#* ours is the fury「ic」 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ebodebo · 7 months ago

Text

Dinner, Dinner!

—jason misses your anniversary dinner, but makes it up to you… MDNI

"Would you like to browse our dessert menu, madam?" The waiter asks in a thick French accent as he stretches his arm out to pour your second glass of wine.

Your brain is fogged as your fingers fiddle with the stem of the glass as you swirl the crimson liquid around, splashing all sides of the glass.

"Madam?" The waiter repeats. You hadn't even realized you hadn't answered his previous question. You flick your eyes to his.

"I…um—sorry, can you repeat the question?" Your mind is clouded with a storm of fury and hurt. Jason, your boyfriend, had forgotten your anniversary dinner, leaving you to endure the sympathetic glances of strangers as they noticed the empty seat across from you.

"Of course, madam. I asked if you would like to see the dessert menu," the waiter repeats, his voice a distant echo. You turn your head to the empty seat in front of you, the thought of enduring the restaurant's atmosphere a daunting prospect.

"Could I just have the cremé brûlée?" You finally ask, your eyes still fixed on the empty seat, your voice trembling slightly. "In a to-go box, please."

It was the first dessert you and Jason shared at this very restaurant, three years ago today.

"Of course," the waiter said curtly, turning slightly before you raised your voice.

"And, um, could you take the other wine glass?" You awkwardly ask. He simply nods again, carefully placing the stem between his index and middle fingers upside down before turning away to tend to another table.

You should just leave.

It was clear he wasn't coming.

A light smile etched into your face as the waiter set the to-go box with the fancy dessert. You carefully reached into your purse, steadily gripping your wallet to pay. The waiters brought his hands up, shaking his head side-to-side.

"Please. No payment is necessary, madam. Enjoy the dessert," he says kindly. You sniffle, a stray tear falling down your face. You nod gently, issuing a strained, 'Thank you.'

He curtly nods, turning to go back into the kitchen. You gather your things, including the dessert, and move to walk out of the front door.

Upon stepping outside, you are met with the cold Gotham air. Your dress even sways in the wind as you walk, and your heels clank against the pavement.

The walk home wasn't too long, maybe six minutes or so, but God, did it feel like an eternity. All you could think about was how hurt and disappointed you were and what you would say to Jason when you inevitably saw him.

Your brain tried to conjure all the reasons he didn't show.

Did he forget, or did he purposefully not come?

Now, you knew it couldn't be the latter, Jason wasn't a dick.

He was just an idiot.

Your thoughts continued as you stuck your key in the lock and carefully twisted it to unlock your front door, pushing it open quickly.

You set your purse down on a table next to the door, glancing at a framed photo of you and Jason happily eating ice cream on Jason's birthday last year.

You felt sick.

You quickly flick your attention away as your eyes begin to well with hot tears, easing your way into the kitchen. You stand on the cold tile for a minute before getting a sudden inspiration rush.

You didn't want to think about him any longer tonight. You'd prepare a hot tea, watch a movie, or perhaps even read a good book.

Yes. That sounded like a fine plan.

As you were steeping the leaves in hot water, a knock on the front door pulled your attention away. You left the bag to steep and returned to the door. Pulling the door open, you were met with Red Hood—aka your boyfriend, Jason—gripping a bouquet of fresh flowers.

You're tempted to slam the door in his pretty face, but you don't—not yet, anyway.

"I'm an asshole," he says, his voice distorted from his modulator.

The sight was ridiculous; if you weren't so pissed, you'd laugh.

He realizes the absurdity of the situation. "God damn, fuckin' helmet," he irritably gruffs, ripping off his helmet. Your eyes widen, your mouth hanging open.

Anyone could simply walk by and figure out who the highly sought-after vigilante was.

"Jason, you can't just—get inside!" You grip his arm, dragging him inside the confines of your home—an action you immediately regret.

"Fuck, baby," he begins. "I'm—I'm so sorry," his tone is sincere as he anxiously drags his hands through his hair.

"I looked like an idiot, Jason," you breathe out, reaching for the bouquet of flowers he brought.

Hell, it wasn't their fault Jason was stupid.

"I know—" he says, following you into your kitchen as you fill a vase with water for the flowers.

"A fucking idiot," you snap, setting the flowers gently into the water. You reach for a pair of scissors. "I requested an extra wine glass when I sat down, and I had to be the one to tell him to take it away," you angrily say, snipping some of the leaves off.

"Baby, I'm really, really sorry. I got caught up—"

"Where were you?" You set the scissors down, turning to look at him.

"Dick needed some help scouting a potential crime circuit in Blüdhaven," he sighs. "He told me it wouldn't take long. Should've known better," he wipes his hand over his face, hissing at the contact.

Your eyes sweep over his face, taking note of the fresh cuts and bruises that now taint his face. Fresh blood prickled from some; others were caked in layers of it.

"Are you hurt?" You ask, concern lacing your words.

He raises a brow. "Don't worry about me, Sweetheart. I'll be alright. I'm more concerned about you," he admits honestly.

"You're bleeding," you observe, wincing at the sight.

"Just a hair," he lightly smiles. "I'm okay."

Sure, you were pissed at your boyfriend, but you wouldn't let him be in agony like he was.

He was bleeding, for God's sake.

"Let me clean them up," you simply say.

"No, no. I'm fine—" he began, shaking his head lightly.

"Please," you insist.

He huffs, then accepts defeat. He takes your hand stretched out and follows you to the bathroom. He sits on the toilet as you fumble through your medicine cabinet to gather band-aids and Neosporin.

"I hope it's okay. I, um, only have these band-aids," you awkwardly say, holding up a box with a familiar blue hero on the cover.

"Baby, why do you have Nightwing band-aides?" He questions skeptically.

"Dick brought them to white elephant last year, and I got stuck with them," you lightly laugh. "He's a horrible gift-giver."

Jason laughs. "Promise to remind me to take them off before I leave. He cannot see me with these on. He'd have a damn field day," he grumbles as you laugh.

"I promise I'll remind you," you affirm, pulling a small step ladder in front of him so you could sit before carefully squirting a bit of the ointment out onto your pointer finger and pressing it to each of Jason's cuts.

He barely winces or whines as you continue the action, delicately tending to each cut. His eyes wander to yours, focusing heavily with determination on what you are doing, even sticking your tongue out to concentrate.

"I don't deserve this," he heaves as you open some band-aids.

"What? To have ten Nightwing band-aides on you all at once?" You laugh, carefully laying each of the band-aids over the cuts.

He snickers. "That and you taking care of me."

You pull back slightly. "What?"

"I ruined our anniversary tonight. I left you alone in that restaurant and, look at you, still taking care of me," he exasperates. "I don't deserve you."

You frown. "Don't say that. I mean, ya, it was shitty, but just because you did something shitty one time or even twice doesn't make you undeserving of my love, Jason," you gently say, fingers moving to caress his jaw on their own volition.

He leans into your hand. "I just don't want to lose you. I love you."

Jason and you have exchanged hundreds, if not thousands, of "I love yous" throughout your relationship, but this one felt different.

It felt more like a sacred prayer spilling from his lips—a tender plea from the depths of his soul. It felt all that much more divine.

You found yourself leaning to kiss his lips, your hands moving to thread through his hair. His lips instantly moved with yours, and his hand gripped your cheek.

It was a tender kiss—an 'I'm sorry,' wrapped in an 'It's okay.'

As the seconds passed, the kiss became more fervent—urgent. You even slipped off the step ladder and moved onto Jason's lap. He welcomed you with open arms, encasing you tightly with each of his hands on your hips as you straddled him.

Your hands glided through his hair messily and eagerly as his hands massaged the fat of your hips. You let out a whine that Jason catches as he slips his tongue in your mouth.

You find yourself rocking against him, desperate for friction. He groans, gripping your thighs tightly as he stands with you, guiding you towards your bedroom.

Never once did your lips disconnect.

He gently lays you on the bed as he hastily sheds his boots, armored jacket, gloves, and pants. Your breathing is labored as you follow suit, gingerly slipping off your simple black dress and kicking off your heels, revealing your matching red bra and pantie set you had worn.

Jason stands in front of you in nothing but his boxers, eyes soaking you in.

"What?" You question nervously, feeling self-conscious with his eyes so focused on you.

"Did you—did you wear that for me?" He asks lazily.

Your lips quip. "Duh. Who else?" You giggle. "You like it?"

He lets out a dry laugh, moving to hover over your body, sticking his arm out to stabilize himself so as not to crush you. "I think I need to take a closer look," he cheekily says, moving his mouth closer to the strap of the bra, taking it between his teeth, pulling a little, then flicking it back. You let out a small whine, feeling the fabric snap back on your skin.

"Sure is sturdy," he observes, fingers coming to slip it down your shoulder. "And a nice color," he murmurs into your shoulder, sending goosebumps down your arm.

"Ya?" You idly question as his lips skim your collarbone.

"Mhm. It's very nice, Baby," he mumbles into your skin, fingers moving to skim the band of your panties. "And these," he begins. "Don't even get me started." He lightly nips your skin with his teeth, eliciting another whine.

His fingers slip under the band, pulling them down so they sit around your lower thighs. "Ah, there she is," he coos, cupping your dripping cunt with his hand.

"Jason," you moan, pushing yourself into his hand more.

"What, Baby?" His words were low and dragged out, almost breathy.

"I—I need more," you groan, hand moving to rest on his hand on you, encouraging more movement from him.

"I'll do you one better," he takes his hand away, making you frown, though he moves to slip his boxers down, showcasing his erect cock.

He strokes himself once before guiding himself into your entrance, leaning down to kiss your temple lightly as he pushes himself inside your cunt. You hiss at the contact, gripping his shoulders tightly.

He groans as one of his hands comes to grip behind your neck, and the other moves to lift your leg up slightly so he can grip your thigh, giving a better angle as he moves at a consistent pace.

A desperate mewl escapes your mouth as his pace fastens. Jason's hand has moved to rest on your breast in your bra as he throws his head back, groaning and spewing curses.

You sit up slightly, gripping his neck, pulling him down to your lips. He kisses you roughly, even sucking your bottom lip in the process. You bring your leg up to wrap around his torso, pushing him even more deeply; he groans as his hand slides to grip the hinge of your leg.

"Jay, I'm gonna—" You begin breathlessly.

"I know, Baby. I know," he purrs into your mouth. "Feel so good."

You grip his neck tighter, lips pressing into his shakily, as you feel yourself tighten around him. All you have had to do was moan his name into his mouth to have him following suit, even moving one hand to grip the sheets beneath as he comes.

You're both gasping for air. Jason eases himself out of you and plops beside you, pulling you close so your face rests on his chest.

"As far as orgasms go, that one was great," you pant, fingers moving to trace the lines between Jason's abs.

"Ya? Do I get a golden star?" He tuts, fingers playing with your hair.

"Sorry, Babe. I only give golden stars for extra credit," you jest, looking up at him.

"Extra credit, you say?" He asks, a wolfish grin spreading across his face. "I think I can do that." He lifts up abruptly, getting off the bed.

"What're you—" You begin to question before he's tugging you towards him by your ankles, planting his face in between your legs.

"Jay!" You shriek, though make no effort to move as his tongue lapses at your sensitive clit.

"I really want that golden star," he mumbles into you.

a/n: finally finished this fic that has been haunting my drafts for months upon months ( ͡ಥ ͜ʖ ͡ಥ)

reblogs & comments are encouraged!

2K notes · View notes

sevsevteen · 27 days ago

Text

The set was all soft lights and fake laughter.

You sat between Mingyu and Joshua, smiling on cue, answering questions about the group’s upcoming tour. The interviewer - elegant, poised, all teeth and charisma - nodded along enthusiastically.

“Oh, it must be so hard keeping up with thirteen boys, right?” she said sweetly. “They must carry a lot of your weight.”

You laughed politely. “Actually, we all pull our own. They’ve taught me a lot.”

The cameras loved that.

Flash. Cut. Cue applause. Wrap.

But once the red light on the camera faded, so did the interviewer’s mask.

She barely waited for the director to call cut before twisting in her chair, speaking low to her assistant just behind her - but just loud enough.

“God, finally. If I hear the word teamwork one more time, I’ll throw up.”

You froze.

Mingyu’s jaw tightened beside her.

“All that rehearsed ‘we’re a family’ crap. Please. Half the group barely talks during breaks,” she scoffed, tossing her cue cards aside.

The assistant awkwardly tried to whisper something, but the interviewer waved her off.

“She’s cute, I’ll give her that,” the interviewer motioned her chin lazily toward you, not even trying to lower her voice now. “Pretty face, decent voice. But clearly riding on their tails.”

The room fell still.

Wonwoo, who had been grabbing water bottles, paused mid-step. Hoshi’s smile dropped. Even Vernon looked up from his phone.

The assistant gave a nervous laugh. “They were trending, though. Their last album—”

“Because of the other producers behind it,” she cut in coldly. “Not because of them. I mean, let’s be real - if they were really that good, they’d be solo by now.”

That was it.

“Excuse me?” Mingyu said sharply, standing.

The room turned.

The interviewer blinked up, all innocent now. “Oh? Did you hear that?”

“Loud and clear,” Hoshi said, voice low with fury. “You don't get to disrespect our achievements like that.”

“Oh, come on,” she laughed. “Don’t get so emotional. I’m just being honest. I figured someone needed to say it.”

Then she stood - heels clicking on the floor - and added with a smirk, “Besides, what are you gonna do? Hit me? You can’t. I’m a girl.”

And then - a shove.

A bold push to Hoshi’s chest.

He stepped back in stunned silence, fists clenching. He didn’t retaliate - of course he didn’t - but the tension in the room sparked like lightning.

And that was when you stood up.

Calm. Controlled.

Until–

“Ah!”

A hard shove right back into the interviewer’s shoulder. Not aggressive. But firm.

Balanced.

Equal.

“I think you're forgetting that I’m a girl too,” you said, stepping between them and the woman. “I have just as much right to speak up when someone crosses a line.”

“You!” The interviewer lunged with her hands up.

Wonwoo was by your side in a second, pushing you behind himself. His arm half-shielding, gaze trained on the woman like a loaded weapon.

Seungcheol was on his feet a second later, stepping forward to catch her wrist in mid-air.

The interviewer staggered slightly, stunned for a beat too long.

“Try me again.” You threatened, gaze unwavering as you pushed Wonwoo aside lightly.

The interviewer opened her mouth - but before another word could leave her lips,

Wonwoo stood beside, voice cold as stone. “Say one more thing about her. See if your mic is the only thing that cuts out.”

“That’s enough,” Seungcheol thundered, voice like steel. “We came here as professionals. And we expect the same in return.”

The interviewer scoffed, brushing herself off. “You idols think you’re invincible.”

“And you think hiding behind your gender gives you immunity,” Wonwoo said, voice like ice. “But harassment is harassment. If anyone touched her the way you just touched Hoshi, we’d be calling security.”

The assistant was already tugging her away, murmuring apologies. The woman huffed, storming off, heels clicking violently against the studio floor.

No one spoke.

The staff were frozen.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

“This interview’s over,” Jeonghan said coolly, stepping in. “Thank you for your hard work, we’ll be taking our leave now.”

The team walked out together - you at the center, flanked by members who barely blinked now without checking if you were okay.

“Hey,” Mingyu said, nudging your hand gently. “That was a legendary move.”

You nodded. “Yeah. I just… I couldn’t let her say that.”

Jeonghan placed a gentle hand on your back. “You handled it better than any of us could.”

You cracked a tiny smile. “My hand’s still shaking.”

“It should,” Seungkwan said. “You could’ve sent her flying.”

“She should be glad it wasn’t Seungcheol-hyung,” Hoshi muttered.

From the side, Seungcheol cleared his throat, clearly hiding a proud smile.

You met his eyes and smiled - tired, but fierce.

With a reckless action like that, you knew you were in for a lecture when everyone got into the van.

But for now, you knew your members would have your back no matter what - and so would you.

#seventeen 14th member #seventeen imagines #seventeen drabbles #seventeen scenarios #seventeen x reader #seventeen #svt 14th member #svt imagines #svt scenarios #svt

466 notes · View notes

perilusjax · 1 year ago

Text

Dc X Dp

The Rage of Two Brothers

The world could only look in fear as an image is shown throughout the world. As two white haired figures raced throughout the sky. The image split to show them both.

One is covered in an inferno, the colors always shifting as he destroyed the land. The two figures fighting him were Wonderwoman and Shazam. The heroes being pushed back with ease.

The land scorched as even from so far apart they could feel his blazing rage.

The second figure only trailed the silent lands. Without a word, the area froze in his silent fury. Spires of ice shot up impaling military machines and encasing soldiers. His eyes only looked forward as he traveled.

Until Superman stood in front of him, trying to calm the being. When a white flash covered the screen, as it ebbed, many could see the man of steel encased in ice.

The man walking past the alien, still walking forward.

Suddenly, Wonderwoman had ensnared the being withing her lasso.

"Speak Spirit! Why are you here? The lasso of truth compels you!" Diana shouted, her grip tightening despite the burns along her arm.

The fire spirit growled as he form shifted, instead of the fire collosus, stood a a tall humanoid figure.

His white hair flowed like fire, his athletic form was covered in a blood red button up, and ash gray pants. His snarling face showing elongated canines and blood red eyes.

"You think this will hold me, Amazon!" He shouted, his voice filled with viseroul anger, that it caused many to flinch.

"I repeat! Why are you here?!" She shouted as she reaffirmed her stance.

As this was going down the icy figure stopped, and turned slightly, as if he was looking at something.

Then the fire deity shifted, as if another being took control, his once red eyes became red and blue. While red was a raging fire, blue was a cold fury.

"Leave Princess Diana of Themyscara, Shazam Champion of Magic, the only reason you live is because your roles are needed," he? They, spoke two voices overlapping each other.

One being the fire spirit's voice, the other a cold and emotionless tone probably belonging to the Ice being.

As the two heroes flinched, they looked to enother. Before Diana's eyes hardened as she turned towards the ensnared creature.

"I ask again spirits! Why are you here?" Diana commanded, as the spirit grunted from the lasso's power. Before the two figures opened their mouth in tandem.

"WHERE IS OUR SISTER!" They shouted in tandem before their powers burst in a flurry.

No longer restrained by their physical forms, the beings power flowed throughout the lands. The heroes only stared, unable to do anything. As the two brothers unleashed their fury, trying to find their missing sister.

#dc x dp #dp x dc #dp x dc crossover #danny phantom #ice core danny #fire core dan #wind core Ellie #the fury of a brother(s)#liminial Jazz is in the ghost zone to make sure no one gets any bright ideas #Jazz will become an earth core after she passes #dcxdp #dpxdc #ellie is missing

1K notes · View notes

marvelseries19 · 4 months ago

Text

VANISHING POINT

Chapter One - Castaway

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x female agent reader

Genre: Angst

Summary: The mission was successful, however, your return home will not be as easy as you may believe. In fact, you're not sure you would be able to get back.

A/N: It's been a while since I've been excited about writing. So, here is the first chapter. I hope you like it. I rewrote a few times, but I think this is as good as it gets. I would appreciate feedback on it, and any comments, suggestions, questions, or just conversations about it are welcome. There are some posts that I would like for you to check out, there is some info and ideas that I wanted to let you know. If you saw a typo or something, no, you didn't. Enjoy :)

Warnings: +18, descriptions of injuries, language, etc.

Word count: 1.2k+

[You do not have permission to repost or translate any of my stories or claim them as yours.]

The Quinjet hummed steadily beneath your fingertips, the vast stretch of ocean below endless and unforgiving. The ride back to the compound was at least full of beautiful views.

It had been an easy mission, just surveillance on a suspected HYDRA base. It took a week to complete, and now you were on your way home.

You leaned back slightly, exhaling. Just a few more hours, and you would be back home. Back with her.

Your fingers idly reached for the chain around your neck, your thumb grazing over the cool metal of the ring that rested against your collarbone. Natasha’s ring. Your ring.

"So you don’t forget who’s waiting for you," she had murmured the night before, fastening the delicate chain around your neck, leaving a soft kiss at the nape of your neck. You had smiled, shaking your head, but you had worn it beneath your suit every day since.

You were still lost in thought when Control’s voice crackled into the cockpit.

"Quinjet 9, this is Control. We just lost your tracking signal. Do you copy?"

Your brows furrowed. That’s not good.

"Yeah, I’m here. Everything looks fine… But let me check." Your fingers moved swiftly across the controls.

"Check your navigation relay. We’re showing nothing on our grid." A knot of unease formed in your stomach.

"Navigation relay is showing an error," you reported, your voice tight. "Stand by. I'll reboot—" The comms crackled, then cut out.

Silence.

Your stomach dropped.

"Control, say again? I'm losing you—repeat last!"

A new sound sliced through the cockpit—a shrill, piercing alarm.

Your radar flashed red. Missile lock. Your blood turned to ice.

"Shit—"

The first blast struck the Quinjet’s side. The impact threw you forward, your head slamming against the seat as the ship lurched violently. The left engine flared and failed instantly.

Alarms screamed. The Quinjet spun into freefall.

"Unidentified hostiles—taking heavy damage! Engines failing—I’m going down!" You shouted into the comms, straining to regain control.

"09, respond! What’s your location?! Agent Sloane, respond!"

You gritted your teeth, forcing your shaky hands over the controls, trying to reroute power. But the ship was already lost. The only thing you could do was brace for impact.

Your fingers clutched the ring against your chest.

Another explosion. The world blurred.

The ocean rushed up to meet you.

And then... Nothing.

—

The tension in the command center was thick enough to suffocate. Maria Hill stood with her arms crossed, eyes locked on the central monitor where Quinjet 9’s tracking data had once been.

Now, just static. Nick Fury stood beside her, his jaw tight, watching the same feed with unreadable eyes. Agent Dawson swallowed hard, headset pressed to his ear as he scanned multiple screens, waiting for anything-any sign of life.

Then—a red alert.

Dawson’s heart dropped.

"No, no, no..."

He straightened, turning toward Hill and Fury. His voice was steadier than he felt.

"We lost Quinjet 9."

Hill’s eyes narrowed. This couldn't be happening. "What do you mean 'lost'?"

Dawson hesitated. "No comms. No signal. No trace. It’s just... gone. We don't know where it is."

Silence.

Fury exhaled sharply, running a hand over his face. "Shit."

A muscle in Hill’s jaw twitched, but she gave a curt nod. "Start a search. Now."

Dawson hesitated. "Are we letting Agent Romanoff know?"

Fury and Hill exchanged a look.

Hill's voice was quieter now, almost resigned. "We'll tell her soon."

But Natasha Romanoff was already walking toward them, worried about not being able to contact you.

And the moment she saw their faces, she knew something had happened.

—

The first thing you felt was pain.

It dragged you from unconsciousness, a dull, throbbing ache that rolled through your entire body in relentless waves. Your head pounded, the world tilting dangerously even though you weren’t moving. The distant sound of waves crashing against the shore filtered through the ringing in your ears.

You forced your eyes open.

Blurry at first. Then, sharper—too sharp. Sunlight burned against your retinas, forcing you to squeeze them shut again. You tried to shift, but the moment you did, agony tore through your right side.

Your breathing hitched.

Ribs—definitely broken. You pushed through the pain, blinking against the light, taking in your surroundings.

Sand. Golden, coarse grains clinging to your skin. Your tactical suit was torn and streaked with blood and seawater. You were half-buried in the surf, the edges of the tide touching your boots. Further up, debris from the Quinjet was scattered across the beach—twisted metal, shattered glass, pieces of what was once your cockpit.

Shit.

You bit back a groan as you tried to sit up. A sharp, white-hot burst of pain shot through your right shoulder.

Dislocated.

Gritting your teeth, you cradled your arm against your torso, barely holding back a scream. Your ribs protested with every movement, but you had to keep going.

Your left hand found your chain, fingers fumbling until they closed around the ring.

You exhaled shakily.

Natasha.

She had no idea where you were. No one did.

The Quinjet had gone down off-radar. You had no comms, no signal, no way of knowing if anyone was even looking for you yet.

You’re on your own.

For now, at least.

Your forehead throbbed, and when you reached up, your fingers came back slick with blood.

You checked yourself over as best you could. Right shoulder, dislocated; ribs, at least two broken; head, bleeding, probably a mild concussion; and finally your legs, sore but not broken. Good. Small victories.

Breathing through the pain, you forced yourself to move. You needed shelter. Water. Some kind of plan.

But first—the shoulder.

You swallowed hard. There's no way around it. It had to go back in.

You found a rock near the treeline, rough and sturdy enough for leverage. Your breathing was ragged as you planted your feet, braced your body, and slammed your shoulder back into place.

White-hot pain was felt behind your eyes, swiftly dragging you into darkness. Resetting your shoulder—or other joints—was nothing new, but never under circumstances like these or with this many injuries.

The agony was too much for your body to handle. So to protect you, it shut off.

—

A few months ago

"You’re fidgeting."

Natasha’s voice was amused, but there was something softer in her tone, something fond.

You rolled your eyes, stuffing your hands in your pockets. "I don’t fidget."

She smirked, stepping closer, the city lights casting a glow on her freckled cheekbones. "You do when you're nervous."

You sighed, exhaling a shaky breath. It was a stupid thing to be nervous about. You’d faced assassins, HYDRA, and alien invasions, but somehow, this moment felt more terrifying.

You pulled the ring from your pocket. A simple band, strong, unyielding.

Much like her.

Natasha’s breath caught.

"I know we never really talked about it," you said, swallowing past the lump in your throat. "And I know we’re both terrible at normal, but—"

She cut you off with a kiss, her fingers curling around yours, closing them over the ring.

When she pulled back, her voice was barely a whisper.

"I was waiting for you to ask."

—

You were jerked back to reality by the sharp, relentless pain in your ribs and shoulder, the ache grounding you in the present. But the memory of your marriage proposal still lingered, a warmth that cut through the agony like a lifeline.

You flexed your fingers. It worked.

Barely conscious, body trembling, you let your fingertips brush against the ring resting against your chest. A reminder. A promise.

And with that, you forced yourself to your feet.

#marvelseries19 #marvel #mcu #reader insert #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff angst #natasha romanoff x reader angst #black widow x reader #black widow #black widow angst #castawayseries

587 notes · View notes

muiitoloko · 5 months ago

Note

Hey! I have an idea fic? I just wanna see how you would want to write it, snape n fem reader are married, have kids and all- both professors in hogwarts and during the yule ball, they were listen as those catchers for the ones that sneaked off to, and minerva was with them and reminded them of when they were around 6th year, they were 'sneaking' off and minerva caught them- snape n reader embarassed lol, idk if you get it- but i hope you do write a fic inspired by thisss💕

Title: Some Things Never Change

Summary: As Severus and his wife patrol the corridors after the Yule Ball, an encounter with McGonagall reminds them of a long-forgotten, mischief-filled past.

Pairing: Severus Snape × Fem! Reader

Warnings: None.

Author's Notes: Thank you for your request; I hope you enjoy it.

Also read on Ao3

The Great Hall was dazzling, transformed for the Yule Ball with twinkling fairy lights and enchanted ice sculptures. The air was filled with the sweet notes of the band’s melody, and the laughter of students swirled around you like snowflakes caught in a winter breeze.

You stood near the edge of the ballroom, your arm linked with your husband's, as you leaned your head against his shoulder. Severus Snape remained as rigid as ever, his sharp profile set in an expression of detached boredom, but you knew better.

His dark eyes were fixated on the dance floor, watching—no, glowering—at a particular couple moving in perfect synchrony to the music.

Your fourteen-year-old daughter, Selina Snape, was dancing with none other than Harry bloody Potter.

You could practically hear the scowl forming on Severus’s face. His long fingers twitched slightly at his side, his posture even stiffer than usual. You had to bite back a smirk. Oh, he was not pleased at all.

You sighed dramatically, your fingers tightening around his arm as you swayed slightly. “Sev,” you murmured, tilting your face up toward him, “are you going to ask me to dance, or shall I continue to wither away in loneliness?”

“No,” came the flat reply.

You gasped theatrically, placing a hand on your chest as if wounded. “Not even a dance with your own wife? If I had known you would refuse, I would have accepted when Professor Riddle asked me earlier.”

Severus didn’t even blink. His expression remained as indifferent as ever, but you knew him too well. His jaw was tighter than usual. He might not like Tom Riddle, but tonight, there was someone he liked even less.

You followed his gaze and sighed.

Oh dear.

You knew this would happen. You had deliberately avoided telling Severus that Selina was coming to the ball with Harry because you knew exactly what his reaction would have been—an immediate, unequivocal no.

He had assumed she would come with Draco Malfoy, an acceptable if slightly arrogant choice in his mind. But now, here she was, dancing with James Potter’s son—smiling, laughing, looking far too comfortable in his arms.

Severus’s scowl deepened.

“She’s smiling,” he muttered, his baritone voice laced with quiet fury.

“Yes, well, people tend to smile when they’re enjoying themselves, Severus,” you teased, though you knew your words would do nothing to pacify him.

“With Potter,” he snapped. “With Potter’s spawn.”

You sighed, resting your head back against his shoulder. “He’s a nice boy.”

“He’s a Potter,” Severus growled.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake, Severus, not every Potter is your sworn enemy.”

He turned his head slowly to look at you, his black eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. “You didn’t tell me.”

It wasn’t a question. It was an accusation.

You swallowed, schooling your features into the most innocent expression you could manage. “Tell you what?”

His glare intensified. “That she was coming with him.”

You hesitated for a fraction of a second—just long enough for his glare to turn deadly.

“And why, pray tell, did you conveniently forget to mention that our daughter would be spending her evening with that—” he cut himself off, inhaling sharply through his nose as if struggling to find an insult severe enough.

Because you knew what would have happened had you told him. Selina would have been forbidden from going with Harry. The wards around the dungeons would have been reinforced, and she would have been forced to attend with someone he deemed acceptable—most likely under his watchful, overbearing gaze.

You sighed, placing a soothing hand on his arm. “Severus, Selina is fourteen. She’s intelligent, she’s strong-willed—wonder where she got that from—and she can make her own choices. You have to trust her.”

His eyes flickered back to the dance floor, and his fingers clenched at his sides. “She is fourteen. And she is dancing with Potter.”

You suppressed a laugh. Oh, he was seething.

“She looks happy,” you pointed out softly.

“She looks infatuated.”

You grinned. “Are you worried she’s going to run off and marry him tonight?”

Severus gave you a withering look. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Then what is the problem?”

He exhaled sharply through his nose. “The problem, dear wife, is that he is the son of James Potter—”

“And Lily,” you reminded him gently.

Severus flinched ever so slightly at the name.

You softened, reaching up to cup his cheek. “You can’t hold James’s sins against Harry forever, Sev. He’s a good boy. And he’s treating our daughter with kindness.”

Severus said nothing. He only stared, his gaze unreadable.

You knew what he was thinking. It should have been Draco, someone acceptable, someone he approved of; but fate was fickle, and Selina Snape had inherited her mother's ability to make her own choices—choices that Severus couldn't always control.

And that terrified him.

You leaned up to press a kiss to his jaw, murmuring, “You trust her, don’t you?”

He remained stiff for a long moment, then exhaled slowly. “I do.”

“Then trust that she knows what she’s doing.”

He was silent. Then—

“I still don’t like it.”

You laughed softly, squeezing his hand. “No, I imagine you wouldn’t.”

For a moment, he simply watched, his dark eyes never leaving his daughter. Selina's face was bright with laughter as Harry spun her beneath his arm, her dress swirling around her. She looked happy; she looked free.

And Severus looked deeply unimpressed.

You knew this wasn’t the end of the conversation. Oh, no. This was just the beginning.

But for now, Severus merely exhaled, rolling his shoulders stiffly. “Fine,” he muttered, voice clipped. “But if he so much as breathes the wrong way, I will hex him into next week.”

You smirked, squeezing his arm as you rested against him again.

“Of course, dear.”

The Yule Ball had finally come to an end, and the castle was beginning to settle into an eerie, post-festivity stillness. You and Severus, as part of your usual duties as professors, wandered through the corridors to ensure that no students had snuck off for secret trysts. You had no illusions—there were certainly students hidden away in dark corners, wrapped up in teenage romance and poor decision-making. And you had no doubt that Severus was particularly eager to catch them in the act.

The air was crisp with the lingering chill of winter, the stone corridors illuminated by flickering torchlight as your robes swayed with each step. Severus walked beside you, his arms crossed over his chest, his black eyes scanning every shadow with his usual sharp vigilance. His lips were pressed into a thin, disapproving line, as if the very idea of students engaging in hormonal idiocy disgusted him to his core.

“I don’t understand why Albus insists on holding these ridiculous events,” Severus muttered, his deep voice echoing softly through the empty hallways. “It only encourages foolish behavior.”

You smirked, nudging him playfully with your elbow. “Oh, Severus, let the children have a little fun. Not everyone has spent their teenage years brooding in the dungeons like you.”

His glare was immediate. “Fun,” he scoffed, sneering as he turned a corner. “Fun leads to rule-breaking, which leads to detentions that I have to supervise.”

You chuckled, enjoying his perpetual irritation. Before you could tease him further, another presence emerged from a corridor ahead of you. Minerva McGonagall, dressed in her formal emerald robes, approached with the air of someone who had also been searching for errant students. She greeted you both with a knowing look.

“Ah, Severus, I suspected I’d find you prowling the halls, eager to ruin some poor student’s evening,” Minerva said with an amused smile.

Severus gave her a flat look. “I am merely ensuring that the Yule Ball does not become an excuse for debauchery.”

Minerva chuckled, then turned to you. “And you, my dear, how are you faring? I imagine it’s been a long night.”

You smiled, rolling your shoulders slightly. “It has, but I suppose it’s nothing compared to what we’ll have to endure when the next generation of students arrives.”

Minerva hummed in agreement, her sharp eyes twinkling with amusement. “Speaking of which, I do believe your daughter enjoyed herself this evening.”

Severus tensed immediately, his scowl deepening. “Yes,” he said curtly. “Far too much.”

Minerva bit back a chuckle. “Ah, so you’ve accepted young Mr. Potter as Selina’s companion for the evening, then?”

“I have accepted nothing,” Severus snapped. “I am merely tolerating it.”

Minerva laughed lightly, shaking her head as the three of you continued walking together. The conversation turned to other things—students’ behavior, the decorations of the Great Hall, and a few amusing tales of ball mishaps—until Severus suddenly stopped in his tracks.

His eyes narrowed at an alcove just ahead, where the sound of hurried shuffling and muffled whispers betrayed the presence of students attempting to remain hidden. With a dramatic sweep of his robes, Severus stormed toward the alcove hiding the culprits.

Two students—one Ravenclaw, one Hufflepuff—gasped in shock, their faces flushing as they immediately scrambled to adjust their clothes. The girl hastily fixed the laces of her dress robes, while the boy looked as if he wished he could disappear entirely.

Severus loomed over them, his glare venomous. “Ten points from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff,” he announced icily. “Each. And detention.”

The students paled but nodded meekly, knowing better than to argue.

Severus’ sneer deepened. “Now, get out of my sight before I reconsider my mercy.”

The pair hurried away, nearly tripping over each other in their haste to escape. Once they were gone, Severus exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Brainless, hormonal teenagers,” he muttered darkly.

Minerva hummed in amusement, crossing her arms as she leaned against the nearby wall. “That alcove,” she mused thoughtfully. “I remember catching two students in that very spot once. Oh, what a sight it was—robes in disarray, guilty expressions, and the absolute terror in their eyes when I found them.”

You, who had been listening with mild amusement, suddenly froze as realization hit you like a lightning bolt.

Severus, who had been scowling, also tensed slightly—though, as always, he was far better at masking his emotions than you were.

Minerva turned her gaze toward you both, her lips twitching. “Oh,” she mused, “I do believe it was the two of you.”

Your cheeks burned. Severus’ jaw tightened.

Minerva smirked, clearly enjoying this far too much. “Ah, yes. You were both sixth-years, if I recall correctly. I remember how Severus had the audacity to try and claim that he was merely ‘helping you with an advanced spell.’”

Severus made a sound suspiciously close to a scoff, crossing his arms as his dark eyes flicked anywhere but toward Minerva. “It was a valid excuse.”

Minerva arched a brow, clearly not buying it. “Yes, of course. Helping your dear wife ‘study’—in a secluded alcove—past curfew.”

You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “Minerva, must we?”

Minerva chuckled, thoroughly enjoying your embarrassment. “Oh, I think it’s only fair. Here you both are now, patrolling the very same halls you once tried to sneak around. My, how times have changed.”

You huffed, looking at Severus, who was maintaining his usual unruffled expression—except for the slight, telltale tension in his shoulders. You could tell he was mortified, but, of course, he would rather die than admit it.

Minerva sighed, shaking her head. “Ah, young love.”

Severus exhaled sharply, glancing toward you at last. His black eyes met yours, and for a fleeting second, something softened in them.

Times had changed indeed. Back then, you had been reckless teenagers, hiding away from professors who would separate you if caught. Now, you were married, walking these same halls as Hogwarts professors—together.

You reached out, your fingers brushing against Severus’ hand briefly. He allowed the touch, though he rolled his eyes slightly before turning away.

“I suggest we continue our patrol before any more students make regrettable decisions,” he muttered.

Minerva smirked. “Indeed. Though, if you ever catch another pair of students in that alcove, do try to remember—history has a way of repeating itself.”

With a final amused glance at the two of you, Minerva strode off down another corridor, leaving you alone with Severus.

For a moment, there was silence. Then, you turned to him, still blushing. “Well. That was mortifying.”

Severus merely sniffed. “I fail to see the humor in it.”

You smirked. “Of course you do. Because you weren’t the one caught babbling excuses about ‘advanced spellwork.’”

He shot you a glare but said nothing.

You laughed, linking your arm with his as you both continued down the corridor. “Come on, Severus,” you teased. “Let’s go ruin some more students’ nights.”

You had only taken a few steps before Severus’s hand suddenly grasped your wrist, pulling you swiftly into the darkened space. A startled laugh bubbled from your lips as your back met his firm chest, his long fingers sliding up to cradle your jaw, tilting your face up toward him.

"Severus," you breathed, still laughing softly, "what on earth—"

He cut you off with a kiss—slow and deliberate, his lips brushing against yours with a tenderness that contradicted the usual sharpness of his demeanor. His back pressed against the cold stone wall, anchoring you to him as his other hand slid to your waist, pulling you even closer. The warmth of him, the intoxicating scent of potions and parchment that always clung to his robes, surrounded you.

Your fingers curled into the front of his coat as he deepened the kiss, his long, aristocratic nose brushing against your cheek. His lips moved with a slow, maddening precision, as if he were savoring the taste of you, indulging in something long overdue.

You broke the kiss with a quiet, breathless chuckle, your forehead resting against his chest. "What are you doing?" you murmured against the fabric of his robes, your voice filled with amusement.

Severus smirked, his deep black eyes gleaming with something dangerous, something utterly enthralling. "I’m merely showing you what I would have done," he murmured, voice thick with promise, "if Minerva hadn’t interrupted us all those years ago."

His fingers trailed up your throat, tilting your chin so he could claim your lips again—this time firmer, hungrier. His long, elegant fingers tangled in your hair, holding you in place as his mouth dominated yours, his tongue sweeping over yours in a slow, intoxicating dance.

A shiver ran down your spine, the heat between your bodies making the cool air of the castle seem distant, inconsequential. Your hands fisted in his robes, pressing yourself against him as you let out a soft moan against his lips.

But then, with a playful glint in your eye, you pulled back just enough to whisper teasingly, "I really shouldn’t let you kiss me like this… after all, you didn’t even dance with me at the ball."

Severus let out a low chuckle, the sound deep and sinful. "Dancing is a frivolous display," he murmured against your lips, "this, however…" His hand slid down the curve of your waist, gripping you possessively. "This is far more productive."

You gasped as he suddenly turned you, pressing you back against the wall, his body pinning you effortlessly. The cool stone sent a contrast of sensation along your overheated skin, making you arch into him instinctively. He took the opportunity to press his knee between your legs, parting them just enough that the pressure sent sparks of pleasure coursing through you.

"Severus," you gasped, your fingers tangling in his long black hair, pulling him down for another kiss, this one hot and desperate.

"Tell me," he murmured against your lips, his voice low and dripping with dark amusement, "would you rather have had a waltz with me in front of the entire school… or this?" His hips rolled forward just enough to make his point, and you inhaled sharply, nails digging into his shoulders.

"I—I suppose this," you admitted, barely able to form the words as he pressed slow, teasing kisses along your jaw, down the column of your throat.

He smirked against your skin. "I thought so."

His hands found the fabric of your dress, fingers slipping beneath it to trace the bare skin of your thighs, making you tremble. He had always been a man of precision, of control, but here, now, with you in his arms, he was all consuming.

“Now,” he murmured, his voice a dangerous purr, “let me see what you’re wearing under that dress—”

A throat cleared behind you.

You felt a familiar rush of dread, like ice-cold water had been poured down your spine. Snape, to his credit, didn’t so much as flinch—he merely turned his head ever so slowly, like a predator disturbed mid-hunt.

And there, standing in the dimly lit corridor, arms crossed and expression poised somewhere between knowing amusement and mild exasperation, was Minerva.

Oh, Merlin.

For a brief, horrifying second, you felt like you were sixteen again, caught in this very same alcove by the very same woman, only this time, instead of a sharp reprimand and a week’s worth of detention, Minerva was smiling.

“Well, well,” she mused, her Scottish brogue rich with humor. “Some things never change.”

Your face burned, and you immediately made to step back, but Severus’s grip remained firm on your waist, his fingers tightening deliberately as his lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smirk but was far too amused to be innocent.

And then— then—he had the audacity to say:

“I was merely teaching her an advanced spell.”

Your mouth fell open.

Minerva laughed.

“Oh, Severus,” she said, shaking her head in amusement, “you used that exact excuse eighteen years ago. Do you expect me to believe it now?”

Snape’s obsidian eyes gleamed with mischief, his expression unreadable save for the slight twitch of his lips. “You believed it then,” he murmured silkily.

Minerva outright chuckled, clearly entertained beyond measure. “No, Severus, I did not.”

You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “I’m going to die of embarrassment,” you muttered.

Minerva gave you a conspiratorial look before glancing back at Severus, whose fingers had yet to leave your waist. “Do try to behave yourselves,” she said, the twinkle in her eyes unmistakable as she turned on her heel and walked away.

You let out a breath of relief, but before you could step back fully, Severus’s grip tightened, pulling you flush against him once more.

“An advanced spell?” you hissed, incredulous. “Again?”

His smirk was almost imperceptible, but you knew it was there. “It worked last time, didn’t it?”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight the grin tugging at your lips. “You enjoyed that, didn’t you?”

He tilted his head slightly, his long, dark hair falling around his angular face as he studied you with that piercing gaze. “I always enjoy getting away with things,” he murmured, his deep voice a sinful caress against your ear.

Then, before you could protest, he kissed you again.

It was slow at first, a deliberate press of his lips against yours, as if savoring the moment. But then—Merlin’s bloody beard—he deepened it, his tongue sweeping into your mouth with the perfect mix of dominance and precision.

You melted against him, grasping at the front of his robes as his hands wandered lower, tracing over your hips, pressing possessively into the curve of your backside.

“You were saying?” he murmured between kisses, his tone full of smug amusement.

You barely managed a breathless, “You’re incorrigible.”

He hummed, his lips trailing from your mouth to your jaw, then down the column of your throat. “You wouldn’t have married me otherwise.”

His hands slid over the fabric of your dress, tugging lightly at the material. “Now,” he whispered, lips brushing over your skin, “where were we?”

You smirked, reaching up to pull him back into another kiss.

“Somewhere between history repeating itself and me still not getting that damn dance.”

His chuckle was dark, amused, wicked.

“Then allow me to make it up to you,” he purred.

And oh, did he ever.

The heavy wooden door to your quarters creaked open, and you stepped inside with Severus at your side, both of you still recovering from your rather eventful evening. Your lips were tingling from stolen kisses in the alcove, and the warmth of Severus’s hand against your waist lingered as if branded onto your skin.

But whatever lingering tension and playful desire had followed you back to your rooms vanished the moment you saw Selina.

There she was—already tucked under your covers, clad in her night robes, arms crossed over her chest, looking entirely too comfortable in your bed.

She raised an unimpressed brow as she stared at the both of you. “You took long enough.”

Severus stopped dead in his tracks, his black eyes narrowing at his daughter. “What,” he drawled slowly, his deep baritone laced with irritation, “are you doing here?”

Selina sat up slightly, wrinkling her nose at her father as though he had just asked the stupidest question in the world. She had his exact scowl, his exact disapproving glare—his exact mannerisms.

“I needed to talk to Mum,” she said simply.

Severus’s frown deepened. “You have your own room,” he reminded her, crossing his arms over his chest. “In the Slytherin common room.”

Selina huffed, brushing some of her long, dark hair over her shoulder. “Yes, but I wanted to talk to Mum here. You wouldn’t understand—it’s girl talk.”

Severus’s lips parted slightly in offense, his expression flickering between disbelief and indignation. “Girl talk?” he repeated, his voice utterly unimpressed.

“Yes, girl talk,” Selina replied, tilting her head slightly, her dark eyes—so much like his—flashing with amusement. “Which means, Dad, that you need to leave.”

Severus stiffened, his expression utterly scandalized. “Excuse me?”

Selina sat up straighter in bed and waved a dismissive hand toward the door. “Go on. Shoo.”

For a moment, Severus looked at you, waiting—no, demanding—that you intervene.

You merely shrugged.

“Selina, you shouldn’t be in here,” he pressed, his irritation growing. “Your dormitory—”

“Dad,” Selina interrupted, rolling her eyes, “just go.”

Severus bristled. It was his bedroom, his quarters; and his own daughter had just exiled him from his own domain. “I will not be thrown out of my own—”

Selina flicked her wand.

The bedroom door slammed shut in his face.

A thud sounded from the other side of the door, followed by the very audible sound of Severus’s furious inhale.

There was a long pause.

And then—“SELINA EILEEN SNAPE, YOU OPEN THIS DOOR RIGHT NOW.”

You let out a breathless chuckle, unable to hold back your amusement, as Selina merely smirked and settled back into the pillows. “Honestly,” she muttered, pulling the blankets around her. “He should’ve seen that coming.”

You giggled, shaking your head as you sat down beside her. “He’ll sulk for hours now,” you warned.

“Let him.” Selina smirked, brushing some hair out of her face. “It’s girl talk, Mum. He wouldn’t understand.”

You sighed, shaking your head as you adjusted the pillows behind you. “Alright, then,” you said, turning toward her fully, “what’s so important that you had to banish your father from his own bedroom?”

Selina hesitated for a moment, fiddling with the sleeve of her night robe. “I just…” She trailed off, chewing on her bottom lip before exhaling heavily. “I wanted to talk about boys.”

Oh. That explained a lot.

You resisted the urge to smirk. “Boys, huh?”

Selina groaned, tilting her head back against the pillow. “Yes.”

“Wouldn’t your dorm mates be more helpful?” you teased.

She shot you a look that was so Severus. “I don’t want their advice,” she muttered. “I want yours.”

Something warm spread through your chest at that. You softened, placing a hand on hers. “Alright,” you murmured. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”

Selina hesitated, her expression shifting to something more vulnerable. “I… I don’t know how to explain it,” she muttered, fidgeting. “It’s just—feelings.”

Ah. Feelings. Now it made sense.

You had seen the way she had looked at Harry Potter tonight. The way she had smiled when he took her hand. The way her eyes had lit up when he made her laugh. She liked him.

And, knowing your husband, that was precisely why she had waited until Severus was gone before bringing this up.

“You mean Harry,” you said gently.

Selina flushed a shade of red that rivaled the Gryffindor banners.

“I don’t know,” she groaned, burying her face in her hands. “It’s just—he’s nice. And he’s funny. And he doesn’t treat me like some stuck-up Slytherin, and I just—I don’t know.”

You chuckled softly, brushing a hand over her hair. “That sounds like a crush, sweetheart.”

Selina let out a dramatic whine. “Ugh, don’t say it like that.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “I know it’s embarrassing, but trust me, it’s normal.”

Selina peeked up at you from behind her hands. “You really think so?”

“Of course,” you said, squeezing her hand. “It’s part of growing up.”

She huffed, staring up at the ceiling. “Dad’s going to murder him.”

You sighed. “Your father will learn to cope.”

Selina snorted. “Yeah, sure. I give it a week before he starts hexing Harry’s cauldron in class.”

You couldn’t deny that was a possibility.

You shifted slightly, adjusting the blankets around her. “Have you told Harry how you feel?”

Selina gave you an exasperated look. “Mum.”

You chuckled. “Alright, alright. But if you like him, and he likes you, then what’s stopping you?”

Selina frowned, picking at a loose thread in the blanket. “I just… I don’t know. What if I do tell him, and then he thinks I’m weird? Or what if it ruins things? Or what if—”

“Selina,” you interrupted gently, reaching up to brush her hair behind her ear. “You’re overthinking.”

She bit her lip, glancing at you. “…You think so?”

“I know so,” you smiled. “Sometimes, you just have to be brave.”

Selina exhaled, flopping back against the pillow. “Merlin’s beard, I hate feelings.”

You laughed, smoothing a hand over her hair. “They’re messy, I know.”

She groaned again, but then—softly—“Did you ever feel like this? When you met Dad?”

You felt a different kind of warmth spread through your chest at that.

You smiled softly. “Yes, love,” you murmured, stroking her hair. “I did.”

Selina peeked up at you. “…And what happened?”

You smirked slightly. “Well, your father was exceptionally oblivious.”

Selina cackled.

“Of course he was,” she snorted. “That sounds exactly like him.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “But eventually, we figured it out.”

Selina hummed, turning onto her side. “So you think… I should just go for it?”

“I think,” you murmured, pressing a kiss to her forehead, “that you should trust yourself.”

Selina exhaled slowly, staring at the ceiling for a few moments before shifting to sit up. “I’ll think about it,” she muttered, though there was something resolved in her tone, as if she had already made up her mind. She threw back the covers, the cool air making her shiver slightly as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed. “Thanks, Mum. I needed that.”

You smiled warmly, watching as she stretched before smoothing her night robes. “Always, love.”

Selina ran a hand through her long dark hair, then turned toward the door. “I should probably get back to my dormitory before someone notices I’m gone.”

You chuckled softly and nodded. “Good idea.”

With that, Selina padded toward the door and pulled it open—only to come face-to-face with Severus Snape, standing like a looming gargoyle in the dimly lit corridor, his black robes billowing slightly in the faint draft. His expression was unreadable, but the way his dark eyes bore into hers made it perfectly clear that he had been waiting.

Selina didn’t even flinch.

She made a move to step past him, but Severus moved just as quickly, his long fingers curling around the collar of her robes and tugging her back with a firm, practiced ease, as though she were still five years old and attempting to sneak biscuits from the kitchen.

You barely contained your amusement as father and daughter stood face to face, identical scowls twisting their sharp features, arms crossing in unison as they glared at each other. It was like watching two mirrors battle for dominance.

Selina tilted her head slightly. “Really, Dad?”

Severus arched a brow, unimpressed. “Really, Selina.”

A heavy silence settled between them, neither Snape willing to be the first to break. You watched, amused, as they stood locked in an unspoken war, dark eyes burning into one another, expressions perfectly identical in their stubbornness.

Finally, it was Severus who made the first move. He drew himself up, his baritone voice thick with irritation. “Would you care to explain,” he drawled, his tone dangerously smooth, “what exactly was so pressing that it required you to exile me from my own quarters?”

Selina let out a long-suffering sigh. “I already told you. It was girl talk.”

Severus’s expression did not change. “That is not an answer.”

“It’s the only answer you’re getting.”

Severus’s nostrils flared slightly. “You slammed the door in my face.”

“You weren’t getting the hint.”

“I was being forcibly removed from my own room.”

Selina shrugged. “And?”

Severus exhaled slowly, clearly mustering every ounce of patience he had left. “What,” he bit out, “did you need to discuss with your mother that was so dire it warranted banishing me?”

Selina stared at him for a long moment, her lips twitching. Then, with all the grace of a true Slytherin, she played her ace.

She sighed, tilting her head slightly. “It was about menstruation, Dad.”

Severus’s face barely changed, but the subtle tightening of his jaw, the slight narrowing of his eyes, the way his fingers twitched ever so slightly at his sides—oh, she had him.

You covered your mouth with your hand to hide your smirk.

Selina, sensing victory, leaned in just a little. “You know,” she continued, voice smooth as silk, “girl stuff. Cramps. Heavy flow. That sort of thing.” She gave a dramatic sigh. “Honestly, Dad, it’s not that complicated.”

Severus blinked once, slow and deliberate.

You swore you could hear his teeth grinding.

Selina arched an eyebrow at her father, her dark eyes flashing with something far too mischievous for Severus’s liking. She tilted her head ever so slightly, her expression the perfect mirror of his own when he was preparing to deliver a particularly scathing remark.

“Would you like me to elaborate?” she asked, her voice syrupy sweet. “I could go into detail about the heavy flow this month. It’s quite the inconvenience, really—”

“Enough.” Severus’s baritone was a sharp blade cutting through the air, his patience now thoroughly frayed. His long fingers twitched at his sides, his jaw tightening, the vein in his temple pulsing dangerously. “Leave. Now.”

Selina barely concealed her amusement as she slid past him, her night robes whispering against the stone floor. “As you wish, Dad,” she drawled, her smirk widening as she breezed past him, her voice laced with far too much satisfaction.

You watched the exchange, biting your lip to keep from laughing outright. This was a battle Severus had never stood a chance of winning.

Severus exhaled sharply, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “That girl,” he muttered, voice thick with exasperation.

You chuckled, shaking your head as you moved toward him. “You walked right into that one, you know.”

Severus shot you a withering glare, though there was no real heat behind it. “Do not encourage her,” he warned, his deep voice laced with irritation. “She is insufferable enough as it is.”

You smirked, folding your arms across your chest. “She’s your daughter, Severus.”

Severus inhaled deeply, clearly resisting the urge to argue that particular point. Instead, he turned on his heel, his black robes billowing behind him as he strode toward his desk, his long fingers rubbing at his temple as though warding off an impending headache. “That much is painfully obvious.”

Meanwhile, Selina strolled through the dungeon corridors, taking her time as she made her way back to the Slytherin common room. The flickering torchlight cast long shadows against the cold stone walls, but she moved with ease, completely at home in the dimly lit passageways.

As she passed by her father’s classroom, she glanced at the door, her smirk deepening. He was probably still fuming, still pacing in his quarters, grumbling to himself about how utterly impossible she was. The thought sent a wave of satisfaction through her.

Reaching the entrance to the common room, she murmured the password, stepping inside as the heavy stone door slid open. The familiar green glow of the lake filtered through the high windows, casting an eerie luminescence over the room. Most of her housemates had already retired for the night, but Selina paid them no mind as she made her way toward her dormitory, still thoroughly pleased with herself.

Her father may have been Elusive, Mysterious, Fearsome Potions Master of Hogwarts, but to her, he was simply Dad. And tonight, she had won.

Back in his quarters, Severus let out a deep, exhausted sigh as he collapsed into his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose once more.

“I am doomed,” he muttered.

You chuckled, moving behind him to press your hands against his tense shoulders. “You raised her,” you reminded him, kneading the knots beneath your fingers. “You made her.”

Severus groaned, closing his eyes as he let his head fall back against the chair. “A grave mistake.”

You smirked, leaning down to brush a kiss against his temple. “You love her.”

Severus huffed, though there was the slightest hint of reluctant fondness in his voice. “…Unfortunately.”

#alan rickman #alan rickman x reader #severus snape x reader #severus snape

557 notes · View notes

ivysos2001 · 7 months ago

Text

God there’s something so refreshing about seeing Steve meet Natasha after seeing the ways everyone else has been treating him

Like everyone at shield has clearly been ignoring him or just allowing him to completely isolate himself (not sure which is worse considering this guy literally just lost everyone and everything he’s ever known, loved, or fought for) bc Fury doesn’t seem to be fully taking him seriously, Coulson (and I’m sure others he’s met up to this point) is such a big fanboy he can barely keep his composure around him

And then there’s Natasha who meets him and immediately starts teasing him (by poking fun at Coulson’s excitement nonetheless) and that’s when we get our first (of very few) genuine Steve smiles in this movie

After being treated like a comic book character come to life (either not taken seriously or fawned over), she’s probably the first person since he came out of the ice to treat him like a person and that is SO important

547 notes · View notes

pedgito · 8 months ago

Text

𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐅𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐑 | Marcus Acacius x f!reader

summary | A female gladiator plucked from the arena by the most powerful general in Rome, convinced to serve under his command. You learn that his taste for blood might not be so different from your own.

author's note | the horny demons strike again. this has a little plot, thanks to the beautiful minds of @ovaryacted and @kedsandtubesocks who deal with my crazy so generously.

content warning | 18+ mdni, set pre-gladiator ii, description of war & mistreatment of women in roman society, female gladiator, dark-ish!acacius, reader has minimal backstory, but is revealed to be nameless (uses monikers given to her: medusa, fury, minerva), fighting, m*rder, blood tw, gore tw, sa warning (i have it annotated further below with content, but nothing graphic) acacius covered in someone elses blood as he fucks you, copious smut, biting as a little treat

word count — 8k

“How much?” Acacius inquires, tapping his finger against the iron bars holding you prisoner, staring back at the men. The ginger twins and a man—no, a general. Dressed in a toga of thick material, embroidered with intricate designs, gold bangles at his wrist, a telltale sign of high honor.

“Oh, she is…” The older one, Geta, teeth digging into his bottom lip as he shakes his head, “priceless—quite the fighter, too.”

“Does she have a name?”

Geta smirks to himself, “They call her Medusa. She favors beheading, it seems.” Geta waggles a finger through the bars and smirks, nose scrunching as he addresses you, “Correct?”

You ignore him, responding with a stare—much like your given moniker; if looks could kill.

“She’s bested them all,” Caracalla boasts from beside his brother, Dundus fiddling with his hair from where she was perched on his shoulder, “even our lion that we’ve had since kids.”

“It was a stupid idea, your fault,” Geta retorts, “but—again, she’s not for sale.”

“I’ll conquer India within the next few nightfalls, a handful of new gladiators fresh for the choosing, for your entertainment—how does that sound?”

Greedy as they were and entirely too incompetent, Caracalla agrees before his brother can open his mouth.

“Will you bring her back to visit?” Caracalla inquires with an underlying excitement—the poor brother was nothing but a dunce, erratic and impulsive, but all too easy to manipulate. “The others may miss her.”

“Indeed,” Another swift but convincing lie, Caracalla and Acacius shake hands on the deal before Geta can retort, fuming with rage as he stomps away.

He’d taken a liking to your fighting style despite his distaste for the arena. Strategic and skilled, brute strength and a drive that was built around pure survival but somehow all while maintaining the perfect amount of gracefulness that men did not. Constant calculation, finesse, it was like an art.

He’s gone through several guards over his rule, some from sacrifice but others out of pure ignorance. He needed a strong base, malleable but resistant. He could shape you into a leader, he thinks. He knows.

Your hard stare is like ice as the keys jingle into the lock, a defining click a resounding echo of freedom and General Acacius extends his palm.

A gesture of freedom, a new life, trepidation fills you despite your yearn for a way out of this prison. Here it was, served up on a platter covered in intricate facets of white and gold, stubble brushing his cheeks and soft brown eyes offering kindness.

This was not a man of sheer violence, not the tales they tell about him—this was a man of trouble, conflict, and an instinct to protect himself. And he’d chosen you.

Your hands slips into his, a similar roughness to match his own and scars that Acacius knew well enough of—you were a true fighter, a warrior.

The two boys—calling the men would be too easy, they often acted like spoiled children, were already off to their own chambers, and Acacius had only dropped his hard facade slightly, still under the watchful eye of Rome’s guards, he led you onto your new life.

“I cannot accept,” You argue, as respectful as you could manage, hands crossed firmly over your front, near your waist as you spoke to General Acacius in his private office at home, a place few have stepped foot into, but yet somehow, again, you were given a free pass.

“Are you refusing my order?” Acacius counters, there’s pillowyness to his tone, almost taunting.

“Sir—er, General,” It was all new to you, formalities, structure, rules, “I…am a woman.”

“I am not blind,” Acacius squints his eyes slightly, before leaning back in the creaky chair, “my men—they will not question my choices. They listen, they do their duties. They need strong leadership. Gladiator, I believe you can bestow that upon them.”

“I am a stranger to you, you know nothing of me,” You tell him, a full truth, “General, I fear you may have made the wrong decision, I am not what you think I—”

Silently, Acacius fingers curl around the handle to a drawer hidden behind his desk, pulling out a sharp knife with a handle carved of bone, twisting it in his grip before he’s rearing his arm back, throwing it in your direction.

It zips by with force, the tip of the knife snagging and burying itself deep into the wall behind you, your head whipping to the side to follow it, the sharp blade barely missing the skin of your ear.

Quick reflexes. You turn back to a smirking Acacius.

“I am positive, had I thrown that between your eyes you would have caught it without overthinking the consequences—most of my men would do the same,” Acacius lectures, standing with his brutish frame and walking toward the wall, the soft flow of a breeze kissing at your fists.

“Though, I have another proposition,” Acacius says lightly, twisting the knife in his hand, the pointing spinning against his fingertip as he circles around you, “—attack me.”

“Sir,” You argue, “that surely defeats the purpose of—”

His fist balls up tight and aims for your side. Acacius sees it, the anticipation as you block his hand. He chuckles underneath his breath, “Please, continue,” He teases, twisting out of your grip to pull another punch that you block with ease—he was going easy, you think.

Natural reaction takes hold and his test quickly turns into a full-out brawl, twisting and slipping underneath his grip until you have him pinned against a nearby wall, teeth bared with his forearm pressed against his throat, struggling to grip his free arm.

The real test is here, as Acacius bares the knife near your neck, an immediate reaction to protect yourself rather than go for the kill shot, knowing that anyone of normal skill would be too full of bloodlust to think of anything other than killing you. Protection and defense came first, taking the small nick of a cut to your own forearm before you’re knocking the knife out of his hand and wrestling him to the ground with a swift kick to his leg, rendering him helpless.

“Indeed, you are exactly what I think you are,” Acacius says with finality, “I want you to lead my personal guard. Whatever it is I must do to obtain that, my lady I will do—riches, bribery—”

You push away from him with a heavy exhale, standing and adjusting your clothes, brushing your hair away from your face, “No need, I will do it.”

Acacius rolls to his back, hand extending once more.

This time, it is you offering the help as he uses the leverage to rise to his feet before speaking to you with a triumphant tone.

“Commander,” He grins, “let us plan.”

–

He often asks of your lineage, your home. But, there is nothing to offer. A long conquered piece of land now under the rule of Rome and a home that was never a home. An orphan you had always been, nameless, taking greedily whatever name was bestowed upon you.

In the arena it was Medusa, the tale of a vicious woman with god-like power. Caracalla had told you of the story, the boys having taken a liking to you in different ways. Geta was fiendish, hungry, often seeking you out for his own pleasure to which you wouldn’t deny. Couldn’t. He could be rough, but he wasn’t.

He seemed lonely, the poor boy.

Carcalla was only searching for a friend despite his unruly, chaotic nature. When he wasn’t ruling with tyranny over Rome, terrorizing the townspeople, he was telling you stories.

Other times it was only she. Or her. Or just girl. The girl.

You were only what people assumed of you, expected you to be.

“Medusa, ay?” A greasy looking man confirms, one of the six men who were to be under your command, “The gladiator?”

“You will respect her,” General Acacius had warned them, “or an apology will be your dying breath.”

It had struck most of them with fear. Most of them.

And for many nights, countless, it seems—the transition of leadership was smooth. You had an unyielding grip on them, awaiting direction, following your orders. It was the kind of rush most would only dream of, and as a woman, it was an unforeseen privilege.

“They address you as Medusa, too,” Acacius notes during a roundtable session as the other men wander off for dinner, “do you wish for them to address you differently?”

“I have no name, General,” You admit, “I am whatever I must be. If they think of me as so, that is what I am. Though, I would love to turn a few of them into stone, given I was granted her powers.”

“I believe you could manage that feat without them,” Acacius jokes, “—but, nameless? Even at birth?”

“I know nothing of my birth parents. They told me I was found wrapped in cloth under the bridge that led into the town your army eventually turned to rubble,” A bittersweet feeling, speaking unusually out of term, facing him with the facts, “though, it does not matter. I enjoy the fear they have of me, keeps wandering hands at bay.”

Such an enigma, Acacius eyes you curiously. It was the most you’ve opened up to him since retrieving you from your cell, and even then, still forcing him to face the consequences of war.

The guilt followed him at every waking moment.

“Do you need anything further of me, General?” You ask politely, “You have spoiled my appetite as of late and your men are greedy with the stew.”

“You are dismissed,” He speaks distantly, turning over the thick, coarse paper with a drawn out map of the territory they were to invade soon, a lingering well wish leaving his lips, “sleep well, commander.”

Unfortunately, you’ve turned to sleeping with a knife under your bedroll—with a lingering ache of betrayal, you weren’t allowing yourself to lower your guard.

The attacks do not start at night. Rather during the day, when the General is off and away, scouting ahead further when half of his army while the other half sticks at camp, keeping claim.

That is when the insults come, the disbelief, the mockery.

Most of his men settled with the idea, having accepted your position even if it displeased them.

But, there was one. Like a bull—hardheaded and stocky, fists and arms like clubs, testosterone radiating from his body in crashing waves. He wants you to fear him, submit to him.

You feel it. You see it. And you’ve been through it before, other large and brutish gladiators thinking with their muscles rather than their brains. It wouldn’t take long for them to meet their demise, but this one was…different.

He approaches you with a smile than anyone could see right through, a finger brushing your cheek as he pushes a strand of hair behind your ear, leaning in to brush his lips against the shell of it.

“They are hungry,” He drips of vicious intention, “—I say, you give us a show. Entertain us, Medusa.”

Your eyes snap to him, staring him down.

“Pitiful Acacius isn’t here to save you,” He warns, “though, I have reason to believe he is as weak as most men—spread your legs and he’ll be begging for a taste, too.”

“I will gut you where you stand,” You warn, reaching for the thick machete at your waist, “you’re like a pig. Brainless and greedy for whatever you can get. Touch me, I dare you.”

The rest of the men are relatively quiet, but they do not stop him. Smirks and half-smiles hidden behind their cups, lounging on a log near their tents, enjoying the entertainment.

It was nightfall, the fire crackling between you and them, a towering presence at your backside.

And as he dares to, his hand slides up your waist.

Without hesitation you flip the weapon in your grip, grabbing at his wrist and slicing at his arm—a featherlight touch, it was merrily a glorified papercut, but his eyes widened in shock.

“Let us see how well you touch without fingers,” You threaten, flipping the machete until it is pointing in his face, death grip on the handle if he dared to take it, taunting him with the sharp end of your blade, “hands?”

That deep, rumbling sound of hooves approaches through the darkness, everyone slowly falling back into their paces as you welcome back your General with a forced smile.

Acacius hands off the reins to another rider, taking scope of the situation that seemed to be defusing in front of him, but still—he notices. His eyes trade glances between you both before he nods at you to follow him.

Speaking under his breath, “The others have coined you as fury,” He laughs softly at the pseudonym, “little fury, they tell me. Like the Furies. I cannot say I disagree with them. Has he been pestering you long?”

Your brow furrows at the reference, lost on your ill-informed mind.

“Long enough,” You answer honestly, “though, he was bestowed a parting gift this time.”

You raise your blade, his blood still painting the weapon.

He raises the curtain to his tent, allowing you to enter before him.

“Do you know nothing of the Furies?”

“I was not privy to bedtime tales, General.”

He nods, thoughtful as his lips pull together in a thin line, slowly removing his armor as he sits, directing for you to take a seat opposite of him, a few feet away on a decaying stump.

“Goddesses,” He states simply, “of vengeance, striking the wicked down. You have…fire, deep within you. Do not let them put it out, it is your weapon.”

You nod obediently, feeling the humidity stick to your skin, clothes glued to your body as you sit in the uncomfortable heat. There was no world in which you felt safe enough to strip down, quell your body of this unbearable summer weather. You would rather suffer, thick garb covering your body.

Acacius tilts his head, but does not comment.

“I require your protection tomorrow, we must scout an additional day and I fear danger is imminent—relay this to them,” He instructs, “and my lady, if you fear they will visit you at night, that they might strike when you’re vulnerable, you are welcome here.”

He already anticipates your response—he knows, but the gesture was an offer. A kindness.

“If they try, you will be searching for new men by sunrise, General.”

Acacius smirks in amusement, nodding to your words.

“It would not be difficult to replace them,” He notes, “though, little fury, you are irreplaceable.”

General Acacius wasn’t an easy man to protect, but you managed. Over the few weeks that you had taken point within his guard it has leant you plenty of opportunities to prove your worth, slaughtering opposing soldiers like cattle for the glory of Rome, his booming voice pronouncing vie victis as the dead are laid rest under fire and smoke.

But, conflict comes when you are faced with a decision as the camp was raided under complete, utter darkness. It was your shift to guard the General, perched outside of his tent with constant, roaming eyes. Eventually, you drift. It was peaceful, nature taking hold and pulling you under, awoken to the sound of blood curdling screams, the ground painted with the innards of both Acacius’ men and the others.

You were forced with a choice—defend the camp, something Acacius would have told you to do in a moment of desperation, a self-sacrificing man himself. Ironic, given your position, that you even think otherwise. Of course, your feet pull you toward him, whipping the flowing fabric of his tent door back.

There was a knife at his neck, a man towering over him. He’d snuck past—taken advantage of your exhaustion and your mistake was putting the General’s life at risk, his face stoic as he pushed back against the blade with his palm.

Without thinking, you rush toward the man, pulling back at his collar to plunge the knife pointed at Acacius into his own throat, a silent death through the notch of his neck, the blood flowing out like a river, tossing the lifeless man to the side before you’re reaching for your General.

“Do not worry,” He assures you as he rises, still groggy from sleep, “go—protect our camp.”

“But, General,” You plead, not realizing that your hand was grasping on his own, or that he had initiated the touch as a gentle push, a confirmation that he was truly alright, “it is my fault.”

His eyes peer behind you and to the man lying lifeless on the floor, blood pooling around his body.

“Though, it seems you have done your duty,” Acacius comments, head turned down as he stares at the body before his eyes peer up at you under his dark lashes, pensive, “now—kill them.”

You had lost a hundred or so men, nothing to the army of five thousand, but any loss was felt within General Acacius’ army—men of honor, with families or not, deserved a proper farewell.

Covered in the blood of many, some of your friends and some of strangers, hair matted and reeking of death, you approach General Acacius who was sending off a group of men to begin digging the mass grave to dispose of the bodies.

Your body ached, bruised and nicked from battle—you had killed at least five hundred men alone. Pure rage and fury, not a memory of it as you approached him now, a blank stare void of emotion that concerns Acacius, his hand reaching for your wrist as you begin to pass him, heading for your own tent to collapse in exhaustion.

“You did well,” He notes, catching your gaze as he turns his head to infiltrate your line of sight, “wash off before you turn in, you…reek. There’s a river beyond the bend—clean, warm.”

You nod despite only paying half-attention to his words, walking mindlessly toward the river before you are faced with the unfortunate crowd of men, undressed to their natural state, avoiding the watchful eyes and preying gazes, stripping your armor off down near the empty end of the river, pulling at your tangled hair, pulling off each remaining piece of clothing despite your body’s protest, screaming for relief.

It wasn’t unfamiliar, the looks—you bathed alongside all the men under the arena without a thought, knowing most of them were vying for freedom and wouldn’t dare risk it by allowing their cocks to work overtime, forgetting rational thought.

But, to them, you were a trophy. Someone—something, to be conquered.

The thin, flimsy undergarments come off last, stepping into the water and sinking down slowly. The blood washes away as you scrub, back turned as you dip your head into the water before committing entirely, plugging your nose as you dip underneath the water, finding peace in the silence.

“I had my doubts, Medusa,” A voice bellows from behind as you rise, your eyes peeling open with a quickly growing annoyance, “of you being a true woman, but—”

“Careful,” One of the men warned, a stable boy, “she will run to the general.”

It was the same man from many nights ago, big and brutish, always looking for a fight, even with the other men. He hadn’t learned his lesson, clearly.

“Acacius is busy,” He retorts, “so—what say you give us the show you owe us?”

You stand frozen in place, staring daggers at the man who seems only more amused as the anger in you builds, permeates.

(sa themes below: noncon touching, reader is naked in front of several men)

“Get out of the water,” He demands, “unless you prefer I come get you.”

You survey your choices, knowing that staying in the water wasn’t a safe option. They can and will wait you out. Your eyes track toward your clothes, further away than you had left them. Your eyes track the scar on his forearm and you smirk, teething peeking out behind your lips, “How beautiful,” You tell him, his eyes slowly following your own, “quite the scar, is it not? Fancy another?”

You spot the knife sheathed in his leather belt, taking your chances despite the vulnerability that remains with your naked frame on full display as you retreat from the water, he nods with confidence as you approach, a faint whistle in the distance that you’ve heard before. The oaf seems to ignore it, though. His large hand comes to your breast in an instant, body dripping wet and a sickness churning in your gut as the sticks of torch and fire approach amongst the murmuring crowd of men, less than subtle about the rowdiness that was ensuing.

He pulls you into his body with a greedy hunger as his opposite hands gropes at your backside, following the curve of your ass as your hand snakes toward the blade, but the voice that rips through the crowd is enough to wake the dead, silence falling over the area in an instant.

“Remove your hand,” Acacius voice travels, the same booming voice he uses to declare victory over a new territory, “or I will remove it myself.”

“General,” The man addressed in a drunkish manner, inviting, “she was offering—Medusa, tell him.”

Your silence is expected, his hand wandering toward your other breast, biting hard enough at the inside of your cheek that it draws blood—Acacius sees your hand wrapping around the blade and speaks again, approaches closer as the mud sticks to his boots, “I will tell you once more. Remove it.”

The man eyes you with disdain, dropping his hands away as you relinquish your hold of his weapon, allowing the breath caught in your chest to escape, but it doesn’t stop the touch that follows, taunting with its intention as his palm curls around the back of your head, tilting your head to the side as he squeezes, “I forget—you are the General’s property after all.”

(end of sa themes)

“Take him,” He orders the other lingering guards, men who’ve never shown you anything other than respect—they value their lives and limbs, as any sane person would, “and start the fire.”

Acacius looks around at the lingering eyes, “I suggest all of you return to camp. Now.”

That was all it took, most of them scrambling for their own clothes and armor as they retreated like scurrying mice or dogs with their tail between their legs, leaving you under Acacius' careful gaze. He reaches down to fetch you dirtied clothes, looking them over with disgust.

He removes the black cape around his shoulders without a word, opening it as an offering. Desperate to cover yourself, you slip your arms in the sleeves with his help, his eyes wandering no further than your face as you turn to him, tucking the cape around yourself. He reaches for the hood, pulling it down.

“Come,” He demands, “I would like you to witness.”

–

The screams are audible as you approach camp, a few feet behind Acacius as he rounds the fire and separates the crowd to create a path, approaching the man bound at his feet, one arm roped at his side and secured away, leaving him to fight the men that held him down.

“General, gen—general, I am sorry,” He pleads, “she—you do not understand, she taunts. She is poison, not a leader,” He continues, despite Acacius lack of response, making a motion with his hand to remove the man’s weapon and hand it to him, pulling it from it’s leather cover and examining the blade, he makes a soft sound to himself, “Acacius—you have known me for years. Do not let this woman trick you.”

“Gag him,” He ignores his pleading, leaning down to grip the hand of the man bound below, “your humility is amusing, but your greed is what is costing you. She has shown you mercy, but I will not.”

The cut isn’t a clean slice, either. It takes several swings before the limb detaches, blood spurting out of the appendage as the man screams in pain, dragged helplessly toward the fire before they’re cauterizing the wound—your body unreactive as you watch but silently stewing with frustration.

He had spared the man, sure. But, making a show of it? A mockery?

“Commander, with me,” General Acacius demands, waiting for you to snap back into reality, your eyes meeting his face, blood covering his armor and hands, somehow avoidant of most of the mess.

When you are alone, you don’t hold back.

“I would have handled him,” You tell him, “killed him myself.”

“This is not the arena, we do not go around slaughtering our men without reason,” Acacius retorts, “he will be demoted and replaced and be a reminder to the others that you—”

“I do not need you defending my honor, General.”

“Men will not change, this—society, it does not cater to your safety. To them, women are nothing but vanity and pleasure—”

“And property,” You remark, “lest you forget how you obtained me, General.”

Acacius approaches you near the table at the center of his tent, only a foot away as he removes his armor plate, pulling it over his head, “Had I not, you would have paid for your own freedom eventually. I needed a leader—strong, smart, powerful.”

“By punishing that man, you are sending the message that I need my battles fought for me,” You argue, “and as if these men did not already think I was the General’s plaything, what will they think now?”

Acacius sighs through his nose, pulling at the fabric of his tunic that bares his chest, “I believe they will behave,” He tells you, “because you will not be as kind when you take their heads. He was an example and a pain in my ass for years, he deserved more than that.”

“And what will they think of me now? I am naked under this cloak, your cloak. I must walk the path back to my tent surrounded by men deprived of the things your bestial minds crave.”

Acacius chuckles to himself, “I have been thinking,” He begins, “that you deserve a new name. Something indicative of all that you are. Some of the men award each other with monikers of war. Medusa seems to have become more of a taunt, in light of recent events.”

He unties the leather bands at his wrist, eyeing you with a mischievous gaze as he keeps you waiting, “Have you heard the tale of Minerva, my lady?”

It isn’t a surprise, but you shake your head.

“A goddess of many things—strategy, warfare, victory, and justice…but mostly importantly, wisdom. I have seen the way you command the battlefield, it is not lost on me.”

“You have…many stories, General.”

“My mother told me one every night as she tucked me, it seems they have stuck with me.”

Tell me more, the words linger in the back of your throat.

“I am barely standing, General. I must retire for the night.”

“Indeed,” He agrees, shamelessly stripping down to his undergarments to walk toward the clean bowl of water and wash away the drying blood, “and Minerva,” the name is completely foreign, but you respond with a hum, “your position is yours alone. You have earned it. Do not let them tell you otherwise.”

Like Medusa, the name sticks.

And thankfully, you were a few weeks away from a much-earned break from war, returning to Rome as a free woman for the first time, having finally fallen into a comfortable rhythm with the rest of his personal guards—a mutual respect that had been missing, men waiting for your command.

Long nights of planning spent in Acacius tent, surrounded by the other guards until they filter out one by one, growing curiosity and questions lead to many hours of conversation that you, for many months, had been deprived of in the arena.

“You did promise my return,” You remind him, “they will be expecting you to keep that.”

“They are young, fickle men,” Acacius berates with amusement, “I am sure they have moved on.”

“Do you fear them? The emperors?”

“They are spoiled brats,” Acacius responds, an answer in itself.

“They would visit me often,” You admit, “Caracalla seemed to be—it seems the syphilis in his loins was truly affecting his brains, often he would not even make sense. Or he would come to me, complaining of his brother.”

“You had built quite the rapor,” Acacius notes with a smile, sipping at the broth from his stew as he invites you to sit on his fancy, expensive bed cot. Much nicer than your own, cushioned and wrapped in velvet, “What of Geta?”

“He liked my breasts,” You begin bluntly, “and my—”

“He forced himself upon you?”

“I was property of Rome, Acacius,” You didn’t often say his name in such a relaxed way, blaming it on the full belly and exhaustion, “therefore I was his. I have suffered much worse than a lonely man searching for comfort.”

Acacius seems thoughtful, pensive as he stirs at his quickly diminishing stew. He does catch your lingering gaze on his face after a while, mesmerized by the scar underneath his eye, he encourages you.

“Ask, if you are so curious, my lady,” He places his bowl to the side, empty.

“Your scar,” You nod, pressing your finger in a mirroring way under your eye, “is there a story?”

“Nothing to be told with boast,” He chuckles, “a wound of battle, is all. Like many of the scars on my body,” He tells you, raising his naked forearm to display the various scars, noting the few that paint his clavicle, “and you, Minerva?”

It seems to have become a particular quirk of his, a lilt to his voice as he calls you by your given name—the others have become accustomed to it, too. But, with Acacius, it felt special. Treasured.

You raise your eyebrows at his question, quietly unlacing your top to pull it down your shoulder, sliding a hand over your breast to respect the dynamic between you both—him being your general and you, his subordinate. His eyes squint as he examines the jagged and staggered scar on the side of your breasts—not quite faded, healed but relatively fresh.

“He is a biter,” You warn him with amusement, “Geta.”

Only one scar, given by one of the emperors, somehow untouched from real battle. It was miraculous. You readjust your top, feeling the heat from your neck rise to your face at what you had just willingly offered over to Acacius. Unfortunately, he had a way of lowering your guard.

With that talk, it seemed like a true breakthrough in your partnership with Acacius.

He always allowed you to speak for yourself, never overstepping the boundary you had argued with him over, leading the charge with an iron fist and handling the younger, fresh faced soldiers who just seemed…lost.

It was hard to ignore the lingering glances over time, often during meetings as you spoke, not a look of attention but rather…ravishing. Hungry, but in a subdued manner. You weren’t sure where the lines had blurred, but they had.

Possibly somewhere within the long nights of conversation or the lingering touches that shouldn’t have been as charged as they were, handing over a piece of armor or blade and his calloused fingertips would circle your wrist, pause, before his brain would catch up to his actions.

“Go on,” He encourages after a final night of victory and triumph, many of the men howling and singing tunes around the fire, drinking from their cups and enjoying the pleasures of alcohol and comradery, “you are missing the fun,” He was unnaturally quiet, subdued to his quarters, leaning against the outside of his tent as he watched with amusement but subtle dismay.

A younger man approaches with his hand extended, a gleeful expression on his face, “Minerva, please—come, you must enjoy the party, too.”

The general gives you an expectant look as you let the young man lead you away, curling his fingers around your own and pulling you with vigor, cheering loudly to blend in with the energy of the men despite how you worry about the man several feet away, your eyes tracking his disappearing figure as he slips into his tent, eventually pulled away by another man, one of the guardsmen who adored you, asking for a dance.

You agree hesitantly as the crowd roars louder, eyes searching for the exact reason as you see a few men leading a line of women into camp, little clothing to allow them modesty, a less than subtle shushing come from the men as they lead them deeper into camp, and the fear in you tells you to run to the General.

“It is not what you think,” The young man tells you, “they are dancers—no harm will—”

You bypass him, straight toward the men leading the path, stopping them cold.

“They are not here against their will, my lady.” He assures you, though, that could be argued.

“Minerva, Acacius has made it clear that harming women, you—is far worse a crime than anything else. Truly, it is not what you believe it to be.”

“I am telling the General, informing him of their presence,” You admit, “so I suggest you and the rest of the cattle be on your best behavior?”

They both give crisp, curt nods.

As you make the direct line for Acacius’ tent, you are ignorant to his silent plea for privacy at the tied rope, intertwined with gold fabric, pushing apart the fabric doors without much of a thought, reality hitting you as you catch a glimpse of his naked frame, patting down his body with a clean cloth as he washed himself, other hand curved around his cock as he stretched his neck up and back, the water splashing as he dipped the towel into the basin, only aware of your present when you make a small, unrecognizable sound as a result of your own stupidity.

“I—General,” Your eyes widen as they take on a mind of their own, straight down the valley of his chest as he turns to you, quickly spinning on your heels, “I should have—I apologize, uh, the men…they are—”

“I was informed,” He assures, “and they have been warned, I assure you.”

“Yes, hm—um,” It was the only time Acacius had seen you flustered

“I assumed the rope was a clear message,” Acacius teases, “but—it is not your fault. I should have informed you of their…antics.”

He pulls the tight, fabric shorts over his hips, clearing his throat, peering over your shoulder you breathe a sigh of relief, “General, I would like to apologize for—” You swallow, watching as he turned barefoot on his heels, the fabric of the immodest undergarments curving around the stretch of his cock, half-hard under the fabric and the outline of thick head pushing against the linen.

You don’t realize how long you’re staring until he’s approaching with a tap of his finger on the underside of your chin, “There is no need for that,” He assures you, your nose scrunching up in confusion at the sudden touch, feeling the subtle shift as he reaches behind you for the clothes folded on the table at your backside, “surely you must return to the party,” He encourages, “celebrate a well-earned victory.”

“Why?” You counter, “When you will not.”

“Minerva,” He warns.

“You are distracted,” You note, watching as Acacius now avoids your gaze, “it is worrying me.”

He cannot admit the reason why. That it may be you.

“Acacius,” You call his name, hoping that will break through to him.

“Leave me,” He asks, rather than demanding, “I need to rest.”

It was a lie, but you do not fight him on it.

–

Silence blankets the camp in the early morning hours—the witching hours, as you’ve come to know them. Sleeping securely in your tent, bedroll tucked under your head as you drift. Unaware of the creeping men planning your untimely demise, assuring that the entire camp was asleep before they strike, arms and legs rendered useless as the third shoves a piece of cloth into your mouth and ties it around the back of your head, screams muffled behind the fabric, stripped of your weapons. Helpless, they think.

During the struggle, one of them grows frustrated, banging the hard rock against your skull and plunging you back into darkness.

When you come to, you are unclear of where you are, but it was outside, arms above your head against the thick limb, feet bound tight as well, a sting and a string of wetness running down the side of your face as your blurry vision becomes clear.

“Little Minerva,” the voice begins mockingly, all too familiar to your ears, “he has named you—you must feel special, ay?”

He kneels in front of you, the one hand he has left curling around the forearm of what was left of his other appendage, “And you expect to return back to Rome as a free woman,” He laughs, snorts wetly through his nose, “I assure you that will not happen. Rather, you will be a dead one.”

The other two lingering figures join in on the laughter.

“How did you say it?” He taunts, “I will gut you where you stand?”

“It took three of you to capture me,” You retort, “your confidence is lacking sorely.”

He clears the back of his throat, rearing up a ball of saliva in his mouth before he’s spitting at you.

“I will slaughter all of you with my hands,” You promise, “untie me, unless you are fearful.”

Driven by ego, it doesn’t take much for him to agree.

But, as he had underestimated you the first time, and the second, he would regret the third.

The two men come at you first, enough tussling and your teeth ripping into the ear of one of them, searching blindly for a thick, heavy and sharp edge branch that would handle the weight of piercing through skin and muscle, finding the right weapon at the perfect moment—the attacker rearing back as the other approached, driving the make-shift stake through his chest as the other tackled you to the ground, a poor miscalculation on his part as you get your legs around his neck, arms pinned at an painful, awkward ankle until his neck snaps from the force, the ox-like man awaiting in the shadows like a coward, blood spilling from your mouth as you scream.

The heavy hooves approach like roaring thunder and the instant your attacker catches on, his attempts to flee are ruined by the barricade of men at all angles, General Acacius at the head of the charge, a rageful expression on his face. Feral unlike you have ever seen.

He jumps off of his horse, ordering the men to capture the surviving man once again, looking around at the lifeless bodies beside you, assuring his men he would handle you and the mess, demanding they return to camp at once.

You look around aimlessly, blood staining your face as Acacius struggles to capture your attention, eventually resorting to a strong, demanding hold on your face, cradling your head with his hands.

“Are you wounded?” He asks, then notices the trail of blood from your scalp, pushing away the hair to reveal with gash from the rock they had attacked you with, grimacing as he runs his finger over the wound in worry.

Suddenly, you are stricken with a need, “Give me your sword,” You tell him, eyes flicking up to meet his own, “I need your sword.” His movements are too slow, still concerned with you that you reach for the weapon yourself.

Pulling away, you approach one of the dead men with the sword, swinging it up over your head and down with force, beheading him in one go, before switching to the other man, less finesse as you swing—again and again, until there is nothing but a pool of blood, bone, and brain—Acacius steps in eventually, tossing the sword away as he holds you arms in his fierce grip, letting the screams rip from your chest as he sways with you, eventually falling to your knees in exhaustion. He uses his bare hands to wipe the blood away from your neck, your face, feeling the soft shake of your body as you sob in silence, overcome with an emotion you so rarely let surface.

–

The public execution follows the next morning, everyone rousing from their tents to the loud, blaring horn from the ship just off shore—Acacius had assisted you back to camp on his horse, slumped against his back as you rode until the trampling finally stopped, sliding off the horse and into Acacius’ arms as he led you inside his tent.

He didn’t sleep the entire night, watching over you instead—he rarely blinked, staring off into nothingness as he tried to keep the vicious rage at bay, by morning, he was itching.

“You may stay,” He tells you, “your head—I cleaned it while you slept.”

You shove his hand away as he attempts to help you sit, slowly dressing yourself, eventually putting together the fact that Acacius had undressed and bathed you at some point throughout the night, not a speck of blood or spit remaining.

“Are you ordering me to stay?”

Acacius shakes his head, his hand still hovering close by.

“Then I will attend.”

He doesn’t argue against it and there is, despite your weariness to admit, a relief of your chest as Acacius rears back his blade, silencing the final scream the man lets out, pleading for his life. The blood sprays over his face, a strong grimace at the sheer strength it takes to behead the man, but the general manages it with one strike of his blade.

His speech follows, a deep and unsettling warning to all of his men. A final one.

Men, wide-eyed with fear, agree without resistance before he sends them off to ready the ship for departure and a meal before they begin their long trek back to Rome—he is less than gentle as he grabs your wrist without warning and pulls you alongside him, back to his tent.

–

He ties the rope with a stiff tug, before turning to you, stumbling on your feet as pull off his cape, having offered it to you for a second time, assuring that dressing in your usually armor wasn’t needed today, not as you began your travels, a flowing dress tied at your shoulder and waist that you were used to wearing during the showings back in Rome, parading you around like a prize.

“Acacius, perhaps you should sit,” You suggest, watching his hands curl into fists at his sides before he’s spinning on his heels and toward you, cradling your face like he had the night prior, but even this close, it felt like he was trying to keep you at a distance, “—I am sorry, if I did something—”

“I crave you,” Acacius admits, “you must know.”

Your lips part, gearing up the courage to speak, but falling short.

“Nights I have spent,” He breathes, shaking his head, the curls tickling your forehead as they meet, “thinking—wondering—”

“Acacius, why now?” You question him, “As we are homebound, back to your wife. Surely, she would have my head.”

Acacius shakes his head with a soft, but fond laugh.

“Our marriage is complex,” He explains, “Something I do not care to explain in great detail at this moment, you see—,” His hand curves around the side of your neck, tilting your head up, lips grazing against his own as he speaks, “I had no such intention for things to get like this, but you have proven to make things…difficult, for me,” He breathes out through his mouth, his eyes opening slowly to meet yours, “and I need you, should you have me.”

You could easily deny him, knowing he would back off in an instant. But, like this, clearly driven by adrenaline and instinct, riding the high of such a charged execution, he was craving something deeper than an outlet to release the built up tension.

He craved connection—through little moments of conversation and touches, someone at level-ground, an equal. You were his equal. He’d given you so much since, and you would be lying to yourself if you denied the thoughts that had riddled your mind too.

“I do not much prefer a soft touch,” You finally reply, “or gentle care.”

He silences you with a kiss, bruising and tense as he licks into your mouth, hungrily searching for more areas to taste and devour, licking along the column of your neck as the blood of another smeared into your skin, his fingers working quietly to undo your dress, in turn wrestling with his armor and clothes, nearly ripping the fabric of his shirt from his body as you claw at him.

Wet kisses and clashing tongues fill the silent room, a screeching sound as your back hits the roundtable before he’s lifting from the back of your thighs and scooting you onto the surface, naked and bare as he spreads your thighs apart to move between them, clearly restraining himself as he licks, teeth grazing carefully.

“I enjoy them,” You admit, “Do not hold back, Acacius. They are what I will keep with me, if this be the only time.”

Like a dog cut loose of his chain, his teeth sink into the breasts mirror the mark of the other, hissing as his teeth break through the skin just enough for the subtle trickling of blood to rise to the surface before he’s soothing the wound with his tongue, staring up at you through a half-lidded gaze, prowling for more. He dips lower, falling to his knees as he pulls you toward the end of the table, ass hanging near the edge as his teeth sink into your thigh, near the swell of your cunt as you moan, fingers digging into sweaty, matted curls.

“Acacius,” You plead breathily, “I want your mouth.”

Where—it did not matter. But, Acacius fulfills that need as he licks a broad strip through your cunt, nose buried in the coarse curls, still smelling of the fresh soap he had bathed you in, taking delicate care as he washed your body, letting you slump into him, soaking him in the process.

“Yes, that—” You respond airily, eyes fluttering shut as his tongue dips inside of you, swirling your slick around on his tongue and sucking harshly at your clit, staring up at you daringly from his position beneath you, unwavering, “oh, gods above…”

Acacius chuckles below you,the sound vibrating against your cunt as your moans increase rapidly, thick fingers dipping inside your pulsating core, “This high—it feels like—”

He rises to press a kiss against your stomach, climbing, tongue licking over your belly button and between your breasts, “—like…” He encourages, “come on, my lady, do not sell out on me now,”

“Like a battle high,” You admit with a faint laugh, “though, different, but….”

He understands, driven by unbridled need, uncapped adrenaline.

“Well, vae victis,” He taunts, “now—come here,” He squeezes at your hips and pulls you to him, his cock stiff, throbbing between your legs before he is twisting and spinning you around, feet planting against the ground as he bends you over, fisting himself tight as he rubs his thick cock head between your folds, watching as your wetness coats him, sinking into your fluttering hole with little resistance, a sweet cacophony of noises releasing from your throat as you grip onto nothing, hand curling into a fist as you moan, open-mouthed and shameless.

“Harder,” You beg, forcing the word out between thrusts, blunt fingernails clawing at your hips, attempting to pull you in closer despite your proximity, as if he could consume and even that wouldn’t be enough, “Acacius, please.”

It was like instinct, his hand sliding up the back of your thigh to lift your leg up, pinning it up—up, until you feel the ache in your sore muscles as he holds you in place with a fist between the bend of your knee, heaving breaths at your neck as he fucks you into the hard surface of the table.

It was a pain you would feel in your bones, that would carry with you into the morning, marks that would last for longer, a remnant of this moment, the mess of blood smearing on your own skin as he melts against you, forehead resting against your shoulder as his gaze follows the movement of his hips, slow but powered thrusts that drilled into you, clawing at his skin to leave your own bruises. The hand that brushes against your core is your ultimate demise, feeling breathless as your orgasm pulls you under, muffled sobs into your fist as you bite down, fearful that it might draw attention. Though, Acacius seems preoccupied, still.

His hand seeks your neck, digging in as he pulled you up, “To your knees,” He demands softly, your body moving out a memory, dropping to the floor—though, the sight is much more tantalizing, Acacius fisting his cock tight, feral as he teeth were bared, like a man fresh from the slaughter, he comes with a deep and guttural groan, your tongue sliding against the underside of his bulbous head, thick spurts coating your tongue, his body shaking as you pull away, swallowing all that he had offered with a steady, locked gaze. He assists you upright, steadying you.

“For a man who has such a distaste for unnecessary violence, you wear it well,” It wasn’t a compliment, rather an observation, his eyes tracking your naked frame, fingertips tracing the curves of your body in admiration.

“You are quite inspiring, Minerva,” He admits, gathering your thick dress and helping you redress in silence, tying the material around your body, “not everyone deserves mercy.”

Your smile is rare, but it is beautiful. And he wasn’t a man for such dramatics.

But, it could bring him to his knees, he thinks.

#general acacius #marcus acacius #marcus acacius x reader #marcus acacius x you #marcus acacius x y/n #general acacius x reader #general acacius x you #gladiator ii #gladiator ii fic #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal smut #my writing

1K notes · View notes

stormfuryd · 2 years ago

Text

@lunarfey

❝ i will never leave you. it will be this, always, for as long as you will let me. ❞

THIS WAS SOMETHING SHE HAD THOUGHT SHE’D ONLY BE ALLOWED IN DREAMS. There are no chances at true love for a Lady of Westeros, not as the only daughter of her House. It was her duty to marry well, provide heirs for her husband and be chained to his side for the rest of their lives.

(There is always a chance at freedom upon her husband’s death but that would only place her at the mercy of whatever House her brother’s threw her at next.)

“Others have promised this before, but none i have believed until you, my love.” As marriages go, Rhaeana has been chained to an agreable husband, as open about his preferences as she hers - he would never fault her her love as she would not his.

“I would have you by my side until this world crumbles into the dust, until my home is claimed by the sea, one stone at a time. The Seven themselves would have to pry me from your side, if they exist to do so.”

#* ours is the fury「ic」#& Fianna Wulf / lunarfey #lunarfey

0 notes

yuurivoice · 25 days ago

Text

Man what the fuck do you mean we are getting into another goddamn war in the middle east over nukes our own intelligence can't seem to agree on the existence of? What in the Now That's What I Call 2000's kind of bullshit is this???

There are clear and obvious consequences and concerns here, but something that strikes me is how the timing of this is set to galvanize the angry young men in the States who are poor and unable to find their role in the workforce and will be preyed upon by recruiters to go play soldier when they're better fit to be a goddamn electrician but you don't get a signing bonus for going into a trade like you do when signing up to go get shot at.

They've been fed so much bullshit, and a war will help solidify their half baked beliefs about the world because they'll be looking at it through range finders and scopes.

Muhammad Ali had a particular quote about a certain word no Viet Cong ever called him. That quote made so much goddamn sense to me, I was a kid at the time when I first heard it. But damn. We really are about to send off some kids to war while their kin are liable to get kidnapped by ICE, shit, they'll cook up a "service for citizenship" process and act like it's a fucking gift.

Tired of brown folks getting demonized, displaced, and slaughtered. Tired of watching the ignorant think any of these recent events make them exempt or safe from fascism. Heartbroken to see how cold and hard-hearted the average American can be. It's painful to see propaganda work over time. To see the anti-authoritarian homies from two decades ago succumb to boot licking and cult of personality politics.

Had to come back at 5am to finish writing this because I wrote myself to sleep around midnight trying to make sense of it all. And the thing is, hate doesn't make sense. Somewhere along the way, some insidious thing tipped the scales and people became incurious and fearful instead of inquisitive and hungry to learn.

How are we supposed to win back the minds of people who are so entrenched in their hate that they can cheer for atrocities and injustices? How could any of those who have been wronged set aside their righteous anger and fury long enough to be bothered trying to flip the point of view of someone who could be so cruel? That is too much to ask.

There's no way this is the endgame, right? That humanity becomes so calloused and hateful that we choke ourselves on petty differences and ignorance as our planet dies out while we suffocate in the blaze of it all. Have we failed so often for so long that it'll only be in our last gasps that we realize how foolish we've become?

It feels unhelpful to wonder these things out loud, but on the other hand, maybe it's a comfort for others to see that anyone can be bothered to wonder these things at all at this point.

If we have passed the event horizon and it's just a matter of time, the best we can do is try to support those who need it and love each other. Feed the connections to those who bring you joy and laughter. Embrace loving people, and even if shit gets really, really grim...trust that love endures. It will outlast and overcome hate every time. Even if it's a naive, childish sentiment, that's where I'm putting what little faith I have to spare. When some strange creature seeks to understand what happened to us when we are all long gone, I hope they see that in the ashes they'll find the bones of those who chose to embrace one another as the darkness approached. Let them gaze in wonder at the human capacity to love.

Take care of yourselves. 💖

#yuurivoice #cw current events #cw war #cw american politics #i know theres typos all through the bitch #but im sleep and hitting posy #post*#see lmfao

222 notes · View notes

phantasm-ae · 2 months ago

Text

omg anon im so gladd uu like it RAAHHHHH 😩😩😩--

-- but likee in terms of first meet.... hmmm.... i was thinking likee it probably went smth like this --

cw: just fluff, afab reader x soap

HEADCANON: How did Johnny and milkmaid reader meet? We have Mama MacTavish to thank for that

PAIRING: John Soap MacTavish x reader

Our reader was always close with the MacTavishes. Well, sweet and gentle Mama MacTavish mostly.

The honeyed and mellow lady who saw you move in from day one. Hauling boxes by yourself. Sweaty. Frustrated and swearing. Cursing your moving service driver under your breath as you tried to maneuver your mattress up the front steps like a tragic one-woman circus act.

She had spotted you. Tiny, wry, and reverent little you. Huffing and puffing little hen with the prettiest eyes she's ever seen.

Arms full of box. Hair stuck to your forehead. Shoes kicked off at the bottom step like you’d already given up on dignity that day.

Cursing the heat. Cursing gravity. Cursing the delivery guy who “just forgot the bed frame” with the kind of poetic fury that had her stifling a laugh into her apron.

Peeking out between her laundry line and the rose bushes, a glass of iced tea in one hand and a knowing glint in her eye.

Didn’t say a word at first. Just disappeared from view like a curtain twitching shut.

You’d barely gotten one end of the mattress wedged through the doorframe when she reappeared.

Determined and cheery old lady marching across the lawn in sturdy slippers. Smock still dusted with flour. Tea swapped for a pitcher of lemonade and a plate of something that looked suspiciously like still-warm shortbread.

“Love,” she said, smiling like you were already family, “either let me help or let me feed you. I won’t take no for an answer.”

That was it. That was the beginning.

Before you knew it, she was your go-to for sugar, advice, the juiciest neighborhood gossip, and the occasional “just a wee Sunday dinner” that turned into three courses and a bottle of wine.

She told you all about her garden, her cats, her least favorite neighbors (whispered with scandalous glee), and -- eventually -- her Johnny. Her good kind and gentlemanly son. Her only boy. Her pride.

Always said his name with a soft sort of awe and a sigh. “Not home much. Work keeps him away. But oh, when he is -- you’ll know aye? Big, loud thing, stomps around like he’s still in boots. Heart of gold under all that noise.”

You figured you’d cross that bridge if and when.

But then, she started leaving those subtle hints. And sure, she didn’t see a ring on your finger, and well -- she wasn’t getting any younger too.

"Nice to have a scant of little bairns again you know? Just lovely tae have somethin' to take care of. a bit more noise around the table"

You smirked, playing along, “Oh, sure, I can already picture it -- little feet under the table, crumbs everywhere, and me pretending to know what I’m doing while I trip over the toys.”

Mama MacTavish’s eyes gleamed with a knowing sparkle, her smile widening. At that exact moment, she knew -- you’d be perfect for Johnny. Whether you both knew it or not.

Slowly, she started dropping little cues.

You’d be chatting over a cup of tea, gardening or darning together and she’d slip in a remark or two --

“Oh yer sink’s broken? Johnny’s really good with all that, ye know.”

“Living room’s all barren, hen. Johnny could fix that up -- he’s got a good eye for space.”

“Fridge makin’ that funny noise again? Johnny sorted ours in a flash, bless him.”

“Ye don’t like ladders, do ye? Good thing Johnny’s not scared of heights.”

“That shelf’s still sittin’ on the floor? I’ll send Johnny round with his drill when he gets back”

“Cold this week, aye? Johnny’s great at sealing windows. Kept the whole house toasty last winter.”

“Plant dyin’? Johnny’s got a green thumb too, believe it or not.”

And then, with that same gleam in her eye: “Bit lonely sometimes, love? …Johnny’s got a nice laugh on him.”

You’d chuckle, play along, nodding as if it was all just friendly banter. Letting her have her fun. Feeding into it with a teasing little grin, not realizing she was ever dead serious at that. Just too enchanted by her syrupy stories and sweet affection to see the trap being set.

“Oh, Johnny does love a good Sunday roast,” she’d sigh one day, dreamily. “Still asks for extra gravy like he’s ten years old.”

Then there was the time she murmured -- almost too lightly -- “He’s got such a soft spot for animals, oor Johnny. Always lookin’ efter his mate’s dug. Just a big softie underneath he is"

You humoured her, of course. Nodded, smiled, said things like, “That’s sweet,” and “Sounds like he’s got a good heart.” Didn’t register the shift in tone when she followed it with a quiet:

“Wouldn’t it be nice tae hae someone who’d look efter ye like that, hen?”

You didn’t think much of it then. Shrugged, teased, “I suppose", you started as you gave her your usual warm and homey smile. "Someone to share a Sunday roast with. Maybe a dog. And definitely extra gravy.”

She beamed then and there. A knowing grin that you dulled on and overlooked. Lips curling with a playful gleam like you already handed her a grandchild on a platter.

After that though, the comments came paired with a wistful sigh or a long look at your left hand. “Ah, I do hope Johnny finds someone who’ll appreciate aw o’ him… he’s such a catch, ken?”

And when you’d laugh or just smile knowingly, she’d give the tiniest, most satisfied nod. Checking all her lists at this point. That same glint in her eye only growing.

Already picking the dress among her mental catalogues and listing down addresses and numbers to book the chapel.

You never really thought she was fixed and ramrod earnest about it. Always chalking it up to idle talk. Sweet, silly old-lady musings that sounded like daydreams but didn’t mean anything. After all, Johnny MacTavish was more myth than man to you. A photo on the fireplace. A pair of muddy boots by the door. A son who was always “just away for a bit aye?”

You had no idea what to expect when he finally came home though.

All 6'1 and massive hulking muscle. Weighty and tank heavy. Eyes electric blue with a shy and surprised look in his eyes. Standing there like a tall buck caught in headlights. Frozen mid-motion. Elbows-deep into some grimy mess of liquid and woodwork in the backyard. Right where you and Mama MacTavish usually had tea

The crickety old swing? --

-- Apparently fixed now....

A mallet in one hand, a smudge of oil on his neck, looking like he’d just stepped out of a construction site and straight into your heart. He looked at you like you were the last thing he expected to see -- and maybe you were.

You blinked. He blinked.

And then, the world seemed to slow down.

That was until Johnny dropped the mallet right onto his foot and cursed with a dirty word so filthy, Mama MacTavish gasped from the hallway. “Language, John! We have guests!”

You barely kept it together, biting back a stifled laugh. He, on the other hand, was clearly struggling to hold himself together.

“Aye right, uh, sorry ‘boot that,” Johnny mumbled, looking mortified as he tried to shake the pain out of his foot.

You smiled and, for some reason, that simple, awkward moment felt like the universe had pressed play again on something you didn’t even know was meant to happen.

But that’s when it all shifted. Mama MacTavish swooped in, all warmth and triumph, apron fluttering behind her like a battle standard.

“Ah, perfect timing, lass! Ye’ve met ma Johnny, aye?” she chirped, like this entire scene hadn’t unfolded with the cinematic chaos of a rom-com meet-cute gone slightly sideways.

You opened your mouth to answer -- yes? no? not like this? -- but she barreled on, plopping a tray of lemon squares onto the garden table as if she hadn’t just set a trap and sprung it with flawless precision. Leaving no other room for you two to even utter out another word.

“Johnny, lad, why nae show oor bonnie neighbour the shelves ye fixed up in the sunroom, aye? She’s been bletherin’ aboot needin’ some storage.”

“I have?” you asked faintly, already being gently nudged forward by a flour-dusted hand at your back.

“Oh, ye will,” Mama said, grinning like a cat with cream.

And just like that, you were being ushered into a future you two hadn’t exactly planned for --

— one that smelled like sawdust, lemon bars, and cucumber.

Sounded like dusting and worn boots on old wooden and rickety floors.

And looked an awful lot like Johnny MacTavish:

— red-eared. Bashful. Gone for. Keen and enamored at the sight of you.

Still nursing a bruised toe but grinning enthusiastic and dumbstruck when you asked if he really did like that much gravy on a Sunday roast.

masterlist

337 notes · View notes

cressidagrey · 9 months ago

Text

Stars all aligned - Chapter 10

Summary:

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

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

Warning:

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

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

(Lovely dividers thanks to @sweetmelodygraphics)

Cassian was so fucking furious that he could nearly taste it.

The anger was like fire in his blood, his muscles tensing and his hands clenched so hard that his very bones creaked and groaned in protest.

He should have seen it earlier. He should have...he should have fucking stopped to think for once.

But he hadn't.

And now they had this fucking mess at their hands.

They were such goddamn idiots. All of them.

The guilt in him was like a physical thing, churning in his stomach, the feeling nearly making him sick.

“Where did he put her?" Nesta demanded and Cassian closed his eyes, forcing himself not to unleash his anger at his mate.

Even if he wanted to. Even when he really wanted to.

“Even if I knew, you would be the last person I would tell," he bit out.He knew the words were cruel, but Cassian couldn't bring himself to care right now.

Not when he was too caught up in his own anger and horror.

He met Nesta’s gaze, her grey eyes narrowed in a familiar, hard look he had seen countless times before.

Just that this time…he wasn’t going to back down.

He was not.

"You have no right to Zahra right now," Cassian said, his voice flat. "Not after we just all heard what exactly you think about bastards." The words tasted bitter on his tongue.

He heard both Feyre and Elain inhale at the comment, but he couldn't bring himself to feel bad about it.

"I don't care that you..." Nesta blurted out, suddenly seemingly having realised that her own mate was a bastard just as her sister.

Cassian couldn't help the bitter snort he left out. “You don’t care that I am just as much a bastard as Azriel is? As Zahra is?” he asked Nesta drily. “All bastards are siblings in a way. And I can promise you one thing, Nesta: your sister hasn't chosen the circumstances of her birth. And to hate her because of something like that...something she had absolutely no control about…" he broke off, shaking his head. "How dare you, Nes?"

"She's a constant fucking reminder of how useless our father was!" Nesta yowled.

So that was it.

That was the crux of the problem.

"That seems to be a you problem," Cassian sniped back. "It has nothing to do with Zahra. She hasn't done anything to you. If anything, she has clearly sacrificed herself to keep you alive.”

Nesta flinched at the word, her hands curling into fists, but Cassian couldn't bring himself to feel guilty when it was the damn truth.

"Even if I knew where she was, I wouldn't tell you," Cassian repeated. "And you know why? Because getting between a mate and his female is the most idiotic thing you can do, Nesta. Azriel's instincts are primed right now, not helped by the fact that every instinct is screaming at him about the fact that his mate was hurt. You upset Zahra, and it could be the last straw for him. My brother is lethal. You wouldn't even know he is coming."

And even when he was so fucking angry with Nesta right now, he still loved her. She was still his mate.

Nesta looked like she wanted to snap back, to spew her fury and hurt and anger, but Cassian couldn't bring himself to let her.

Not when he himself was so furious at her.

He didn't know how Azriel kept himself in check after what they just heard...he really didn't. He didn’t know how his brother hadn’t just…gone on a murder spree.

"I would suggest you reflect on what exactly your problem is with your sister, because otherwise none of us are ever going to let you get close enough to her to see her again," Cassian said frostily.

"So you are in her side?" Nesta bit out.

"There are not fucking sides!" Cassian roared. "Your sister let herself be raped for years to keep you alive! The least fucking thing you owe her is some modicum of respect!"

Both Feyre and Elain whimpered softly at the words, their faces ashen as they recoiled in shock, not expecting his words.

But it was the damn truth.

At least there was no Amren there that could make some of her smart quips. Cassian was quite sure he would have tried to kill her too tonight. She was off somewhere with Varian…not there to see the meltdown. .

Which left Mor clutching her glass of wine and Emerie watching it all with crossed arms... and Lucien who looked like he would prefer to be anywhere else.

"Cassian is right," Rhys’ words cut through the quiet. Rhys' words drew Nesta's attention and she tensed, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed as she met his gaze.

But Rhys met her gaze, unflinching and utterly impassive, letting her rage fall flat against him.

Cassian could nearly feel the resentment radiate off of her and he had to grit his teeth hard to keep his own temper from spilling out.

He could nearly taste the fury in the air, the tension high enough that it was nearly suffocating.

"Azriel is Zahra's mate. Which means that what he says goes," Rhys said, his voice carefully even. "I would hope the same respect would be afforded to each of us in a similar situation.”

The way he said it felt like a warning, and Cassian felt the slight easing of tension in the room at Rhys' words.

"He can't just keep us away from our sister!" Feyre snapped.

"I want to apologise," Elain said weakly.

"If he keeps you away from your sister then I imagine your sister doesn't want to see you," Rhys said sharply. "And for cauldron's sake, Elain, in this particular instance it really doesn't matter what you want!"

Both Feyre and Elain flinched slightly at the sharp words, the two of them shrinking back slightly like chastened children.

Cassian just stared at his brother, Rhys liked Elain. Under normal circumstances he would never talk to her like that.

It was a sign of just how furious all of them were.

How furious they all were at the whole situation.

"The least you can do under these circumstances is respect Zahra's ... choice. It seems to me like she hadn't had that often enough," Rhys continued, his voice like ice. "That goes for you too, Morrigan," he added, his voice sharp.

"I haven't even done anything!" Mor complained.

Rhys just growled under his breath. "I know you. If Feyre asks you, I imagine you would be right at Az's doorsteps and would count on the fact that his fondness for you would keep you safe. Which it won't because a mating bond trumps everything, and you know that," Rhys said sharply.

Mor flinched but her eyes narrowed in obvious fury, her knuckles turning the color of white bone as she clenched her fist, clearly upset at the words.

"I don't even know where he brought her," she hit back.

Cassian snorted. "We all know where he brought her," Cassian drawled. Just one place that Azriel could control enough that he would be sure it would keep Zahra safe. Just one place where he would trust the person there implicitly. "There is just one place that has wards tight enough to even have the slightest chance to keep out Rhys, and you know," he said drily. Rosehall.

Where Azriel's mother lived. "Though I wouldn't suggest you show up there unannounced, because Esmeray hates you."

"She doesn't hate me," Mor gave back frostily, crossing her arms.

"She isn't particularly fond of you, then," Cassian said with a sigh.

Mor let out a huff of breath and Cassian couldn't help the dry snort he left out. He knew damn well that Mor had tried to befriend Esmeray... and he also knew that her attempts had gone nowhere.

Mostly because if someone broke Esmeray's baby boy's heart...she fiercely disliked them. He could probably count himself lucky that Azriel never seemed to have mentioned Cassian's part in that whole saga to his mother.

Probably because Azriel knew that Cassian would be the one on the receiving end of Esmeray's wrath.

"Who is Esmeray?" Feyre asked.

"Azriel's mother," Rhys answered evenly.

Feyre blinked, her expression blank as she let out a soft "Oh."

"She's terrifying," Cassian added drily. "Chances are if you would show up there unannounced she would chase you off with her fabric scissors, before Azriel even needed to say a single word to you."

Mor huffed but this time there was no bite to it, and Emerie let out a muffled snort of amusement.

"She survived his father for 30 years, she has learnt one thing or another about cruelty," Rhys said, his voice dry."You'll leave Zahra and Azriel alone. Have I made myself clear?"

Cassian grimly watched the way both Feyre and Elain lowered their heads, nodding in defeat but the tension in their shoulders told him everything.

***

Zahra woke up to Azriel's cursing as he rolled out of bed.

She blinked, trying to force her brain to focus despite the lingering drowsiness.

"Az? What's wrong?" She asked, waking up more and more. It was still ridiculously early, the sun not even having come up yet.

Azriel let out a low growl that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

She pushed herself up into an upright position, trying to focus in the dim room as she tried to spot him in the darkness.

"The shadows kidnapped a baby."

Well, that woke her up.

She was after him in a flash, managing to grab her sweater from the chair as she followed him downstairs. The house was cold and quiet and...dark.

And then she froze.

What in the world...

They shadows had actually kidnapped a literal baby. It hadn't actually registered until she saw it with her own two eyes.

A baby.

An Illyrian baby. If the little wings slumped to the floor were anything to go by.

The baby sat on the floor, staring at them with big dark eyes. It wasn’t newborn. It could sit up…mostly unasssisted if a little wobbly.

The shadows writhed around the room, agitated as they curled and moved, seemingly restless.

And the baby...the baby didn't seem to be upset or scared despite the fact that they had just been kidnapped. The baby's gaze didn't shift from them, big brown eyes watching them with wide but calm expression.

Not scared at all, even when a bunch of shadows had just kidnapped said baby and dumped them on the carpet in the midst of a strange new room.

Bruises painted painfully thin little arms that stuck out of a filthy and lumpy dress that had seen much better days. Zahra had seen kids of horrible poor people that looked better than this one did.

"Cauldron boil me," Azriel breathed just as Zahra stepped towards the baby that still just stared at her.

"Be careful," Azriel warned her but didn't try to stop her.

Zahra just stared at him.

"It's a baby," Zahra said drily. What was the baby supposed to do to her? "Just a baby. Hey, sweetheart," she cooed and the baby stared at her wide eyed. "You must be so confused..." but she didn't seem confused as Zahra kneeled in front her. The baby just kept staring at her. "Where are her parents?" She hissed under her breath knowing that Azriel would hear her nonetheless.

Her mother died in childbirth, the shadows helpfully supplied. And her father locked her in a dungeon.

…what?

Zahra's blood ran cold, the words making her feel sick to her stomach.

What sick kind of...

She stared at the baby in front of her, the too skinny limbs, the bruises, the filth sticking to her skin, the clothes that didn't fit her.

This was wrong, the whole thing was wrong.

"Azriel, what..." Esmeray's voice. Zahra turned to find Azriel's mother ... ashen faced. Though Azriel didn’t look much better.

"By the mother," Esmeray breathed. "She looks just like you." Zahra turned back to the baby, taking in the hazel eyes and the black cut hair... the full lips, the proud nose...a straight up copy from Azriel.

She's his half brother's bastard daughter, the shadows helpfully provided. We couldn't just leave her in the dungeon!

The words had Zahra turning her attention back to the baby, the resemblance now glaringly obvious.

A spitting image of Azriel, as close as she could be without being a carbon сору.

She's just a baby!

Just a baby. Just an innocent little baby that somebody locked into a fucking dungeon.

How dare they?!

Something warm and possessive welled up in her, her heart twisting.

Zahra didn’t hesitate another moment. "Come here, sweetheart," she said softly, picking her up. "We'll get you all cleaned up."

Zahra had expected something from the baby at that. Some form of protest at being picked up by a stranger woman. But the baby stayed silent, just watching… flinching away from her touch, even when Zahra did her best not to hurt her.

That little flinch away made Zahra's heart twist once more, the baby clearly having been treated terribly.

She carried the baby over to the kitchen sink to wash her…The poor thing was covered in dirt and grime, her short hair matted and tangled in filthy strands.

Zahra held the baby carefully, her hands almost impossibly gentle as she tried not to hurt the girl as she filled the sink with warm water to start washing her.

"Does she have a name?" She asked the shadews.

No. No one cared enough to give her one. the shadows said softly, their voice sad and soft in a way she hadn't heard it before.

This poor baby didn't even have a name, just... nothing.

Like…she was nothing. Thrown away into a dungeon. Forgotten. Ignored.

It made something rage bubble and roil in Zahra’s gut.

This tiny, innocent child didn't have a name. The idea made tears well up in her eyes as she cupped the baby's cheek gently.

The baby just looked at her wide eyed, still not making a noise, even as Zahra undressed her from her filthy rags.

Zahra gritted her teeth as her blood boiled as more bruises and more grime were revealed, her movements becoming slightly shaky as she tried to not think about it.

She carefully put her in the warm water, the baby jerking once in her grip and then seemingly making peace with her fate, as Zahra cleaned off the grime, showing more bruises painting her skinny little body.

The baby let out a soft whine in pain, a small whimper that made Zahra nearly break down as she had to move her hands around the baby to clean her.

She couldn’t help herself, just wanting to take the pain away, as her hands started to glow.

The bruises and sores seemed to just...fizzle away, the healing magic working its way through the abused skin.

At the feel of the magic, the baby's head snapped back to look up at Zahra, her eyes widening.

And then for the first time, a light seemed to come back in these impossible sad eyes...as she made a soft cooing sound and reached for the harmless little sparks that were flowing of her hands. And then....a gigggle.

It was the most beautiful sound she ever heard.

Zahra felt tears well in her eyes, the sight of the baby reaching up the glowing magic, the sound of her laughter making her choke up.

She sounded happy, no longer so sad and lifeless.

The glow of the magic seemed to calm her, and Zahra...she just kept the magic running through her hands, not wanting to stop when it made the baby happy.

The magic danced over her skin, the baby making soft cooing sounds as she reached up to try to capture a spark in her little hands, her bruised skin healing more and more under Zahra's touch. These little hands patted gently against Zahra's glowing ones as she seemed utterly fascinated.

Zahra just stared at the baby, warmth and affection rising from her heart with every little giggle or coo that left the baby's lips. She had never... she had never heard anything more beautiful than the baby's laughter.

It was a bright little sound, of pure happiness

The sound warmed Zahra's soul and she found herself starting to smile as she watched the baby's chubby hands reach up to her own, trying to grasp them.

She offered her hand, letting the little girl wrap her hand around her thumb as she grinned at gummily.

The baby's fingers seemed so delicate and small in Zahra's hands, her little hand so perfectly able to wrap around her thumb, her chubby cheeks rounding with a smile as she made another happy sound.

She looked up to see Azriel and she was stunned at his expression.

Azriel looked like he was staring at something utterly miraculous, his eyes wide and so so soft.

The baby let loose another giggle and it only seemed to make Azriel's expression soften even further.

He...he looked like he was staring at something utterly precious

Zahra swallowed hard, her eyes fixed on him as she watched his reaction to the baby's laughter.

"...l have some baby clothing upstairs, maybe some of that will fit her,” Esmeray said quietly.

Azriel seemed to snap out of his daze, turning to his mother.

The baby cooed, wiggling her wings and shifting restlessly in the warm water, still staring at Azriel with her wide eyes.

Azriel didn't manage to tear his gaze away from the baby, his eyes still soft as he just ... looked at her as if she was the most precious creature ever born

It was so fucking stupid, but Zahra couldn't help herself.

"Can we... Can we keep her?" She asked weakly. "If she has no other family...can we keep her?" She couldn’t help herself.

She never…She had never…thought about it. About having kids now.

Zahra had known that she wouldn’t be able to have children herself and had tried to make peace with that and had failed utterly.

But this baby…this baby…

She had been unexpected and utterly delightful.

Azriel stared at her, his eyes wide, and then…a smile slowly stretched over his face.

"Do you..." he cleared his throat, still staring at the baby as he spoke. "Do you want to keep her?" he asked, his voice gentle.

Zahra's gaze snapped up to the baby, a wave of affection and protectiveness washing over her.

"I do," she breathed out without a single moment of hesitation.

The baby seemed to be watching her with wide, innocent eyes, her little hand still wrapped tightly around Zahra's thumb.

“I don’t think I ever wanted anything more,” she whispered. Zahra found herself smiling softly, affection and love swirling in her chest and overflowing. The emotion was like a dam bursting open, spilling out of her heart and overwhelming all rational thought.

"Then we'll do everything in our power so that we can," Azriel said simply as he crossed the room to stand behind her. “Then we’ll keep her,” he promised her fiercely. “She’s adorable.”

"I don't ever want her back in a dungeon," Zahra said softly. "She doesn't deserve that. Nobody does.” He nodded as he wrapped his arms gently around Zahra's waist and leaned his head against her shoulder.

The baby seemed to watch them, wide eyes fixed as she still held tightly onto Zahra's thumb.

"She doesn't," he agreed softly.

She felt him press a gentle kiss against her shoulder, the gentle affection of the gesture nearly enough to make her sob.

"Here," Esmeray said as she arrived back in the living room. "More soap and...some clothing,” she said softly. “We'll need to see if that fits her...she looks around...6 months old maybe?"

The baby's head turned to look at Esmeray, her attention pulled away from Azriel and Zahra for the moment.

Zahra had to bite back a laugh at seeing Azriel's crestfallen look at losing the baby's attention.

"About that," Zahra agreed as she gently pulled her hand from the baby fist to wash her hair properly. It was replaced by Ariel hesitantly offering one massive scarred finger that the baby clearly saw as a perfect replacement.

There was something utterly... precious about the way the baby latched on with her little fingers, gripping tightly onto Azriel's finger that seemed so large compared to her delicate hand.

"She is not going back where she came from," Esmeray said sharply as she watched the baby. "I hope you know that. Either I'll keep her or we find somebody else that..."

"We'll keep her," Azriel said softly. “Zahra and I will keep her.” His voice had such a firm note to it, a determination that broached no argument. But it was also gentle, almost tender in that moment, leaving absolutely no doubt that he meant what he said.

"Oh," Esmeray breathed, but then a small smile bloomed on her face. "Good." Then a moment later. “Welcome to parenthood then,” she said with a grin, and Zahra column’t help the smile that stretched over her face, a wave of affection and a fierce protectiveness taking hold in her chest.

Parenthood.

She was theirs now. And Zahra was not going to let her go again.

"She needs something to eat," she said as she washed out the baby's hair carefully, taking a towel Esmeray offered to dry her off. She happily slumped in Zahra's arms and didn't even seem to care when Zahra dressed her clumsily in a cotton nightgown and a fresh diaper.

"I have some goat milk we can try," Esmeray offered. To say that the baby ... greedily drunk the milk that Zahra carefully offered to her in a cup was an understatement. But then, by how thin she was...Zahra didn't want to imagine when was the last time she had properly eaten.

The baby drank the goat milk so quickly and so greedily, her tiny fingers clutching at the glass as she drank. As if scared someone would take the food away from her.

It was a heartbreaking sight.

Zahra felt her eyes sting at the sight, her own heart aching as she watched the baby drink the milk as if it was the most precious thing ever.

"We can try some porridge later maybe," Esmeray said softly. "She already cut her first few teeth… that should be fine…”

Anything. They needed to find some way to fatten her up a little…especially as she seemed to shiver with a cold, even as Zahra wrapped her up in a blanket and held her again his chest. She just pressed closer to her.

"She needs a name," she told Azriel softly as she gently rubbed her back, her eyes fluttering. "She deserves a name."

"Any ideas?" Azriel asked softly, staring at the baby with such an expression of adoration that it made Zahra's chest ache

She wanted to kiss the look on his face, to kiss his cheek and pull him closer, but she resisted, swallowing back the urge as she tried to think of a fitting name for the little baby girl.

Her gaze fell to the tiny wings protuding from her back that weakly ... twitched as she rubbed between them. She could see the scars on where they grew from her back.

She didn’t want to imagine what had been done to her to result in these either.

"Is there...are there traditional illyrian names?" she asked. Some part of her heritage that…that they should respect?

"Some more, some less," Esmeray answered drily. "There are the old ones and over time, more and more names from the High Fae bled over to us as well. There are names that were simply made up and of course, names from out fables and tales that are used.But whatever name you give her...as long as you give it to her out of love, you couldn't possible go wrong," Esmeray promised her softly. "And you are right...it's just wrong for her not to have a name at all."

"Do you want to name her after your mother?" Azriel asked her softly but Zahra shook her head.

"No. She should have her own name," Zahra said softly. "A name that's just her own."

She stared out of the window...to the windowsill where Esmeray had put the flowers she had given her the day before and her eyes snapped to the wild bouquets of wildflowers...with the one bright pink random Azalea in there for good measure.

"Azalea."

Esmeray blinked, a small smile slowly appearing on her face."Azalea," she nodded. "I think she is an Azalea," the woman agreed warmly.

The baby seemed to have started to droop, her little eyes blinking tiredly as she seemed to be fighting to stay awake…her wings slumping.

Zahra looked to Azriel who was watching the baby quietly.

"For humans, azaleas mean love and the renewal of hope," she told him softly.

Azriel had a soft smile on his face, the expression so tender and full of affection.

"Azalea," he sounded out the name. "It's beautiful," he breathed, still fixedon the sleeping baby girl. "Azalea it is." he agreed softly.

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

565 notes · View notes