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darkmatilda · 2 months ago

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𝐩𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: when an unsub hunts their victims in a casino, choosing couples that fit a specific pattern, spencer has no choice but to once again ask his friend for a little favor.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x diva!female reader, undercover as a couple, reader wearing a dress, header and summary FAKE AF bc literally casino scene is like 5% of a fic, the rest are just preparations, kind of like this friends episode where they're just getting ready lol

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 4k

𝐚/𝐧: requested by @mggslover <33 u don't know this about me, but that ep with reid in the casino had me barking like a pack of german shepherds, so i just couldn't stop myself from adding it

"So, we already have a profile. The unsub is a man between twenty-five and thirty years old. A gambler who has lost his entire fortune, yet he still plays, desperately trying to surround himself with luxury, refusing to accept his reality. His victims are men just like him—young posers, living beyond their means. They all had partners, attractive and confident women who belonged to the social group they dreamed of, unaware of who they were really dating. The unsub probably used to date someone like that as well. By getting rid of them, he experiences a deep sense of purification. He believes he is killing the part of himself that he sees as false, when in reality, that part is his true self," Morgan recited, pacing in circles around the office, gripping a black marker in his hand—the same one he had just been using to write on the whiteboard.

Suddenly, he stopped and let out a chuckle. "I think I know what we need to do to catch him. It's actually pretty obvious."

Everyone watched him with intrigued expressions. Usually, it was another team member who had these sudden bursts of verbosity, but that didn’t mean the others were immune to them from time to time. For the sake of maintaining balance in the universe.

"Enlighten us, then," Prentiss urged him, perching slightly on the edge of the table with her arms crossed over her chest.

Morgan spread his arms as if accepting a challenge. He paused for a moment, as if building suspense, then stated simply:

"Undercover agents who fit the profile of his victims."

His gaze swept over the team members, observing their reactions. Everyone focused on his idea, weighing the chances of success.

Reid noticed the concentration on their faces—right at the moment when his eyes accidentally met Morgan’s, who had been watching him for quite some time. He didn’t even have the chance to sigh before his friend asked the question Spencer knew was coming.

"You know how to play poker, right, Reid?"

"Well, turns out I’m banned from casinos in Las Vegas, Laughlin, and Pahrump for card counting..."

"So that’s a yes," Morgan cut him off, nodding in satisfaction. He looked fully committed to his plan—determined to see it through and catch the unsub. "Alright, great. That leaves us with two things."

He paused dramatically. Prentiss arched a brow.

"Go on, enlighten us again."

"One of them is money," Spencer guessed without difficulty.

Morgan waved a hand dismissively. "Rossi’s got it covered."

"Oh, do I now?" Rossi leaned back in his chair, giving Morgan a pointed look. "Did it ever occur to you to ask me first? Do I look like some random ATM to you?"

"So Reid goes in as a potential target, looking for the unsub among the players," JJ cut in, slowly and logically summing everything up. "Makes sense. But there’s still one problem. Every victim had a partner. Without one, he won’t fit the profile."

It looked like he had been waiting for this to come up. The moment it did, he locked eyes with Reid without a word, certain that his friend would immediately understand what was going through his head.

Spencer remained still for a moment before shaking his head as realization hit him.

"I need to ask you for a favor."

“No way,” he scoffed. “No. Just no, this is—”

♠

Just some subtle foreshadowing.

Before those words were even spoken, Reid had to catch up to her first. And that was no easy task—she was making her way to her lab at an incredible speed, her elegant heels clicking sharply against the floor as she walked, nose buried in a stack of papers she was analyzing with deep concentration. She wasn’t even looking where she was going, something Spencer noted with a tinge of jealousy. If he attempted the same maneuver, he’d undoubtedly trip over the most random object right before the stairs, tumble down ten flights, take twenty people with him on the way, and, at the very end, someone would accidentally kick his broken body and spill their coffee on him. Black. No sugar.

She was walking so fast that he had to break into a light jog just to stay a step behind her.

"Hey," he tried to get her attention.

He was already embarrassed by how out of breath he was.

She didn’t stop, but she did slow her pace significantly. Instead of responding, she simply raised a finger, signaling for silence, and continued analyzing whatever it was she was analyzing.

Spencer sighed, irritated as always by her sense of superiority, and simply took the documents from her hands.

It was so unexpected that a startled, deeply offended sound escaped her lips.

"Can’t you see I’m a little busy?"

"This won’t take long. I just need to talk to you."

They both came to a halt. She folded her arms across her chest, raising a perfectly arched brow. Beneath her white lab coat was, as usual, an elegant outfit, and the rest of her appearance hardly needed describing—stunning, as always. Spencer would never admit it, not even for unlimited access to the Library of Alexandria, but every time he was within her orbit and his eyes landed on her, he had to blink and remind himself she was real. Even if they’d already seen each other multiple times that day.

She pressed her lips together, visibly impatient.

"You’ve got a minute. Two, if it’s something sufficiently interesting," she said, waiting for him to get to the point.

And the moment she did, Spencer’s slightly labored breathing from his earlier exertion became embarrassingly audible.

The corners of her lips curled into a smirk.

"Someone chasing you?"

"Actually, I need to ask you for a favor." He ignored the comment, hiding his embarrassment behind a mask of irritation. He sighed, partly to calm his breath, partly to prepare himself for the next words. While he thought the first part of Derek’s plan was good, the second, in his opinion, left much to be desired.

Any other agent could’ve gone with him—there were two or three in the team, counting Garcia. And she wasn’t even accustomed to fieldwork. She just happened to fit the profile they’d created. Incredibly attractive and confident to the point of being borderline cocky. Morgan had insisted on her, but when it came to convincing her, he’d passed it off to Spencer.

"If I remember right, and I’m pretty sure I do, you already owe me for checking that last piece of evidence. You really want to add another one to that?"

"No, but I’m afraid I don’t have much of a choice. So...would you pretend to be my partner while I play poker at the casino, and try to spot our current suspect among the other players?"

He figured it would be easier if he just said it outright.

The woman didn’t even flinch.

"Can you play poker?" she asked, eyeing him carefully. She scoffed. "I want to see that. Fine, let's do it."

Spencer's eyes went wide. He had a hundred arguments ready, but he didn’t expect her to agree so easily.

"What?" she asked, noticing his reaction.

"Just like that? No questions? Doesn’t it bother you that you'll have to pretend to be...my girlfriend?"

He shook his head.

He tried to sound as if it were something completely natural, just another surprising element of the job he encountered all the time. However, he couldn’t help but swallow at the end of his sentence, an entirely involuntary reflex, betraying the hint of nervousness that had settled inside him.

She took a step forward, closing the distance between them, stopping only when she was uncomfortably close, slightly tilting her chin up. Her expression remained unreadable, not even a hint of a mocking smile.

"I mean..." Reid began, but the thought he wanted to express got lost, his focus slipping. Of course, he got distracted. He broke eye contact, shifting his gaze to some random spot on the wall behind her, silently cursing his own reactions. When he looked back at her, he forced himself to maintain the illusion of normalcy. "What I meant is, this could be dangerous. After all, it's a serial killer. You don't have to agree to this if you're having doubts."

She didn’t seem at all disturbed or frightened. She barely shrugged.

"So what? You’ll be there too."

Deep down, he felt like someone had just handed him a medal for special services to the country and shaken his hand, congratulating him. He called himself an idiot and made a mental note to retake the IQ test sometime soon.

“So you trust me?” he asked, driven by some strange impulse.

She simply raised an eyebrow at him.

“Is there a dress code I need to follow?”

He felt like squeezing his eyes shut out of embarrassment. Instead, he just shook his head in denial.

“No…also…actually…no. Just be yourself.”

She nodded as well, and he had the feeling something shifted at the corners of her lips. A hint of a smile, maybe. Then she moved even closer. Surprised, Reid opened his mouth, and she reached for what he’d forgotten he was even holding—documents he’d almost torn from her hands earlier.

So that’s why she’d been so close.

“See you then,” she said, brushing past him toward the direction she’d been heading before he stopped her. The scent of her perfume wafted into his nostrils as she did. “We’ll see what kind of poker player you are.”

The urge to turn around over his shoulder was overwhelming. And to speak up, almost painful.

“The best,” he added.

“Do we look natural? You know, like a couple?” Spencer asked with concern.

There was something sweet in her laugh.

♠

His hand was stiffly resting on her waist, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't relax it. She, on the other hand, standing right next to him, touching him and fitting against his body like a puzzle piece, didn’t have the same problem. She sighed and took his hand, guiding it lower down her body to make it look like a natural position.

“Not at all,” Prentiss said bluntly, shaking her head.

“You look like siblings who were forced by their mom to pose together for a picture,” Morgan added, watching them with a hint of dread. It was starting to sink in that this plan had way less chance of success in reality than it did in his head.

“So that means no?”

“Of course, it means no, idiot,” the woman hissed at him. Suddenly, she stiffened, as if surrendering, and pulled away from him.

Spencer raised his hands in a defensive gesture, looking at his teammates. They’d met in the office that evening, the day before the planned operation. The unsub always struck on the same day of the week, so they had to wait for the right time. Their task was simply to practice pretending to be a couple. Sounded easy enough, right?

"I don't get why everyone's so upset!" he said, looking at them. "Is it really that weird that groping a colleague doesn't come naturally to me? I think, honestly, it’d be worse if the roles were reversed—"

"Not in this case, man," Morgan replied, shaking his head. He rubbed his forehead and straightened up, as if washing his hands of the whole thing. "I’m exhausted. You two can practice this on your own. I don’t care how long it takes, you can sit here all night if you need to. Just remember, tomorrow you have to act like you’re dying to rip each other’s clothes off at any given moment."

Spencer felt warmth on the back of his neck. She rolled her eyes.

"And if it doesn’t work?" she asked. "What then? Can’t another agent take his place?" For a moment, she stared at Morgan before shrugging. "You, for example."

Spencer shot her a wounded look.

"Et tu, Brute…"

She glared at him.

"You want me to play Brutus with you?"

Meanwhile, Prentiss and Morgan had slipped out of the room, leaving them alone. Spencer sighed heavily. He was really starting to worry about the coming day and the undercover mission ahead. They both fell silent for a while, he rubbed his tired eyes and slowed his breathing, trying to rationalize it to himself.

"You know, I wouldn’t stress about it so much," he finally spoke up, glancing at her and her arms crossed over her chest. "I mean, tomorrow I’ll be sitting at the poker table, focused on the game, so I won’t be thinking about how to act natural. And because of that, it’ll be easier to actually act natural...you know what I mean?"

She probably knew what he meant, but that didn’t stop her from letting out a small snort at his convoluted explanation. Instead of answering, she stayed silent for a moment before slowly walking over to one of the chairs and dragging it to the center of the room.

She had to know Spencer was staring at her, completely puzzled by what she was doing, but she didn’t bother explaining herself. Letting go of the chair, she moved away and then gestured toward it with her hands, like she had just pulled a rabbit out of a hat during some magic show. Spencer felt like he was watching something exactly like that.

"Well, go ahead. Sit down," she said.

"What?"

"You said tomorrow you'd be sitting at the poker table and it’d be easier for you to focus. So, let’s see how true that is."

"That’s not exactly what I meant—"

"I’m not sitting here all night. I'm telling you that right now. So just sit down and let’s find out if this whole plan even has a chance of working. Because, right now, with your behavior, it doesn’t have any."

Reid remained still for a moment, almost holding his breath. She had hit a sensitive spot—the success of tomorrow's plan and catching the unsub. Reluctantly, he trudged over to the chair. He glanced at her. She urged him on with a look.

He sighed and sat down. As soon as he did, she settled herself—not anywhere else—but right on his lap.

Due to the surprise, he took a slightly too deep breath. Hearing this, she looked at him from beneath her raised eyebrows.

"Sure, keep reacting like that," she said, sarcastically. She adjusted herself, one hand resting on his shoulder. Once she was sitting comfortably, her soft body pressed against his, she moved her hand to the back of his neck, her fingertips brushing through his hair. "Very natural. Very convincing."

"We don't need to be that convincing."

"If we're going to draw the unsub's attention, then yes, we do. Otherwise, what's the point?" She scoffed. "So you can dig up your poker skills?"

"My poker skills are fine, I don't need to dig them up," he replied almost automatically.

"Confidence. I like it. Seriously. Just try to put it into something else. Into your partner, for example," she began, in a lecturing tone. As she spoke, her face was very close to his. She had an expressive face, moving it as she explained, and Spencer followed her every motion with his eyes, almost as if she were a medallion in the hands of a hypnotist. "According to the victim profile, you're supposed to be a bit insecure. And you know what insecure people do, especially in environments like this? They pretend to be confident. So do it. Hold me tighter, show those guys on the other side of the table..." She gestured behind her as if someone were actually there, "...that this beautiful woman is yours. And they can only look."

His own pulse was treacherous, thankfully she couldn't hear it. Spencer felt slightly dizzy, suddenly way too aware of how she was positioned on his lap, the scent of her, and the delicate brushing of her hair against his neck when she moved.

"There are no guys," he mumbled dumbly, not knowing what else to say.

She flicked him on the forehead.

"Then imagine them."

Spencer felt hyper-aware of the spot on his forehead where she had touched him. For a moment, he tore his gaze away from her, which was difficult when she was literally on top of him. He did it, though, to take a calmer breath before what he was about to do next.

He started by adjusting her on his lap. She might have been comfortable, but he certainly wasn't. He felt like she was about to slide right off him. He placed his hands on her waist—not like she was a delicate porcelain figure, though. Not that he grabbed her roughly or tightly. He just did it the right way. One of his arms wrapped around her for better stability. She watched him, almost without blinking, with genuine curiosity. The corners of her lips slowly turned upward.

For a moment, he disconnected from his thoughts, not worrying whether it looked natural for any imagined people. He just wanted them both to be comfortable.

"Is it better now?" he asked, not teasing, but with genuine curiosity.

He felt the muscle in her thigh move, the subtle tension rise as his hand rested on that part of her body. He relaxed his fingers, letting them cover most of its surface.

Her lips were slightly parted, her breath escaping in a soft, quiet rustle.

"Almost," she said.

Without breaking her gaze from his face, her hand found his, the one resting on her thigh, and guided it higher, increasing the pressure. Spencer had no idea how he was still managing to control his breath so perfectly. Maybe he was too dazed to focus on his own reactions. Maybe he'd surrendered to the situation, not overthinking it, just letting it flow. Where to? He didn't know. Where did he want it to go? He didn't know that either.

"Now," she began, releasing his hand from her grasp and sliding her fingers along his forearm. "Now it's perfect."

She shifted. Gently, probably an unintended twitch. The weight of her body lifted and then settled again, rising and falling on his lap, almost on his hips. The surface brushed against another surface. Body on body.

They were silent. Why were they silent?

If someone had asked him about the capital of Sri Lanka, he'd probably say Fidel Castro.

The emptiness that filled his mind almost embarrassed him, while she looked at him from under slightly raised lashes, her gaze as usual strong, seeming to pierce right through him. He had to break it, he had to stop this before the physical closeness pushed him into doing something foolish.

“So,” he began suddenly, throwing the words out before he'd even prepared the rest. He blinked, trying to focus. “Did you know that originally, poker was played with 20 cards, not 52 like it is now? In the earlier versions of the game, it was usually played with fewer people. It was only with the evolution of poker, and the rise in its popularity, that the full deck was gradually used, allowing for more variety in hands and more complex strategies.”

For a moment, she just looked at him in silence. He held her gaze, doing his best to stay composed. It wasn’t that he was denying his awkwardness—he was well aware of it. And he knew that if she didn’t get off him soon, things were going to get really out of hand.

She sighed and ruffled his hair, like she was petting a dog.

“It was almost perfect,” she murmured, shaking her head. She pointed at him with a warning finger before slowly moving off him. She didn’t seem affected at all, like the whole thing hadn’t fazed her one bit. At least not in the same way it had shaken him. “Tomorrow, no more talk like that, understood?"

Spencer nodded, completely agreeing.

The casino was a blend of intense red and deep gold, popping from nearly every corner. It also radiated from her—her dress and accessories made her look like a goddess dedicated to the place, reigning over it with authority.

♠

"So, there's something we forgot to discuss," she said as they made their way to the table. Spencer kept his gaze straight ahead, his arm around her, while she was looking at him, specifically his profile. She wasn’t watching her feet, clearly relying on his guidance. Lowering her voice, she leaned in. What from the outside might have seemed like a flirtatious whisper with a sly grin and fluttering eyelashes was, in fact, a serious question. "Do you want me to keep an eye out for your unsub while you're busy with the game?"

Reid shook his head.

"You’re not a profiler."

"Doesn't mean I can't tell when some guy's staring at me."

"Everyone stares at you."

She focused on his words, puffing her lips as if conceding the point.

"Fair point," she muttered, pulling her face away from his neck.

His words weren’t an exaggeration in the slightest. She really did have that effect on people, especially men, but not only them—like the sound of a siren, immediately drawing attention from all around. He felt almost strange walking arm in arm with someone like that. He didn’t know what kind of primal territorial instinct had awakened in him, but he felt the urge to pull her closer. He shook his head disapprovingly at his own thoughts, and she tilted her head at him, questioning. Nothing, he mouthed silently.

He didn’t need to do that, pull her closer, of course. They quickly took their seats at the table where the game was about to begin. She lowered herself onto his lap just as they had practiced the day before. Thank God they had done that. Otherwise, his mind would have started spinning like plates in a microwave, feeling it all somehow more real, then, under the watchful eyes of strangers.

She glanced at his face, a slight tension in her expression. He realized she was tense again. He took a breath and adjusted her position, lifting her slightly, holding her as if it were an established routine, following the instructions. When he thought of it that way, it was actually easier.

She gave him a gentle smile, weaving her hands together at the back of his neck. He responded, honestly.

And then, there were only the cards.

Okay, that wasn’t entirely true. He couldn’t afford for it to be just the cards. His job was to spot the one right face among dozens, not to win. That part had become her priority—she kept whispering hints into his ear, as if she still wasn’t fully convinced that he actually knew what he was doing.

“We should play against each other sometime,” she suggested.

“Don’t think for a second I’d go easy on you.”

“You think I’d need you to?”

Her question—well, more of a scoff—barely registered in his mind. Because just then, he caught an unfamiliar gaze lingering on them, watching for longer than the rest. And not just at them, but at one very specific spot.

She sat on his lap, completely at ease, not even noticing how the hem of her short dress was riding up a little too much.

It had caught the attention of the man sitting directly across from them—who was staring, shamelessly, at that very spot.

She must have sensed the way he tensed slightly because, within a second, her lips hovered near his ear.

“What is it? Did you spot the unsub?”

Spencer met the man's gaze and, with a natural movement, reached for the hem of her dress, tugging it down into place.

“I did,” he replied.

Then, without hesitation, he turned his head slightly to the side—locking eyes with the man who had been watching them from the very start.

by the way, happy women's day! <33 u are all incredible and invaluable (never forget that)

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aerynwrites · 4 months ago

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Give

King!John Price x Fem!Reader

A/N: It's FINALLY here holy shit y'all. sorry for the delay, it was just slow going mainly bc i got stuck on the smut lmao. SO, i just decided to post the bulk of the story now and then post a second smutty part later. I hope you all enjoy, and as usual I love to hear what you guys think!! Comments, reblogs and such are greatly appreacited. Also: this fic was inspired by the song Give by Sleep token as well as the song Kingdom of cards by Bad Omens! Word Count: 7.6k (oops) Warnings: Arranged marriage, mentions of past abuse to reader, reader's father is abusive, hurt/comfort, soft john price, mentions of consummation, fluff, just so much fluff.

The room is eerily silent, the complete opposite of what you expected on a day like this.

Your wedding day.

Your mother had stepped out once the handmaid that was provided to you had finished helping you with your dress - panicked when she couldn’t find the veil that she was passing down to you. Your father had entered as soon as your mother had left, and you dared not break the silence first. You know what will happen if you do.

But you can’t stop the way you fidget, wiping your hands down the front of the bodice of your dress, tugging at the fingers of your silk gloves. You hate wearing gloves, they itch and they are too warm - but your father insisted, hand raised threatening above his head when you almost muttered a complaint.

So. You’re wearing the gloves -

“Stop fidgeting,” your father bites, standing abruptly from the armchair in the corner to storm over to you.

The flinch that jolts your body is instantaneous, shying away from the storm of a man approaching you. The only reason you don’t shield yourself is because even you know he won’t do anything. Not today at least.

Can’t risk marking up the wares.

But it doesn’t stop him from gripping your arm like a vice, his nails digging into your skin beneath the delicate fabric of the ornate gown. You choke down the whimper, but fail to hide the fear you know is present in your gaze as you stare up at your oppressor.

“You will not ruin this for us,” he all but hisses. “I understand that decorum is a foreign concept to you, but if you so much as think about sabotaging this - me - I will-”

“I found it!” Your mother calls from the other side of the door, her voice shoving your father away from you like a storm would a willow branch.

She breezes into the room with an elegance you could never hope to match, a beauty you could never achieve - at least according to your father. She smiles at you, and you don’t fail to notice the way she takes in your shrunken appearance, the tense in your shoulders, before her eyes flicker to her husband.

She knows. She’s known the whole time - for she bears the scars too.

Her smile becomes tight, but she doesn’t say anything, just comes to you with the veil raised in her hands. It’s floor length, the back so long it trails even past your dress train, the lace details so intricate you can’t imagine how long it took the original creator to tailor it. it has a front piece as well that drapes in front of your face, falling to just above your collar bone where it will stay until your future husband unveils you.

The king.

You have to fight the shudder that threatens to run through you at the thought. You’ve only met him once, and at the time neither of you knew you would end up wedding one another. The King rules over the land, but there are many territories, many clans - his the most fearsome of all. You’d heard whispers through your childhood of the ruthlessness of the capitol city in which the King resides. Its citizens were born and bred to fight - knights and soldiers trained to kill.

Your father’s words ring in your ears as your mother fixes your veil to your head, fussing with the fabric.

‘If you even think about sabotaging me…’

Any sane person would. They would probably try to run for the hills when they found out they were to wed the ruthless King, a king that has never lost a battle, a King whose Kings-guard have a reputation of gutting those who dare defy him.

But not you. Little did your father know that you would do everything in your power to escape him.

For even death must be a better sentence than your life back home.

——

Every woman you’d spoken to back home always talked about their nerves on their wedding day. Some from fear, some from joy or just pure excitement. Some of them talked of the way they got sick just before walking down the aisle or the way their hands hook or their palms sweat.

You don’t feel anything.

It’s just pure numbness. As if you are outside of your body watching as the doors to the massive temple open wide, all in attendance standing immediately. You can see the King, your future husband standing on the dais in front of a priest, the incense from the thurible curling around them both as your father all but marches you down the aisle.

You can’t feel your feet or your hands, you can’t even register your intakes of breath. The only thing that runs through your panicked mind is that at least your future husband is handsome. You remember having a similar thought when you met him all those years ago at a kingdom wide celebration here in this very city. He was easy to spot, sitting above the jousting ring, crown atop his head, surrounded by his three kings guard.

He takes up the whole room even now, commanding it with his very presence as the priest introduces him to the crowd - to you.

“King Johnathan Price, third of his name, King of…” you zone out again, instead focusing on the very man being heralded.

He lacks the armor he usually wears, exchanging it instead for rich garments of silk and other fine fabrics. A long purple cloak, the collar adorned with fur of what appears to be a wolf, hangs from his shoulders, held together with a heavy golden chain decorated with the sigil of his house.

The crown still sits atop his head, golden and gleaming, each crevice and gemstone polished to perfection and nestled amongst chestnut colored locks. Only when you approach the dais do you notice the grey starting to pepper his temples and beard.

This is also the moment that you seem to come back to yourself, your soul being sucked back into your body as you and your father come to a halt at the bottom of the stairs and piercing blue eyes capture your own despite the veil.

He smiles, a soft gentle thing that makes your lips turn down in a frown, the action only further deepened when the priest says something about your father relinquishing your hand and soon two strong arms wrap around you too tightly for a loving embrace.

“Remember what I said,” he says lowly, and to onlookers it looks like a father telling his beloved daughter goodbye. But you know better.

“Do not disappoint me.”

And then he’s placing a kiss to your glove covered knuckles before placing your hand in the much larger calloused one before you.

The steps up the dais are a blur until you’re standing face to face with your fate. The priest rambles on as the king takes your other hand in his own, holding them between your bodies and all you can think about is how warm his hands are and how much larger he is up close. Your ears are ringing so loud you almost miss the prompt from the priest to say the scripted words, but your father’s threat echoes loudly in your mind and you speak the words automatically, your voice mixing with the rumbling baritone of the man before you as you recite them together.

The priest then sprinkles a fragrant oil on your joined hands, waves the thurible around as the crowd chants some vague prayer to bless your union. And then the words you didn’t realize you were dreading until the moment they are spoken into the air.

“You may kiss your bride.”

A hush falls over the crowd as the king releases your hands to reach for the edges of your veil. He lifts slowly, and you swear you stop breathing as he places it delicately over your head, finally revealing you to him.

And he gives you that soft smile again, the one that’s so contradictory to the stories whispered in your ears. His eyes crinkle gently at the corners as his hands come up to cradle your face, again touching you like delicate porcelain as he dips down to press his lips to your own.

His lips are soft, softer than you ever imagined, and his hands are so warm against the skin of your cheeks, and you feel something jump in your chest and-

It’s over so fast.

The crowd erupts in cheers as he pulls away, giving you one last reassuring smile before you both turn to face the crowd and his hand drops to take your own before raising them both above your heads in rejoice as you both descend the dais.

Rice and flowers and the like are thrown your way as you leave the temple, and once again your body works on it’s own set of instructions, following the kings lead and the attendants ushering you both through a maze of hallways until soon your seated at a large table in an even larger dining hall and the celebration has truly begun.

Food, more than you’ve ever seen in a place at once is piled onto the tables, music floats merrily through the room, entertainers flooding the center of the floor to vie for their King’s attention. Only when the food has been served, the wine poured, and people start eating does anything manage to catch your attention.

And once again, it’s those damned hands.

One comes to settle atop your own that sits rigid in the table, fork held tightly between your fingers as you have yet to even touch the food set before you.

“Are you alright?”

His voice is like a siren song, yet also reminding you of rolling thunder, a comforting lull that soothes the nerves that must have come crashing down upon you as the weight of today’s actions finally catches up with you.

You turn to look at the king - no - your husband, and you have to fight the burn at the back of your eyes.

Bright blue stares back at you, brows creased with worry as he gazes at you, and you’re suddenly aware of another set of eyes on you. You can feel them burning into the back of your head, and you can’t help but steal a quick glance, only to see the seething gaze of your father looking back at you as he gestures silently to your plate.

Oh gods…you look down to your plate, then to the kings, and you’re just now realizing his Kings-guard is also sat at the table with you, two on your side and one on his left, and they’ve all finished at least Half their plates and you haven’t even touched yours-

“Forgive me, my King,” you rush out, sitting up straighter, and immediately moving to pick up a piece of fruit - you think it’s a strawberry but you can’t be sure, not past the buzzing in your head. “I did not intend to appear ungrateful. I’m merely…nervous that’s all.”

His brows furrow further, and that must have been the wrong thing to say.

“I just meant…I’m excited, the nerves stem from joy I assure you-”

Soon the King is abandoning his utensils all together, reaching over to take your hand in both of his own, as that concerned look never leaves his face.

“It’s alright,” he says softly, that smile coming back to his face when he sees you relax slightly at his words. “And please, call me John,” he chuckles a little, “We’re married after all. No need for the formalities.”

You nod, “Of course, my King - John-”

“Aye, dinnae listen to him, lass,” an accented voice speaks from your right, and you startle slightly when the guard next to you leans in ever so slightly, blue eyes gleaming with mischief. “He’s full’o himself, call him ‘my King’ all ye want-”

A rough shove from the man on his right stops him in his tracks, and you can’t stop the way your eyes widen at the pure casualness of the interactions.

“Cut it out MacTavish,” the man grumbles, leaning forward to address you now, “Apologies, your majesty, but this one-” he jerks a thumb towards the one you now know as MacTavish, “never knows when to shut his mouth.”

You go to speak, only to be cut off by John.

“Leave my wife be,” he says sternly before turning back to you. “Sorry about them,” he apologizes needlessly, “they’re…” he trails off and this time it’s you who gives him a smile, a real one.

“It’s alright, I…” you pause, “thank you. For checking in with me and…thank you.”

You turn back to your meal before John can respond, missing the way his brows furrow again at your words as you finally start eating, trying and failing to ignore the way his earlier words made your heart stutter and you can’t tell if it’s good or bad.

My wife.

——

The celebration went on for what feels like days, music and more entertainers and more gifts from more lords and ladies than you could name. They served dessert, and then the dancing began and John had even asked you out to the floor for a dance. It was one you knew the steps to, thank the gods, and by the end of it both of you were smiling so wide even you couldn’t deny the way the earlier trepidation seemed to melt off of you.

That was until the night started to draw to a close. It was slow, but soon guests were retiring, coming up and giving their well wishes and goodbyes before leaving. With every guest that left it felt like a second closer to your perceived doom.

You aren’t a fool - you aren’t some naive maiden - you know what happens on one's wedding night. You know what’s expected of you as a woman - as a queen now. And that thought is made all the more terrifying when your father and mother come up to bid their own farewells.

Your mother is first, and John is chivalrous enough to give you some space, although he never quite leaves your side, just steps a few paces back as your mother envelops you into a hug. You can’t stop the tears in your eyes as her arms wrap around you, as you know this will be the last time you see her for a while, your fathers territory being many months away.

“I love you more than the entire world, my star,” your mother whispers, pressing a kiss to your cheek as she pulls away, hands coming up to cradle your face in her gentle grasp. “You will make an excellent queen.”

You pull her into one last hug before your father is impatiently tugging at you, though not in an obviously rough manner - he must keep up appearances after all. Even the large smile he wears as he pulls you into him is fake, full of deep seated hatred and loathing for a daughter he only ever saw a nuisance, a means to an end.

His grip is crushing, and you don’t miss the way his fingers dig into your sides again, his breath disgustingly warm against your ear as he pretends to whisper his goodbyes, but instead whispers words you would never dare repeat.

It feels like an eternity before he lets go, and he only does so because another hand settles on your shoulder, tugging you gently.

“I fear it’s time for us to retire for the evening,” John says, voice tight as he gazes at your father in a way that makes you suspect he isn’t as stupid as all the others your father has fooled in the past.

Your father bows, all reverence and kind smiles and posterity.

“Of course, my King.”

And then you’re gone, being whisked away from the only life you’ve known into an all new and terrifying unknown one.

——

Your footsteps echo loudly in the hallways as you follow John through what feels like a maze. This castle, just like the capitol itself is massive, larger than any you’ve ever been in. If it wasn’t for John, you feel like you might get lost in the twists and turns forever. You try to remember where he’s leading you - this is your new home after all, you will need to learn your way around. But with each turn and door your pass through it just gets more confusing. Did you turn left or right before or after the door-

“Don’t worry,” John speaks up, breaking the tense silence that had befallen you both, “you will learn your way faster than you think.”

You turn to him then, surprised that he caught on to your internal intentions. But he’s perceptive, that’s at least one thing you know about your new husband.

You try to return the small smile he gives you as you nod, looking around once more.

“I have no doubt I will learn my way eventually,” you agree, letting out a small sigh, “It’s just so…big. I’ve never seen a palace so magnificent. I can’t even begin to imagine what all the rooms hold…”

A small chuckle meets your ears, the sound surprising you slightly as you turn to look back at your husband as he speaks.

“Well, I would be happy to give you a proper tour tomorrow. I have a feeling you may enjoy the library the most,” he says, eyes twinkling in the dim light of the sconces lining the hallway.

You do perk up at that. “A library?”

John hums, nodding. “Yes I…” he clears his throat, and if you didn’t know any better you would think that he appears almost…nervous. “I noticed the multiple trunks of books among your things as the servants were bringing it in this morning. I’m almost worried that our selection of books might be too small compared to your own.”

You shake your head, another real smile tugging at your lips. “I highly doubt that,” you say softly, “And I…I will be most happy with anything you deign to show me. You are most kind.”

John only hums again, and another silence envelops you, this one much more pleasant. Only when you take a few more turns does he speak up again.

“Here we are,” he says, gesturing to a large wooden door a few paces away at the end of the hallway. There’s another door that you passed a few steps back, both of them having a guard posted outside of them. The same guards that shared dinner with you earlier.

As you approach the door John directs you too, the guard standing outside stands straighter, nodding gently to you and the John, “your majesties.”

John smiles at him, returning the gesture as he addresses him, “Garrick,” he reaches up placing a hand upon his armored shoulder, “Go join MacTavish will you? Make sure he doesn’t need any help patrolling.”

The guard hesitates for a moment, eyes flicking to something behind you both before John speaks again.

“Don’t worry,” he assures him, “Ghost is back there.”

The guard, Garrick, you try to remember nods, offering a curt bow before taking his leave and walking in the direction you and John came from. The clink of his armor fades until it’s just you and the King again, and you only realize you’d lost yourself again when gentle words greet your ears, this time in the form of your name.

You look up from where your eyes had fallen to the ground to see John standing in the doorway to the room, holding the door open and looking at you gently. A clear invitation to enter. You clear your throat, offering a small apology as you enter, eyes flitting about the space.

It’s a large bedchamber, clearly your own if your things placed neatly about have anything to say about it. The four poster bed is larger than any you’ve ever slept in, gauzy fabric draped prettily from the ceiling and down around the tall wooden posts. Furs, dozens of them adorned what was no doubt a feather mattress, made up to perfection. A fire roars in the fireplace across the room from the bed, a table and two chairs sitting off to the side of it near a stained glass window. A yewer of wine and two glasses sits atop the table, and if your stomach were roiling you’d make a beeline for the substance.

By all accounts the space is warm, welcoming even, leagues better than the single hard mattress in the tiny room of your old home. But all your eyes can seem to focus on is the bed, and the towering presence behind you. And as the solid wood door clicks shut behind you, it feels like the tolling of the bell, the final nail in your coffin as your spirit seems to leave your body once more.

You can hear John talking, voice soft as he rambles about how he tried to have the servants place your things in the best places, have them organized. You think he also mentions something about how the nights here get cold so the fires were always going. He eventually walks over to the table by the fireplace, pouring two glasses of wine, all while you struggle to breath, your eyes only leaving the bed when he calls your name again, somehow even softer this time as he offers you the second glass.

You walk over instinctively, taking the glass in your gloved hand, giving a wobbly smile as he taps his glass with your own before taking a small sip.

You follow his actions before you take a sip of your own. But the wine is good - it’s slightly spiced and warm and if you are to face the coming moments then you need all the courage you can get - and before you know it the wine is gone and you're turning back towards the bed. You notice a small dressing table off to the side of the large armoire and walk to it on unsteady feet.

John is speaking again, but you can’t hear him, not over the rush of blood in your ears or the breath stuttering in and out of your lungs as you reach up to pull the veil from your hair. You drape it across the table delicately, hands trailing over the fine embroidery before your hands fall to the laces of your dress.

Let’s get this over with.

You’re just thankful the dress laces in the front, at least you could do that by yourself. But as you tug at the strings, you find you can’t - your hands shake and the damned gloves…

You yank off the delicate silk, ignoring the raised white scars that glare back up at you as you try and manage to succeed this time in tugging the laces loose. The bodice of the dress loosens around you, the weight of the gown pulling it down slightly, the only thing holding it up being the sleeves on your shoulders. You reach up, still shaking to pull those down next, when warm calloused hands stop you.

He’s calling your name - he’s been calling your name but you couldn’t hear him over your own panic. But you hear him now, and the sound of it falling from his lips along with the grounding warmth of his hands holding your own brings you back to yourself.

“What are you doing?” He asks, and you notice now that he’s standing before you, having turned you away from the dressing table to face him, blue eyes swimming with confusion.

But you’re the confused one, your brows furrow as you look up at him. “What am I…?” You pause, looking down at yourself and then back to the bed behind you. “The…the consummation. I thought-”

Strong hands squeeze your own, and you look back to the man before you. He’s still dressed, you finally notice, and he’s looking at you like a delicate piece of glass, that you might break at the gentlest breeze.

And maybe you would.

“Do you want to?” He asks, question sincere, brows raised slightly as his thumbs brush over your knuckles.

The question startles you. Never had it even occurred to you about wanting this or not. Of course you didn’t want this. You just met this man - this man who is constantly contradicting every horrible thing you’ve heard whispered about him. This man who is a stranger but has been so kind.

You’ve never been asked what you want.

You shake your head, convinced this is a trick. Like one of the cruel ones your father would play on you - asking you a question that only had one right answer and then punishing you when you got it wrong.

“I…” you trail off, fighting with yourself. You want to tell the truth, something screaming inside you that you can trust him while the other, the years of experience tells you otherwise.

The latter wins out.

You swallow thickly, eyes falling to the floor, unable to look him in the eyes as you lie.

“Yes, of course. It’s my duty to-”

He squeezes your hands again, this time dropping one in favor of reaching up to cup your cheek, urging you to look at him once more.

“Love,” he breathes, voice gentle, “You’re shaking like a leaf.”

He takes a deep breath, as if stilling a rage inside of him as he takes in the sight of his broken bride before him.

“I didn’t ask about your duties,” he practically bites the word. “Do you want this?”

Gods, you can’t do it. You can’t look at him and his kind eyes and remember his soft smile and feel the way he holds you so gently and lie to him. Your lower lip wobbles, and tears burn at the back of your eyes as you internally prepare for the consequences of your next words.

“No.”

It’s whispered so softly that if he weren’t standing so close to you, there’s no way he would have heard it. But he does, and his hands are pulled from you so quickly that your eyes slip closed, prepared for a strike or a harsh word or something.

But it never comes.

Instead a tense silence falls over the room before his hand is taking one of yours in his own again, and your eyes open ever so slowly.

“That’s it then,” he says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. “I’ll send for your handmaid, she can help get you ready for the night.”

You can’t stop the shake of your head, mind refusing to accept that this is it. That he is just going to leave you be.

“I don’t…I don’t understand.”

John smiles, and you don’t miss the flicker of sadness in his gaze. Pity, maybe?

“I won’t start our marriage off by forcing myself on you. I don’t…” he looks away then, “I’ll wait. until you’re ready.”

You speak the next words before you can think.

“And if I’m never ready?”

John smiles, leaning down to place a gentle kiss to the back of your hand, either ignoring or choosing not to acknowledge the multitude of scars adoring the skin beneath his lips.

“I’ve waited this long,” he says simply, “Forever doesn’t seem like much longer.”

And then he’s gone, slipping from your bedchambers just as a handmaiden takes his place.

——

The same handmaid as the night before is the one to wake you, Ilora if you remember correctly. She says that the King has requested you join him to break your fast, as she’s already searching through the armoire for something for you to wear. It's a somewhat silent affair as she helps you get ready, tying your corset, brushing your hair. She even offered you a pair of gloves when she sees you staring at the ones from yesterday, but you decline.

He’s seen them anyways, and if he hadn’t it was bound to come out at some point.

Maybe the conversation will come easier over tea and sweet rolls.

You follow Ilora as she leads you through the still winding passages of the castle until you eventually come to a door that opens into an open courtyard. It’s still confined by the castle walls but the ceiling is open, allowing sunshine to pour down onto the cobbled pathways that wind between a multitude of flowers and bushes and even fruit trees.

It’s like a tiny paradise hidden within the walls, sequestered away from the grim stone walls of the building itself. Birds chirp happily, flirting from one branch to the next; and you even spot a butterfly, bright blue and fluttering so prettily in the air before you. It makes you halt in your steps, watching the rhythmic beat of its wings as it floats in the gentle breeze around you.

You reach up before you can stop yourself, fingers held poised as you reach for the small creature. It flutters about for a moment before settling onto your offered hand, and you can’t stop the smile that splits your lips as its wings beat lazily against your knuckles.

Soon, another presence joins you, and a familiar hand reaches up to mimic your own, a calloused finger tracing the delicate wing of the insect. Your eyes leave one color of blue only to find another, surrounded by familiar crows feet at the corners of his eyes as John gazes softly at you.

“Pretty as a painting,” he murmurs softly, his words making the butterfly take flight, continuing on its earlier journey.

“It was beautiful,” you agree, watching the winged creature until it’s out of sight.

John only chuckles, reaching over to place a hand lightly on your back.

“I wasn’t talking about the butterfly, love.”

His words and the meaning behind them make heat rush to your cheeks, and you look at him in surprise before dropping your eyes to the floor when you catch his playful grin.

“Come on then,” he says, breaking the tension, “let’s eat,” he turns back to your secret, “Thank you, Ilora.”

Ilora offers a small bow at the dismissal and takes her leave as John leads you a few steps further into the courtyard to reveal a stone table laden with food and only two chairs. Once again you’re slightly taken aback by the abundance of food. Yes, you were a daughter of a noble house, your family was wealthy, your father a lord of some land. But you never saw this side of that life - the life of luxury. Your father made sure of that.

John must take your hesitance for nervousness rather than curiosity, because he smiles that warm smile and places that familiar hand on your back to urge you closer. He doesn’t force though, never pushing you if your feet did not want to go. He merely encourages, like trying to placate a scared animal.

Maybe you are one.

“I figured you may want to break your fast away from the prying eyes in the dining hall,” he says simply, moving to pull out your chair when you finally concede to his invitation.

You nod politely, eyes still scanning the vast array of food before you until John takes his seat in the chair across the table. “Thank you,” you say softly, eyes flitting to the attendants that seem to come from nowhere, pouring your drink, placing silverware, and even placing a napkin in your lap before retreating once more.

A silence befalls you both then, and you can’t help but want to shrink under the awkwardness of it all. It’s as if neither of you know what to say - what do you say to your husband or wife that - until less than a day ago - was a stranger to you.

Thank the gods John speaks first, your throat to dry with anxiety to do so.

“Do you like blueberry tarts?” He asks, hand already reaching for one of the flaky pastries in the center of the table, “they’re our baker’s specialty,” he chuckles as he leans to place one on your plate when you offer no refusal. “If you don’t, I’m sure you will after you try this.”

You snag the olive branch offered to you, smiling as you pick up your fork.

“I do,” you say, cutting into the delicate treat, “They’re…They’re my favorite, actually. But we…”you trail off, remembering how once your father found out your affinity for the tarts, they had all but disappeared from the tables during meals.

You clear your throat, “the ingredients were hard to find where I’m from,” you lie smoothly, avoiding John’s gaze. “So they were a luxury.”

You look up when he doesn’t respond right away, and find the usual upturn of his lips absent in place of a scrutinizing gaze. Not a harsh one, but one that made it clear he was studying you, watching for…something.

But it was gone as quick as it came, that pleasant warmth back in full force.

“Well,” he says, placing a pastry on his own plate, “I’ll make sure there’s never a shortage.”

And on the meal went.

Conversation flowed easier after that, John picking up on when you were unsure of a particular dish or food, explaining it to you and watching in utter amusement for whether you would like or dislike a particular one. He’d let out a particularly hard laugh when you’d tried a rather odd looking dish, promptly trying and failing to spit it out in as ladylike a manner as you could.

Blood pudding he called it - making you let out a disbelieving laugh at the withheld information, playfully tossing your napkin his way.

He’d caught it easily, offering you a much sweeter fruit to wash the acrid taste from your mouth.

It felt like the morning lasted forever, and truthfully, you never wanted it to end. It’s…nice, talking to someone without the fear of reprimand or a strike for saying the wrong thing. And John he…he listens to you. Truly listens and seems to enjoy the things you talk about. He asks you questions about yourself; your favorite food, your favorite color, things you like to do to pass the time, places and things you wish to see.

And he listens to all of it, seemingly absorbing every word as if he’s a man in the desert dying of thirst and you’re the oasis he’s been searching for.

It goes on like this for the rest of the day, the rest of the week, and soon weeks bleed into months and it seems like your past gets further and further behind you as this future you and John start to build gets closer.

He shows you the library like he promised, and it’s where you find yourself spending most of your time when separated from John. The first few weeks you both are nearly inseparable, claiming he wants to spend time getting to know his wife. But a kingdom cannot run itself and eventually he has duties and things to tend to, which you respect.

It doesn’t mean you don’t miss him though.

It’s a shock when the feeling first hits you. It’s the third day in a row of only seeing him in the morning to break your fast together. It’s late, and you are as usual, sitting in the armchair you claimed in the library. You’re reading a romance novel, one that you confessed guilty to John early on that you enjoyed reading. Most people back home (your father) hated them - claimed they were undignified, unfitting for a lady to fill her head with stories that would never come true.

John had hundreds of novels shipped in over the next fortnight.

The one you’re reading now is a short one, a cliche about a knight and a low born woman. But it’s sweet, and when you get to one particular part, you find yourself looking up from the page, chuckling lightly to yourself and wanting to share it with John.

But he isn’t here.

And as you look up and notice the darkness outside the windows, the only light being the fire a few feet in front of you, you feel a pang in your chest. A longing you’ve never felt before, never thought you’d feel in your lifetime.

You miss him.

And on this night, it appears as if he misses you too. Because, like a siren's call, as soon as you stand, marking your place in your book to retire to bed, the door to the library creaks open. You expect one of the guards, probably Kyle, as he too seems to be fond of the library, having found him in here on several occasions when he was off duty.

So, when you look up from where your book sits on the side table, you are surprised to see John slipping into the room, hair tousled, and looking as if he had just come straight from the stables. Riding boots caked in mud, light armor still adorning him. When he spots you, it’s as if the world itself falls from his shoulders, he sags beneath the relief and walks to you with sure even steps until he’s less than an arms length away.

“John, what are you doing?” You ask, looking down at his muddy boots and back up to the weary expression on his face. “What’s…is something wrong?”

He pauses for a moment, a flicker of something flashing in his eyes before it's gone, and those piercing blues are softening and crow's feet appear at the corners as he reaches for you, taking your hands in his own gently.

“Nothing, love,” he says, that nickname that’s become more frequent making your heart flutter. “Just missed you, is all.”

His admission makes warmth spread through you, like warm honey on freshly baked bread. And you can’t help but lean into him, relishing in the way his hands move to wrap around your waist.

“I…I missed you too, John,” you tell him softly, as if the words will scare him away.

But they do the exact opposite, they make the man beam brighter than before, fingers squeezing your sides gently as he steps ever closer, eyes falling from your own down to your lips.

Your breath hitches as he inches closer, and you can feel the heat of his words as he speaks, air brushing over your lips.

“Can I kiss you, love?”

You haven’t kissed since your wedding day. Not other than the chaste ones he’d press against your knuckles or your cheek on occasion. He’d respected the vow he spoke to you on your wedding night, never pushing you, never forcing you. He waited. Waited until you made the decision.

The nod you give him comes quicker than you thought it would, and his lips are on your own in an instant. They’re warm and slightly chapped from the ride he no doubt went on today, but to you it’s…perfect. It’s warm and gentle and all consuming, and even though it isn’t heated or rushed or rough you suddenly understand the passion that all those romance novels wax poetry about.

He doesn’t dominate you or control it in any way, he moves with you - coaxing you at times perhaps, smiling against your lips when you let out a small whimper. His hands never stray far either, only moving to wrap further around your or caressing up and down your spin, maybe toying with the hair at the base of your neck before finally coming to cradle the apple of your cheek in his calloused palm.

Only then does he pull away, and you flush at how breathless you are, the embarrassment only soothed when you see he is just as affected as you are. He rests his forehead to yours, eyes fluttering closed as his thumb brushes softly against your cheek.

“Maybe I’ll have them move my desk in here,” he says after a comfortable silence. “That way even if I have things to tend to, I can still spend some time with you.”

You pull away from him only enough so he can see the smile on your face; and the next day when you come to the library, John is sitting at his desk, right next to your arm chair.

———

Another thing that has changed for the better is your dreams. Nightmares used to be a constant for you before the wedding, waking up in cold sweats, fear making your very bones ache. But after the first few nights in the castle…they disappeared. Once you realize that the danger you used to live amongst each and every day is no longer present, it’s as if your body finally allowed you to rest.

Maybe that’s why this one is so much worse.

You’d been lulled into a false sense of security, your body's survival instincts failing you, telling you that you were safe when you should know better. It’s the very thing he screams at you as he strikes you down in this hellscape. The bitter words he spits upon you as blood splatters across the stone flooring, as the toe of his boot meets your stomach again and again.

You naive, stupid girl - you’re nothing!

You want to scream out at him, tell him that it’s not true, that you are something and that someone loves you and cares for you. But the words are stuck in your throat like tar, and copper floods your tongue and any and all protests crumble like ash in your mouth as you see his guard raise the whip above his head.

You wake up screaming.

Throat raw, the taste of copper still coating your tongue and making you gag as you fight against the furs and blankest tangled around your legs. It’s pitch black, the fire having died out to nothing but embers. So when a pair of hands finds you in the dark you can’t stop the wail that slips from your lips.

He’s come back for you. He’s come to take you away-‘

“It’s me, love stop-” the voice is muddled, far away from your panicked mind.

You fight the grip on your wrists, only stilling when one lets go to cup your cheek. Calloused hands, warm…they speak again.

“You’re safe, it’s me. Love, it’s me…”

“John?”

His name is but a whimper on your lips, and when he assures you that it is him, you fall apart like glass when it meets stone. Shattered into a million little pieces.

But he catches you, he catches and holds each and every piece of you as you sob in his arms, tears soaking the skin of his neck where you hide your face, fingers clutching desperately at the thin cotton of his shirt. He holds you so softly. Always soft, always gentle. His hands run up and down your back, over your shoulders, through your hair as he shushes you softly, cooing reassuring words into your ear.

And when you finally do calm, sobs ebbing away into ugly sniffles and hiccups, he still doesn’t let go, shifting instead to lay back against the pillows with you tucked into his side as he pulls the covers around you - a safe cocoon against the world - against the things that still haunt you. He only stops speaking, stops humming some small random lullaby he had started up, when you begin to speak.

He didn’t pressure you, didn’t ask - he’s never asked. The whole time you’ve spent together, and you know John is a perceptive man - he knows things. You assume he’s worked most of it out himself; yet, he never once asked you. Even now, when your screams no doubt jerked him from his slumber, or when you cried into him like a terrified child. He never once asked.

So you tell him on your own. You tell him of your childhood, of the hatred your father held for you, of the cruelty he subjected you and your mother to. You told him of the scathing words and the nights sent to your room without supper and maybe even days without anything but a simple loaf of bread and some water. You tell him of the things you swore you’d never tell anyone, of the blood and torment and beatings and the whip.

And in the darkness of your bedchamber you pull away from his embrace, slipping your shift from your shoulders as you tell him about the scars. He’s seen the ones on your hands but…as he traces the jagged angry marks on your back, your ribs, your stomach in the darkness…you can practically feel the rage radiating off of him like the sun on a hot summer’s day. His hands shake, fingers trembling as they trace over the evidence of darkness, of pure evil. You tell him everything, until the tears finally prevent you from saying more and he’s tugging your shift back up your arms and turning you back to face him and kissing them away with a reverence you never imagined possible for you.

“You will never come to harm here,” he swears, voice terrifyingly calm and steady. “And if you do, gods help the man to do it, for I’ll hunt him down and slay him where he stands.”

He pulls you tighter then, lips pressing against the crown of your head as arms wrap around your waist, soft words urging you back into slumber.

And despite everything….you sleep, and dream this time of warm hands and kind words and a future worth living for.

#john price x reader #cod x reader #captain price x reader #price x reader #john price #captain john price

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gffa · 1 year ago

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One thing that caught my attention while watching The Phantom Menace in the theater, a movie I didn't expect to find anything new with after how many times I've seen it and analyzed it, was that Sidious mentions multiple times that he has to change his plans to fit the new circumstances. It got me to thinking about how Palpatine gets credit for his carefully crafted plans, but often times not for how flexible he is in changing them on the fly, especially in time travel fics where someone destroys one of his plans and that's the end of it. Which, I'm not advocating against, I love a good Take That Wrinkled Walnut The Fuck Down However You Gotta Do It fic and I don't want them to change! But in canon Palpatine makes note of things he's not expecting, like:

When Valorum sends the Jedi as ambassadors, it's not part of Sidious' plan: DAULTAY DOFINE: This scheme of yours has failed, Lord Sidious. The blockade is finished. We dare not go against the Jedi. DARTH SIDIOUS: Viceroy, I don't want this stunted slime in my sight again! This turn of events is unfortunate. We must accelerate our plans. Begin landing your troops. NUTE GUNRAY: My lord, is that… legal? DARTH SIDIOUS: I will make it legal. NUTE GUNRAY: And the Jedi? DARTH SIDIOUS: The Chancellor should never have brought them into this. Kill them immediately!

On the Trade Federation ship, after Queen Amidala has disappeared from Naboo, Palpatine originally planned that she would be forced to sign the treaty, and then brings in Maul to deal with this. DARTH SIDIOUS: And Queen Amidala, has she signed the treaty? NUTE GUNRAY: She has disappeared, My Lord. One Naboo cruiser got pat the blockade. DARTH SIDIOUS: I want that treaty signed. NUTE GUNRAY: My Lord, it's impossible to locate the ship. It's out of our range. DARTH SIDIOUS: Not for a Sith. This is my apprentice. Darth Maul. He will find your lost ship.

On Naboo, after Padme allies with the Gungans: NUTE GUNRAY: We've sent out patrols. We've already located their starship in the swamp....It won't be long, My Lord. DARTH SIDIOUS: This is an unexpected move for her. It's too aggressive. Lord Maul, be mindful. MAUL: Yes, my Master. DARTH SIDIOUS: Be patient... Let them make the first move.

Palpatine's plans aren't static, they adapt and change with the events that happen, just as the other characters react to new information and head in new directions for it, so too does Palpatine and I think it's interesting to note that part of what makes him such a good villain is that he has an outline for what he wants to do, he sets up the dominoes of what he needs, but even when they don't fall precisely into place, he generally gets what he wants. He originally intended that Padme would sign the treaty, the Jedi wouldn't be involved, and that would lead to a vote of No Confidence to oust Valorum, using the sympathy for Naboo as a way to boost himself into the position. But he didn't really need her to sign it and still managed to use the sympathy for Naboo to get elected, it ultimately didn't matter what happened to the planet, so long as it was in danger while he needed it to be, he could use it either way. Nor, honestly, do I think he ever planned for Anakin Skywalker's existence, he had no idea they would find such a boy on Tatooine or how useful he was going to be, that was another way he changed his plans once the opportunity arose. Or a lot of his plots in TCW--he has Cad Bane steal the list of Force-sensitive children and kidnap them, bringing them to Mustafar for some sort of program to use them probably not too unlike how he uses the Inquisitors later. That plan is foiled by the Jedi, the babies are returned to their families, and Sidious' plans fall through, but that doesn't really change the outcome. tl:dr: I don't think Palpatine gets enough credit as a villain whose plans shift and change along with the new events that happen, just as much as the heroes' plans shift and change when new things happen. Yeah, he's a great villain because he creates an impossible trap for people, but also because the thing about him is that he's incredibly charming and charismatic and he knows an opportunity when he sees one, that any one given plan might fall through, but it's not necessary to his overall plot.

#lumi.txt #star wars #sheev palpatine #meta

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standamianwayne · 6 months ago

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yandere!batfam/damian’s twin!reader

okay so! in these neglected!reader fics Dick is almost always the one who’s like trying to reach out the most. because of this, personally(!) i feel like he’s the kinda guy who just wants his family to be whole so he kinda takes up the position of like father+brother combined (eldest child syndrome lowkey). he kinda becomes the most present figure in the twins’ lives and i think it goes double for reader tbh.

like breakfast lunch dinner Dick is right there with her and yaps her ear off. i think that where Bruce is the kinda dad that wants you to finish what you start, Dick is the kinda brother that’s like “if you don’t wanna do it, then don’t” ykwim? wanna do ballet? he’s at every recital. hate it? well, it wasn’t for you anyways! any practice, game, show, concert, he’s there. and if you decide you absolutely hate whatever it is, he’s there for you too!

just like general supportive older brother, but turned up juuuust a smidge. i feel like in the yandere aspect, he’s not really the type to go try and murder someone. sure he might hurt someone, but he’d at least want to avoid murder. it’s more like he’s gonna try and keep her home/with him as much as possible. like where are you going? it’s family game night! when did we start family game nights? don’t worry about it! now come on, it’s monopoly.

jason, on the other, WOULD probably kill someone. buuuuut i think it’s more so if she get physically hurt by someone would he be pushed to murder. emotionally? he’ll probably just beat them up and threaten them. but if they put their hands on her? mmm yeah you’re dead. sorry!

i feel like jason, who’s literally died and come back to life consumed by rage, would see reader as the opposite of himself. as good, where he is bad. and i think that on one hand he wants to push her away, to not taint her with the darkness that consumes him. but on the other hand, he’s had so much taken from him, seen death at every corner, even met the man face-to-face. can’t he be selfish just this once?

so, in the early hours of the morning, before the sun comes up and his duty as Red Hood is done for the night, he seeks her out. he comes back to the manor, climbing through her bedroom window. she’s still asleep and he just stands there, listening, watching, reminding himself that she is alive and so is he. he doesn’t touch her, he can’t— can’t poison her good with his bad. so, he settles for observing. maybe one day he can work up the courage to speak with her, seek her comfort. but for now, he’s content with simply existing around her.

tim is also an observer in like a borderline stalker kinda way. makes everybody download life360 but he watches her location like a hawkkkk. also gifts her a phone that’s totally safe i swear! don’t mind that any texts from an ex or someone that you have bad blood disappear right after you get them. they probably just unsent them!

he’s like Dick in that he tries to convince her to stay home often. but his way of doing it is… different. you wanna go for a walk on this street? actually there’s footage of a robbery that took place near there recently, probably not safe. wanna go to a friend’s house? um, according to their school records, they got detention in 5th grade. that’s a bad influence, girl! don’t worry, we can play mario kart or something instead!

with duke i feel like, compared to the others, he’s the closest you’ll get to a regular brother. he’s the closest in age to the twins and he joined the batfam after damian in canon. he’s also very kind and soft(?) so it’s unlikely he’s gonna go full stalker and/or killer over his sister. don’t get me wrong, he could kick ass if needed. but when it comes to reader, he’s mostly just trying to bond with her. watching movies in his room, sneaking out to get ice cream together, even at the ‘Wayne Galas’ he’ll stick by her side.

duke is veryyy caring and passionate, plus i feel like he’s sympathetic as well. so when you need comforting, he’s probably the best to go to. cause he won’t be the kind to go find whoever made you upset and ‘talk to’ them. instead, he’s gonna comfort his sis! unless it was someone who physically hurt her, then he’ll probably pay them a visit. but he’s not gonna kill them, i just can’t see him doing that.

next up the batgirls 😛 just as a note this is all my interpretation of the characters. if you think it’s ooc, no you didn’t ❤️

also does anyone have a preference of using third person (she, her) or second (you, your)? i might switch to ‘you’ when i write the batgirls so its not confusing, but if anyone has a preference, let me know!

and thank you all so much for the love on the first part!!!! i’ve never uploaded fanfic before so this is so new to me 😅 but i appreciate it sm! love yall! ❤️

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medievalharlot · 21 days ago

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A gift for the princess 彡 Geta x princess f!reader x Caracalla

Pairing: Geta x princess f!reader x Caracalla

Synopsis: The empire comes to your aid and you are reunited with your childhood friends, they end up having a gift you cannot turn down

Wordcount: 3,1k

Request: ‘I’ve been thinking of this plot for a while, but I’m not a writer and could never write it myself. But what if both of the twins x reader, who was their childhood best friend, she came from a very wealthy family (for some reason I like to think she was royalty in a neighboring country or smth, anyway, she was forced to move away, and the twins and here were devestated (cause they like LIKED each other) years go by, and they are now emperors, they have to go to a place for business, with other royals (like where the reader lives) and they meet again, and like, fall in loveeee’ by anon

Tags: Childhood friends to lovers, reader is a princess, some light groping but no full on smut, period accurate misogyny, implied violence, implied abuse.

A/N: Phew this one is a little longer than I intended it to be. Maybe a little less historically accurate than my last one but I tried sticking to historical facts. I always thought of Caracalla as a shy child that turned mad and Geta being the brave one. This will be the last full on fic I post before I go to Paris, enjoy!

It would be a short seige, your castle walls were never strong enough to withstand the Parthian army. Yet your father, having spiraled into madness, insisted to keep fighting. For years your small kingdom had been an ally to the empire. Even if it was small, it had a strategic and important port. Under Marcus Aurelius it had it added to the list of allies and it had been loyal up. Your father suddenly decided to start a war against Parthia. Voices plagued his mind, advisors gone corrupt filled his mind with delusions. You had been supportive of your father, trying to see the good in his actions as a way to cope. Giving up on the man that had raised you felt like betrayel. Your mother was a noble lady and after giving birth to you ander your brother she moved back to her own home. Their marriage was arranged and quite an unpleasant one. You were his only daughter, his sweet delight. Your brother was aiding the empire in the conquest of Numidia by order of the emperor, leaving you to watch over your father. Every day he slipped further into madness, and everyday it became more painful to watch.

At a certain point his advisors convinced him to go to war. Once you got wind of the idea you had the advisors sent away, unleashing your fury upon him. But your father had already sent out the command. You had prayed to Pax, Fortuna and Minerva for the war to end well and for the Romans to send aid. Emperor Severus had been a good friend to your father. You weren’t aware that he had passed and his sons, Geta and Caracalla, were terrorizing the empire. News travelled slow in the empire and before you knew it there was an entire army knocking on your door with no aid in sight. You had witnissed the Pathian generals slaughter the people on the outskirts of the city being killed. Their screams haunting your mind as you hid.

Once, you knew the twins. It was a long time ago, before your father had become king. He took you and your brother to Rome quite often, in hindsight you understood it was probably to find a suitable match amongst the sons of the senators. Due to the friendship your father and the emperor shared you were often on the Forum. You remember meeting the twins for the first time.

Caracalla was a shy boy, hiding behind his brother. Geta was a bit cocky but curious about you. They were a few years older than you were. You were clinging to your fathers toga, you never played with boys. At home you were either being taught by master or you were playing with the daughters of your fathers advisors. Boys sucked. And yet here you were, alone with these boys in a room.

“Do you wanna play soldiers?” Geta had asked eventually. “You can be the helpless girl and we-” He had shoved his brother from behind him. “We will save you.” There was a proud smirk on his face.

Soldiers? Why would you want to play that, why would you be the helpless girl. “I don’t want to play that.” You reached for the wooden sword. Geta tried to grasp for it.

“You can’t play with that, that isn’t for girls.” He sneered as you pulled away. Caracalla still hadn’t spoken a word.

“Stop it!” You frowned, you weren’t one to let somebody to tell you what to do.

Soon, chaos ensued. Somehow you ended up in a brawl with him, and to your surprise you were winning. All that commotion had alarmed the servants, who had fetched your fathers. Emperor Severus was pissed. He had dragged Geta off you, shouting stuff like ‘this is not how you treat guests’ and ‘you let that little girl beat you up’. Caracalla chased after them while sobbing as the emperor dragged Geta by his collar out of the room.

The banging on the door only got louder, together with the other women of this court you were hiding in the cellar. Soft prayers were whispered, hopes that the devine above might save them. You didn’t pray, you knew there was no stopping an army, your kingdom was way too small to beat Parthia. Your father didn’t have the men, nor did he have much expierence. It would be over soon and all you could hope for is that they wouldn’t slaughter and take every single woman in this room.

Over the years you luckily grew to appreciate each other’s company. Visits to Rome became more frequent. Your father enjoyed the wine, food, feasts and whores in the capital better. Geta was still as boisterous as before as he often liked to remind you of how he would become emperor someday. Caracalla had grown out of his shyness, but he got reckless and often faced his father’s wrath.

You were sitting on Caracalla’s bed, soflty dapping your handkerchief against his busted lip. Geta was leaning agaisnt a pillar as he watched you tend to his brother. “What happened.” You had asked Geta, Caracalla was still visibly upset. He was rambling some words you couldn’t understand, making himself small and leaning out of his touch. Sometimes it felt like you were talking to a child.

“Drank too much wine last night and was found in the horse stables.” Geta replied, keeping it short. You could tell his fathers violence got to him.

“You’re a fool sometimes Caracalla.” You spoke to him, lifting his chin to get a better look.

“He just needs to die then I will be emperor.” He had spouted a bit angrily in return.

You sighed softly and stood up. “We will fetch a doctor.” You spoke, nodding your head to Geta to signal him to come along. Something was up with Caracalla, he was reckless but he had become more unpredictable and forgetful over the last few months. It was eating away at you, you saw them as your closest friends.

“Something is wrong with him, Geta.” You spoke as soon as the two of you turned a corner. “Did the doctors say anything last time?”

“They say his peverse nature has infected his mind.” Geta spoke as he walked with you. “They’re trying to treat him but father says he is fine.”

“He’s not.”

“I know.”

Then the screams came. The walls had been breached. Younger girls started sobbing, with a stern look you tried to make them shut up. You couldn’t blame them, the worse thing that could happen to you is that they would make you a concubine. Soldiers knew better than harming a princess that could be used for blackmail. But those girls, they would have to endure the worst. You held your breath as you could hear them getting closer, your heart beating in your chest. The doors opened, but to your surprise it weren't Parthian soldiers. Their shields carried the Roman chrest. It were Roman Soldiers. Had they come to your aid? You got up, your dress was dirty and your messy. The seige lasted a few hours and you had been stuck in this stuffy room.

“Princess Y/N, you have summoned by imperial decree.” One of the generals entered, you did not recognize him. He looked older, his black hair slowly graying. They took you, dragging you out of the room despite your protests. The didn’t take commands from a woman, they took direct orders from the emperors and the emperors alone.

It was a particularly hot summer that year. This time you had went ahead of your father to Rome, he had some business to take care of back home. It was uncommon for girls your age to travel alone, you had long passed the age to be wed, but you were of age. It was the only reason your father let you go alone. Something had changed this year tho, you weren’t sure about what. The three of you always went swimming in their private pool, it had been a tradition for you of some sort. You never thought of it as strange. Yet, this year you could feel your cheeks heating up as you watched them swim around.

“Are you just going to lay there?” Geta spoke up. You were still laying in the shade and still dressed.

“Don't feel like swimming.” You spoke as you grinned softly.

“Is the princess afraid of getting wet?” He laughed loudly as he swam to the side of the pool.

“I am not!” You got up defensively. In the midst of your conversation you had not noticed Caracalla lurked behind you. With a giggle he flung you into the water.

“There we go.” Geta laughed, watching you struggle to swim in the flowly stola you were wearing. You would have bothered to undress first if you knew they were gonna force you in.

The echoes of Caracalla's laughter rung around the pool. It had gotten worse, you knew that. Both of them got worse in their own way. From what you heard they were drunks with concubines from all over the empire and a lust for blood. It made you sad.

“You should come to the Colosseum soon.” Geta swam closer to you, looking slightly down on you. The water was up to your shoulders but you could still stand. The way he looked at you made your head do summersaults. He lifted your chin. “I think you would enjoy what we have prepared for you.” He got closer, eye contact still remaining as your lips almost touched.

“I am not sure if-” He cut you off with a kiss. Caracalla was behind you now, his hands roamed your hips and his lips were on your neck. He softly bit down on the skin as he whimpered while rutting against you. You were sandwhiched between them. One of Geta's hands was on your breast, the other holding your chin in place.

It was so perfect, until it wasn't. Your father had barged in and saw the scene. He, too, had heard of the twins endeavours. And upon seeing you sandwiched between them he got furious. He ordered you out of the pool and he scolded the both of them. Surely, they would never hear the end of it from their own father. It made you anxious for what would happen when the emperor got word of what had happened here. That didn't matter tho, you would be there to patch up their bruises.

Atleast, that is what you thought. Your father had send you home right away and you never saw the two of them again. The first year was hard but you learned to live with the heartache. With your father illness you had more pressing matters than Rome.

They had dragged you back all the way to Rome. It was early in the morning when you finally arrived, your head ached and your feet were sore. On the way you were informed your father was killed, only worsening your pain. The soldiers had given you a minimum of food and water and kept you dressed in simple rags. You felt like a prisoner and you still weren’t none the wiser about why you were summoned. Atleast you didn’t have to walk all the way.

You arrived in Rome filthy, dehydrated, hungry and confused. At once, you were taken to the throne room. It was nearly the same as you remembered, only there were two thrones. Maybe he put it there as a way to honor his deceased wife. Taking in the surroundings you heard the emperor and the guards come in.

“I hope there is a good reason for my treatment on this journey, your imperial highness.” You turned around, but instead of seeing emperor Severus, you stood eye to eye with them. Geta and Caracalla. Your heart dropped. It been years since you had seen them. They were the emperors now?

“We apologise for your treatment, my lady.” Geta spoke first as he offered his hand. You stood frozen, taking in the both of them. You couldn’t lie, it was good to see them. It was like a weight falling of your shoulders. But something felt off. Geta had a cold look in his eyes and Caralla looked almost insane. His eyes reminded you of your father. Both of them were dressed in gold armour with a gold laurel crown on their heads. They radiated divinity. It didn’t feel the same as it once did.

With a trembling lip you stumbled over to them, falling on your knees infront of them. You had grasped ahold of Geta’s robe. Caracalla grinned as he crouched down to look at you. “We saved your kingdom. You must thank us, your brother will be king now.”

You looked up at him with fat tears rolling down your face as you were reminded of your father’s death. Geta grabbed your face in his hand. “What my brother means to say is that we are very sorry about your father. He may have acted like a fool but no ally of Rome should suffer like you have.” He gave you a hand, you took it and stood. “There will be games in his honour tonight. You will be attending.” It wasn’t a question, it was a demand.

Softly, you nodded. You tried to process what was going on. “Yes, games.”

“Real games, with bloodshed. No mercy.” Caracalla spoke to you as if he tried to comfort you. “We got you a dress.”

“Yes, Cassia will help you get dressed. You must get some rest now.” Geta turned to a young girl, she looked foreign but she had a Roman. She was probably a concubine that they liked so much she got promoded to a handmaid. “Cassia, get her cleaned up.” He snided at the girl.

Cassia led you out of the throne room to the baths. The hot water felt nice against your sore skin, you felt clean atlast. An essence of mint and citrus hanging in the air.

After the bath, Cassia had dressed you in your gown. It was purple with gold trimmings, it must’ve cost a fortune. The fabric felt expensive. Your hair was done in an elaborate hairstyle. Even if you were a princess, the luxeries in Rome was something your father could not afford. You looked like an empress, the empress. “The emperors wish to see you before you leave for the Colosseum.” She eventually spoke after she finished doing your hair.

With heavy feet you made your way to the throne room. It did feel better to be dolled up again, but under these circumstances you doubt you could feel anything at all. You were alone in a city full of people that would probably want you dead, you had no moment of peace as two guards followed you at all costs. They pushed the door open to the throne room, Geta and Caracalla were already waiting for you.

They had changed into new clothes too. Caracalla wore a black gown, Geta opted for a rich red. The twins turned to look at you.

“You look splendid, my lady.” Geta spoke first before Caracalla interrupted him.

“My brother and I have a proposal to make.” He sat in his throne like a giddy child. You carefully watched them.

“Your father has passed, leaving you unmarried and under nobody’s protection.” Geta started, you weren’t sure what he was getting at. “Your brother is too busy being king, so..”

“What is it you want from me.” You cautiously narrowed your eyes.

Caracalla rose to his feet and walked towards you, grabbing your hands. “Marry us. You loved us when we were children, you love us now right?” There was a hint of desperation in his eyes. “Right?” He repeated, now sounding a little more angry.

You were left speechless. If they had asked you this question a few years ago you would’ve agreed without a second thought, but after all these years and all that happened you just couldn’t process what they asked of you.

“Nothing would happen to your kingdom once you are empress.” Geta was suddenly behind you, whispering in your ears. “We will make the man that murdered your father die a painfull death, my lady.” He stroked a ringed finger against your arm, the metal felt cold against your skin.

Geta took a step back. “We will give you some time to think, we have a surprise for you during the games first.” You heard Caracalla giggling, what had they planned?

In the Colosseum you were seated in between them. The two of them clearly enjoyed the bloodshed. Geta watched with a calm gaze and a smile on his face, Caracalla on the other hand was clapping and laughing as soon as blood was spilled. They had plenty of servants filling their cups, while they drank and enjoyed the finest food. You watched silently with your hands folded in your lap. The screams of agony from whoever was being slaughtered only reminded you of home. When you closed your eyes you could see the families being slain, the face of the Parthian general clear as day. You couldn’t have protected them even if you wanted, it made you feel helpless.

“And now! For the main event, our undefeated champion!” The master of ceremonies announced. Geta gave you a shove, making you look up at what was actually going on in the arena. “The Tigris of Gaul!” The crowd roared when he entered. He rode in on a rhino, the heavy beast trotting in.

Caracalla was basically jumping of his chair now, he took your hand and led you to the edge of the balcony. His grin was like a cheshire cat. “This will be our gift to you.” He spoke.

Geta got up as well, gracefully walking to place a hand on your back.

“Our champion will be taking it up against the Parthian Mithridates!” A beat up and confused man entered the ring, you recognized his face immediatly. It was the general that had killed your citizens. You remained silently as you coldheartedly watched the man taking it up against the Tigris of Gaul.

It didn’t take long for the gladiator to have the general on his back, he had only been given a dull sword. He had no chance of winning. The Tigris held his blade against the general’s neck, looking up to the emperor’s balcony for approval to kill him.

Geta had been smiling this entire time, gauging your reaction. “Well? What do you say? What judgement will the gods render.”

“Kill him.” Caracalla almost spat in your ear, his behaviour getting more erratic. “Kill him!”

Your thoughts ran a hundred miles an hour. That was the man that killed your people, he might even have killed your father. He caused so much suffering, so much death. You had him in your clutches now, you were the one deciding his faith. You looked down at him, the tears had fallen down your cheek a while ago. Were you able to say word, have this man killed? You had always been a sweet girl, your father sang praises of your gentle nature whenever he could. But something had changed, something had stirred.

They had given you this chance. This could mean war with Parthia and yet they still did it. They did it because they could, and they wanted you to have revenge. If being of empress of Rome ment you could reign terror down on the ones that hurt your people you had made your decision.

You looked at Geta, giving him a small nod. His grin grew even wider as he grabbed your hand. He lifted it slightly, he held his other fist up. “The gods have rendered their judgement!” The crowd went silent. They all watched the downturned thumb and they cheered once more. It was true what they said about the games, show them blood or else they will want yours.

You watched coolly as general Mithridates got his throat slid, only flinching slightly as the blade his neck and the blood spurted out. Before you could see the rest you had turned around to leave the emperors box.

“Where are you going. You are missing the best part.” Caracalla frowned as he watched you leave.

“There is a wedding to be planned.” You replied calmly. The twins looked at each other, their gift had worked. Rome would have a new empress soon, and she would show no mercy to her enemies.

#fred hechinger x reader #joseph quinn x reader #fred hechinger #joseph quinn #geta x reader x caracalla #caracalla x reader #geta x reader #emperor geta x reader #emperor caracalla x reader #geta x you #caracalla x you #Caracalla #geta #gladiator ii

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zaundads · 6 months ago

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Anybody want to create a quick quintessential Zaundads fanfic rec list?

I was away for a long time between seasons, so I probably missed a ton but those are some of the longer/meatier ones I remember, particularly one of the more fix-it category.

While the World Turns Around by Blue_Daddys_Girl

In a chance meeting Vander sees Silco for the first time since the fateful day he's come to regret so deeply. Silco has changed—they both have. Vander can't stop thinking about him.

Reconciliation AU by Rimeko

If the cannery scene went down differently, if Vander got thrown into Stillwater with Vi instead of (maybe) dying, and if Silco eventually got them both freed. What, then? What to do with the ruins of what once was? How to deal with love and betrayal and everything that went down in the meantime, and how to move forward.

Stillwater Marriage by Alishatheninth

AU in which Vander does not insist on having one last pipe, therefore gets out of Benzo's shop before Silco has Deckard kill all the Enforcers. Vander decides there's really little to be lost by simply handing the reins to Silco. Silco has to deal with a slightly different set of challenges, and does so in his own, slightly deranged, way.

started with a pin by bloodinthewine

Silco doesn’t expect to find anything extraordinary when he accompanies his daughter to her first Pride parade. Vander, an infamous and experienced leather daddy, finds him anyway. (or The Leather Daddy AU)

And just some personal favorites of mine that I remember:

underground utopia dynasties and dystopia by leonshardt, which I think is the original prostitute!Silco stories.

Old Griefs and Childrens Faiths by GoddessofRoyalty, an A/B/O story which always made me hope for a parent!trap style story where Powder tries to reunite Silco and Vander

There are some mores that I love, including some smut ones, but everybody please mind that season 1 Zaundad fandom often skewed more dark, messy and angsty.

Anybody else have any favorites? Any other popular fics I missed? If somebody was joining late, what would you recommend to them?

#arcane #arcane fanfic #zaundads #vanco

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dollopole · 2 months ago

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I was just thinking about the fact that in so many Merlin fics, Merlin keeps being an healer/doctor/medic, which makes sense, since that’s how he started his life, by helping people however he could, but now consider this:

Merlin, who has lived so long and more than probably witnessed the deaths of thousands, even of those he loved, cherished and respected. So what if a millennia of life completely flipped his view on what it means to heal and study medicine. What if after all Merlin saw, everything that happened had the opposite effect on him, which means that he stopped trying and left the job to someone else.

Merlin still helps, surely, in the end, it’s in his nature as human, but we can already see how he changed, even only after ten years of being in Camelot and witnessing death after death.

What if he despaired because disease spread and not even his magic could help it, what if his magic decided that humans had to live with their own course of actions and so his magic simply refused to help them, which got Merlin just angry at the prospect of doing this for so many years.

But now take into consideration when Arthur returns:

I believe Arthur would be the healer/doctor/medic this time around.

He would be eager to help everyone he can, because that’s also in his nature, but since he can’t do it anymore in the way he once did, he has to find another path for him, a path that would make him heal too, heal from all the times he killed, instead of helping someone in danger.

Arthur lived a life of death even before Merlin could start to think about killing someone.

Arthur had his hands smeared with blood since he was a child. Being Uther’s son was automatically, in both magical people and peasants’ perspective, who lived under Uther’s tyranny, a sin and a guilt, even before Arthur could pick up a sword.

He did not just kill sorcerers, but he was raised with a mind of a killer of justice. To defend his kingdom, his father, his counsellors, his court and his people no matter what he felt regarding it, was and had always been his main duty.

He was trapped in a murderous cycle, literally, where he couldn’t do anything but raise himself to believe that the only way to help people was to kill them.

On one side, we have a man who spent his life helping people and who got tired of death, and on the other side, we got another man who spent it killing people and still got tired of death.

But to Arthur and Merlin it happened in different ways.

Where Merlin left the responsibility to someone else, Arthur decided to take that responsibility himself, in the hope that maybe, one day, he could bring back to life all those he had condemned for the simple act of living as themselves.

#this is just to say that to read an au with arthur as a doctor would be very great #he’s usually a ceo or someone with a certain amount of power which absolutely makes sense #especially if the fics are not canon compliant #but it would be great to navigate the idea of arthur still being himself of course #but trying to be better #and all of this by merlin’s side #me thinks it would be very neat #merthur #bbc merlin #merlin #arthur pendragon #merlin bbc #merlin x arthur #merlin fanfic #also because sometimes it happened to me to read of arthur coming back and becoming a cop #because that’s apparently the most similar job #which if we are watching merlin under a cop propaganda show #also makes sense #but if we are reading fics also under a reality perspective #it would mean that arthur is still part of that failed system that brings death upon people instead of life #so it would make more sense for him to be in the medicine field instead of a cop who is part of a system that cannot be changed #if not dismantled from its root and defunded #which now that I think about it would also make sense for arthur #usually in fics merlin is the activist or the one who goes against authority #true very true #but what if arthur slowly changes his mind and decides to take part in that too #in a life full of real justice instead of a pretend one #where he can actually truly help people like he wishes to do #and this is also just my way of saying ‘how cool it would be to have a merthur fic with arthur either as a paediatrician or a veterinarian’#ao3

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toomanystoriessolittletime · 9 months ago

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One Last Time

Summary: Three years ago you buried Logan on the day you were supposed to get married. When your friend calls you, telling you that she saw Logan at the bar she was at right at this moment, you had to check for yourself if she was right. Not knowing that the night would end with you in his bed. And a surprise weeks later you were not ready for.

Pairing: Logan x fem. reader

Rating: E

Wordcount: 1.8k

Warnings: angst, grief, alcohol, smut (unprotected sex), masturbation, cum play, unplanned pregnancy, me setting myself up for a part two of this fic that I haven't planned because all my brain thinks of is having babies

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Full Masterlist // Marvel Masterlist

You didn’t believe your friend when she called you to tell you she had seen him.

Logan.

Because it could not have been him.

You had buried him almost three years ago on a rainy day. The day that was supposed to be your wedding day became the day you had to say goodbye to the man that had saved you in so many ways.

You met Logan almost seven years ago.

He quite literally saved you from getting smashed by a car that had been thrown at you during an attack where you found yourself at the wrong place at the wrong time.

He found you after, when you were about to be brought to the hospital for your broken leg, asking if you’d be okay.

You didn’t really think you would see him ever again.

But Logan became a frequent visitor during your time at the hospital. He insisted on bringing you to the appointments after, stating that had he been quicker, your leg wouldn’t have been broken. You stopped reminding him after week three that if he wouldn’t have been there you would probably dead.

It would take him almost a year to ask you out on a date.

And the rest, as they said, was history.

You had been in the middle of your last wedding dress fitting when the call reached you. Charles Xavier, a mentor and friend of Logan, had called you to tell you to come to the school where Logan was working right away.

It was there that you learned that Logan had been killed during a mission.

The whole year after was a blur of heartbreak, anger and grief.

It had taken you a long time to learn to live with the hole in your heart, that Logan’s death left in you.

So there was no way it was Logan that your friend saw at the bar.

You found yourself getting dressed in the dead of night to take a look anyway.

A very anxious cab ride later you found yourself walking towards your friend, hugging her as she told you he was still sitting at the bar, getting drunk. He’d been drinking since she got there three hours ago for her date.

„And you’re sure?“ You asked, voice tight. She nodded.

„There even was another dude there earlier and he called him Logan. I… I wouldn’t call you if I weren’t sure baby,“ she said and you nodded, taking a deep breath.

You weren’t even sure why you were here.

Was it because you had to see with your own two eyes that your friend was wrong? Was it because deep down you still clung to the hope that everything that happened in the last three years had just been a bad dream?

You didn’t know.

So you weren’t prepared for the way your heart almost stopped once you stepped inside the bar and found him sitting at the bar.

You felt your friend squeeze your hand as you slowly walked towards him, not sure what you would actually do once you stood in front of him. Instead you sat down three chairs down from him, ordering yourself a beer before you allowed yourself to fully look at him.

He was older than your Logan.

Greys in his hair and unkempt beard. There were deep lines around his eyes. He looked tired. Yet the moment he turned his head, his eyes finding yours you couldn’t deny that somehow this was Logan.

Just not the one you knew.

He raised one of his eyebrows as he looked at you and you blinked at him, processing your thoughts, thankful when the bartender interrupted your inner panic rising and set your ordered beer down in front of you.

Thanking him with a nod you picked up the beer, bringing the bottle to your lips, taking three big gulps.

Closing your eyes, your head lowered as you took some deep breaths, you were startled when you heard his voice.

„Do I know you from somewhere?“

His deep, familiar voice making you tear up immediately.

Opening your eyes you looked up and turned your head to the side where Logan was looking at you with curious eyes.

„I don’t think so. I knew another you though,“ you said, before you took another sip of your beer.

Even in your drunken mind you knew that when you would wake up the next day you would regret this.

But right now Logan was kissing you and you did not care how much it would hurt the next day.

You were both drunk when the bar closed and because you didn’t want to part form him just yet you kissed him as soon as you were outside, before you told him that you’d really like to spend more time with him.

Now you were in the shady motel room that he apparently called home, your back against the closed door, his lips on yours.

Parting your lips for him his tongue slipped into your mouth while his arms picked you up to pull you closer, his hands on your ass. He carried you over to his bed, lips never leaving yours as he laid you down.

With your hands in his hair you kept him close, breathing him in.

„Wanna ride your cock,“ you mumbled against his lips and he groaned.

„Sure you can take me, princess?“ He asked and you grinned.

„You wanna check?“

He chuckled as he knelt over you, making a show of taking his shirt off, your eyes hungrily taking him in. The thought that he had more scars than your Logan came to your mind, but you fought that thought down.

You sat yourself up and got rid of your shirt and bra too, the growl that came from Logan’s lips making you shiver. He was the one who took off your jeans and panties before he got out of the bed and took the rest of his clothes off, his eyes never leaving yours.

Sucking your bottom lip in you parted your legs for him, one of your hands slipping down your body until your fingers dipped between your folds, playing with yourself.

„She’s desperate for it, huh?“ He asked, chest heaving as he looked down at you.

„So desperate to be filled,“ you sighed.

„Show me,“ he demanded, voice hoarse and you arched your back as you pushed two of your fingers inside with ease.

You watched him watch you, one of his hands wrapping around his thick cock, pumping it slowly as you fucked yourself with your fingers.

„Shit I can hear how fucking soaked you are, princess,“ he said, finally getting back on the bed. He watched you bring yourself closer and closer to an orgasm, his hand wrapping around your wrist to stop you just before you fell over the edge, making you whine in protest.

Looking at him you gasped when he brought your finger to his lips, sucking them clean, humming like it was the most delicious thing he ever had.

Before he could react you were straddling him, pushing him on his back, your hands grabbing both of his wrists, pressing them against the mattress as you felt the tip of his cock slip inside of you.

With a cocky grin he looked up at you, his lips parting as you slowly let yourself sink down on him, his thick cock filling you inch after inch, stretching your inner walks until you were seated on his hips, his cock resting deep inside of you.

„Fucking missed this,“ you moaned, closing your eyes before you began to roll your hips.

It wasn’t long before he got out of your grip, one of his hands on your ass, moving you on top of him, his other hand playing with one of your tits.

„Feels fucking perfect,“ he groaned, thrusting up into you and you had to stop yourself from crying out loudly.

„Oh you liked that, huh?“ he teased and you nodded, sucking your lip between your teeth.

„None of that,“ he said, his thumb pulling at your lip, tilting your head down so you had to look at him.

„Want to hear you when I make you cum,“ he smirked, both of his hands grabbing your hips before he began to pump himself up into you, holding you still as he fucked into you in quick deep thrusts.

„Oh shit,“ you cried out, your hands come to rest on either side of his head, keeping you upright.

„Can feel her squeezing me,“ he grunted and you shuddered.

„Cum for me, princess,“ he grunted, somehow even fucking up faster inside of you, his cock twitching.

It was moments later that you exploded, your orgasm taking over your body, legs shaking, arms weakening as you fell down against his chest, his arms caging you against his chest as he fucked you through it before he came too, fucking you full of his cum.

You wrapped your arms behind his neck, your face resting in the crook of he neck as you both panted against each other.

You must have fallen asleep like that because the next time your eyes opened the room was dark and you were laying with Logan behind you under the covers.

He was breathing calmly behind you and you let the familiarity of this situation allow to wash over you. Having spent countless night like this in your shared bed with another Logan that was now gone.

You felt the tears before you even realised that you were crying, taking some deep breaths, before you slowly got out of the bed, careful to not wake him up.

Allowing yourself a long look at this Logan you wondered what his story was, shaking your head to yourself before you began to get dressed.

The sun was just rising when you quietly opened the motel door, taking one last look at him before you slipped out of his room.

Calling yourself an uber you allowed yourself to shed some tears, feeling conflicted and confused about the last twelve hours.

Without the intention to ever see him again, you did not check for a way to ever contact him again.

Not knowing that only six weeks later you would not only move into the same apartment complex he was moving into.

No, you’d find out that just because your Logan was infertile it did not mean every Logan was, as you stared panicked at the positive pregnancy test on the first night in your new apartment.

#my fic #logan howlett #Logan howlett x fem. reader #logan x fem. reader #fanfiction #fanfic #fan fiction #wolverine #wolverine x fem. reader #hugh jackman #worst wolverine

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honeypiehotchner · 2 months ago

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The Gambit (Hotch x Fem!Reader) -- part fourteen

Now, listen. Is it really a honeypiehotchner fic if something wildly dramatic doesn't happen around this time in the story? Buckle up!

Warnings: angst, I don't want to spoil but for the sake of triggers there is a car wreck in this one (everyone is fine!!!), and a slightly sensual moment (you'll see hehe), also probably some incorrect info about cars...just go with it

It’s not until Hotch exits off the interstate onto the small four-lane highway to avoid traffic that you speak again. It’s been over an hour.

“Did Rossi tell you?”

It’s not the question Hotch expects, but he jumps to his friend’s defense all the same. “No, no he didn’t.”

You don’t say anything.

When you do, it’s what he expects. That same white hot anger you’ve always had around him.

“I don’t even know if I want to know how you found out,” you begin, voice so calm that if it weren’t for how well he knows you, he wouldn’t necessarily think you’re so beyond pissed off with him. “I’m assuming it’s just going to piss me the fuck off.”

Probably, he thinks. Out loud, he says, “I read your file.”

“You read everyone’s file. I got that part. What I’m still trying to wrap my head around is the fact that I had most of it sealed — for good fucking reason, and with the permission of the goddamn Section Chief — and yet you went behind my back, behind Strauss’s back, and dug your nose around where it doesn’t fucking belong.”

“I’m—”

“If you say you’re sorry, Aaron, I’m actually going to punch you in the face.”

He stays quiet. He deserved that one.

He always thought that you’d never call him by his first name, probably out of spite because he uses yours perhaps too often. He never imagined it would be in this way, said with such distaste each time that it makes him feel cold inside.

You finally move, then, your hand reaching up to rub your forehead. “I just don’t understand.”

And Hotch, helpless and desperate, lets his emotions get the better of him again. “What was I supposed to do? You wouldn’t tell me the truth.”

“Because you hadn’t fucking earned it!” you shout. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t trust you with that kind of information about me — and it seems like I was fucking right to not tell you. Because you just—” You shake your head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter,” he argues. Around and around the cycle goes. The arguing will never stop between the two of you, will it? “Because this is serious.”

“You think I don’t know that?” you almost laugh. “My whole life it’s been this serious so don’t act like I don’t know what I’m doing. I can handle myself and I can handle this— whatever this is.”

“It won’t kill you to let someone help—”

“Maybe not someone who has actually earned my trust.”

That stings, though he has no right to be hurt by it. He nods once and keeps his mouth shut.

Until he can’t. “I know you’re upset with me and you have every right to be,” he pauses to hold up his hand, stopping you when you open your mouth to say something else. “But I didn’t know what else to do. It was clear after Richard first recognized you that it caused something to resurface— you couldn’t breathe. I knew then that your safety and well-being was at risk and yes, I will admit, I made a mistake going behind your back to read what you had sealed, but—”

“Hotch, stop,” you interrupt.

He sighs. He’ll never be able to get this all off of his chest if you two can’t stop interrupting one another. “Can I please just finish what I was—”

“No, seriously,” you say, voice deadly serious. “How long has that car been behind us?”

Hotch doesn’t move his head a single inch as he glances up in the rearview mirror. It’s the same car that was there when he exited the interstate. “A few miles. Why?”

“I don’t know,” you chew on your bottom lip, keeping yourself facing forward. “Just a gut feeling.”

You almost think he’s going to have some snide remark about your gut feeling again, but he doesn’t.

“What are you thinking?” he asks.

“Take a right— Don’t use your blinker,” you keep your voice low, as if the person in the car behind you can hear.

Hotch does as you ask, taking a sharp right onto a two-lane highway. The car behind you jerks as the driver takes the same turn at the last second, nearly putting the back tires in the ditch. You watch with narrowed eyes as they speed up, getting so close to your back bumper that Hotch can barely see them in the rearview.

“This thing has lights and sirens, right?” you ask, just curious and thinking ahead.

Hotch nods. “I can see him.”

“It’s a man?”

“I think,” Hotch says, glancing in the rearview again. “White male, maybe mid-40s. Hard to tell. He’s wearing sunglasses and a hat.”

“Do we need to call someone?”

“No,” he says. “Not yet.”

You both sit in silence as you analyze the car. It’s beat to hell, an older model of something you can’t place. But it was once blue, that you can kind of tell in between all of the rust and peeling. It has to be something from the early 90s.

Hotch drives exactly the speed limit, testing how the driver reacts. Up ahead, the solid yellow lines turn dotted. Hotch slows, hoping it’ll persuade the driver into passing, and you two can move on with your earlier conversation.

But it does the opposite.

Instead, the car stays what has to be mere centimeters away from the back bumper. No one else is on the road, so the man’s window to pass is wide open, yet he doesn’t take it.

“We can’t pull him over for tailgating,” you say.

“No, but if he hits us, we can,” Hotch replies, irritation starting to settle into his jaw.

“Don’t cause a wreck on purpose.”

“I’m not trying to do it on purpose.”

You both huff and glare into your respective side mirrors.

The car speeds up.

“What the fuck,” you hiss.

Hotch speeds up because he’s forced to, because believe it or not he doesn’t want to get in a wreck today, but the car stays right on your ass.

“What the hell is his problem?” you curse under your breath.

“I don’t know,” Hotch answers absentmindedly, now fully glaring at the guy in the rearview. “But I’ve had enough.”

Hotch reaches up and flicks the lights and sirens on. You both expect the guy to immediately slam on his brakes and swerve to speed around you, panicking at the realization that he’s tailgating a government vehicle, but he doesn’t.

Instead, he slows down with you, and pulls into the oncoming lane, just to ride right next to you.

You can make out his face through the tinted windows, despite his sunglasses. You don’t recognize him, though, and neither does Hotch.

His familiarity quickly doesn’t matter at all when he rolls his window down and points a pistol in your direction.

“Hotch!” you shout, ducking down on instinct. You know the BAU vehicles have bulletproof glass, but you don’t exactly want to test the theory.

Hotch slams on the brakes, letting the other car fly ahead of you just as two shots ring out, missing you thanks to Hotch’s quick thinking.

“Who the fuck is this guy?” you ask, not at all expecting an answer as you unclip your holster just in case you need to get your gun out quickly.

Hotch stays silent amidst your panicked statements. You can practically see the gears turning in his head, trying to figure out where to go from here. He’s calm under pressure just like he always is.

You notice the predicament at the same time he does. There’s nothing but thick woods on either side of this road. You’re not exactly close to any sort of civilization for anyone to hear these shots and think something is wrong.

You keep your eyes glued to the car up ahead, watching in horror as it slows to a stop, and then the fucking back up lights switch on.

“Hotch,” you warn.

“Yeah, I see him,” Hotch mutters, turning the sirens off. You hadn’t even realized they were still wailing. He leaves the lights on. “Are you buckled?”

“What?”

Hotch glances over to check and says, “Good.”

“Hotch, what the fuck are you—”

He revs the engine and flies forward, your seat belt locking and pinning you in place, rapidly approaching the car as it reverses toward you. You brace yourself for the impact, mentally cursing Hotch for how stupid this is, but the car in front swerves at the last second.

“Are you trying to get us killed?” you shout as you whiz past the car.

Hotch glances in the mirrors, waiting for the man’s next move. To no one’s surprise, he puts the car in drive and races after you.

“Do you have a better idea?” Hotch snaps, going well over the speed limit now, but the car behind you is rapidly gaining speed.

“Yes, I do,” you deadpan. “Fucking— Put it in cruise control and move your seat back as far as it’ll go.”

“What?”

“Just do it,” you unbuckle, taking your gun out of its holster and sticking it barrel down into the cup holder. That’ll have to do, it’ll just get in the way on your hip.

Hotch does as you ask, setting the cruise control and pushing his seat all the way back.

Without giving either of you time to say a damn word about it, you crawl over the console and clamber into Hotch’s lap, moving the steering wheel up as you go to make more room.

Hotch tenses behind you, but says nothing, only widening his legs underneath you to offer as much space as possible. You get your feet on the pedals as best you can and flick the cruise control off, speeding up to what has to be an impossible speed for this car to do. You’re nearing 90 miles an hour, but it seems to do fine.

Your breath hitches when you feel Hotch’s arms slide around your waist.

He must’ve heard it because, quietly, he says, “You’re not wearing a seatbelt.”

You roll your eyes. That’s the least of your worries right now, and frankly, a lousy excuse.

“Can you see his tag?” you ask, watching the car inch closer and closer. “Should we call Garcia? Someone?”

“There’s no service,” Hotch replies.

“Fucking great,” you mutter, shifting in his lap, and—

For fuck’s sake. There’s no way.

You keep your realization to yourself, figuring Hotch is probably well aware of just how hard he is underneath you. He’s only human, you suppose, and you are pressed tightly against him, shifting in his lap as you keep an eye on the car behind you.

It’s a little bit of an ego kick, you’ll admit. You’ll use this as ammo later — if the two of you make it out of this.

The car speeds around you, coming to ride side-by-side again. Except this time before he can raise his gun, you swerve, grazing his car, attempting to push him off the road.

“Where the hell did you learn how to do that?” Hotch asks, almost involuntarily.

“Shut up,” you say through a smirk. “Not important.”

The man has the same idea, pushing back against you, but your SUV is bigger than his, so it doesn’t take much to cut him off, forcing him to stop.

The second you have him pinned in the ditch, though, he reverses and swerves around you, trying to get away.

“Absolutely the fuck not.” You flick the sirens back on, fully prepared to pull this guy over or at the very least alert other law enforcement the second you get into the next town.

Hotch’s arms tighten around your waist slightly, his erection still prominent underneath you. You’ll unpack later why the thrill of this has you unconsciously wanting to rock your hips against him.

For the record, you don’t give in to the urges. You have some self restraint.

The man is clearly trying to get away from you now, though, speeding like crazy without even thinking about slowing down. But you’re not letting him get away that easily, not after he pulled a gun on you.

Hotch digs his phone out, keeping one arm secure around your waist while his free hand dials Garcia.

“Your oracle of all things know—”

“Not now Garcia,” you say. “Can’t explain right now— I need you to run a tag for me.”

“Shoot.”

Hotch reads off the tag as you get close enough to the car, both of you waiting in silence — aside from the wailing sirens — as Garcia runs the tag.

“It was reported stolen three weeks ago, it’s— Wait, that’s— That doesn’t make any sense—” Garcia cuts herself off, then gasps. “It’s Carly Henderson’s car.”

“That’s—” You know the name. Why?

“She was murdered by the last unsub,” Hotch answers.

“Right she was,” Garcia replies sadly. “I’ve triangulated your location and I’m notifying the closest police department.”

“Thanks Garcia,” Hotch says.

“Guys,” she hesitates. “What’s going on?”

“We don’t know,” you answer. “But it’s—” The line beeps as the call drops.

“Lost service,” Hotch explains with a curse. “What’s your plan?”

“Tailgate this guy until I can send him into a ditch for good,” you reply simply. “What’s it look like I’m doing?” You press harder on the gas.

Hotch wraps his other arm back around your waist, keeping you secure against him. You let yourself lean back, relaxing as best you can in this kind of situation.

All you can do right now is follow this guy until he—

“Shit!” You notice his brake lights too late, though with how fast you’re going, there isn’t much room for this kind of error.

A head-on collision is the worst case scenario at the speed you’re going and where you’re sitting in Aaron’s lap, and your instincts know that, so you swerve as soon as you can, but you don’t slam on the brakes. You clip the edge of his car, but it’s enough. It’s enough to send your vehicle rolling into the woods.

All you can register are the wailing of the sirens, the tightness of Aaron’s grip around your waist, pulling you back toward him and away from the airbags as they release, the force of them stinging your skin but keeping you from busting your head open on the wheel or the windshield. You don’t know how many times the car rolls, just that it feels like you’re falling and falling and falling until you’re not.

By some miracle, it lands upright, so it’s easy for Aaron to unlock and kick open the door. You’re frozen against him, leaving him no choice but to exit the car with you in his arms.

The second your feet hit the grass, though, you run. You can’t explain why. You aren’t even trying to, but you do, sprinting toward the road, looking for the other car, but it’s long gone, barely a speck on the horizon.

Sirens scream in the distance — or are those still coming from your SUV? You can’t tell. Maybe it’s the ringing in your ears.

Hotch comes up the grassy incline, his phone pressed to his ear as he speaks to…to whoever he’s calling. Garcia, maybe?

“Yes, we need an ambulance,” Hotch says, his eyes scanning your face, concern coming in waves. “I think I’m alright, it’s my partner—”

Your knees buckle on their own, but Hotch is there, his arm reaching out to steady you.

In the haze of it all, you remember you’re mad at him. You’re supposed to be pissed at him. And you are. But you can’t stand up. Why can’t you stand up?

You shove his chest, but it’s the weakest attempt ever to get him away, and he doesn’t budge, ever a steel wall of muscle.

“Alright, thank you,” Hotch says into the phone. “I think I can hear them now.”

Hear what?

Your eyes blink slowly, pain starting to settle in random places. Your arms, your head, your feet. You look down at your arms and find them streaked with red. You don’t remember any windows breaking, but you hardly remember the car rolling as far as it did.

“You’re okay,” Hotch says, voice soft against the ringing in your ears. He holds your arms gently, not caring about your blood staining his fingers. “You’re in shock.”

You shake your head, finally letting yourself look at the car. It’s totaled, absolutely, the windshield shattered and other windows cracked. The driver’s side door is bent, but not much. The passenger side is crushed to hell where the car hit the tree. If you had been in the passenger seat still, you’d be—

The ambulance sirens grow louder as they come closer, skidding to a stop near you. The paramedics jump out and you faintly hear Hotch shouting out to them, explaining something, something about she’s in shock and she might be concussed.

“Ma’am,” the medic tries to get your attention. “Ma’am, can you hear me?”

“Kinda…?” you blink slowly, wondering why it’s suddenly getting so dark outside, until you realize it has nothing to do with the weather. Your hand grips Hotch’s forearm tightly. “Hotch, I— I can’t see.”

“Okay, you’re okay,” Hotch shushes you, gathering you back into his arms and carrying you across the grass. “Stay awake, keep squeezing my arm.”

You do, because you can’t stop, the anxiety keeps you from letting go. You don’t know what’s worse, blacking out completely or only halfway like this. You’re awake and fully aware as you’re laid down onto the gurney in the back of the ambulance. You’re aware of the oxygen mask coming to rest over your nose, realizing only after the medic tells you to try to breathe normally that you hadn’t been breathing at all.

“She has panic attacks,” you hear Hotch say, and then he squeezes your hand once. “Are you still awake?”

You nod, unaware of if your eyes are open or closed at this point because it’s all still so dark, but you squeeze Hotch’s hand for dear life all the same.

“Just keep breathing,” Hotch says.

You hear him rattle off your allergies and you distantly think he’s unbelievable for remembering and knowing them by heart.

“You’re okay,” he says again. “Just stay awake and keep breathing.”

#aaron hotchner #criminal minds #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x fem!reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner fanfiction #hotch x reader #hotch x you #hotch x fem!reader #The Gambit #angst angst angst #the drama #criminal minds fanfiction

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prentissluvr · 9 months ago

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love you again — sam winchester

cw : gn!reader, hurt/comfort, fluff, implied exes to lovers, canon typical injury and blood, hospitals, pet names (honey, sweetheart), 2K words. requested !

summary : you and sam have a past that’s rekindled during the panicked moments where he finds you bleeding out on a hunt.

MOVED BLOGS TO @sammyluvr !! no longer active on this blog! all fics can be found there!

sam was thinking about you yesterday, again. he’s been wondering how you are, wondering if you’d hate a text from him, wondering if you’d pick up a call. he’s been wondering a whole lot, and it’s mostly about you. some about himself. he wonders how to apologize for growing distant, he wonders if he’d be better for you if you gave him the chance. he wonders if you blame him and hopes that you don’t because he doesn’t blame you. it was his fault for letting things start to fade out first, but for a while it stung that you never tried to bring him back to you.

back then, it was what he needed. someone that would hold his hand tighter were he to loosen his own grip. and he supposes you needed someone who was already sure of things, who wouldn’t pull away in the first place. so, he doesn’t blame you.

sam also wonders about silly little things. like how you might’ve reacted to your favorite west coast family diner shutting down. he was disappointed when he found out, but he was downright sad for you. he wonders about what kind of hunts you're going on and he wonders if you still carry that little old silver blade that desperately needs replacing.

and since he was thinking about you yesterday, that means he thought about you this morning, in the hazy moments between waking and getting up and going. since then it’s been all research and interviews and cracking the case the second day in town. before you cross his mind again, he and dean are in the impala on the way to take out a nest of vampires.

but of all the many times that sam has thought of you since you parted, not once did he envision finding you like this.

sprawled out on the dirty ground in a pool of blood.

certainly, he’s thought about you dying and how completely horrifying that would be. how sad and heartbreaking. all of the things he’d never get to say to you. but he always thought he’d hear through a mutual hunter friend, never that he’d be the one to find you bleeding out.

the moment he realizes the body on the floor is yours, all of the blood drains from his face. he gasps out your name and tuckes his machete away as he drops to your side. your eyes are still open, and your breath comes out with a horrid, shuddering sound.

“hey, hey, hey, it’s okay,” he assures you, immediately locating the wound on your neck and pressing a steady hand against it to slow the blood. your eyes are already fluttering, and you look like you’ll pass out any moment now. “stay with me, honey,” he says, voice both stern and soft. the sweet pet name slips out on instinct. you’re his honey, even now. maybe especially now.

“suh-sam?” you rasp out, fighting for breath. you can’t even figure out if he’s real. maybe you’re delirious as you bleed out pathetically. you killed all the vamps except the one that got to you. that one fled when car headlights filtered through the drawn blinds of the room, before it could fully sink its fangs into your neck. if it had gotten to your artery, you’d probably be dead already, and that’s the only thing that gives you hope. plus, you realize that the headlights of the car must have been sam, and most likely dean too. that means it must really be him, after all this time.

“it’s me,” sam assures you. “i got you. just keep your eyes open, okay?”

you let out a shuddering breath in response. “th-there’s j-just one more,” you grunt out, “h-he r-ran.”

“shh, shh, it’s okay. dean’s got it,” sam hushes you swiftly, confused for a moment before realizing that you’re talking about the vamps. “don’t worry about talking, alright, honey?” he won’t be able to stop calling you that, not when he could lose you, in a far worse way this time. “just keep those eyes open for me, and you’ll be alright.”

while you almost want to protest, to say something to him, anything, you stop trying to talk. it’s taking far too much effort. you really wish you could comfort him, tell him that you’ll be alright. but in this state, you have to opt for bringing your shaking hand up and wrapping it loosely around his wrist. you give it a small squeeze to show him that you’re there, you’re trying so hard to stay awake just for him.

his heart aches as he feels your weak hold around his wrist and understands its meaning. sometimes he forgets how well he knows you, and right now, it sends a pang of desperation through him.

“i really need you to stay with me,” he says, mantaining that soft and steady tone to keep you grounded. you want to stay with him too, you really do. you want to keep looking at his face, even though it’s blurry and frowning. though, while you do prefer his smile, you’ve always thought that he looks beautiful no matter what. it’s probably cruel of you to find his distressed expression attractive right now, but it’s also true that you’re a little delirious and maybe bleeding out, so you don’t suppose you can be blamed.

it really bothers you that you can’t talk. more than anything, you want to reassure him. you also want to tell him that he’s been sorely missed, that his hair looks very nice like this, and that you really don’t want to die because that means you won’t have the chance to kiss him ever again. maybe you should just say that you’d like the chance to kiss him again. or that you don’t want to die. you’re not really sure.

“dean!” sam yells suddenly, voice gruff and loud and tinged with panic. if you weren’t slipping away, you’d have flinched. things begin to blur then; sam picks you up and practically cradles you in his arms. he’s so soft and he’d be shaky if he could afford to be. but he absolutely can’t, so he’s unwavering instead.

“jesus,” mutters another worried voice, distant, but assumed to be dean’s. you try to focus on the feeling of your head on sam’s shoulder. he’s so solid and broad and that might be the only thing keeping you from just floating away.

everything fades in and out. sam’s big, encompassing hand pressed against your neck. so big that it overflows and his thumb pushes into the flesh of your cheek. your head’s still on his shoulder, but you're in the car now, slumped against familiar leather seats. the sound of the rumbling engine fills your ears and then you’re glad to hear sam again.

“we’re almost to the hospital, sweetheart,” he tells you gently. you grunt out in acknowledgment, soft and quiet. you can’t remember ever hearing his voice like this before. all panicked and sweet and tender. when dean gets hurt, his voice gets all gruff. with you, it’s this never ending gentleness, edged with sharp fear.

in your position, sam or dean probably would’ve made it to the hospital without passing out. but you’re not good with blood loss, even when it could’ve been far worse. you’re scared of dying, as always, but when your eyes flutter closed and your consciousness tilts into darkness, you feel so secure in sam’s arms that you figure you’ll be okay. it’s a strange feeling, and you likely won’t recall it when you wake up.

sam himself is far less calm than you when your head lolls forward.

“hey, hey, hey. honey, please don’t,” he urges, helpless at this point. his plea falls on deaf ears, of course. dean steps on the gas, driving far faster than is safe. it’s late though, and the roads are mostly clear.

sam keeps you close. sam has trouble parting from you at the hospital, but the doctor needs to treat you. everything’s a bit better when he’s told that you’ll be just fine after proper bandaging, rest, and a blood transfusion and iv. everything’s a lot better when he’s back by your side and holding your hand in his.

looking at your face now, cleaned of blood splatter and relaxed in sleep, he’s able to really take in the ways you’ve changed physically. you do look different, but not by too much. he’s mostly just enthralled with how beautiful you are.

there’s also the feeling of the jacket you were wearing, folded nicely across his lap. he’s not really sure why he put it there, instead of leaving it on the bottom of the bed where it was first laid out. but he picked it up, for some reason or another, and felt a lump in the pocket. he knows he probably shouldn’t have looked at your things, but he felt like he had to. sliding his hand into the worn fabric sends a rush through him. once, you held hands in your pocket when it was cold outside. he always runs warm, so you had decided to tuck his hand into your pocket like your own personal hand warmer.

in the pocket, he finds that old silver blade that he thinks about sometimes. it’s even more worn now, and he shakes his head at you softly, affectionately. he bought a new silver knife recently, and if you let him, he’s going to give it to you. then he sits in the chair by your side, placing the jacket in his lap before he takes your hand in his.

the first thing that you feel is a big hand wrapped around yours. and as you draw in a long breath, you know that it’s sam’s. that means that when you get your eyes to open—it’s a little hard right now—you’ll get to see him. another deep breath, and your eyes flutter open.

sam’s grip on your hand tightens a little.

“hey,” he murmurs, eyes scanning your form, looking for discomfort or a way to give you his love. your own gaze settles on his face; his worried brows and small frown and pretty eyes.

“hi,” you whisper, voice hoarse and tired. you squeeze his hand back lightly.

“how you feeling?” he asks softly.

“i’m okay,” you offer, giving him a small smile. you’ve been far worse in the past, you’re just groggy and a little sore. honestly, it’s rare to be this well cared for after getting injured on a hunt, and with sam by your side, it’s sort of nice, even.

sam, of course, considers asking how you really are. but with the way you’re looking at him, all soft and… well, how you used to when things were uncomplicated, he accepts your answer.

“good. you need anything? water?” he still needs to take care of you somehow.

you can’t help but smile at him again. “water would be nice,” you admit, knowing that it’ll make him feel better to be able to do something for you. that, and your throat really does burn with how dry it is. the gruffness of your voice reflects that. it’s oddly intimate when sam opens the water bottle at your bedside and brings it to your lips, ever careful when he tilts it and lets a bit of water flow into your softly opened lips. it’s intimate enough to make your face all warm with rushing blood.

you still love him. you really do. or maybe you love him again; you can feel that he’s different, and you know that you are, and somehow it feels like his hand fits in yours better tonight… or maybe it just feels more right now.

the time apart was needed, the way it happened still stings a little, and the way that you found each other again was less than ideal. well, sam certainly hates how it happened much more than you do. he had to do all the worrying, all the saving. you got to feel him holding you and hear him calling you honey and see him caring about you so much. so now, you’re just glad for the chance to kiss him again, because it’s that easy to tell that you have it.

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amialunatic · 6 months ago

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Just trust me baby..

divider credits to @anitalenia

Based on anon request: would you be willing to write a sam fic about his first time between him and reader where she has scars from her time with a vamp nest (say she was taken a while back and that’s how she got into hunting) and she’s insecure and a little anxious with having his mouth on her body because of the way she was once treated but sam is very patient and understanding. basically just really sweet and sam is catering and talks her through it :,)

Warning: Light smut, Fingering, Sam Winchester/ Hunter!Reader, Fem!Reader, brief mention of readers time in vampire nest.

A/N: Omg my first actual fic. I'm quite stoked to be putting it out. Nervous too. I hope you all like it. I'm starting simple and soft core ig.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.

“Hey, you awake?” Dean called from the driver’s seat. That jolted you from down the memory lane. They were returning from the hunt. It was rough. At least 10 vampires. 3 newly turned, innocent, and pain-stricken but unable to control themselves. You guys had to kill them all. Everyone sustained injuries. That was natural. You getting bitten was not. You tried your best to not get bitten as it brought back nightmares that lasted quite a while than you cared to admit.

Sharp teeth piercing you had been a routine for weeks. Until you were rescued by Bobby and the boys. They found you on the brink of death. Several weeks of hospitalization later, you were fit to hunt. You hunted alone, focused mostly on vampires. And sometimes with the boys if the targets were nests. Helping those trapped there brought you catharsis. You wanted to be the hunter you needed all those weeks. And you strived your best to be that.

As you got out of Impala to the motel you were staying, you realized how tired you were. Slumped shoulders and bitten forearms, you moved slowly to your room. In the background, you hear Dean invite Sam for a drink and he refuses. As soon as you enter the room, you get into the shower. Maybe warm water can block out the sensations, the fangs that haunt your mind when you close your eyes. It never has, but you always hope it does this time. As you get out, red from the shower, you hear a knock. Sam’s voice calls out “Hey, it’s me.”

You open the door to see him standing at the door frame all fidgety. “I didn’t think you’d be showering.” he looked unsure almost second guessing his decision.

“I was done.” You moved back as he let himself in. Awkwardly standing with his arms on the chair, brows furrowed he asks “You okay?”. “As ok as you’d be after ganking a bunch of vampires I guess” you tried to lighten the situation. But Sam was having none of that “ You got bitten”. “Yes Sam, vampires bite. That’s like their whole MO.” you poured sarcasm to derail the conversation. This enraged Sam. “Don’t downplay this” his voice raises.

Reaching your breaking point and seeing that Sam wouldn’t leave you without a confrontation, you spit out the truth “You wanna know? OK. I’m fucking tired and I’ll probably have nightmares for days." Your outburst continued as you paced the room in a dressing gown. "You wanna know how weak I am, how the thing that happened to me years ago still brings me to my knees? There you go”. These moments were always followed by tears for you. But he didn't have to know that. You move across to the window facing the half-empty parking lot and turn away, not wishing to humiliate yourself further.

You hear the shuffling of feet as you feel two large hands wrap around me. “Y/N..” his voice laced with sympathy and concern. You lean into his familiar hug, your back nestled against his chest, his warmth enveloping your core. “Sam. I..I don’t want you..guys to see me weak. I am not weak.” you sigh. Sam chuckles “Now that’s the dean-est sentiment I’ve heard you express.” you appreciated his efforts to cheer you up.

“Hey it’s not like you too to sit around and express your feelings” you counter.

He sighs “I know. Me and Dean. Not the greatest examples of sharing feelings. But..you can tell stuff to me. You know that right?” He continues. “Also I don’t think you’re weak at all. Infact you’re one of the most badass hunters for recovering and facing your fears.”

You look down with a grateful smile “Thanks Sam.” As you turn around to face him, you take in his face. His eyes look desperate. Like he is trying to convince you that he can be your safe place. That you needn’t be scared of being vulnerable. And you can’t help but place a kiss between his furrowing eyebrows. Those lines that form when he is worried. You wanted to stop those and let him convince you. To forget the pain and nightmares even for a moment.

“Kiss me”

He looked at you, slightly surprised. “Now? You sure?”.

They had made out before. But this felt different. Somehow more intense, somehow more desperate.

“Yeah Sam, kiss me. Now.”

He didn’t need more encouragement. He bend down, caught your face with his hands as he pressed his lips on to yours. Restrained strength flowed through his hands that he tried to keep in check while pure gentleness caressed your lips. He lifted you effortlessly so your faces were leveled as he continued kissing you, gently tugging your lower lip with his teeth drawing out sighs. You mindlessly tugged his flannel, wishing it’d disappear.

“Patience” He chuckles as placing you on the desk, your back against the wall. You hastily removed the buttons one by one while he untied the knot of your dressing gown in a nanosecond. Your freshly showered skin glistening with water drops stops him in his tracks. As he stares at your underwear-clad body mesmerized, he stops to notice the bite on your forearm, still fiery red, even with the ointment around it. Around your shoulder and neck were faint scars. He caresses the skin around the bite, careful not to cause you any pain. After gently running his fingers along the scars when he looks back to your eyes he only notices your fierce stare, bestowed on his eyes, his swollen lips, and his now visible body, muscular and oh so strong. How you wanted him to take you then and there.

Not wishing to drag it any longer, he starts kissing you again as you gently run your hands through the battle scarred abdomen of his. Moving down to trace a drop of water from your jaw to your neck, he presses gentle kisses coaxing you to lean back your head opening up your neck and chest in the process. He practically groans as he gently nibble across you neck connecting to your shoulder.

In a flash, you freeze and push him away. All of it happened so sudden, Sam stared at you one feet away, confused. In a moment of clarity, it dawned on him. He gently came close to you and tentatively caressed your sides. Your apologetic eyes said everything it needed to. He lifted your chin up to him.

“hey hey..baby. , it’s ok. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” He looked at you concern etched in his forehead. When you remained silent he coaxed you “Baby, talk to me.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just..I..was bitten..mouths on my body.” you shudder, visions running through the back of your eyes

“ Does it bring back memories?” He gently asks

“Sometimes, I just can’t block it. I want to Sam, believe me. I want this. I want you..so bad.” I look at him desperate.

“I know. But you know I won’t do anything that you’re uncomfortable with right? We don’t have to do this at all”

“I want to. Sam. I need you.” you lock eyes with him, forehead burrowing

His eyes searched mine for any trace of hesitation. Seeing none, he reaffirms gently “Do you trust me, baby?” “I do” I whisper as I breath out.

“You can stop me whenever you need to.”

A corner of his lips curled revealing the deep dimple. “So no biting I guess?”

“Yeah, no biting.” You bit your lips slyly. “ Well not you anyway”

“I look forward to it, sweetheart” He nudge your lips again easing them apart. As the same time, his hands part your thighs as he stepped impossible close.

You feel his hands slipping the robe off you. Before long, his long fingers were moving closer to your core. His fingers slipped in to your panties and finding the wetness pooling, he groans. I met his gaze, my eyes a blend of desperation and embarrassment at being so affected by him. “Sam..”.

“I know baby” He looks at you for permission before plunging his finger in the wetness. You gasp at the sudden intrusion, your fingers never managed to reach that deep. He ease it out. And again and again until you were a slobbering mess. To add to the torturous pleasure he lifts his palm so each thrust is paired with your clit being rubbed enough to cause friction but not enough to tip over. This was agony but delicious agony.

Sam looks into your convulsing face, his features radiating nothing but the desire to please you. To make you forget, to have a moment of pleasure, away from the darkness that consumes both of you. As you almost reach the height of pleasure, he adds in yet another finger. Through your hazily closed eyes, you don't see him kneeling. Suddenly you feel his warm mouth enveloping your clit. You gasp as your eyes flew open. “Sam..Sammy..” you say tentatively.

“Trust me baby..this will feel good” his voice is laced with soothing promise.

Before you can have further doubts, pleasure blankets you and drags you up to the height of it. As he sucks and laps gently, your hands involuntarily wander through his luscious locks. Finally with a cry and grasp of his hair, you tip over. His hands and lips soothe you through the fall with barely-there touches of your slit.

“oh god..that was..” you breathe heavily through your mouth as you struggle to push words out. Sam leans over and kiss you sloppily, with a goofy smile. “it’s cute to see you all thoughless and spent”

“Sam..you little jerk” you say in amidst panting.

“Hey remember I was the one making you moan my name a moment ago. Some gratitude” he smirks.

“And I’ll make you do the same, just you wait” you rope your hands through his neck pulling him.

"Is that a threat or a promise, honey? Either way, I'm all in." He interlocks his lips with yours, the deepening kiss tasting like an invitation for round two.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.

MAybe there should be a second part! Idk. This felt long but not long enough at the same time. Please let me know if anyone would like a second part. I'll try to write one (meaning I'll probably stress over it and write it in 2 weeks)

#spn #supernatural #sam winchester #sam winchester smut #jared padalecki #sam winchester fluff #supernatural smut #supernatural fanfiction #sam winchester x reader

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omgfangirlland · 10 days ago

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Dude, Imagine a reader being isekaid in Gotham. Reader has a system which prevents them from dying so they're kinda immortal. What I mean is that reader can die but they'll get revived again and again. Of course.. Since it's Gotham, she gets killed on her first night. Imagine where there are certain things she gotta do to unlock some abilities but she doesn't know what or how to unlock it. A reader who was happy at being isekaid before she slowly realized the reality she was on now (happy character to gloomy and depressed reader). Imagine a reader who's slowly losing it as she dies for the 99th time.. How life slowly does in her eyes. Randomly thought of this as I was reading a quotev story of a Reader x record of Ragnarok. This sucks cause I wrote this at 3am with one eye closed. ➖👄👁 (me rn)

-🔱

OMG GO TO SLEEEP (I'll probably stay awake until 5 am so really, who am I to talk-)

Tried to keep this GN!Reader, but I may have slipped. This may be gruesome soooo fair warning from now: Dead dove do not eat, gore, blood, death, everyone is getting traumatized tbh, suicide mentioned, trying to make it funny but it gets dark quick, lots of shit like that

Some things before starting:

I've always liked the idea of Isekaid!Reader- add to that Immortal-but-not-really!Reader who remembers every death? Amazing angst.

Reader who is immortal in the sense that she regenerates, no matter how small the piece left is, she'll be back up and running by the next day, maybe the next week if the piece is really small- but you'll see her again! And like Deathstroke, the regeneration keeps her "in her prime" as well, so if she died young, like 16, she'd stop aging by 25-30(tbh this would prob be another layer to the trauma)

I imagine the way to level up is in a dead magical language, a forgotten dialect of some god, etc.

This could turn into a multi chaptered fic... This could be Romantic!Batfam... This could be Romantic!The Immortal Version!Wonder Woman... This could be Romantic!Ra's and Talia 😈 IT could be all three options 😈😈😈 It's def yandere/obsessive territory either way.

---

No matter how Reader actually died in real life, mugging gone wrong, the classic bus/truck moment, suicide, etc etc, it'll probably be brushed off as a dream in a dream once you realize you've woken up in Gotham.

So, of course Reader dies the first night. "Oh- it's just a dream, let me do crazy shit like going into rich people's places-"Yeah you end up in a hostage situation.

Now- you wanted to be sneaky, play vigilante for shits and giggles, you weren't as amused when you were eye to eye with a bomb.

Now, Batsy thinks everything is fine- he got everyone out, the area is evacuated, and everything can be rebuilt. And then he hears Oracle gasp, saying someone is face to face with the bomb. It's Jason all over again, from him running towards the building, to your shoulders slumping in defeat as the clock ticks zero, to Bruce being in utter shock as he tries to move on as the smell of burnt human flesh once again sticks to him, bringing back his sleepless nights and blank stare.

You weren't worried, thinking you'd just wake up and go to your normal life. But you wake up in pain as bones, veins, nerves, meat, and skin regrow, as the fabric that was melted into your skin is expelled, clear skin taking over. It was excruciating. It left you screaming and crying, your body shaking on the metal table. And it left the mortician who was about to work on you passed out on the floor.

When the old woman wakes up, the only evidence that she didn't hallucinate is the missing change of clothes, CCTV recordings showing you stumbling out of the building, barely able to walk, and a small smear of liquid gold.

Bruce's guilt was eating him. He's memorized your face at this point, every pixel, the way your shoulders dropped, to the way you resigned to your fate. And he starts to see you in random places, looking at him from over the street as he's swarmed by reporters, in the local cemetery, on Red Hood's territory. So he goes to the morgue.

When the bat comes knocking for any information on you, for any blood he can test to find out who you are, so Bruce Wayne can send some guilt money to your family, the woman pales, multiple prayers to different gods spewing out of her lips. Another employee, not quite as terrified but still shaken, tells him everything, even shows him the recording.

From everything, he'd have assumed a trauma-born meta-gene, but the liquid gold smear and the pure fact that you should have been dead, no discussion had, gave him pause. Maybe it was a Dark Justice League problem.

You've died so much, you stopped counting, what use was it anyway? You tried leaving Gotham, but every time something would happen, from almost getting decapitated, it was so weird to feel your neck sewing itself in place, to being run over, to being shot Bonnie and Clyde style. So much happened, and you remember it all. You remember the pain, the way your blood seeped through your wounds, the crack of your bones.

But you also remember waking up from imminent death, the red blood now golden and melting into the ground, the pain of everything mending, over and over again. You stopped trying, taking refuge in the safest territory you knew. You also stopped looking into reflections. You couldn't take what you saw, what you would hear if you stared long enough- letters and whispered words in a language you couldn't recognize, dark figures in the corner of your eye, hands clutching at you- it was too much, a never ending nightmare.

It didn't matter who you were in your past life, in Gotham, you are a nobody, and even so, the Bat and his birds found you quite quickly. Granted, you working for gangs and occasionally the Penguing wasn't exactly low profile, but no one else would hire you without needing some form of documents. Documents you no longer have. So you took to cleaning up The Lounge and turning a blind eye to everything that was happening, to the drugs, to the scream coming from the basement you weren't supposed to know existed, everything. The way Penguing pays, you'd play dumb for as long as he was alive, honestly. Soon enough, you'd be able to afford a house.

Of course- you were trying to avoid Batsy and whatever robin he currently had, what would you even say to him if you could catch a one-on-one moment? "I know everything about every version of you because I'm from another world, I found out I'm immortal, and need a sugar daddy."? Jail. Straight to Arkham. Nobody would believe you. But you were already on his radar, and when he emerged from the shadows of your small apartment, you understood why the goons were so afraid of him.

#anon ask #🔱 anon #yandere batfamily #yandere batfam #yandere bruce wayne

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the-sheep · 5 months ago

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Is Starscream now a part of the Malto Family? If so how did the rest of the family react? I think Hashtag is happy and will probably call Starscream "Uncle Star" or something

oh gosh i was joking when i mentioned being an ask blog. my curse continues, so i must answer

Pretty much all i draw/write of ES starscream is part of my "fast track to redemption" au! (title not final) Most easily seen in the fics I've written.

Rather than ignore season 2 entirely, I like the fandom notion that the quintessons perhaps attempted to get Starscream to do their dirty work by taking control of the titan AND killing all the other bots. Since. Well Starscream really needed a Starscream to tell him his plan was absolute dogshit. His plan benefits the Quintessons more than it does the Decepticons.

And i personally believe that ES Starscream would never kill a child, let alone two.

Starting with just a little bit of influence to kickstart things, to more and more interference with all of his systems in order to get him to do what is required, only for him to fail and be made useless to the quints. He snaps out of a haze where he's barely in control of his own body and can barely even comprehend what's happening, dropped back into consciousness hard enough to shatter his spinal strut.

Anyway I made it so that gave him brain damage.

Once everything is over and they do a quick little scan of his body for damage or weapons, discoveries are made.

To extra super fast track my favorite setting of "everyone is kinda friends and casually near each other", i needed to essentially declaw Starscream. Without the mind control he's still an asshole who will try and destroy everyone's trust in him as often as possible, which without external assurance that he's genuinely not a threat, would make all the adults keep him in jail for years.

AND i think he wouldn't even stay at the autobot base if he didnt have to rely on them.

Yeah thats about the minimum i think it would take for starscream to mayyyybe admit weakness. The quintessons gave him a tummyache :(

Thus, we got ourselves a seeker wandering the base within months.

and then we have someone much more willing to confront the sadder feelings Hashtag has about so many things. And relates on the mind control front, since she isn't very close with Grimlock.

They connected, if only for a moment. by primus they'll connect again. he's adopting her if its the last thing he'll do.

and then hes made fun of for adopting 7-9 teens because hes being a stereotypical nesting seeker.

this gives me the setting to do what i wish.

#transformers earthspark #maccadam #starscream #hashtag malto #twitch malto #thrash malto #nightshade malto #jawbreaker malto #megatron #chaos terrans #aftermath and spitfire have to share a tag

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at-wicks-end · 5 months ago

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in another life (you still would've turned my head) ; jw

vampire!john wick x reader fluff !! (lowkey a reincarnation au) ~2.5k words

notes: this fic is written for @treedaddymcpuffpuff for the keanuverse secret santa event hosted by @97keanu <333 i hope you like this!!! this is probably the longest thing i've written on this blog 😵‍💫 happy holidays🩷

John cares little for the snow. It’s not that he found it cumbersome or annoying; it’s just that when one has lived for as long as he has, shoveling the snow from the driveway becomes a little too tedious, even for one well-versed in tedious matters. Such was the nature of immortality—given enough time, even the most unique, spectacular experience becomes boring after a century.

This task becomes herculean (or Sisyphean, John corrects himself) when said driveway was practically a third of the length of his entire estate, which was also in the middle of the woods. His eye twitches at the thought of the snow that would inevitably impede the driving of his beloved Mustang to the nearest town. With a heavy sigh, John casts one longing look at his car, as spotless and as pristine as the day he got it decades ago. He’ll wait for the winter to pass before he brings out his car for a drive. For now, he thinks reluctantly, he’ll walk. He has more than enough time anyway.

It doesn’t take long for him to get ready. All he does is put on his long coat and wrap a scarf around his neck before heading out. He has no need for it, but it’s easier to pretend to need it than to deal with the constant concerned looks from the townspeople as he walks around. It also helped him blend in with the rest of the people walking around, doing some last-minute gift shopping for loved ones at those ridiculously overpriced boutiques. John blows out the candles in the hallways as he walks to the foyer, running a mental checklist of the things he had to put out or turn off before leaving.

Dog—yes, Dog. Comments about his creativity are not welcome—approaches him with a wagging tail, the soft clicks of his claws on the hardwood floors reminding John that he had to trim them again soon.

“Hello,” John says warmly, squatting down to pet Dog. “You can’t come with me tonight. I’ll be walking, and it’s too cold.”

Dog woofs once, as if to complain. John chuckles to himself, ruffling his soft fur before straightening himself. “You’ll be fine. I’ve already fed you dinner, haven’t I? I’ll be back later.”

After one last brief round through the manor, John mildly regrets killing the last butler, if only so he had someone else to do the tedious tasks instead. But then again, the last butler turned out to be some vampire hunter wannabe who slipped silver oxide in his tea one night. That gave him quite the sore throat, John thinks bitterly, locking the doors behind him. The poor man was stupid enough to think that a little silver oxide would be able to take him down completely, and didn’t even bother to bring a weapon. Truthfully, it was a bit insulting.

John trudges through the snow, out of his estate and into the woods. It would take him half an hour to get to town, and by then it’ll be almost ten in the evening. The town and its warm lights strung through trees and lampposts will be winding down by then, shop lights shutting off one by one. All the better for him; the fewer humans around him, the safer it was. At almost three centuries of existence, John was already well-versed in resisting temptation, but it didn’t mean he was fond of placing himself in situations where he could potentially snap.

Behind him, his manor fades into the darkness, looking abandoned and more dilapidated than it truly is. For a moment, John squints at one of the towers. Hm. he’ll have to take a look at the top window sometime soon; it looked to be on the verge of falling apart.

He walks through the forest in silence, with no other sound to accompany him other than the sound of crunching snow beneath his boots and the occasional birdsong. John allows his thoughts to wander, his mind flitting from events that had happened over a decade ago and wondering what he would do a week from now. The year was coming to an end, and Winston no doubt is itching to drag him to the Continental for the Winter Ball.

Yeah, right. John snorts. Invite a bunch of vampires to one place. Never ends well.

The previous year, the D’Antonio siblings caused quite a scene by bringing untrained, unmarked humans into the venue. The younger vamps could barely resist tearing the poor things apart. At the very least, it had provided enough entertainment for the rest of the evening, according to Koji, an old friend of his.

He should probably give him a call this Christmas if only to check in, John muses. And send over a gift for Akira. What does one give to a young vampling these days anyway?

He’s snapped from his reverie at the sound of grumbling. He freezes, straining his ears to understand what the voice is saying.

“...this is so stupid. Why the fuck did I think this was a good idea? God. I’m gonna get eaten by wolves…”

There are no wolves in the area, John can attest to that, but this human seemed lost. And most certainly not a local, if they were out in the woods at night. He purses his lips, turning his head from the direction of the voice to the general direction of the town. He should be close by now, and the blood dealer was likely there already. John could just leave the unknown voice there to fend for themselves and potentially freeze in the dark.

But what the hell, he thinks. It’s Christmas. This can be his good deed of the year.

Before he can talk himself out of it, he takes a sharp turn to the right and makes his way to the voice. His eyesight meant that the dark of night wasn’t truly dark to him, but he supposes that to a human, this was close to pitch black. It doesn’t take long for him to spot a figure huddled by the root of a tree in the dark, angrily poking at what looked to be their phone. Humans and their smartphones, John sighs internally.

“Hello,” he says slowly, not wanting to scare them. “Are you lost?”

The human flinches, looking up at him with wide eyes. Moonlight shines on their face just so, and John swears his undead heart would be pounding if it still could.

Oh, he thinks, breathless. It’s you.

You really shouldn’t have come here, you think mournfully. Your roommate brought you along with her for the holidays, feeling bad that you were going to be left in the apartment by yourself. It seemed like a good idea at the time, until you got to her hometown and she promptly dropped you off at the local inn and said goodbye for the week. After asking around for fun activities to do (that had nothing to do with the holidays, thank you very much), one of the younger locals suggested geocaching, now that quite a handful of people were developing an interest in it too. He told you to download an app that should explain things better, and you spent the better part of the afternoon looking things up.

This is supposed to be your third spot to check out, but the signal got worse somewhere along the way, and now your phone is dead too. Just your fucking luck. Somewhere, someone must be actively praying for your downfall because what do you mean you’re now stuck in the middle of the woods at night? You groan, angrily poking at the black screen of your phone when a voice calls out to you.

“Hello. Are you lost?”

It’s a true testament to your strength, your bravery, your iron will, that you did not shit yourself at the sound of the voice. You look up at the tall stranger with wide eyes, noting that holy shit this man is gorgeous and you probably look like you’ve been crawling through all sorts of nooks and crannies all afternoon. Which you have been. So.

“Hi,” you squeak. Okay. He doesn’t seem like an ax murderer, judging by his nice clothing…? Every bit of information you learned in those true crime podcasts you listen to has flown out of your brain, leaving you looking up at the stranger with your mouth parted.

The tall, dark, and handsome stranger looks at you for a moment before offering you a hand. “The town is that way,” he gestures somewhere to the left. “I’m… John.”

You mumble your name, taking his hand in a daze. Of course, you would meet an absolute Adonis on the worst day of your life (an exaggeration). You try not to swoon at his firm grip, or how he easily pulls you upright without so much as a sharp exhale. Whew. This is a man, you think dreamily, nothing like those slimy finance bros back in the city. Perhaps it’s your turn for a Hallmark movie romance. You, the city slicker with a hatred for the holidays, and this man, the local who’ll teach you the true meaning of Christmas.

He repeats your name quietly, nodding. “I’m headed to town. We can walk together, if you want.”

“I’d like that,” you respond, feeling breathless all of a sudden. Get ahold of yourself, you think desperately. You can’t fold for the first hot man that you see in the woods!

Your dreams of a budding romance, are crushed, however, when no further words are exchanged. Stealing glances at John’s (very handsome) side profile does nothing for your flushed cheeks, and his shy smile whenever he catches you staring makes you melt internally. The distant lights of the town coming into view make your heart sink.

He appears to take pity for your plight and breaks the silence first. “Are you only visiting here?”

“Yeah,” you reply quickly. Too quickly. You swallow thickly, trying to play off your embarrassment. “I mean, yeah, My roommate just brought me along, so…”

“I see.” He nods. “How are you liking this place so far?”

“It’s like a Christmas village,” you say with disdain. The corners of John’s lips quirk up.

“I’m hearing some distaste in your tone.” He notes, amusement in his voice.

You scrunch your nose. “I don’t like Christmas.”

“Oh?”

“I just don’t like it,” you shrug. “You?”

John pauses, thinking for a moment. “I don’t mind it. I don’t think too much of it.”

“Pretty hard to do when it’s so… in your face,” you quip.

“I’m good at focusing on what truly matters,” he says coolly, his gaze suddenly serious. Your cheeks feel hot again.

“Oh. That’s nice.” You mumble, looking away, feeling strangely flustered. Are all handsome men just way too intense for their own good? “Are you a, uh, local?”

“Yeah,” he confirms, tilting his head towards you with a small smirk. “A local of the Christmas village.”

“It’s not a bad thing!” You laugh, caught off guard by his sudden teasing. “It’s just not for me, I’m sorry!”

He laughs with you, his deep voice almost melting into the cold winter breeze. Something inside you feels warm at the sight of his smile, and it’s not just because you think this man is hot. He doesn’t feel like a stranger, you think curiously. He feels strangely familiar, as if you’ve known the sound of his laughter for years. There’s a voice in the back of your mind that’s begging you to take his hand, to savor the warmth of his skin against yours and⁠—

“We’re almost there,” he states, looking straight ahead.

Oh. Right.

“Thanks,” you say softly, looking at him. “For helping me back there.”

John only shrugs, his features warmed by the light from the lamppost just straight ahead. “I have a knack for helping strays.” He smiles as if joking. “And I think you’ll find that you have a knack for being in the right place at the right time.”

“Oh?” You raise an eyebrow. “‘Cause I met you, is that it?”

He gives you that smile again, as if he knows something you don’t. As if you should know what he’s talking about too. It should unnerve you, but it doesn’t. “Something like that.”

The two of you eventually stop walking just in front of the stall selling mulled wine. “Well, this is me,” you say reluctantly. As charmed as you are by this man, you’ve retained enough of your common sense to not reveal just where exactly you’re staying for now. (If he wants to come up to your room for a late night something, well… maybe you’re not totally against the idea.) “I’m gonna go walk around before I turn in for the night. You?”

“I’m meeting an acquaintance,” he replies, putting his hands in his pockets. Strange. He isn’t wearing gloves.

“Good night, John.” You smile, reluctant to leave his side for some godforsaken reason. “I’ll see you around?”

“You will see me around the Christmas village, yes,” he replies, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Good night, solnishko.”

Little sun.

How do you know that?

You wave goodbye, dazed, watching as he disappears into the crowd. Your chest aches at the sight of him leaving, but you ignore it, deciding it’s time to turn in for the night after all. It’s been a long day of gallivanting, and getting lost in the woods did no favors for your poor feet. Sighing softly, you imagine the relief of finally taking off these godforsaken boots and warming up by the fire. You’re gonna sleep so good tonight.

Giving one last longing look in the direction John went, you can’t help but wonder if you’ll ever see him again. It’s just because he’s hot, you tell yourself. Yes, that’s just it. Nothing to do with how his voice makes your stomach do somersaults.

(You will see him again, one way or another. Like John said, you have a knack for being in the right place at the right time, even when you don’t remember him. John only allowed the night to slip from his grasp knowing that the universe will inevitably bring you back to him, as it has many times before.)

(As it will continue to do so, for as long as your soul remembers him even when your mind does not. For now, John is determined to make you fall in love with him all over again until you have to leave.)

John watches you walk to the local inn from afar, hidden in the shadows. So you hate Christmas this time, he chuckles to himself. That’s alright. So long as you still like him, he can make it work.

He’ll make it work.

post-fic yap: there we go!! i have never actually experienced snow in my life so i'm sorry if it's not super accurate :')) i really wanted to add some more stuff but my health has been in the dumps so i just did my best🥲 again, happy holidays! i hope i did your prompt justice🥹

#keanuverse secret santa #john wick x reader #john wick x y/n #john wick x you #john wick #keanu reeves #vampire john wick

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