you just make a dirty joke?! I didn’t know you were allowed to do that,” you gasp. “This is not the way, Mandalorian,” you intone in a deep voice, imitating his baritone.

You disengage from his lock and spin away from him, twirling the spear above your head in a quick little flourish, hair fanning out around you, and then bringing it down upon him again. He’s fast and strong, but you’re small and sneaky, easily distracting. Your footwork has always been your greatest strength, like a dance and a game and a duel all at once. He parries your blow and steps to the side trying to evade you by going around. You take a light hop further away from him, and then pirouette back again, fast as you can, ready to strike once more, but he’s already there waiting, leaning heavily into your space so that the plasma blade flashes violet and angry, buzzing right up against your face. You feel the heat radiating off of it on your eyelids, and a bead of sweat slides down your temple.

“You’re not getting laid for a week,” you grit through clenched teeth, blowing a fallen piece of fringe out of your eyes.

“Oh, you’re getting fucked as soon as this is over.” He shoves you back with all his strength, and you stumble over your own feet, giving an outraged little screech as you go ass over tits, and your bottom meets the hard ground. He circles your fallen form, “Get up. I'm not done with you yet, little one.”

Jerk. You spring back up onto the balls of your feet and meet him in a parry of blindingly quick strikes, one after the other after the other. He matches them all without even seeming to strain himself. Your strength is nothing compared to his, and for a second you feel a flash of anger, a memory of being weaker and smaller than everyone around you. He’s not even trying. You growl and spin again, going low, trying to get his legs, but he meets your blow, and then brings one of his hands up to shove you away by the shoulder. He’s never even wielded a fucking lightsaber before and this is how he does – you catch yourself with a supportive tendril of the Force on that one, and bare your teeth at him.

“You’re stronger than me – this isn’t fair,” you pant.

“You know that isn’t true.” He strikes again, and you block it, barely. “But if it were, you’re tiny. Most people are going to be stronger than you. Tough shit – you can’t always rely on your tricks.”

“My tricks–” Fuck you. You jerk away from him, gasping for breath, sweating, angry at his words and full of reckless defiance. But you take a deep, calming breath and give him a small smile. “Oh, no?” you croon, and lunge at him again at the same time that you snake a ribbon of Force around his striking arm to pull the limb backwards, rendering it motionless and him without protection. He brings his other arm up to block your presumed blow, but you pull the saber from his grasp with your mind instead and knock the side of his spear against the curve of his helmet, loud clang echoing at the same time that you bring one small, bare foot up to the center of his belly and shove him back, sending him sprawling to the ground. How’s that for a trick? “Life isn’t fair, shiny. I'm going to use all the tricks in my book until I'm dead – and even after that, I still might find a way.” You stand over him looking down at the impenetrable dark of his visor. You crook your eyebrow at him, a little shrug of one shoulder, and oh, he’s fucking pissed, you can feel it rolling off of him.

“I said no powers,” and grunts when you place a small foot on his belly, a conqueror over your felled opponent.

“Oops.” You see the strain of his arms trying to fight against your restraints, biceps bulging and bunching, and he growls like an animal, like someone about to teach you a particularly savage lesson. You remove your foot from him and take a few, slow steps back from him. Retreating from the beast you’ve just purposefully enraged. “Now, now,” you try, “We were just messing around–” a nervous, hiccuping laugh.

You let him go, and he moves to his feet, long legs unfolding almost in slow motion. “You better fucking run, little girl. You do not want me to get my hands on you right now,” he says slowly.

You don’t need to be told twice, without a second thought you’re throwing both weapons to the ground and spinning on your heel, sprinting away as fast as you possibly can on bare feet. You’re pretty sure he even gives you a few seconds head start before he’s shooting after you. You can hear the pounding sound of his heavy strides over the hard ground, and you pump your arms and legs as fast as you can, making for the tree line far ahead, but there are rocks and small bric-a-brac hidden in the underbrush, and your pace falters, heart thumping painfully fast within the cage of your chest. There's a fine sheen of sweat covering your whole body, and right before his chest makes harsh contact with your back you have the thought that being caught by him is one of the greatest pleasures you’ve ever experienced in your entire life.

He slams into your back and takes you to the ground, his hand coming up to protect your face, his other arm banding tightly around your waist seeming to press all of the air from your lungs.

“Should’ve run faster.”

“Maybe I wanted to be caught,” you gasp.

“Oh? Are you sure about that?” You feel him lever himself up above you, and then he’s ripping down your leggings and underwear, the sound of seams popping at the ferocity of his movements, “You want to be my little whore? Want me to fuck you right here under the open sky for the entire galaxy and the Maker to see how I own this cunt?” And lands a stinging, sharp slap to your ass. He grips the meat of your cheek and spreads you wide for his inspection, you feel the probe of his thumb at the tight furl of your ass, then lower to your folds, your leaking entrance, your swollen clit. “Look at you, fucking soaked already, shit. You like being hunted and caught, little one?”

“Only by you,” you moan into the dirt, an echo of your past words to each other, your cheek squished against the grass, you watch the panting huffs of your breath disturb the blades and let him do with you what he will. He’s caught his bounty, he should enjoy the fruits of his spoils now. He presses his thumb inside, sliding it in and out of you slowly, and then unexpectedly slaps you again and you mewl, twisting the soft green blades between your shaking fingers, trying to find purchase, an anchoring, anything to steady your racing heart. You listen to the rustle of his clothes as he frees his cock and finally, finally, you can hear the change in his breath as he takes hold of his hard length. Make me so fucking hard, you hear him mutter. He reaches for your twisted hands then, pulling them behind you, “Hand here, and here–” he sets each palm on either of your cheeks, “Show me that little asshole. I want to see it.” Nasty man, and like the good girl you’re trying to pretend to be, you obey and pull yourself apart for him, presenting all you have to offer, hips lifted in a desperate little arc for him to fuck into you. He presses the wide head of his cock to your fluttering cunt, and starts to push in, stretching you painfully without having made you come before – it hurts to take him like this. Caught and fucked into the dirt, and he pushes in until he’s rooted to the hilt, heavy sac pressed tightly against your backside, and you love it. His strong thighs bracket your own, restrained in your partially shoved down leggings, making the fit all the more snug when he wedges that thick cock inside of you. “Fuck, yes,” he growls and sets a punishing pace. Slamming his hips so hard into your ass you can feel the rebound of your soft flesh in your hands, still holding yourself open, drooling and sobbing into the grass, hair a fallen mess, sticking to the wetness of your tears and spit on your cheeks. He angles his hips down and hammers into your g-spot. Fucking made for me, perfect little cunt, so pretty, you can hear him muttering hoarsely through the modulator behind you over the wet, sucking slide of his cock. He sets a brutal pace that has you going almost cross-eyed, weak little huffs of breath being fucked out of you on every push in so that you can’t even make a sound of pleasure or pain or anything. All you can do is take it.

He moans an almost agonized sound, feels so fucking good – and oh, it’s too much, the punishing pace, the sound of his pleasure, the painful stretch of his thick cock inside of you, hitting against that ravenous little place, the feel of his desire for you pushing up against the periphery of your mind – he is devastating and life changing, world altering inside of you, and, “Din, Din, please – I’m going to come,” you hitch and cry.

And he pulls out. Suddenly, painfully, he rips his sliding cock from the wet, fluttering clutch of your pussy on the verge of orgasm, dripping cock smearing wetly against the curve of your ass. “No,” he sits back on his haunches and turns you over roughly, your bare arms and back chafing against the grass and dirt. “Who said you had permission to come?” He rips your leggings down one leg to get at your sex and spreads your thighs wide, right here in the middle of the open field, and then hooks his fingers under your breast band at the space between your tits to pull you up into a sitting position. “Grab my cock,” he orders. “Bad girls don’t get to come.” You wrap your slim fingers around the swollen, slick length of him and start to slide your hand up and down, squeezing to the very root and then back up to the drooling head, ending in a little twist. You look up at the visage of his helmet, if his gaze had a physical manifestation it’d be all over your skin, licking and kissing and sucking. He pushes your breast band down to free the heavy, aching weights of your tits and squeezes them hard so that you’re moaning up at him softly, legs spread around his kneeling form, bare, pulsing cunt leaking into the grass beneath. You can see the skin of his neck where his stubble fades to tan sweaty skin beneath the edge of his helmet, and your teeth ache to bite there. You want to see what sort of sound he’d make if you bit hard enough to draw blood…

He twists your nipples between his fingers, and then switches to softer, soothing passes around your areolas, lifting each breast high to squeeze and then letting them fall to hang and sway heavily. “Too fucking beautiful for your own good,” he says in a low whisper, as if only for himself. Your other hand moves to cup the hanging weight of his balls and you massage them gently, and then twist a little, applying more pressure, eliciting a soft whimper from him. “No,” he grunts suddenly, pressing you belly back into the hard ground, pinning you there despite a whine and dolling out a quick, stinging slap to your spread sex. You cry out, trying to toe him away with one small foot lifted to his shoulder, escape his unforgiving hands, but he digs his fingers into the softness of your thighs and pulls you back towards him, gripping the base of his cock to feed it back into you. “This is your punishment, stop distracting me.”

He lifts up the hem of his shirt, tucking it beneath his lowered chin so that he can fuck you unobstructed. He hooks his fingers under the fabric of your breast band around your waist and uses it as leverage to pull you onto his impaling cock, fucking up into your cervix painfully, sending you right to the edge of orgasm once again. The sight of his exposed abdomen shifting under the sunlight, sweat sliding down from his chest to the hair trailing from his navel, lower to the thick root of his cock, neatly trimmed, mouth watering – it has your already overwrought cunt pulsing and aching and drooling, clenching down painfully around him. “You are not allowed to come. If you do, I'm going to make it so much worse for you, do you understand me?”

“No, please. Please, Din. I’ll be good. I promise, I’ll be good,” you cry, deepening the arch of your back to open yourself further to him, to feel the jolt of his cock more intensely within you.

“Too late.” His thrusts speed up, sloppy and unsynchronized, and he growls low in his throat beneath the helmet as he rips himself from you once again and takes his soaked length in hand, fucking his fist furiously until he comes over the gaping slit of your sex, covering your pusling cunt in the searing heat of his milky spend, spurting thickly onto the slope of your belly and your heaving tits. You let out an agonized sob, throwing your arms over your face to hide the sight of your tears from him. Your womb twists painfully, low in your pelvis, the echoes of his brutal fucking still felt in the unsatisfied frenzied fluttering of your muscles. “Bad girls don’t get filled up either.” He gives his slick length one final squeeze, twisting his fist viciously at the angry, red tip to milk out the last final drops of his come. You watch his fist, gripped around himself so tightly, beneath the hood of your wet lashes and crossed arms, and think it must surely hurt him, such a punishing hold on himself – but you also think that, like you, he enjoys a little pain with his pleasure. Or a lot… depending on the day.

He drops his wet hand to your pulsing sex, smearing the thick viscosity of his semen into your painfully sensitive skin, and then slaps it again and again and again. Three stinging slaps in a row that has you twisting away, trying to escape him. “I want to eat your cunt,” and his voice is nothing but a gasp, “It’s so fucking red and swollen – and it gapes when I slap it.” He hits you again, presses a hand low on your belly to keep you in place and incite the coiled ball of unreleased arousal sitting inside of you, all at once.

He leans forward, holding himself up over you on one strong arm and grips your jaw tightly, his hand wet and sticky with his come and your own slick, and squeezes your cheeks together, forcing your mouth into a pout and giving your head a little jostle, his hold on you, so tight, you feel the imprinted shape of your teeth on the inside of your cheeks. “What if someone saw you like this, being fucked full of cock? What would you do?” His hand leaves your face to press two thick fingers inside of your poor, abused pussy.

“Please, no more–” you whisper, you can’t take anymore.

“Quit. As much as I say – it’s mine. Isn’t it? It belongs to me.” You have to nod, you have no other choice, you must tell the truth right now, and then answering his first question: “Nothing. I don't care. What would you do?” And despite your protestations, you wrap both your hands around his thick wrist to leverage yourself against him and begin to ride his hand, fucking yourself on his fingers crooked inside of you.

“Kill them. You’re only mine to see like this– fucking mine,” but he pulls his fingers from you, again. You give a little undignified screech, feeling the overwhelming sensation of your opening clenching hungrily around nothing, and he sits back on his haunches again, taking himself away from you, and tucks his still wet, still semi-hard cock back behind the plaque of his trousers. He takes several deep breaths, the wings of his rib cage expanding so wide on the exhale you worry for a second he’d take flight, escape you, go somewhere where you could not reach him.

“You’re so mean,” you mewl up at him, tears streaming across your cheeks and backwards, down your temples into your hair – making your already sweat damp hairline even wetter. Your whole body feels wet and trembling and raw. You move to press your knees closed, but he grips you around the ankle still wearing your leggings and pulls them off of you entirely.

“I know,” he says, “Poor, little girl,” cooed at you, a little mean, a little condescending, his voice so soft and smokey and deep. “Perhaps, this’ll teach you what happens to bad girls who don’t follow the rules.” He pulls you by the wrist to sit up and curls to press his shoulder into the soft of your belly, unfolding from the ground all the way to standing, with the entirety of your weight slung over his shoulder, just by the pure strength of him. He turns back towards the ship and slaps your ass as he walks, right at the apex of your thighs so that you feel the rebound of it in your cunt. Tears drip down your upside down face while your arms hang limply down towards the ground, your head bobbing along limply with his gait, wild, loose hair swinging, entirely overwhelmed and conquered – just like he’d wanted you.

And after everything, even without an orgasm, it’s really not so bad.

He hauls your ass back to the ship without even seeming to lose his breath, carrying your weight easily over his shoulder. He’s so strong, and it makes you even wetter for him, if possible. Making his way up the ramp, he hits the button to disengage and shut it behind the two of you once you’re inside, and deposits your limp, trembling form onto your nest of blankets. A murmured: “I’m going to get us in the air,” and then he’s climbing up into the cockpit. You think you must fall asleep or go so delirious from the cramping deep in your belly that you lose consciousness for what seems like seconds or possibly hours later he’s back and spreading your legs again, you mumble something incoherently that sounds like his name or a plea for mercy or his cock, and then his unmodulated voice sounds, “Don’t open your eyes, little one.” You think you nod your head or give some sort of a reply of confirmation, but you can’t be sure. Your body feels so far removed from you, sun drunk and cock drunk and Din drunk. He shoves the breadth of his wide, naked shoulders between your thighs and hooks both thumbs at your soft outer lips to spread you wide and spits directly onto your swollen clit and blushed, fluttering hole. You moan and writhe, bringing your hands up to your face to dig the heels of your palms harshly into your sockets, sliding the tips of your fingers through your hairline to pull at the strands. He starts off light, whisper soft, the tip of his tongue tracing figure eights over your clit, and then further down to flutter lightly at the mouth of your cunt. You’re sex is drenched in his own come, and he doesn’t seem to give a single fuck, tasting himself on your own skin and groaning at your combined flavors. He moves back up to your clit and sucks it into his mouth hard. Your back arches in an almost painful bend, bringing your knees up as far back as you can to your shoulders, hands hooked beneath the sweaty bend of your joints to hold yourself open for him.

“Are you going to be bad again?” he murmurs into your cunt.

“Yes–” irrationally, recklessly defiant.

“Good. I’d expect nothing less.” He licks a long, wet swipe through your slit, further down to taste your ass, his tongue applying pressure to the sensitive rosebud, then back up to your pussy, licking into you with the strong muscle of his tongue. You can feel him rutting into the blanketed floor.

“Are you hard again already?” voice ragged, you want to know, you want it in your mouth.

“Fuck yes, I’m hard. I’m always hard for you. Most perfect little cunt in the entire galaxy,” and he literally slurps at your folds, wet and lewd and entirely obscene. You writhe on the blankets, one foot pressed to the thick mass of his muscular shoulder trying to push him away and rock yourself against his face all at the same time. He moves to kneel over you and grips your other leg open under the bend of your knee. “Never want you to fucking behave,” he presses two thick fingers inside of you, hooked against that spongey spot at the front of your cunt, thumb on your clit, and sets a quick fire pace, tugging your orgasm forward, jostling his fingers inside of you. “Means I get to do this to you as many times as I want,” he grits. “Get this fucking cunt wet for me, little girl.” He shoves a third finger inside of you, hooks his fingers against your g-spot again and presses down on your lower belly with his other hand, and rubs fast and hard inside of you. You whine high pitched, an animal sound, writhing in the nest of blankets, twisting them in your hands to press your face to them. He quickens his pace, his whole hand shaking within you, and then wrenches it from your cunt and you feel yourself gush onto the waiting blankets and his spread thighs.

He moans a savage sound, “Yes, yes – fucking again,” and he pushes those three fingers back into your gaping hole, the palm on your belly giving a slow soothing circular stroke to settle you, and you think you must surely want to beg for no more, please, no more, but you cannot. He pauses for a second, and you listen to the sound of his heavy panting breaths over the sound of your own echoing heart in your ears. His palm is so big and warm on your abdomen, and it soothes you for a second, your limbs full of fired lightning. He pets softly at your g-spot, and then quakes his hand again, palm on your belly pushing down to apply pressure from the outside. It feels like there’s plasma melting down your spine, and your vision behind your closed lids bends and flashes blinding white. Again, it’s going to happen again – he rips his hand from you, and you gush once again, soaking wet. Yes, yes, yes, he’s chanting, sounding half delirious, nonsensical, and then his mouth is at your cunt again, drinking up all the slick wetness you’ve just made for him.

Mine, all mine, look at all this – made it all for me, didn’t you, gorgeous thing.

He laps at you gently until he’s gotten all of it, every last drop of your come and slick and sweat. Your entire frame shakes and jolts with aftershocks, trembling and sweating and crying. Heart beating an overwhelmed symphony within your chest to the tune of his name. This is not like anything else, you think. This is something to venerate and fear equally, you think. You feel afraid. He mouths gently at the raw skin of your inner thighs, pressing slow kisses to your mound, up the slope of your belly, over the trembling hills of your breasts, up finally all the way to your mouth where he licks into you wet and hot. There’s a desperately hungry energy to him, ready to shove into your cunt and fuck you again. You feel the drooling tip of his heavily hanging cock bob against your belly, and he makes a soft sound, low in his throat, but pulls back, humming contemplatively.

“Let’s take a shower,” he murmurs between kisses, “You’re filthy,” the soft sound of his self satisfied huff of laughter. He presses one last kiss to your mouth then gets to his feet with a soft groan, the hollow sounding pop of his knees, and you listen to him move into the fresher, starting the water and shuffling about. You’re beyond words, vaguely painful aftershocks seizing your throat and muscles, and you can’t open your eyes, you won’t. He’s walking around with so much trust, moving about the hull into the softly lit fresher helmetless and entirely vulnerable. He trusts you, and you don’t think you’ve ever been able to say that, ever been able to claim the trust of another person. Never. You need to protect this at all costs, guard it fiercely and nurture it as you would a fragile and delicate sapling.

He returns to your side after a moment, wrapping his hands around you. Your limbs have been rendered limp and useless, entirely pliable for his strong hands to pull you up into his embrace, and you feel like water in his arms as he carries you into the warm spray of the fresher, submerged in his touch and his smell, your mind murky and floating with your eyes still closed. He shuts off the lights as he passes, sinking the two of you into a deep darkness once again and sets you on your feet, shaky, weak knees knocking together, coltish and frail.

The spray of the water is warm and sets about a cloud of humidity around the two of you. You reach up to twist your arms around his strong neck, fingers twisting in the damp curls at the nape of his neck, and his roving hands slide along your limbs and curves, water slick and lust frenzied, but still slow, categorizing, exploring. He feels you, grips your soft flesh in his big hands, the rough calluses on his palms catching at your sensitive skin, his fingers pressing along your arms, gripping the joints of your elbows between his fingers, up to your wrists clasped behind his neck. He brings one hand down to his face to press a long kiss to the center of your palm, then presses your splayed palm to his cheek, nuzzles against you like an overly large cat. “I love how this feels,” he whispers low. You think you must have lost your voice, spit it out in the field where he’d fucked you and left it there, forgotten, but you press your face up into the warm spot beneath his jaw, mouthing slowly there at his burning hot skin. He tastes like the sun, like earth and life and all the goodness you’d never before had the chance to taste, and you want to drink him down, take a bite and swallow him, let him settle down, deep and heavy in your belly where you’d keep him always. Your heart gives a heavy thump of fear, but then his other hand is there, sliding down the arch of your spine and gripping your ass to press you into the long line of his erection. “Are you ready for my cock again, little one?” And his words return your mind to the slow cramping, deep in your pelvis. The hungry clench of your cunt and the shivers zipping down the lines of your muscles.

Yes, please, you think you whisper, and you must, for he lifts one of your thighs, hooking it around his hip and bending his knees slightly to press the head of his cock to the slick mouth of your cunt, and then he’s surging up and sliding deep inside you, gripping your other thigh as he goes to lift you high up into his arms and settle himself deep into your belly, to what feels like the very end of you, knees hooked over the bends of his elbows. It feels like he presses all the way to the heart of you, your very heart, your very heart, he has it in his clutch. That heart you’d for so long feared had been taken from you, swallowed and destroyed. You moan softly into his open mouth and he swallows down your sounds, tastes the inside of your mouth with his tongue, grips and kneads all the soft contours that make you up – that softness that still makes up the hard creature that they’d tried to force you into. He feels it, takes it in his hands.

You run your hands along him as well. The hard lines of him to juxtapose your own softness. His broad shoulders, muscled and strong and endless, seemingly wide enough to hold up the weight of the galaxy. The thick bulge of his biceps, the strength of his chest, the flat expanse of his abdomen that gently turns to softness lower down. The thick root of his cock fucking up into you. You softly circle your hand there, feeling the slide of him thrusting into you, pressing into the swollen bud of your clit. You can feel your orgasm churning like molten ore in your pelvis, the base of your spine. You’re both scarred all over, mottled in the painful history of your individual pasts, and he has scars on his hands, covered in them, for some reason these hurt you more than any you’ve ever endured on your own body. Such strong, capable, gentle hands – you pull them to your mouth one by one and kiss each and every one of them.

He grips your ass to pull you onto his impaling cock harder, bends his knees to deepen the angle inside of you and you keen and mewl weakly for him, a supplication in the shape of his name, shared here in this warm darkness he’s pulled you into with him, and you think of the dark and of the opposition of light. Of being alone and together and here with him, afraid and protected and how the darkness had never seemed anything more than a cruel and suffocating mantle meant to only ever subjugate and enslave you, and how here, with him now, with him inside of you and held in his arms it feels like nothing more than protection. A safe place to cast away your fear. “Are you going to come for me, cyar’ika?” he murmurs into the lush of your breasts, sucking your nipple into his mouth and biting down gently.

Cyar’ika, Cyar’ika, Cyar’ika.

My good girl, taking me so well.

And no one had ever baptized you with a veneration such as that. No one had ever called to you in gentleness or care, and so you do. You come for him at the sound of it, at the feel of the wide head of his cock kissing your womb on every press inside, the grip of his hands, possessive and hard and gentle and coaxing and inescapable, all at the same time. It’s like he’s all the things in the world that a man could ever be, and you give him your pleasure, and he returns it in kind, filling you with the heat of his spend, coating your insides with himself. Sweet and full of heart, just like he’d said.

Chapter V

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

Updates Blog

#TCC fic #din djarin #the mandalorian #din djarin x you #din djarin x reader #din djarin x female reader #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian fanfiction #din djarin smut #the mandalorian smut #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin imagine #star wars fanfiction

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cosmicaura7 · 2 months ago

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PEDRO PASCAL MASTERLIST

REQUESTS ARE CLOSED!

UPDATED : 4/02/25

Please make sure to read my rules and guidelines. Comment down below if you want to be added to my taglist for whenever I post new stuffs! Thank you and enjoy! (PS: All moodboards and banners are made by me)

CLINT (FREAKY TALES)

--- coming soon ---

DAVE YORK (THE EQUALIZER 2)

TWO SIDES OF THE SAME COIN (coming soon)

SYNOPSIS : (Lesley from Mobile Legends inspired fem reader) In where after being saved from the hands of death, Dave York finds himself living a new life in a secret underworld organization.

DIETER BRAVO (THE BUBBLE)

TAKE TWO

SYNOPSIS : In where you and Dieter Bravo, both Oscar award winning actors, have been casted in Javi Guttierez' newest R-Rated film project.

SHORT N' SWEET (coming soon)

SYNOPSIS : (Popstar!fem reader) In where a global sensation popstar is in need of a leading man for her newest album and was surprised to see an Oscar award winning actor auditioning for the role.

DIN DJARIN (THE MANDALORIAN)

MISCHIEF AND CHAOS

SYNOPSIS : (Claude from Mobile Legends inspired fem reader) In where a skilled thief and her monkey companion manages to steal a small weird green looking foundling for a bounty mission and find themselves being hunted by the Mandalorian.

BESKAR AND EMBERS (coming soon)

SYNOPSIS : (Firefly from Honkai Star Rail inspired fem reader) In where two of the best bounty hunters in the galaxy find themselves hunting one another.

EZRA (THE PROSPECT)

--- coming soon ---

FRANCISCO "CATFISH" MORALES (TRIPLE FRONTIER)

WHOLE PACKAGE BABE, I LIKE THE WAY YOU FIT

SYNOPSIS : In where Francisco Morales is still a virgin because of his rather large size. That was until you came along.

HARRY CASTILLO (THE MATERIALISTS)

--- coming soon ---

JACK "WHISKEY" DANIELS (KINGSMAN : THE GOLDEN CIRCLE)

THORNED ROSES AND WHISKEY SHOTS (coming soon)

SYNOPSIS : (Yor Forger from Spy x Family inspired fem reader) In where the agents of Kingsman and Statesman decided to visit their sister company, Glaze Lilies, for a joint mission.

TILL THE END OF THE LINE (coming soon)

SYNOPSIS : (Winter Soldier/Bucky Barnes inspired fem reader) In where Whiskey's supposed dead wife has returned. But this time as an enemy and is out for his blood.

JAVI GUTTIEREZ (THE UNBEARABLE WEIGHT OF MASSIVE TALENT)

TAKE TWO

SYNOPSIS : In where you and Dieter Bravo, both Oscar winning actors, have been casted in Javi Gutierrez’ newest film project.

JAVIER PENA (NARCOS)

LIPSTICK STAINS AND CIGARETTE SMOKES (coming soon)

SYNOPSIS : (Clover from Totally Spies inspired fem reader) In where a new agent has been transferred to Colombia to work alongside Steve Murphy and Javier Pena to take down Pablo Escobar. And she wasn't what they were expecting.

JOEL MILLER (THE LAST OF US)

COME RIGHT ON ME, I MEAN CAMARADERIE

SYNOPSIS : In where Joel loves the sight of his pretty little wife all filled up by him.

BUILT BY TRAUMA (coming soon)

SYNOPSIS : (Levi Ackerman from Attack on Titan inspired fem reader) In where two people hardened by the apocalypse crosses paths.

STROKES OF FATE (coming soon)

SYNOPSIS : (Rafayel from Love and Deepspace inspired fem reader) In where Sarah Miller secretly signs up her father and uncle to come with her to the after school art session with her favorite art teacher.

LUCIEN DE LEON (THE UNINVITED)

--- coming soon ---

MARCUS ACACIUS (GLADIATOR II)

THREADS OF FATE (PART I)

SYNOPSIS : (Megara from Hercules/Greek Mythology inspired fem reader) In where the general of Rome captures the princess of Greece.

A PREDATOR'S GAZE (coming soon)

SYNOPSIS : (Medusa inspired fem reader) In where Marcus Acacius finds himself thrown into a hidden ancient temple after he was arrested for conspiring against the Senates of Rome. The great general soon finds himself face to face with what many thought was a mere legend lost to history, the serpent woman with a gaze that can turn any mere mortal who looks into her eyes into mere stone.

MARCUS MORENO (WE CAN BE HEROES)

--- coming soon ---

MARCUS PIKE (THE MENTALIST)

--- coming soon ---

MAX PHILIPS (BLOODSUCKING BASTARDS)

BLOODSTAINED SPREADSHEETS

SYNOPSIS : (Nanami Kento from Jujutsu Kaisen inspired fem reader) In where an exhausted accountant finds herself in the claws of her vampire boss.

MAXWELL LORD (WONDER WOMAN 1984)

--- coming soon ---

OBERYN MARTELL (GAME OF THRONES)

THE RED VIPER'S INSATIABLE WIFE

SYNOPSIS : In where Oberyn's pretty wife can be insatiable most of the time, and he's more than happy to indulge in her desires and fantasies.

OF HEARTS AND SANDS (coming soon)

SYNOPSIS : (Queen of Hearts from Alice in Wonderland/Lizzie Hearts from Ever After High inspired fem reader) In where the Queen of Hearts of the Hearst Kingdom crosses paths with the Red Viper of Dorne.

THE WHITE KNIGHT'S SECRET (coming soon)

SYNOPSIS : (Darling Charming from Ever After High inspired fem reader) In where the Princess of the Evermore Kingdom has a secret.

WHEN THE NORTHWIND MEETS THE SOUTHERN SANDS (coming soon)

SYNOPSIS : (Stark!Fem Reader) In where the second daughter, the infamous Winter Princess of the North, of the Stark House has been betrothed to the one and only Red Viper of Dorne.

PERO TOVAR (THE GREAT WALL)

THE DANCING PRINCESS AND HER SELLSWORD

SYNOPSIS : (Princess Genevieve from Barbie : 12 Dancing Princesses inspired fem reader) In where two mercenaries find themselves hired to guard 12 princesses.

FEATHERS AND BLADES (coming soon)

SYNOPSIS : (Odette from Barbie : Swan Lake inspired fem reader) In where a Spaniard finds out that his missing lover has been cursed to turn into a majestic swan whenever the sun sets.

A THIEF'S GAMBIT (coming soon)

SYNOPSIS : (Flynn Rider from Tangled inspired fem reader) In where a master thief decides to steal from two mercenaries at a tavern and finds herself with a blade pointed at her throat by an angry Spaniard.

REED RICHARDS (FANTASTIC 4)

THE CLASH OF GENIUS MINDS (coming soon)

SYNOPSIS : (Ishigami Senku from Dr. Stone inspired fem reader) In where two of the greatest minds on Earth find themselves unable to stand each other.

COMBUSTIONS AND CALCULATIONS (coming soon)

SYNOPSIS : (Bakugou Katsuki from Boku no Hero Academia inspired fem reader) In where the most reckless woman meets the most calculated man.

TIM ROCKFORD (MERGE MANSION)

--- coming soon ---

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lev-berryz · 15 days ago

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Rafayel's Oddyssey ch3

Synopsis: In Ancient Greece, you encounter an unknown ocean deity.

Pairing: Rafayel x Reader

Tags: Greek mythos, God of Tides, angst, it will get worse later on

WC: 2,5k

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

"Where are we truly headed on this path?"

I ask, exhaling, as waves of heat crash over me, sapping my strength with each labored breath. My throat burns for water, a cruel reminder of our plight; my stomach grumbles like a distant thunderstorm, echoing my anxiety. I glance sideways at Rafayel, his sunset eyes fixed on the horizon, yearning for the ocean in the distance. Yet it is the oppressive realization that each step is watched by jealous gods, whispering doom.

"We start in Megara," Rafayel murmurs, his somber gaze lost in the depths of the shimmering ocean, "on the other side of the mountain."

His voice, strained yet unwavering, slices through our heavy silence, a beacon of resolve amid our trepidation. I could see the turmoil etched in his features, the silent battle raging within him.

"You need sustenance," He recognizes, turning his focus back to me. "At this rate, there's no hope of reaching Thebes, let alone Delphi. We have to find shelter, or the ocean's hunger will consume us both."

With an urgent pulse in each stride, Rafayel thrums across the rocky terrain, leaving me scrambling to keep up.

"Please, Lord Rafayel! Slow down!"

My voice trembles as I fight the treacherous incline, where the very earth seems eager to cast me into the abyss below. Each step feels like a grueling trial, my heart racing not just from the altitude but also from the suffocating dread trailing behind us. In that half-light, where shadows flicker like thoughts of impending doom, I pray that he would not let the ocean's wrath claim me before our time was due.

He halts mid-stride, urgency igniting in his eyes, drawing me close and pressing me down as though the storm within him surged uncontrolled.

"Sit then, let me see your feet," He orders, a timbre laced with frustration. "And please, stop calling me Lord; on this accursed land, I am little more than a shadow of myself."

The weight of his resentment hangs heavy, a reflection of his longing of the sea. In that moment, beneath the indifferent sky, our destinies intertwine like vines.

As I sink onto the unforgiving ground, I sigh in relief, the laces of my sandals slipping free, a stark reminder of our relentless journey these past hours. The rawness beneath my feet felt like the remnants of our relentless journey, a painful reminder that each step towards the unknown was an uphill battle against despair.

"They do look better than they feel," I mutter, my relief palatable. "perhaps we should tread the coastline instead. We could have reached Megara in less time that way." I steal a glance at Rafayel, his gaze lingering on the blue stretch below again.

"Faster, yes." Rafayel murmurs, his grip gentle yet insistent as he cradles my foot, the warmth of his touch igniting a reckless spark within me. "I would also prefer it, but I can not insure our safety so close to His domain."

He traces a path along my lower leg, fingers working to ease the tension nestled deep in my muscles. With each lingering second, shadows shift in the corners of my mind and I can almost hear the faint roar of Poseidon's wrath lurking beneath the surface. A god and a mortal - this scenario feels impossible intimate as he kneads my legs, igniting a sense of unease within me. The sensation of a divine being massaging my limbs strikes me as wrong. It's as if he senses my feelings as he moves on to my other leg.

"I know what you are thinking, but I am different from the Olympians. I hail not from these regions, but that does not mean I am not powerful, just that I do not share their values about humans."

"What do you mean?" My eyes shoot up from his hands to his eyes. "Where do you hail from then? How did you come to be here?"

He abruptly releases my leg, a sudden shift in the electric air that dances between us, thick with unspoken truths. The silence wraps around us like a shroud as he kneels, lacing my sandals with a tender urgency amidst the brewing turmoil. I feel the weight of forbidden territory settle between us like a judgment.

"Do not mention it." His voice soft, urging me into obedience. "Let us continue our journey, the pain will only grow worse if you keep resting." Rafayel pulls me upright, his gaze piercing through me, fierce yet tender, as if he could see into the depts of my soul. "I need a bath," He continues with a grumble. "wash away this awful dirt you have on land."

He remains silent for the remainder of our journey, the air thick with unspoken words. As minutes stretch into hours, my meager sustenance of olives and fruits from the wild trees does little to quell the gnawing hunger deep within me. When we finally ascend the last peak, the sun starts sundering to dusk, bleeding fiery orange and red that reflect into the coral tones of Rafayel's eyes. As shadows lengthen ominously, dark tendrils crawl across the land, as if Nyx herself desires to lure us into the city below, into oblivion. Yet the way down was treacherous; one misstep could send me tumbling down the slope, shattering my body against the rocks below. One wrongly placed stone could mean me tumbling down the slope and breaking my neck.

Good," I hear Rafayel mumble behind me as a sudden warmth envelops me. "I can still use the Flame of Lemuria."

"Lemuria?" I venture, the words escaping before I can hold them back. "I've never heard that name before, is that where you hail from?"

My heart races as I turn to face him, the flickering lights of a small bonfire illuminating Rafayel's profile, his features stern, as if carved in stone. The shadows of the fire twist in response, making his eyes feel darker than ever before.

"Far from the clutches of the Olympians, that is all you should know for now." Rafayel's words hang in the air like mist, thick with the unspoken truths only he knows.

I crawl next to the fire, aching from our journey, my mind dreading the path ahead. The silence of the world looms around us, interrupted only by the soft crackling of flames, and soon my weary body finally drifts off into the embrace of sleep. As the night draws on, nightmares claw their way to the surface - visions of my mother, peacefully chopping fish at one moment, lost to the merciless grip of the ocean the next. I flinch against the darkness, grasping for the light, yet it eludes me, wrapping me tighter in the tendrils of despair and memories.

Drenched in the remnants of a nightmarish slumber, I jolt awake, my heart racing as if caught in a tempest. When I open my eyes, I realize that the oppressive weight on me is not a remnant of my dreams, but Rafayel's strong arms silently encircling me in protection. The flickering flame beside us casts playful shadows dancing across his determined features, illuminating the unwavering resolve etched in his brow. As lost tendrils of unease recede and my breath steadies, he finally releases his grip on me, marking a significant shift from tension to a tentative calm. The world remains still around us and I can feel his gaze linger upon me, fierce and tender.

He guides me down the slope toward the city, the sharp morning sun illuminating each cautious step on the path. Our decent stretches into an hour of breathless silence, punctuated only by the sound of our footfalls on stone. As we approach the imposing gates of the city-state, I notice how the bronze-adorned guards scrutinize Rafayel’s intricate tattoos, their scoffs echoing my own doubts about the secrets ensnared in the artistic lines. They scoff, unable to unravel the secrets ensnared in the artistic lines of ink. Yet, sensing something unexplainable in him, the guards relent, parting their ranks to grant us entry into the bustling city.

As we step into the vibrant market, a wave of nostalgia washes over me, igniting memories of the bustling Corinth market I had roamed in my youth. The air is infused with rich aromas: ripe figs, roasted chestnuts, and the peppery scent of olive oil. Laughter bubbling form children darting between vendors, their carefree spirits reminding me of simpler times. Yet at my side, Rafayel strides with an impenetrable silence, his focus unwavering, as though we were caught in a world separate from this joyous chaos. My stomach growls once more, rendering me painfully aware of my hunger.

"My Lord, please." I whisper, flirting with the hope that he might indulge me in the simple pleasures of a shared meal.

"Is your husband neglecting you, my Lady?" A new voice breaks through the cacophony, rich and smooth like honeyed wine.

I turn to see a tall figure beside me, icy white hair shimmering like the surface of a frozen lake. He walks with an effortless grace, his crimson eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Perhaps he does not appreciate the beauty that walks behind him."

My heart flutters at his boldness, momentarily ensnared by his charming manner, making me forget my hunger amidst the growing tension and uncertainty stretching between Rafayel and me. I hesitate to speak, feeling the weight of his arm weaving through mine and the world around us dims in an all-consuming silence.

I finally manage to say, "He is not my husband." the words tasting bitter on my tongue, feeling less like a declaration and more like a brand of mere servitude.

I glance down, feigning obedience to mask the turmoil brewing within me, while the unnatural hue of his crimson gaze ignites something deep inside me.

"My Lord is weary," I continue, my voice a gentle whisper, "seeking the solace of the baths. Perhaps you could guide him, Lord..?"

He continues, "Ah, but I must inquire of your Lord if it pleases him, whether I might claim you for myself, for such beauty should never be confined to mere servitude." He tilts my chin upwards, compelling me to meet his piercing red gaze. "You may call me Sylus, Γατακάκι."

The playful nickname makes me recoil, sending a jolt through my veins, a mix of warmth and unease.

"Gataki? Kitten? I am no cat, my Lord Sylus. I am but a humble..." My voice falters; the term 'fishwife' feels foreign now. "I merely look after my Lord Rafayel."

I fend off the disquiet that gnaws at my heart. Panic hits me hard as I realize he has vanished, swallowed by the thrumming chaos of the market. A sense of foreboding eclipses my thoughts, tangled with the persistence of Sylus's attention.

“Ah, but you seem to possess a fierce fire burning inside that small body of yours, Kitten,” he comments, his gaze lingering on me as if trying to untangle my hidden depths. His glance follows my hand. "Seems like your Lord has left you. Tell me what supplies you need, and I will help you find them. As for the price for my help..." He leaves the implications hanging, making it clear he will claim me if Rafayel fails to return of pay him back.

"Supplies," I repeat, my voice barely a whisper. “Dried fruits for sustenance, water to quench our thirst in the heat of this treacherous path, herbs to ward off ill fortune, and linen for warmth against the night’s chilling embrace.” Each item I listed felt heavier than the last, as I recalled the urgency of our journey and the pressing need to ensure Rafayel’s safety, looming like an ominous storm, ready to unleash turmoil if he did not return.

"Hermes protect you, little Kitten," Sylus murmurs, his fingers curling around mine, warmth and uncertainty swirling together. "An extensive and costly list, indeed. Will your Lord make you bear such burdens alone?. Perhaps the gods united our paths for reasons beyond your imagination."

As we wander deeper into the bustling market, Sylus, his playful exuberance shining like the sun, began to haggle with fervor, his voice a melodic dance, coaxing lesser drachmas from merchants eager to sell their ripe offerings. The vibrant fruits - garnet pomegranates, sun-kissed figs, and plums olives - were piled high, each more tantalizing then the last. I felt an uneasy twist in my stomach, a mixture of awe at his skill and dread at the growing weight of our overflowing sack.

"Please, my lord," I implore, my voice trembling with urgency, "this opulence burdens us more than the road to Thebes can bear. The cost is too great, both in coin and spirit."

Yet as Sylus turns to me, his expression remains a blend of mischief and determination, as if he savors the tension. The market buzzes as Sylus draws me deeper into the throng, haggling with merchants like a dance upon quicksand.

"Don't worry, Kitten," Sylus sings with a playful lilt, charm shimmering in every syllable as his crimson gaze bore into me. "You won't be subjected to the wearisome trek to Thebes. If you wish to reach there, consider me your devoted guide."

His laughter rings like a chime, as he haggles for an ever increasing pile of fabrics.

"You see, my dear," He continues, a twinkle of mischief dancing in his eyes. "I am a son of Thebes myself, merely traversing this city for ... business."

"There you are!" A whirlwind of energy pulls me from my reverie, hands gripping my shoulders with an urgency that sends shivers down my spine. "I have been searching for hours, silly girl."

Rafayel's sunset eyes lock onto Sylus's dark crimson gaze. An electric tension crackles in the air, thick and palpable, as they glare fiercely at one another, each glare a challenge daring the other to cross a line. As Rafayel pulls me closer, an electric pulse of possessiveness clashes with the chill of impending conflict in the air, leaving me caught between his warm embrace and the brewing storm between the two men.

"The name is Sylus," the taller man declares once more, his face contorted in a smirk as he extends a hand towards Rafayel. "I presume you're here to settle the terms regarding your ... servant."

His gaze, sharp and teasing, flicks toward me, igniting a spark of mischief that dances in the tense air. The weight of his words hangs, heavy with unvoiced threats, while a smile curves his lips like a concealed dagger.

"If not, " He continues, a glimmer of challenge in his eyes. “I can forge another bargain, this time with Hermes as my witness,” he smirks, each word dripping with a veiled threat that sends a chill down my spine, as if summoning the gods might unleash a storm beyond comprehension.

With every syllable, the stakes soar higher, and I can sense the tension permeating the air as Rafayel's grip on my shoulder tightens, transforming the heat between us into an electric current, mirroring the storm brewing ahead.With each heated word exchanged, I feel the stakes soaring as Rafayel's grip tightens further on my shoulder, the air between us thickening with tension.

"Hermes be damned," he growls, his eyes set ablaze with fury that mirrors a tempest’s fury. "She is not my servant, nor is she for sale."

"I have extended my services to the young lady." Sylus retorts, a thin smile curling at the corners of his lips—like a predator poised to strike, his eyes glinting with a challenge that ignites my nerves. "You can choose to accept and compensate accordingly, or ..." He leans in, his voice dipping low, nearly lost amidst the surrounding clamor. "Would you dare to test the patience of yet another Olympian."

The unspoken threats hang in the air, heavy with the weight of his insinuation. Rafayel's fingers tightened around my shoulders like a coiled spring, ready to unleash fury. I glance at Sylus, his smirk widening, like a spider weaving a trap for its prey. Rafayel releases my shoulders, and I gasp as his lingering touch feels like a brand. The absence of his grip mirrors the turmoil within me, heightening the emotional stakes of our fraught connection.

"We do not need any help, Sylus, not from you, nor from Hermes." Rafayel steps in between me and Sylus, his jaw clenched as he heightens the tension, eyes locked on the other man. As if by magic he holds out a small but heavy bag. "This should suffice for the damages."

Sylus declines the bag, the smirk still dancing on his lips, his crimson eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Ah, but the path to Delphi is laden with unseen trials, my dear Rafayel."

I cannot hold back the gasp that escapes my lips when he mentions Delphi. Sylus focuses his eyes onto mine as he continues speaking.

"You would do well to consider, outsider. Hermes is my patron, you ought to embrace the aid he offers. Olympus watches attentively; the more gods who turn against you, the more arduous your journey back to Lemuria will become.

Rafayel almost stumbles into me at the words, taken aback that a stranger knows about his plight. My own resolve fails me, as I hold him aloft by his arm. The weight of Sylus's insinuation hangs in the air like fog over the ocean. It is thick and suffocating. A long silence stretching out between the three of us as Rafayel tries to compose himself again.

"I will accept your assistance," He says, his voice low and tethered by tension. Rafayel's hands clench into tight fists, a tempest swirling within him as he takes a breath, measuring Sylus's words before finally uttering, 'I will accept your assistance—but on one condition.' His hands clench into tight fists, a tangible expression of the tempest swirling within.

"Humor me." Sylus leans back against the edge of the market stall. His voice relaxed, knowing he has trapped his prey.

"Do not speak of Lemuria. It is not for your gods to thread, nor for your tongue to utter." The command drips with authority, leaving no room for negotiation. With a heavy heart, he declares, "We will leave tomorrow."

With a swift motion, he thrusts the heavy bag into Sylus's outstretched hand, a silent warning etched in the curve of his jaw. Then, Rafayel grasps my hand, his grip firm yet reassuring, guiding me through the labyrinthine market. Each step charged, a blend of urgency and desperation, as he drags me with him towards a nearby guest house.

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