guilty-ff

[guilty-ff]

𝐒𝐡𝐞’𝐬 𝐆𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐊𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐌𝐞

After walking out mid-argument, Dante ends up with Enzo, bad advice, and demon-grade alcohol. The goal? Forget everything. But what good is drinking your feelings away when your body won't even let the alcohol stick?

Pairing: Dante x Fem!Reader

Genre: Oneshot, romance, hurt comfort, mild Angst, Fluff!

Warnings: language, Emotional miscommunication, Mild alcohol use, Mentions of past trauma/abandonment issues

Authors comment: This idea hit me while rewatching the 2007 anime. Dante was drinking and I thought, if he can even get drunk with his regeneration?? Wouldn’t it be fun (and a kinda tragic) seeing Dante all frustrated, trying to get wasted but his demon healing just won’t let him?

It didn't start with a fight.

It started with quiet tension. A half-answer here. A missed call there. The kind of things that build in the background, until one day, something stupid stirring up the tension.

Tonight, it was the dishes.

Not the end of the world, right? Not even a big deal. Just a small, silent irritation. The sink was full. Again. You'd come home late to that same damn pile, untouched, like a monument of Dante's laziness.

"Seriously?" you asked, not even raising your voice at first. "You said you'd clean the kitchen."

Dante, lounging on the couch with his boots up and one arm slung behind his head, barely turned his head. "I will."

"When?"

He yawned. "Eventually."

You stood in the doorway to the kitchen, fists clenched at your sides. "You live here too."

"Yeah," he said, stretching, "and I kill demons for a living. One of us is clearly more exhausted."

That did it.

"Oh, you're exhausted? Try coming home after twelve hours of dealing with people who actually communicate, only to realize I'm dating a guy who thinks emotional labor is a side quest."

He sat up a little at that. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you don't show up, Dante. Not for the little stuff. Not when it matters."

He stood now, slowly, arms crossed, like you'd just challenged him to a duel instead of a conversation. "I'm here, aren't I?"

"Physically? Sure. Emotionally? No. I have to dig to get anything out of you. You dodge every serious talk with a joke. You ghost me for hours after missions. You don't answer texts. You act like I should be grateful you're even around."

He narrowed his eyes, jaw tightening. "You think I don't care?"

"I think you're scared to."

Silence.

For a second, the world shrank. There was no sound, only tension in the air. His mouth opened. Then closed.

You took a breath. "You treat this like it's temporary. Like you're just waiting for me to leave. You act like I'm disposable, like everyone else who's hurt you. That's not love, that's defense"

His voice was too quiet when it came. "Everyone leaves."

"And that gives you permission to push me away first?" you snapped. "To be cold and dismissive and act like you don't need anyone?"

His eyes flashed. "I never said I didn't need you."

"Then act like it, Dante!"

He flinched. Not visibly. Not in a way most people would notice. But you knew him. You saw it, in the small drop of his shoulders, in the tight line of his mouth.

He looked at you like you'd touched a bruise he didn't know was still sore.

Then, without a word, he turned and grabbed his coat.

“Don’t,” you said quickly, your anger slipping away. “Don’t walk away. Not again.”

But he was already at the door, and then gone.

He didn’t take his phone, didn’t say a word, didn’t shout, just the soft click of the door as it closed behind him.

And then, silence.

You paced the apartment, every minute ticking louder than the last. You called once. Twice. Ten times. Nothing.

And when he finally walked back through the door two hours later?

He was dragging a crate of alcohol like it was his soul in a box.

Earlier...

Dante sat in Enzo's crusty kitchen, arms crossed, sulking like a kid who'd lost his lunch money.

"I dunno, man," he muttered. "She said I treat her like she's disposable."

Enzo was already halfway through a beer and nodding slowly. "Well, do ya?"

Dante squinted. "No."

"Then it's simple: she's wrong."

"She's not wrong," Dante admitted.

"Oh."

There was a pause.

"Okay," Enzo tried again, rubbing his stubbled chin. "Maybe she's just being... emotional. Women, y'know. Feelings and all."

Dante stared blankly. "You've been divorced three times."

"Exactly. I know things."

Dante dragged a hand down his face. "I shut down. That's the problem. I don't know how to talk about any of it: The nightmares, the constant fear that everything's gonna go to hell again, so I don't."

Enzo blinked.

"Jesus Christ."

Dante laughed bitterly. "I never learned how to let people stay. Mother died. Vergil left. Everyone I ever cared about either died or disappeared. She gets close and it's like... my brain starts screaming. Like she'll vanish if I breathe wrong."

"Alright, alright," Enzo said, waving his beer. "Enough of that. You're spiralin'. That's girl therapy talk."

"It's called trauma, Enzo."

"Whatever. You don't need therapy. You need alcohol."

Dante looked up slowly. "What?"

"Alcohol! Fixes everything. You drink, you talk, or maybe you don't, and then she feels bad for you and bam, makeup sex."

"That's... not how people work."

"Worked for my second wife. For a week."

"You're an emotional hypocrite," Dante muttered.

“Exactly. Look,” Enzo said, searching through his stash like it was some kind of treasure chest. “I’ve got the good stuff. Demon-proof, Hellfire brand. This stuff would probably knock Cerberus out cold.”

Dante barely registered the words. His mind kept going back to the mission, the one he screwed up. He took down Cerberus, got paid, and then… nothing. No text, no call, no follow-up. He promised he wouldn’t do this again, but here he was, pulling the same bullshit.

Enzo, oblivious to the storm rising in Dante’s head, kept on his monologue. “You know what’s crazy? You take down Cerberus like it’s a walk in the park, get a fat paycheck, and still can’t pick up the damn phone? What happened, Dante? You don’t even have the decency to say ‘Hey, I didn’t die fighting a three-headed mutt. I’m fine.’” Enzo scoffed.

Dante’s frustration bubbled over. “I—”

“I know, I know,” Enzo interrupted, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “It’s tough, man. That damn Cerberus battle really took it out of you. Big, bad demon, yada yada… but here’s the thing, you still can’t handle texting her? You get all emotional, come back looking like a damn mess, and then ghost her? That’s cold, bro.”

Dante felt a knot tighten in his chest. He wasn’t just mad at Enzo for talking about it like it was some kind of joke. He was mad at himself. He promised his lover, he really did, but once again, he failed. He couldn’t get out of his own way.

Enzo kept going, still not realizing how much he was digging in deeper. “Look, you’re so good at demon slaying, but when it comes to basic human interaction? You’re trash. And I don’t even mean like ‘rookie-level’ trash, I mean pro-level trash. You can take down an ancient demon, but you can’t pick up the phone? Dude, even I managed not to screw things up like this in my old relationships, and I’m a disaster. Like, seriously, I’m the disaster.”

Dante slammed his head against the counter. The guilt was suffocating.

Enzo, not noticing a thing, just kept yapping. “It’s not that hard. You show up at her place, look tragic, say nothing, drink dramatically. That’s the secret. Women love that tortured crap. Hell, I love it, and I’ve been through some shit.” He smirked, clearly thinking he was dropping wisdom. “Why do you think I’m always pulling in these tragic, mysterious vibes? I sell it, man. If I can do it, you can do it.”

Dante groaned, rubbing his face. “This is not helping. That sounds manipulative."”

Enzo didn’t even notice. “You’re telling me it’s manipulative? No, no, no. It’s drama. It’s called drama, son. We’re in the business of devil hunting and trauma bonding. You think any of the girls I’ve been with cared about me picking up the phone? Nah. It’s all about the act.”

Dante looked at the Hellfire bottle in Enzo’s hand, then back at Enzo’s grinning face, and sighed heavily. “I can’t get drunk anymore.”

Enzo raised an eyebrow, completely unfazed by Dante’s crisis. “Not with that attitude."

Dante raised a brow.

"Look," Enzo said, now dragging a wooden crate out like it was treasure. "You show up at her place, looking tragic, say nothing, drink dramatically."

Dante looked at the crate, then at Enzo, then sighed like the broken man he was.

"You're a disaster."

"And you're takin' the box as the next paycheck, so shut up."

Back in the apartment, Dante wordlessly slammed the box on the counter and uncorked a bottle like it owed him money.

You stood at the edge of the living room, arms crossed, watching this demon-slaying idiot fumble with the strongest liquor in the realm.

"Are you... drinking?"

He didn't look up. "Enzo said it would help."

"Oh no."

You stepped closer. "Dante. Tell me you didn't just trauma-dump on Enzo."

He swallowed a third of the bottle and winced. "Kinda."

"You told the greasiest man alive that you're emotionally shut down?"

"Yep."

"And he said drink through it?"

Dante slammed the bottle down. "He said it would either make me cry or pass out. So far it's just making me thirsty."

You deadpan blinked. "You're half-demon. Your liver literally regenerates."

"I KNOW."

You sat down at the table, chin in your hand. "You thought you could drink away emotional repression?"

He gestured at the second bottle like a broken man. "This one has a skull on it. Maybe it'll work."

"You're pathetic."

"I'm trying," he muttered.

"By what? Hiding from the consequences of emotional negligence?"

"I don't know how to do this," he said, shoulders slumped. "I know how to kill and destroy things. But I don't know how to stay."

Silence. Just the ticking clock. His hand tightened on the glass.

"I figured... maybe if I just felt something strong enough, I could finally say it."

You blinked at him.

"...So your genius plan was to outdrink your own trauma?"

He shrugged one shoulder. "It made sense at the time."

"You're a disaster," you said flatly, but your voice cracked at the edges, not from anger now, but from relief.

He finally looked at you, eyes tired, haunted, and young in a way that made your chest hurt.

"I didn't mean to scare you," he said, quieter. "I wasn't trying to disappear, I just... I don't know how to do this. When you got mad, it felt like- like it was already over. So I figured if I could just feel something... anything loud enough, maybe the words would follow."

You stared at him, then exhaled a breath you didn't realize you'd been holding.

"That's the dumbest emotional strategy I've ever heard."

He opened his mouth to argue, but you cut him off by stepping in and kissing him. Fast, warm, and full of everything you were still too exhausted to say.

He froze, then breathed out through his nose, leaning into it like something in him had just... let go.

When you pulled back, you raised an eyebrow.

"You still owe me a full conversation, idiot."

He gave a half-smile. "Can I be drunk for it?"

"You are very sober."

"Unfortunately."

He gave the ghost of a grin.

"Honestly? When you started yelling, I flashed back to the one time my old man raised his voice at me."

You narrowed your eyes. "Sparda yelled at you?"

"Once. Real quiet. Real disappointed. Genuinely horrifying." He held up a finger. "But you? You're way scarier. Banshee-level scary."

You tried not to smile. "I'll take that as a compliment."

"Wasn't meant to be," he muttered.

"Also," you added, grabbing the bottle and inspecting the label, "this says 'Do Not Consume If Mortal.'"

He groaned. "Enzo's gonna kill me."

"No," you said, placing the bottle on the counter. "I'm gonna kill the both of you."

Later, as he lay half-curled on the couch, shirt half-off, a bottle abandoned at his side, he mumbled just loud enough to betray himself:

"Damn it... Enzo's advice almost worked. Makeup sex counts for emotional healing, right?"

You, brushing your teeth in the next room, spit into the sink and yelled,

"You really are allergic to accountability."

Next morning:

It took exactly one full day before you marched Dante back into Enzo's trashfire excuse for an office.

You didn't knock.

The door flew open hard enough to rattle the coat rack and knock over a stack of demon-hunting magazines from 1998.

Enzo, chewing a meatball like it was his final meal, froze with sauce halfway to his chin.

"Well, well, if it ain't my two favorite lovebirds-"

"You gave him poison in a bottle!" you snapped.

"Technically it's concentrated hellbrew-"

"HE TRIED TO DRINK THROUGH HIS FEELINGS."

Enzo raised his hands in mock innocence. "Whoa, whoa. I didn't tell him to turn into a drunk cowboy in your kitchen. I offered an alternative path to emotional growth. Through liquor."

Dante stood awkwardly behind you, very much regretting his life.

"You," you pointed, turning to him. "You listened to him."

"In my defense," Dante muttered, "he said it was demon-proof and emotionally numbing. I panicked."

You folded your arms. "So your brain went: 'Hmm. I have unresolved abandonment issues... Better drown them in demonic Everclear and hope for the best.'"

He gave a sheepish shrug.

"And it almost worked," he added.

You slapped his arm. "It didn't."

"Okay, but technically we-"

"It didn't."

Enzo was now watching with the same face he made when demon entrails exploded in his car: morbid curiosity and suppressed laughter.

"Look, sweetheart," Enzo said, "not everyone's good at feelings. The kid's got a sword twice his body weight and the emotional range of a wet sponge."

"Hey-!" Dante frowned. "I tried to talk about my issues."

"You tried to mainline whiskey and stare into a mirror."

"Same thing!"

You glared at both of them. "You're not off the hook either," you snapped at Enzo. "He doesn't need alcohol, he needs a therapist."

Enzo scoffed. "I've been a therapist for years."

"You once told Dante to 'punch grief in the face.'"

"And he did! It was very liberating."

You sighed, hard enough to summon storms.

Dante reached up behind his head and mumbled, "Okay, okay. Maybe I'm bad at this."

"No," you said. "You're terrible at this."

"...But I still wanna try."

Your anger melted just a little.

He stepped closer, rubbed the back of his neck. "I don't know how to fix everything in here," he said, tapping his chest. "But I don't wanna lose you just because I never learned how to talk."

You held his gaze.

"You're lucky you're hot," you muttered.

He smirked. "Jackpot."

You groaned.

Enzo stood up, wiping his hands on a suspiciously oil-stained towel. "Alright, lovebirds. Get outta my office before you start trauma-bonding on my furniture."

Dante turned to leave, and Enzo pulled him aside at the last second.

"Hey," Enzo whispered, voice oddly serious. "Next time she yells, listen. And don't try to drown it out. You'll screw it up worse."

Dante nodded.

"Also..." Enzo handed him a sealed bottle with a wink. "Save this one for after you make up. You'll thank me."

You grabbed it and dropped it in the nearest trash bin.

"No, he won't."

As the bottle clattered into the trash, Dante groaned into his hands.

“She’s gonna kill me."

[guilty-ff]

𝐒𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐒𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐓𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐞?

Dante shows up post-mission smelling like demon guts and bad decisions, and has the nerve to climb into bed without showering. His partner, clean and cozy, isn’t about to let him off easy, but can’t help teasing him when he tries to act all nonchalant about it.

Pairing: Dante x Fem!ReaderRating: T Genre: Fluff Warnings: Mild language, mentions of demon gore/blood, soft physical intimacy, stubborn man being dramatic

She had done the holy ritual.

The everything shower. Hair washed, skin scrubbed, legs shaved, even the good moisturiser, the kind that made her smell like warm vanilla and felt like silk. She was clean, exfoliated, and glowing.

The sheets were fresh. The room smelled like lavender spray and peace.

She was in bed, finally.

And that’s when the front door opened.

She heard the shuffle of boots being kicked off, the low metallic clink of a sword carelessly leaned against the wall, and a familiar grunt, the sound of a man dragging himself in after a long fight.

She didn’t move. Eyes closed. Not yet. Maybe he’d go to the shower first. Maybe she wouldn’t have to kill him tonight.

The bedroom door creaked open.

Heavy steps.

And then...

“Don’t,” she said, voice sharp as a blade.

Dante froze halfway through pulling off his shirt, blinking in the doorway like a raccoon caught in the fridge light. His skin steamed faintly, probably still supercharged from his Devil Trigger not long ago. His chest glistened with sweat, blood dried in the bend of his elbow, and his hair was sticking up in every direction.

“You didn’t shower,” she accused without opening her eyes.

“I was gonna,” he said, slowly walking in.

“You’re walking toward the bed, not the shower.”

“I just wanted to-”

“Don’t you dare touch these sheets, Dante.”

He groaned, flopping forward dramatically on the edge of the mattress. “Babe, my soul is leaving my body. Just five minutes. I’m still kind of smoking.”

“Exactly! You’re a walking biohazard.”

“You smell amazing,” he mumbled, face buried in a pillow. “Like cake and clouds.”

“Then don’t taint me with your demon stank.”

He cracked one eye open. “Wow. Demon stank? Harsh.”

“Don’t care. I can see the blood on your neck. And is that black goo on your pants?”

“…Might be.”

She shoved him with her foot. “Get off. Go shower, Dante.”

He groaned again, rolling onto his back like a cat trying to get attention. “I can’t. I’m too tired. My limbs are optional.”

“You’re optional,” she snapped.

He pouted.

Actual lower lip pout.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she muttered.

“You used to be nice.”

“I'm not used to sleep with someone who's drenched from head to toe with sticky blood.”

He reached under the covers with his foot and brushed her calf.

She kicked it away.

Another try. A sneaky toe, curling gently against her ankle.

“Dante,” she warned.

He said nothing. Just slowly, silently tangled their feet together, stubborn and smug.

She exhaled like she was carrying the weight of the world. “I hate that you’re warm.”

“Liar,” he said into the sheets.

She muttered something unholy under her breath and turned away from him but didn’t pull her leg back.

He smiled, barely.

Then she added, deadpan, “If I feel even a drop of demon goo, I’m kicking you straight out of this bed.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, sweetheart.”

He laid there: radiating hellfire, stinking like victory and sin, grinning like he’d won something.

And maybe, just maybe, he had.

Ten minutes later, he was still lying there.

Still smug. Still shirtless. Still sweaty.

Still refusing to move.

She stared at the ceiling, counting backward from ten. Again. And again.

He hadn’t stopped inching closer, either. One arm now sneakily draped across her waist. His leg practically trying to merge with hers under the covers.

“You’re still warm,” she muttered.

“Warm is nice,” he mumbled, nuzzling her shoulder. “You’re all soft and clean. It’s like sleeping with an angel."

“You smell like the wrong side of hell.”

He gave a dramatic sigh, clearly playing dead again. “I’m conserving energy.”

She stared at him for another beat.

Then she got up. Quietly.

Too quietly.

Dante barely cracked an eye open. “Where ya goin’, sweetheart?”

“Nowhere. Just gonna grab some water.”

She walked to the kitchen.

Poured a tall, cold glass from the water tap.

And walked calmly back into the room, like she was ready to exorcise a demon, armed with nothing but cold water and zero patience.

He didn’t suspect a thing. Just gave a lazy little smile as she approached.

“Changed your mind about snuggles, huh?”

She raised the glass.

“Last chance, Sparda.”

He blinked. “Huh?”

Then she poured it straight over his chest.

Cold. Righteous. Glorious.

He shrieked.

It wasn’t a yell, it was a high-pitched, full-body yelp, like a startled 90s anime schoolgirl caught in a love triangle.

“WHAT THE HELL?” he gasped, falling off the bed like he’d been electrocuted.

She stood over him unfazed, holding the empty glass like a queen who just issued judgment.

“You’re going to shower now.”

He sat on the floor, drenched and wide-eyed, water dripping from his chest, hair sticking to his forehead. He pointed at her, betrayed. “You ambushed me!”

“I warned you.”

“That was evil.”

“I learned from the best.”

He groaned, dragging himself to his feet. “Fine. I’m going. You win. Shower of shame, here I come.”

As he sulked toward the bathroom, still grumbling, she called after him sweetly: “And scrub behind your ears!”

He flipped her off without turning around.

She smiled to herself, crawled back into the clean bed, and let out a satisfied sigh.

The bedroom door creaked open with exaggerated drama, and Dante stepped in like the world’s most tragic war hero.

Hair soaked, towel slung low around his hips, a long-suffering frown on his face.

He stood there, dripping water onto the floorboards, steam still clinging to his bare skin, and glared at her like she was the root of all his problems.

“You happy now?” he muttered.

She didn’t even look up from the bed, already tucked beneath the covers. “I am,” she said simply. “You’re clean, the room isn’t suffocated in demon gore, and you’re no longer boiling like a furnace. That’s a win.”

He grumbled something under his breath and stalked toward his side of the bed, dragging his towel off before pulling on a pair of boxers and laying awkwardly on the bed.

But when she rolled over, moving toward him with that familiar softness in her eyes, the one that said “I forgive you, now come cuddle me”, he didn’t move to meet her.

In fact, he shifted away.

She blinked. “…What?”

He threw an arm over his eyes. “Don’t get too close. I still smell bad. You said so.”

She stared at him.

“You’re joking.”

“I reek. Filthy. Practically radioactive,” he deadpanned, voice dry as ash. “Wouldn’t want to offend your delicate nose again.”

“Oh my god, you’re being petty.”

“Me?” he gasped dramatically. “Petty? Nooo.”

She scoffed, then reached for him anyway, sliding across the bed and wrapping an arm around his bare waist. His skin was warm from the shower, still slightly damp, and she could feel the muscles in his back tense beneath her touch.

“Pretty sure you smell like soap and regret now,” she murmured against his shoulder. “I think I can survive.”

He grunted, trying to act unaffected, but she saw the corner of his mouth twitch.

“I’m warning you,” he said, still in that fake nonchalant tone, “you cuddle me now, you’re asking for trouble. Might still be contagious.”

“Contagious with what?” she teased, lips ghosting just below his ear. “Sarcasm? Chronic martyr syndrome?”

He tried to hold his expression but the second her fingers slipped beneath the blanket to curl around his stomach and she moved closer, spooning him from behind, Dante broke.

His breath caught. Visibly.

She felt him flinch ever so slightly under her hands, the way his shoulders tightened, not in protest, but in desperate restraint.

“Goddammit,” he mumbled, voice muffled against his forearm.

She grinned.

“What was that?” she asked sweetly, trailing a few soft kisses along his spine. “I didn’t catch that, baby.”

“I said,” he hissed, face burning, “this is unfair.”

She hummed against his back, smug and victorious. “You’re warm again.”

“I just showered.”

“And now you’re mine.”

He groaned in defeat, letting his head drop back onto the pillow with a dramatic sigh.

“Fine,” he muttered, reaching back to blindly tug her arm tighter around him. “But if I start overheating again, it’s on you.”

“You can sweat it out on me.”

He shuddered, and not from the heat this time.

“…You’re evil,” he said, voice low and hoarse.

“Learned from the best, didn’t I?”

He didn’t argue. He just sighed again, melted a little more into her hold, and finally let the last of his resistance crumble.

[guilty-ff]

𝐌𝐮𝐬𝐜𝐥𝐞 𝐌𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐏𝐭.𝟐

𝐕𝐢𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐧!𝐃𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞 𝐱 𝐌𝐞𝐝𝐒𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

Dante agrees to help a friend study anatomy, nothing serious, just muscle names and touch. But with every brush of her fingers, keeping it together gets harder.

Pairing: Dante x Fem!Reader

Genre: Friends-to-lovers, slow burn, virgin!Dante, Oneshot

Rating: Mature, MDNI

Warnings: NSFW (18+), teasing, oral (male receiving), vaginal, dry humping, consensual power play, Dante whimpering, soft dom!reader, flustered Dante, slight angst

He didn’t answer with words. He just leaned in: slow, scared, shaking and let his forehead rest against hers. The kiss didn’t come yet. But it could. It was there, waiting. And maybe, if she leaned in a little more...

Not all at once. Just enough.

Close enough that her lips barely brushed his. A whisper of contact, feather light and then she paused, sitting there. Giving him one last moment to pull back. To say no. To end it before it began.

But he didn’t.

The kiss was soft and uncertain, like something fragile had finally cracked open. He kissed her back with a quiet sort of desperation, like he was trying not to shatter under it.

And when she pulled back, smiling faintly, he looked dazed.

“You okay?” she asked gently.

Dante nodded, throat dry. “Yeah. Just… processing.”

She laughed softly, brushing a hand down his chest. “It’s not that complex. I kissed you, you didn’t combust, and your vitals appear to be stable.”

“Debatable,” he muttered, cheeks redder than they had any right to be.

She smirked and settled herself on his lap again, fingers teasing the hem of his shirt. “Call it clinical curiosity.”

“You’re still thinking medically?”

“Absolutely,” she said sweetly. “I mean, I did say I needed a live model...”

Her hips rocked against him, slow, precise, just enough to make him shudder beneath her. “And I haven’t finished my field study.”

He let out a shaky breath as her movements became deliberate, steady, teasing.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “You’re really gonna make me lose it.”

“Not yet,” she said, shifting her weight and grinding again. He gasped, and she leaned in close, lips at his ear. “You still haven’t given a full physiological response.”

“Sweetheart-” His hands grabbed at her waist, like he couldn’t decide whether to stop her or pull her closer.

Then she glanced down between them.

“...Is that thing still growing?” she asked casually, rolling her hips again and feeling his cock twitch through his jeans.

His eyes shot wide open, utterly flustered.

She blinked serious. “Wait... Is that your Devil Trigger activating?”

Dante made a choked noise and covered his face with a hand, groaning in humiliation.

“God, please stop talking,” he begged, ears bright red.

She giggled against his jaw. “Sorry. Just trying to judge if I should expect horns.”

“You keep talking like that and I’m gonna black out.”

She kissed him slowly again, hand sliding down between them. “Then let’s take care of that tension.”

He let her guide him back against the cushions, exhaling shakily as her mouth trailed from his jaw to his prominent Adam´s apple. Her fingers dragged with practiced care over the muscles of his abdomen, down to the line of his waistband, undoing his belt with soft clicks that made his breath stutter.

Dante tensed as her hand brushed over him through the fabric of his jeans, already hard, already straining. He swallowed a sound as she cupped him lightly, thumb pressing along the line where heat pulsed just under skin and denim.

“You always run this warm?” she murmured. "Or should I start checking for glowing eyes and fangs?"

“God,” he rasped, half-laughing, half-dying. “You’re a menace.”

She smiled faintly, then sat up on her knees between his thighs as he looked up at her, dazed and flushed, pupils wide. She kept eye contact while slowly easing his jeans and boxers down, letting them hang just past his hips. His cock sprang free, pre cum leaking and flushed, and she paused, admiring without shame.

Her brows lifted. “...Anatomically exceptional.”

“Please don’t say that,” Dante muttered, dragging a hand over his face, clearly trying to keep some pretence of dignity.

“No, really,” she continued, fingers circling the base with careful curiosity. “Length, size, vascular presentation… it’s genuinely impressive. If demon physiology is responsible for this, I’d like to submit a research grant.”

He let out a breathy, incredulous noise. “You are way too calm and curious for someone about to-”

She cut him off by leaning in and pressing a slow, wet kiss to the tip.

Dante shuddered. His hips jerked slightly, and he bit his lip hard, stifling a sound.

“That bad?” she murmured against him, mouth ghosting along the underside.

“Bad?” he choked out. “Try dangerously close to losing my mind.”

She smiled.

Then she wrapped her mouth around him. Slow and calculated, taking him in inch by inch, until the tension in his thighs turned to trembles and his head hit the back of the couch with a soft thud.

He groaned low, hands hovering again. Not grabbing her, not guiding, just torn between restraint and need.

“Holy shit…” he muttered. “You… you’re not playing fair.”

She hummed around him, the vibration making him twitch, and then she pulled back just slightly, her hand taking over the rhythm. She licked him again, slow and hot, then let her lips drag down the side, her other hand resting on his stomach, feeling every clench of muscle beneath.

The way he reacted, the twitch in his abs, the flushed look of awe in his eyes... it was adorable.

And completely undoing him.

Every time she sank back down on him, his breath hitched, his thighs quivered, and his mouth spilled soft curses into the air like prayers he didn’t know how to finish.

“I- fuck-I’m not gonna last,” he warned, voice wrecked. “You gotta stop or I-”

She pulled back with a small pop, her lips slick and curved into a smirk.

“Mm,” she said, climbing slowly back into his lap. “Then maybe it’s time for phase two of the study.”

She eased herself back into his lap, hands planted on either side of his shoulders as she hovered just above him. Dante was breathing hard, chest rising and falling like he’d just stumbled out of battle but the nervousness in his eyes wasn’t adrenaline. It was all her.

“Still with me?” she asked softly, brushing her nose against his.

He nodded. Barely.

“Tell me,” she whispered. “I want to hear it.”

“I’m with you,” he rasped, voice thick and hoarse. “God, I’ve never been more with anyone.”

That was all she needed.

One hand slipped between them to guide him, and with a slow, aching roll of her hips, she sank down onto him.

Dante let out a loud moan, hands flying to her thighs, gripping tight, like he needed the contact to stay grounded.

“Fuck-” He choked on the word, jaw going slack. “You’re… fuck, you’re tight.”

She exhaled through her nose, forehead pressed to his. “You’re big,” she said simply, voice low and honest.

He whimpered at that. Actually whimpered.

They stayed still for a moment, her seated fully on him, his hands gripping her like a lifeline. The warmth between them was thick, tense, humming with a pressure neither of them had the words to break.

Then she began to move.

Slow, rolling motions. Measured. Confident. Like she was savoring every inch of him, every twitch in his muscles, every fractured breath he gave her.

Dante’s eyes fluttered closed, lips parting as he leaned his head back against the couch. “You feel unreal,” he said softly, reverently. “I don’t even know how to- shit.”

She leaned forward, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Just feel me.”

He did.

He let her lead, let her ride him at her own pace, hands exploring her hips, her waist, her thighs. Every time she clenched around him, he groaned. Every time she kissed his throat or rolled her hips faster, he gasped and bucked up into her. Trying not to burst, to keep quiet.

She grinned. “Still stable?” she murmured against his jaw.

“You’re-fuck...you’re evil,” he moaned.

“Still might be your Devil Trigger kicking in,” she teased, clenching again.

His whole body shuddered.

“I’m gonna die,” he whispered, near-broken. “I’m literally gonna die right here.”

“Don’t you dare,” she laughed breathlessly, fingers tangling in his hair. “You owe me a few more sessions.”

He opened his eyes just long enough to meet hers: lushed, dazed, completely overwhelmed. And then he kissed her. Hard. Desperate. Like he needed her breath to survive.

Their rhythm grew more frantic, more raw- her thighs trembling from effort, his hands gripping her tighter, deeper, until her breath caught and her body seized, warmth coiling through her spine.

He felt it. The way she tightened, the shudder in her limbs and it brought him straight into the edge with her. His moan was a deep, aching thing, spilled right against her throat as he buried himself in her and held her through it.

The silence after was deep, not awkward, just thick. Heavy with everything that had been said without words.

Dante lay back against the cushions, still catching his breath, his hair damp with sweat at the temples. She was curled beside him, her hand tracing quiet patterns over his stomach, grounding him without a single word. He’d gone quiet, really quiet, in a way that didn’t match his cocky personality at all.

After a while, she tilted her head. “You okay?”

He hesitated. Just enough that she looked up.

Dante exhaled hard through his nose. “Yeah. I just…”

His voice trailed off. His brows furrowed like he hated himself for whatever was caught behind his teeth.

She didn’t push. She just waited.

“I didn’t think you’d have to do all the work,” he said finally, voice quiet, eyes still on the ceiling. “I thought I’d… know what I was doing. Or at least feel like I knew.”

He looked over at her, then quickly away. “That wasn’t how I pictured it going. You being the one leading everything.”

She blinked. “You’re allowed to be new at something, Dante.”

“I know,” he muttered. “I just didn’t think I’d freeze up like that. And then once things started, all I could think about was… if I lost control. If I let that part of me out.”

He glanced down, jaw tense. “You don’t get it. I’m not just worried about being awkward in bed. I’m worried I’ll lose it, that I’ll hurt you. By accident. If something shifts, if something triggers, it doesn’t take much sometimes.”

She went quiet. And then, quietly, she added: “Hey… about earlier. The jokes. The heat, the trigger stuff, I wasn’t trying to push you. I didn’t realize how close that line really was. I’m sorry.”

His head turned sharply toward her, not out of anger, just surprise. His brows lifted, like he couldn’t believe she thought she needed to say that.

“I’m not mad,” he said quickly, quietly. “Not even a little. You didn’t go too far. You made me laugh. You made it feel normal. Human.”

She searched his face, unsure.

He reached for her hand. “You didn’t make me feel weak or uncomfortable. You made me feel safe, don't worry about such thing.”

Her throat tightened. And for a second, she didn’t know what to say.

Then she shifted, slowly, until she was lying half on top of him, her hands cradling either side of his face.

“You didn’t hurt me.”

“I could have.”

“But you didn’t,” she said again, firm but calm. “You didn’t lose control. You didn’t break anything. You let someone touch you, and you didn’t run.”

She kissed the space between his brows.

“And if anything ever did happen, if you ever started to slip, I’d stop you. You’re not the only one in the room, Dante.”

He closed his eyes. Swallowed. And for a moment, he just breathed.

When he opened them again, something in him had shifted. Not fully settled. But softer.

“…I really like you,” he muttered.

“I know.” She grinned. “It was kind of obvious once you stopped breathing every time I got near you.”

That made him laugh, weak but real.

She traced a lazy circle on his stomach with her fingertip, smirking just enough for him to notice.

“You know you whimpered, right?”

Dante blinked. “What? No I didn’t.”

She tilted her head, all mock innocence. “Oh? So that little sound you made when I-” Her hand dipped a bit lower, “...was what? A battle cry?”

He flushed instantly, scowling. “It was a reaction. That’s not the same thing.”

“Mhm. A very soft, needy, definitely-not-a-whimper reaction.”

“I hate you,” he muttered.

She grinned, leaning in to kiss the corner of his mouth. “You loved it.”

His silence said everything.

They stayed there for a while, her laying across his chest, his arms wrapped loosely around her waist, just listening to the way the world kept spinning even after everything changed between them.

Eventually, her stomach growled. Loudly.

Dante tilted his head. “Was that a threat?”

She smirked. “It was a warning.”

He rolled his eyes and groaned as he sat up. “Fine. Let’s see what kind of disaster I can scrape together.”

But all he found was a sad box of half-frozen pizza shoved in the back of the freezer like a long-forgotten relic.

He held it up. “Well?”

“…I’ve fought demons with less regret.”

He tossed it in the oven anyway, unevenly sliced, slightly freezer-burned and sat on the couch while it baked, wrapped in one blanket, legs tangled lazily together.

Dante leaned his head on her shoulder, quiet.

“You’re staying tonight, right?”

She kissed his hair. “You just shared your freezer pizza. That’s basically a proposal.”

He laughed again, full-bodied this time, and so warm she could feel it in her bones.

[guilty-ff]

𝐌𝐮𝐬𝐜𝐥𝐞 𝐌𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐲:

𝐕𝐢𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐧!𝐃𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞 𝐱 𝐌𝐞𝐝𝐒𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

Dante agrees to help a friend study anatomy, nothing serious, just muscle names and touch. But with every brush of her fingers, keeping it together gets harder.

Pairing: Dante x Fem!Reader

Genre: Friends-to-lovers, slow burn, virgin!Dante, Oneshot

Rating: Mature, MDNI

Warnings: Flustered Dante, abs touching, sexual tension, virgin!Dante panic, reader accidentally seductive

It started with a study session.

You had a practical coming up in your anatomy module, and none of your classmates were willing to sit still long enough to be used as a reference. At least not without trying to flirt, interrupt, or act like it was a date.

So, in a fit of frustration, you’d turned to Dante.

He owed you one anyway. After dragging you into some hell-infested warehouse last week and laughing when a demon nearly snapped your leg, he’d promised to “make it up to you however you want.”

Apparently, that meant letting you use him like a very warm, very sculpted anatomy model.

He hadn’t expected it to get this serious, though.

You arrived at his place with your textbooks, notes, a clipboard, and a quiet intensity that made it very clear: you weren’t here to mess around.

“No flirting,” you’d told him before even sitting down. “No smug comments. You’re basically a living skeleton today.”

He’d rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath but he behaved. Sat down. Took his shirt off. Let you study him like he was just another diagram.

That was the idea, anyway.

Now, kneeling beside him, you were already diving into shoulder anatomy with practiced ease, naming structures, examining muscle groups, sketching notations in your book like he was just a chart.

And Dante?

Dante was trying not to combust.

He really should’ve said no.

Not because he didn’t want her touching him- hell no, he wanted that more than he wanted to admit but because he hadn’t realized how hard it was gonna be to pretend it didn’t matter.

But he obeyed.

It was slow. Careful. Methodical.

Torturous.

Her touch was light, careful, dragging over the shape of his shoulders and upper back, pressing into his deltoids, tracing the curve of his biceps. She’d even had the nerve to ask him to flex.

He’d flexed.

“Long head of the triceps brachii connects here,” she murmured, her fingertip brushing the inside of his arm. “Crosses the shoulder joint and anchors along the infraglenoid tubercle of the scapula.”

Her voice was calm, clinical. Completely professional.

Meanwhile, Dante was ready to dig his own grave.

He bit the inside of his cheek, trying to keep his breathing steady, staring at the floor like it owed him something.

She was close. Too close. Her breath brushed over his skin every time she leaned in. He could smell her shampoo. Could feel her knees brushing his thighs as she shifted.

And she didn’t have a damn clue what it was doing to him.

“Relax,” she said gently, noticing the tension in his shoulders.

Dante forced out a laugh. “Yeah. Easy for you to say, doc. You’re not sittin’ half-naked while someone pokes around like they’re lookin’ for buried treasure.”

She giggled, actually giggled, and pokes his arm lightly.

“I appreciate you letting me do this, you know.”

He swallowed hard. “Yeah. Anytime.”

He meant it. Even if he was dying inside.

She moved lower, fingers drifting across his sides. “Okay. Let’s take a look at the abdominal region.”

His breath hitched.

She didn’t notice.

Not when she shifted again, this time kneeling directly in front of him, her thighs brushing his legs, face level with his stomach. Not when she leaned forward and pushed his arm aside to get a better angle. Not when her fingers found his lower ribs and followed them down.

Dante froze.

Her hands were warm. Gentle. Focused.

They slid over the ridges of his abs, tracing the line of the rectus muscles, fingertips dragging with maddening slowness toward his navel.

He couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

He’s wrestled with demons all his life, but this time, the ones inside him were winning. His body betrayed him, hardening in his jeans so fast it hurt, blood rushing south like it had a death wish.

And she was right there.

So close her knuckles nearly brushed the top of his waistband. So close she could see everything he didn’t want her to see.

Well... no, that was a lie.

He did want her to see. Just… not like this.

She tilted her head, oblivious.

“The external obliques run from here...” she touched his side, just above his hipbone, “...up to the lower ribs. They assist in rotation and lateral flexion. Can you twist a little to your right?”

He did, barely, but the motion tightened every muscle in his stomach, and his erection twitched in his jeans, aching.

Dante cursed under his breath.

“Did that hurt?” she asked, immediately concerned.

“No,” he said too quickly. “No, I’m fine.”

But he wasn’t. Not even close.

His palms were sweating. His jaw was locked so tight it ached. And if she moved her hand even an inch lower...

“Hey, uh.” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. “Maybe we… stop there?”

She blinked. “I haven’t gone over the lower attachments yet. I still need to trace the linea alba and-”

“Trust me,” he cut in, voice strained, “you don’t.”

There was a pause.

Then her eyes flicked down.

It only took a second, a second to realize what she was looking at.

Her gaze snapped back up to his face, wide-eyed, cheeks blooming scarlet.

Dante cursed softly and dropped his head into his hand. “Shit.”

“I-I didn’t mean-” she stammered, voice small. “I wasn’t trying to make you-”

“I know,” he said quickly. “I know you weren’t. It’s not your fault.”

She didn’t move. Neither did he.

The air between them felt thick. Quiet. Loaded.

“You’re…” She hesitated. “You’re really warm.”

He laughed, hoarse. “Yeah, well. That happens when you’re turned on.”

She inhaled sharply.

Dante groaned, pressing his palm over his face. “God. Sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing?” she whispered.

He looked at her.

She wasn’t laughing. She wasn’t pulling away. She was just...staring. Flushed and breathless and maybe just as rattled as he was.

“Because,” he said, more quietly now. “Because I’m your friend. And I didn’t wanna make this weird.”

She didn’t say anything for a moment. Then:

“…Have you ever…?”

He blinked. “Ever what?”

“Done this,” she said softly. “Been with someone.”

Dante swallowed, throat dry. “No.”

Her eyes searched his.

He shrugged, suddenly very interested in the floor. “Didn’t wanna fuck it up, I guess.”

“You wouldn’t,” she said immediately. “You wouldn’t.”

Something in her voice made him glance back up.

She looked nervous. Hesitant. But not scared.

Not running.

“Dante,” she said, voice barely above a whisper, “can I…?”

He didn’t answer with words.

He just leaned in: slow, scared, shaking and let his forehead rest against hers.

The kiss didn’t come yet.

But it could.

It was there, waiting.

And maybe, if she leaned in a little more…

Part 2

[guilty-ff]

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐑𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬: 𝐃𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

Y/n and Dante share a reckless, passionate bond as demon hunters. But when Y/N sees the hidden cruelty in the human world, her loyalty starts to falter. Pulled between love, guilt, and a dangerous promise, she steps onto a path Dante can’t follow.

Pairing: Dante x Fem!Reader x slight Vergil

Genre: Angst, Betrayal, Fantasy, Fanfiction, DMC

Warnings: Not 100% canon

• You met Dante on a battlefield, soaked in blood and fire, your sword shaking in your grip as a demon twice your size lunged for your throat.

• He blew its head off with Ebony and gave you that cocky grin. “You’re welcome.”

• “I had it,” you snapped. “Sure,” he smirked. “That’s why you were about to be lunch.”

• That was how it began- two smart mouths, one chaotic profession, and too much heat between you to ignore.

• You weren’t supposed to fall in love with him. You were just supposed to fight.

• But the more time you spent with him, the more the world bent around his smile.

• He wasn’t perfect- he was reckless, emotionally unavailable half the time, hot-headed, and infuriatingly smug.

• But he looked at you like you were the only thing worth keeping in this rotting world.

• You bled together, laughed together, screamed at each other in back alleys, kissed like the world was ending every other night.

• “You’re gonna get me killed one day,” you told him once, voice trembling after a close call.

• “Then we’ll die in style,” he said, pressing his forehead to yours.

• Still, the cracks formed.

• You started noticing things how humans treated Makaians.

• Not demons. Not the mindless, bloodthirsty creatures. But the sentient ones. The ones who could speak, feel, cry.

• The ones no one wanted to talk about.

• The ones who were just trying to live, but were still hunted like beasts.

• “They’re not all monsters,” you said quietly one night after a mission.

• Dante tensed. “They’re demons, Y/n. It’s in their nature.”

• “That’s not true. Some of them are just...stuck. Like us.”

• He shook his head, the wall going up again. “The second you start pitying them, you forget what they are.”

• But you had seen them. The ones who begged. The ones who healed instead of harmed.

• The ones who reminded you too much of people you couldn’t save.

• You couldn’t look away anymore.

• And that’s when he came back.

• Vergil.

• He was a ghost at first- nothing but whispers and strange shifts in the air.

• You found him alone, standing in the ruins of a cathedral, gazing up at nothing.

• You raised your weapon. He didn’t flinch.

• “You’re not here to kill me,” he said, voice like ice breaking.

• “I haven’t decided yet,” you replied.

• “Then decide. I won’t stop you.”

• But you didn’t strike. Because there was something in his voice. A deep, ancient exhaustion.

• He didn’t want a fight. Not yet.

• You talked. You came back. Again and again. Against your better judgment.

• He never asked your name, but he remembered your voice.

• You started to see the cracks in him too.

• He never opened up. Not really. But sometimes, his silence said more than Dante’s words ever could.

• He told you he wanted power. Not for destruction, but to fix something broken.

• “If I had true power, I could reshape the world,” he said.

• “You’d just burn it down,” you answered.

• He looked at you then, sharp and tired. “Would that be so terrible?”

• You didn’t agree with him. But you saw him. You saw what silence had made of him.

• He offered you a deal.

• Help him get what he needed and he’d grant you a wish.

• A single chance to save the Makaians. To bring peace where there was only pain.

• It was a deal you weren’t sure you believed. But you were desperate enough to try.

• You never told Dante.

• You knew what he’d say.

• “Don’t be stupid, Y/N.”

• “You’re not actually talking to him, are you?”

• “Tell me it’s strategy. Tell me you don’t believe him.”

• But it wasn’t strategy anymore. And belief had nothing to do with it.

• Lady found out first.

• You didn’t know she’d followed you.

• “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that,” she said, arms crossed, tone cold.

• “How long?”

• “It’s not like that.”

• “Save it for Dante. He’s gonna eat you alive.”

• And he did.

• The fight was nuclear.

• “You lied to me.”

• “I didn’t lie—”

• “You hid him. You protected him!”

• “I was trying to fix something bigger than us, Dante!”

• “So you sold me out?”

• “I never stopped loving you!”

• “Then why the hell did you pick him?”

• You were both screaming. Crying. Fists clenched.

• “Because he gave me a chance to save someone. You just told me to shut up and follow orders.”

• Silence.

• His voice broke. “I thought I was enough.”

• “You were. You are. But this isn’t about us.”

• The betrayal came during their final fight.

• You stepped between them, blades drawn.

• “Y/n,” Dante warned, voice raw.

• “Don’t do this.”

• “I made a promise,” you whispered. “Not to him. To them.”

• Vergil didn’t speak.

• He just watched.

• Dante didn’t swing. Not at you.

• But he didn’t forgive you either.

• You followed Vergil into the demon world.

• The gates closed behind you.

• Time moved differently there, slow and sick and endless.

• You watched him, day after day, fighting his own mind, his own thirst for power.

• You didn’t love him. You never did.

• But he let you stay.

• He let you try.

• Years passed.

• You stopped counting.

• But you never forgot.

• Time in the demon world moved slower, stretching endlessly, as though the world itself had been suspended in an endless state of stasis.

• You hadn’t aged much. You still looked the same as the day you stepped into the demon world, your reflection unchanged, though your heart felt heavier with every passing moment.

• But the world you left behind, Dante’s world, kept turning. You didn’t realize how much until you returned.

• One day, you found a tear in the veil. Just long enough to slip back into the human world.

• When you stepped back into Devil May Cry, it was like stepping into a forgotten dream. Everything had changed, yet nothing had.

• The shop was abandoned, the walls dusty and cracked, a shadow of the place where laughter and chaos had once lived.

• You wandered through the wreckage, each corner a fading memory of a life you had walked away from. But the silence felt deeper than you’d expected.

• You found an old photo buried in the rubble: Dante, grinning, bloodied, and you beside him, laughing like you had nothing to lose.

• And in a drawer, under broken whiskey bottles and scattered bullets, was a letter. The handwriting was unmistakable. Dante’s. You opened it carefully, your hands trembling as you read:

“Y/N,

If you’re reading this, you finally came back.

I waited. I really did.

Not forever, but longer than anyone should wait for someone who left.

I don’t hate you. I wish I could.

But some part of me always hoped you’d come home.

I hope he gave you peace.

Because I couldn’t anymore.

—D.”

• The words echoed in your mind, the weight of them sinking in like lead. It wasn’t just a letter, it was a goodbye.

• You didn’t know how long he had been waiting, or how long it had been since you’d left. Time in the demon world felt like a dream, but here, in the ruins of Devil May Cry, you realized how much had passed.

• Dante had been left behind, his world moving on without you. And though you hadn’t aged, time had caught up to him in ways you couldn’t see, but now you felt the impact of it.

• The world you left behind was gone, and with it, Dante. The weight of that truth settled in your chest, suffocating and cold.

• And so you stood there, in the abandoned shop that once felt like home, with his letter in your hands and the ghost of his presence haunting you. The time you had taken for granted had stolen him away, leaving you to walk a path you never thought you’d walk alone.

• You returned to the demon world that same night.

• Vergil never asked where you went.

• But he held the letter once. Just once.

• And didn’t say a word.

• You didn’t cry. Not anymore.

• But you never stopped loving the man you left behind.

• And you never stopped wondering what it would’ve been like…

• If you had chosen to stay.

[guilty-ff]

𝐁𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐌𝐢𝐝𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐏𝐭. 𝟓

ᡕᠵ᠊ᡃ່࡚ࠢ࠘ ⸝່ࠡࠣ᠊߯᠆ࠣ࠘ᡁࠣ࠘᠊᠊ࠢ࠘𐡏 ˚⁎⁺˳ .

This story takes place after Jason's death (warning: not 100% Comic accurate)

Pairings: Dick Grayson/Nightwing × (fem!Reader), Slight Jason Todd/Red hood x (fem!Reader)

Genre: Action, Angst, Revenge, Violence, DC

Warnings: Comic Spoilers!, Explicit content, Child abuse, swearing, torture, mental health, weapons

Word Count: 3634

Y/n feels a strange mix of nerves and determination settle in her chest as the jet circles lower, bringing her closer to Gotham. She presses her forehead against the cold glass window, watching as the sprawling city lights glitter below her like stars trapped on the ground. 

Gotham has a dark beauty, with towering skyscrapers casting shadows over crowded streets, bridges arching across wide rivers, and entire neighbourhoods hidden behind veils of mist and fog. It looks chaotic, raw, and dangerous and it is about to become her new home.

As the plane descends, she steadies herself for this new chapter. Her mother's words echo in her mind, firm and straightforward. "Remember, Y/n, you're in Gotham to observe and to learn," Talia had said with her usual calm certainty. "This will be a valuable experience. Don't reveal your past- not to Bruce, not to anyone. Let them think you're just a spoiled child in need of toughening up. It will be safer that way."

The jet finally touches down with a gentle jolt, and Y/n takes a steadying breath. When the door opens, a cool gust of night air sweeps in, carrying the faint smell of rain and metal. She steps out, scanning the surroundings with practiced precision, her senses heightened.

Waiting for her beside a sleek black car is an older man in a perfectly tailored suit. He stands with impeccable posture, hands clasped in front of him. His expression is both kind and shrewd, and he inclines his head slightly as she approaches.

"Good evening, Miss Y/n," he says, his voice smooth and formal. "I am Alfred Pennyworth, butler to the Wayne family. He has asked me to personally escort you to Wayne Manor. Welcome to Gotham."

"Thank you, Alfred." She nods, her voice steady and polite. His calm demeanour puts her somewhat at ease, a welcome buffer against the tension simmering beneath the surface. He gestures toward the car, opening the door for her with a practiced grace. She slides into the backseat, the leather cool against her palms as she settles in.

The car driving  away from the airstrip and toward the city. Alfred's eyes meet hers briefly in the rear-view mirror. "Gotham is... an unusual city, Miss Y/n," he says, his tone careful yet warm. "I thought a brief introduction might be helpful as we drive."

"I'd appreciate that," Y/n replies, keeping her voice light. She has faced enemies in battle without flinching, but something about Gotham's unpredictability keeps her on edge.

Alfred's faint smile softens the air of caution in his words. "To put it simply, Gotham is a city of extremes. Its beauty is often deceptive. The grandeur you'll see is matched by shadows of poverty and crime. This place has a way of revealing the best and the worst in people."

Y/n turns to the window, watching the city unfold. They drive through streets where run down buildings and rusted signs seem to lean into the oppressive air. In the dim corners of doorways, malnourished children huddle together, their hollow eyes following the occasional passer by and tired prostitutes forcefully offering themselves for a little money. Her chest tightens as she takes in the stark contrast between the city's opulent skyline and its forgotten souls.

She thinks of Jason. She can almost picture him as a boy in these streets- hungry, cold, and alone, trying to survive in the shadow of Gotham's elite. The memory of him stirs a pang of anger and sadness, though she pushes it down quickly, masking it with the persona she's here to project.

"My mother thought I needed a reality check," she says, injecting her voice with a breezy carelessness. "Apparently, Gotham was the perfect choice."

Alfred chuckles softly, a polite but knowing sound. "A reality check, indeed."

The car transitions from the chaos of the city to the quiet elegance of the suburbs. Alfred navigates through winding roads lined with tall trees and stately homes. When the car finally turns onto a private driveway, Y/n catches her first glimpse of Wayne Manor. The imposing gothic structure looms ahead, its grandeur accentuated by the soft glow of lights spilling through its many windows.

"Quite the sight, isn't it, Miss Y/n?" Alfred remarks, his voice carrying a faint note of pride. "Master Damian, of course, considers it underwhelming compared to the many places of his childhood."

Y/n smirks faintly, suppressing a laugh. "I can't say I've seen many places like this either," she replies, though the truth is far from her words. She thinks of the League's hidden places- stark, practical, and carved into remote cliffs or buried deep in the shadows of the earth. Compared to those cold halls, Wayne Manor feels almost alive.

Inside, the warmth of the manor surprises her. Rich wood panelling and shimmering chandeliers give the space a stately elegance, but before she can fully take it in, chaos erupts.

"Damian, you idiotic maniac, give it back!"

A teenager storms past Y/n, fury radiating from him, while a smaller boy with dark hair and a smug expression follows close behind.

"Perhaps you should invest in better quality items, Drake," Damian answers teasingly. "Clearly, those headphones weren't meant to last."

Tim Drake spins around, glaring at Damian with pure annoyance. "You broke them! They're limited edition!"

"Consider it a lesson in resilience."

"I'm telling Dick the second he gets back from Blüdhaven!" Tim yells, his face red with frustration.

Before the argument escalates further, Alfred clears his throat with a sharp but polite "Ahem." Both boys pause, their attention drawn to him.

"Gentlemen, we have a guest," Alfred announces, gesturing toward Y/n.

Tim mutters an awkward "Hi" before retreating upstairs, clearly eager to escape the situation. Damian, however, freezes when his eyes land on Y/n. For a moment, his usual confidence falters, replaced by something raw and vulnerable. Without warning, he rushes forward and hugsher tightly, burying his face in her side.

Y/n's breath hitches in surprise, but she quickly wraps her arms around him, holding him close. "Damian..."

He pulls back just as abruptly as he hugs her, his cheeks flushing. "That was... I was merely ensuring you were unharmed from your journey. Nothing more."

She smiles, her tone teasing. "Of course. The great Damian Al Ghul showing sentimentality? Impossible."

"Tch." He scowls, though the blush deepens. "This is why I avoid attachments."

From the staircase, Tim's voice drifts down. "That's a lie, and we all know it!"

"Quiet, Drake!" Damian snaps, his voice sharp, but Y/n catches the flicker of a smile on his lips.

Once the chaos subsides, Damian offers to show Y/n around the manor. She accepts, eager for the chance to talk to him alone. As they walk through the expansive halls, she looks amazed at the blend of elegance and history, but her focus remains on the boy beside her.

"You've grown," she says softly, glancing at him.

"Of course I have," he replies. "It's been years."

They reach a quiet sitting room, and Damian hesitates before sitting with her on the plush couch. She sits beside him, her expression growing serious.

"Damian," she begins, her tone serious, "I need to talk to you."

He turns to her, his expression immediately alert. "What is it?"

She hesitates for a moment before saying, "Grandfather is dead."

His reaction is startled- a flicker of emotion crossing his face before he changes it back to his usual stoicism. "How?"

"It doesn't matter," she says firmly. "What matters is that I've left the League. I'm forging my own path now."

He narrows his eyes slightly. "You mean... you're still an assassin?"

"Yes," she admits. "But on my own terms. I believe killing is sometimes necessary to fight crime. I won't apologize for that."

Damian studies her, his green eyes sharp. "Does the family know?"

"No," she says. "And they don't need to. This is my fight, Damian. My choice."

He nods slowly, understanding but conflicted. "I won't say anything."

A small smile tugs at her lips. "Thank you."

They sit in silence for a moment before she adds, "By the way, that argument with Tim earlier... you were enjoying yourself, weren't you?"

His cheeks tint red again. "I don't know what you're talking about."

She laughs softly, nudging him. "It's good to see you like this. Part of a family."

The soft sound of approaching footsteps breaks the silence. Alfred, ever the presence of calm authority, appears around the corner, his attire immaculate as always.

"Miss Y/n," he begins with a polite bow of his head, "your room is ready. I believe you'll find it most accommodating. If there's anything you need, do not hesitate to call for me."

She glances at him, unsure how to respond. The idea of having her own room- something more than the League's barracks or a run downed safe house feels foreign, even indulgent.

"Thank you," she mutters softly, still adjusting to the kindness she is not used to.

"Dinner will be served in thirty minutes," Alfred adds with a warm smile before disappearing as quietly as he arrived.

Damian walks her to the room, keeping his usual air of detachment, though she catches him glancing at her occasionally. As they arrive, he nods curtly and walks off, leaving her standing in front of the polished wooden door. 

Taking a deep breath, she opens it.

──────────────────────

Y/n freezes as she steps inside. The room is grand practically a palace compared to the cramped  quarters she would known in the League. Rich, dark wood panels line the walls, and the faint scent of lavender lingers in the air. A plush bed with a headboard dominates the centre of the room. To one side, a grand desk sits beneath shelves filled with books she does not recognize, and on the other, a wardrobe big enough to hold a lifetime of disguises.

But it is the window that draws her attention.

She moves toward it as if in a trance, the faint creak of the wooden floor under her feet the only sound. Unlocking the latch, she pushes the window open, letting the sharp, cold night air rush into the room.

The view takes her breath away. Below, a sprawling garden stretches out, bathed in the soft silver light of the moon. Flowers of every colour bloom, their petals swaying gently in the breeze. A narrow stone path through the garden, leading to an ancient well covered in creeping ivy.

Her chest tightens. For the first time in what feels like forever, she feels something close to peace. She had forgotten what beauty looked like, what it meant to stand in a moment that was not overshadowed by pain or survival.

She leans against the windowsill, the cold biting into her skin, grounding her. "Freedom," she whispers to herself, the word strange on her tongue. Jason had talked about this once, about stepping away from the shadows, from the chains that bound them.

"This is what you meant, isn't it?" she murmurs under her breath, her gaze locked on the well. A small smile tugs at her lips, unbidden but not unwelcome.

Her thoughts are interrupted by Alfred's voice calling up from the corridor. "Miss Y/n, dinner is ready."

With a sigh, she closes the window, sealing the cold night air out. The world outside remains untouched, as if it's waiting for her to come back and find it again.

As Y/n follows the smell of food down the hall, her senses sharpen. The faint aroma of roasted meat, fresh bread, and spices fills the air, making her stomach twist- not in hunger, but in unease. The grand dining room comes into view, its long table emphasised by a chandelier that casts soft golden light across the polished surface.

Six chairs are set, but only three are occupied. Damian is already seated, his posture as rigid as ever. Across from him sit Alfred and Tim, who offers her a polite but curious glance.

"Where are the others?" Y/n asks, her voice clipped.

Damian, cutting into his plate with precision, does not even look up. "Father is occupied with work at Wayne Enterprises, as usual. And Grayson is in Blüdhaven. He'll probably return tomorrow."

Her brow furrows. "Grayson?"

"Dick Grayson," Damian replies, his tone flat. "Eldest sibling. You'll meet him soon enough."

The name sticks in her mind for some reason, but she pushes the thought away.

As she sits down, her eyes are drawn to the food. The sheer abundance of it feels overwhelming: steaming dishes of rich meats, buttery vegetables, decadent desserts. She swallows hard, her chest tightening again, but this time not with awe.

She is transported back to the streets of Gotham, where malnourished children with hollow eyes begged for scraps. Her hands clench under the table, the fork and knife feeling alien in her grasp.

"Pathetic," she thinks bitterly. The irony of it all: the rich and powerful feasting while the weak starve, their lives devoured by those with more than enough. Her appetite vanishes entirely.

Despite her discomfort, the others chat casually. Tim discusses a project he is working on, while Damian occasionally throws in a sarcastic comment. Alfred's dry humour draws the occasional laugh, and even Damian seems... lighter, happier in her presence. She notices the change but says nothing, unsure if she should feel honoured or burdened by his dependence on her.

As the dinner concludes, Alfred approaches her, his kind eyes warm with gratitude.

"Miss Y/n," he says softly, "thank you. Damian has... changed since you've arrived. He hasn't opened up to anyone like this in years. It's a relief to see him smile again."

She is taken aback, unsure how to respond. A part of her wants to reject the idea that she's made any difference. But another part, the part that still aches from losing Jason feels a flicker of pride.

"You're welcome," she murmurs awkwardly, avoiding his gaze.

That night, Y/n lies in bed, staring at the ceiling. The room is too quiet, too comfortable. She closes her eyes, hoping sleep will come quickly. But instead, the darkness drags her back into the past.

She is in a dimly lit room, the air thick with the stench of blood and sweat. The walls echo with the sound of her own ragged breathing. Jason is beside her, his face pale, his body trembling as he tries to stand.

"Get up," she whispers urgently, her voice cracking. "Jason, we have to move!"

But he does not respond. She turns to see why and freezes. His chest is covered in blood, the red seeping through his uniform like a spreading stain. His eyes are dull, unfocused.

A shadow looms over them, a figure she cannot fully see but knows too well. The voice is cold, sharp, cutting through her like a blade.

"You failed," it says. "You were supposed to protect him."

"No," she whispers, backing away. "I didn't—"

"You let him die."

The room tilts, spinning around her as Jason's lifeless body slumps to the ground. She screams, but no sound comes out. Shadows rise around her, twisting into grotesque shapes, reaching for her with clawed hands.

"Jason!" she screams, jolting awake.

Her heart pounds in her chest as she sits up, gasping for air. The room is still, the only sound her own ragged breathing. She runs a trembling hand through her hair, trying to shake the images from her mind.

"This is my freedom?" she mutters bitterly to herself, tears stinging her eyes. "This is what it feels like?"

For the first time since arriving at Wayne Manor, she wonders if she made the right choice coming here, or if the shadows of her past will follow her forever.  

──────────────────────

Loud voices echo through the halls, disrupting Y/n's sleep. She stands up, tired and annoyed, as the muffled sounds grow louder. One voice is sharp and biting- Damian's, and the other is casual, teasing, and far too cheerful for this hour.

She sits up, running a hand through her hair before pulling on a sweatshirt. Her peace is clearly under attack, and the perpetrators are about to face her wrath.

As she steps into the hallway, she spots Damian glaring daggers at a tall man standing with his arms crossed and a wide grin plastered across his face.

"You're still as grumpy as ever," the man teases, ignoring Damian's withering look.

"Grayson," Damian growls. "Don't you have someone else to bother?"

The man laughs, the sound bright and infectious. "Not when you're this much fun."

Then his gaze lands on Y/n. His grin widens. "And who's this?" he asks, stepping forward. "The famous Y/n? The miracle worker who managed to make 'this guy' somewhat tolerable?"

Y/n crosses her arms, unimpressed. "You're... loud."

Dick pauses, his grin faltering for a moment before he recovers. "Wow. Tough crowd." He offers a hand. "Dick Grayson. My pleasure to meet-."

She does not take his hand. "Nice to meet you, Richard."

"Dick," he corrects, his smile becoming a little strained.

"Sure," she says, brushing past him to stand next to Damian.

Dick looks after her, a mix of amusement and confusion on his face. "Is she always this charming?" he asks Damian, who smirks.

"She doesn't like idiots," Damian replies flatly.

"Guess I'll just have to grow on her," Dick quips. "It's a good thing I'm irresistible."

Y/n rolls her eyes, muttering, "Nepo baby energy."

Dick looks genuinely offended. "I have earned my nepo baby privileges, thank you very much."

──────────────────────

By the time Y/n makes it to the dining room, Alfred is already setting out breakfast. The long, polished table hosts a spread that's almost overwhelming: eggs, bacon, toast, fresh fruit, and more. 

Bruce sits at the head of the table, reading the newspaper. Damian is already seated, and Dick strolls in casually, pulling out a chair across from her. He flashes her a grin as he sits.

"Don't worry," he says. "It's not a trap. You're allowed to eat."

Y/n glares at him. "Hilarious."

Dick smirks, clearly enjoying her hostility.

Bruce finally looks up from his paper. "Dick, stop antagonizing our guest," he says in a calm but firm tone.

"Who, me? I'm just being friendly," Dick protests innocently.

Damian snorts. "Grayson's idea of 'friendly' is an exercise in irritation."

Breakfast is a strange mix of tension and teasing. Dick continues to try to win Y/n over with his humour, but she shoots down every attempt with sharp remarks and cold stares. Damian, for once, seems genuinely entertained.

By the end of the meal, Dick leans back in his chair, looking at Y/n with an amused expression. "You know, you're like a tougher Damian," he says. "I'm starting to think we should keep you around just to keep me on my toes."

Y/n doesn't respond, focusing on her coffee.

──────────────────────

After breakfast, Alfred approaches Y/n with a polite smile. "Miss Y/n, Master Wayne would like to see you in his office."

Y/n nods, her curiosity hidden. She follows Alfred down the hall to a large, imposing door. Inside, Bruce is seated at a massive desk, papers and files neatly arranged in front of him. He gestures for her to sit in the chair across from him.

"I wanted to discuss a few things," Bruce begins, his voice calm but authoritative. "Mainly your safety."

Y/n raises an eyebrow. "I'm fine."

Bruce leans back in his chair, his gaze steady. "I'm aware of what happened to your grandfather. Talia killed him, which puts you and Damian as targets of the League of Assassins."

Y/n stiffens but says nothing.

"That's why I want you to learn the basics of self-defence," Bruce continues. "It's important you're able to protect yourself."

Y/n forces her expression to remain neutral, but inside, she is boiling. He does not know the truth, does not know that she has been fighting for her life long before she ever stepped foot in this house.

"I think a self-defence class could be useful," she says carefully, pretending to have no history of combat.

Bruce narrows his eyes slightly, sensing her resistance. "It's not optional. And Dick is more than qualified to teach you."

"Dick?" she echoes, her tone laced with disdain. "Isn't he busy... being loud?"

Bruce's lips twitch in what might almost be a smile. "He's more capable than he looks."

Y/n clenches her jaw, but she knows better than to argue. "Fine," she says tightly.

Before she leaves, she hesitates. "I want to start working," she says, her voice firmer now.

Bruce looks up from his paperwork. "You can work at Wayne Enterprises. I'll have HR—"

"No," Y/n interrupts. "I don't want any handouts. I want to work on my own terms. Somewhere small, like a library."

Bruce studies her for a moment, his expression unreadable. "You'll need a bank account."

"I'll take care of that," she says quickly. "Just... let me handle it."

He nods slowly, his gaze lingering on her. "Alright. But if you need anything, you'll let me know."

"Sure," she replies, standing up.

As she leaves his office, she cannot help but feel a small victory. A private bank account is exactly what she needs, for her "real" work.

The rest of the day passes in a blur, with Y/n carefully navigating the dynamics of the Wayne household. She avoids Dick as much as possible, knowing that his teasing and charm will only irritate her further. But as she settles into her new life, a part of her wonders how long she can keep her secrets buried.

[guilty-ff]

𝐁𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐌𝐢𝐝𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐏𝐭. 𝟒

ᡕᠵ᠊ᡃ່࡚ࠢ࠘ ⸝່ࠡࠣ᠊߯᠆ࠣ࠘ᡁࠣ࠘᠊᠊ࠢ࠘𐡏 ˚⁎⁺˳ .

This story takes place after Jason's death (warning: not 100% Comic accurate)

Pairings: Dick Grayson/Nightwing x (fem!Reader), Slight Jason Todd/Red hood x (fem!Reader)

Genre: Action, Angst, Revenge, Violence, DC

Warnings: Comic Spoilers!, Explicit content, Child abuse, swearing, torture, mental health, weapons

Word count: 2589

The air feels thick with blood, the cold smell of death filling the room. Jason stands over Ra's al Ghul's lifeless body, his chest heaving with exhaustion. His broken hand hangs limply at his side, the weight of the fight heavy on him, but something haunts him- a strange emptiness, a hollowness where there should be victory.

He killed him. He killed the man who controlled Y/n's life for so long. He took away the source of her torment and pain. But now, when it is over, Jason does not feel relief. He does not feel victorious. Instead, there is only the growing self-hatred eating him from the inside.

The door to the training room swings open, and Jason's gaze snaps toward the figure standing in the doorway. It is Talia al Ghul. Her expression is not one of anger, grief, or shock. It is something darker- satisfaction, even amusement.

Talia does not flinch as she takes in the scene. The bloody remains of her father lie across the floor. "You've done what I could never bring myself to do," she says, her voice calm. "I suppose I should thank you."

Jason's jaw tightens as anger surges in him. He wants to kill her too. She is just as much a threat as her father. He steps forward, eyes burning with rage.

But Talia holds up her hands in a gesture of surrender, her gaze never leaving his. "I'm not here to fight you," she says, her voice careful.

Jason remains aggressive, fists clenched, but he does not move. The tension in the air crackles, and he waits for her next move.

"I came to discuss your next move," she continues, glancing briefly at her father's body. "What you did was necessary, I suppose. Ra's had grown too obsessed with his plans. He was always blind to what really mattered. You were right to stop him." There is no sadness in her voice- only the same cold, calculating tone Jason expects from her.

Her expression shifts, hardens, as she looks at him. "But you've made an enemy of all who followed him. The League of Assassins will come after you, Jason. And they will come after Y/n."

Jason's eyes narrow. "What do you mean?"

Talia's lips curl into a cold smile. "I'm moving her. I can't leave her here, not with you. She needs to go far away. You can't protect her from the consequences of your actions. Ra's may be dead, but others will want revenge. For his death. For her defiance."

Jason's heart skips a beat. "What are you talking about? Where is she going?"

Talia's eyes flicker toward the door. "You'll never see her again," she whispers. "She will be far from you. Safe. No one will hurt her anymore. You can't follow her. Not this time."

Before Jason can respond, Talia turns and walks away, her footsteps echoing in the silent room.

Jason stands there, rage building inside him. He cannot let her take Y/n. Not now. Not after everything they have been through. He has to stop her. He runs through the hallways, breathing hard, heading straight for Y/n's room. He needs to get to her, tell her everything, explain why she cannot leave him.

He reaches the door and slams his hand against the metal. The lock breaks with a twist, and the door swings open. Y/n is sitting on the floor, her back against the cold stone wall. She looks up at him, eyes wide with shock and confusion. When she sees him, her expression falters. She stands quickly, unsure of what to do.

Jason cannot hold it back. "I killed him," he says, his voice rough. "Ra's al Ghul. He's gone. I killed him, Y/n. He's never coming back."

Her breath hitches. Her eyes flicker with disbelief, lips parting as if she wants to speak but cannot find the words. Before she can, she slaps him hard across the face.

The sting of her palm burns against his skin. He does not fight it. He just stands there, stunned, as she steps back, tears flooding her eyes.

"You- you don't get to do that!" Y/n cries, voice thick with emotion. "You don't get to take my revenge! I was going to kill him. I was going to make him suffer. And you-" She chokes on her words, fists shaking. "You took that from me. You took my chance to be free of him forever."

Jason's throat tightens. He watches her, his heart aching. He wants to explain, to tell her why he did it, why it was necessary. But Y/n is not listening. She is too angry, too hurt to hear him. And in that moment, Jason realizes- she is not angry with him. She is angry because she lost something. She lost the chance for her own closure.

"Y/n, I—" Jason starts, but she cuts him off, voice shaking with fury.

"Don't tell me what I need," she spits. "You don't get to lecture me on what I should do. You don't know me. You don't know what I've been through. Revenge is the only thing I had to keep me going. And now you've taken that from me. I don't know what's left."

Jason's face twists with guilt. He cannot bear seeing her like this. He did it for her. He wanted to free her from the past. But now he sees that he took something important from her- the chance to confront it herself.

"No, Y/n," Jason says, his voice breaking. "You don't need revenge. You don't need to keep holding onto that anger. You can move on. Please, Y/n, listen to me."

Y/n's eyes narrow, chest rising and falling with rapid breaths. "Don't tell me what I need, Jason," she says, voice fierce. "You don't get to tell me what to do when you're still holding on to your own demons."

Jason's face falls. Her words hit him hard. She is right. He wants revenge on Batman. He has been consumed by it for so long. He thought he could protect Y/n from her past, but he has not even let go of his own.

"I want to make him feel what he made me feel, Y/n," Jason admits, voice quieter now. "I've spent so much of my life thinking about revenge, thinking about taking him down. I don't know how to stop. But here I am, telling you to let it go when I can't even do it myself."

Y/n takes a step back, her eyes dark with realization. Her gaze softens, but it is filled with a sadness that Jason knows he deserves. "You're no better than me," she whispers. "You want revenge on Batman, but then you're standing here telling me I shouldn't want the same. It's hypocritical."

Jason's chest tightens. For a long time, he cannot speak. Her words cut deeper than any blow. He realizes she is right. He is a hypocrite. He has been so focused on vengeance that he could not see how unfair he was being to her. He had taken her chance at revenge away, yet he clung to his own thirst for it.

Y/n shakes her head, eyes heavy with understanding. "We're both trapped in this," she says softly. "We're both holding on to something that's destroying us. And you can't tell me to stop when you can't stop yourself."

Jason does not know how to respond. He stands there, looking at her, knowing she is right. He does not have an answer for her. He cannot fix things for her, not when he has not fixed himself. He reaches out for her, gently cupping her face. "I'm sorry," he murmurs. "I didn't want to take that from you. I just-" His words trail off. What else can he say?

Y/n's expression softens, but there is still pain in her eyes. "I don't need you to apologize," she whispers. "I just need you to understand."

He nods slowly. Before he can say anything more, he leans in and kisses her. It is slow and gentle, not desperate. It is a kiss filled with everything they both want but cannot fully express; tenderness, desperation, grief, all tangled together.

When they pull apart, Jason's forehead rests against hers, both of them breathing hard. "I don't know what comes next for us," he whispers. "But you need to leave."

Y/n closes her eyes, then opens them again. "But I don't want to", she says quietly.

Jason's heart races as Y/n's words sink in, and for a moment, he is frozen. He can feel the weight of her words, heavy with truth and defiance, cutting through him like a knife. She does not want to go. She does not want to leave him. And despite everything that has happened, despite all the reasons he has been telling her to go, her decision cuts straight to the core of his own turmoil.

"I don't want to go," Y/n says again, her voice shaking but resolute. "This is my choice. My own will. Like you always told me I should have- freedom to make my own decisions, to choose my own path, right? I've been a prisoner my whole life, Jason. But now, for the first time, I get to decide. And I'm choosing you."

Jason feels his breath catch in his throat. The look in her eyes is unwavering. She is standing there, vulnerable but strong, giving him a choice that seems impossible to accept. She is asking him to let her stay, to let her be with him- despite the consequences, despite everything they have been through.

She steps closer, not waiting for him to respond. "I'm not going because someone else tells me to," she continues, her voice barely above a whisper, but fierce. "I'm not leaving because my mother or anyone else says it's safer for me. I'm leaving because I want to be safe. Safe with you. I want to stay with you, Jason."

She pauses, her hand reaching out to touch his arm gently. "You told me once I deserved my freedom. Well, I'm taking it now. And the freedom I choose is to be with you. Don't take that from me. Please don't make that choice for me."

Jason's chest tightens at the words, and he feels like he is suffocating. He wants to let her stay- God, he wants nothing more- but the reality of what is coming, the danger that will inevitably follow them if she stays, claws at his heart.

But her words echo in his mind: freedom. She is choosing her own path, making a choice that is hers alone to make, just like he always told her she deserved.

And yet... He has been telling her to leave, to go, because he cannot bear the thought of her being in danger. The idea of her facing the wrath of the League because of his actions, because of his past... it terrifies him. But as he looks into her eyes, he knows she is right. It is her choice, her freedom, and maybe it is time he let her make it.

"Y/n..." Jason starts, but his words falter. He does not know what to say. He wants to tell her everything- how he feels, how terrified he is, how he has never felt this much for anyone but the words don not come. She is looking at him with such raw vulnerability, and all he wants is to hold her and protect her from the world.

But he cannot.

Instead, he just shakes his head, his own heart breaking. "I don't want you to stay because of me," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don't want you to be here out of guilt, out of obligation. You deserve better than this, Y/n. You deserve peace, a life where you're not constantly running. I can't promise that to you. I can't promise you safety, and I can't promise you happiness. I can't promise that I can protect you from what's coming next. And if you stay, you'll be in danger, and I'll never forgive myself if something happens to you."

Tears fill Y/n's eyes, but she does not back down. She takes another step closer, her hand gently cupping his face, her thumb tracing his jaw. "I don't care about safety," she says softly, her voice breaking. "I don't care about guarantees. All I care about is being with you. That is my choice. It's what I've always wanted, and now it's finally mine to make. I'm not running from you. I'm not leaving you behind."

Jason's breath hitches, and for a moment, he is caught in the swirling chaos of his emotions. She is looking at him with such intensity, with such love and resolve, that it makes his chest ache. She is choosing him. And despite all the danger, despite all the uncertainty, she is standing there, holding onto him, telling him that her decision is to be with him.

"I don't want to lose you, Y/n," Jason finally admits, his voice raw with emotion. "But if you stay, I'll be the one to put you in danger. I won't be able to protect you from everything. I won't be able to shield you from the consequences of what I've done."

Y/n shakes her head slowly, a small, sad smile on her lips. "I'm already in danger, Jason," she says quietly. "I've been in danger my whole life. What's one more fight? What's one more war if I get to choose who I'm fighting for?"

Jason feels a lump form in his throat as he looks down at her, realizing that despite all his fears, despite all his instinct to protect her from the world and the chaos he has brought into their lives, she has made her choice.

"But you promise me something, Jason," Y/n whispers, her voice thick with emotion. "Promise me that no matter what, we'll find a way to make this work. That we'll find a way to be together, no matter what comes next."

Jason pulls back slightly, looking down at her with a sad expression. He does not have answers. He does not have a plan. All he can offer her is the promise that he will never stop trying.

"I promise," he says quietly, his voice steady. "I'll find a way to fix this. I'll find a way to make things right. For both of us."

They stand there in silence for a moment, holding onto each other tightly, before the sound of footsteps approaching pulls them apart.

Talia's voice cuts through the room. "The jet is waiting," she says sharply, glancing at Jason with a look that borders on impatience. She does not seem to care much about the emotional scene unfolding before her, her eyes already on the door as if she has no patience for this moment of weakness.

Y/n glances up at Jason one last time, her eyes filled with both sadness and determination. "I'll be back," she whispers, her voice low, just for him.

Jason nods slowly, his throat tightening once more. "I'll be waiting, Y/n. I'll find you. No matter where you go, I'll find you."

She smiles softly, a tear escaping down her cheek as she gives him a small, almost sad wave before turning and walking toward the door.

Talia gives Jason one last look, the same calculating expression in her eyes. "We'll be gone before you know it," she says coldly, and with that, she steps aside, allowing Y/n to leave.

Jason watches them walk away, the door closing softly behind them. He stands there, heart pounding in his chest, not knowing what comes next but knowing one thing for certain- he will not stop until he finds her.

Part 5

[guilty-ff]

𝐁𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐌𝐢𝐝𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐏𝐭. 𝟑

ᡕᠵ᠊ᡃ່࡚ࠢ࠘ ⸝່ࠡࠣ᠊߯᠆ࠣ࠘ᡁࠣ࠘᠊᠊ࠢ࠘𐡏 ˚⁎⁺˳ .

This story takes place after Jason's death (warning: not 100% Comic accurate)

Pairings: Dick Grayson/Nightwing x (fem!Reader), Slight Jason Todd/Red hood x (fem!Reader)

Genre: Action, Angst, Revenge, Violence, DC

Warnings: Comic Spoilers!, Explicit content, Child abuse, swearing, torture, mental health, weapons

Word count: 3855

The room is quiet, too quiet for the intensity of the sparring session that had been going on for what seemed like hours. Sweat beads on her forehead, dripping down her face, her movements become sloppy. She is exhausted, physically and emotionally drained, but she does not stop. She cannot stop. Not yet.

Jason's strikes are relentless, but controlled. He does not give her any space to breathe, forcing her to respond, forcing her to push through the pain, the exhaustion.

It's nothing like Ra's training, nothing like the harsh, brutal sessions under her grandfather's command. Yet, as Jason's fist connects with her side, the pain is sharp, shaking her, and her mind flashes back.

Her grandfather's voice echoes in her ears, harsh and demanding. "Behave, or you will never survive this world"

Suddenly, it is like she is no longer in the present. She is back there, back in the cold, dim-lit training chambers under Ra's al Ghul's eye, pinned against the stone floor with his hands forcing her to stay down, her body aching from countless hours of torture disguised as training. "You will learn to endure. You will learn to obey." Ra's voice echoes in her mind. "Obey."

Her breathing quickens. Jason's figure blurs before her eyes, moving into her grandfather's form, his dark eyes cold with that same ruthless command. He is there again, towering over her, forcing her to submit, telling her that her pain meant nothing, that her will did not matter. "You will learn to follow orders, or you will be destroyed."

No.

She shakes her head, trying to snap out of it. But the more she fights it, the more the memories hold her down, suffocating her.

"Behave."

The words drill into her head like a hammer against an anvil.

Suddenly, the world around her blurs, becoming distant, distorted, and then- snap.

A primal surge erupts from deep within her chest, her hands trembling violently as she moves. Anger. Fear. Pain. They mix, boiling up in a violent wave, and in that instant, the dagger forms in her hand. It is an instinct she did not even know she had, a violent force she had not learned to control, and she does not think, does not hesitate. She throws it.

The blade cuts through the air in a blur of black, shimmering in the dim light of the room. Jason sees it coming too late, his body reacting out of reflex. He jerks to the side, barely avoiding the deadly strike, but the dagger slices across his hand, blood spilling from the wound.

He stumbles back, looking down at the cut that is quickly staining his gloves and then back at her. His face is frozen in a mixture of disbelief and shock, but more than that, there is something else- concern.

"Jesus, what the hell, Y/n?"

She does not hear him. She cannot hear anything anymore. She is barely aware of her surroundings, only aware of what just happened. What she just did.

The cold weight of the dagger still lingers in her hand, and she drops it. The cold, unfamiliar feeling of control lost rattles her to her core.

Her body trembles violently as she stares at the floor in front of her, the air around her thick with the silence that follows the chaos. What the hell is wrong with me?

Jason takes a cautious step forward, his eyes flickering between the dagger and her. He does not rush to attack, does not yell. Instead, his movements are slow, deliberate, and when he speaks again, his voice is softer, gentler, but still edged with an undertone of concern.

"Y/n..." he starts, his voice trembling a little with the same unspoken tension that is settling in her chest. "You didn't-"

But she cannot hear him. She cannot hear anything except her own mind, screaming at her.

Her body goes limp. I did this. She did this. She is no better than the monsters who turned her into this. The power she never asked for. The power that came to life in the middle of her panic, of her brokenness.

Her mind swirls with guilt, self-hatred, and confusion. I'm just like them.

Tears burn in her eyes as she collapses to her knees, her hands clutching her chest. "I'm a monster... I'm a monster..." Her sobs are ragged, uncontrollable, and she feels as though her entire body is trembling, the weight of everything coming crashing down on her at once.

She hears Jason's footsteps as he approaches, but she does not look up. Does not want to see his face. Does not want to face the truth. Does not want to know what he thinks of her.

Jason kneels beside her. She can feel his presence next to her, but she does not acknowledge it at first. Not until he places a hand on her shoulder, a gentle touch that feels like a lifeline in the storm inside her.

"Hey." His voice is quieter now, softer. "You're not a monster. You're not. What happened wasn't your fault."

The words are there, but they feel hollow, meaningless. Of course it's my fault. I just- Her thoughts break off as she looks up at him, eyes blurred with tears. His hand still rests on her shoulder, warm and steady, and his voice is not angry, is not accusing her. It is calm. It is... almost soothing.

Jason looks at her, his expression serious but not harsh. "You didn't mean to hurt me. You were just-" He cuts himself off and looks down at his hand, the blood still dripping steadily. His gaze lifts back to her, not in anger, but in something else- something like understanding.

"I've been there," he says softly. "Hell, I've been a weapon, too. I know what it feels like to be pushed, broken down until you don't know who you are anymore. You're not a monster. You're just... trying to survive."

His words settle into her chest, but the storm still rages. Her body still shakes, still shudders with the weight of what she is just done. She clutches her hands together, digging her nails into her skin to feel anything other than this overwhelming guilt.

"I don't know what's happening to me," she whispers, her voice barely audible. "I'm scared, Jason. I don't know how to stop."

The words come out in a broken, uneven rush, and she feels her chest constrict as the weight of everything crushes her from all sides. She feels small, like a child again, like the girl who used to hide under her blankets, praying for the nightmares to stop.

Jason does not flinch. He does not pull away. Instead, he pulls her closer, his arms wrapping around her in a way that is surprising- gentle, steady. He is there, a solid anchor in the storm she is drowning in.

"Hey," he murmurs softly. "I've been there, okay? I know what it's like to feel lost, to feel like you're broken beyond repair. But you're not alone in this. You've got me. And I know you think that's not enough, but trust me, it is. You don't have to go through this alone. Not anymore."

The warmth of his embrace is like a lifeline she did not even know she needed. And for the first time in a long time, she feels safe. For the first time in a long time, she lets herself fall into the comfort of someone who does not want to fix her. Someone who does not want to make her a weapon.

Jason holds her as she lets go, her sobs shaking her entire body. She does not know how long they stay like that, the only sound the faint hum of the city in the distance and the quiet rasp of her breath. But in that moment, she does not care. For once, she does not feel like she has to be strong. For once, she is allowed to just feel.

And Jason lets her.

─────────────────────────────────── The sound of heavy, hurried footsteps echoed through the corridors, growing louder with each passing second. Y/n's trembling body was still pressed against Jason's chest, her sobs shaking her to the core.

Jason's hand gently rubbed her back, trying to calm her down, but the intensity of the moment was overwhelming. She could not escape the memory of what she had just done. The power-her power- had terrified her, and now all she could feel was guilt.

But then, the door to the training room slammed open with a violent force.

Ra's al Ghul stood in the doorway, his dark eyes locked onto Y/n, and his cold, calculating expression never faltered. His voice, when it came, was a sharp command that cut through the air.

"Y/n," he spat, his tone dripping with fury. "Get up."

Y/n froze. Her heart clenched in terror. She could not look at him- could not bear to face the man who had made her this way. The man who had shaped her into nothing more than a tool for his twisted goals.

Ra's al Ghul took in the scene before him, his gaze quickly flickering over the blood pooling around Jason's hand and the uncontrollable sobs wracking Y/n's body. But his anger only deepened. He did not care about her broken state. He did not care that she was crumbling.

"Now." His voice was low, dangerous.

Y/n flinched, her body tensing in Jason's arms. She wanted to run. She wanted to scream. But she could not. Not now. Not in front of him. Not when her grandfather's grip on her was already suffocating enough. She knew better than anyone that if she did not go now, Jason would suffer.

Jason's grip on her tightened as he saw the way she struggled with the idea of leaving. "Don't listen to him," Jason growled, his voice harsh but protective. He did not want to let her go, not now, not like this. He had already seen enough of her suffering. "Stay, we'll deal with this- together."

But Y/n's heart was sinking. She knew her grandfather. She knew what would happen if she did not comply. Ra's al Ghul did not give second chances.

With a deep, shuddering breath, she tried to push away from Jason's arms. Her hands shook as she stood unsteadily on her feet. Her vision blurred from the tears and the terror building in her chest. She had to do this.

Jason reached out to grab her arm, his touch soft yet insistent. "Y/n, no. Don't-"

"I have to," she whispered, her voice barely audible, her eyes locking with his. "It's the only way. I can't let him hurt you, Jason. I won't let him hurt you because of me."

Her words hit him like a slap in the face. His grip tightened, but it was not to hold her back- it was to keep her close. "Don't make me do this," he snarled, his own voice cracking with frustration.

But it was too late.

Y/n pulled away from him with as much force as she could muster. Her body trembled from the emotional storm inside her, but her mind was sharp. She did not want to leave him. She couldn't leave him. But if she did not, there would be consequences. She could not put Jason in more danger. Not like this. Not because of her.

Ra's al Ghul's hand shot out like a snake, grabbing her wrist with a bone-crushing grip. Y/n winced as he yanked her towards him, the force of his pull almost knocking her off balance. She could hear Jason's angry shout, his frustration and fear echoing behind her.

"No!" Jason screamed, his voice raw. He tried to rush toward them, but Ra's al Ghul moved with terrifying speed, placing himself between Y/n and Jason.

"Step away," Ra's growled at Jason, his voice laced with malice. "This doesn't concern you. I'm dealing with my granddaughter. You, on the other hand-" He glared at Jason, his face twisted with cold disdain. "I will deal with you later."

Y/n's heart skipped a beat, her stomach dropping as the words rang in her ears. She felt like a weight was being forced onto her chest. She wanted to scream, to fight, but her grandfather's iron grip on her arm made it impossible to move.

Jason's eyes were wide with fury, his body rigid as he stared at the two of them, unwilling to back down. "You're a monster," he spat at Ra's, his voice thick with venom.

Ra's did not even blink. His expression was unreadable, a mask of cold superiority as he dragged Y/n toward the door. She stumbled, her legs barely holding her up as he pulled her through the doorway, his fingers digging deeper into her skin.

"I said, step aside," Ra's snarled at Jason, not even giving him a second thought as he began to drag Y/n away.

Y/n did not look back. She could not. Her body felt numb, but her mind screamed in terror, telling her to break free, to fight back. But the cruel reality of her grandfather's hold on her was too much to bear. She felt a cold emptiness in her chest as he dragged her down the hall, her thoughts spinning out of control.

Jason's voice echoed behind her, his last attempt to reach her. "Y/n, don't let him—!"

But it was too late.

The door slammed shut behind her as Ra's al Ghul threw it open, his grip tightening on her arm, dragging her toward the depths of the mansion. His voice was cold and final, as if nothing could break his will.

"You've disobeyed me," he murmured, his words a deadly whisper. "You will learn the consequences of disobedience."

Y/n's heart thudded painfully in her chest. She was too weak to fight. Too broken. But she had to keep going. She had to keep fighting for Jason's sake.

She had to survive.

But as her grandfather's cold laughter echoed in the hallway, she could not shake the feeling that everything was slipping away. And Jason? He was left behind, a fading voice in the distance. She had no choice.

Y/n stumbled as her grandfather dragged her from the training room. The sound of Jason's voice faded behind her, a mix of anger, confusion, and pain that cut through her heart like a dagger. His blood was on her hands, but the weight of it was nothing compared to the crushing guilt and fear she felt as Ra's al Ghul pulled her away.

"Grandfather, please," she gasped, trying to pull free. But Ra's' grip was powerful. His hand on her arm felt like it would snap her bones if she did not comply. She could not see Jason anymore, could not hear him, but she could still feel the weight of his pain.

He had fought for her, for something between them. Yet, in that moment, she had betrayed him, not by choice but by the rage and control her grandfather had always instilled in her.

With one final, forceful tug, Ra's yanked her into her room and shoved her inside. He did not say anything more- just locked the door behind her, leaving her to drown in her thoughts. The room was suffocating, her chest tight with the crushing weight of everything that had just transpired.

Y/n collapsed on the bed, her hands trembling as she ran them through her hair, trying to steady herself. Jason's blood stained her hands, her arms, her very soul. It was her fault. All of it. She had let the darkness consume her, and now there was no way back.

She tried to think, tried to focus on a way out. But there was none. She was trapped in this gilded cage, with nothing but guilt and despair to keep her company. The pounding against the door did not stop- her desperate fists slamming into the wood, shouting for someone to let her out. But no one came.

Meanwhile, back in the training room, Jason was still struggling to regain his bearings. The pain in his hand had dulled, but the ache in his chest- where his heart used to beat was more consuming than any physical injury. Ra's had taken Y/n. He had dragged her away, like she was just some possession, and Jason was not going to stand for it.

Ra's' words haunted him. "She's mine," the man had said. And Jason had known deep down that he had no place in Ra's world. But he could not- he would not- just let Y/n be controlled by him any longer.

With his bloodied hand still clutching a nearby weapon, Jason stalked out of the room, his eyes full of fury. He needed to confront Ra's. The man had to understand that Y/n was not his property. He would fight for her, even if it killed him.

Jason found Ra's al Ghul standing in the large, quiet hallway, his back turned, staring at some distant point down the corridor. The moment Jason's steps echoed through the stone, Ra's did not flinch. He did not even look back.

"Do you know what you've done?" Ra's' voice was cold, carrying an edge of disappointment, like a father scolding a misbehaving child.

Jason stopped a few feet behind him, his fists clenched, his breath heavy. "You think I'm the one who's messed up here? You've taken everything from me. From her."

Ra's al Ghul turned slowly, finally locking eyes with Jason. His expression was unreadable, like stone. "She doesn't belong to you. She never has." His voice was like ice, cutting through the air. "She is mine. My creation. My heir."

Jason's jaw clenched, the anger rising up inside him like a storm. "She's not your possession," he spat, his voice thick with frustration. "She's a person, not some weapon you can control."

Ra's al Ghul let out a low, humourless laugh, the sound chilling in the silence between them. "You think she's better off with you, a broken boy in a mask? A shadow of what Bruce Wayne failed to save?" He stepped forward, his voice lowering to a dangerous whisper. "You should be grateful that I gave you a second chance at life. But it seems you're too blind to see that I gave you that gift, only for you to squander it on her."

Jason's blood ran cold. Ra's had just mentioned Bruce Wayne, the name that always triggered something deep inside him- something raw, something painful. Bruce had been his saviour, his mentor, but he had also abandoned him.

Ra's noticed the shift in Jason's expression. His lips curled into a smile, knowing he had struck a nerve. "You're just like him, aren't you?" Ra's continued, his voice taunting. "Bruce's broken little Robin. His failure. The boy he didn't know how to save."

Jason's breath hitched. The words Robin and failure echoed in his mind like a bang. They made the rage inside him surge again, stronger than ever.

"Don't you dare bring Bruce into this," Jason hissed, stepping closer, his voice full of venom. "I'm not his failure. I'm not anyone's failure."

Ra's took a slow step forward, his eyes gleaming with malicious intent. "Oh, but you are," he murmured, as if savouring every word. "Just like Bruce, you were meant to be his partner. His tool. His protector. But you couldn't handle it, could you? That's why you failed him. That's why you ended up dead."

The words cut deeper than anything Jason had ever felt. The pain of being discarded by Bruce, of being cast aside, flooded his mind, and his anger flared. He was done being the boy who lived in Bruce's shadow, done being the Robin who was not good enough.

With a shout, Jason launched himself at Ra's, his fists flying. The older man blocked the first strike, his movements fluid and precise, but Jason's fury made him unpredictable. Every punch he threw came from years of pain and abandonment, from the grief of losing his family- first to crime, then to betrayal.

Ra's fought back with his usual poise, his calm demeanour never faltering. His strikes were sharp, and he moved with the deadly elegance of someone who had fought for centuries. But Jason was faster now, driven by sheer determination and rage.

Jason's mind was in overdrive, his body almost moving without thought. He was fighting for Y/n, fighting for himself, and for everything he had lost. But most of all, he was fighting for control over his own fate.

Ra's managed to sidestep another of Jason's wild blows, but Jason was already on him, landing a heavy strike to his ribs that sent the older man stumbling back. Ra's steadied himself, but Jason pressed forward. The blows came faster, harder, each one hitting with the weight of a lifetime of suffering.

"You think you can stand in my way?" Ra's sneered, launching a punch toward Jason's face.

"You're nothing but a broken toy. I taught Bruce everything he knows. He was my finest student, and yet, you think you can compare to him?"

The mention of Bruce's name, the reminder of the rejection he had felt, almost drove Jason mad with rage. His heart pounded, and without thinking, he shoved Ra's back, using his weight to slam the man against the stone wall.

"Bruce was never my father!" Jason yelled, his voice ragged. "And you're not my damn master!"

With one final surge of strength, Jason sent a fist into Ra's' stomach, knocking the wind out of him. Ra's staggered back, eyes narrowing with growing frustration.

"You will be my downfall," Ra's hissed, but Jason was not listening anymore.

Jason surged forward again, using every ounce of his pain and anger to fuel the final blow. His fist landed with a sickening crack against Ra's' throat, the sound echoing through the room.

Ra's gasped, his hands flying to his throat, his eyes wide with disbelief. His body crumpled to the floor, but Jason did not stop. The weight of everything- the years of pain, of being abandoned, of being used- drove him to finish it.

"I'm not like Bruce," Jason said again, his voice cold, filled with finality. "He won't kill. But I will."

He drove his knee into Ra's chest, pinning him to the ground, his breath ragged.

The older man's body stilled beneath him, his eyes glazing over. Jason stood over him, his chest heaving, his body covered in sweat and blood. He had done it. He had killed Ra's al Ghul.

Jason stood over Ra's body, breathing hard, the room thick with the weight of what he had just done. The air was thick with sweat and blood. He had won, but it did not feel like victory. It felt hollow, empty.

In his heart, Jason knew there would be no going back. He had killed Ra's al Ghul, the man who had controlled Y/n's life for so long, and the man who had once been his mentor's greatest adversary. Jason had crossed a line, a line that Batman never would have crossed. But in that moment, it had felt necessary.

He had done it to protect Y/n and his own codex. He had done it to make sure she never became a tool of Ra's, a weapon of his creation.

But now, with Ra's dead, Jason knew the real battle was just beginning. Y/n was still out there, and he had to find her. Had to make sure she was safe.

And when he did, they would finally be free. Together.

Part 4

[guilty-ff]

𝐁𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐌𝐢𝐝𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐏𝐭. 𝟐

ᡕᠵ᠊ᡃ່࡚ࠢ࠘ ⸝່ࠡࠣ᠊߯᠆ࠣ࠘ᡁࠣ࠘᠊᠊ࠢ࠘𐡏 ˚⁎⁺˳ .

This story takes place after Jason's death (warning: not 100% Comic accurate)

Pairings: Dick Grayson/Nightwing x (fem!Reader), Slight Jason Todd/Red hood x (fem!Reader)

Genre: Action, Angst, Revenge, Violence, DC

Warnings: Comic Spoilers!, Explicit content, Child abuse, swearing, torture, mental health, weapons

Word count: 4603

The training room is dim, lit only by flickering candlelight that casts long, jagged shadows across the stone walls. The smell of sweat and leather fills the air, heavy, suffocating. A lone figure stands against the far wall, arms folded, eyes hidden beneath the hood of his jacket.

Jason Todd.

Y/n steps into the room, every inch of her self-assured like a predator: careful, calculating. Her mind is sharp, her body tense, waiting for a challenge, but she never had to face someone like him before. She has been raised on the idea that her skills were perfected for control, precision- no room for error. This, though, this is something else.

She does not say a word, only studying him in the silence that hangs between them.

He is the first one to speak, voice rough, laced with a smirk. "You gonna stand there all day, or are we gonna train?" His tone is teasing, but there is an edge to it. A sharpness that tells her he is not playing games.

Her eyes narrow, flicking to the weapons hanging on the walls, then back to him. She is still sizing him up. She does not trust him, does not know if she ever will. Trust is a currency she never spent, not since her childhood, not since her grandfather's cruel lessons.

"I'm here to train," she says coolly, her voice steady despite the nervous energy boiling underneath. She does not give him the satisfaction of a response, her body staying still as a statue, though inside, there is a storm brewing. She is not sure if she is supposed to be wary or intrigued.

Jason chuckles under his breath, and when he moves toward her, it is with a loose, almost lazy grace, like he knows something she does not. "Good. But you should know, training here is a little different. No rules, no safe zones. You don't follow orders, you get hurt." His eyes flash darkly as he steps closer, and for the first time, she senses something dangerous in his words.

She does not flinch. She heard worse from her grandfather, after all. "I'm used to pain," she says, a hardness creeping into her tone, something that is not just a facade anymore.

Jason stops in front of her, his expression unreadable. He does not back down either. "Yeah, I can tell. But the question is- how long can you keep pretending that you don't like it?" He steps back, hands up in mock surrender. "But that's fine. We'll see if you're ready for what's coming."

The tension crackles between them, an electric charge neither of them can ignore. Y/n takes a deep breath and moves first, thrusting a punch at his chest. She is fast, but Jason is quicker-sidestepping the strike with a fluid motion, almost like he is expecting it. A slight smirk plays on his lips as he counters with a jab to her ribs.

It is a sharp, quick hit, one she barely sees coming. Her breath catches, but she recovers instantly, slamming an elbow into his side, determined to show that she can keep up.

Jason grins wider now, his movements a combination of sheer experience and unpredictability. He does not give her a moment to breathe, coming at her again, this time with a low sweep aimed at her legs. She jumps over it, narrowly avoiding the hit, and lands in a crouch.

"Not bad," he murmurs, impressed, but not for long. He is already pushing forward again, driving her to fight harder.

Her fists fly as she moves, attacking, blocking, dodging- until something clicks. This is not just fighting. This is... surviving. Her mind whirs with recognition: Jason is not here to teach her technique; he is here to force her to live in the moment, to throw aside everything she has been trained to do.

She does not stop to question it. She cannot. Not now.

────────────────────── His eyes are focused, intense, but not in the way Ra's al Ghul would look at her. Her grandfather's gaze had always been judgemental, contemptuous, as if weighing her worth. But Jason does not look at her as untapped potential or some delicate thing. No, he looks at her like a challenge- like she is just another opponent he is ready to break down and build back up.

Y/n feels the weight of his gaze, but not in the way she is used to. The men she would sparred with before- her grandfather, the League's warriors- always treated her with a blend of disrespect and caution, as if her being a woman had to be taken into account. But Jason does not care. He does not give a damn about her gender; he only sees her as a soldier, just like him. A fighter to be tested, pushed, and, if necessary, broken.

"Let's see what you've got," he says, voice flat. There is no taunting, no judgement. Just a pure, combat-ready focus.

She straightens, unease settling in her gut. She is used to being judged, to expectations that she is always measured against. But Jason is not here to evaluate her; he is here to challenge her.

He does not give her time to adjust. Jason moves fast, too fast. She barely reacts before he is upon her, an unstoppable force. His attacks do not follow any recognisable rhythm like her grandfather's drills, instead, they are instinctual and chaotic, shifting and twisting in unpredictable ways. Each time she thinks she has a handle on his moves, he changes, slipping through her defence like water.

"Don't just stand there!" he barks, shoving her hard in the chest. She stumbles back, barely catching herself. He does not pause, does not check if she is okay. Jason's here to make her feel the fight, to force her to live in each moment.

She curses internally, frustration flaring up. How the hell is he this fast? Her training has been strict, her reflexes sharpened to a fine edge. But Jason's fighting style is foreign to her, chaotic in a way she does not understand. He is not fighting for control, he is fighting to survive, to overpower. He is not following a script, and that unsettles her deeply.

"You're thinking too much," he says sharply, not mocking but with clear impatience. "Stop worrying about what you're supposed to do. Start worrying about what you want to do."

Instinctively, her hand moves toward the dagger tucked in her boot, a reflex drilled into her over years. But he catches the motion with a quick swipe, knocking her arm away before she can even draw the blade.

"Weapons won't save you against someone who doesn't give a fuck about them," he says, unmoved and direct.

A mixture of frustration and anger surges inside her. She has been told to rely on her weapons, on precision, on calculation. Ra's al Ghul had drilled it into her that every move was about control. Jason, however, is telling her to throw it all away and embrace chaos.

She glares at him. "I don't need your help."

Jason does not flinch, does not even seem phased. He just keeps moving, circling her. "Yeah? You sure about that?"

Her frustration boils over. She lunges, but Jason sidesteps effortlessly, using her momentum to throw her off balance. She lands on the ground with a hard thud, and his knee presses into her side, pinning her there.

"You think you're gonna win like this?" he growls, his grip unforgiving. "You can't fight with that mindset. You're too predictable."

She grits her teeth, anger surging as she tries to push him off. Every struggle just makes him press harder, refusing to give her any room to breathe, any space to retreat. This is not how it is supposed to go. This is not part of any plan she is familiar with.

Memories of her grandfather's lessons flash in her mind: Control. Precision. Discipline. But Jason is not teaching her any of that.

Jason catches her wrist and twists it, his voice still calm but firm. "You're fighting the wrong fight. This isn't about winning against me. It's about breaking down everything you've been taught to rely on."

Something inside her snaps. Her carefully contained control shatters, and raw emotion rushes forward- anger, frustration, confusion, all of it spilling out in an uncontrolled stream. She struggles harder, her body moving without thought, an instinctive reaction.

And suddenly, it is like everything clicks into place. Her body moves with a fierce energy she does not understand. Without realizing it, her hand shoots forward, and a dagger materializes in her palm. But this is not a blade she pulls from her boot; this dagger is dark and untouchable, formed purely from her own anger and desperation.

The shadow dagger swings toward Jason.

Jason's eyes widen in surprise. He tries to dodge, but he is just a fraction too slow. The edge of the blade grazes his arm, leaving a thin, dark burn where it touches.

"Shit!" he curses, backing away quickly, his face a mixture of shock and pain. "What the hell was that?"

She freezes, staring at her hand, watching as the shadowy blade fades into nothingness. Her heart pounds, her mind struggling to process what just happened. That was not a move she would been taught. That was not control.

Her chest tightens with panic as she takes in what she has done. She feels the weight of Jason's gaze on her, analysing, almost curious despite the pain in his arm.

"You okay?" he asks, voice strangely gentle.

Y/n blinks, still shocked, her hand still trembling from the feeling of the dagger. She shakes her head, unable to look him in the eyes. "I... I didn't mean to..."

Jason watches her carefully, his gaze sharp but not condemning. "It's okay. You're still figuring yourself out," he says, his tone steady. "But get a grip. This is just the start."

She swallows, the silence between them thick with confusion, pain, and a strange undercurrent she cannot name. She can still feel the energy humming in her body, a dark echo of that power.

Jason's voice breaks through her thoughts. "We're not done here. This can't be a one-time thing."

She opens her mouth to apologize, but he cuts her off with a shake of his head. "Don't say you're sorry. You didn't have control. But now you know it's in there. And next time, you'll be ready for it."

Looking up at him, she does not see a teacher or a trainer. She sees someone who knows what it is like to feel broken, to struggle with something deep and dark inside. And for the first time, she does not feel completely alone.

────────────────────── The training between them has settled into a rhythm. It is been weeks of daily sparring, bruises, and soreness- weeks of them pushing each other past limits, their bodies tested again and again. Jason's style has rubbed off on her, breaking her away from the cold, calculated methods her grandfather drilled into her.

Each session feels less like a punishment and more like a brutal, unpredictable dance. In a strange way, it feels like freedom. But tonight, as the training winds down, something heavier lingers between them, a kind of tension that is not just physical fatigue.

Jason notices her wincing as she wraps her bruised knuckles with the leftover bandages. He sighs, his usual sharpness softened, and reaches into his small bag. "Give those here," he mutters, pulling out fresh rolls of bandages and a small bottle of medicine.

Y/n hesitates but extends her hands, palms facing up, where small cuts from earlier sparring have formed, thin and stinging. He begins wrapping her hands carefully, the silence between them almost comfortable but laced with something unsaid. She studies his face as he works, his expression softened from its usual hard edges.

"There's no shortage of wounds between us, is there?" he finally murmurs, pulling the bandage taut. His voice has a weight to it, an almost sad realization. "They keep adding up."

A small laugh escapes her, and she shakes her head. "Guess we're just... well-trained. Or stupid."

Jason huffs a laugh of his own. "Maybe both. You don't get this many scars by living smart."

As he applies the medicine, his fingers brush over an older scar, one he had not noticed before, and she flinches. "Sorry," he says, gentler than usual. "Didn't mean to hit a nerve."

She shrugs, but the weight of his question seems to open something inside her, unspoken and raw. Before she can pull back, he begins to speak, his tone unexpectedly open.

"I didn't start out like this," he says, surprising her with the sudden honesty. "Back then, I was just a kid, desperate for something real, something that gave a damn." His gaze shifts, staring past her, lost in memories that are sharper than any bruise. "I thought I was doing something good, you know? Like fighting for justice, saving people- those stupid ideals they talk about."

She feels herself drawn in, watching him quietly, surprised by the vulnerability in his voice. It is so different from his usual sharp, sarcastic edge.

"But Batman?" Jason continues, his voice bitter. "He was never... I mean, he saved me, but he was never there the way he should've been. I was just a sidekick, something he could mould and then discard." His voice hardens, but there's something else behind it too- a deep, painful sadness. "And when I really needed him? He wasn't there. I ended up dead because of him. Came back, sure, but... it's not the same. Nothing is the same."

She opens her mouth to say something, but no words come out. She understands more than he knows; the look in his eyes mirrors her own. She has seen it every time she looked in the mirror after her grandfather's lessons, feeling like nothing more than a weapon.

Her fingers grip the edge of her bandages, and before she realizes it, words start spilling out of her. "My grandfather," she starts, her voice quieter than she intends. "He never treated me like a person. Not really. I was... this project, something to be perfected, polished, and sharpened."

Jason's eyes flicker to hers, his gaze intense but not pushing. Just... listening.

"He'd poison me," she says, a bitter laugh escaping her. "He'd say it was to make me stronger. Made me drink toxins until I'd throw up and couldn't breathe anymore. He'd watch me collapse, watch me choke and fight for air... and then he'd just tell me to keep going." Her voice broke, the bitterness giving way to something raw and hurt. "I thought that was love. That's what he told me it was. But I was just... a weapon, that's all he wanted."

Jason nods slowly, and there is a dark understanding in his eyes, something almost haunted. "Guess we both learned pretty damn fast what family can do to you," he says, voice low. "They mould you, break you, shape you into their version of what you should be... and then act like it's a favour."

The words hang in the air between them, heavy and twisted with years of pain. She feels a lump in her throat, but she swallows it down, refusing to let it choke her.

They sit in silence for a few moments, the weight of their confessions settling like a cold blanket around them. Then she manages a weak laugh, one that's half a sob.

"Honestly," she mutters, wiping at her eyes. "Batman sounds like a bit of a weirdo. I mean, putting kids in spandex tights and sending them out to fight crime? Who the hell does that?"

Jason looks at her, caught off guard, and then he snorts, a genuine laugh breaking through. "Yeah... yeah, when you put it that way, he really does sound insane." There is a pause, and then he grins, shaking his head. "I looked ridiculous. Skin-tight red and green? Seriously."

She laughs, and it feels like something lifts between them. The tension in the room eases, replaced by something warmer, lighter. She wipes at her face, the traces of tears almost forgotten as they share a moment of laughter, both of them finding solace in the absurdity of it all.

"Did you have a little cape too?" she teases, raising an eyebrow.

Jason rolls his eyes, grinning. "Yeah, I did. Hated that damn thing."

She laughs again, and it feels good, like something breaking open inside her, something that's been locked away for too long. She is still bruised, still raw from everything, but sitting here with him, it does not feel so heavy anymore.

He finishes bandaging her hands and sits back, just watching her for a moment. There is something soft in his eyes, a kind of respect, a kind of understanding that does not need words.

"Thanks," she says, her voice almost a whisper.

He nods, and for the first time, he does not look away. "We're both broken, but... maybe we don't have to stay that way."

The silence returns, but it is different now. They do not need to say anything more. They are just there, two people who have been shattered by those they trusted, finding a strange kind of healing in each other's presence.

After that night, something shifts. Their late-night conversation, their shared pain- it all lingers in her thoughts, tugging at her mind as the days pass. They return to training each day, their sessions no less brutal, but there is a quiet understanding now, an unspoken trust. The bruises and cuts hurt a little less, the silences feel a little warmer, and she begins to notice a spark of something new, something alive, growing between them. 

Jason's influence begins to introduce her a world in ways she never expected. His defiance, his contempt for authority, the way he does not care about the rules or the boundaries her grandfather has enforced- all of it sparks something restless inside her.

She has spent her entire life following orders, beaten down into obedience, conditioned to move through her days as though her life belonged to someone else. But Jason? He lives like his life is his own, like he is something untamed. And it is intoxicating.

One evening, after a particularly heavy session, he catches her eye with a mischievous glint as they head toward the compound's sleeping quarters. "So, you just go back to your room every night like a good little soldier?" he teases, raising an eyebrow.

She narrows her eyes, a smirk playing on her lips. "Maybe I'm just smart enough not to get caught."

Jason grins, leaning closer, his tone laced with challenge. "Well, maybe it's time you learn how to have a little fun."

"What, sneaking out to pull pranks and throw punches in back alleys?" She rolls her eyes but cannot help the small, genuine smile spreading across her face.

"Come on, princess," he says, his grin widening. "No rules, no orders, just us. Let's go."

She freezes at the word, feeling a pang of resentment, and crosses her arms. "Oh, come on- how did you find out about that? Stop calling me princess," she returns, the humour mingling with a sharp edge in her voice. "I grew up in dirt, Jason, not a palace. Must've been nice though, huh?"

He raises his eyebrows, looking at her in surprise, and then shakes his head, a strange softness crossing his expression. "Trust me, palaces aren't all they're cracked up to be," he mutters, his voice quieter now. "But dirt and darkness? That's where I grew up too." He studies her for a moment before his grin returns, defiance glinting in his eyes. "So, what do you say?"

She hesitates, but only for a second. The words feel dangerous, as if by agreeing, she is breaking something unbreakable, stepping into unknown territory. And yet, as she looks at him, his cocky grin and those piercing eyes daring her to let go, something inside her snaps.

"Fine," she says, finally, feeling the thrill of the decision racing through her. "Lead the way."

────────────────────── That night, for the first time in her life, she steps beyond the strict boundaries of her training compound without permission. Jason leads her out, slipping through the shadows like a phantom, both of them moving quietly, undetected by the guards posted around.

When they are far enough away, he smirks and breaks into a run, and she cannot help but chase after him, sensing feelings she has never known. She feels alive, a spark of rebellion igniting inside her, breaking through the chains of control that have held her down for so long.

They find themselves in an empty alley, the darkened city stretching out before them. Jason kicks a stray can down the street, watching it clatter before turning back to her with that mischievous gleam in his eyes.

"So, how does it feel?" he asks, leaning back against a wall with his arms crossed.

"How does what feel?" She raises an eyebrow, still catching her breath.

"Freedom," he says, his voice softer but no less intense. "Doing something because you want to do it, not because someone told you to."

She considers his words, the weight of them settling on her shoulders. She has spent her entire life doing what her grandfather wanted, what her mother insisted upon, what duty demanded of her. And now, here she is, outside the compound in the dead of night, no orders, no purpose, just... choice.

"It's strange," she admits, her voice quiet. "But... it feels good. Different, but good."

Jason nods, his expression thoughtful, almost as if he is remembering something. "When I was with Batman, everything had rules, restrictions. I had to be the 'good hero,' follow orders, stay in line, 'no killing'. But that's no way to live, not really."

She glances at him, seeing the hardness in his face, the anger that has not quite faded. "So what did you do?"

"I left," he says simply, a dark edge to his voice. "Or rather... I was forced to leave. Didn't really matter. I had to break out of it. Guess I'm just lucky to have come back as myself."

His words sink in, and she feels an odd relation with him. They have both been moulded, broken, and remade in someone else's image. But where she has stayed, bound by duty, he had the strength to break free.

"Think you'd ever go back?" she asks, almost afraid of the answer.

Jason's expression darkens, and his gaze becomes fixed, unyielding. "Going back means revenge, not to play dress-up and be some sidekick again. And definitely not to join up with Batman's little 'family.'" He spits out the word, as if it leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

"On both of them." He pauses, and she notices the way his hands clench as he speaks, like he is trying to keep his anger in check. "the first Robin" he mutters, almost like he is spitting the word out. "The one who was supposed to have my back, but instead he just left me behind, moved on with his own damn life, put on a new suit and became something else entirely." he scoffs bitterly. "The shining star. Batman's favourite."

There is a hint of jealousy, laced with resentment. "He got to just walk away," Jason says, his voice thick with contempt. "He got to choose who he wanted to be, who he wanted to follow. And meanwhile, I was still there, still in it. And then... then I wasn't. " His voice drops, shadowed with a kind of hurt that goes deeper than just anger. "And when I came back, did he care? No. He's too wrapped up in being perfect, in being... the one Batman actually wanted."

Her eyes do not leave him, letting him vent the bitterness he is clearly held onto for so long. She knows this is only the surface, though- the real hatred is not for his brother.

"But him?" Jason's eyes flicker, colder now, focused, and she knows exactly who he means. "Him," he says again, lower, almost seething, "Batman. The man who called himself my mentor. He left me to die, never came back for me. And then what? He just put someone else in the damn suit." His jaw is clenched so tight she half-wonders if he might crack his teeth. "All I was to him was another kid in his damn crusade. Disposable."

The fury in his voice is raw, yet his eyes carry something broken beneath all that anger. "When I'm back in Gotham," he says, words icy and measured, "I'm going to make him see the monster he created. I'll make him regret leaving me behind, forgetting about me, letting me die. I'm going to ruin everything he thinks he's built."

There is a silence between them, and she can feel the weight of his hurt, the way it consumes him, makes him boiling. He looks at her, almost daring her to object.

Instead, she nods quietly, holding his gaze. "And what about your the first Robin?" she asks softly, though she can sense where his priorities lie.

Jason's mouth twists. "Him?" he says, dismissively. "I don't need him to pay... just want him to see what it's like to be overlooked. And when I go after Batman, he's going to watch."

She takes in his words, the weight of his pain, and feels a strange, almost fierce sympathy rise within her. "I get it," she says, softly but firmly. "And if there's any way I can help you, I will."

But he shakes his head, his face set in a grim expression. "No," he says, not unkindly, but with finality.

"This... this is something between me and him. I don't want you tangled up in my mess. You've got your own path, and I don't need you getting dragged into mine."

He glances over at her, his gaze softening for a moment. "Besides," he adds, with a smirk, "I can handle Batman on my own. I've had years to figure this out."

She nods, though the unspoken worry lingers between them. In the silence that follows, she knows better than to push him further, respecting the barrier he has put up. But a part of her cannot shake the feeling that this path he is on- one fuelled by anger and vengeance- might consume him before he finds what he is looking for.

────────────────────── The days continue like this, their midnight escapes turning into something of a ritual. Jason always manages to peruse her out, challenging her to overstep the boundaries her grandfather has set.

She finds herself sneaking out of her room, slipping past the guards, following him into the night. Sometimes they go sparring in the empty parts of town, other times they talk, sharing quiet conversations under the cover of darkness. With each night, her strict, rule-following mentality loosens, giving way to something freer, something bolder.

One night, as they sit on the rooftop of an old, crumbling building overlooking the city, he turns to her with a grin. "You know, you're not so bad, princess," he teases, his tone light.

She rolls her eyes, nudging him with her shoulder. "You're not so bad yourself, Todd. But seriously, stop with the 'princess' thing."

"Oh, come on." He smirks, leaning back on his hands.

"It suits you."

She snorts, shaking her head. "I'm the furthest thing from a princess, trust me."

His expression softens slightly, and for a moment, there is a vulnerability in his eyes. "Maybe. But you're a hell of a lot stronger than any royal I've ever met."

She is caught off guard by his words, by the sincerity in his voice, and for a moment, she feels something break through the walls she has built around herself. They sit in silence, the weight of his words settling over her.

"Thanks," she murmurs, barely audible.

Jason gives her a small, understanding nod, and they continue to sit there, side by side, staring out at the city as if they are the only two people in the world.

Part 3

[guilty-ff]

𝐁𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐌𝐢𝐝𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐏𝐭. 𝟏

ᡕᠵ᠊ᡃ່࡚ࠢ࠘ ⸝່ࠡࠣ᠊߯᠆ࠣ࠘ᡁࠣ࠘᠊᠊ࠢ࠘𐡏 ˚⁎⁺˳ .

𝐓𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐞𝐚𝐠𝐮𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐀𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐬, 𝐘/𝐧 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐲 𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐩𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭. 𝐒𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐁𝐫𝐮𝐜𝐞 𝐖𝐚𝐲𝐧𝐞 , 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐝- 𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐥 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬 𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐝𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐢𝐝𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭. 𝐀𝐬 𝐚 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐨, 𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐬, 𝐲𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐢𝐬 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞. 𝐀𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞, 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐉𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐓𝐨𝐝𝐝- 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐞’𝐬 𝐭𝐫𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐩𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐰 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝.

This story takes place after Jason's death (warning: not 100% Comic accurate)

Pairings: Dick Grayson/Nightwing x (fem!Reader) Slight Jason Todd/Red hood x (fem!Reader)

Genre: Action, Angst, Revenge, Violence, DC

Warnings: Comic Spoilers!, Explicit content, Child abuse, swearing, torture, mental health, weapons

Word count: 4178

Y/n lay curled on the cold stone floor of a dim chamber, the hard surface beneath her bruised body unforgiving. Faint, flickering candlelight licked at the ancient walls, casting restless shadows around the room. She awoke from a fitful sleep, startled by footsteps echoing down the narrow corridor outside.

Pain grew with her every movement, her muscles worn and aching from hours of brutal sparring against her grandfather, Ra's al Ghul. Each session with him left new bruises, deeper aches, and a burdening doubt that clung to her like a shadow she couldn't shake.

But even through the soreness and exhaustion, a trained instinct in her forced her to her feet, to ready herself. She barely had time to stretch her limbs when the door swung open, and Ra's himself stepped into the room, his gaze piercing and severe, his presence casting a weight that even the flickering candlelight seemed to shrink from. He did not say a word, simply gestured to the center of the room with a single, commanding flick of his wrist. It was time to spar again.

Y/n dragged herself upright, feeling the ache in her bones but refusing to let it show. She squared her shoulders, locking her eyes on him. This time, she told herself, this time I won't lose. But she could not ignore the tiredness that seeped into her very core. She took her stance, her fists raised, ready to face him.

Ra's circled her, his gaze unrelenting. "Your posture is sloppy, child," he sneered, his voice like venom. "That fatigue- you let it weaken you. A true warrior rises above physical limitations."

Y/n gritted her teeth, trying not to let his words affect her. She needed to focus. She needed to keep her cool. But Ra's knew exactly how to break her.

He lunged toward her without warning, his movements precise and lethal. Y/n barely had a second to react, her hands fumbling to reach down to her boots, where she kept her daggers hidden. She managed to draw one, its edge glinting in the candlelight as she raised it defensively. She aimed a calculated strike toward his shoulder, hoping to throw him off-balance. But he moved with practiced ease, sidestepping her attack and catching her arm with a bone-crushing grip.

Ra's twisted her arm, forcing her to drop the dagger. It clattered to the floor as he kicked her back, causing her to fall to the ground. Her body screamed in protest as she tried to roll back to her feet, scrambling to retrieve her fallen weapon. She snatched it up, but Ra's was already advancing, his expression mocking.

"Pathetic," he taunted, sidestepping another one of her attacks. "You waste your energy on emotion, and it makes you weak."

Anger surged within her, giving her the strength to attempt another swing, her blade slashing through the air toward him. But he was faster, his movements fluid and effortless.

He caught her wrist, twisting it painfully, until the dagger slipped from her grasp once more. Then he brought his other hand down, a brutal strike that landed against her ribs, knocking the wind out of her lungs.

Y/n stumbled back, gasping for breath. Her vision swam, but she forced herself to keep her gaze fixed on him. She could feel his contempt radiating, a burning heat that made her blood boil.

"Is that all you have?" he scoffed, his voice like ice. "I expected more from you, the daughter of Talia and my former student."

The mention of her father sliced through her like a knife. The man who had abandoned her, the one her mother had spoken of only in hushed tones filled with pain. Her mother had told her that she wanted to keep her safe, away from the world that Ra's had built- a world of blood and brutality.

Talia had spoken of a plan once, how she would even try to send Y/n away, to give her a chance to escape this life. She would whisper to Y/n about lying to her lover, telling him that she had a miscarriage and died immediately after birth, unable to bear the thought of their love creating something that would be raised in this darkness.

Yet here she was, her mother's plan twisted and crushed by Ra's iron will, and her father- a man she had never met, who had not cared enough to search for her- was just a painful ghost in her mind. She had no loyalty to him, no desire for his approval, but hearing her family used against her, ignited something fierce and unyielding in her heart.

Fueled by anger and defiance, Y/n dove for her second dagger, lunging at Ra's with renewed fury. She swung with precision, aiming for his side, but he parried her strike with ease, twisting her arm again until pain shot through her shoulder. She cried out, trying to twist free, but he slammed his elbow into her back, forcing her down to one knee.

"Anger without control is nothing more than recklessness," he hissed, tightening his grip until she could feel her bones creak. "You think you are strong, but you are nothing more than a disappointment."

The words stung worse than any physical blow, and she fought to keep her composure, fighting the tears that pricked at her eyes. He released her roughly, and she staggered, barely managing to stay on her feet.

"You let your emotions control you," he said, voice low, triumphant. "A real assassin knows that anger is a weakness, a gap in one's armor. Until you learn control, you are nothing but a reckless child."

Y/n glared up at him, her chest heaving, every inch of her aching. She wanted to lash out, to prove herself, but she knew he was right. She had let her anger take control, and it had cost her the match, again.

Ra's released her with a shove, and she collapsed onto her knees, her fists clenched. Her grandfather's cold gaze lingered on her for a moment before he turned away, pacing slowly.

"Get up," he ordered, not even looking back at her. "There is much you still lack. You have no discipline, no restraint. Tomorrow, you have an important task. One you cannot fail."

She struggled to her feet, holding back the sharp words she wanted to throw at him. "What task?" she managed, her voice low and filled with defiance.

"You will see in time," he replied dismissively. "Rest, if you can manage even that." He cast one last look of disapproval her way before leaving the room, his footsteps echoing down the darkened hall.

As she sank back onto the ground, exhaustion settled over her like a heavy blanket. She could not deny the bitterness building inside her- toward her grandfather, toward this life that demanded so much from her. A flicker of sadness washed over her as she thought of her younger brother, Damian, separated from her for years, was undergoing his own trials somewhere out in this vast, hellish empire her grandfather had built.

The last time she would seen him, he would been smaller- still with the innocent and rebellious curiosity in his eyes that had not yet hardened into Ra's brutal expectations. She wondered if he, too, had been subject to this same torment, if he was enduring the same impossible lessons drilled into his spirit. Her fists tightened at the thought of him, alone and unprotected.

──────────────────────The following day, she arrived at the designated location, a small building in the heart of the compound. Inside, it was dimly lit, the air thick with the smell of disinfectant.

A handful of assassins stood guard around the room, their gazes expressionless. Near the back was a small medical station, complete with a heart monitor and surgical tools that gleamed in the sparse light. The setup sent a chill down her spine.

Ra's stood at the center, next to a medic. He gestured toward a chair in the middle of the room, a chair with thick leather straps at the arms and legs. She hesitated, glancing around the room, confusion and unease knotting in her stomach.

"Sit," Ra's commanded, his voice carrying an edge of finality.

Her instincts told her something was wrong, but this was her grandfather. She had been raised to trust his judgment, to believe in his vision. She took a breath and sat down, allowing the guards to bind her wrists and ankles to the chair.

As the leather straps tightened around her, she looked up at Ra's, her eyes questioning. "What is this?"

He gave her a thin smile, something almost like pride mingling with a cold calculation. "This is for your own good, my child. And for the future of the League of Assassins."

She clenched her fists, anxiety twisting in her chest. "What- are you going to do?"

The medic stepped forward, holding a n injection filled with a dark fluid. Ra's took the injection, studying it for a moment before turning his gaze back to her.

"This is a serum that will strengthen you, enhance your endurance, and allow you to reach heights no assassin has before," he said.

"It is a gift, one that will push you beyond human limits."

A part of her wanted to resist, to question him. But she forced herself to relax, to trust. She nodded, her jaw clenched as she prepared herself for whatever was to come.

Ra's gave a nod to the medic, who adjusted the monitor and placed it on her chest. The screen came to life, beeping with each steady heartbeat. Y/n took a deep breath, keeping her gaze on her grandfather as he approached.

"This will hurt," he said with a hint of warning, though his voice lacked sympathy.

He slid the needle into her arm and pressed the plunger down, injecting the dark fluid into her veins. Immediately, a sharp, searing pain exploded in her arm, spreading like fire through her bloodstream. She clenched her teeth, trying to keep still, but the pain intensified, radiating through her body with a burning intensity that made her gasp.

The medic watched with a calculating gaze, his attention fixed on the monitors as they beeped and whirred. "The formula seems stable," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

Ra's looked on impassively, his gaze unmoved by her pain. "Increase the dosage," he commanded, his tone clipped.

The medic hesitated. "It could push her beyond her limit."

Ra's raised an eyebrow, a hint of displeasure flashing in his eyes. "If she breaks, she was not worthy of the League to begin with."

The medic obeyed, pressing another dose into her. The pain intensified, a white-hot blaze tearing through her body. She tried to fight it, to hold on, but her vision began to blur, her mind slipping into darkness as her heart pounded erratically.

Her vision blurred, her muscles tightening as the serum pulsed through her veins. It felt like her blood was being set alight, as if every cell was being ripped apart and rebuilt all at once. Her body trembled, her breath coming in shallow, panicked gasps as she fought to stay conscious.

The medic glanced at Ra's, his brow furrowing. "The reaction is... extreme. Perhaps her body is rejecting it?"

Ra's narrowed his eyes, watching her with an unreadable expression. "She will survive. She must. The pain is necessary."

Y/n could barely process their words through the haze of agony, her world reduced to the relentless fire tearing through her. Her heartbeat quickened, the beeping of the monitor escalating into a rapid staccato. She tried to focus, tried to breathe, but it felt as if her very soul was being consumed by the serum.

Her vision swam, the edges darkening. She heard a faint, distant voice- her own, whispering a desperate plea that she barely recognized.

Please... stop...

But the pain only grew, swelling into a hurricane that drowned out every thought, every sensation. Her body shattered, her vision fading completely as a single, high-pitched beep filled the room. The medic's voice echoed somewhere far away, filled with panic.

"She's crashing! We're losing her-"

The last thing Y/n saw was her grandfather's cold, unwavering gaze as the world faded to black.

Here she was. Abandoned and tossed away, as it always has been.

─────────────────────

Darkness swallowed her whole as she slipped into unconsciousness, but her mind refused to stay still. It dragged her into a whirlwind of twisted memories, pain, and a rage that had no end.

She could feel herself spiraling, a hollow, sinking feeling in her chest as memories surfaced- shit, she would tried to push down, bury, forget. But they clawed their way up, bringing all her nightmares with them, every goddamn thing she wished she could rip out of her own mind.

She was back there, seven years old, sitting on the cold, stone floor with bruised knees and chapped lips, staring up at Ra's. He towered above her, looking down with that ice-cold, unfeeling stare that made her want to run and hide or, hell, to fight him until her knuckles bled.

In his hand, he held a small bottle, filled with some sickly green liquid that looked wrong. She would heard the whispers from the others, the talk about "training" that went beyond fists and blades. But nothing could have prepared her for this.

He would handed it to her, a simple, unforgiving command. "Drink." His voice, as sharp as steel, gave her no chance to hesitate, no chance to refuse. Her small fingers shook as she lifted the bottle to her lips and swallowed.

The taste was worse than anything she would ever felt; bitter and oily, coating her throat as it burned its way down. Within seconds, her stomach twisted, her head went light, and a wave of nausea tore through her, bringing her to her knees. She tried to breathe, to focus, but the poison was like fire in her veins, searing her insides until all she could do was choke back sobs.

"Good," he would murmured, watching her squirm with a sick kind of satisfaction. "This is how you build strength. Pain reminds you of weakness. Endure it, and you will become immune."

She remembered the rage, the fear, the aching need to scream at him, to fight him, even though she knew it would not change a damn thing. He watched her without flinching, like her suffering was just part of the plan.

To him, I was nothing more than a weapon, she thought, bitter and young, still too naive to understand just how deep that truth ran. But she did know one thing, even back then: she was alone. Her mother, her brother, her father- none of them could save her from him, from what he wanted her to become.

As the memory faded, a dull, sinking pain settled in her chest. She was still that child on the floor in his eyes, wasn't she? A tool, a pawn for him to mold. And no matter how far she pushed herself, how much blood she shed, it would never be enough. She would always be left searching for approval, chasing shadows, bending under the weight of his expectations.

The world around her shifted, her thoughts slipping, her mind dragging her deeper into the dark. A voice echoed somewhere in her mind, her own voice but darker, colder, taunting. You think you are something more now? You are still his weapon. Just a puppet in his game.

A feeling of cold dread twisted in her gut, gripping her so tightly she felt like she was drowning in it, in the memories, the scars, the poison. She tried to fight it, tried to pull herself out, but the darkness would not let go. And the last thing she felt before everything faded was that cold, hard floor, and her own desperate, unsteady heartbeat fighting to stay alive.

Then, a sharp light cut through the haze.

As her senses sharpened, she realized she was lying on a narrow bed in a sterile, dimly lit room. The faint hum of machines was the only sound, each beep a reminder of her pulse, steady but weak. CCTV cameras sat ominously in the corners, red lights blinking as they watched her every movement, and a monitor beside her displayed a barrage of medical statistics she barely understood.

She shifted slightly, feeling the stiffness in her limbs. Her memory flickered, bringing back only fragmented flashes of pain, the biting grip of leather straps, and her grandfather's cold gaze.

A medic rushed in, his coat brushing against the metallic table beside her as he leaned over, checking the various monitors. "How are you feeling?" he asked, his voice neutral, though his gaze was intense as he studied her face.

"What...what happened to me?" she murmured, her voice scratchy, throat raw as if from screaming. "I remember... pain. And then... nothing."

He did not answer immediately, instead adjusting one of the IV drips at her side. "Your body's adjusting. The injection had... expected effects," he said, sidestepping her question. "You survived. That's what matters."

She frowned, narrowing her eyes. "Expected effects? You mean whatever you injected into me was supposed to feel like... like dying?"

The medic looked down, his expression tightening, though he did not respond directly. Instead, he muttered, "You should focus on resting. You'll need your strength." He moved away, but Y/n could feel the tension lingering, thick in the air like the shadow of an unspoken warning.

Before she could demand further answers, the heavy door opened, and Ra's al Ghul entered, his silhouette casting a shadow across the dim room. She felt her muscles stiffen instinctively, a lingering resentment growing.

He stepped forward, his eyes sweeping over her, assessing her with the same calculating coldness he always wore. "My weapon," he began, his voice a chilling calm, "is looking sharper already."

She forced herself to sit up, her body protesting with every movement, but she met his gaze, defiance burning behind her exhaustion. "Weapon?" she repeated, her tone laced with contempt. "Is that all I am?"

Ra's gave a small, humorless smile. "You are precisely what you are meant to be- what you were always destined to become." He paused, his gaze hardening. "A weapon, yes, but one that will serve a purpose greater than yourself. Soon, you will meet someone who will help you understand this purpose."

She frowned, gripping the edge of the bed. "Who? Who am I supposed to meet?"

"That is not your concern yet," he replied, dismissing her question with a wave of his hand. "In three days, you will be ready. For now, rest." He glanced at the medic, giving a subtle nod before he turned and swept out of the room, leaving her with more questions than answers, each one tightening around her like a vice.

──────────────────────Three days passed slowly, a blur of loneliness, rest, and uneasy recovery. On the third day, as she lay half-asleep in bed, she heard the door creak open.

Her mother, Talia, stepped inside, her movements hesitant, her face plastered with an expression Y/n had rarely seen, fear. Talia's eyes glistened with unshed tears, and before Y/n could react, her mother crossed the room and enveloped her in an embrace, her grip tight, desperate.

"My child," Talia whispered, her voice trembling. "I... I never wanted this for you. Not this. I thought I could... protect you." Her words came out in choked fragments, as though each one pained her.

Y/n stiffened, unused to this softness from her mother. But she could feel Talia's shoulders shaking, the rare vulnerability in her mother's touch. Despite her own bitterness, Y/n found herself whispering, "It's... it's not your fault, Mother. You couldn't have changed his mind." The words felt heavy, a lie that scraped at her own heart.

Talia pulled back slightly, her eyes searching her face, filled with regret. "When you were born... I thought of sending you away, giving you a life untouched by all of this." She took a shaky breath. "But I couldn't do it. I told... him... that you were gone, that I'd lost you. It was the only way I could think to keep you safe. But then-"

Her voice broke, and she lowered her head, grief pooling in her eyes. Y/n felt her throat tighten, her resentment momentarily melting away in the face of her mother's raw pain.

"You did what you could," she whispered, though it felt hollow. Deep down, her own anger and resentment pulsed, a silent accusation, though she could not bear to voice it now.

Talia held her gaze, tears slipping down her cheeks. "I only wanted you to be safe," she murmured, barely audible. Y/n forced herself to offer a faint smile, a mask to soothe her mother's guilt. Yet, inside, her heart ached, the weight of everything pressing down, suffocating.

After a long silence, Talia finally released her, helping her stand with a steadiness Y/n had not felt in days. "There is someone you need to see," she said softly, her tone laced with a strange mix of hope and reluctance.

Y/n followed her mother out of the compound, walking through the winding corridors until they reached an opening that led to a hidden cave deep within the mountains.

The air grew damp and thick, carrying the faint smell of something metallic, ancient. At the center of the cavern was a pool of murky, green-tinged water, the infamous Lazarus Pit that she would heard whispers about her entire life. Its ominous glow bathed the cave in a sickly green light.

Beside the pit lay a man, half-naked and visibly scarred, likely in his twenties. His skin pale against the dark stone floor. His black hair fell over his eyes, though a striking streak of white cut through his bangs, an unnatural contrast to the rest. He seemed dazed, disoriented, though the fury in his gaze was unmistakable as he glared at her, his breathing ragged and shallow.

He looked around wildly, his eyes darting between Y/n, Talia, and Ra's, who now stood at the edge of the cavern, watching with cold satisfaction.

"Who are you people?" he snarled, voice hoarse, his gaze landing on Talia and narrowing. "Where am I? Where's Batman? And... the Joker..." His voice faltered slightly, an edge of agony creeping in before he masked it with renewed rage.

Y/n remained silent, her own confusion growing. She glanced at Ra's, who stepped forward, his expression one of grim satisfaction.

"This," Ra's began, gesturing to the man, "is our guest, found at death's door, and brought back to life by the power of the Lazarus Pit." His eyes gleamed with a cruel satisfaction as he looked down at the man. "A gift of resurrection... though I'm sure it's left you with memories you'd rather not confront."

The man struggled to sit up, his muscles tensing as he looked around, his eyes blazing with anger. "What did you do to me?" he demanded, his voice a low growl.

Ra's simply watched him, unperturbed. "What I did, I did for a purpose greater than you. You will serve the League in return for the gift of life-"

"I didn't ask for your 'gift,'" he spat, glaring up at Ra's, his gaze cold. "I don't owe you anything."

Ra's lips curled into a faint smile, his gaze shifting to Y/n. "You may not feel inclined to serve us now, but that will change. You will find that we can be... persuasive."

He turned to Y/n, his expression stern. "This man will help you hone your skills and strength in a way I cannot. You are both the weapons this League needs." His voice softened slightly, taking on an almost mocking tone. "And perhaps, you both have something to learn from each other."

She looked down at the man, who met her gaze with fierce distrust and hostility. His hands clenched into fists, and she could see the tension in his posture, the resistance and defiance etched in every line of his body. She felt her own sense of rage rise. It was not pity she felt for him, but a recognition of the same anger that burned within her.

Without breaking eye contact, she reached out a hand to him, an invitation to stand, to fight, to accept this fate they would both been forced into. Her hand hovered in the air between them, unwavering.

"My name is Y/n," she said quietly, her voice steady. "If we're both trapped here... then we might as well work together."

The man hesitated, his eyes flickering between her face and her outstretched hand. Finally, he reached up, clasping her hand in his with a firm, defiant grip.

"Jason," he replied, his voice dark. "Jason Todd."

Part 2

[guilty-ff]

𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐭���𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐁𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐏𝐭.5

ᡕᠵ᠊ᡃ່࡚ࠢ࠘ ⸝່ࠡࠣ᠊߯᠆ࠣ࠘ᡁࠣ࠘᠊᠊ࠢ࠘𐡏 ˚⁎⁺˳ .

Previously: After years of brutal torture by Francis, Y/N finally escaped, fighting her way out of the lab and fleeing into the dense woods. Each step was a struggle, but she knew she couldn't stop. With the guards on her heels, she disappeared into the shadows, determined to reclaim her life.

This story takes place between the second and third movies (warning: not 100% movie/comic accurate)

Pairing: Wade Wilson/Deadpool x (fem!)Reader

Genre: Angst, revenge, Fanfiction, Marvel

Warnings: Movie Spoilers! Explicit content, swearing, torture, mental health, weapons

Word count: 3640

The slums were from now on her home. Y/n had escaped from the clutches of the facility, but the scars of her past- both mental and physical- were still engraved deeply in her body. The nights were the hardest, when the world around her was quiet and the memories screamed the loudest. She lived in a cramped, old apartment, the flickering neon lights outside her window casting shadows on the walls.

It had been weeks since her escape, weeks of hiding and laying low, blending into the filthiness of the city. Here, she was just another face in the crowd, another soul struggling to survive. But she was different. She could feel the darkness within her, the uncontrollable power that surged through her veins. She had to find a way to control it, to suppress it before it consumed her.

Y/n spent her days looking for information, piecing together bits of knowledge about mutants, about powers like hers. She searched through the back alleys and seedy bars, listening to rumors and whispered conversations. Slowly, she began to understand the nature of her abilities, the twisted gift that had been forced upon her. But understanding was not enough. She needed control.

One night, in a ed bar that reeked of sweat and stale beer, Y/n finally found a lead. She had been sitting at the counter, nursing a glass of cheap whiskey, when she overheard a conversation between two men at the next table. They spoke in low tones, their words slurred from alcohol, but Y/n's ears caught every word.

"Essex House... that place was a nightmare," one of the men muttered, his face half-hidden in the shadows. "They did some real messed up shit there."

The other man, a burly figure with a ashen beard, nodded grimly. "I heard they had a way to control mutants. Some kind of device."

Y/n's heart skipped a beat. She leaned closer, pretending to adjust her coat as she listened.

"Yeah, I know a guy who used to work there," the bearded man continued. "Big guy, real quiet. He hangs around here sometimes."

Y/n did not waste any time. She slid over to their table, her movements smooth. "Mind if I join you?" she asked, her voice low and steady.

The men exchanged a glance, then shrugged. "Sure, why not?" the bearded man said, gesturing to the empty seat.

Y/n sat down, fixing them with a piercing gaze. "I couldn't help but overhear. You mentioned Essex House. I'm looking for someone who worked there. A guard, maybe?"

The first man, looked her up and down suspiciously. "Why do you want to know?"

"Let's just say I'm looking for answers," Y/n replied, her tone leaving no room for argument. "If you can help me, I'd appreciate it."

The bearded man scratched his chin, his eyes narrowing. "I don't know his name, but he's usually around here. I'd be careful, though. He doesn't like to be bothered."

"Point him out," Y/n she said, her eyes scanning the bar.

The bearded man nodded toward the far corner, where a large figure sat hunched over the bar, nursing a drink. "That's him."

Y/n followed his gaze and saw the man- a huge, muscled frame with a shaved head and a face that looked like it had seen more than its fair share of violence. He was a mountain of a man, his broad shoulders hunched over as he downed another shot of whiskey. There was a darkness about him, an aura of danger that warned others to keep their distance.

Y/n thanked the men and made her way toward the bar, her eyes never leaving the figure in the corner. She did not approach him directly, instead choosing to observe him from a distance, waiting for the right moment. 

The man continued to drink heavily, oblivious to the world around him. It was not long before he started to show signs of drunkenness- his movements sloppy, his head nodding as if fighting off sleep.

Now. This was her chance.

Y/n moved swiftly, her steps silent on the worn wooden floor. She slipped behind the man, her hand reaching into her coat to retrieve a small vial of chloroform and a cloth. In one fluid motion, she pressed the cloth over the man's face, her other arm locking around his throat.

The man struggled, his instincts kicking in despite his drunken state, but Y/n was quick and precise. Within seconds, his body went limp, his heavy frame slumping against the bar.

She wasted no time. With the strength born from desperation, Y/n dragged the unconscious man out of the bar, navigating through the back alleys until she reached her hideout.

The basement of an abandoned building, it was cold and damp, the walls lined with old newspapers and broken furniture. She had set up a small, makeshift interrogation room- just a chair and a bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling.

Y/n tied the man to the chair, securing his wrists and ankles with thick rope. She stood back, her heart pounding as she waited for him to wake up. The adrenaline was still coursing through her veins, her hands shaking slightly as she paced the room.

Finally, the man moved slightly, his dazed eyes blinking against the harsh light. He groaned, tugging at the ropes before realizing he was restrained. Panic flickered across his face as he looked around, his gaze settling on Y/n, who stood before him with a cold, determined expression.

"What the hell—?" he began, his voice stammered from the lingering effects of the chloroform.

"Shut up," Y/n snapped, stepping closer. "I'm the one asking questions. You're going to answer them."

The man's eyes narrowed, anger replacing his initial fear. "You've got no idea who you're messing with."

"Oh, I think I do," Y/n replied, her voice icy. "You used to work at Essex House. You were a guard there."

The man's expression hardened, his jaw clenching. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Y/n's patience was wearing thin. She had spent too long hiding, too long searching for answers, to be stonewalled by this brute. She leaned in, her face inches from his, her voice low and menacing.

"Don't lie to me," she hissed. "I know what they did in that place. The experiments, the torture. I know about the children. If you think I'm bluffing, you're sorely mistaken."

The man's boldness stopped for a moment, but he quickly recovered, sneering at her. "You don't know shit."

Her hand moved faster than he could react, striking him hard across the face. His head snapped to the side, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

"I said, don't lie to me!" Y/n shouted, her voice trembling with fury. "I know what kind of monster you are. I know what you did to those kids. Now tell me about the device that suppresses mutant powers."

The man spat blood onto the floor, glaring up at her aggressively. "Even if I did know, I wouldn't tell you."

Y/n's fist connected with his jaw again, this time with more force. The man groaned, his head lolling forward as he struggled to stay conscious.

"You have no idea what I've been through," Y/n said, her voice barely above a whisper. "The things I've seen, the pain I've endured. If you think for one second that I won't make you suffer, you're dead wrong. Now, talk."

The man's resolve began to crumble under the weight of her words, the fear returning to his eyes. He took a heavy breath, finally giving in.

"There's a wristband," he muttered, his voice barely audible. "It was designed to suppress mutant powers. But that place... it's gone. Some kid blew it up, the whole building came down."

Y/n's heart raced as she absorbed his words. "Where can I find one?"

The man hesitated, his gaze darting around the room as if searching for a way out. Finally, he sighed in defeat.

"Maybe there's still some in the storage rooms beneath the building. But it's dangerous. The whole place is crawling with security, even now."

Y/n stared at him for a long moment, her mind racing. She had what she needed, but the anger still burned within her, the memories of those children haunting her every thought.

"And one more thing," the man added, his voice a broken whisper. "There were others involved in that explosion. A man in a red and black suit... mutants from the X-Men... and some scary guy with a teddy bear."

The mention of the man in the red and black suit made Y/n's blood run cold. Wade. The man responsible for her suffering. But she pushed the thought aside, focusing on the task at hand.

"Thank you," she said coldly, before slamming her fist into his face one last time. The man's head snapped back, and he slumped in the chair, unconscious.

"You deserve much more, you little piece of shit," Y/n muttered, her voice thick with disgust. She untied him and dragged him out to a nearby street, leaving him there to be found. She had no use for him anymore.

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈•

The ruins of Essex House stood before Y/n like a tombstone, a monument to the atrocities that had taken place within its walls. The once impressive structure was now a gutted shell, its walls burned and crumbling, overtaken by creeping vines and nature's slow reclamation. The air was thick with the stench of decay and rot, a fitting aura for a place that had been a living nightmare for so many.

Y/n moved silently through the rubble, her senses heightened, every sound increased in the stillness of the night. The moon hung low in the sky, casting long, sinister shadows that danced across the broken ground. 

She had checked out the area earlier, avoiding the main entrances, which were still patrolled by security teams guarding whatever was left in the aftermath of the explosion, a few months ago. She needed to find the storage rooms beneath the building, where the guard had said the wristbands might still be.

Her heart pounded in her chest as she walked through a craggy opening in the wall, her eyes scanning the darkened interior. The building's skeleton remains were a labyrinth of broken beams and collapsed ceilings, the floors plastered with rubble and shattered glass. Every step was a calculated risk, the floorboards creaking ominously beneath her weight.

Y/n made her way down a long corridor, the walls covered in peeling paint and faded sceneries that had once depicted happy, smiling children- an ironic touch for a place that had been anything but.

Her breath stuck in the throat like there's a blockage as she approached a large door at the end of the corridor, its frame cracked and splintered. The guard's words echoed in her mind, urging her forward. She pushed the door open, and stepped into a vast chamber that had once been a laboratory.

Y/n's breath stopped as her eyes landed on the twisted metal chair in the center of the room. It was unmistakable- a torture device designed to restrain and torment its victims. The cold steel of the torture chair, the searing pain of electric currents coursing through her body. The sight of it brought a wave of nausea crashing over her, memories of her own time in such a chair flooding her mind, the mocking laughter of Francis as he watched her suffer in agony.

Flashback

She was strapped to the chair, her wrists bound with cold, hard metal. The room was dimly lit, the air thick with the smell of disinfectant and blood. Francis stood before her, his cold eyes glinting with sadistic glee. He was dressed in his usual black combat gear and white coat, his arms folded as he watched her struggle against the restraints.

"Ready for another round, sweetheart?" he sneered, his voice dripping with malice.

Y/n's heart pounded in her chest, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. She was drenched in sweat, her body trembling from the aftershocks of the last session. She had lost count of how many times he had done this to her, how many times he had pushed her to the brink of death, only to pull her back and start again.

"Please... no more," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Francis chuckled, his laughter a cruel, grating sound that echoed in the small room. "Oh, I'm just getting started," he said, reaching for the control panel beside the chair. His fingers danced over the buttons, and a low hum filled the air as the machine powered up.

Y/n's eyes widened in fear as the currents of electricity surged through her body, her muscles spasming uncontrollably. The pain was unbearable, like being ripped apart from the inside. She screamed, the sound tearing from her throat, but there was no one to hear her, no one to save her.

Francis watched with detached amusement, his expression one of mild curiosity. "You know, it's fascinating," he mused, his voice calm and measured. "Watching how much pain a person can endure before they break. You're tougher than most, I'll give you that."

Her vision blurred as the pain reached a crescendo, her mind teetering on the edge of unconsciousness. But she held on, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her broken. She had to survive, had to escape, no matter what it took.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the currents stopped, and Y/n slumped in the chair, her body limp and exhausted. Francis leaned in close, his face inches from hers.

"Don't worry, darling," he whispered, his breath hot against her skin. "We'll keep doing this until you learn to behave."

Present

Y/n snapped back to the present, her hands trembling as she stared at the torture chair. The memories were like a vice around her chest, squeezing the air from her lungs. But she could not afford to break down now, not when she was so close. She forced herself to move, to search the room for the wristband.

The storage room was hidden behind a steel door, half-buried under rubble. Y/n unlocked it with a crowbar she had found earlier, using all her strength to pull the door free. Inside, she found a small, windowless room lined with shelves. Dust coated everything, the air stale and suffocating. She searched through the shelves, her hands moving frantically as she searched for the device.

Finally, her fingers closed around a small, sleek wristband, its surface smooth and cold to the touch. This was it- the device that could suppress her powers, that could give her the control she so desperately needed.

But as she pulled the wristband from the shelf, a shrill alarm pierced the air, the sound reverberating through the building. Panic surged through Y/n as she realized she had triggered a security system, her heart racing as the distant sound of footsteps echoed through the halls.

She had to get out, and fast.

Y/n bolted from the storage room, clutching the wristband tightly in her hand. She sprinted down the corridor, her mind a blur as she searched for an escape route. The footsteps were getting closer, the shouts of guards filling the air.

She spotted a window at the end of the hall, its glass cracked but still intact. Without hesitation, she launched herself at it, her shoulder slamming into the glass. The window shattered with a deafening crash, and Y/n tumbled through the opening, her body twisting in midair.

The world spun around her as she rolled to her feet, glass shards cutting into her skin. But there was no time to stop, no time to recover her injuries. The guards were right behind her.

Y/n ran, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she sprinted through the darkened streets. The sounds of pursuit faded into the distance, but she did not stop. She could not stop. Not until she was safe.

Finally, after what felt like hours, she slowed to a halt, her body aching and exhausted. She had made it. She had escaped, and she had the wristband. But as she stood there, alone in the shadows, the memories of Essex House lingered in her mind, a reminder of the horrors she had endured- and the revenge she would soon unleash.

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈•

Y/n sat in her dimly lit hideout, the cold, metal wristband clasped tightly in her hand. She had waited for this moment, the promise of control over her powers finally within her grasp. With a deep breath, she slipped the wristband onto her wrist. A series of tiny, almost inaudible clicks signaled its activation. She felt a slight hum of energy ripple through her body, a sensation that was both foreign and strangely comforting.

"Okay, Y/n," she whispered to herself, her voice barely more than a murmur in the silence. "Time to see if this thing really works."

Her heart pounded in her chest as she picked up a small, sharp knife. She took a moment to steel herself before pressing the blade against the palm of her hand. Slowly, deliberately, she drew the knife across her skin, wincing as a thin line of blood welled up. She braced herself for the familiar agony of her powers activating, but to her astonishment, the pain remained localized. The cut did not heal as it usually would.

"It works," she breathed, a mix of relief and awe in her voice. "It actually works."

She wrapped her hand in a bandage, her mind already racing with the possibilities. For the first time in years, she felt like she had a measure of control over her life, over her destiny. She was not just a victim of her circumstances; she could be the master of them.

Over the next two years, Y/n threw herself into training with a passion that bordered on obsession. She perfected her combat skills, mastering various martial arts and weapons. She trained with knives, guns, and swords, each session pushing her limits further. Her hideout became a makeshift dojo, littered with training equipment and weapons of all kinds.

Her reputation in the slums grew as she took on hitman jobs to fund her training. She became a ghost, an unseen force of retribution for those who could not fight back.

One evening, she was approached by a woman with bruised arms and tear-streaked cheeks.

"Please," the woman begged, her voice trembling. "My husband... he beats me. I can't take it anymore. Please, make him stop."

Y/n looked into the woman's eyes, seeing the same helplessness and desperation she had felt so many times before. "What's his name?" she asked quietly.

"Jack. Jack Thompson. He works at the docks," the woman replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

Y/n nodded. "Consider it done. He won't hurt you again."

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈•

Two years had passed since Y/n had escaped from Francis, two years of relentless training and hard-earned survival. She decided it was time to visit her own grave, a symbolic gesture to honour the person she once was. She made her way to a small flower shop, her mind set on finding the perfect bloom.

As she approached the counter to pay for a single white lily, she saw a woman laughing and chatting with the shopkeeper. The sight made her freeze. It was Vanessa. Alive and well, her smile as bright as ever. Y/n's heart clenched painfully in her chest, pulling her hood that covered her face even more down. She quickly paid for the flower and fled the shop, her mind a whirlwind of confusion and anger.

She reached her grave, a simple, unadorned headstone with her name etched into the cold marble. The vase next to it was empty.

"I see," she whispered, her voice cracking with emotion. "Forgotten and abandoned, even in death."

She knelt down, placing the lily in the empty vase. "I can't remember my old self," she said softly, tears welling in her eyes. "She truly did die, as well as her trust in you."

Her thoughts turned dark as she slowly stood up. Wade had saved Vanessa, she realized, her mind piecing together the puzzle with cold clarity.

He must have used Cable's time travel device during the Mutant Rehabilitation incident to go back and save her... but he left me to die.

As she turned and walked away from the grave, she could feel a rising tide of hatred surging within her, anger directed at Wade for abandoning her, for choosing Vanessa over her.

Later that evening, Wade approached the same grave. He was dressed in his red and black costume, the weight of his grief and guilt heavy on his shoulders. In his hand, he held a brand-new flower and a polished vase. He had not missed a single visit, always coming back to this lonely, forgotten corner of the cemetery to leave a token of his sorrow and love.

As he knelt down to place the new flower in the vase, he noticed the fresh lily already there, wilting slightly in the cold night air.

"Who...?" Wade muttered to himself, confusion furrowing his brow. He looked around, but the cemetery was empty and silent.

He placed his own flower beside the lily, a pang of sadness piercing his heart. "I'm sorry," he whispered to the grave. "I'm so damn sorry."

He stood there for a long moment, staring at the headstone as if willing it to give him some sort of answer, some sign that she knew he had not given up on her, that he still mourned her every day.

But the silence of the graveyard offered no reunion, only deepened the gap of misunderstanding that was growing between them, unseen and unspoken.

As Y/n made her way back through the slums, her mind was a storm of emotions. She was determined now, fueled by a dark purpose. She had been forgotten, left to rot in the shadows while Wade had moved on, living his best life with Vanessa.

A twisted sense of revenge began to take root in her heart, and she knew that the next time she crossed paths with Wade, it would be on her terms. And when that day came, there would be a reckoning.

[guilty-ff]

𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐭: 𝐁𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐁𝐞𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐮𝐫𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞

Summery: Y/n’s world is turned upside down when she is diagnosed with cancer, leaving her to confront the darkest fears of her life. With Wade Wilson by her side, their bond deepens as they navigate the struggle between despair and hope.

Pairing: Wade Wilson/Deadpool x (cancer!fem)Reader

Genre: Angst, Fluff

Warnings: swearing, mental health, cancer

Word count: 2694

The idea of writing this One Shot was a suggestion from a cancer survivor, and it is dedicated to them. Wishing you all the best. 🫶

The day the doctor said the word "cancer," Y/n's world felt like it was collapsing around her. The sterile office, the birght lights overhead, and the sympathetic look in the doctor's eyes all blurred into a foggy haze. She barely heard the rest of the conversation, her mind stuck on that single word, echoing over and over.

Cancer.

She knew she had to tell Wade, but how? How do you tell the love of your life that the same disease that had torn him apart was now threatening to do the same to you?

She stumbled out of the doctor's office in a daze, clutching the diagnosis papers like they were a death sentence. How could this be happening? How could her life take such a cruel twist?

By the time she got home, her hands were shaking. The apartment was too quiet, too empty. Wade was not home yet, and she was glad for it- she needed time to process this, to figure out how she was going to tell him.

But, as usual, Wade had impeccable timing.

The door burst open, and in walked the love of her life, Wade Wilson. He was in full costume, as usual, but even with the mask on, Y/n could sense something different about him today. Maybe it was the way he moved, a little less swagger in his step, or the way he did not immediately launch into some ridiculous story.

"Hey, sugar tits," he called out, his voice humorous but mixed with something she could not quite figure out. "Guess who just gave the bad guys a five-finger discount on their lives?"

Y/n managed a weak smile, but it did not reach her eyes. "You always know how to brighten up a room, Wade."

"Damn straight," he replied, finally noticing the tension in her voice. "Uh-oh. That tone. What's wrong, babe? You sound like someone kicked your puppy and didn't even leave a note."

She could not meet his eyes. How could she? How could she tell him the very thing that had nearly killed him was now inside of her, too?

"Wade..." Her voice cracked, and she hated how fragile she sounded. "I... I went to the doctor today."

He stiffened, the air in the room growing heavy with unspoken fears. "And?"

"They said... they said I have cancer."

The silence that followed was deafening. Wade stared at her, his mask hiding his expression, but she could feel the shock radiating off him. Then, slowly, he pulled off his mask, revealing the scarred, yet still incredibly expressive face beneath.

"Y/n," he said, his voice rough. "Are you... are you sure? Like, actual cancer? The C-word?"

She nodded, tears brimming in her eyes. "I'm sure."

For a long moment, Wade just stood there, his gaze locked on hers. Then, to her surprise, he crossed the room in two quick strides and pulled her into a fierce embrace, holding her as if she might disappear at any moment.

She nodded, biting her lip to keep from crying. Wade immediately dropped to his knees in front of her, taking her hands in his gloved ones. "Nope, nuh-uh, not happening. We already did this dance once, and it sucked, remember? So, here's the plan: we're going to kick cancer's ass together, and then we're going out for tacos. Sound good?"

Y/n could not help but smile through her tears. "You make it sound so easy."

"Because it is," he said, with that trademark Deadpool confidence. "You're the toughest chick I know, and I'm... well, I'm Wade Wilson, so we're basically unstoppable. Cancer doesn't stand a chance."

Y/n clung to him, letting the tears fall freely now. "But what if... what if I don't?"

He pulled back just enough to look into her eyes, his hands cradling her face. "You will. Because you're strong, and because you've got me. And I don't lose, baby. Ever."

She could not help but let out a watery laugh. Trust Wade to make her smile even in a moment like this. "You're a cocky bastard, you know that?"

"And you love me for it." He pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. "Now, we're going to fight this together. You're not alone, Y/n. Not ever."

Y/n hadn't spoken much that night. The treatments had taken a toll on her, and Wade could see the exhaustion in her eyes, even as she tried to keep a brave face. He hated seeing her like this, so drained and defeated. But more than that, he hated that there was not a single thing he could do to take the pain away.

Wade lay beside her, propped up on one elbow, his gaze fixed on her pale face. The shadows cast by the city lights danced across his features, softening the harsh lines of his scarred skin. He watched her, his heart aching with a mix of helplessness and determination. He wasn't used to feeling powerless—he was Deadpool, after all, the guy who could take on anything and come out the other side with a snarky comment and a grin. But this... this was different.

"Hey, you still with me?" Wade's voice was soft, barely above a whisper as he reached out to brush a stray strand of hair from her face. His fingers lingered against her skin, warm and comforting.

Y/N's eyes fluttered open, and she gave him a small, tired smile. "Barely," she mumbled, her voice weak but laced with affection.

"Good," Wade replied, forcing a grin onto his face. "Because I'm not done annoying you yet. You know how it is—'til death do us part and all that jazz. And even then, I'll probably just haunt you, so really, there's no escaping me."

A soft laugh escaped Y/N's lips, though it quickly turned into a cough. Wade's grin faded slightly as he scooted closer, wrapping his arm around her and pulling her into his chest. He felt her relax against him, her head resting on his shoulder, and he held her tight, as if he could shield her from the world.

"You know," Wade began, his voice low and soothing, "I've been thinking... I mean, I know that's dangerous and all, but just go with it. Remember when I first found out about my cancer? I was scared shitless, thought my life was over. But then I met you, and suddenly, the idea of sticking around didn't seem so bad anymore."

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈

The days that followed were a blur of doctor's appointments, treatment plans, and long, sleepless nights. But through it all, Wade was there. He was at every appointment, holding her hand, making crude jokes to lighten the mood, and telling the doctors exactly where they could shove their needles if they so much as looked at Y/n the wrong way. He kept the mood light, refusing to let the dark cloud of cancer take away their laughter.

When the treatments started, and the side effects hit hard, Wade was there too. He stayed by her side when the nausea was too much to bear, when she was too weak to get out of bed, when the fear and pain became overwhelming. He held her through the tears, through the anger, through the darkest moments when she did not think she could go on.

One day, as Y/n was sitting in a hospital chair, hooked up to an IV, Wade leaned over, his face just inches from hers. "You know, if I had known you'd be spending so much time in bed, I would have gotten one of those fluffy pillows with my face on it. You know, for comfort."

Y/n rolled her eyes, a small smile across her lips. "I'm pretty sure they'd kick you out of the hospital for bringing that in."

"Oh, I see how it is," Wade teased, pretending to be offended. "Here I am, being all supportive, and you're rejecting my face pillow idea? I'm wounded, Y/n. Deeply wounded."

She chuckled, the sound weak but genuine. "I love you, you idiot."

"I know," Wade said, grinning as he kissed the top of her head. "And that's why I'm here, annoying the crap out of you, until you're cancer-free and we can go back to our regularly scheduled programming of bad guys and bad decisions."

But Wade never wavered. He was her rock, her anchor in the storm. He understood what she was going through in a way no one else could. He knew the fear, the anger, the helplessness that came with a cancer diagnosis. And he fought it with her every step of the way.

But not every day was full of jokes and smiles. There were times when the treatments left Y/n too weak to even laugh at Wade's antics. On those days, they would lay in bed together, Y/n curled up against his chest. Wade spoke softly, his voice filled with a tenderness that was reserved only for her. 

"You know," he began, his fingers tracing idle patterns on her back, "when I found out I had cancer, I thought it was the end. I thought my life was over. But then I became Deadpool, and well... let's just say, shit got weird."

She laughed softly, her head resting against his shoulder. "That's one way to put it."

"But you..." He paused, searching for the right words. "You're different, Y/N. You're not just fighting for yourself. You're fighting for us. And I'm going to be here, every step of the way, making sure you kick this thing's ass."

She looked up at him, her eyes filled with love and gratitude. "I couldn't do this without you, Wade."

He grinned, that familiar mischievous glint in his eyes. "Damn right you couldn't. I'm your secret weapon, babe. Cancer doesn't stand a chance."

"Hey," he said "you know how I'm basically invincible, right? Like, I've been blown up, shot, stabbed, and I'm still kicking?"

"Mm-hmm," Y/N mumbled, her eyes half-closed.

"Well, I'm basically like a really ugly cheerleader. I'll keep cheering you on until this cancer thing gets bored and leaves you alone. And then we'll go get ice cream. Or, you know, find some bad guys to punch. Whatever you're in the mood for."

Y/n closed her eyes, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her ear. It was comforting, grounding her in the moment, reminding her that she was not alone. Wade's words were like a lifeline, pulling her back from the edge of despair.

"I know you're scared," he continued, his voice softening. "Hell, I'm scared too. But you've got something I didn't have back then- you've got me. And I'm not going anywhere, okay? We're in this together, and I'm not letting you face this alone."

Y/n's hand found his, their fingers intertwining. "I don't want to be weak, Wade. I don't want you to see me like this."

"Hey, hey," Wade said, gently squeezing her hand. "There's nothing weak about you, Y/n. You're the strongest person I know, and trust me, I've met some tough bastards in my time. You're allowed to be scared, and you're allowed to have shitty days. But don't for a second think that makes you weak. You're fighting a goddamn war here, and you're doing it like a champ."

Tears welled up in Y/n's eyes, but she blinked them away, burying her face in Wade's chest. "I'm so tired, Wade," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I don't know if I can keep doing this."

Wade's heart broke at the raw vulnerability in her voice, but he refused to let her see his pain. Instead, he pressed a gentle kiss to the top of her head, his lips lingering there as he spoke. "You can, and you will," he murmured, his voice firm but tender. "Because you're Y/n, and you don't back down from a fight. And when you feel like you can't go on, you just lean on me, okay? I'll carry you if I have to."

For a long moment, they lay there in silence, the weight of Wade's words settling over them. Y/n could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, the warmth of his body pressed against hers, and it gave her a sense of comfort she hadn't felt in days. With Wade beside her, the darkness didn't seem quite as overwhelming.

"Wade?" she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Yeah, babe?"

"Thank you... for being here. For... for everything."

Wade smiled, even though she couldn't see it. "You don't have to thank me, Y/n. This is what love's all about, right? Sticking around through the good, the bad, and the 'oh shit, we're out of toilet paper' moments."

Y/n chuckled softly, the sound muffled against his chest. "You really know how to ruin a moment, don't you?"

"It's a gift," Wade replied, grinning as he held her a little tighter. "But seriously, Y/n... I love you. And I'm not going to let you go through this alone. Not now, not ever."

"I love you too, Wade," Y/n whispered, her heart swelling with a mixture of love and gratitude.

They stayed like that for a long time, wrapped up in each other, with Wade occasionally cracking jokes to make her smile. And as the night wore on, Y/n slowly drifted off to sleep, feeling safe and loved in his arms.

Wade stayed awake, watching over her, his mind racing with a thousand thoughts. But one thing was clear: he wasn't going to let cancer take her away from him. He would fight it with her every step of the way, and they would come out on the other side stronger than ever.

Y/n snuggled closer, feeling a sense of peace wash over her. 

As the months passed, Y/n's strength began to return. The treatments were working, and slowly but surely, she started to feel like herself again. Wade was there to celebrate every small victory, every piece of good news. He was her biggest cheerleader, always ready with a joke or a sarcastic comment to keep her spirits up.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the day came when the doctor delivered the news they had been praying for.

"Y/n, your scans are clear. There's no sign of the cancer."

She could hardly believe it. Tears welled up in her eyes as the weight of those words settled over her. She was going to be okay.

Wade let out a whoop of joy, scooping her up in his arms and spinning her around the room, much to the dismay of the startled doctor. "I knew it! I fucking knew it! You're a goddamn superhero, Y/n!"

She laughed through her tears, clutching him tightly as he held her. "We did it, Wade. We really did it."

He set her down, cupping her face in his hands as he looked into her eyes, his own brimming with tears. "I knew you could. You're the strongest person I know, Y/n. And I'm so fucking proud of you."

They kissed then, a kiss filled with love, relief, and the unbreakable bond they had forged through their shared struggle. In that moment, nothing else mattered. They had faced the darkness together and come out the other side, stronger than ever.

As they left the doctor's office hand in hand, Wade turned to her with a grin. "So, how about we celebrate by doing something completely reckless and dangerous?"

She raised an eyebrow, a smile playing on her lips. "Like what?"

He smirked, that familiar glint back in his eyes. "I'm thinking chimichangas, a bottle of tequila. You know, the usual."

She laughed, feeling lighter than she had in months. "That sounds perfect."

And as they walked off into the sunset, ready to take on whatever life threw their way, Y/n knew that with Wade by her side, she could face anything.

In sickness and in health, they were unstoppable.

[guilty-ff]

hi !! i stumbled across your deadpool series just now and it’s so fucking good !!!! i love love the story/plit and i’m super excited for the next chapter xx

Aww thank you! This really means a lot for me!! 🫶🫶🫶

[guilty-ff]

𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐁𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐏𝐭.4

ᡕᠵ᠊ᡃ່࡚ࠢ࠘ ⸝່ࠡࠣ᠊߯᠆ࠣ࠘ᡁࠣ࠘᠊᠊ࠢ࠘𐡏 ˚⁎⁺˳ .

Previously: Y/N, restrained and tortured, learns from Francis that her regeneration causes others to suffer in her place. As the pain intensifies, she weakly mutters his name before passing out.

This story takes place between the second and third movies (warning: not 100% movie/comic accurate)

Pairing: Wade Wilson/Deadpool x Reader

Genre: Angst, revenge, Fanfiction, Marvel

Warnings: Movie Spoilers! Explicit content, swearing, torture, mental health, weapons

Word count: 3927

Wade was a broken man, trapped in a relentless cycle of despair and obsession. His life, once marked by chaos and humor, had become an endless string of sleepless nights and futile searches.

The warehouse, which had once been a safe place of his independence and creativity, was now a pitiful reflection of his deteriorating mental state. It was cluttered with stacks of documents, photographs pinned disorganised on the walls, and maps dotted with red circles and frantic scribbles. Every inch of the space was covered in evidence of his failed search for Y/n, and the air was stuffy with the odor of stale coffee and unwashed clothes.

Wade's physical appearance mirrored his mental decline. He had lost weight, his once muscular frame now gaunt and sickly. His suit, once his pride, was now old and stained. The red and black fabric was faded, a wretched testament to his endless struggles.

His face, usually masked by his signature humor, was now painted with deep lines of exhaustion and despair. His eyes, once sharp and full of mischief, were now hollow and bloodshot, reflecting the sleepless nights and relentless guilt that hunted him.

The daily routine was monotonous and the same.

Wade would spend hours looking over the maps and documents, his fingers stained with ink and coffee. He would pace the warehouse, muttering to himself as he memorised every detail of his search. The endless cycle of hope and disappointment had messed up his sanity. Every time a lead turned out to be a dead end, it felt like another nail in his coffin.

Weasel had tried everything to break through to him. He had been by Wade's side through every failed attempt, every new lead that went nowhere. But as the years wore on, his patience began to wear thin.

Dopinder, too, had grown weary. He had watched Wade's descent into obsession with a heavy heart, and the silence in Altheas apartment was often emphasised by the sound of Weasel's frustrated sighs.

One evening, after yet another dead-end search, Weasel finally exploded. His face was flushed with anger and exhaustion as he stormed into the room. The narrow space, filled with the waste of Wade's obsessive quest, seemed to close in around him.

He slammed a stack of papers onto the table, the documents scattering and fluttering across the floor. "Wade, this is fucking insane!" he yelled, his voice cutting through the oppressive silence. "We've been at this for years! We've gone through every fucking corner of this city and beyond, and there's nothing. She's gone. You need to accept that!"

Wade, hunched over the table, looked up with hollow eyes. His face was pale, his expression a mix of desperation and confrontation. "Don't you fucking tell me that! She's out there. I know it. I can feel it. I promised I'd protect her. I can't just fucking let go."

Dopinder, who had been standing quietly, finally spoke. His voice was steady but laced with frustration. "Sir, he's right. This obsession is making you lose your mind. As you know, I once felt similar to Gita because of my cousin. It's time to face reality. Kidnapping Bandhu and going after her as you told me was not the move. She's not coming back."

Wade's face twisted in torment. "I can't stop. I made a promise to her. I have to keep looking. If I stop, it means I failed her."

Weasel's anger softened into a weary sadness.

"Wade, look at yourself. You're barely holding it together. This obsession is destroying you. It's okay to accept that she's gone. You can't keep going like this."

The argument had reached a fever pitch when Althea, arrived unannounced. She entered the room with a smirk sensing a suffocating atmosphere.

"Well, well, well," Althea drawled, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "Look at you, Wade. You're like a fucking stray dog, clawing at every lead and getting nowhere. Pathetic, really. You've been digging through garbage for years, and what do you have to show for it? Nothing but a dirty room and a broken spirit."

Wade's eyes flared with anger and pain. "Shut up, Althea. You have no idea what this is like."

"Oh, I have an idea. You're just like a cockroach, scuttling around in the dark, hoping for a crumb. And look at you now- your obsession has turned you into a fucking joke. A pitiful, little joke."

The cruel words cut deep. Wade's resolve finally began to crumble under the weight of his guilt and the relentless pressure from his friends. He slumped into a chair, his body shaking with the intensity of his emotions. Tears streamed down his face as he realized the immensity of his failure.

Weasel placed a hand on Wade's shoulder, his voice soft but firm. "You did everything you could. It's time to take care of yourself. You've been searching for years. It's okay to let go."

Wade's voice was a broken whisper. "Fine. Fine. She's dead. I get it. She's gone." The admission felt like a knife twisting in his gut. "I'm so sorry. I'm so fucking sorry."

The room fell into a heavy silence. He sat alone in the dim light of the warehouse, feeling a hollow emptiness that no amount of searching could fill. The dream of finding Y/n and making things right had ended in crushing defeat.

Guilt catching up on him, eating away at whatever was left of his sanity. He should have been there for her, should have protected her. He would failed her, just like he had failed Vanessa.

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•

As Wade's search faded into a resigned acceptance of her death, Y/N's reality became one of unending horror.

Francis, the man responsible for her capture, took pleasure in her suffering, using her as a pawn in his twisted game of revenge against Wade.

The sterile, metallic walls of her prison reflected her pain back at her, a constant reminder of the nightmare she could not escape. And as the torture escalated, so too did her resolve- she would survive this, if only to make sure Francis paid for what he had done.

Each day, Francis would enter, his footsteps echoing down the corridor before the door creaked open. He was always methodical, almost clinical in his approach, but his eyes betrayed a sadistic pleasure in what he was about to do.

He would start with the physical pain.

The tools varied- sometimes it was the sharp blade of a scalpel, cutting into her flesh; other times, it was the searing burn of heated metal pressed against her skin, leaving behind the burned smell of charred flesh.

But no matter how much she bled or how deeply the burns seared, Francis always had more in store for her, never satisfied with just one form of torture.

As Francis stood over her, his expression cold and unfeeling, a stark contrast to the cruel image that flickered in his eyes. His hands moved quickly as he secured the straps around her wrists and ankles, ensuring she could not move even an inch. Y/n's breaths were shallow and weak, each one a reminder of the agony her body had endured.

"Comfortable?" Francis asked, his voice dripping with mockery. He leaned over her, his face close enough that she could see the sick pleasure in his eyes.

Y/n managed to muster a weak glare, her voice a raspy whisper, "Go to hell."

He smiled, a cold, predatory grin that made her stomach turn. "Oh, we're already there, sweetheart." He nodded to one of his servants, who stepped forward with a large, filthy rag and a bucket of water. The sight of the bucket made Y/n's heart race, a surge of primal fear washing over her.

"Let's see how long you can hold your breath," Francis said, his tone almost casual, like they were discussing the weather.

The servant threw the rag over Y/n's face, the old fabric scraping against her raw skin. Her world became dark, the air around her thick and suffocating. Panic set in immediately, her body instinctively struggling against the restraints, but it was useless. She was trapped, helpless beneath the weight of the rag and the knowledge of what was coming next.

Francis stepped back, savoring the moment before giving a slight nod. The servant tilted the bucket, and the water poured out in a steady stream, soaking the rag and filling her mouth and nose. It was cold, a shock to her already trembling body, but that was quickly replaced by a more immediate terror.

Y/n exhausted, her body screaming for air, but all she could do was choke on the water. It felt like she was drowning, like her lungs were filling with liquid fire. Her mind screamed at her to breathe, to cough, to do anything to expel the water, but it was impossible. The rag was an unforgiving barrier, the water relentless as it flooded her senses.

"Do you know what the worst part is, Y/n?" Francis's voice cut through the roaring in her ears, his tone conversational as if they were chatting over tea.

"Wade's not coming for you. He's probably already forgotten you, moved on to the next whore who'll get caught up in his mess. You're nothing to him now. Just another casualty of his fucked-up life."

His words were a blade, slicing through the last threads of her resolve. Y/n wanted to scream, to tell him he was wrong, but all she could do was gag on the water that filled her throat, her body arching off the table in a desperate attempt to escape the suffocating torture.

Francis watched her struggle with cold detachment, his hands clasped behind his back. "He's not worth this, you know," he continued, his voice low and insidious. "You're suffering for nothing. For a man who doesn't even have the decency to keep searching for you. How long do you think you've been here, Y/n? Days? Months? Years?"

Her mind spun, disoriented by the lack of oxygen and the overwhelming need to breathe. Time had lost all meaning in this place, each moment stretching into an eternity of pain and fear. She did not know how long she had been here, but it felt like forever. And the thought that Wade had given up on her, that he had moved on... it was a torture all its own.

Francis nodded again, and the water stopped. The rag was ripped away, and Y/n gasped, coughing violently as her lungs finally found air. Her body shaken violently, trying to dodge the water that had nearly drowned her, each breath a ragged, painful gasp.

But Francis was not done. He leaned down, his face close to hers, his voice a poisonous whisper. "He's not coming for you. No one is. You're all alone, Y/n. And this... this is your life now."

Her chest heaved as she struggled to breathe, her body trembling with exhaustion and fear. But somewhere deep inside, buried beneath the pain and terror, a spark of defiance still flickered. She would not let him break her. Not like this.

Y/n turned her head, her eyes meeting his with a fierce determination. "Fuck... you," she spat, her voice hoarse but filled with venom.

Francis straightened, a cold smile tugging at his lips. "We'll see how long that fire lasts," he said, stepping back as the servant prepared for the next round of water.

And as the rag was placed over her face once more, Y/n braced herself for the flood, for the darkness that threatened to consume her. But she would hold on to that little hope, no matter how small it was. Because it was all she had left.

Days turned into a blur of pain and despair. The cycle of waterboarding became just one of many methods Francis employed to break her spirit. The physical torment was relentless, but it was the psychological warfare that truly triggered her. He seemed to take a perverse pleasure in ensuring that she remained as mentally shattered as she was physically.

Francis knew how to break a person from the inside out. He was a master of manipulation, weaving a web of lies and half truths designed to trigger her spirit.

He would lean in close, his breath hot against her ear as he whispered cruel taunts. "You really thought Wade would come for you?". He would say, his voice dripping with malice.

His words were like poison, getting into her mind, making her question everything she had believed. She tried to resist, to cling to the hope that Wade was still out there, searching for her, but with each passing day, that hope vanished.

The isolation, the constant pain, and the relentless psychological assault began to wear her down. Francis took every opportunity to remind her of how alone she was, how forgotten she had become.

He had a way of getting inside her head, twisting her thoughts until she did not know what was real anymore. He played mind games with her, altering the timing of her torture sessions so she could never expect when the next wave of pain would come. Sometimes he would leave her in darkness for days, the silence broken only by the distant echoes of other prisoners' screams, a constant reminder of her own doom.

As the years dragged on, Y/n changed. She had lost track of how long she had been trapped in that hellhole. The days had bled together in a blur of agony and despair. The torture had done more than scar her body- it had twisted her mind, turning her into something she barely recognized.

The physical pain was constant, but it was the psychological torment that truly broke her. The things Francis had done to her, the things he had made her believe about Wade, had planted a seed of hatred in her heart, one that grew with every day of her captivity.

The isolation was suffocating. Y/n found herself questioning her own memories, her own worth. The lines between reality and the lies Francis fed her began to blur. She started to believe that Wade had forgotten her, that she was not worth saving. The thought of him moving on, living a life without her, filled her with a rage she had never known before- a rage that Francis eagerly thrilled.

Six years had passed in a relentless blur of pain and suffering since the accident, leaving Y/n in the dark, cramped cell. Her bruised body and broken spirit showed the unending cruelty she had endured.

The cell was a dark, oppressive space, highlighted only by a sliver of moonlight that struggled through a foggy window. Y/n laid crumpled on the cold concrete floor, her body twisted in exhaustion.

The air was heavy, the stench of old blood and sweat mingling with the scent of despair. Her clothes, once white, were now an old and torn mess, barely clinging to her damaged frame. Her skin was marked with bruises and burns, each one a testament to the relentless cruelty she had faced.

Breathing was a struggle, each inhale short and shallow, as if her lungs were weighed down by the enormity of her torture. Her eyes, hollow and unfocused, drifted across the cracked walls. She mumbled to herself, her voice barely more than a whisper, choked by the weight of her guilt and despair.

"They're... they're suffering because of me," she murmured, her voice breaking with the weight of her own realization. "They're dying... and I'm... I'm still here..."

Her thoughts were a mess, separated by the horror she had endured and witnessed. The echoes of distant screams and cries seemed to mess with her mind, though she knew they were not her own. Each cry, each plea for help, was a stark reminder of the suffering she had become intertwined in.

She tried to push away the images and sounds of others' suffering, but they seemed to get into her consciousness, an unending reminder of the pain she had without intention caused.

"Why... why can't I stop this?" she mumbled, her voice stammering. "Why am I the one who's still alive, when they... they're not?"

She felt a intense sense of disconnection from reality, as if the walls of her cell were closing in on her, pressing her down with the weight of her guilt. The thought that her continued survival meant the maintenance of others' suffering was unbearable. She was a vessel of pain, a curse that dragged others into hell with her.

In the silence of her cell, the only sound was her quiet mumbling and the occasional shudder of her body. Her thoughts swirled in a chaotic blur, a never- ending loop of self-blame and guilt. Despite the crushing weight of her situation, a small, flickering hope remained. It was this tiny spark, barely noticeable that drove her to plan her escape.

The day of Y/n's escape had finally arrived, though its outcome remained uncertain. Her heart pounded in her chest as the guards dragged her into a dark metal room, the weight of her chains clinking with every step.

As she was forced to lay on the cold metal table, her body trembling from the effects of the latest torture, a spark of resistance still burned within her.

They had locked her in a small, dark box this time, the temperature slowly dropping until she could see her breath in the air, until her fingers went numb and her teeth chattered uncontrollably.

The cold seeped into her bones, turning her blood to ice. She could feel the frost forming on her skin, tiny crystals of ice biting into her flesh. It hurt- God, it hurt- but she refused to scream. Screaming would only give them the satisfaction of knowing they had won.

The box was so small that she could not move, could not even shift her position to relieve the pressure on her aching joints. The darkness was suffocating, pressing in on her from all sides. She could not see anything, could not hear anything but the faint sound of her own breathing, growing shallower as the cold tightened its grip on her lungs. She focused on that sound, using it to ground herself, to keep from slipping into the abyss of madness that threatened to consume her.

When they finally pulled her out, her body was shaking so badly that she could barely stand. They threw her back onto the table, chaining her wrists and ankles so tightly that the metal bit into her skin. She could feel the blood trickling down her arms, warm against the chill that still clung to her. Francis stood over her, a smug smile on his face as he looked down at her shivering form.

"You're stronger than I expected," he said, his voice cold and clinical. "But everyone breaks eventually. It's just a matter of time."

Y/n did not respond. She did not have the strength to. She lay there, her chest rising and falling in shallow, rapid breaths, her eyes half-closed. To Francis, she looked like she was on the brink of passing out, just another victim of his sadistic games. But Y/n was far from unconscious. She was waiting.

Francis turned away, motioning for the guards to prepare her for the next round of torture. They moved around her, their footsteps heavy on the concrete floor. Y/n waited until one of them leaned in close, unlocking the chain around her wrist. In that split second, she struck.

With a surge of adrenaline-fueled strength, she grabbed the guard's arm and yanked it toward her, using his own momentum to pull him off balance. Her hand found the sharp shard of ice she had hidden, formed from the frost that had coated her body during the freezing torture.

She drove it into his throat with all the force she could muster. The man gurgled, blood spurting from the wound as he collapsed to the ground, the life draining from his eyes.

"Fuck, she broke ou-"

The second guard barely had time to react before she was on him, the makeshift weapon flashing in the dim light as she drove it into his chest. He staggered back, clutching at the wound as blood poured from between his fingers. Y/n did not stop to watch him fall. She was already moving, her body fueled by a desperate, animalistic need to survive.

Francis turned, his eyes widening in shock as he saw her standing over the bodies of his guards, her breath coming in ragged gasps. "You-" he started, but she did not give him a chance to finish. She lunged at him, the ice shard slicing through the air, aiming for his throat. But Francis was quicker than she had anticipated. He dodged to the side, catching her wrist in a vice-like grip.

She struggled, but he was stronger, his hand tightening around her wrist until she could feel the bones grinding together. Pain shot up her arm, but she refused to let go of the shard. She twisted, bringing her knee up into his gut. He grunted, loosening his grip just enough for her to pull free.

Y/n did not waste any time. She turned and ran, her bare feet slapping against the cold floor as she sprinted down the hallway. She could hear Francis shouting behind her, calling for more guards, but she did not stop. She did not look back. All she could think about was getting out, getting away from this place and the horrors it held.

The facility was a labyrinth of sterile hallways and locked doors, but she knew it well. She had been dragged through these corridors enough times to memorize every turn, every exit. Her breath was coming in ragged gasps, her lungs burning with the effort, but she pushed herself harder, refusing to let the exhaustion slow her down.

Finally, she burst through a door and into the open air. The night was cold, the sky a dark, starless void above her. But the chill was a welcome relief after the suffocating confines of the facility. She did not stop running, her feet pounding against the ground as she made her way toward the fence that surrounded the compound.

She could hear the guards behind her, their shouts growing louder as they closed in. But she did not care. She was almost there, almost free. With a final burst of strength, she launched herself at the fence, scrambling up the chain-link like a wild animal. Her hands were slick with blood and sweat, making it hard to keep her grip, but she refused to let go. She hauled herself over the top, her body crashing to the ground on the other side with a painful thud.

She did not stop. She could not. Ignoring the pain that shot through her limbs, she pushed herself to her feet and started running again, disappearing into the night, leaving the facility and Francis behind.

But the damage had been done.

As she ran through the darkened forest, the memories of the past years haunted her, flashing before her eyes like a twisted film reel. The torture, the pain, the manipulation- they had all left their mark on her. She was no longer the woman she had been when she first entered that facility. That woman was dead, buried beneath the layers of trauma and hatred that now consumed her.

And as she ran, one thought burned brighter than all the others: Wade Wilson had abandoned her. He had left her to suffer, to be broken by Francis and him.

[guilty-ff]

𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐁𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐏𝐭.3

ᡕᠵ᠊ᡃ່࡚ࠢ࠘ ⸝່ࠡࠣ᠊߯᠆ࠣ࠘ᡁࠣ࠘᠊᠊ࠢ࠘𐡏 ˚⁎⁺˳ .

Previously: Wade Wilson was devastated after Y/n's tragic death, blaming himself for not saving her. After passing out from the trauma, he woke in Althea's apartment and learned from Weasel and Dopinder that her body had been sent to the morgue. His grief turned to panic when he received a call- Y/n’s body had mysteriously gone missing.

This story takes place between the second and third movies (warning: not 100% movie/comic accurate)

Pairing: Wade Wilson/Deadpool x (fem!)Reader

Genre: Angst, revenge, Fanfiction, Marvel

Warnings: Movie Spoilers! Explicit content, swearing, torture, mental health, weapons, characters death

Word count: 2464

Y/n's eyes fluttered open, and the world around her slowly came into focus, but it was all wrong, terribly wrong. She was lying on a cold, hard surface, her body aching and her mind foggy.

The first thing she noticed was the harsh, sterile smell that filled her nostrils, a nauseating mix of disinfectant and something far more unpleasant, like rotting meat left out in the sun. Her head throbbed, and she winced as she tried to move, only to find herself restrained.

Panic began to set in as she realized she was strapped to a surgeon's table, thick metal cuffs binding her wrists and ankles. The room around her was dimly lit, the only source of light coming from a single flickering bulb hanging overhead, casting strange shadows that danced along the walls.

The walls themselves were concrete, cracked and stained, with streaks of what looked like dried blood smeared across them. It was a place devoid of life, warmth, or hope- a place where suffering was the only certainty.

She tried to turn her head, but the movement sent a wave of dizziness crashing over her, and she groaned softly. The room seemed to spin, the lights and shadows blurring together in a sickening whirlpool.

Her heart pounded in her chest, her breaths coming in short, ragged gasps as she struggled to remember how she would ended up here.

The last thing she recalled was running...running away from Wade...from the silence that had shattered her heart.  The intensely chest pain. And then...the truck. The impact. And then...nothing.

As her vision cleared, she became aware of a presence in the room with her. From the far corner, just beyond the reach of the flickering light, a figure stepped forward, the sound of heavy boots echoing ominously on the concrete floor.

The figure was a woman, her face partially obscured by dark aura, but Y/n could see the glint of cruel, calculating eyes staring down at her.

"Huh, you're finally up?" the woman said, her voice cold and indifferent, as if Y/n's suffering was nothing more than a mild inconvenience. There was no warmth, no compassion- only a chilling detachment that sent a shiver down Y/n's spine.

The woman did not wait for a response. She turned and walked out of the room, her footsteps receding into the distance. Y/n's heart raced as she strained against her restraints, but they held firm, the metal biting painfully into her skin. She was trapped, helpless, with no idea what was going to happen next.

A few moments later, the woman returned, but she was not alone. She was followed by a man who immediately commanded the room's attention. He wore a pristine doctors's coat, the stark white fabric almost glowing in the dim light.

His face was gaunt, his skin pale and sickly, and a small, rounded scar ran painted his forehead, a jagged reminder of some past violence. His eyes were dark, filled with a mix of hatred and sadistic glee as they settled on Y/n.

"Finally," the man said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that sent chills down her spine. "Getting my hands on the other girlfriend of the infamous Wade Wilson. You know, it wasn't easy tracking you down, living in the shadows, making sure no one noticed. But here we are, and I have a new toy to play with."

Y/n's confusion gave way to a burning anger. "Get me the fuck off this bed," she snarled, her voice trembling with a mix of fear and fury.

The man's lips curled into a twisted smile, but there was no warmth in it- only cold, unfeeling malice. "You know," he continued, his tone mocking, "I don't like getting my hands dirty with a woman. But she—" he nodded toward the woman who stood silently by his side,

"-she enjoys it."

Before Y/n could react, the woman stepped forward and delivered a brutal punch to her face. The impact was like a sledgehammer, sending her head snapping to the side, and pain exploded across her cheek, radiating down to her jaw.

She tasted blood, the metallic taste filling her mouth as it dripped from her split lip. She spat it out, the crimson drops splattering on the floor beside the table.

"Ew, disgusting," the man sneered, looking down at his coat with a disdainful expression. "Don't overdo it next time. Her blood almost got on my coat."

Y/n's vision swam, her head pounding from the blow. The room seemed to spin around her, the edges of her sight darkening as she struggled to stay conscious.

The dizziness was overwhelming, but she fought against it, her anger fueling her will to survive. She pulled against the restraints, her muscles straining as she tried to break free, but the cuffs held firm, cutting into her wrists.

The man ignored her struggles, continuing as if nothing had happened. "It wasn't easy monitoring your body and getting you here without raising suspicion. Our members didn't do their job properly when they replaced your body at the morgue. But who the fuck knows, right?"

Y/n's mind was a whirlwind of fear, anger, and confusion. She could barely process what he was saying, her thoughts scattered by the pain and disorientation. But one thing was clear: she was in serious trouble, and these people had no intention of letting her go.

"Fuck off," she spat, her voice hoarse but defiant. "I'm going to fucking rip your eyeballs out of your face and stuff them down your throat."

The man's twisted smile widened, his eyes narrowing with sadistic pleasure. "That'll do," he said calmly, as if her threats were nothing more than idle chatter.

Y/n's confusion deepened, her mind struggling to make sense of his words. But before she could react, pain erupted through her body, a searing, all-consuming agony that made her scream.

It was as if her veins had turned to fire, the pain spreading from her core to every nerve ending in her body. Her muscles seized, her body twitching uncontrollably as electricity surged through her, the current burning her from the inside out.

The pain was unlike anything she had ever experienced, a relentless, unbearable torment that consumed her completely. She could feel her consciousness slipping, the world around her fading as the pain dragged her down into darkness. But it would not let her go. It held her there, on the edge of oblivion, her mind going insane between the waking world and the merciful release of unconsciousness.

As the electricity coursed through her, Y/n's hearing began to fade, replaced by a high-pitched ringing that grew louder and louder until it drowned out everything else. The man's voice became a distant echo, his words distorted and garbled, lost in the cacophony of sound and pain.

"It just continues to get funnier and more interesting to see your loose face and cursing me out. Haven't seen you do that for a long time. We kept an eye on Wade's close ones for my plan," the man continued, though his words barely registered in Y/n's pain-devastated mind.

"We even got samples of your blood. When analyzing your DNA, we discovered something interesting: We actually discovered that you have mutant genes that were deactivated the whole time by an oppressor. We kept the blood sample in track with our systems and waited for the moment. In order for your mutant genes to be activated, the oppressor needs to detach itself from the gene in order for it to be read and, therefore, activated. Your body, desperate to survive, activated those dormant genes, probably by an inhumane amount of cortisol, trauma and adrenalin. It all triggered something in you, and voilà: you became a living curse. You were lucky that your little outburster activated the genes before you were sandwiched by the truck. Fucking awesome."

As Y/n lay chained to the surgical bed, her mind raced with confusion and fear. He loomed over her, his eyes gleaming with a twisted mix of triumph and malice. He seemed to savor the moment, taking his time before finally breaking the silence.

"You probably think you're some sort of miracle, don't you?" he began, his voice dripping with contempt. "Some kind of invincible freak, just like your boyfriend, Wade Wilson."

Y/n glared at him, anger flickering in her eyes despite the pain. "What the hell are you talking about?" she spat, though her voice wavered with uncertainty.

The unknown man chuckled darkly, shaking his head. "You really don't know, do you? Well, allow me to enlighten you."

He leaned in closer, his face inches from hers, the stench of disinfectant and blood clinging to him. "You're not special. You're just a parasite. Your so called 'powers'- they're nothing but a sick twist of fate."

Y/n frowned, trying to make sense of his words. "Parasite? What the fuck does that mean?"

"It means," he hissed, his tone laced with venom, "that every time you heal, every time your body repairs itself from the brink of death, someone else takes your place. The pain, the injury, the death- they're all transferred to some poor bastard unlucky enough to be near you."

Y/n's breath caught in her throat, the weight of his words crushing her. "No... that can't be true..."

He began to pace around the room, his movements deliberate and menacing. "But you're not like Deadpool. He heals on his own, no strings attached. You, on the other hand... every time you survive, someone else pays the price. That night, when you should have died under that truck, someone else did instead. You killed them, whether you meant to or not."

Y/n shook her head, refusing to believe it. "You're lying. This is just some sick game you're playing."

The man's eyes hardened, his expression turning cold. "I don't play games, sweetheart. I deal in reality. You think that pain you felt earlier was just a heart attack? No, it was your body trying to reconcile what it had done—what you had done. You're a walking time bomb, a freak show that drags others down with you."

He stopped in front of her again, his gaze boring into hers. "And here, in my little slice of hell, I'm going to make sure that your hands get even dirtier. Your boyfriend already destroyed one of my labs, but now I have something even better- leverage. You."

Y/n's stomach turned as the full horror of her situation sank in. Her abilities were not a gift- they were a curse, one that condemned others to suffer in her place.

"You're lying," she whispered, her voice trembling with fear and anger. "I would never hurt anyone..."

"But you already have," he said, a cruel smile twisting his lips. "And you will again. Because every time I push you to the edge, every time I make you scream in pain, someone else is going to feel it too. You'll kill them, just like you did that night."

Y/n's vision blurred with tears as she struggled against the chains, desperate to escape the nightmare she was trapped in.

"You're sick. You're fucking sick!"

"Maybe," the man shrugged, unbothered by her outburst. "But you? You're something far worse. A monster who doesn't even know it yet. But don't worry," he added with a sadistic grin, "by the time I'm done with you, you'll understand exactly what you are."

He picked up a surgical tool, the cold metal glinting in the dim light as he held it up to her face. "And we're going to have so much fun finding out just how much you can take before you break."

As he moved closer, the room seemed to close in on her, the reality of her situation crashing down with unbearable weight. Y/n could only hope for a quick end, though deep down, she knew that the unknown man had no intention of letting her off that easily.

Y/n could barely hear him over the ringing in her ears, the sound so intense it felt like her skull was about to split open. Her vision blurred, the world around her reduced to a haze of shadows and flickering light. The pain was all-consuming, relentless, and she could feel herself slipping further away, her thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind.

The man stepped closer, his face looming over hers as he held up a series of twisted, gleaming instruments. They glinted ominously in the dim light, their sharp edges reflecting the flickering bulb overhead. His grin widened, a sadistic gleam in his eyes as he looked down at her, relishing in her torment.

"Your boyfriend, Wade Wilson, was in this same room once... but instead of serving me as a slave, he decided to leave and blew the fuck off my laboratory and all my researches, as well as shooting me right between the eyes!", he said, his voice filled with hatred. "But this time, you're the one who'll be paying the price for his sins."

Y/n's heart pounded in her chest, fear gripping her as she stared up at him. She wanted to scream, to fight, to do anything to escape this nightmare. But she was trapped, helpless, and the darkness was closing in fast.

All she could do was pray for a quick death.

If death was even possible anymore.

But deep down, she knew that this was only the beginning of the torment that awaited her. The man's twisted grin was the last thing she saw before the darkness swallowed her.

As Y/n's vision blurred and the darkness crept closer, she strained to focus on anything that could anchor her to reality. Her gaze landed on the man's pristine white coat, the only thing untouched by the surrounding filth and decay. Amid the chaos, her eyes caught a detail- one that sent a cold shiver down her spine.

Embroidered in neat, black letters over his chest pocket was a name: "Francis."

The word echoed in her mind, a twisted familiarity clawing at the edges of her memory. She tried to make sense of it, but the pain, the fear, and the overwhelming fatigue clouded her thoughts.

"Francis..." she mumbled weakly, her voice barely more than a whisper as her lips struggled to form the word.

Her eyelids grew heavy, the effort to keep them open becoming too much. The world around her faded, the edges of her vision darkening until only the name remained, etched in her mind like a cruel joke.

And then, just as her consciousness slipped away entirely, the darkness finally claimed her.

[guilty-ff]

It looks stunning, yet I feel miserable... Thank you for this masterpiece of art!!! 🫶🫶🫶

the tale of dressrosa

left me crying on the floor!!! but also there was so ooooo many cool characters what!!!!!! i cannot even pick my favs (jk it was bartolomeo n sabo hihi)

[guilty-ff]

𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐁𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐏𝐭.2

ᡕᠵ᠊ᡃ່࡚ࠢ࠘ ⸝່ࠡࠣ᠊߯᠆ࠣ࠘ᡁࠣ࠘᠊᠊ࠢ࠘𐡏 ˚⁎⁺˳ .

Previously: After overhearing Wade and Weasel discuss his unresolved feelings for Vanessa, Y/n panicked and fled the bar. Realizing how much his words had hurt her, Wade chased after her. Tragically, just as he was about to reach her, Y/n was struck by a truck, leaving Wade devastated as he watched her die.

This story takes place between the second and third movies (warning: not 100% movie/comic accurate)

Pairing: Wade Wilson/Deadpool x (fem!)Reader

Genre: Angst, revenge, Fanfiction, Marvel

Warnings: Movie Spoilers! Explicit content, swearing, torture, mental health, weapons, characters death

Word count: 4168

Wade's entire world had shattered in an instant. He was kneeling on the cold, unforgiving pavement, cradling Y/n's lifeless body in his arms, as if he could will her back to life with sheer desperation alone.

The chaos of the world around him: the blaring sirens, the flashing red and blue lights, the distant murmur of concerned voices- was nothing but a blur. All that mattered was the lifeless weight in his arms, the chill that had already settled into her skin, and the way her once bright eyes were now dull and vacant.

"Please... please, don't do this to me," Wade whispered, his voice breaking as he rocked back and forth, clutching her to his chest. His breath hitched, tears blurring his vision as he buried his face in her hair, inhaling the faint scent of her shampoo, clinging to the last remnants of her presence. "I'm sorry... I'm so fucking sorry...".

But his words were met with only silence. Her chest did not rise or fall. There was no reassuring heartbeat, no sign of the warmth that had once filled her eyes with life and laughter. Wade's hands trembled as he smoothed her hair back, trying to memorize every detail of her face, knowing deep down that this was the last time he would ever see her like this.

The blood that stained the street was still warm, mixed with the tears that dripped from his chin. It clung to his hands, a harsh reminder of his failure. His breath came in short, ragged gasps, each one more painful than the last as he choked on the guilt that consumed him.

"It's my fault," he whispered to her, his voice trembling with the weight of his own self-hatred. "I should have been honest with you... I could have stopped you... Why couldn't I even open my fucking mouth like I always do?".

But there was no answer, only the cold, indifferent night stretching out before him.

He barely registered the approaching footsteps, the shadowed figures of the paramedics moving closer, their expressions grave as they realized there was nothing they could do. They exchanged worried glances, whispering among themselves as they tried to figure out how to handle the situation.

One of them, a woman with a kind face, knelt down beside Wade, her voice soft, careful. "Sir... I'm so sorry, but we need to—"

"Don't fucking touch her!" Wade's voice was a raw snarl as he recoiled from her, his arms tightening around Y/n as if he could somehow shield her from the reality of what had happened.

He looked up at the paramedic, his eyes wild with a mix of grief and rage, daring her to come closer. "She's not gone. She's not gone!"

The woman hesitated, her hand hovering just above his shoulder, unsure whether to comfort him or back away. She could see the pain engrave into every line of his face, the desperation in his voice that tore at her heartstrings. But she knew that they couldn't leave the scene like this. They needed to take Y/b's body, to give her some semblance of peace, even if Wade was not ready to accept it.

"Wade... Man..." A familiar voice cut through the haze of grief, and Wade turned his head to see Weasel standing a few feet away, his face pale and stricken with horror. He looked like he didn't know what to say, his usual sarcasm and wit buried under the crushing weight of the moment. "You've got to let them... Let them take her. You can't... She's gone, Wade. She's really gone."

Wade shook his head violently, the words not even registering as he tightened his grip on Y/n's body, as if the utter force of his denial could somehow change the reality of the situation. "No, she's not. She's just hurt... She's going to wake up... She has to wake up."

Weasel's heart broke at the sight of his friend, the man who had always seemed invincible, reduced to this: a broken, shattered mess of grief and guilt.

He took a tentative step closer, his voice trembling with emotion as he tried to reach Wade. "Wade... please, man... this isn't your fault. You've got to let go... you've got to let her go."

But Wade was not listening. He could not hear anything over the overwhelming guilt that consumed him like a fire. This was his fault. If he had been there, if he had been faster, if he had just done something differently, she wouldn't be lying here, lifeless in his arms.

He barely noticed when Dopinder arrived, the taxi driver's normally cheerful manner completely shattered by the sight before him. He stood frozen, his eyes wide with shock as he took in the scene—the blood, the crumpled form of Y/n, and Wade's unhinged state.

"Weasel... I'm done cleaning the toilets-" Dopinder's voice was a broken attempt at normalcy, his mind clearly struggling to process what he was seeing. But as soon as he fully registered the scene before him, his stomach twisted violently, and he turned away, vomiting uncontrollably onto Weasle's Hawaii shirt. The acidic smell of bile mixed with the metallic tang of blood in the air, creating a nauseating cocktail that clung to the back of everyone's throats.

Weasel barely reacted to the vomit now dripping down his shirt, his focus entirely on Wade. "Damn it, Dopinder," he muttered under his breath, though there was no real anger in his voice- just a deep, extremely tired sadness. He shot Dopinder a look that said it all: *Stay back. Let me handle this.*

The paramedics tried to move closer again, but Wade's grip on Y/n only tightened, his entire body trembling with the effort to hold on. "Get away!" he screamed, his voice breaking, raw with the agony that tore through him.

He reached out blindly, grabbing a jagged piece of metal that had broken off from the truck during the accident. He swung it at the paramedics, his eyes wild, daring them to come any closer. "You're not taking her from me! You hear me?! She's not fucking gone!"

Weasel's heart ached as he watched his friend unravel, knowing that there was nothing he could say or do to pull Wade out of the mess that was consuming him. But he could not let this continue. He could not let Wade destroy himself any further. Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward, trying to keep his voice steady, even as his own grief threatened to spill over.

"Wade, listen to me," he said, his voice soft but firm. "You need to let them help. Y/n... she's not in pain anymore. She's... she's at peace. But you... you've got to let them do their job, man. You've got to let her go."

But Wade was not hearing any of it. He was lost in his own mind, the words barely registering as his vision began to blur, the edges of the world around him starting to go dark. His grip on the metal weakened, his hands shaking uncontrollably as his body finally began to give out under the overwhelming weight of his grief.

"I'm sorry... I'm so fucking sorry..." Wade's voice was barely more than a whisper as he slumped forward, the piece of metal slipping from his grasp and clattering to the ground. His vision darkened completely, and the last thing he heard before everything went black was the sound of his own heart shattering into a million pieces.

Wade woke up gasping for air as if he had just surfaced from drowning. His head throbbed with a dull, persistent ache, and his entire body felt like it had been put through a meat grinder. Blinking against the harsh light filtering through the curtains, his heart pounding in his chest as the memories of what had happened crashed over him like a tidal wave.

Y/n. The accident. Her lifeless body in his arms.

The pain hit him like a sledgehammer, knocking the wind out of him as he struggled to sit up, only to find himself sinking back into the cushions of the couch. The familiar scent of cigarette smoke and cocaine clung to the air, and it didn't take him long to realize where he was.

Althea's apartment. Of course. The last refuge of the damned.

He groaned, pressing a hand to his forehead as he tried to make sense of it all. How had he ended up here? What had happened after he had blacked out?

Before he could piece it all together, Althea emerged from the shadows, a cigarette hanging from her lips, her expression as unreadable as ever. She looked at him with a mixture of pity and despair, as if she had seen this exact scenario play out a hundred times before.

"You're awake," she said, her voice flat, detached, as she took a long drag from her cigarette. She exhaled the smoke in a slow, steady stream, watching him through her sunglasses that seemed to see right through him. "About fucking time."

Wade tried to sit up again, his muscles protesting with every movement, but he forced himself to push through the pain. "What the hell happened?" he croaked, his voice rough and rough from disuse. "How did I... how did I get here?"

Althea sighed, rolling her eyes as she stubbed out her cigarette in the overflowing ashtray beside her. "You passed out, Wade," she said, her voice devoid of any real sympathy. "Weasel and Dopinder brought you here. They were in a panic, going on about some accident... and, well, it wasn't hard to put the pieces together."

Wade's stomach churned as the memory of the night came rushing back, hitting him like a punch to the gut. Y/n's lifeless body, the blood, the overwhelming sense of helplessness...

He could feel the bile rising in his throat, but he swallowed it down, his hands balling into fists as he tried to keep himself grounded in the present.

"Where is she?" His voice came out as a strained whisper, almost as if he was afraid of the answer. "Y/n... where did they take her?"

Althea hesitated, her usual stoic behaviour cracking just enough for Wade to see the unease flickering behind her eyes. She looked away, picking at a loose thread on the sleeve of her jacket as if the act could somehow delay her answer.

"They took her to the morgue, Wade," she finally said, her tone softening, almost as if she was trying to ease him into the truth. "She... she was officially declared dead at the scene."

The words hung in the air like a death sentence, and for a moment, Wade felt like the ground had opened up beneath him, threatening to swallow him whole. He couldn't breathe, could not think- his mind was a carousel of images, memories of Y/n flashing before his eyes, all of them met with the sickening realization that she was gone. She was really gone.

"No..." Wade whispered, his voice breaking as the reality of it all came crashing down. "No, this can't be happening. This can't be fucking happening."

Althea did not say anything. There was nothing she could say. She knew better than to offer empty lies, to pretend like there was anything that could make this better. Instead, she just watched as Wade's world crumbled around him, the pain radiating off him in waves so intense it was almost touchable.

Wade's breath came in short, ragged gasps, his chest tightening as a sense of overwhelming panic began to set in. Memories of Y/n flooded his mind: her laugh, the way she used to look at him with that mixture of love and exasperation, the way she made him feel like he was worth something, like he was more than just the sum of his scars and mistakes.

He felt like he was drowning, the air sucked out of his lungs as the world around him started to spin. His vision blurred, the edges of the room closing in as he clutched at his chest, his heart pounding so hard it felt like it might explode.

"Wade," Althea said sharply, her voice cutting through the fog of his panic. "Breathe. You need to fucking breathe."

But Wade could not. The memories were too much, the pain too overwhelming. He doubled over, clutching at his head as if he could somehow stop the many images that were tearing him apart from the inside out.

"I can't... I can't do this," Wade gasped, his voice trembling as he fought to hold himself together. "I can't... I can't live without her."

Althea's expression softened, a flicker of something almost resembling compassion crossing her features. She moved closer, reaching out a hand to steady him, but Wade flinched away, his mind too consumed by his own torment to accept any form of comfort.

For a moment, the room was silent, the only sound the ragged rhythm of Wade's breathing as he fought to keep himself from going insane any further. But then, cutting through the stillness like a knife, a sound broke through the chaos- a shrill, insistent ringing that filled the room, that had surrounded them.

Wade's head snapped up, his heart skipping a beat as he registered the sound. It was a phone, the shrilling ringtone of the Star Wars OST echoing through the small apartment, pulling him out of his spiraling thoughts and forcing him back into the present. He fumbled for the device, his hands still shaking as he pulled it from his pocket and glanced at the screen.

The number was unfamiliar, but there was something about the timing, the wrongness of it all, that made his blood run cold. His instincts were screaming at him, telling him that whatever this call was, it was not going to bring good news.

He hesitated for a split second, his thumb hovering over the answer button, but then he forced himself to press it, bringing the phone to his ear. "Hello?" His voice was strained, barely more than a rasp as he forced the word out.

There was a pause on the other end, a crackling that made his heart pound even harder. And then, a voice- a voice that was clipped, professional, but with an edge of something that Wade could not quite place. "Mr. Wilson? This is Officer McCready from the city morgue."

Wade's blood ran cold, his heart dropping into his stomach as he heard the words. The morgue.

Y/n.

The sickening realization of what this call was about hit him like a freight train, but he forced himself to stay on the line, to hear what the officer had to say.

"There's... been an incident," the officer continued, his tone growing more uncertain as if he was not sure how to proceed. "Y/n... her body... it's missing."

Wade's mind went blank, the words not registering at first, as if they were too surreal, too impossible to comprehend. "What... what the fuck are you talking about?" he finally managed to choke out, his voice barely more than a whisper as the world tilted on its axis.

"We... we don't know how it happened," the officer stammered, clearly just as unsettled by the situation as Wade was. "The security footage... it's missing, and there were no signs of a break-in, but... her body's gone. It's not here. We've searched everywhere, but... it's just gone."

Wade's heart hammered in his chest, his mind racing as he tried to make sense of the information. Gone? How could she be gone? He had seen her- he had held her cold, lifeless body in his arms. She was dead. He had seen the blood, felt the absence of her heartbeat.

And yet...

A little of hope, irrational and impossible, started to take root in his mind, fighting against the overwhelming grief that had consumed him. What if she wasn't really gone? What if... what if this was all some mistake? What if...?

But the logical part of his brain, the part that had been forged in pain and loss, pushed back against the hope, crushing it before it could take hold. No. This was not a miracle. This was something else, something dark, twisted.

Someone had taken her. Someone had stolen her body, desecrating the last remnant of her existence. The thought made his stomach turn, his hands clenching into fists as a surge of anger and despair crashed over him.

"What do you mean, she's gone?" Wade growled into the phone, his voice low and dangerous, barely restrained. "How the hell does a body just go missing? What kind of sick joke is this?"

The officer's voice wavered, clearly unnerved by Wade's barely contained fury. "I-I don't know, Mr. Wilson," he stammered. "We're investigating, but... we thought you should know. We're doing everything we can to find her..."

But Wade was not listening anymore. He dropped the phone, his mind reeling as the officer's words echoed in his head. Gone. Her body was gone.

The room started to spin, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps as the walls seemed to close in around him. This was not happening. This could not be happening. Not again. Not to her. He felt like he was on the edge of some abyss, holding on a branch that could snap any moment.

Althea watched him, her expression unreadable, but her eyes were dark with something that looked almost like pity. She had seen this kind of grief before, had witnessed the way it could tear a person apart from the inside out.

"Wade," she said softly, almost cautiously, as if she were approaching a wild animal. "You need to calm down. We'll figure this out. There's got to be an explanation."

But Wade wasn't hearing her. He was already on his feet, his movements uncoordinated as he stumbled toward the door. He had to find her. He had to figure out what the hell was going on. He could not lose her, not like this. Not when he had already failed her once.

"I have to go," Wade muttered, more to himself than to Althea, his voice hollow as he fumbled with the doorknob.

"I have to... I have to find her..."

But as he reached for the door, the weight of everything crashed down on him all at once, and his knees buckled beneath him. He crumpled to the floor, his hands shaking uncontrollably as the panic attack he had been holding in finally overtook him.

Althea was at his side in an instant, her hands hovering uncertainly above him, unsure whether to comfort or restrain. Wade's breath came in short, shallow gasps, his chest heaving as the panic attack consumed him, pulling him under like a riptide.

His vision blurred, black spots dancing at the edges as the room spun around him. He clutched at the floor, his fingers scraping against the worn carpet as if trying to ground himself, but it was no use. The memories, the guilt, the overwhelming sense of loss, it all crashed over him, threatening to drown him.

"Wade, listen to me," Althea said firmly, her voice cutting through his panic. She grabbed his shoulders, forcing him to look at her, to focus on something other than the whirlwind in his mind. "You need to breathe, okay? In and out, slowly. Come on, you've done this before with gun smoke. You can do it again, just not with that type of smoke- Whatever, you know what I mean."

But Wade was barely hearing her. His thoughts were a chaotic mess, spiraling out of control as the reality of what had happened- what was still happening, tore at him from the inside out. Y/n was gone, her body stolen, desecrated, and he had not been able to protect her. He had failed her, just like he had failed everyone he would ever cared about.

Althea shook him, hard, snapping him out of the worst of the spiral. "Wade, snap out of it!" she snapped, her voice sharp and commanding, pulling him back to the present, if only for a moment. "You're no good to anyone like this. You need to pull yourself together."

Wade's breath hitched, and he forced himself to focus on her voice, clinging to it like a lifeline. He sucked in a ragged breath, then another, trying to steady the wild beating of his heart. The room slowly came back into focus, the edges of his vision clearing as the worst of the panic began to go away.

"That's it," Althea murmured, her tone softening as she saw him begin to calm down. "Just breathe. You're okay. You're going to be okay."

How could he be okay when the person who had meant everything to him was gone? How could he ever be okay again?

He let out a shaky breath, his hands still trembling as he slumped back against the wall, his strength completely drained.

"Why?" Wade's voice was a broken whisper, the question hanging in the air between them. He did not know if he was asking her, the universe, or himself. "Why did this happen? Why didn't I say something in the bar?"

Althea did not have an answer. She knew better than to offer false comfort or empty words. Instead, she sat down beside him, her presence a silent reminder that he was not alone, even if it felt like he was.

For a long moment, they just sat there, the only sound the distant hum of the city outside, the world continuing on as if nothing had changed, as if Wade's entire world had not just been ripped apart.

Althea nodded, her expression unreadable as she studied him. "I know," she said quietly, her tone carrying a weight of understanding. "But you can't do this alone. You're not in any shape to be running off half-cocked, looking for answers. You need help."

Wade wanted to argue, wanted to tell her that he didn't need anyone, that he could do this on his own. But the truth was, he was barely holding it together. He was a mess, his mind a mixed tangle of grief, guilt, and anger, and he knew that if he tried to do this alone, it would destroy him.

"I don't know what to do," he admitted, the words tasting bitter on his tongue. It felt like defeat, like admitting weakness, but he was too exhausted, too broken to care. "I don't even know where to start."

Althea considered him for a moment, then reached for her phone, flipping through her contacts. "We'll figure it out," she said firmly, her tone allowing no argument. "I'll make some calls. We'll get Weasel and Dopinder back here. They'll help. We'll all figure this out together."

Wade closed his eyes, letting her words wash over him. It was not much, but it was something, a little of hope, a thread holding him together. He nodded slowly, too tired to protest, too worn down by grief and guilt to argue.

As Althea made her calls, Wade leaned his head back against the wall, staring blankly at the ceiling. The pain was still there, a deep, ache in his chest that refused to let go.

He was going to find her. He was going to get her back, no matter what it took. And whoever was responsible for this, whoever had taken her from him- they were going to pay.

Wade did not know how he was going to do it, or what he would find when he did. But he knew one thing for certain: this wasn't over. Not by a long shot.

The phone in Althea's hand buzzed again, another call coming through, and she glanced at the screen before holding it out to Wade. "It's Weasel," she said, her voice steady. "He's on his way."

Wade took the phone, his grip tightening as he steeled himself for what was to come. "We're going to find her," he said, more to himself than to Althea. "We're going to find her, and we're going to make this right."

Althea did not respond, but the look in her eyes said enough. She believed him, or at least she was willing to help him see this through, no matter how dark the road ahead might be.

As the minutes ticked by, Wade let the resolve settle into his bones, his mind slowly beginning to clear as he prepared himself for what was to come. He did not know where this path would lead, or if he would ever truly find peace. But he knew one thing with absolute certainty:

He was not going to stop until he had answers. Until he had her back.

And if he had to tear the world apart to do it, so be it.