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gracieheartspedro · 6 months ago

Text

Propositio

pairing: marcus acacius x fem!reader (daughter of marcus aurelius)

word count: 6k words

description: after assembling an army to win back rome, you finally get to confront the traitor to your cause. general marcus acacius.

warnings: DUBCON. this is for 18+ readers ONLY. lots of blood mentioned, marcus is mean, talks of execution, physical violence, choking, name-calling, manipulation (reader is manipulative, he is too), betrayal, misogyny, proposing a horny ultimatum, nicknames (little dove), unprotected p in v, overstimulation, oral (f receiving), he finishes inside you, he leaves blood prints on you, talking you through it, you and marcus are unhinged. (please let me know if I missed anything or mistagged)

dedication: my sweet sweet @amanitacowboy !! thank you for helping me with this, lindsey! you saved my ass by helping me edit this and your encouragement really got me through writing all of this. *MWAH* forehead kiss

author’s note: you whores asked, and I delivered. now please be kind and share and leave a comment!! you guys rock!!

You never thought you would see the day when Marcus Acacius would be behind iron bars. But here you are, standing before the slated door, watching him with his face in his hands. He looked despicable, completely unknowing of the situation in the city's streets.

“You care to stand for your Empress?”

His big brown eyes lift from his fingers, glaring at you. He easily recognized your voice, it was something that was imprinted in his mind. “Empress?”

You smirked at his absentminded statement, trying your best not to show your pleasure in hearing him call you that.

“Rome has fallen, General. And you are here. Shameful that I had to do this all on my own when I inquired to you about a months time.”

He stands up slowly, his tunic and face stained with blood and dirt. He had wounds littering his arms and legs, all dripping blood onto the sandy ground. You could only imagine the horrors he experienced at the hands of the twin emperors. You had no time to grieve for him though, because he is now trying to size you up through the cell. It makes your lips curve up.

“I would have been inclined to help you, but I was too occupied fighting for my life,” He bites, gritting his teeth.

Your eyes rake him up and down, noting his beaten-down expression. You have spent so long resenting the man who lied to you, that finally getting to stare him in the face was gratifying. He was already paying for his consequences, and not even at your hand.

“I was, too, General. I put together an army of eight thousand strong. For a woman, I did well.”

He puts his arms through the rails, leaning forward. His hands are close to you, but not close enough to touch you. He looks so different from what you remember. Maybe it’s the new scars that litter his face, one particularly on his right cheekbone. The struggle for power and the war he waged seemed to have caused some fine lines as well.

He is not the same soldier you knew years before.

“Now that you rule Rome, what is your first move? Kill all the loyalists?” His voice is gruff, almost like he had something caught in his throat.

You had pondered this day for so long. You were hopeful he was still alive so he could watch you do everything you had planned to do. You remember him telling you that you would make a great ruler someday, but that would probably never happen since you were a woman. He liked to remind you of that often.

You felt the urge to get in his space and pester him, as you had done time and time again.

You turn away from him, looking around the tables that surround you, searching for a way to get closer to him. You spot a ring of iron keys and snatch them up. You go through each one, finding one that matches the keyhole. You hear a click as soon as you turn it, the door sliding open. Instead of letting him come out, you stand in his space. All that occupies the room is a wooden bench, a small window, and a table with an empty bowl.

“These quarters meeting your standards?”

The iron door shuts on its own, rattling as it locks itself. Marcus grimaces, annoyed with your words about him and his situation. “Are you planning on keeping me in here?”

You cross your arms, completely disregarding his question. You did not feel like appeasing him that quickly. “The bench should be a bit softer for your aging back. I am positive you are not getting good sleep.”

The Marcus you knew before was polite and calculated. This Marcus was tired and unhinged. As soon as he notes your condescending tone, he realizes how easy it would be to kill you in the privacy of his cell. You would never expect that from him, he thought.

He reaches out, grabs your shoulders, and slams you against the dirt walls. Luckily, your head does not slam against the mud, only your back.

The air leaves your lungs as Marcus pins you. You were not expecting such a response, but you stayed unwavering in your expression. You already had your reasonings for being bitter towards the man. You were now ensuring he would never do another malicious thing towards you and that meant putting him in his place.

“You evil conniving whore,” He seethes, as you try to push out a breath. When you finally bring air back into your chest, you laugh out, your breath hitting his face.

“Talking dirty to me, General? I thought you were a gentleman.”

He grunts, wrapping his large hand around your neck. You know this is compromising, dangerous even, but you knew deep down that if he killed you, he would only be hurting himself. Rome needed you. He knew that better than anyone else.

“What are you going to do? Tell me,” He seethes, his fingers squeezing harder the more the seconds pass.

You try to speak, but he’s cutting off a lot of your air. You wedge your hands in between your bodies, pushing his chest back a bit. He was so warm. “Kill the loyalists. And for this, I may kill you.”

He grits his teeth, “You are not going to kill me.”

“You do not know me very well then, General.”

He removes his hand, knowing very well he bruised your neck in the process of getting information out of you. He is still very close to you as you catch your breath, fanning his sweaty hair off his forehead. He is trying to read you, but for some reason, your coldness informs him of nothing. Your intentions were usually blatant. Not today.

“What good does killing me do?” He inquires, his arms still caging you in. You cannot lie that you check out his muscular arms as you think about your next statement, considering that he’s more built than he was when you saw him years ago.

Marcus was always enjoyable to look at, but in this very moment, you could not stand the sight of his conflicted expressions. You did not understand why he was rattled and confused. He had no right to be.

Suddenly you are back in the juncture where you found out the Senate knew about your impending invasion. You had only told one person inside Rome of your grand plans and he was supposed to be helping you.

But instead, he was the one who informed the council. Your blood boiled at the horrid information. You had to get revenge. The General needed to pay.

“I do not bode well with traitors, General. You betrayed me.”

He scoffs, his eyes trained on your lips, “You know well I did not intentionally try to eradicate your plan. It worked anyway, why does it matter now?”

“You told the Senate that I was raising an army, am I correct in that assumption?”

“No, I told one Senator, one I thought I could trust, that I was aiding you to raise an army. It got me locked in this hell.” He gestures to his surroundings, finally backing away from your space. “I did not want to intentionally ruin this. You know that I would have done anything to see another Aurelius guide the Empire into what it should be. You are the hope Rome still has left.”

Your family history was the only way you had a pathway to be the Empress. You were technically the last of your family and you knew that would be your path to the position of the Roman Ceasar. Plus, Rome adored your Father. He was the greatest ruler Rome ever had. You had his heart and his compassion, unlike your older brother who ended up dead in the middle of the Coliseum due to his hunger for power. Your sister was practically useless when she lost her son, so it was up to you and you alone.

When the Twins took over Rome, you knew you had run away to farther lands to raise an army, appealing to every land that if you were not to aid them, they would get eliminated by Rome’s tyranny. Within 3 years, you had many countries and armies by your side, ready to take over the empire in your name.

Once the Twins knew of your plan, they sprang into action. They wanted your head. You had to fight to get into the walls of Rome and every soldier was directed to kill you at first sight. You had some close calls but you were decent with a sword and your guards were even better with theirs. Once you got to the steps of the palace, by some stroke of luck, the Twins were already dead. The rumor had spread that you were taking back Rome and the citizens took care of the last task you had without even asking.

You raise your chin, not giving in to Marcus’ game, “You almost got me killed. For that, I cannot forgive you.”

He winces a bit, putting his hands on his hips. “You never were very forgiving.”

“Hm, you perceive me well,” You sneer, trying your best not to take note of the ache around your neck. You bring your hand up to feel out the irritation. Marcus zeros in on your motions, smiling a bit.

“I was stuck looking after you for many years, remember? I know you better than you know yourself, little one.”

You think back to the days of being an obsessive young woman who was looked after by many guards during your father’s reign. Your favorite was always Marcus. He would let you get away with the most chaos. He was about ten years your senior. He knew it would be easier to let your childish nature roll off his shoulders than try to reprimand you. The few times you remember, you begged him to let you hold his sword and he refused telling you, ‘Women do not carry such weapons’. So instead of giving up on the conquest, you snuck into his sleeping quarters and stole it. When you showed off to a bunch of drunk soldiers, you thought Marcus’ face could not get any redder. He was so mad at you that he almost cursed you in front of your father.

You sickly enjoyed aggravating the man. Always have, always will.

You were starting to realize that you had a very broad history with the soldier. How were you to kill him?

“Tell me, Marcus. How would you like me to do it?”

He is quick with his response, “Do what, exactly?”

“How do you want me to kill you?”

He shakes his head, recognizing the look on your face, which suggests that you are only toying with the idea and are in conflict with yourself.

“You are not going to.”

You begin to realize you are showing too much honest emotion. He is too quick to notice such things about you, which annoyed you quite a bit.

You smile, trying to flip him off your trail. “But I am, General.”

“You are not going to kill me, girl. I will not die under your hand.”

He is not backing down, which only frustrates you further. You step past him, getting a big whiff of blood flooding your nostrils as you do. The unfortunate man has not bathed in weeks. The blood staining his body is probably of dozens of different men.

You peek out the iron bars to see that you two are still alone. You had three guards standing by not too far from the exit of the cells, but you instructed them not to follow you in.

“Then how would you like it? Another man’s hand?” You are silent for a moment, turning back to him, “I have a whole army.”

“Are they here now?”

He glances around his quarters, pondering how he is going to get out of this situation. You watch him carefully calculate his next move. His hand palms his face and his growing facial hair. He finally eyes you and you can tell he is getting tired. He knows he has only one choice.

“What do I have to do to get you to forgive me?”

You snicker, knowing he is going to have to do more than ask for forgiveness. You sickly want to watch him appeal for your mercy. “Get on your knees and beg.”

“I am not begging.”

“Then you die.”

He saunters over to you, his dirty fingers reaching up and tracing the hair on your arms. You take note that he’s touching you more cautiously than he was moments before. “I told you that I did not intentionally betray you.”

You stare down at his movements on your bare skin. “And I told you I do not care of what your intentions were.”

He smirks, cocking his eyebrow up. He knows that you will show some mercy to him because deep down, you could not stand the idea of losing him. He was a part of you, whether you liked it or not.

“You will let me live. You are going to let me lead the army like I once did,” He remarks, very certain of himself.

You scoff, tilting your head back, “You sound sure of yourself, Marcus. I do not think you understand-“

“Do you not remember telling me that I was the only man you trusted with your mind, body, and soul? What happened to that woman?”

It was something you had told him years before after he finally gave in and fucked you. It was probably the best night of your life, having him ravish you and please you. In a lustful conversation, you informed him that you only trusted him with your entire being. Looking back, you were a bit too vulnerable. You visibly cringe remembering it.

As you scan his face, your annoyance for him only grows as he uses that moment as a pawn in his appeal to get out of this.

“That was before, this is now.”

“So you lied, too,” His fingers drag up and down your arm, his nails leaving marks as he does, “Why would you lie to me?”

You know that he is trying to flip the circumstances back on you. While the manipulation was easily sensed, you could not help but continue to entertain it. Privately, you thrived on the disorder of it all. Marcus was the only man who could talk this way to you. He did know you very well.

“You know this is not the same. The entire army of Rome had orders to behead me. That happened because of your gossip.”

He shakes his head, his dirty curls taking up space on his forehead again, “It is to me. You said I was the only man worthy of protecting you. If I were not held up in a cell, I would have ended this war before it even began.”

“I do not wish for your protection, not anymore.”

He did not anticipate you resisting his every advancement. You usually cowered your head and accepted whatever retort he gave back, but this time, you were ready with a riposte immediately.

He coughs out a laugh, “You will when the entire Roman army turns against you. All I do is say the words.”

You knew that Rome would bow to you without resistance. His army had heard too many awful things about him by now. He was down in the pits for treason. You knew that he was only saying this to get back in your good graces. Deep down, you had already decided that this argument was useless. Marcus may have deceived you, but you know he would have never deliberately given you up. It would make no sense for his safety, also. By the looks of it, he fought for a long while to stay alive in the Coliseum.

But you wanted to get him to believe that you still could not trust him, just to put him on edge. You desired some revenge after such emotional turmoil.

“They would never betray me,” You reply, bringing your hands together in front of your stomach. You wait for him to take the bait.

Marcus notices your lip twitch. You are bluffing and he is unsure why you would be trying to stir up his emotions. You were good at bringing him no peace and since he was so exhausted and hungry, he was getting angrier than he was accustomed to.

He sighs, trying to blow off some of the steam rising to his face. “They have gotten more loyal to me during this previous reign. They would be rather disappointed to find me dead by your hand. You will not kill me.”

You stare at him, your lips pursed in faux contemplation.

“You are right. I will not.”

The response throws him off balance. He stumbles a bit. “What?” “Instead, I will have someone else do it. I will watch them as they give you a soldier’s death. A beautiful shining blade at the very top of your spine,” You walk closer to him, your hands still adjoined at the bottom of your abdomen. “Slicing you all the way down your midsection. I will enjoy watching the blood spill out, staining the marble floors of the palace.”

He steps towards you, his jaw clenched. He is sick of the back and forth when he knows you will not make good on your plans. He is peering at you suspiciously before his hand reaches up to your soft cheek. For some odd reason, you believe he will be gentle. But he is not. He grabs your face roughly, squishing your cheeks against your back teeth. “I am beginning to lose my patience. Are you sure you want to do this, little dove?”

The nickname. It was something he used to call you when you two were intimate all those years ago. He saw you as a delicate thing back then. The woman you had morphed into was foreign to him. You were more maddening than ever.

“I will do whatever is good for the Republic, General.”

He uses all his strength to shove you backward into the bench. Your ass falls against the wooden plank that Marcus had been sleeping on for a fortnight. The wood is rough against your thin vein of fabric.

The shock of his violence sends wetness pooling between your legs. You had only seen Marcus rough with you once and it was never to this degree. He may have given in to you with aggressive and unforgiving hips, but this was another level of hostility. Your heart begins to race as he stands over you, his tanned body heaving in frustration.

He squints at you, “Good for the Republic, huh? What good is a dirty little whore to the Republic?”

You try your best not to give in at this moment. And Marcus knows it. Your face twists, your nose pointing upward like you used to when you were a young woman. He suddenly recalls a moment where you were being reprimanded by someone of higher rank and you had crossed your arms over your chest and crinkled your nose like you inhaled something awful. It was a facial expression he would never forget. A simple indication that you were wrong and someone else was correct.

You are noticing the way his eyes are tracing your face and you try to keep yourself as still as possible. “You are speaking to your Empress, Marcus.”

His eyes rake your body, almost like he is looking for something. He smiles, “My Empress who I am aware has a dagger stored somewhere on her body and yet she has not used it on me yet. Why is that?”

You are not ready for what is next on Marcus’ mind. He pushes your thighs apart with his knee, forcing you to look at him again by aggressively holding onto your face again. You wince when his filthy fingernails dig into your cheeks.

“Marcus-”

“Why have you not already plunged your dagger into my heart if you want me gone? Why do you need someone else to do your work?”

He is mocking you, his tone not giving you a break in the slightest. Somewhere deep down, Marcus knows something is up. With the way your body is giving into his every move, he can tell your intentions were simple: to make him the fool.

And you were doing a very good job. Because he is getting very antsy. You pull your head back, trying to add some distance between him and yourself. But his face is so close to yours, that you can smell the metallic scent of blood from his skin. Your eyes avert away, not wanting him to finally look inside and read your mind.

You manage to muster up something. “Because I still very much enjoy watching you writhe under my thumb.”

He is seething, his face is beet red. The way you are positioned, so impurely before him, brings his hateful aggression to full-blown rageful desire.

He is eager with his movements and you are fallen at his mercy. Within only a few moments, he is hiking up your stola moving the fabric away from your lower half. You groan out as soon as his fingers grope you. You believe every breath has left your body.

He chuckles darkly to himself, “Me? Writhe under your thumb? Is that so? You only came here to watch me suffer?”

“Yes-” “You believe some impish whore, like yourself, can here and make me completely fall apart? Hm? How about I load myself in that pussy of yours and we see who truly falls apart first?”

He was not wrong with his words, but they were so unhinged. You had never heard Marcus talk like this to you. While he was quick with his language, he was still always very respectable.

His proposition was not completely unwelcome.

“You do not know what I want. Why are you doing this?”

You try to manage as he spreads around your dampness with his fingers. You had not been touched like this in so long so you were easily swayed why the action. You lull your head back, making it pretty obvious that you did want this.

He hums to himself, watching your body squirm under him. “Do I not? Here you are, so easily taken down by me, a traitor. What kind of emperor falls to her knees for a man who allegedly betrayed her? What good chance will Rome have with a leader like that?”

You watch as he tears up the fabric, completely revealing your naked core up to your lower breastplate. He stares down at the state of you, grinning to himself wickedly. You can not think of a single word to say to him, so you just lament with your hands at your side.

He strips off his tunic, leaving him in just his subligaculum. The cloth was tented by the strain of his hard-pressed cock.

His body was covered in blood and dirt, the tunic not absorbing all of the fluids from his battles. His skin is splattered with it. He watches you stare at it intently, huffing out.

“So what will we do, Empress? How about… If you fall apart first, I am free. If I release first, you kill me. How about that?”

You watch as he palms his cock over the cloth. Your mouth starts to overproduce saliva as you observe his action. You knew you were not going to win such a thing, and that is completely okay with you. Marcus knew this, too. The last time you two were intimate, he inserted himself into you for a whole minute before you were squeezing around him and begging for more.

“That is a deal I can agree with, General.”

He nods arrogantly before he grabs your hips, kneading the flesh. You watch him spread his bloodstained hands all around your legs, hinging your knees with his forearms.

“Do not even need to warm you up,” He uses his left hand to guide his cock through your seeping folds.

You do not prefer the sound of no foreplay, but you do not think it is your time to say anything. As soon as your lips open, Marcus dribbles spit down between your bodies, landing perfectly right at your slit. It’s obscene, his actions. But instead of gasping at the immortality of it, you are breathing out in pleasure. His member splits you open, every ridge pressing against your insides.

“Marcus, my Gods,” You whine, trying to gain some sense. “I need your fingers first.”

He scrunches his nose, guiding himself into the hilt. “No, you do not. You will take me like this first.”

“Marcus-” “And after I watch you fall apart on me, I am going to,” He pulls his cock out of you begrudgingly slow, “Make you fall apart on my mouth. And then when I get two out of you, I will fuck you again with my cock. When my seed spills inside you and leaks down your legs, I will send you out to the streets and have you clear my name.”

And then he slams into you again. He is very girthy, which is a lot for your untouched cunt. You had no formal stretching before he entered you, so it hurts a bit as he speeds up his incursion inside you.

He plants his hands right on your hips, his hands expanding down your side. With the way your head is propped up on the wall, you are practically forced into watching him fuck you with such vigorous speed. He’s animalistic. His hands leave blood prints on your body, sticky and off-putting.

You are so enamored with him, that you do not even begin teetering on the edge of your release. He notices this as your cunt squeezes his member, which encourages him to speed up his pistoning hips.

“Oh, dove, I feel you,” He extends his thumb down to the very top of your slit, “Your flower is just seizing around me. You are about to cum.”

You try to tense up a bit, but your body feels weightless. “No. No, I can not.”

You can not stop what is impending. He rubs circles on your sensitive bud, sending your back lurching away from the wall.

“Ah, yes, that’s right, dove. Release on my cock. You know you want to,” He is gritting his teeth, eyes gazing directly into yours.

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, trying to hold back, but him grinding into you sends you over. A scream rips through your body as you careen forward towards his shoulders. You hold on to him like he is going to dissipate away, grabbing at his back. Your climax is white hot almost as if your entire body was lit on fire and quickly extinguished.

“There it is…” He fucks you through it all, his thrusts slowing as you relax yourself against the wall again. “I win.”

His words set you off. The high of your release is now ruined by his statement. Your arms are still lazily around his shoulders. You glare up at him, seeing his smug smirk painting his lips. It’s truly sinful.

You use all your strength and pull him down towards your lips. You capture him in a kiss that you almost believe he is going to pull away from but does not. You just want him to stop speaking for a moment so you settle with the reality of the situation. You would have to face Rome and tell them that the traitor is being let off for his crimes against you.

You were still better than the alternate reality of Rome. Under the Twins, they would see no peace. With you, the only chaos you would pursue is General Marcus Acacius. You could live with that.

He tilts his head back, trying to pull away from your mouth. You lock your arm around him, holding him there a moment longer. His lips manage to trail away.

“You won this. But I won Rome.”

He chuckles at your statement before reminding you of his promise, “I am not done yet, Dove.”

His tacky fingers grab you roughly, lifting you off the bench and towards the table across the dirt floor room. He places your feet on the ground, your back to his much taller figure. His cock is still solid, pressing right into your buttcheek.

“Bend over.”

You practically snap your neck trying to look back at the man.

He does not take kindly to that, using his hand to push your face to look towards the wall again. “Do what I say. I already told you what I was to do.”

You lean your body over the furniture, holding onto the edge as you feel Marcus’ hands slide across your back, all the way down to your ass. You hear a commotion but you are too afraid of what he may do if you look back. You then realize he’s on his knees behind you. When he settles in the dust, he uses both hands to spread you open. He wastes no time, diving face-first into your dripping core. Your cunt is already so sensitive that when you feel his tongue flattening between your slit, you cannot help but squeal.

Your sounds provoke Marcus to think back to the nights when he was alone on the front lines of war, lying in his tent, thinking about the first time he tasted you. You had never experienced pleasure like that, and he vividly remembers pulling orgasm after orgasm out of you with his tongue. It was his favorite thing about your intimate times together. The memory was enough to have him erupting all over his stomach night after night.

And now here you are again, right under his thumb. Or rather, his tongue.

“My Gods, Marcus, please.”

His ministrations change from eager licks to suckling on your most sensitive bud. Obscene wet noises begin reverberating off the walls, filling the room with such crudeness. His nose is pressed into you, sucking in your sweet scent.

You silently prayed that no others heard you two.

The warmth in your stomach fills again. Your legs feel like they may give out from under you. Luckily, Marcus has his hands right where your thighs begin, spreading you open, but also holding you up. When the wave of pleasure hits, your legs shake and your throat lets out a guttural moan.

He licks up whatever your body offers him before he is back on his feet. His chest presses into your back as he traces the outline of your body with his digits. You feel so winded from your comedown, that you can hardly say anything. Marcus’ face creeps to the side of yours, nudging your cheek with his nose.

“You taste like heaven, little dove.”

His words are such a drastic shift from what he was saying to you before. But while his words were charming, his actions were still brute. He reaches down to his swollen cock head and begins to drag it along your slick. You cry out, your body still recovering from the last moments of his stimulation.

“Marcus-” “I am going to fill you with my seed now. You will take every last drop because of what you just put me through,” He slides himself back into your cunt, painfully slow, “You are so convincing when you want to be.”

You grunt, trying to prop yourself up on your elbows. When Marcus notices your movement, he takes the chance and grabs your arms in a very rough manner. His hands are gripping you so tightly, you anticipate another mark. He yanks your body closer to his, wrapping your arms between your bodies, locking you up. It was not the most comfortable position, but the feeling of his cock slipping in you further distracts you from the affliction.

“You played me for a fool. You were always going to let me go. You just wanted me to fill this greedy pussy.”

He fucks into you, letting out his own passionate grunts. His words rattle in your mind as your whole body jiggles over the edge of the table.

He had you all figured out. It was unnerving how well he could read you, but it was not surprising. He had been around for most of your life, looking after you and being your most trusted confidant. Even if he let something slip to the wrong person, he was still going to be the one person you looked to in every crowd.

Now that you have experienced this side of him, you only love him more. He has always been intimidating, but never this all-consuming.

“Need you always, Marcus,” You whimper, trying your best to not ruin his pace. His cock stretches you so deliciously, you wish to have it with you at all times.

His release comes hurriedly, his body becoming heavy on top of yours. He slams your body down on the table, his arms breaking most of the fall. You can feel his seed emptying into your spent hole, warming you inside. The string of words leaving his lips, that’s right dove, take all of me, your greedy hole just missed me.

You can not help yourself. You smile.

You really wish you had watched him fall apart, knowing it was probably a sight to behold. There was always next time.

He unwraps himself from you and stumbles back a couple of steps. You lift your tired body, turning around to face him. You know if you step forward, you may crash to the floor. Leaning on the table was your best course of action.

He is smirking himself, his cock still half hard on his leg. “Need me, huh?”

You knew he would find time to hang onto those words. You breathe out your nose, a bit caught off guard. “Yes. I always seem to need you when I feel vulnerable.”

“Well, coming from the Empress of Rome, that surely means a lot. That you look to me in such times, I mean.”

You bite your cheek, contemplating your next big plans for Marcus. You did not want him to leave your side now that you ruled over him. You felt a gravitational pull from him. Now with him here in front of you, that was even more apparent.

“Well… General..” You try to find a way to word your next course of action. He looks at you earnestly as you speak. “You will be pardoned under my rule. But you will not be returning to your men. I will see you through as my personal protection.”

He furrows his brow at you as he picks up his abandoned tunic. “Pardon me?”

“You are directed to be my personal guard, Marcus. Your troops will now be under the rule of another. If you see issue with my ruling, I will happily leave you in this cell.”

He wants to be angry, but he simply cannot be. Truth be told, he was ready to retire from being the leader of the world’s largest array of soldiers. He was just not expecting you to allow him to do such a thing.

He cracks a smile at the thought of you leaving him in this cell.

“What you order, goes. I will happily take on that role, Empress.”

All he knew was to be strong and even-tempered when he directed his armies. Now in a time of peace, under your rule, he needed to find calamity somewhere else. And he knew that would be right at your side.

tagging all who wanted this: @layaispunk @tammythr @amanitacowboy @noladyme @kluvspedro @fangirlcentral1

#HI MEAN MARCUS HERE #marcus acacius #marcus acacias x reader #marcus acacius smut #marcus acacius gladiator 2 #gladiator ii #marcus acacius x you #marcus acacius fanfic #gladiator 2 fanfic #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #gracieheartspedro #fic: Propositio

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cressidagrey · 8 months ago

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Stars all aligned - Chapter 9

Summary:

If there was one thing that both Azriel and Zahra Archeron had in common, it was that they were both very good at blending into the background.

They just never thought that their family were going to be the ones who never saw them at all.

Warning:

I'll keep the warnings, even though there is no outright mention in this part: Bashing of like...every IC member? Especially the Archeron Sisters, discussion of chronic pain, discussion of Infertility, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Underage Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Accidental Baby Procurement

If any of this triggers you or makes you uncomfortable, please, take care of your own mental health and don't read it.

(Lovely dividers thanks to @sweetmelodygraphics)

"He'll be fine," Esmeray said evenly.

Zahra couldn't help but flinch, her eyes fixed outside the window. She didn't get to see anything, there was nothing to see, but…"How do you know that?" Zahra demanded sharply.

Esmeray didn't seem the least bit surprised at the harsh question."Because my son will always do whatever he has to do to survive," she said drily. "Just as he should. He'll come home to you." Her words were blunt, straightforward and to the point and Zahra felt the sudden tightness in her throat ease slightly.

Azriel was going to come home…it wasn’t like he was walking into…enemy territory right? He had survived two wars…he could survive dinner with his family…

“But normally his enemies aren’t his own brothers,” she whispered. Regardless of her own personal feelings about Cassian and Rhys…she didn’t doubt for a moment that…they were both exceptionally powerful.

Esmeray said nothing for a moment, her face pensive. She watched Zahra with an intense gaze, the silence drawing on as Zahra tried not to fidget under her scrutiny, her own gaze meeting Esmeray’s as the older woman tilted her head.

“Has Azriel told you what happened to his hands?” Esmeray finally asked her.

That…wasn't what Zahra had expected to hear. Zahra blinked as she stared at Esmeray, her mouth opening uselessly for a few seconds as she tried to form words. But in the end, she couldn’t find the words and settled for a shake of her head, her eyes wide as she stared at Esmeray.

She had seen the violent scars. Of course she had. They were impossible to miss. And she knew how they had pained him…though the useless golden glow of hers seemed to at least have eased that particular agony. It hadn’t seemed like they had bothered him again.

“Or where he spent the first few years of his life?” Esmeray continued.

"No," Zahra admitted, her voice small.

She had an inkling that whatever had happened to Azriel as a child...it must have been bad. Really bad.

“I was 17 when a Azriel was born. One of the Lords at a War Camp fathered him,” Esmeray said, her voice quiet. “I was young…I was stupid…and my family had too many mouths to feed. So…I became his mistress. He took my son from me, when he was still a babe. And he kept him from me…for the years that followed. I was allowed to only see him an hour a week. My own son,” she spat out these words

Zahra stared at Esmeray.

She felt...sick. Sick and furious and heartbroken all at the same time as she listened to Esmeray's admission."Any other child...They wouldn't have survived these years locked away in that dungeon. And if they had....they would have been angry at the world and ready to watch it all burn," Esmeray continued softly. "But not Azriel. Not him. Not my son… He got the scars on his hands when his half brother’s decided to see how fire and oil would mix. The scars… were the result."

She wanted to vomit.

The pain and heartbreak in Esmeray's eyes spoke of horrors that she couldn't possibly begin to imagine.

"The shadows came to him after that...And his father...he realised how dangerous Azriel would be in the future. So he send him away. To train. And for one decade, I thought I was never going to see my son again," she recounted, shaking her head. "I thought that if the years in the darkness hadn't killed him...then the training would. Illyrian start training young. He was already 11. He couldn’t even fly, Zahra. They had bound his wings to his back since he was a baby."

Zahra stared at Esmeray, her eyes wide.

She swallowed. It sounded like torture. Plain and simple.

She hadn’t been treated…well as a child... hadn’t slept in the same nursery as her sisters, but instead in the servants quarter on a lumpy mattress with some mice to keep her company…but she hadn’t been…she hadn’t been locked in the darkness. She had gotten food…not the food the family ate but what the servants ate. She had been ignored…but even if Nesta hated her…she had never put her hands on fire.

And Azriel…

"But he survived," Esmeray continued. "He survived. With these shadows of his. And he became a Carynthian, he touched the sacred peak of Ramiel...and then he came back for me," Esmeray said with a shake of her head and a shaky sort of laugh. "He came back for you?" Zahra repeated, her heart twisting in her chest as she listened to Esmeray’s words.

She couldn't even begin to imagine the love and loyalty Azriel must feel for his mother, to survive all that, and return for her.

"He did," Esmeray said softly. "He had every right to forget I even existed...but he didn't. He killed one of his half- brother during that Blood Rite...and he killed his father the moment he set a foot in that training camp where he was born. And then he came for me and brought me here," Esmeray said softly. "This is what he did for me, his mother. For his mate? I can promise you one thing, Zahra, with absolute certainty: As long as there is breath left in my son, he'll return home to you."

The words sounded almost like a promise and Zahra felt the tightness in her chest ease. Hearing the conviction in Esmeray's voice, the absolute belief in her son...made Zahra believe, just for a moment.

"His father wasn't a...good man. He was a monster," Esmeray said softly. "And he did...horrible things to me. But I'll never regret having Azriel. He's the only good thing that male ever created."

Zahra felt her throat close up at those words. At the unwavering and fierce love in Esmeray's voice, even as she spoke of the monster...and her son.

Zahra thought about herself. She didn't know if she could have...if she could have loved a child created from what had been done to her. Wouldn't know if she could have...if she would have been...able to love them as fiercely and beautifully as Esmeray clearly loved Azriel.

"He’ll come home to you," Esmeray repeated. "Don't borrow troubles."

It was easier said than done.

"I never wanted him to fight with his family for me," Zahra said weakly.

"It's your family too, is it not? Your sister is married to Rhysand…your other to Cassian," Esmeray pointed out reasonably. "What happened?"

Zahra felt her face heat up in shame as she avoided Esmeray's gaze.

"My sisters don't particularly like me," she said weakly. "I am a constant reminder of our father's...infidelity."

"And what does that have to do with you?" Esmeray asked, voice sharp.

Zahra flinched back in surprise at the sharp tone and how direct the question was.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

Esmeray snorted derisively. "Your father's infidelity...is exactly what it says on the tin: your father's sin," she snapped. "Not yours. You are your own person, not an object created solely to hurt your half-sisters or their mother. Who do they think they are, to decide who you are based on their father's mistakes?"

She could just blink at Esmeray as she felt a knot in her throat. Zahra swallowed past it tightly. She had always just been a bastard created by her father’s infidelity. That was the one thing…that she would never get away from.

But there was also…

"... I had an affair with a married man," she admitted weakly. "While I was human."

Esmeray fell silent, the only sound echoing the quiet.

Zahra didn't meet Esmeray's gaze, her hands curled into tight fists on her lap as she waited for the older woman to speak.

She was waiting for judgment.

“Do you really think, you’ll get judgment from me, when I did the same?” Esmeray asked her, her voice quiet. “Azriel is the result of that, Zahra. So were you…But you must have been…awfully young?” Esmeray said softly. “You are what? 20 now?”

"24," Zahra corrected her weakly. "I was 15. When it started."

Esmeray's face twisted in fury when Zahra answered her question. It was clear that she already put the pieces together, even before hearing the young woman's answer.

"You were a child," Esmeray snapped. "How much older than you was he? A few decades, l imagine?"

"Eighteen years older," Zahra responded quietly, her voice trembling slightly. "...Feyre was sick. He owned the apothecary. We had no money and she needed medicine and I..."

Zahra swallowed back the bile rising in her throat as she recalled the fear of those days, the pain and terror as she desperately tried to protect her sister.

She remembered how he used her. How he took advantage of her when she had no one else to turn to, no one else to rely on.

"In what world would you call this an affair, sweetheart?" Esmeray asked her weakly. "How long did it go on?"

Zahra took a shuddering breath as she stared at the ground.

"Six years," she answered, voice shaking. “I would rather call it an affair than call myself a whore,” she said weakly.

Esmeray reached out to put a hand on her shoulder. "He hurt you." It was said flatly. Not a question.

"Yes," Zahra choked out, forcing the words passed the knot in her throat. "He hurt me." The words tasted like ash as they left her lips, the pain and shame they came with making her feel sick to her stomach.

She didn't want to think about it, about him, or the pain he made her feel.

She never wanted to think about it again, she didn't want to recall the things he did to her. There was no escaping the pain the memories brought, or the pain he caused for all those years. And still to this day.

"I won't be able to have kids," she whispered. "He took that from me too."

Esmeray reached forward, a shaky hand resting in the younger woman's.

"Oh, sweetheart," Esmeray muttered, her voice shaking in sympathy and fury. And then..."There were two pregnancies after Azriel," she said softly. "I miscarried the first...the second...he beat me so badly that...the baby was too small to survive," Esmeray said softly. "Not anymore after that. He took that from me too."

Tears welled in Zahra's eyes as she listened to Esmeray's soft words.

"I'm so sorry," Zahra whispered. The pain Esmeray felt was so evident in those words, and Zahra couldn't help but feel sorry for her.

She couldn't begin to imagine how it must feel, to lose children the way she did.

"Don't be," Esmeray reassured her, voice shaking. "It was a long time ago...and I love my son. I love Azriel. He's more than enough for me. Why mess with perfection?" she asked, her voice firm. Zahra couldn't help a weak laugh that escaped her.

"And if you and Azriel decide that you want children one day...there are ways to have children that aren't the traditional way," Esmeray continued. "There are plenty of illyrian children that are simply...thrown away. Not here in Rosehall but in some of the more traditional camps. Not enough food for too many mouth to feed...bastards themselves...physical disabilities...plenty of reasons," she said with a shudder.

Zahra blinked in surprise at the words.

She...she hadn't had the chance to think about anything beyond surviving yet, let alone how...how she and Azriel would have children some day in the future, if they wanted. after everything that happened.

But children, a family...she had always wanted a family. A family of her own. She just...hadn't even considered how that could ever happen to her.

There were children like her, thrown away as unwanted, but she hadn't known that it was such a... common occurrence.

"That's horrible," she whispered under her breath.

To think that those children were left behind, abandoned, or thrown out when they were too young to even take care of themselves... It filled her with rage. How could an entire society treat people like that?

"Sometimes it's something as simple that they are girls," Esmeray said, her voice bitter. "Girls are useless in their eyes."

Zahra felt her heart twist in fury at the words.

The fact that an entire society could think that girls were useless enough to throw them aside...it sickened her.

"Azriel will come home," Emeray promised her with a squeeze of her hand once more as she pulled back to go back to her cooking. "Could you set the table?"

Zahra nodded quietly, her words stuck in her throat as she swallowed her tears.

She stood and slowly went over to the kitchen, gathering the things necessary to set the table for dinner.

But she couldn't get one thing out of her head. "Do you...Do you keep an eye on his half brother?" She asked the shadows softly. "So he'll never hurt Azriel again?"

The shadows writhed in the air, twisting around on themselves for a few moments as if in agitation.

Zahra swallowed slightly at the sight of the shadows reacting like that.

"Could you?" Zahra requested. "please? Just for my own sake of mind?"

The shadows writhed a little more before they seemed to quiet down, only a gentle shift in movement now, as if the shadows had accepted her request.

"Thank you," she said softly.

You're welcome, the voice was as soft as a breath, as otherworldly as that as well.

Zahra couldn't help the shiver that ran down her spine at the voice that echoed in her head.

It was as otherworldly as it was strangely soothing.

***

Azriel was tired. Tired and exhausted and hurting and furious and hungry, his rage and exhaustion leaving him on a hair trigger.

His shadows writhed in the air around him, agitation and fury rolling off of

It was done. He had had that talk. It had gone...better than he thought it would. Which was something, he supposed. But it left him tired...

His exhaustion was seeping into his bones, settling deep and leaving him heavy and...worn. He was exhausted deep in his marrow, all the way down to his very soul.

He didn't like to fight. He had never liked to fight. Especially not this kind of fighting. Fighting with knifes and swords was one thing...this kind of emotional bloodletting was another thing entirely.

It hurt so much more, to be vulnerable, to lay his emotions, his deepest secrets and insecurities, bare and have others know them. Have others be able to twist and use those things against him if they so desired.

And even when this had needed to have happened...needed to be done...this didn't make it any easier.

It had made him feel horrible to use…Zahra’s most traumatic moments as pressure points.

He just needed...he just needed to see Zahra. Jsut needed to know that she was safe.

That need rose like a crashing wave.

He could feel it now, the need to get to his mate, to know that she was safe, to see her and feel it.

So he winnowed. The wards around Rosehall bent to his will...and just seconds later, he got to walk through his mother’s front door.

He heard voices, his mother's low murmur and Zahra's soft responses to the older woman, the words a quiet hum in the air that carried him further into the small home.

The smell of food rose in the air, the rich scent of stew and bread wafting through the hallway as he followed the voices and the scent of food into the dining room.

„Azriel!" and then Zahra was already throwing herself at him and he caught her instinctively, burying his face against her shoulder. Not a scratch on her. Nothing. Just the warm scent of her.

Honeysuckle and something he never could quite place.

His mate was safe. She was whole and unharmed and right there...in his arms.

“She was worried for you," his mother said drily.

He ignored the words for a few moments longer, clinging to his mate.

Azriel took another deep breath, the scent of his mate so close easing the tension in his body little by little.

He finally pulled back, his hands moving to frame her face, just to feel her warm skin against his palms.

Their gazes met, the green of her eyes familiar and safe and comforting and Azriel felt some of his exhaustion and tension bleed away.

Being in her presence always felt like he could simply...breathe, no matter the circumstances.

In her presence, he could breathe.

"All is well," he promised Zahra who leaned into his touch, her eyes misted with tears. But she simply nodded.

She believed him.

That small, simple gesture. The way she nodded and trusted his word, was enough to make him lean in and press a kiss against her forehead.

"Are you hungry? We made stew. Esmeray was nice enough to teach me how to make Illyrian flatbread." She asked him and he nodded. His stomach twisted a little at the reminder.

Yeah, he was hungry. Starving actually.

"Food and then bed for both of you," his mother said with some amusement as she filled his plate for him.

He huffed out a breath, his hands still in a gentle grip around Zahra as if to ensure she wouldn't slip away from his grasp.

For once, he couldn't bring himself to complain about his mother's bossy attitude.

The idea of food and then sleeping in a warm bed with his mate curled up against his chest, her steady heartbeat and slow breathing a reminder that she was there, safe and whole beside him...it sounded like perfection.

He cleared two plates of stew and then curled up in the guest bedroom with Zahra, tucked safely and warmly underneath his mother’s quilt.

"How did it really go?" Zahra asked him in the darkness of the room, drawing random patterns onto his naked chest.

"Both better and worse than I thought it would," Azriel answered honestly. Then he grimaced. "...I told them. About what happened to you."

"Oh," she said, voice quiet even as she shifted closer and wrapped her arms around him. "How did they…..take it?"

He had expected anger. Expected…something. "You aren't angry?" He checked and Zahra just weakly shrugged. "They wouldn't have understood without, would they?" She forced out, her voice trembling.

She was right. He wished they didn't need to use her trauma as a shield but...

She was right.

He hated it. But he couldn't deny the truth in her words.

"Your sisters were distraught," he said delicately. "Elain wants your forgiveness… Feyre wanted to know where you are."

He heard Zahra take a shuddering breath, felt the way her chest rose as she tensed.

"Why?" she muttered, sounding more tired than angry.

He didn’t need to be Rhys to be able to read her thoughts. Why did Feyre care now?

"She wanted to apologize," he answered softly as he felt the tension in her body, rubbing her should gently.

"And Nesta?" Zahra asked weakly.

"Let's just say, I am pretty certain that Cassian and her are going to have a screaming match sometime soon."

"Why?" she asked, her voice so quiet and small that it made his chest ache.

His hand moved to gently brush over her waist, slowly stroking along her side in what he hoped was a soothing motion.

"Let's just say that she didn't take the news of our mating bond well, and leave it at that," Azriel said with a snort. "It doesn't matter what she thinks."

Zahra huffed a small amount of breath, the tiniest of laughs.

"No, it doesn't," she agreed, body leaning more heavily against his as the tension slowly drained from her. "Your mother is lovely, by the way," Zahra said softly.

That made him smile a little bit, warmth flooding him at the mention of his mother. He was so glad Zahra and Esmeray seemed to get on as well. He couldn't quite put it word, the relief and happiness he felt at the knowledge that the two people he loved seemed to get on so well. And the shadows... well they were already enamored with Zahra as well.

He felt the shadows curl and twist around his waist in fond affection and he couldn't help but smile faintly.

They had been fond of Zahra since the beginning, but now..they were practically in love with her.

He pressed a kiss against her forehead and closed his eyes.

Between one breath and the next Azriel fell asleep.

Only to be roughly awakened by his shadows what seemed like seconds later.

Master. Master, you need to wake up. He was awake immediately, thrown back to the last time they had done the very same thing to him. But there was no iron-rich scent of blood in his nose. Nothing of that sort. And Zahra was peacefully slumbering away next to him, looking younger in her sleep than she did awake…nothing out of the ordinary.

What's wrong? he demanded immediately. He could hear his mother's quiet heartbeat down the hall, nothing seemed to be amiss with her either.

Something… happened, his shadows whispered hesitantly and the sound of it made him sit upright in bed, his grip tight around Zahra, shielding her from danger as he stared into the darkness of the bedroom. We…maybe broke a rule, Master.

A rule.

There were only very few rules the shadows had gotten from him. Mostly to not outright starting to murder anybody unless he allowed it.

What did you do? he asked with a sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. Had they gone back to their habit of gambling a truly ridiculous amount of money all at once? He had gotten them to do it more often but with smaller sums of money so it wasn't as obvious as it once had been centuries ago.

Esmeray told her about what happened to your hands, Master, the shadows admitted softly. And that you went to get her after the Blood Rite... Our Mate asked if the shadows kept an eye on…*him*.

Oh, he breathed out, the tension in his shoulders easing a little. What did you do? he asked with a sigh. Did he want to know? If they had killed his half-brother that would be...well there were worse things they could have done, he supposed...He just hoped they made it look like an accident if they did murder him.

The shadows stayed silent for a moment.

He's still using the dungeon, the shadows said softly. But the warding is...broken. The warding that had kept him contained. Now it would be nothing but a blink of an eye to break...but for a weak 8 year old...it had been impossible to escape.

What did you find? he asked, swallowing.

We may have...taken her, the shadows admitted quickly. But if we hadn't, who knows how long she would have survived down there!

Azriel stared into the darkness, taking a breath at the word.

Who exactly is *she*? he demanded sharply.

His bastard daughter, the shadows said quickly. She's just a baby!

You kidnapped a baby?!?!

#acotar fanfiction #azriel x oc #azriel x reader #azriel fanfiction #azriel fanfic #Azriel x Archeron!Reader #Stars all aligned

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on-the-clear-blue · 21 days ago

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Dan had many feelings. Sure most of them were negative and hate was a very big one of his many emotions.

But another one was pure and simple ecstatic euphoria.

Because...he was himself again. Gone was a big and bulky form, back was his...normal self. He had forgotten what it had felt like to look in the mirror and see himself, not the twerp or the clone, not some demented memory screaming in horror at what he had done.

No. It was his face, thr soft curves that he got from his mother, the dark hair and blue eyes from his father, the eyebrows that matched Jazz's, not a single lick of Vlad was in him, not the scars from his global dominance, no deformed fangs that bit into his flesh, no flaming hair that he couldn't shape.

It was just Him.

And he couldn't help but feel great about that.

---

Danny watched as Dante (they all couldn't be named Danny) stare at himself in the mirror. He himself didn't have the personal need to preen as much as the teen was doing, so perhaps it was just the quirk of his other self.

Stopping behind him, Danny couldn't help but smile a bit, the teen looked happy, sure he wasn't smiling but Danny knew his teenage face well enough to know that Dante was majorly pleased.

Blue met blue through the mirror, and Danny nodded to the teen, Dante had been given an old clone body after a long rehabilitation, so it was set in Danny's teenage years, even though the man had aged a decade.

Smirking as he ruffled Dantes hair (which earned him a snap of teeth and a jab to the kidneys) Danny nodded to the door, "Come on, your going to be late for school, it's your first day so you can't miss it."

Dante gave a glare and a huff, but the glare softened as he looked at himself in the mirror, and Danny was struck at just how young the teen looked at the moment.

Apprehension and tension was clear on the boys face, but behind that was worry, panic even Danny knew the face well, having had it many times before.

"Do I really have to fucking go? Doesn't being a war criminal exclude me from such things?" Dante snarked, turning to actually properly look at Danny, who could only chuckle.

"We both know you actually want to, cant be an astronaut without a PhD and cant get that withour a high-school diploma...You quit before graduating...last time." Danny said with a stiffness.

The teens eyes hardened "Well excuse fucking me, seeing everyone I loved and cared about die in an explosion made me not really feel up to going to god damn fucking school."

Shoving past Danny, Dante stormed past him, a trail of steam and the sent of smoke following him out of the house and onto the streets of the new city.

Some ecto filled, low life having, bat infested city...called Gotham.

---

Damian tugged at his tie, fixing it into place after touching up his hair once more, frowning as he fiddled with it, making a mental note to trim it soon.

Grabbing an sponge, the teen dabbed it into a small tub of tan makeup, before softly applying it to his face, his touch light as he goes over the back eye he was trying to hide.

Yes the Robin mask did offer some protection, but not nearly enough to fully stop a Venom junkie that just got a new dose.

And while he was thankful to get the new lead on Banes operation selling Venom, a deep nagging part of him hated that his face had payed the price for it.

Damian hated that he cared about his appearance, and hated that he associated it with his mother.

Learning how to do disguise make up had been one of the only times during his training he had spent extended periods of time with his mother, skills that he was still using to this day.

Putting down the sponge, Damian got a fresh one and dabbed it onto his face, blending the colors until the purples and blues of the black eye disappeared completely.

"Master Damian, the car is pulled up to the front, though i shall be taking you Master Richard has offered to pick you up. I must tend to your idiotic father, as he seems to be trying to stand again on both his broken legs. Perhaps this time I shall leave him in a straight jacket before hiding the keys, that should keep him down for longer..." the old butler muttered to himself at the end, but Damian could only sigh as he stepped away from the mirror.

"Just invite Miss Kyle or Eamm Clark to keep him down." Damian said, toeing on his shoes as he steps out from his room, taking the offered backpack from Alfred as he walks by him.

"Ahh...that might solve the issue of him staying in his room...but both of them have a possibility of causing more harm to him.." the elder butler said, walking close behind his youngest charge as he made his way to the front of the house.

Damian pulled a face, "Disgusting Pennyworth, please do not discuss my fathers...promiscuous relationships with those two, I do not want to dig out my ear drums just to burn them but I shall if you continue."

The old man gave a not-smirk, the kind thst was more frown but held a jolly feeling. "Oh of course Master Damian..."

Rolling his eyes, the teen got to the front steps, even half way through them in blissful silence before Alfred spoke once more. "Ah. I was set it inform you yesterday day but as you had an injury I had forgotten, you will be receiving a new classmate today, your father had done a screening of course, and they stood out because of their parents, who happen to be inventors that like making things go...to steal a phrase from Master Jason, Boom."

Damian just nodded, "I shall research them. I will know everything about them by the time I will come home."

"And that is all I can ask you Master Damian" Alfred said, opening the car door, "I do hope thst the day is not wasted, it is not every day that one starts highschool."

#batman #batfam #danny phantom #dc x dp #dpxdc #damian wayne #dan fenton #Dan dp #his name is now Dante cus fuck writing Dan all the time #will be a multi part series #i am sleep deprived #is it still dead serious if its Dan and Damian?#dan is not okay #but he is getting there #superbatcat is great and nobody can steal it from me

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midnight-shadow-cafe · 1 month ago

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Miles Between, Heartbeats Close

 Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader

 Warnings: Long-distance relationship, angst, smut (kinda? I guess?), emotional intimacy, soft domestic moments, implied PTSD/nightmares, tender vulnerability, language

 Author’s Note: IM BACK BABY!! Sorry I was visiting family and friends so here we are! Enjoy this!!

 Summary: Loving a soldier means learning how to live in pieces—and how to put them back together when they come home.

Masterlist

 MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

——

One Week Before Deployment

He didn't wear the mask around you. Not in bed, not at home, not when he was cooking you eggs at midnight in just a pair of sweats and his dog tags.

You were wrapped in one of his shirts, leaning on the counter with a mug of tea, watching him cook. He felt your eyes on him.

“What?” he said, glancing over his shoulder, spatula in hand.

“Just thinking,” you murmured.

“Dangerous,” he replied, smirking.

You walked up behind him and hugged his waist, pressing your cheek to the scarred expanse of his back. “I’m going to miss you.”

He stilled, just for a second.

“I’ll miss you more.” His hand came down to cover yours, squeezing gently. “Keep my shirt on. Sleep in it. That way, I’m there even when I’m not.”

You kissed his spine. “I love you.”

He turned, leaned down, and kissed you slow, with the kind of ache that meant he’d already started missing you too.

——

02:14 AM (Present Time)

The clock blinked 02:14 AM again. You hadn’t realized it had been an hour since you last looked. You were curled up on Simon’s side of the bed, his hoodie drowning your frame, your phone clutched tightly in your palm.

You wanted to hear his voice more than anything, but war didn’t cater to desire.

Still safe?

It wasn’t much, but it was honest. The response came five minutes later.

Simon:

Still safe. Tired. Thinking about you. Want to be home. With you. In our bed.

You bit your lip and blinked away the sting in your eyes.

You:

I miss how you hold me like I’m the last warm thing in the world. Come home, Simon.

Simon:

Trying. Want to kiss you breathless. Need to feel you under me. Soon.

Your breath hitched.

You remembered the way his voice sounded right against your ear, gravel and smoke when he let the mask slip — only for you.

——

Three Weeks Before Deployment

You were in the kitchen, standing on your tiptoes to reach a jar on the top shelf, when Simon came up behind you. One arm wrapped around your waist, the other snagged the jar easily before setting it down beside you.

“Too short for your own good,” he murmured into your hair, lips brushing your temple.

You rolled your eyes. “You love that I’m fun-sized.”

“Fun, yeah,” he said, spinning you around and lifting you onto the counter with ease. His hands spread over your thighs, thumbs brushing soft circles against bare skin beneath your shorts. “Size? Perfect.”

His forehead pressed to yours. That quiet moment burned itself into your soul — his gentle hands, the way his lips brushed yours like he couldn’t believe you were real.

“Tell me to stay,” he whispered. “I will.”

You shook your head then, cupping his cheek. “You’ll come back to me. You always do.”

“I don’t deserve you,” he breathed. “But I’m yours anyway.”

——

Present

Your fingers ghosted over the screen again, heart thudding.

You:

Remember when we fell asleep on the couch watching that terrible horror movie? You kept waking me up because I was drooling on your shirt.

Simon:

That’s when I knew. You, half-asleep, hogging the blanket. Felt like peace. Like home.

You pulled his pillow closer to your chest and inhaled. Faint traces of his scent still clung there: cedarwood, gun oil, and warmth.

You typed, slow and honest.

You:

I want you to kiss me like that again. Like you mean it. Like you need it. Like you did before you left.

A pause.

Simon:

When I get back, I’m not stopping at kissing. I’m going to make you forget the time I was gone. Going to have you under me until you’re shaking.

You shivered, eyes fluttering shut, thighs pressing together at the raw truth of his words.

——

The Reunion

You opened the door before he could knock.

Simon stood there, duffel bag on the ground, hair longer, scruffier than when he left. His eyes — those endlessly haunted eyes — locked onto yours like a man dying of thirst who’d finally found water.

You barely got his name out before his arms were around you, pulling you in, lifting you clean off the ground.

Your lips met fast and desperate, teeth and breath and the softest of whimpers escaping you. You tasted sand and sweat and Simon, and your whole body shook with it.

He kicked the door shut with one foot, walked you backward until your spine hit the wall, and kissed you again like he couldn’t breathe without you.

“I missed you,” you gasped, fingers tangling in his hair.

“Say it again,” he breathed into your neck.

“I missed you.”

His voice cracked. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours, Simon. I’ve always been yours.”

He crushed his mouth to yours and picked you up, carrying you to the bedroom. You barely made it to the bed — he didn’t want slow, not yet. Not until he'd burned off the desperation, the need to prove he was still real, still alive, still yours.

Clothes hit the floor in a trail. His hands were rough with calluses, but they moved over you like reverence. He whispered your name like a prayer. Apologies mixed with low moans, every thrust a wordless plea: I'm here. I'm home. I'm yours. Please don’t forget me.

And when you finally gasped his name like it was salvation, when you clawed at his back and pulled him tighter, he let go — not just of control, but of fear. Of the war. Of everything.

——

A little while later, you lay tangled in the sheets, his arm over your waist. His breath warm against your neck. He kissed your shoulder, soft and unhurried.

“Still with me?” he murmured.

You turned to face him. “Always.”

He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “Never leaving again unless I have to.”

“You’ll always come back.”

He kissed your temple. “Every time.”

——

Morning After

You woke tangled in each other — your legs wrapped around his waist, your cheek on his chest, your fingers laced over his heart.

He was already awake, watching you.

“You stayed,” you whispered, voice still husky from sleep — and the night before.

“I always will,” he murmured, brushing your hair back.

You kissed the underside of his jaw, smiled against his skin. “You’re warm. Heavy.”

“Don’t move,” he said. “Just stay like this. Let the world wait.”

And you did.

——

Later That Day

The day passed slow. Coffee in bed. Showers that turned into giggles and soft touches. He cooked breakfast shirtless, and you wore one of his old t-shirts with nothing else. He kissed syrup from your mouth and lifted you onto the counter to have another taste.

No war. No uniforms. No mask.

Just Simon. And you.

He didn’t need to say much. His hands said it all — the way he touched you like you were sacred. The way he reached for you even in silence.

And that night, when he laid you down again, it was slow. Worshipful. Not like he’d just come home — but like he finally was home.

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

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nanamineedstherapy · 4 months ago

Text

Ooga Booga Battle Royale

F!Reader x Pre-Historic Neanderthal JJK daddies (Gojo Satoru, Nanami Kento, Geto Suguru, Zenin Toji & Ryomen Sukuna)

Summary: Prehistoric, period-accurate Neanderthal JJK daddies fighting over you? With grunts, rocks, & zero verbal communication? Say less.

Trigger Warnings (May contain spoilers for the story): Fighting, Crack, Non-Graphic Violence, Maybe some death but not in a gruesome way-more in a comedy way.

You exist.

That is the problem.

In the grand, majestic, bacteria-infested wilderness, you—a Homo sapien woman—have committed the ultimate sin by having the audacity to be alive in the same vicinity as five of the most terrifying Neanderthal men to ever grunt their way through existence.

And worse? You smell good.

Which, in prehistoric terms, means war.

A cool wind howls through the valley. Birds scream. The grass shudders like it knows something stupid is about to happen.

Then—

THWACK!!!

A rock, massive, heavy, probably could kill a mammoth, lands near your foot. You blink. A club follows, barely missing your toe.

You look up.

Gojo.

Tall. Built. Filthy. Covered in mud, scratches, and an ego the size of a glacier. He grins, sharp teeth flashing, pointing at you. Then at himself. Then—slowly, dramatically—drags his fingers down his chest, smearing dirt as he flexes his pecs in the most unhinged display of caveman peacocking.

Translation: See muscles? Strongest. Best mate. Come cave.

You blink. Slowly shake your head.

Gojo pouts. He actually pouts.

Then—

SNAP!!!

A stick breaks.

Golden hair slicked back. Precise hunting scars like he personally invented caveman Botox. He sighs ( caveman sighs, deep, judgmental ), picks up a rock and chucks it at Gojo’s head.

Gojo barely dodges, screeching.

Nanami doesn’t even grunt. Just turns to you, lifts the biggest kill you’ve ever seen— some prehistoric beast that probably had a name —slung over his shoulder, and points to his cave, all very matter-of-factly.

Translation: I provide. You come.

Gojo throws another rock. It misses. But unfortunately—

BONK!!!

It hits a third caveman.

A low, dangerous growl.

Geto.

Emerging from the literal shadows, draped in feathers, hair long, eyes dark like he’s seen prehistoric horrors and survived. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t grunt. He stares. Tilts his head. Lifts a finger—crooks it.

Translation: Come. I put pretty thing in Cave.

Gojo screeches. Nanami physically exhales rage.

You take a step back.

Bad.

Very bad.

THUD!!!

Something—someone—drops from the trees above.

Toji.

Bigger. Meaner. Shirt? Doesn’t exist yet . Scars on scars. Wearing the fur of something that had fangs and regrets. He cracks his neck, flexes, and lets out a deep, primal, guttural noise.

Translation: Mine.

He already claims you.

The tension is lethal. One grunt away from Caveman Hunger Games.

Then, the worst thing happens.

A chuckle reverberates. Low. Menacing .

From the mountains.

Sukuna.

He doesn’t walk. He stalks . Covered in war paint, a necklace of teeth—probably human—and more muscle than necessary for survival. He doesn’t even look at the others.

Just at you.

Then he smirks.

He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t peacock.

He just cracks his knuckles.

Disarray!!!

Gojo lunges for you—Nanami intercepts, yeets him into a tree like he’s taking out the trash. Geto sweeps in, silent, precise, fingers inches from you—but Toji body-slams him into the dirt so hard the Earth quakes.

Sukuna? Laughing his ass off. Arms crossed, enjoying the primal disaster unfolding before him like it's his personal gladiator match.

You? You run.

Because no matter what happens tonight, one undeniable truth remains:

You are getting bonked and dragged into a cave.

And frankly, you haven’t decided whose cave you actually prefer.

Gojo, incapable of losing with dignity, screeches like a rabid pterodactyl and launches himself at you again, arms wide—fully committed to scooping you up like an overgrown saber-toothed tiger carrying off its prey.

But—

BLOCKED!!!

Nanami moved with the speed and efficiency of a man who did NOT wake up for this bullshit today. One massive arm swings—and Gojo goes flying Into another tree.

Gojo blinks. Sulks. Pouts. Contemplates his life choices.

Nanami does not have time for this. Adjusts the massive chunk of fresh kill slung over his shoulder—a clear and undeniable sign of superior mate potential—then looks at you.

Steps forward. Expression serious.

Message clear: Come. Cave. Now.

You consider it.

Then—

Geto.

Unlike the others, he does not fight for dominance. He does not lunge. He simply stands there.

Watching. Waiting. Silent as death.

His violet eyes flick between Nanami and Gojo before settling on you. He does not gesture. He does not speak.

Translation: You will come to me.

Unfortunately for him—Toji doesn’t do patience.

BOOM!!!

Toji body-slams Geto into the dirt. The impact is hard enough to shake the ground.

Geto grunts, visibly irritated, but Toji is already moving. He snarls at Nanami and swats a distracted Gojo aside like an irritating cave-fly, and then grabs your wrist.

Bad.

You react immediately, twisting away, but Toji’s grip is like iron. His eyes gleam with primal amusement.

He likes this. Likes that you fight. Likes that you are difficult.

Thinks he claimed the right one.

You will birth strong cubs.

Then the world grows impossibly quiet.

A deep, amused chuckle from the mountain path.

Sukuna is still not looking at the others.

Just at you.

He smirks and cracks his knuckles.

Danger. Immediate. Imminent. Inevitable.

Gojo, pulling himself up from the dirt, grunts.

Nanami exhales through his nose. Already done. Over it.

Geto, dusting himself off, glares.

Toji grins.

Gojo lunges. Arms wide, absolutely determined to be the one who drags you home like a victorious cryptid.

BLOCKED!!! AGAIN!!!

Nanami intercepts and swings his hunting club with the force of a father disappointed in all of humanity.

Gojo ducks, cackling—only for Geto to casually trip him with a well-placed foot.

Toji, sensing an opening, grabs you.

Bad move.

You bite him.

HARD .

He yelps. Actually yelps . Stares at you, deeply offended.

Sukuna, bored of watching, finally moves.

The air shifts. The others freeze. Then he snarls—a guttural, earth-rumbling sound that promises death.

They all turn on him at once.

You take the opportunity to run again. Sprinting through the thick foliage, heart pounding like a war drum.

Behind you pure, unfiltered male ego gone feral.

Gojo swings from tree to tree like a prehistoric monkey, whooping and laughing. “OOGH! OOGHAAA!” This is the best day of his life.

Nanami moves with hunter efficiency, gaze locked on you like you’re the most troublesome prey he’s ever pursued.

Geto is nowhere to be seen, which is worse because he is waiting, plotting. Probably already set a trap.

Toji’s laughing. He thinks this is a game.

And Sukuna is gaining.

You hop over a fallen tree trunk. Panting. Twisting. Dodging.

A hand grabs your ankle.

You kick it.

Hard .

Gojo yelps. “OOGH?!”

Suddenly—Geto’s arms snake around your waist. Secure. Steady. You barely have time to react before—

Toji, out of nowhere tackles him. Like a rival apex predator.

You fall —

Right into Nanami’s arms.

He sighs. Shakes his head like you’ve personally disappointed him on a spiritual level. Then, without a word, swings you over his shoulder.

“ Hmph .”

Gojo screeches. Sukuna grins. Toji growls.

The fight is not even close to be over.

Because the only thing stronger than a Neanderthal is his ego.

You are smart. You bite Nanami’s ass.

He gets startled and drops you.

You are fast. You immediately run.

You are not going down without a fight.

But the problem?

Nanami is faster.

You weave through trees. Vault over logs. Chuck random rocks behind you in a desperate attempt to slow the brute down. You dive into a bush, hoping to vanish like an endangered species.

Then—a strong hand grabs your ankle.

“OOGH.”

Translation: Bad Woman!

You shriek, kick, bite—anything to get away.

Then just swings you back over his shoulder like you’re a misbehaving sack of mammoth meat.

Not again.

“BOOGA.”

Translation: Come Cave, Baddie.

You screech. Twist like an eel. Sink your teeth into his shoulder.

Nanami does not flinch. He has suffered worse.

You grab his hair, yank —

He grunts. Approvingly .

Before you could grimace, Gojo, having recovered from his previous embarrassment, swings in from a tree like some kind of prehistoric tarzan.

Again.

“OOGA BOOGAAAH!”

Nanami side-steps.

Gojo slams face-first into a boulder.

(Instant death? Maybe. No time to check.)

Geto appears from the shadows, attempting a silent takedown.

Nanami, without looking, swings his club backward.

CRACK!!!

Geto crumples like a defeated cave possum.

Toji, the bigger problem , lunges in, all muscle and violence.

You cheer. “OHUAOFF!!”

Translation: Yes! Kill each other!

Nanami, unfazed, puts you down and ducks Toji’s first punch, sidesteps the second, then grabs his wrist and yeets him into the river.

Toji does not resurface. Natural selection.

Then, just as you think you're free—a new challenger approaches.

Sukuna’s eyes lock onto you. Hungry. Territorial.

Sukuna snarls, lunges—

Nanami does not argue; he simply knees him in the stomach mid-air.

Sukuna chokes on his own grunt, stunned—but he does not give up.

They brawl. Fists flying. Bodies colliding. Dirt flying as prehistoric dominance reaches its final showdown.

You, watching from the sidelines, are in awe.

Then—

Nanami grabs a massive rock and smashes it over Sukuna’s head.

Silence .

Sukuna drops. Unmoving.

Rocked out of existence by Nanami’s sheer caveman dominance.

One victor.

One mate.

You blink. Nanami dusts off his hands.

You take this moment to run.

Nanami sighs, like he expected this. He lets you go for a solid five seconds before simply jogging up behind you and grabbing you again. He holds you by the waist—grip unyielding, muscles flexing like they’ve been carved from stone.

“AUGHH.”

You start screaming. Flailing. Kicking, biting, pulling out all the stops. You summon every ounce of Homo sapien intellect you have left to escape this prehistoric grip.

You poke him in the eye.

Nanami grunts. Blinks once and gives you a single disappointed look.

Then, without hesitation—the club comes down.

BONK!!!

Slamming against your head like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Darkness.

You, unfortunately, have lost. To the superior Neanderthal.

You wake up in Nanami’s cave. Wrapped in Nanami’s furs. With Nanami’s large, muscled arm trapping you in place.

You blink at the fire crackling nearby.

Nanami, victorious, is already roasting meat over the fire like he didn’t just commit mass homicide for your affection.

He looks down at you.

And smirks .

“Booga.”

You groan. You have lost.

But what’s worse than losing?

The fact that Nanami smells really good.

Like, really good. Like moss and firewood and a hint of leather that somehow makes your brain forget all the reasons you hate being in his cave in the first place.

And as Nanami effortlessly flips the meat over the fire, his muscles glistening in the warm glow, you become acutely aware of just how broad he is—and suddenly, you realize:

It’s throbbing for him.

A/N: And there we have it! You survived the cavemen chaos! 🦖💥 This came to me while I was showering for some reason. I hope you enjoyed watching these ridiculously over-the-top Neanderthals fight for your attention. If you made it this far, you're either a true JJK brainrot survivor or just really into prehistoric aggression & questionable decisions (same). 😏 Don’t forget to leave a comment if you’re still laughing at Gojo’s tree-swinging antics or if you, too, are secretly falling for Nanami's primal charm. Also, who would you pick—cave buddy-wise? I’m personally Team Nanami, but we can all dream about the chaos of having them all, right? Reverse modern day patriarchal society by Reverse Herem, anyone?? Catch you in the next wild ride—maybe with fewer rocks to the head... or not. 🤷‍♀️ Stay strong, stay ridiculous, & remember: you’re the real apex predator here. 😈🖤

Next Chapter because ya'll loved it so much - Ooga Booga Gojo tries to Court you (Tumblr/Ao3)

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pineapple-downside-up-cake · 3 months ago

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Having a wretched day and decided to take it out on Ghost. I lost steam towards the end for which I am sorry. Smut coming next week as a consolation prize.

Olfactory memory? Yes? Yes.

Cw: PTSD, PTSD induced domestic violence, angst not quite comfort but we're trending positive

Ex-military Ghost with civilian reader.

You are sunshine. Heroin. The drug that's made him feel like he's swimming, not drowning, for the first time in decades.

There are things he can't tell you, but there are also things he won't. He may have, at one point of time. He had readied himself for it, waiting for a vulnerable moment, but he likes being just Simon to you.

Ghost is a relic of war, a hero buried in a box in his crawlspace.

It feels too late now.

He doesn't want to see the horror in your eyes, when he tells you about Roba. Things you should probably know, things that would help inform your interactions.

He's such a piece of dirt.

You deserve better, but for some fucking reason you seem to want him, and he has every intention of doing his best to be a good partner for you.

He helps around the house. He takes turns cooking.

He doesn't yell or snipe, even when you drive him crazy, leaving your dirty clothes on the bathroom floor.

He does his best to be there for you, and hopes that it's enough.

And it is. Before Scotland.

Look.

You've seen the Princess Bride. You know men in masks are not to be trusted.

You also know the man on your hands is more Wesley and less Dread Pirate Roberts, even if he looks like the brute squad.

You promised yourself, somewhat naïvely, that you wouldn't be a beacon for anyone ever again - you weren't strong enough to hold two heads above water, not forever, but damned if Simon doesn't make you want to try.

He'd crept under your skin with his dessicating wit and genuine interest in you, and maybe your daddy issues were showing, but there's a level of reliability in Simon you never thought you'd see in a man.

You found yourself going to drastic measures - you're embarrassed to say you haven't put in that much work for a guy since high school, but you like Simon.

A lot.

You haven't dealt with military personally, but you know there can be scars. Wounds that are harder to talk about than more common place traumas.

Simon still talks with his old squad, has an annual Guy Fawkes day cookout with them. Means he has people who know, who can understand without having to be told, what might go on in his head on darker days.

You are not to be left out, however. You have the whole internet at your disposal, and you research military traumas and coping strategies until you feel like you're preparing for your first puppy:

How to domesticate your vet.

God, Simon would be so irked if he knew.

You've prepared for just about anything, have coached yourself to respond calmly and be aware of potential triggers.

He'd almost laughed the first time you asked him if he wanted to leave before the fireworks started, but it wasn't mean - you'd caught him by surprise.

As he eases into civilian life, he starts taking you up on it - he didn't realize how tense he was, suddenly on, not until he starts healing.

Some of that is time. Some you, some the therapy.

He stops wearing a mask when he goes out, a security blanket he doesn't need anymore, although it's less conspicious in post-pandemic times.

Neither of you realized the mask was an unintentional coping mechanism for other things, not just a way of hiding his face in a world where he wasn't supposed to exist.

There were no winners in the 141 marriage pool. Not when MacTavish is the first to ring someone up.

You've resolved to keep commentary to yourself on the subject - what you and Simon have is good, and Johnny's mum swayed the odds in his favor.

The grounds they rent out are massive - understandable, since it's a clan wedding, but you really hadn't expected to have a whole croft to yourself.

Johnny's doing, to give you both a quiet place to retreat to, away from the periceremonial chaos.

Simon waits patiently for you to oogle.

The thatched roof building is charming, rose bushes coralled into neat rows against the foundation. You can imagine hens picking on the lawn and laundry hanging from the line.

The door sticks, takes a solid shove to open, and you find that while the outside is postcard-perfect, someone has put a lot of effort into modernizing the internals. What was once one room has been sectioned off into a cozy one bed, one bath.

A queen sized bed fills most the living space, with a pair of matched floral arm chairs at the foot.

It smells a bit...off, but you chalk it up to the exposed cobble. Much like brick, it isn't always easy to seal properly - and Scotland is not known for its arid clime.

You don't see it, but that's when it starts.

Simon twitches. His skin itches and crawls in a way he's not used to.

He figures he's just antsy from the trip.

He unpacks while you shower, stalks the perimeter, feeling restless. It clears while he's outside, when you head over for happy hour, and he forgets anything was wrong.

When you come back, buzzed and content from your merry-making, it's easy for you to fall asleep. You knock out like a light, one foot hooked around Simon's.

You can tune it out, adjust to the smell, but Simon can't.

He can't block it out. Doesn't even know what it is.

He tosses and turns for what feels like eternity, breaking out in sweat even though the night is cool.

He tries to scroll on his phone, use the internet to distract him, but the service is shit and the light hurts his eyes.

The itch is back, and he needs to get out. He needs to get out now, but the door is stuck and suddenly he's buried again, wet earth clinging to his nose, choking him on every inhale and he's clawing at the door like an animal locked in a cage.

You aren't that light a sleeper, and he doesn't respond when you call out to him. Your only excuse for the automatic touch is you've been lulled to false security - you've hardly needed any of the tactics you'd read about, and it's late and you were tired.

It's too much. You're a threat.

You realize it a second too late, when Simon whips around and grabs you by the front of your sleepshirt - his shirt - and slams the first two knuckles of his left hand into your solar plexus.

You drop like a rock.

The immediate, excrutiating regret of your epiphany flees as you curl in on yourself, gasping for breath like a fish on dry land. Tears well up at the corner of your eyes, shock and pain and an utter lack of air keeping you from shedding them.

You hear more than you see the door finally spring open. Ghost is out and gone before you can pull yourself together.

Even when your breath comes easier, you stay on the floor so you can kick yourself while you're down.

Page number one. Bullet number one. You'd successfully broken the primary advice of every single page you'd saved on loving someone with PTSD. Too complacent.

You're an idiot.

He stopped being Ghost and started being Simon again somewhere around the three mile mark. It was more than he was used to running, especially barefoot and in his boxers, but the heath was soft and had spared his feet too much damage.

The pain had helped bring him to his senses.

It hurt more to think that he'd hurt you, something he'd sworn he'd never do, not after watching how his mother suffered.

It takes another two miles to come to terms with what had happened, this time at a slow walk. He's not sure if this is something he can fix, but either way he needs a plan.

Needs to figure things out, tonight. Set the mold for his future.

He has to tell you and risk maybe losing you, that you'll decide it's too much for you, or not tell you and definitely lose you.

But between you and the shrink, he's been brainwashed to believe he deserves a shot at happiness.

You're sitting on the step to the croft, head in hands, when he comes back around dawn.

He can tell you've been crying, and something in his heart breaks. He'd made his decision hours ago, but he wanted you to give you time. Space to leave, to run to the safety of the main house if that's what you needed.

You get up without a word and open the door for him. You give him a wide berth, careful to avoid physical contact, but once inside you stall out. Standing in the middle of the room, looking lost and small and wondering just how much of what you had is broken now.

The silence that spans the next few minutes is the most stressful silence of his entire life. He guides you to a chair, tucks in a blanket around you like he would have even if he hadn't tried to break your ribs with his fist three hours ago.

Makes two cups of tea, and then retreats to the other side of the small space and sinks to the floor, leaving room for the history that's about to fill it.

"I need to tell you a story."

#simon ghost riley #cod fanfic #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #ptsd

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novaursa · 10 months ago

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The Flames We Carry

- Summary: Ser Criston Cole expected for Rhaenys and Meleys to appear over Rook's Rest. To Gwayne's horror, Rhaenyra sent her sister instead: you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Gwayne Hightower

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is Rhaeyra's younger sister and is bonded to Silverwing. These events happen after Skyfall. If you want to read all the parts in chronological order visit my blog, the list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mature 16+ (there is no adult content, but there are visual descriptions of violence, blood and gore)

- Word count: 3 712

- A/N: this was scheduled to be posted tomorrow, but I've decided post extra today. Enjoy.

- Tag(s): @deniixlovezelda @duck-duck-goose2 @aadu2173 @sachaa-ff

Ser Gwayne Hightower had always been a man torn between loyalty and desire, but never more so than in the days leading up to the siege at Rook's Rest. The tension between him and Ser Criston Cole had grown sharper since that fateful day when he let you—the Princess, Y/N—slip through his grasp before their march on Duskendale. He could still feel the warmth of your skin against his, the taste of your lips lingering like a ghostly memory, a sweet torment. You had been his time and time again, even if only in stolen moments, and each encounter had deepened the scars on his heart.

Gwayne knew he should be focusing on the battle ahead, yet his thoughts strayed back to you, his mind replaying that night over and over. The look in your eyes when you realized he would let you go, when you understood the depth of his feelings despite all the bitterness that lingered between your Houses. He had set you free, knowing full well it was an act of treason in all but name, and yet he would do it again if it meant sparing you the horrors to come.

But now, at Rook's Rest, everything was escalating rapidly. Ser Criston's scorpion ballistas and archers were poised in ambush, waiting for the dragon they expected: Rhaenys on Meleys. The war council had been clear, and Gwayne had heard it all through gritted teeth—Aemond and Aegon would flank her on Vhagar and Sunfyre, trapping her in dragonfire and steel. It was a ruthless plan, one that made his stomach churn. He had sworn to protect his family, his king, and yet all he could think about was you.

The skies darkened, a shadow sweeping over the encampment. The men tensed, eyes raised to the heavens as the flap of wings grew louder. Gwayne’s heart pounded in his chest as he looked up, expecting the crimson scales of Meleys. But what he saw instead made his blood run cold.

Silverwing.

The graceful, silvery-grey dragon, once ridden by Queen Alysanne, now bonded to you. Gwayne’s heart twisted painfully in his chest. This was not supposed to happen. It was not supposed to be you in the skies above, facing down two monstrous dragons with only the loyal Silverwing at your side. Panic clawed at his throat, his mind racing. He could see it in Criston's eyes too—the slight widening, the realization that their ambush had just become a slaughter. Not for Rhaenys, but for you.

“No…” The word slipped from Gwayne’s lips before he could stop it. Without a second thought, he rushed toward the nearest scorpion, where soldiers prepared to take aim at Silverwing. His vision tunneled, anger and fear boiling together in his veins. He couldn’t let this happen—not to you.

"Stand down!" Gwayne shouted at the soldiers, shoving one aside with enough force to send the man sprawling. The crew looked at him in confusion, but Gwayne didn’t care. He grabbed hold of the crank, making it impossible for them to load the bolt.

“What in the Seven Hells are you doing?!” Criston’s voice was a venomous hiss as he stalked toward Gwayne, eyes blazing with fury. “You’re sabotaging the plan! Move, or I’ll have you—”

Gwayne spun around, his hand already on the hilt of his sword. “I won’t let you do this, Criston. Not to her.”

Criston’s lip curled in disgust. “Her? You would betray your king, your House, for a traitorous whore who—"

The sound of steel rang out as Gwayne drew his sword, slashing at the scorpion mechanism, rendering it useless. The soldiers scattered, unwilling to get caught in the confrontation between two knights who had both earned their deadly reputations. Criston’s eyes narrowed, and in the blink of an eye, his sword was in his hand, the tip leveled at Gwayne’s chest.

“You’ll die for this treachery, Hightower,” Criston spat, the words laced with venom.

“I would die a thousand times before I let you kill her,” Gwayne growled back, his voice low and dangerous. “I won’t let you harm her.”

Above them, the roar of dragons filled the air as Silverwing engaged with Sunfyre and Vhagar. Dragonfire crackled like thunder, the heat from the flames casting an eerie glow over the battlefield. You were up there, fighting for your life, for your cause. Gwayne’s heart ached with every fiery burst, knowing that each moment could be your last.

Criston lunged, and Gwayne barely parried the strike in time. The two knights clashed, steel against steel, each strike filled with desperation and fury. Gwayne fought with everything he had, driven by the need to protect you, even if it meant cutting down one of his own.

“Do you think she cares for you, Gwayne?!” Criston taunted between strikes. “She’s a dragonrider, a princess—she’ll never be yours! You’re a fool!”

“I know what I am,” Gwayne snarled, knocking Criston’s sword aside and slamming his shoulder into the other man’s chest, sending him stumbling back. “But I also know what I feel. And I’ll not stand by and let you murder her.”

Criston recovered quickly, rage twisting his features as he advanced again. “She chose Daemon over you! The Rogue Prince—do you think she’ll remember your name when she’s ash?”

Gwayne roared in fury, his blade a blur as he pressed the attack. The sounds of battle, of dragons shrieking and flames roaring, were deafening, but all Gwayne could hear was the pounding of his own heart, the desperate need to get to you, to save you. But with every second that passed, his hope dwindled, and fear gnawed at the edges of his resolve.

Then, the ground trembled, a shockwave of heat and force rippling across the battlefield as a massive burst of dragonfire erupted nearby. Gwayne staggered, the distraction costing him as Criston’s sword sliced across his side. Pain flared, but he gritted his teeth, refusing to fall. He couldn’t afford to fall—not when you needed him.

But as the flames subsided, a silhouette emerged through the smoke—Silverwing, descending, with you astride her. Your eyes, burning with determination and fury, locked onto the scene below: Criston standing over a wounded Gwayne, ready to deliver the killing blow.

“Y/N!” Gwayne shouted, his voice raw with desperation.

You didn’t hesitate. With a command, Silverwing unleashed a torrent of dragonfire, forcing Criston to leap back, narrowly avoiding being consumed by the flames. In the brief reprieve, Gwayne stumbled to his feet, clutching his side.

Your gaze met his, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. The memory of that last kiss, of your shared moments, hung between you like an unspoken vow. Gwayne knew he had only seconds before the battle resumed, but in those few heartbeats, he saw the truth in your eyes—the love that had never truly died, the bond that still connected you, even through war and betrayal.

But there was no time for words. With a final, lingering look, you turned Silverwing toward the sky, preparing for the next wave of the fight. And as you ascended into the chaos once more, Gwayne knew he would fight until his last breath to protect you, even if the whole world stood against him.The battle raged on, but in that moment, Gwayne Hightower’s heart belonged to only one—you.

The battlefield below Rook’s Rest was a symphony of chaos and death, the sky a canvas painted with fire and blood. Gwayne could only watch in helpless agony as you and Silverwing clashed in the heavens with Sunfyre and Aegon, two dragons locked in a deadly dance of tooth and claw. Overhead, the monstrous shadow of Vhagar circled like a vulture, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Every screech of agony, every roar of defiance, was a knife twisting deeper into Gwayne’s chest.

On the ground, Criston Cole barked orders, his eyes fixed on the battle above. The soldiers scrambled, trying to reload the scorpions, but the dragonfire raining down made their task near impossible. Bolts flew haphazardly, striking neither dragon nor rider, only adding to the carnage below as men screamed, burning alive in dragonflame. Gwayne’s heart pounded in his ears, but he couldn’t tear his gaze away from the clash in the sky.

Silverwing and Sunfyre circled each other in a blur of flashing claws and snapping jaws, the air thick with the scent of burning flesh and blood. Gwayne could see the desperation in the way you leaned into every attack, urging Silverwing forward with a fury that matched his own. Aegon, though armored in golden scales and atop his mighty Sunfyre, was losing ground; he was not the rider you were, and Sunfyre, for all his pride, was no match for Silverwing’s speed and power.

“Hold fast, Sunfyre!” Aegon’s voice cut through the air, laced with both command and fear. But the king’s bravado was slipping. The once-proud Sunfyre shrieked in pain as Silverwing’s talons raked across his side, tearing through scales and flesh. Blood sprayed like rain, glistening in the sunlight before falling onto Criston’s soldiers below, causing them to scatter in panic.

Gwayne could feel his grip tightening on his sword as he watched, torn between the desire to cheer for your victory and the dread that this battle would consume you. Criston, standing nearby, had forgotten Gwayne entirely, his eyes alight with a mixture of awe and hatred. “If Sunfyre falls, so falls our king,” Criston muttered to himself, though Gwayne could hear the edge of panic in his voice.

But you would not give Sunfyre a moment of reprieve. Silverwing descended with fury, slamming into the golden beast with the force of a hurricane. The clash was brutal, teeth and claws tearing through scales, blood and fire mingling as the two dragons grappled. Sunfyre roared, a cry filled with both pain and rage, as Silverwing’s jaws clamped down on his wing.

“No!” Aegon’s scream echoed across the battlefield, his eyes wide with disbelief as Silverwing’s powerful muscles twisted and tore, shredding Sunfyre’s wing almost completely from its body. The golden dragon thrashed wildly, his flight faltering as the wing dangled uselessly by a thread of sinew and bone.

Gwayne’s breath caught in his throat, torn between elation and horror. You were winning, but at what cost? He knew what was coming next. Vhagar, that ancient beast of war, had been waiting for this moment. With a bellow that shook the very ground, the monstrous she-dragon descended like a nightmare from the skies, her jaws wide and hungry.

“Look out!” Gwayne shouted, knowing full well you couldn’t hear him from so far below. His heart thundered in his chest as Vhagar slammed into both Silverwing and Sunfyre with the force of a landslide. The three dragons collided in a tangle of limbs, scales, and teeth, a storm of rage and destruction. The impact was so fierce that Gwayne felt the ground shudder beneath him.

“No! No, no, no…” Gwayne whispered, his voice cracking as he watched the entangled dragons plummet toward the earth. You and Aegon were mere shadows against the backdrop of fire and smoke, barely visible as the dragons twisted and fell in a deadly spiral. Criston’s soldiers, caught between the descending juggernauts and their own fear, broke ranks, fleeing in every direction as the ground rushed up to meet the falling beasts.

Gwayne felt a cold dread settle in his bones as he watched you, desperately holding onto Silverwing’s saddle as the world blurred around you. You clung on with a ferocity that spoke to your will to survive, but against Vhagar’s ancient fury and Sunfyre’s desperate thrashing, even the mighty Silverwing was struggling.

Criston’s eyes were wild as he watched the battle unfold, his voice a harsh whisper of disbelief. “Vhagar will end it… she must end it…”

But Gwayne wasn’t watching Vhagar anymore. He was watching you. You were still fighting, still urging Silverwing to fight back, but the odds were overwhelming. Sunfyre’s golden scales were slick with blood, his roars more pitiful now as he struggled to right himself in the air. Silverwing’s wings beat furiously, trying to break free from Vhagar’s crushing grip, but the elder dragon’s jaws clamped down on Silverwing’s neck, dragging all three dragons toward the ground with terrifying speed.

The earth shook as the three dragons smashed into the battlefield, the impact sending up a cloud of dirt and debris. The sound was deafening—a sickening crunch of bone and screech of metal as the dragons collided with the earth. Gwayne’s heart dropped into his stomach, his eyes searching desperately through the smoke and dust for any sign of you.

“No…” he whispered, stumbling forward as if he could somehow reach you, somehow pull you from the wreckage of dragons and death. But even from here, he could see the carnage—Silverwing’s body twisted and battered, Sunfyre writhing in agony, and Vhagar looming above them all, a monstrous shadow of death.

For a heartbeat, the battlefield fell silent, every eye fixed on the wreckage of the fallen dragons. Gwayne’s breath was ragged, his eyes straining to catch a glimpse of you amidst the chaos. The dust began to settle, revealing broken bodies, shattered armor, and the mangled forms of the dragons.

And then he saw you—barely visible, still moving. You crawled from beneath Silverwing’s wing, blood streaking your face, your expression fierce even in the face of such overwhelming odds. Gwayne’s heart leaped into his throat. You were alive. Against all the odds, you had survived the fall.

But the battle was far from over. Vhagar’s malevolent eyes fixed on you, a deep rumble echoing from her throat as she prepared to finish what she had started. Aegon, still clinging to the last shreds of his pride, shouted commands to Sunfyre, but the once-majestic dragon was crippled, struggling even to rise.

Gwayne turned to Criston, his voice hoarse with desperation. “Do something! Call them off—she’ll be slaughtered!”

But Criston’s eyes were cold, devoid of mercy. “It’s too late, Hightower. She made her choice.”

Before Gwayne could respond, a deafening roar split the air as Vhagar reared back, ready to unleash a final torrent of fire upon you and Silverwing. Gwayne’s breath caught, knowing he was powerless to stop what was coming. All he could do was watch in helpless horror as the monstrous she-dragon prepared to strike.

But in those last moments, your eyes locked onto his. Even from across the battlefield, Gwayne saw the fire in your gaze—the unyielding determination, the refusal to surrender, even in the face of certain death. It was a look that would be seared into his memory forever.

And as Vhagar’s jaws parted, ready to unleash death upon the field, Gwayne did the only thing he could—he prayed. For you, for Silverwing, and for the love that had been forged in the fires of war.

It felt like time itself had slowed, the moments stretching into agonizing eternity. His breath hitched as the flames began to build in Vhagar’s throat, the light of impending destruction flickering in her maw. It would be over in seconds—everything would be lost.

But then, with a burst of speed that took even Gwayne by surprise, Silverwing jolted forward, her wings beating with desperate strength. As Vhagar’s jaws parted to unleash her fiery death, Silverwing struck. The smaller, silvery dragon lunged at Vhagar’s exposed throat, her teeth sinking into the tender scales. Her bite was unrelenting, fueled by both fury and the need to protect you. Vhagar’s flame sputtered out in a roar of agony, the ancient beast thrashing wildly as she tried to shake off the determined Silverwing.

Gwayne’s eyes widened in awe and terror. Silverwing’s tail snapped like a whip, striking Vhagar’s head with a force that reverberated across the battlefield. The blow landed squarely on Vhagar’s eye, the sound of bone and scale cracking sickeningly loud. The she-dragon’s roar of pain was a monstrous, guttural cry that seemed to shake the heavens. Even Aemond, usually so composed in battle, shouted in fury and alarm, yanking hard on the reins to regain control of his wounded dragon.

Gwayne knew he had only moments to act. Blood was streaming down your face, and even from a distance, he could see the exhaustion and pain etched into your features. You laid on the ground, barely holding on to life as Silverwing thrashed against Vhagar’s deadly strength. It was a miracle you had survived this long, but that miracle was on the brink of shattering. Gwayne’s decision was made in an instant, despite the searing pain in his side and the chaos around him.

Nearby, a riderless horse whinnied in terror, its eyes rolling as it tried to flee the madness. Gwayne gritted his teeth, limping toward the panicked creature. “Easy, girl,” he rasped, wincing with every step. The horse reared, wild with fear, but Gwayne moved with surprising swiftness, grasping the reins and swinging himself into the saddle with a grunt of pain. Blood stained his tunic from his earlier wound, but he forced himself to push through it. There was no time to dwell on it—not when you were up there, fighting for your life.

“Where are you going, you fool?!” Criston’s voice rang out behind him, filled with fury. “You’ll die, Hightower! Come back!”

But Gwayne was deaf to Criston’s commands. He spurred the horse forward, urging it toward the burning wreckage of dragons, toward you. The horse resisted at first, terrified by the scent of blood and fire, but Gwayne was relentless, guiding it with strong hands and determined resolve. The animal finally obeyed, its hooves pounding against the earth as it charged through the smoke and debris.

Criston cursed behind him, and Gwayne heard the clatter of armor as the Lord Commander sprinted after him, but Gwayne didn’t care. All that mattered was reaching you.

Above, the struggle between Silverwing and Vhagar intensified. Aemond’s curses mingled with the roars of his dragon as he tried to force Vhagar to tear herself free, but Silverwing was like a vice, her jaws locked onto Vhagar’s throat. The she-dragon’s great wings buffeted the air, but even Vhagar, with all her size and strength, was struggling against the tenacity of her smaller opponent. Silverwing’s wings were shredded, her silvery scales bloodied, but she refused to let go. She was holding on not just for herself, but for you.

“Y/N!” Gwayne’s shout cut through the chaos as he neared the spot where you lay half-alive below Silverwing’s wing. He could see that you were barely conscious, your grip weak on your sword as you fought to stay awake. Desperation fueled his every move as he urged the horse closer, reaching out to you. “Hold on! I’m coming!”

Through the haze of pain, you blinked up at him, your eyes unfocused. “Gwayne?” Your voice was faint, tinged with disbelief. “You… you shouldn’t be here…”

“I’m not leaving you!” Gwayne snapped, his voice rough with emotion. With a final burst of strength, he dismounted down beside you, reaching for your arm. The moment his hand grasped yours, you seemed to come back to life, your eyes clearing just enough to recognize him fully.

“Gwayne… you need to run,” you gasped, wincing as another jolt of pain coursed through you. “She’s going to kill us all…”

“Not today,” he vowed, pulling up with him and onto his horse. You were light in his arms, weakened from battle and injury, but there was still a flicker of the fierce spirit he had always admired in you. “I’ll get you out of here, I swear it.”

Criston’s voice was closer now, filled with anger. “Hightower, you’ll be executed for this!” he roared, but Gwayne didn’t even spare him a glance. He dug his heels into the horse’s flanks, and the animal surged forward, carrying you both away from the hellish scene behind you.

As the horse galloped across the field, Gwayne glanced back over his shoulder just in time to see the moment when Silverwing’s strength finally gave out. Vhagar’s claws found purchase, tearing deep into Silverwing’s side, and with a heart-wrenching cry, the silver dragon was forced to release her grip. Vhagar reared up, triumphant and bloodied, but the cost of the battle was clear—her eye was ruined, her scales cracked and bleeding. Silverwing collapsed onto the battlefield, her wings crumpling beneath her, but even then, she snarled defiantly, refusing to bow.

But there was no more fight left in her. Gwayne’s heart broke as he watched the light fade from Silverwing’s eyes, her body slumping in exhaustion. Aemond’s laughter echoed through the sky, dark and cruel, as he urged Vhagar to take the final blow. But before Vhagar could finish her fallen opponent, Gwayne’s eyes caught the movement of Criston as he halted his pursuit.

“Cole!” Aegon’s voice was a ragged gasp, filled with pain and panic. The king lay on the battlefield, unmoving, his once-golden armor scorched and twisted from the flames. His face was barely recognizable, the flesh blistered and raw, his body wracked with agony. Criston’s eyes widened in horror as he realized what had happened—their king was grievously injured, possibly dying. All thoughts of pursuing Gwayne and you evaporated as Criston sprinted toward Aegon, screaming orders for a healer.

Gwayne tightened his hold on you as the horse raced away from the carnage, his heart pounding with a mix of fear and determination. You clung to him weakly, your breath shallow, your strength fading fast. “Stay with me, Y/N,” he urged, his voice trembling with barely contained desperation. “Just hold on a little longer. We’ll find safety. I won’t let you die.”

Your eyes fluttered, and for a brief moment, you leaned your head against his chest, your voice a faint whisper. “You saved me… again…”

Gwayne’s throat tightened, his emotions threatening to spill over. “And I’ll keep saving you, no matter what it costs,” he promised, pressing a fierce kiss to your temple as the wind whipped through your hair. “I’m not losing you. Not today, not ever.”

Behind them, the battle raged on, but for Gwayne, the only thing that mattered was the woman in his arms and the fragile hope that somehow, despite everything, they would both live to see another day.

#house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #aegon ii targaryen #ser criston cole #silverwing #sunfyre #vhagar #gwayne x y/n #gwayne x you #gwayne x reader #ser gwayne #gwayne hightower #hotd gwayne #hotd x reader #hotd

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slutoru1207 · 3 months ago

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Invincible!Mark x reader x Variants!Mark part 7

Warnings: AFAB Reader, Heavy Pregnancy, Psychological Distress, Possessive Behavior, Multiversal Variants, Angst, Horror Elements, Slight Yandere Themes, Escalating Tension, Action, Desperate Escape Attempt, Early Labor

A cold wind howled through the ruined cityscape where the Variants had gathered, each one wearing a different expression—rage, grief, obsession. The battle had not yet begun, but tensions ran high, each of them standing in quiet contemplation, reflecting on the one thing they had all lost: her.

Sinister Mark was the first to speak, his voice low, almost amused. “Funny, isn’t it? Some of us had her right in our hands… and still, she slipped away.”

A more battle-worn Variant, scars littering his arms, glared at him. “You think this is funny?” His voice cracked with something raw, something broken. “I held our child. I held her hand while she screamed in pain, while she bled out. I couldn’t save her.” His fists clenched. “None of us could.”

A younger Variant, his face barely weathered by battle, looked away, jaw tight. “She never even got that far in my world. She was gone before we could have anything.” His voice faltered. “I wanted a family with her. We talked about it. We planned. But then… nothing. Just blood. Just—” He stopped himself, eyes narrowing. “I won’t let that happen again.”

One of the darker Variants, one who had given himself entirely to Viltrum, scoffed. “You’re all so sentimental. This isn’t about love. It’s about claiming what’s mine.” His gaze flickered toward the distant horizon, toward where the real Mark held you close, fighting to keep you away from them. “The moment she carries my child, she belongs to me. It’s that simple.”

Another scoffed, this one from a Mark who looked like he had long since abandoned the idea of softness. “And what? You think a baby makes her yours? That’s not how this works.” He exhaled sharply, eyes distant. “I lost her too. She died before I could even tell her how much she meant to me. And now? Now I just want her back.”

Sinister Mark tilted his head, an eerie smile stretching across his lips. “It’s fascinating, isn’t it? The way she binds us together. The way she makes us feel like we’re human when we should be above such things.” His gaze darkened. “But in the end, it doesn’t matter what we feel. It matters what we take.”

The scarred Variant stepped forward, voice like thunder. “We aren’t here to debate. We’re here to get her back.” His eyes burned with fury. “I won’t watch her die again. I won’t lose another child.”

A heavy silence settled over them.

Then, the first steps toward war were taken.

They moved as one, their purpose unified, their desires fractured but converging on a single goal.

You.

And inside the facility, your contractions came closer together, the storm approaching faster than anyone had anticipated.

#mark grayson invincible #mark x reader #mark grayson x reader #invincible comic #invincible season 3 #invincible fanfic #invincible x you #invincible x reader #mark x you #invincible smut

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scariusaquarius · 5 months ago

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rehab. 3.

Avenger! Bucky Barnes x Winter Soldier! Fem! Reader

Summary: While on a mission to find any more possible super soldiers that were a part of the Winter Soldier program, Steve and Bucky make a discovery in an abandoned HYDRA base that was cleared out a few years prior to their mission. They discover the Reader, a long-forgotten soldier that was still asleep within a functioning cryostasis pod; still awaiting orders. While Bucky isn't happy about it, he is put up to the challenge of helping to rehabilitate the soldier in Wakanda where she may be able to become a person again.

A/n: I had someone on Ao3 ask me about how often this will get updated and my answer is that I don't know. My IRL can be pretty unpredictable and I do deal with depression on a daily basis. I'm going to do my best to update this while still working on my Leon Kennedy fic, Unlikely Salvation! Please do bear with me as I try to figure out where I want this story to go!

This is an au where Bucky joined the avengers but still rehabilitated in Wakanda (sometime before Infinity War [canon divergent cause NOPE]). I am NOT fluent in Russian, so I did use google translate cause I couldn't find a good translator that I trusted. If anything is wrong, PLEASE let me know!! Also, I tried to list as many warnings as possible so you know what the story will contain as chapters are posted. Stay safe!

Genre: Slowburn, Enemies to Lovers/Friends to Lovers, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Humor, Drama, Dark Content Rated: Explicit Warning: Angst, Dark Content: Graphic Depictions of Sexual Assault, Blood and Gore, Mentions of Manipulation, Kidnapping, Canon-Typical Violence, Body Horror, Nonconsensual Body Modification/Scarring, Emotional and Physical Abuse, Mentions of Murder, Mentions of Suicidal Thoughts/Ideation, Graphic Depictions of Human Remains, Mentions of Sexual Coercion/Manipulation, Death, Misuse of Drugs/Forced Drugging, Self-Harm (Graphic Depictions and Mentions), Nightmares

Author: ScariusAquarius

rehab masterlist. chapter 1 / chapter 2

The lab was hustling with scientists, the Wakandan sunrise filtering through the enormous windows with an intensity that made Bucky eyes hurt as he stood by the cryostasis pod where the Winter Soldier would soon be housed.

The whole trek to the lab had been uneventful: not once did the soldier fight back. It seemed that the failure to complete her mysterious mission had caused her to shut down, and Bucky was tense as she was strapped down with multiple magnetic cuffs like the ones he and Steve used back in the quinjet.

Even with the super soldier serum coursing through her veins and whatever other enhancements she might naturally have or that HYDRA might have given her would prove useless. She was strapped down nice and tight.

There was a machine hovering over her knee, the tissue and bone beneath crunching and grinding as it was fusing back together, her expression unchanging despite her kneecap and patella being exposed. The air was beginning to smell of singed flesh and hair, and Bucky felt slightly nauseous.

Bucky hated knowing how much damage his arm could inflict; how unforgiving his grip was and how hard it was to regulate the strength at times so he would break yet another glass just by holding it and trying to take a drink.

And it had been so easy to crush her flesh like it was nothing.

"Howard? Howard, oh god...oh god, Anthony...!"

Bucky clenched his jaw, swallowing harshly as Maria Stark's voice whispered to him, and he was broken out of his trance by Shuri announcing.

"Once we are finished with her knee, I would like to begin deconstructing her mind. If efforts are fruitless, I would like for you to activate her again if possible. We might be able to figure out what her previous orders were and her intentions, history, anything that would prove useful to the eradication of HYDRA."

Steve frowned, asking as T'Challa simply stayed quiet, observing the Winter Soldier as she sat complacent and quiet; seemingly not hearing a word that they were saying.

"Are you sure that's a good idea? What if it doesn't work?"

Shuri replied confidently, flicking her eyes over to Steve before gesturing towards Bucky with a nod of her head.

"We will have to reset completely and start over. Sergeant Barnes' rehabilitation was easy due to the flaws within his programming that HYDRA was unable to remedy. However, we do not know what improvements have been made to HYDRA's algorithm since then. It will be challenging to separate the core person that this woman was before her programming, but not impossible."

T'Challa then asked, raising an eyebrow at Shuri as she shined a light into the Winter Soldier's eyes, taking down notes and recording her vitals.

"What if you are unable to separate the identity from the programming?"

Shuri sighed deeply, shrugging.

"She will have to be built from the ground up. This woman will be like a completely clean slate down to a new name if we are unable to figure out who she was before. I am already running the best biometric identification programs within our arsenal to figure out who she could have been. I would assume that Stark is also doing so?"

Steve nodded, replying as he watched the soldier closely as her eyes inconspicuously flicked to a scientist that readying a syringe.

"Yes, he's also got Nat looking through the database that we downloaded and coursing through any previous databanks we obtained from previous HYDRA raids."

Shuri then turned to Bucky, making him quirk an eyebrow up slightly as she regarded him with a raised brow.

"What is your take on this, Sergeant Barnes?"

All eyes were on him, and Bucky sighed slightly he stared down the soldier, watching the way her brow began to tense slightly the closer the scientist got. The second the syringe touched her skin, the soldier began to freak out.

Due to the cuffs restricting her movement, she resorted to smacking her back against the chair over and over, hissing and yelling loudly as the scientist jolted and stumbled back. T'Challa immediately shoved her down, Shuri exclaiming profanities as she snatched the syringe from the scientist and shoved it into the soldier's neck.

The soldier hissed and yanked her neck away, breaking the needle, and Shuri groaned, gesturing with her hands wildly.

"Really? Now I'm going to have to dig that out. You make things harder for yourself!"

Okoye quipped, her spear pointing towards the soldier as Steve and Bucky stood tensed and ready should the Soldier somehow get out of her binds.

"How primitive! She is like a wild animal!"

The sedative began to kick in, the woman's bucking gradually stopping, and she went limp within the chair, head rolling to the side as her eyes rolled into the back of her skull. Bucky's heart was racing slightly with adrenaline, and Steve observed.

"Seems like she knew what the syringe meant."

T'Challa frowned deeply, leaning back and brushing his hands off slightly as he glanced back at Steve.

"An important but grave detail: she must be remembering...or perhaps, it is a recent memory."

Shuri plucked the broken needle from the soldier's neck, humming.

"I will take it as a good sign that there is at least someone beneath the rubble. I promise you, Mr. Rogers, that I will do my best to find her."

Steve nodded before clapping Bucky on the shoulder.

"You going to be alright?"

Bucky glanced over at Steve, muttering truthfully.

"I don't want to do this, but I'm only doing it for you. I'm worried that she is going to somehow lead HYDRA to me and it's gonna be a shit-show all over again."

Steve was firm, declaring quietly.

"You know I wouldn't let that happen. I'd have to miss that big head of yours again."

"You're a goddamn punk, you know that?"

Bucky couldn't keep the smile from gracing the corners of his lips, and Steve smiled at him softly before hugging him firmly and backing away.

"Alright, I'm going to leave you to it. I'll check in periodically; let you all know what we find on our side of the world."

T'Challa hummed, walking towards Steve.

"I will accompany you. I would like to discuss some things before your departure."

Steve nodded, and the two men walked out of Shuri's lab. Bucky turned back around, making a slight face as Shuri cut away pieces of the woman's clothing, revealing a black and tight-fitting compression camisole.

There were numerous scars and marks all over her body, some jagged and unforgiving while others were clean and precise. Shuri hummed softly, muttering as her fingers grazed a jagged scar that ran beneath the woman's neck.

"The things this woman must have been through...HYDRA is truly despicable."

Bucky couldn't speak. Hell, he couldn't even think outside of the boiling hatred and rage that was beginning to consume him at the sight of the gruesome scars that covered her upper body. Bucky could only assume that it got worse beneath her uncut clothing, and he had to bite his tongue as hard as he could.

Whip scars, burn marks, mutilated flesh that never regenerated, her body was a canvas; a horrendous painting that HYDRA had taken delight in decorating. This was more than just punishment, it was a warning.

A warning that disobedience will not be tolerated.

How many times did they slash her throat for the scar to become so prominent? How many times did they burn her skin to the point that the serum couldn't work to regenerate? How often did they beat and prod and jab and shoot and stab at her until she was too weak to fight back?

In a morbid way, Bucky took it as a sign that despite her being activated and still dangerous, her history of resistance let HYDRA know that the person that used to be there still existed.

There was someone still underneath the rubble, as Shuri had put it, and Bucky hoped that Shuri could pull her out.

But even so, would it help? Would it be right to let this woman have to live with the memories and nightmares of what had happened to her? Was it right to subject her mind to the torture of HYDRA even after being rescued?

Was it right to try despite knowing how traumatized and desolated the woman was going to be once she was free? Hell, there were times were Bucky could still smell the scent of the cologne his Handler wore when punishing Bucky, and now Bucky couldn't stand to smell the scent without being pushed into a panic.

"Don't worry, White Wolf. I am going to do what I can to help this woman."

"That's not what I'm worried about."

His voice was choked, cracking slightly as he rushed to respond, and Shuri tilted her head at him, asking Bucky with a curious gaze.

"Then what is it that plagues you?"

"I just...is it right to do this when she's gonna have to live with the memories and the nightmares?"

Bucky felt ashamed by the frown that crossed Shuri's face, but was slightly relieved to know that the disappointment that flashed within her eyes was not directed at him.

"I understand the concern, and I understand that it will not be easy for her...but that is why you are here. You have survived HYDRA and are free of the programming they worked hard to instill within your mind. With living proof that persistence yields peace, I truly think that she may become a person again...it will just take time and a lot of work."

Bucky nodded, and Shuri was quiet for a moment before she murmured.

"While it may not seem fair to save her...it is truly a tragedy to deny her the chance that HYDRA never gave her."

The words left a profoundly bitter taste within Bucky's mouth, and he could distinctly taste copper from him biting into his cheek too hard. Shaking his head, Bucky looked away from the woman as Shuri began to assess her further.

"Reactivating her will come with a risk. I would only be able to activate her, but I don't have the knowledge to deactivate, if that's even possible. When I was activated...the longer I was out of cryostasis and hadn't been wiped, the easier it was to resist the programming. I don't know if it will be the same for her."

"As I said: reactivation will allow us the ability to communicate with her. She has not been wiped, it would seem, so it is possible that this woman knows something."

Shuri grabbed a butterfly needle and a vial, putting on gloves and tying a tourniquet around the woman's arm so that she could find a vein. Once she found it, Shuri inserted the butterfly needle, taping it to the soldier's skin.

"I am now going to collect bloodwork to run DNA diagnostics and input the data into the biometric identification program to see if we may be able to identify her this way. I'm also going to do some testing to see what serum she might have been injected with to trace it back to the creator."

Bucky nodded and sat back, watching and listening intently as Shuri described what she was doing and what the programs did on a deeper, intellectual manner. While Bucky was listening and trying to absorb the information, he couldn't stop glancing over at the scars that lined the woman's body.

Horrific couldn't even describe it. It made him sick to his stomach. If Shuri noticed that Bucky was slightly distracted, she gracefully didn't comment on it. Instead, Shuri tried to distract him the best that she could while the machine she was operating was taking a scan of the woman's brain.

After a moment, Shuri hummed, a perplexed look on her face as she sauntered around the hologram of the woman's brain, tendrils of red seeming to pulse all over the organ, and Shuri's brows furrowed as she thought to herself. Bucky asked with an intrigued look on his face.

"What is that?"

"This is a digital recreation of the woman's brain as well as the areas most affected by HYDRA's programming."

Shuri looked proud as she began to move the hologram around, zooming in and out of different areas and lobes before breaking it down into layers.

"Thanks to the work that I did for you, I was able to develop an AI that was capable of identifying HYDRA's programming, as well as detect the intensity and depth that it runs. It gives possible solutions and suggestions on what to work on first...and tells me when something activates the program."

Shuri's voice seemed to lower slightly, side-eyeing him for a moment before she looked back at the hologram, but Bucky didn't notice. Bucky was floored, in awe at the ingenuity of the AI that he couldn't help but to whistle lowly.

"That's incredible, Shuri."

"Please, compared to her, you were like a walk in the park."

Shuri waved him off before she hummed, pointing to a area that was largely red within the hologram.

"However, unlike your programming, her programming is much more complex. There are multiple layers where the programming intertwines with core pieces and memories, which will make unraveling the ties difficult. There might be parts of her that will not be salvageable."

Bucky pursed his lips slightly, shaking his head as he replied gently.

"Like you said: from the ground and up if needed."

Shuri smiled widely at Bucky, her eyes crinkling as she teased gently, pointing at him.

"See, now you are beginning to understand."

Bucky rolled his eyes before he asked as Shuri began to work, a screen popping up and flashing slightly.

"So, what is that?"

"If we are going to salvage as much as we can of the core person she was before she became a Winter Soldier, we will have to analyze every piece of her psyche. Unfortunately, I cannot do much with HYDRA's program basically firewalling me. It is like they added some sort of encryption to her so that any attempt of undoing their work would be unsuccessful or too risky."

Bucky tilted his head, becoming slightly confused as he pointed to the red parts of the woman's brain.

"Is that why those areas are red like that?"

"Yes. If you look closely, it is almost as though these red areas are wrapping around the parts that are otherwise untouched by HYDRA's program. If we can get past the encryptions, we might be able to get through."

Bucky nodded along, crossing his arms before he glanced down at the woman, asking apprehensively.

"Are you going to make me activate her?"

"For now, no. I do not think that it will be necessary. All I need to do is bypass the encryptions, break them down, and then I will begin to root out the memories with the most significance to her."

Shuri spared Bucky a glance, relaying to him honestly.

"If possible, I would like to keep you from doing so because of the mental repercussions activating her will have. I will entrust the process to Okoye if activation is the only option we have left."

Bucky shook his head, murmuring to Shuri as he glanced down at the woman again as her face scrunched slightly.

"No, I'll do it...let's just hope that I don't have to."

Shuri became quiet, staring Bucky down for a moment before she turned away and suggested.

"Perhaps you should see the Captain off. Breaking through the encryption will take time, and I can tell that you are starting to become brain-dead listening to me."

Bucky chuckled before bowing his head slightly, shaking his head.

"I'd rather not upset your brother by leaving you with her by yourself."

Shuri made a face at him, the expression reminding him of Steve pre-serum.

"Do you think I am not capable of defending myself? This is my territory, white boy."

Bucky raised his hands in surrender, wincing slightly.

"I'm sorry, your highness, but I've been on the receiving end of your brother's foot."

Shuri barked out a laugh, and Okoye made her presence known by snorting while a couple of the Dora Milaje stood by the entrance to Shuri's lab.

"At least he knows what he would be up against. Do not worry, Sergeant Barnes, I will stand watch. The Captain is about to make his departure."

Bucky nodded before expressing his gratitude, nodding gently to Shuri.

"Thank you. I'll be back shortly."

Bucky turned and left quickly, his steps quick and urgent as he arrived outside. However, the quinjet was already flying away, making Bucky purse his lips. T'Challa's voice greeted him, making the man look over at the King as he spoke.

"You just missed him."

"He's always running off on me somehow, so I'm not entirely surprised."

T'Challa chuckled slightly, before he glanced over at Bucky.

"How are you feeling about all of this?"

Bucky glanced over at T'Challa, regarding him with an exhausted look before he turned back front, watching Steve leave again.

"I'm worried, honestly. There's so many things that could go wrong. What if HYDRA is trying to find me and was using her to do it? HYDRA must know that the Avengers have been raiding the old facilities that aren't in use anymore, so why not leave her to be found and taken in?"

T'Challa hummed, clasping his hands together as he replied.

"Let them try. They will not make it very far."

Bucky pursed his lips slightly before he murmured.

"It's...strange, honestly...seeing this from an outside perspective. I knew that this was serious, but I wasn't aware of how bad it actually was. Standing on the other side of the glass...it's almost poignant."

T'Challa nodded, replying with a hum.

"When my father was killed and I was under the assumption that it was you in Vienna, a deep hatred rooted within me for HYDRA. While I understand now that it was Zemo's schemes...that hatred for HYDRA has never wavered. Even now when knowing the dangers that lie beyond those doors, I still hope for peace."

Bucky was quiet, listening intently to T'Challa's words as the king spoke, his brown eyes downcast as he continued.

"Nobody deserves to be subjected to such horrific torture."

Bucky wasn't sure on how to respond. Instead, the man just nodded and took a moment to breathe before he settled, glancing over at T'Challa.

"You're right, and if we have to start from scratch, then I'm willing to help how I can...both with rehabilitating her and eradicating HYDRA once and for all."

T'Challa nodded quietly before turning to walk back towards the lab, suggesting over his shoulder.

"You should get some rest...and maybe put that on ice."

At the mention of the wound on his temple, it began to pulse, and Bucky just sighed.

"I'll sleep it off...and thank you for listening."

T'Challa didn't respond, but a smile graced the king's lips as he disappeared through the doors. Bucky's shoulders sagged slightly, and he rubbed his temple gently, wincing when he pressed down to hard.

He had to admit: that woman could give a mean right-hook.

STORY NOTES: Bucky, T'Challa, Steve, and Shuri are all within her lab with the Winter Soldier. So far, the Winter Soldier has made no move. Shuri is using a machine that heals and reconstructs the soldier's knee, and Bucky is perturbed by the damage he had inflicted. He reflects on the hardship it took to regulate the strength of his grip in his metal arm; reminiscing about the difficulty of clutching a glass of water.

Shuri then tells the group that she would like to begin deconstructing the Winter Soldier's mind to get an understanding of her intentions, and suggests activating the Winter Soldier again should Shuri's efforts fail. Steve is apprehensive, and Shuri voices that if neither efforts are successful, then she will have to completely reboot the Winter Soldier.

Shuri elaborates that she is currently attempting to figure out the identity of the Winter Soldier, and makes a remark that she hopes Tony Stark is also doing the same. Steve comments that Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow, is also combing through the databank Bucky had downloaded, as well as previously recovered databanks.

When a scientist attempts to inject a sedative into her, the Winter Soldier begins to resist; causing a scene and consequently breaking the needle of the sedative within her neck. Steve observed that the woman understood what the syringe meant, and T'Challa points out that it might be a sign that she is remembering.

Before Steve's departure, Bucky voices his fear that HYDRA is using her to get to him, and Steve reassures Bucky that he won't let HYDRA get their hands on him again. Steve exits with T'Challa, and Bucky and Shuri are left alone within the lab. Shuri begins to remove a bit of the woman's clothing, and more scars are revealed.

Bucky becomes upset by the sight of the scars, understanding what they meant, and Bucky begins to become apprehensive about saving the woman. Shuri reassures Bucky that what they are doing is right. Later, Shuri shows Bucky a digital rendition of the Winter Soldier's brain and explains what she is going to do in order to save the woman's core identity.

Shuri comments that Bucky should see Steve off, and though Bucky tries to get to Steve before he leaves, he is unsuccessful. Instead, he meets with T'Challa. They begin to converse with each other, Bucky revealing his concerns, and T'Challa reassures him that HYDRA would not make it far into Wakanda if they attempted to retrieve him. Bucky makes a final thought on the woman and reflects on her strength. End scene.

TAGLIST: @vicmc624 @tilldeathripsusapart

#bucky barnes x reader #james buchanan barnes x reader #james bucky barnes x reader #winter soldier x reader #the winter soldier x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #james bucky barnes #the winter soldier #winter soldier #marvel #marvel x reader #captain america

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tojisun · 4 months ago

Text

space cowboys // cw: trauma getting triggered prev: a, b, c, d

simon goes under.

it happened instantaneously, during a quiet afternoon. she’s on her side of the couch, engrossed in the book that she’s reading, and simon had been discreetly watching because something about taking in the silence with her settles what is repugnant within him, but one thing led to another, and the careful sounds of her flipping the pages start to fade, like his ears are stuffed with cotton, and simon—

simon is drowning.

his memories are coalescing, miasmic as they raze his mind. they are pressing into his skull, thudding, pulsing. a beating staccato; a mimicry of his heart. simon’s known fear before �� he is not new to the haunting — but it remains a void, jagged and armed to the teeth, no matter how many times it’s torn him apart.

big man, boogeyman, still reduced to this — putrid and rotting. a wolf caught in a bear trap; beastly yet ruined by man’s creation.

no. no.

he is an abandoned slaughterhouse. ravenous and empty; peeling at the seams. decaying. there is blood in the air; blood on his skin, dripping like molten wax, carving. painting. so blistering.

drowning. simon is drowning.

simon is—

“—to me.”

trying to wade through the tides, overcoming the current, but tendrils slither around his limbs, pulling him taut, dragging him down. a beast in the waters. another horror to fight for survival.

“si, dear—”

he cannot breathe. he cannot think. there is another war tearing him apart; coiling around his joints, scooping out his flesh, leaving him as he is. scarred. broken. a man. a boy. food for the dogs; for the yawning.

“—come back—”

all at once, sound surges into simon’s ears.

a blaring noise, tearing through the fog. a riptide, serrated with teeth, screeching. hissing. loud and angry and encroaching; unimaginable. uncontainable. unbearable—

simon is—

simon breathes.

he breathes.

one shaky drag at a time, pulling it from the edges of his lungs, grasping with a dizzying focus. he feels it spread through him, weaving within his bloodstream, like a trickle of a river. of hope. of life. of something so simple and kind and continuous.

of something grounding.

he breathes, blinking his eyes off the blur. the haze lifts, light filters in, once again, like curtains are peeled back to let the sun dance close, serpentine rays beaming with softness, like dawn is just about to break and spring is already whispering in his doorsteps.

like—

warmth.

pulsing underneath his palms, beating a faint song of a heartbeat that isn’t his. simon shakes his mind awake, feeling the haunting dissipate with every rasped breath he takes in, and tries to tear his eyes from the blanketing darkness to see. a memory licks at the back of his skull; it is a name. a face.

her.

simon surges back into his body, his shaking soul locking into the cages of his bones, and feels how he has pressed the both of them down to the cushions. he searches for her eyes, the words tripping over each other on his tongue, and he doesn’t know what first to say, then he finds her.

he sees the worry, her normally calm face awash by anguish so loud, he almost didn’t recognize her. his wife, in all but name and sanctity, gazes up at him with something so reverberating that simon feels his lips wobble, the backs of his eyes prickling with something he doesn’t have a word for.

he shapes her name in his mouth, trying to sound it out because what if she isn’t real? what if this is part of the haunting — a taunting of what could be?

but, she says his name first. she says it like it’s a prayer; like it’s something to revere.

“simon,” she says like his name is a gift. “are you—” she continues, but simon crumbles, and falls towards her.

she grunts, not expecting his bulk, but simon can’t sound out his sorry’s, feeling the way his throat is lodged with a lump that he can’t swallow down. all he can do is press his face to her neck, not minding the way his nose got snagged by the hood of her jumper, and breathes her in.

she doesn’t smell like all the other girls who he used to fall to the bed with, the ones with roses and apples and cinnamon dusting their soft points, or his mates who ground him with their scents of gunpowder and soot and tobacco. she smells like his shampoo, still, and her drugstore lotion of cocoa butter and vanilla, and ozone, the cloudy air of the city sticking to her still, but it’s to this that simon’s body uncoils.

it unfurls, the tension leaving him in heaps. and this, just like this, she smells like his home.

an anchor to his storm. a ship to his current. a light in the abyss.

alive and his.

#simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #x reader #suns

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yuujispunches · 23 days ago

Text

What the fire left behind ~ N.K.

Pairing: Nanami Kento x Haibara’s sister!reader

Summary: Nanami saw how many lifes the Shibuya incident had taken and he hated that he wasn’t one of those, but what he hates the most is the fact that you make him want to live it.

CW (content warning): mentions of death, grief, mentions of injuries, blood and burns, this is honestly angsty af!

AN (author’s note): This is absolutely canon, exactly what happened in Shibuya, I refuse to accept anything else. This is purely self-indulgent and I’m already thinking about making this kind of a small series so let me know if you guys would be interested in it! As always a reminder that English isn’t my first language and I’m typing this on my phone so I’m sorry if there are any typos/mistakes. Hope you like this! :)

Requests are open so feel free to send them! (you can check the list of character I write for on my pinned post)

<<Prequel || Masterlist

His name had been on the list, it was the first one you looked for while you were still covered in blood that you no longer knew if it was your own or someone else’s. Nanami Kento, MIA. You felt like you were fifteen all over again, looking at your brother’s body covered by a white sheet.

A few days later you got the call from Shoko.

It was Geto’s voice, his real voice, before the body was stolen, the one that used to be familiar to you before the war came, that echoed in your memory when you heard the news “You know, Nanami never really got over Haibara. Not really.”

You didn’t know why but those words kept replaying inside your head time and time again as you sat in the hallway outside the medical wing of Jujutsu Tech, you’re not sure you ever did either.

Your brother’s name had been spoken in reverence and ruin over the years. First with the weight of grief, and then, in Nanami’s voice, with guilt that aged like wine bitter, potent, undrinkable and almost poisonous. You knew the way Haibara’s death had shattered you, but you also saw how it cracked open something deep in Nanami. Something no one else could fix.

You didn’t want to resent it. You loved him too, after all. Both of them, even if it was in different ways.

The door to the room opens with a slow creak. Shoko steps out, gloves in her hand, the smell of antiseptic clinging to her. Her face is unreadable, but her eyes are tired.

“He’s stable. Mostly. But…” She looks at you for a long beat. “He might not want to see you.”

You blink. “Because of what happened in Shibuya?”

Shoko shakes her head. “Because he’s still alive.”

That hits you like a punch to the chest.

You stand, legs shaking more than you’d like, and walk into the hospital room. The kind that smelt of antiseptic, loss and pain. And there he is.

Nanami Kento. Alive. Scarred. Burned. Broken.

Your mouth goes dry. Not from horror not even surprise, but from the crushing, suffocating weight of finally seeing him.

He doesn’t look at you, he’s just there, unmoving and hollow.

He sits on the bed, hunched forward, shoulders broader somehow under the pale blue of the hospital gown. His left side is a mosaic of bandages and raw healing skin, from his temple down to his hand. What little flesh you can see is mottled and blistered, the ghost of flame still haunting it.

“Ken…” You say, barely audible.

He stiffens, and that’s all. No warmth, no softening. Just that familiar, ever-present restraint, turned now into armor.

“You shouldn’t be here.” His words come out hoarse and strained and yet they somehow seemed to resonate in the whole room.

That doesn’t stop you. You cross the room, your steps slow. Careful. Like the ground might break apart beneath you.

“But I am.”

He turns his head, just slightly. Enough for you to see his left eye, milky, sightless. The scars curve down his cheek like ash hardened into skin. He doesn’t flinch when your eyes land on it, but he does look away again.

“You should go.” He barks.

“No.” You state, firm despite the fact that you felt like everything around you was crumbling down.

He exhales slowly. “You’ve seen enough grief for one life. You don’t need to carry mine too.” He didn’t have to say his name for you to know what he meant.

You step closer. “And you’ve helped me to carry mine for a decade. Let me share yours.”

His silence is deafening.

“I thought you were dead.” You whisper. “Again.”

A muscle in his jaw twitches. “I was.”

You sink into the chair beside his bed, trembling with something like fury or grief. You can’t tell the difference anymore.

“I watched Mahito rip souls apart. I watched civilians beg for a death that wouldn’t come. I saw Itadori break. But none of that hurt like seeing your name on the list of the missing. Because I knew what that meant.” You say, your eyes trained on the heart monitor that was attached to him, as if to make sure that it was real.

His fingers twitch on the blanket. He still hasn’t looked at you.

“I prayed.” You say. “For the first time since Yu was killed. I begged for you to be alive, even if I knew you’d hate it.”

That makes him turn. Just barely.

His voice is quieter when he speaks. “I didn’t want to be saved.”

You swallow hard. “Too bad.”

And then the silence grows thick and dense like fog, like smoke, like every word left unsaid between you since the day your brother died.

——————————————————————————

The first time you met Nanami, you were fifteen.

A brat. Over-eager. Too stubborn for your own good.

He was eighteen, quiet and already too old for his age. Haibara had pulled him into your orbit like gravity. You’d hated how serious he was, how polite. You'd teased him relentlessly.

But secretly, you’d watched him. Watched the way he protected Yu, the way he stood still and solid like a tree with roots deeper than any curse could touch. And after your brother died screaming, burned away from the inside, you watched Nanami crumble under it.

You had loved him even before then. Quietly. Devastatingly.

The years passed. You both became sorcerers in different ways. You, out of stubborn legacy; him, out of reluctant obligation. He left. You stayed. And when he came back, it was like finding a piece of home buried beneath years of ash.

But nothing ever happened. You danced around it. Both too tired, too haunted, too stubborn to name what lived between you.

And now? Now he was trying to disappear all over again.

——————————————————————————

He doesn’t return your calls. He’s discharged quietly and relocates to an old apartment near Ueno Park. You find the address from Ijichi, who gives it to you with a nervous look and a muttered, “He’s not… really letting anyone in.”

That doesn’t stop you. You show up at his door one week later.

He doesn’t answer at first. But he opens it eventually.

When he sees you, he sighs. “You’re persistent.”

“I’ve been told.” You shot back.

He leans in the doorway. He’s wearing a loose long-sleeve shirt that hides most of his injuries. His hair’s grown out slightly, messier. His glasses are gone. The left side of his face is still discolored, the scar tissue thick like tree bark. But his eye, his one good eye, watches you with quiet restraint.

“Why are you here?” He asks.

“Because I don’t want to grieve you twice.” You answer as if it was obvious.

He says nothing.

So you add, “And because you’re not the only one who loved him.”

That gets him.

He opens the door wider. He doesn’t say anything, just walks inside leaving the door open. You take that as an invitation.

——————————————————————————

Life settles into a strange rhythm after that.

You visit once a week. Bring groceries. Sit quietly while he reads. Sometimes he talks. Sometimes he doesn’t.

He won’t let you touch him, not yet, but he stops asking you to leave.

One day, while washing dishes, you find one of Haibara’s old photos tucked into a drawer. The three of you, grinning in a blurry snapshot outside the school. Nanami’s smile is small. Yours is crooked. Yu’s is blinding.

You stare at it until your hands start shaking.

When you turn, Nanami is watching you.

“He always thought you’d end up a better sorcerer than he was.” Nanami says quietly.

“He told me once that he never wanted me to be one at all.” You breathe out.

“You shouldn’t have been.” His voice is quiet, distant despite the fact that you’re standing right next to each other.

You nod. “But neither should you.”

He looks at you, and this time, you see it, that bone-deep grief that never went away. The ghost of your brother standing between you like a wall neither of you know how to climb.

“I was angry at the both of you.” You admit. “For years. After he died. You were supposed to protect him.”

His face doesn’t change, but his body stiffens like you’ve struck him.

“I know.” He says quietly.

“And then I realized he probably died trying to protect you.”

His voice cracks when he answers. “He did.”

“I couldn’t understand it, why would he do that? Why would he sacrifice himself and leave me behind?” You said, fighting to keep your voice from trembling. “But then I saw your name on the list of missing people in Shibuya, I understood it then. I would’ve given everything to be in your place, for my name to be on that list instead of yours” You pause for a moment, breathing deeply. “I would‘ve done the same thing he did.”

You walk to him, standing close. Close enough to touch but you don’t, not yet, not now.

“He wouldn’t want you to carry it alone.” You stated.

Nanami closes his eyes. “He wouldn’t want me to drag you into this you either.”

“I’m not a burden.” You say. “Not to him. Not to you.”

His eyes open. And for the first time, something in him breaks, softens.

“Then stay.” He says. “Just for a while.”

——————————————————————————

He lets you touch him weeks later.

It’s late. The city is quiet. You’re curled on the couch together, his head resting on your shoulder. His hand finds yours.

When your fingers brush over the thick, raised scars on the back of his hand, he flinches but doesn’t pull away.

You don’t say anything. Just hold him.

Later, he murmurs, “It still hurts sometimes. Phantom pain. Heat. Pressure. Like I’m still burning.”

You kiss the side of his head, the one that’s littered with scars. “Then let me help carry it.”

He turns his face into your neck. Breathes in deep. “I don’t know how.”

“We’ll learn.”

——————————————————————————

You kiss for the first time on a cold morning in November.

He’s dressed in a soft sweater that hangs loosely over his frame. His hair’s damp from the shower. You’re making tea. He leans in, hand on the counter, and you see it in his eye before it happens. The weight of it. The fear.

You reach for him.

And then his lips are on yours gentle, unsure, but most of all desperate, as if you were the only thing still tethering him to this world.

You taste grief, and salt, and every year you’ve wasted waiting for this.

When he pulls away, he whispers, “I shouldn’t have done that.”

You pull him back. “Do it again.”

And he does.

——————————————————————————

Not everything is perfect.

There are days he disappears, emotionally, mentally. Nights when he wakes in a sweat and refuses to speak. Mornings when he stares in the mirror too long and doesn’t recognize the face looking back.

But you are there. With tea. With silence. With patience.

One night, months later, as winter frost laces the windowpanes, he comes to bed late. You’re half-asleep when he slips under the covers, arms wrapping around you from behind. Carefully.

“I cared about him.” He murmurs into your shoulder. “In my own way.”

“I know,” you whisper.

“And I think… I think I love you.” He mumbled before taking a deep breath as if the words he was about to say would stop the world from moving. “I know I love you.”

You turn to face him. “I know that too.”

His lips find yours.

And this time, he doesn’t pull away.

——————————————————————————

The healing is slow. Not linear.

There are nights he still wakes up sweating, gasping, convinced he’s back in that alleyway. There are days when he can’t stand the sight of himself in the mirror. When you touch his scars and he shudders, not because of pain but because he still doesn’t understand why you’d want to.

But you stay.

Through the silence. Through the guilt. Through the days he wants to disappear.

You stay.

You sit beside him when he visits the graves of those who didn’t make it. You bring him coffee the way he used to bring you. You learn to live around his scars, not in spite of them.

And slowly, he comes back to you.

He begins reading aloud to you again at night dry, philosophical texts that you only half-listen to, lulled by the sound of his voice. He lets you fall asleep on his chest, even though the left side still aches sometimes. He starts smiling again, first small, then real.

One morning, you wake to find him already dressed, shirt sleeves rolled up, burn scars visible.

You blink. “No gloves today?”

He shrugs, sipping his coffee. “Figured I should get used to people staring.”

You sit up, watching him. “You sure you’re ready?”

“I’m not.” He admits. “But I’m going with you.”

And he does.

To the market. To the bookstore. To the world.

They stare, of course. Some longer than others. Children ask questions their parents don’t know how to answer. But he holds your hand, steady and firm, and he doesn’t look away.

Later, when you’re walking home, he squeezes your fingers.

“Thank you.” He says quietly.

“For what?” You and as you to look up at him.

“For seeing me when I couldn’t.”

You stop, fully turn to him. “Always.”

And in that moment, scarred, still healing, still learning Nanami kisses you in the middle of the street, sunlight filtering through the clouds above like grace.

He’s not who he was. But he’s here. And you’re here.

And that, finally, is enough.

taglists are open so let me know if you want to be tagged for future works! :)

#jjk #jjk x reader #jjk fanfic #nanami kento #nanami x reader #jjk nanami #nanami fluff #nanami angst #nanami kento angst #kento x reader #kento nanami #jujutsu nanami #nanami kento x reader #kento nanami x reader #jjk angst #au

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