#/ they are so soft and i am so soft for them

[tender-rosiey]

I NEED SUKUNA AND HIS SHY BABY CUDDLING I BEG YOU🙏🙏

heartbound — ryomen sukuna x f!reader

a/n: loving your ideas for shy daughter fr guys (also i promise i am working on the gojo fic 🥹) also she is around like 3 years old here

sukuna is a man of destruction. a force that leaves ruin in his wake.

but now—now he is a man pinned to the floor by a bundle of warmth barely the size of his forearm.

you lean against the doorway, arms crossed, watching with amusement as your daughter clings to his chest like a particularly stubborn vine.

she is small—delicate in a way that contrasts starkly against the sheer scale of the man beneath her.

but her grip is unyielding, tiny hands fisting into the fabric of his robe as if letting go would mean losing the entire world.

sukuna glares at you, though the effect is rather muted by the tiny, sleeping body nestled against him. “say nothing.”

you press your lips together, biting back a smile. “I wasn’t going to.”

he narrows his eyes as if he doesn’t believe you, but he doesn’t argue.

instead, his attention shifts back to the little figure sprawled over him.

your daughter—his daughter—is not loud like him, not wild like him.

she does not command attention the way her father does, does not carve her presence into the world with the force of a blade.

instead, she is soft and quiet, her voice barely above a whisper, her movements timid, as if she fears being seen at all.

but for all her shyness, she clings to sukuna like he is the safest place in the world.

and he lets her.

you step closer, settling beside them on the floor. “what happened?” you ask, keeping your voice low.

sukuna exhales sharply, the rise and fall of his chest barely disturbing the little girl curled against him. “bad dream,” he mutters. “came crawling to me the second she woke up.”

a soft hum leaves your lips. “and she wouldn’t let go?”

sukuna clicks his tongue. “wouldn’t stop crying until I picked her up.”

your gaze flicks to the little face buried in his chest, the faintest trace of dried tears clinging to her lashes.

you brush a gentle hand over her back, fingers skimming the fabric of her sleeping robes.

“she must have been really scared,” you murmur.

sukuna doesn’t respond immediately, his brows furrowing slightly as he looks down at the tiny form curled against him.

one of his hands—massive in comparison—rests against her back, his claws careful not to press too hard.

a long silence stretches between you.

then, he scoffs.

“she’s too fragile.”

you arch a brow. “says the man currently being held hostage by a baby.”

his eye twitches. “she refuses to let go.”

you smile. “oh, I can see that.”

sukuna scowls at you but doesn’t move, not even when your daughter shifts slightly in her sleep, nuzzling closer with a quiet sigh.

the sound is soft—barely audible—but the way sukuna stiffens makes something in your chest ache.

your hand slides over his, fingers grazing against his knuckles. “you don’t actually mind, do you?”

sukuna exhales through his nose, his jaw working as if he wants to argue—but the weight on his chest betrays him.

his fingers twitch, then relax, his palm settling more firmly against her back.

you giggle. “I didn’t think so.”

he glares at you for that, but it lacks any real bite. instead, he shifts slightly, adjusting his grip so that your daughter’s tiny body is fully supported against him.

his other set of arms rests idly at his sides, unmoving, careful.

your daughter stirs slightly, her tiny fingers flexing against his chest before curling into a loose fist.

she shifts, tilting her face just enough for her features to be visible—round cheeks, soft lashes—as she breathes in the warmth of her father’s presence.

your heart clenches at the sight.

sukuna watches her, his gaze unreadable.

“you’re good to her,” you murmur, your fingers tracing absent patterns against the back of his hand.

his expression remains unchanged. “she’s mine.”

the words are gruff, almost dismissive—but the weight behind them is undeniable.

you hear it anyway.

your fingers curl around his wrist, squeezing gently. “she adores you, you know.”

sukuna huffs. “she clings to you just as much.”

“it’s different,” you say, smiling. “a girl’s love for her dad is different.”

sukuna says nothing more, only shifts again, his hold unconsciously tightening around her.

and then, without warning, one of his free hands reaches for you, fingers curling around your wrist before tugging you forward.

you blink, caught off guard as you suddenly find yourself pressed against his side, his arm wrapped securely around you.

his warmth envelopes you, and you don’t resist when he pulls you even closer, settling you against him.

you rest your head against his shoulder, your hand sliding up to rest against his chest, just beside where your daughter lays curled up.

she gently turns towards you, hand sleepily reaching out till she gets a hold of your kimono.

he doesn’t say anything, but his hold is steady, firm, keeping you right where he wants you.

you smile against his skin, your fingers brushing over his robe. “so, I’m yours too, then?”

a scoff, low and unimpressed. “was that ever in question?”

you huff a quiet laugh, closing your eyes as the warmth of him seeps into your skin. “no,” you murmur. “never.”

the night stretches on, the estate silent save for the soft sound of your daughter’s breathing, the steady rhythm of sukuna’s heartbeat beneath your ear.

and in that moment—beneath the weight of his family, beneath the quiet warmth of the ones who belong to him—

sukuna allows himself to stay still.

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copyright © tender-rosiey

do not copy or plagiarize or you will stub your toe

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[crushmeeren]

// ⋆ well shit…here i am, back on my bullshit, writing about the man who inspired me to start this blog in the first place.

// ⋆ no warnings, fluffy fluff with my main man katsuki. take it!!! (.づ◡﹏◡)づ.

master list

Some of the best moments in your relationship are in the evening. When Katsuki crawls into bed right after his nightly shower.

It’s late. Super late. So late, in fact, you’ve completed your own routine and have curled up under the covers. Dinner, shower, skin care, putting on your favorite lotion, etc. You’d reached the point of scrolling on your phone without a care, the TV playing in the background for white noise.

Katsuki comes home from patrol just as the grip on your phone starts to become lax, eyelids drooping, mind jerking awake to find the same video has played on an endless loop for the past five minutes.

Katsuki calls out as he strides down the hallway. “You in bed already princess?” He’s shoeless entering the bedroom, headband pushed up to hold back his bangs, and he reeks of sweat.

“Mhmm. Was gonna try and wait up for you so we could shower together, but I got too tired.” You drop your phone and reach both arms out for him. “C’mere.”

Katsuki hums, bending down once he reaches the bed, wrapping you up in a warm hug when you meet him halfway. “Careful, I smell fuckin’ terrible. I didn’t shower at work.”

“Don’t care,” you say, squeezing him tight. His tank top is a bit damp. “You smell like burnt caramel mostly, so it’s not too bad.”

“You’re fuckin’ lying,” he says with a laugh, pressing a kiss to your temple and releasing you from the hug. You flop onto the mattress, boneless. “I was soaked in sweat before I left, it’s more than just fuckin’ caramel. It’s ass.”

Laughter bursts out of you. “Alright! Alright, you caught me, I was lying. You stink. Go shower please.”

Katsuki returns to the kitchen and eats whatever leftovers you put in the fridge first, then jumps in the shower, eager to end the night with cuddling. Once done he turns off all the lights, leaves the TV on, and slips under the blankets in his briefs only.

Clean, fresh, and something salty reminding you of the ocean fills your nose. Katsuki’s been trying a new body wash and it’s amazing. He relaxes on his back, arm raising to welcome you in, and waits. You snuggle into his side instantly.

He’s a touch too warm from the water, skin so soft and so smooth. Satisfied and in love, you rest your head on his chest, unable to recall a time you’ve ever felt safer or happier in your life. The feeling of contentment radiates to the tips of your toes.

You search for the covers and pull them up, an arm draping across his stomach as hugs you close. Katsuki runs his free hand through his hair to shake out the access water, and a few cool drops hit your cheek, which he then wipes off with his thumb and mumbles an apology.

His chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm, fingers tracing idle patterns on your hip. Fighting off sleep is close to impossible now and the TV is still on.

“Kat,” you murmur. “I’m not making it through the next episode.” Your voice cracks with sleep.

“S’okay, princess. I’ll be up for a second, go ahead and knock out.”

You sigh and push into him even more. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” he replies, tone as sweet as honey. “To the moon and back.”

[bloatedandalone04]

Kiwi

Summary: You’re pregnant with Rafe’s baby, and he’s more stressed out about it than you are (and rightfully so).

Word Count: 1.9k

Warnings: fluff, swearing, protective rafe, soon to be dad rafe, smut, angst if you squint, unprotected sex, pregnancy.

You were steadily entering your second trimester, which was shaping out to be a little easier than your first. You were still craving the weirdest food combinations, but Rafe would never complain about needing to go out and buy them for you since the grateful smile you always gave him made his heart feel so full. 

Seven years with you, and he was still as crazy about you as he’d been since the first date. 

With that being said, he wasn’t sure how much longer he could pretend to like your weird (and sometimes really fucking gross) pregnancy cravings. But he would have to, since you’re carrying his baby like a fucking champ, and you looked so stunning while doing so. 

Rafe had just gotten back from a grocery store run, sporting a bag full of odd food choices for you, and he set it down on the counter before leaving the kitchen to go find you. 

You were in the living room, your feet planted on the couch as you scrolled through your phone. Why you were standing on the couch, he had no idea, but the thought of you accidentally falling was the first thing that flashed through his head, and he was not about to let that happen. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” he rasped, quickly walking over to you and grabbing your waist. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack? You’re four months pregnant, babygirl, you need to be careful. Jesus Christ.”

“I am being careful,” you defended yourself, holding your phone in one hand while your other ran through his hair. You looked around the living room, your eyes flickering between every corner as you stayed standing on the couch. “I saw a spider, and I don’t know where it went. And you know how much I hate spiders. I had to make sure it didn’t crawl on me or something. Then I would’ve been the one having a heart attack.”

You sounded so unserious, but Rafe knew you were being completely genuine. Your fear of anything that had more than two legs was no joke, and he couldn’t count the times he’s killed something for you on both hands. 

“Plus, I’ve only been standing here for, like, five minutes,” you added, looking down at him and shrugging casually, as if you didn’t feel the way his grip tightened on you at your words. 

“Five minutes is too fucking long,” Rafe muttered, shaking his head afterwards as he leaned in and pressed his forehead against your belly. “You’re not thinking straight right now, are you? That’s the only logical explanation for this.”

His big hands stayed planted on your waist, keeping you steady as he pulled away and looked up at you, his blue eyes wide and full of nothing but adoration for you and the little life growing inside of you. 

“You’re going to give me gray hairs, you know that right?” he grunted, a smile forming on his lips when you let out a soft laugh. 

“Ooh, silver fox Rafe,” you teased, draping your arms around his neck as he helped you off the couch. “You say that like it’s a bad thing. You’d look so fucking hot with gray hair, baby. Like, so fucking sexy. So don’t tempt me.”

Rafe scoffed, wrapping his arms around your waist. “Silver fox? I’m twenty nine, baby, not forty,” he mumbled, “But, I guess if you like that sorta thing…who am I to judge?”

You laughed, leaning into his touch as you pressed your lips to his jaw. “I like anything that involves you,”

He smiled down at you, his hand coming up to tuck your hair behind your ear. “I like anything that involves you too, babygirl,” he murmured, leaning down so his lips brushed against yours. “Actually, I love everything that involves you.”

Then he was leaning all the way in and kissing you deeply and slowly, his hands sliding down your body until they grazed your ass, and then he was full on groping you through your leggings. 

You whined against his mouth, your lips pressing more firmly against his as you pulled him impossibly closer to you until your bump was pushing against his abs. “You always have to one up me, don’t you?” you muttered, “And what’s with you always grabbing my ass? You’ve been obsessed with it since we got together.”

Rafe smirked down at you. “Of course I’m obsessed with it, it’s part of you,” he replied, and you pressed your lips together. 

“You are so fucking sweet and sexy and I think we should go to our bedroom before I-” you cut yourself off by screaming directly into your husband’s face as you practically jumped back up onto the couch with wide eyes. 

Rafe didn’t even need to turn around to know that the eight legged creature who scared you before had made its big return. “What did I tell you?” he muttered, taking you into his arms as he lifted you from the couch. 

“Rafe! Stop, it’s literally right there and it’s so fucking big,” you protested as he carried you out of the living room and into the kitchen. Once he had you sitting safely at the breakfast bar, he slid the bag of food over for you to inspect as he grabbed a piece of paper towel. 

“Stay here, okay? Eat something,” he mumbled, pressing a kiss to the top of your head before he walked back into the living room to find the harmless insect that had been tormenting you during the entire time he was gone. 

-

You were pulling Rafe along with you towards the bedroom, your lips all over his neck and jaw, but he was moving so slowly. You were now six months pregnant, and Rafe had become more and more protective of you, if that was even possible at this point. 

And while you loved him for it, his hesitation every time you initiated sex was making you go crazy. You were so turned on, and you needed your husband. 

“Rafe,” you moaned, bracing your hands on his shoulders as you walked backwards. “I need you. I need you so bad. Please? I promise, I won’t break.” you whined, nearly stumbling as you pulled him along with you. 

Rafe’s hands instantly tightened on your waist, his thumbs brushing along the underside of your belly as it pressed against his abs through his shirt. “Easy, babygirl,” he cooed, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your lips. “I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.” 

While you knew he wanted to be gentle and sweet with you, you also knew exactly how to rile him up and get him going. Rafe had been obsessed with your body since the second he first saw you completely bare, and his obsession had only intensified once your body began to change due to your pregnancy. 

You stepped back and pulled your shirt over your head, revealing your breasts that had grown so much, they were nearly spilling out of your bra. You watched Rafe bite his lip before you moved onto your leggings, and you stepped out of them and kicked them aside as well. 

Rafe groaned as he pulled off his own shirt and jeans, his hands finding your waist again as he moved to sit on the bed. “Come here,” he murmured, sliding your panties down your legs before he guided you onto his lap. 

You willingly went, a needy whine leaving your lips as you settled on top of him and pulled down his boxers, freeing his hard cock. “I love you,” you moaned, kissing him as you began to rub yourself along his dick. “I love you so much.”

He gripped your hips, guiding the slow rolls of your body. “I love you too, baby,” he groaned, “More than my next fucking breath.”

His words made your head feel all fuzzy, and he lifted you slightly to position himself at your soaked core. When he eased you back down onto his cock, you both let out a sound of relief as you came together as one, and you reveled in the feeling of his big hands on your body. 

“Fucking perfect,” he praised, his eyes hooded as his hands slid around to grip your ass gently.

You moaned loudly, holding onto his shoulders as you rolled your hips against his as best as you could with your bump persistently brushing against his stomach. “Fuck,” you whimpered, arching your back a bit and making your chest press right up against his. “Oh fuck, Rafe, you feel so good.” 

He felt so good, you were powerless to stop the loud moans from leaving your mouth as you rode him. Rafe’s hands slid up your back and fumbled with the clasp of your bra before he pulled the fabric away from your body, his palms immediately roaming over the newly exposed skin. “Fuck, babygirl, you’re so tight and wet for me. Sweet pussy was made for my cock,” he grunted, rolling your nipples between his fingers until they pebbled under his touch. “You’re so fucking hot.”

Then he was leaning in and kissing you deeply, his tongue brushing against yours as he met your bounces with upward thrusts of his hips. You moaned against his mouth, his words making your body heat up in a blush. You’d never get tired of hearing him say things like that. 

His hands moved to your belly, and he caressed it as he broke the kiss and buried his face against your shoulder. “God, you feel so good,” he moaned, making your blush deepen as you moved a little faster and a bit harder.

“Rafe,” you whimpered, tangling your fingers in his hair as you felt your thighs start to burn from over-exertion. “Oh, fuck…I’m gonna cum.” you warned, feeling the knot that had been steadily building up inside you start to tighten. 

Rafe grunted, reaching in between your bodies until the heel of his hand was pressed firmly against the underside of your belly and his fingers were brushing against your clit. “Yeah, cum for me, baby,” he murmured, his other hand moving to your hip as he guided you to take him a little harder. “I’m close too.”

His fingers pushed you over the edge, and your head fell forward onto his shoulder as you came for him. A cry left your lips as you weakly bounced on his lap, your legs shaking a bit as you pulled on his hair. “Fuck,” you gasped, wrapping your arms tightly around his shoulders as you felt him thrust a few more times before he stilled.

A deep groan left the back of his throat as he held you close to him, his warmth filling you up from the inside out as he let out harsh pants against the side of your neck. “I’ll never get over that,” he muttered, placing soft kisses along your shoulder as he ran his hands up and down your back. “I’ll never get over you.”

You grinned as he gently eased you off him and moved back on the bed, taking you with him as he leaned back against the pillows. “Good,” you hummed as he turned you around and spooned you from behind. “Because I think you’re stuck with me for life.”

When you guided his big palm to rest on your belly, Rafe pressed a gentle kiss to the side of your head as his thumb rubbed along your swollen skin. “Good,” he echoed. “Because you couldn’t get rid of me if you tried. You’re all I want in the world.”

A lazy smile formed on your lips as you snuggled back against him, and only a few seconds later, you had fallen asleep.

-

Not me working on my birthday again...thanks for reading x

[ghouljams]

Single dad ghost and ballet teacher reader?? Please??? I am obsessed? Like that man would fold the moment he saw reader doing their little warm up stretching

Ghost who works long hours in construction, bad back, half deaf in one ear, hands callused and already creaking, knees pop when he crouches down, and never seems to get enough sleep. Up at three am so he can get ready for the job before getting his kid up enough to pass off to an elderly neighbor. Quick kiss and a promise to see her later, tries not to think too hard about how he's missing his kid's life. Tries not to think too hard about his ex or how maybe he could've sucked it up just so the kid has a parent to see them off to school.

Who's never been one to turn his kid down when she sets her mind to something, and is almost grateful for her to have an after school activity because it means he doesn't have to rush to pick her up. Who slides into that tiny plastic seat fifteen minutes before the end of class and has to shoo his little girl back to her place at the bar when she runs over to throw her little arms around his shoulders and kiss his cheek. Who's never really understood the appeal of dancing until he laid eyes on you and now he can't get the way your body moved out of his head.

Who feels the too soft skin of your hand like a brand when he takes it to shake, burning the feeling of you into his palm so he never forgets it. Who hears, "Good to finally meet you" like a wedding vow.

Good to meet you too, he thinks, Mrs. Riley.

[sincerelybubbles]

mouthful of sunlight (18+)

Some nights, Spencer can’t sleep. His mind runs too fast, too far, tangled in cases, in horrors he can’t unsee. But in the quiet of morning, wrapped in the hush of young sunlight, he finds solace in you—the warmth of your breath, the slow, steady rhythm of your fingers tracing his skin. The comfort is fleeting; distance is inevitable. His absence lingers in the empty side of the bed, in unfinished cups of coffee, in the soft weight of his sweater draped over your shoulders. But when he returns—exhausted, unraveling—you stitch him back together with soft reassurances, gentle hands, and the familiar ease of laughter. warnings: sexual content (who tf am I), very very wordy, mentions of a cannon-typical case, longing, some angst if you squint, mostly reader and spencer being lovesick fools wc: 7.6k

You wake to the sound of rain, soft against the windowpane. The sheets are warm, tangled around your limbs, heavy with the scent of sleep and him. Faint traces of his cologne linger in the cotton, something clean and quiet, the ghost of him woven into the fabric.

Spencer is still asleep beside you.

You turn your head, slow, deliberate - shifting too fast might startle him awake. And there he is, curled into the pillow, his body half-buried beneath the blankets, face softened by the hush of morning. His breath moves through the space between you in slow, measured exhales, lips parted slightly, lashes resting against his cheekbone.

You could spend lifetimes watching him like this.

The curve of his mouth, the way his curls press against his forehead, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes—the ones you're not sure he knows about yet. You think the mentioning of them would send him into a spiral about aging and lost time but you love their presence. It reminds you of how he's laughed with you in the past, their arrival a notion of his genuine joy. The body keeps score in freckles and scars, and time can be found in the weight of sleepless nights and too many days spent carrying more than he should.

In sleep, he is weightless. The tension he wears so often—creased brows, tight shoulders, fingers restless against his knee—has melted away, leaving only the quiet.

You reach for him before you can think of it, fingers trailing over the ridge of his knuckles where his hand rests on the pillow between you. His skin is warm, his palm lax, open. He doesn't stir so you let yourself press further, sliding your fingertips up the length of his wrist, feeling the slow pulse beneath his skin.

Spencer Reid is always thinking. Always calculating, always predicting, always existing a step ahead, untethered from the present moment.

But, right now, wrapped in the hush of morning, doused in soft rainlight, he belongs here. With you.

The thought is terrifying in its simplicity.

You swallow, pressing your fingers a little firmer against his wrist, grounding yourself in the proof of him. His pulse beats steady against your touch, and you let it lull you, let yourself fall into its rhythm.

Spencer stirs beneath your touch, just the faintest twitch of his fingers against the pillow.

You go still.

A part of you—the part still tangled in hesitation, in old wounds and old fears—worries he’ll wake, that he’ll blink at you with those sharp, knowing eyes and startle away the calm you've fostered. You love Spencer, asleep or awake, but the peacefulness of this moment is something to be cherished. You want to watch him more, to exist in this lulling moment between seconds where life doesn't matter.

He doesn't wake, though, and instead, he shifts closer, instinctive, unconscious. The space between you vanishes, his breath warming your collarbone, his hand brushing against your arm where it lies between you. He is reaching for you without realizing it, drawn in like something inevitable.

And god, that does something to you.

You exhale, slow, careful, and let yourself watch him again, let yourself sink into the quiet reverence of it.

The morning light has stretched further now, slanting through the window, gliding through the messy sprawl of his hair. He is all sleep-heavy limbs, the weight of him pressing into the mattress in a way that drags you forward, leaning against him.

Flesh and bone, heartbeat and heat.

He is here. He is yours.

The way he leans into you even in sleep, the way his fingers twitch like they are searching for yours, even now. The way his body gives him away, whispering the things his lips have not yet said.

You cannot be careless with this. With him. But before the weight of it can settle too deeply into your chest, before you can let yourself spiral, Spencer shifts again—his breath catching, his brow furrowing just slightly, lashes fluttering against his cheeks.

You barely have time to think before his eyes blink open, slow and heavy-lidded, thick with sleep.

It takes a moment, his hazy eyes focusing and unfocusing. Still, he sees you. Not just looks, not just registers your presence; he sees you.

His lips part slightly, and for a moment, he only stares, like his mind is still catching up, like he’s still tethered somewhere between dreaming and waking. Blinking like he's not sure if you're a dream. Likely, everything is clouded by sleepy eyes and fading memories of dreams.

Then, his voice, quiet, still wrapped in the softness of sleep, “Morning.”

You don’t trust yourself to speak, so you do the only thing you can—you lift your hand, still resting near his wrist, and press your fingers over his pulse once more. A quiet confirmation. A tethering.

Spencer exhales, slow, deliberate, and then he turns his hand, just slightly, just enough, so that his palm meets yours.

His fingers curl between yours, and you feel it—the certainty, the weight of something unspoken settling between your ribs.

There is morning, and then there is night.

There is sunlight spilling over Spencer’s sleeping form, gilding his cheekbones, illuminating the curve of his mouth. And then there is the stark contrast of shadow—of sterile hotel rooms, of the sharp, artificial glow of a bedside lamp casting his face in harsh relief.

His fingers, curled loosely around yours in the golden hush of morning, become hands gripping the edge of a desk, knuckles white, trembling with exhaustion. His voice, soft and thick with sleep, morphs into something raw, something fraying at the edges.

"I don’t know how to turn it off."

It takes you a moment to realize what he means.

He’s still in his suit, the fabric rumpled, the scent of cheap motel soap clinging to his skin. There’s a stack of case files beside him, a half-empty cup of coffee that’s long since gone cold. He doesn’t meet your gaze, just stares down at his hands, fingers twitching like they’re desperate for something to hold onto.

"Spencer."

Your voice is quiet, hesitant, as if anything louder might shatter him completely.

"Come to bed."

He shakes his head, exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair.

"I can’t."

A fight, sharp and cutting. His voice raised, your hands clenched into fists at your sides.

"You don’t get it," he snaps, voice raw, eyes burning. "You don’t know what it’s like to have a mind that never fucking stops—"

"I do," you interrupt, and the way he flinches makes your chest ache.

A pause.

Silence stretching between you like a wound torn open, bleeding into the space between your feet.

Spencer exhales, shakily, and when he speaks again, his voice is barely above a whisper.

"Then why do you keep trying to fix me?"

And there it is.

The knife twisting.

You inhale, but the breath never quite fills your lungs.

The thing is—you don’t want to fix him.

You just want him to rest.

To sleep without nightmares. To let you hold him without feeling like he has to apologize for the weight of his existence. To believe, even for a second, that he doesn’t have to earn the space he takes up.

But you don’t know how to say that in a way that won’t turn into another wound, another reason for him to step back, to pull away.

So instead, you say nothing.

"Fuck. I'm sorry." And it's that simple, really.

Sorry, arms finding each other, whispers of "I know" pressed into necks and soft conversations easing racing minds.

Spencer can't stop the relentless chase of the case in his mind. You can't stop the constant overthinking of being enough, of your body, of desires edging into too much.

Morning. Again.

Spencer, golden in the dawn, the soft breath of sleep still heavy in his lungs. Your fingers ghost over the ridges of his knuckles, tracing the delicate architecture of him, the places where bones knit together beneath skin. Flesh and blood. A body, human and whole.

Then, blood, dark and seeping through the gaps in his fingers, staining his cuffs. Not his blood. Someone else’s. A case. A mistake. A man who didn’t survive the night.

His hands shake as he scrubs them raw in the motel sink, crimson swirling down the drain, his breath coming too fast, chest rising and falling like he’s drowning, like he can feel it slipping between his fingers, the weight of every life he couldn’t save.

You touch his shoulder, and he flinches.

Time lurches.

His head on your lap, hours later. His hair damp, fingers curled weakly in the fabric of your shirt, like holding onto you is the only thing tethering him to the present.

"I don’t know how much more of this I can take."

Morning.

Back in your bed, the light different now, stretched across the sheets in delicate bands. You can’t tell if you’re awake or dreaming.

You wonder if this moment is real, or if it is something you are inventing to survive.

Spencer shifts beside you, a quiet sigh escaping him, and you watch, desperate to memorize the shape of him here, untouched by grief, by the heaviness of what he carries.

You want to wake up to this every morning.

But the truth is, you don’t.

You wake up to the version of him that drinks too much coffee, to the one who is always looking at things that aren’t there, playing scenarios in his head like a film reel stuck on loop. You wake up to the version of him that gets lost in thought mid-conversation, who chews at his nails until they bleed, who flinches awake from dreams he won’t tell you about.

And you love him anyway.

Maybe because of it.

Or maybe you are lying to yourself, pretending love is something you can bear no matter how heavy it gets.

Mornings like this, where he sleeps beside you, still and warm and untouched by the weight of the world—stretch, slow and unhurried, slipping into the day like honey dissolving in warm tea.

Spencer moves through your apartment with the careful quiet of someone who knows how to exist in shared spaces—how to make himself at home without ever taking up too much of it. He is measured, gentle, a man who has spent too much of his life folding himself into small places, and yet, with you, he expands.

You watch him from where you stand at the kitchen counter, hands wrapped around a chipped ceramic mug, warmth seeping into your palms. The coffee is slightly too bitter, but you drink it anyway, because Spencer made it. Because he takes his with too much sugar and no milk, and you take yours with just a little, and the contrast is something you love.

The morning light catches in his hair as he moves about the kitchen, curling slightly at the ends where sleep left it unruly. He wears his clothes loose in the morning—his pajama pants low on his hips, his sweater slightly too big, slipping past his wrists when he reaches for things. He is soft here, unguarded in the way that makes your chest ache.

You don’t say anything when he hums under his breath, something classical, a song you don’t recognize but have heard him play before on nights when he lets the record spin long past midnight.

You don’t say anything when he pours his coffee with one hand and flips absentmindedly through the book he left on the counter with the other.

But you do say something when he starts reading aloud.

“You know, according to the Journal of Neuroscience, studies show that sleep inertia—”

“Spencer,” you interrupt, smiling into your mug.

He pauses, blinking at you, book still in hand. “What?”

You shake your head, setting your coffee down, stepping toward him until you can reach for the book, plucking it gently from his fingers. He lets you take it, watching as you slide it onto the counter behind you, clearing the space between you.

“We’re supposed to be waking up,” you murmur. “Not filling our brains with research before we’ve even eaten breakfast.”

Spencer tilts his head, eyes flickering over your face like he’s considering it. Then, his lips curve, slow and warm. “That’s how I do wake up.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no bite to it. You both know that you love when Spencer rambles, miss it when he's gone, call him craving the sound of his voice when he's away on trips. “Come here.”

You reach for him, and he comes easily, stepping into the space you make for him, folding himself against you like he belongs there.

Maybe that’s the point of all of this—not two people standing side by side, but two people learning how to take up the same space, how to move around each other without losing themselves in the process.

Spencer exhales as you press your cheek to his shoulder, hands slipping around his waist, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his sweater. His arms come around you in return, slow and careful, pressing you against him like he knows exactly how to hold you.

The shape of each other, the cadence of shared breath, the quiet rhythm of a love that is not loud or fast or reckless, but something slow and deliberate.

Spencer is slow to let you go.

Even as you shift, even as you move to pull back, his fingers tighten just slightly at your waist, anchoring you there for a moment longer. You don’t resist. You let yourself be held, let yourself stay.

But then his stomach growls. Loudly.

You grin against his shoulder. “Well, that’s attractive.”

Spencer groans, burying his face in your neck. “I knew I should have eaten before I went to bed.”

You laugh, pressing your hands to his sides. “Come on, genius. Let’s get you some food before you start reading case files on malnutrition.”

He sighs, exaggerated, but finally steps back, rubbing a hand over his face as you turn toward the stove. “I do have a study on nutritional deficiencies and cognitive function bookmarked somewhere.”

You glance at him over your shoulder, raising an eyebrow. “You have studies bookmarked on everything.”

Spencer shrugs, completely unapologetic, and moves to lean against the counter beside you, watching as you pull out a frying pan. He doesn’t help—doesn’t even pretend to help—but he does reach for the bag of coffee grounds again, refilling your mug and his, making himself useful in the way he always does.

“You want eggs?” you ask, already cracking one against the rim of the pan.

He hums, peering into the fridge. “Only if you make them the way I like.”

“You mean, as you proclaimed the first time you stayed over, the right way?”

“Yes,” he says simply.

Neither of you mention how he burned them immediately after, distracted by kissing you in the early light filtering through the curtains of the kitchen window.

You huff, but it’s all affection, and he knows it.

Spencer doesn’t sit while you cook. He doesn’t retreat to the table or get lost in a book. He stays right here, a constant presence at your side, sipping his coffee, occasionally nudging your hip with his when you get too focused.

When you plate the food, he takes his with an approving nod. “See? Perfectly cooked.”

“They;re just scrambled, picky,” you tease, nudging him toward the kitchen table with your hip.

Spencer grins, mouth full of toast. “I have standards.”

You snort, setting your plate down across from him. “Oh, I know. That’s why you’re dating me.”

He swallows, takes a sip of coffee, and then, without missing a beat, says, “No, I’m dating you because I’m in love with you.”

Your breath catches.

He says it so easily.

No hesitation. No grand declaration. Just a fact, spoken between bites of breakfast, like it’s something he’s known for years.

You blink, lips parting slightly, and Spencer—Spencer, who notices everything—tilts his head, eyes softening.

“Hey,” he murmurs, reaching across the table, brushing his fingers against yours. “I didn’t mean to—”

“No,” you say quickly, shaking your head, covering his hand with yours. “No, I—I just—”

You exhale, glancing down at where your hands meet, at the gentle press of his fingers against yours. Then, quieter: “I love you, too.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, slow, small, but full of something deep, something certain.

“I know,” he murmurs, thumb tracing slow circles against your skin. “But I still like hearing it.”

And so you say it again, just for him.

Just because he likes hearing it.

“I love you.” Spencer smiles.

After breakfast, Spencer lingers at the table while you move about the apartment, rinsing dishes, wiping crumbs from the counter. It’s a soft sort of silence. When you pass by him, his hand brushes against your hip, absentminded but full of intent, a touch that says I know you’re here. I know you’re mine.

You catch his wrist, squeezing gently before letting go.

Neither of you speak as you make your way toward the bedroom, but Spencer follows, because of course he does. Because his place is beside you, moving with you, orbiting within the same small universe.

Inside, the morning light has stretched further across the bed, creeping in golden streaks over the fabric. The air is warm with the scent of sleep, of coffee, of him.

Spencer moves first, tugging his sweater over his head and tossing it onto the bed. His hair goes staticky, curls fluffed from the fabric, and you reach out instinctively, smoothing them back into place. He stills beneath your touch, the corners of his lips twitching.

“You’re going to make it worse,” he murmurs.

“Probably.” You grin, carding your fingers through the strands anyway, just for the sake of touching him.

Spencer huffs a laugh, but he doesn’t move away.

You let him slip his fingers beneath the hem of your shirt, lifting it over your head in one fluid motion. Let him reach for the zipper of your trousers, sliding it down with the same care you’d shown him.

There’s nothing rushed about it.

Nothing frantic, nothing heated. Just this. Just hands smoothing over fabric, fingers brushing against skin in passing, the quiet, unspoken promise of I know you. I love you. Let me show you.

Spencer tilts his head, gaze flickering down, not to your lips, but to the hollow of your throat, where your pulse flutters beneath your skin. He watches it like a scholar studying something precious like he’s measuring the exact rhythm of you, the precise way you exist in this moment.

And then, with all the patience in the world, he leans in.

Not rushed. Not desperate. Like he has all the time in the world to memorize you.

His lips brush your jaw first—so soft it could almost be nothing, just a breath, just a thought of touch. Then, lower, trailing warmth along the delicate line of your neck, the curve of your shoulder.

Your fingers find his wrists, not to stop him, but to hold him there, to feel the heat of him seeping into your skin.

You shift—not much, just enough to press closer, enough to let your forehead rest against his, enough to let his breath mingle with yours.

His hands slide higher, fingertips grazing the curve of your ribs, the warmth of his palms bleeding through the fabric like sunlight through frosted glass.

Like he understands, without either of you saying it, that this is the sacred part. Not the wanting, not even the having, but the holding. The staying.

He presses his lips to your temple, soft and sure, and you feel it—the weight of love settling between your ribs, deep and real.

“I want you,” he murmurs, voice low, full of something aching.

You shudder, your fingers tightening around his wrists. “You have me,” you whisper.

Spencer swallows, pressing his forehead against yours again, his hands gripping you just a little tighter as he breathes you in.

You feel his adoration in the way he moves—hesitant, reverent. Like he’s unraveling you thread by thread, pulling you apart just to piece you back together in the way only he knows how.

His fingers ghost over the curve of your waist, not grasping, not pulling, just feeling.

Your breath catches when he finally presses closer, the full weight of him sinking into you, a slow collapse into something inevitable. His body is warm, radiating heat like a fever, like a star burning too close to your skin. You curl your fingers into the fabric of his shirt, twisting it tight in your grip, grounding yourself in the weight of him.

He exhales against your jaw, warm and unsteady.

“Look at me,” he murmurs.

You do.

And god, it’s unbearable—the way his eyes search yours, wide and dark and pleading.

His breath stutters when you reach up, cradling his face in your hands, fingertips skimming the sharp angle of his cheekbone. He leans into your touch like it’s instinct, his lashes fluttering, his lips parting slightly, his chest rising and falling in time with yours.

“Spencer,” you whisper, his name slipping from your lips like a prayer.

He answers you with a kiss.

Not rushed, not desperate. His lips move against yours, unhurried but insistent, a careful exploration, a patient claiming. His nose brushes yours, his breath mingling with yours, the quiet sounds of longing pressing into the spaces between you.

You sigh into his mouth, and he shudders, his fingers tightening against your ribs.

“Again,” he whispers.

So you kiss him again. And again. And again.

Until the space between you is nothing, until your bodies are tangled in sheets and sighs and whispered names, until everything is breath and warmth and wanting.

His hands find yours, fingers threading together, clinging, pressing, grounding. His forehead rests against yours, his breath uneven, his body trembling with the weight of this.

“I want you,” he whispers, voice wrecked, shaking, repeating himself.

You tighten your grip on his hands, pulling him closer. “I know,” you breathe. “I know.”

And when he moves again, when his lips find yours with a new kind of urgency, you know—you feel it in your bones—this isn’t just wanting. It’s everything.

Spencer kisses you like he’s searching for something.

Like the answer to every unsolvable equation is pressed between your lips, tucked beneath your tongue, hidden in the soft give of your sighs.

And you let him.

Because you know this—this rhythm, this language you’ve built together. The slow pull of hands over fabric, the careful way he unravels you. The heat that grows between you, steady and unrelenting, like a pot left to boil over.

Spencer exhales sharply when your fingers find the sharp ridge of his collarbone. You press your lips there, breathing him in, and he shivers.

Spencer is reaching for you again, already fitting his hands to the curve of your back, already tilting his head to press open-mouthed kisses to your shoulder, your throat, the place just beneath your ear that makes you sigh.

“We’re going to be late,” you murmur, though you don’t mean it.

Spencer hums, his lips still pressed against your skin. “I don’t care.”

You laugh—a breathy, delighted sound that he swallows with his next kiss, his hands smoothing over your ribs, pressing warmth into your skin.

His trousers slide lower on his hips, and he makes a sound—low, breathless, almost dazed.

And then—“I’m sorry,” he murmurs suddenly, against the corner of your mouth.

You blink, pulse stuttering. “For what?”

“For all the times I haven’t been here.” His fingers tighten at your waist, like he’s grounding himself in the weight of you, in the proof that you are here. “For leaving. For missing too much. For—”

You don’t let him finish.

You press your lips to his, pouring everything into it—forgiveness, love, understanding.

When you break apart, your voice is quiet but sure. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

Spencer exhales, shaky and relieved, and then—

Then he laughs, something soft and breathless, because you’ve pushed his trousers past his hips and now they’re tangled around his ankles, and it’s clumsy, and it’s human, and neither of you can bring yourselves to care.

Your own clothes follow, piece by piece, scattered and forgotten, because this is more important.

Spencer is warm everywhere, all golden skin and careful hands and parted lips. He hovers over you, his breath fanning over your cheek, his fingers tracing slow, reverent paths down your arms, your sides, like he’s still memorizing you.

And when you reach for him, guiding him closer, pulling him in, he exhales a sound—soft, broken, something like ah, like yes, like finally.

You sigh into him, arching, meeting him where he waits, and the warmth between you turns molten, turns necessary.

Spencer presses his forehead to yours, his breath uneven, his fingers twining with yours in the sheets.

“I love you,” he whispers.

And you—You're lost in the heat, the smell of him. The gentle movement as there's nothing left but you and him and him and him.

"Ah, Spencer," you breathe, and he shushes you.

"I know, I know."

It's quiet, it's breathy laughs, it's warmth building building buildig until something cracks - it has to, it's necessary, it's perfect and lovely and hot honey dripping down your thighs to gather into something greater, something perfect, something more.

It should be impossible, the way you fit together.

Like something sculpted by hands that knew what they were doing, shaping flesh and bone with deliberate care, pressing you into each other until there is no separation, no beginning or end. A seamless thing. Thread looping over itself, over and over and over into infinity. Until it cannot be separated from itself, until it is one ball of mass and moving and friction.

Heat and pressure and warmth build into something more, more more. Spencer is calling your name as if you are lost, you're grasping his back to remind him you're right here.

He tumbles and you're stuck on the edge, unable to follow. It's a brilliant thing, watching him. Eyes screwed shut, tightly. Breath coming out in spurts and spasms. Love, love, love. Pouring out of him and into you.

It's warm, so so warm, and nearly enough to send you to the place of glass shattering and pleasure fluttering and complete unity.

It isn't until Spencer's hips are faltering that he notices you there, hanging on the precipice of masterpieces yet unknown.

"Oh, lovely. I've got you, it's me. I'm here, I've got you," whispered reassurances pressed into your hair, your ear, your cheek, as he moves.

And you fall after him, tumbling down into something safe and known and foreign and unlearnable.

When you clatter back onto Earth, Spencer is warm against you, chest rising and falling in the slow, steady rhythm of shared breath. His fingers—long, elegant, familiar—trace mindless patterns against your arm, mapping you the way he memorizes pages, theories, entire histories. As if you are something to be learned, something to be understood.

As if he hasn’t already written you into the marrow of his bones.

Your limbs are tangled in the sheets, in each other, some quiet aftershock of connection humming between your skin. He shifts, pressing a lazy kiss to your temple, the edge of your jaw, the corner of your lips, his breath still heavy with you.

Whole. Uninterrupted.

Until—

A loud grumble splits the silence, echoing off the walls.

Spencer stills.

You blink.

And then—

Your stomach rumbles again, louder this time, an undignified protest against your distraction.

Spencer bursts into laughter.

It’s warm, breathless, human, cracking through the solemn weight of the moment like lightning through a storm. He drops his head against your shoulder, shaking with it, his entire body vibrating with amusement.

“Oh my God,” you groan, covering your face with your hands.

Spencer’s still laughing when he rolls onto his back, his hand dragging down his face as he tries to compose himself. He fails, utterly, letting out another breathy chuckle before turning his head to look at you.

“I’m sorry,” he says between soft huffs of breath, his eyes bright with mirth. “It was just—so poetic, so profound—and then your stomach actually growled.”

You peek at him between your fingers. “You're going to give me shit when you essentially did the same thing earlier?" You ask, aghast. Spencer nods his head, cheeky smile overtaking his face.

You groan again, but it’s half-hearted, because Spencer is still laughing, and it’s the kind of sound you’d willingly make a fool of yourself for, over and over again, just to hear it.

"Did you not have any of your stellar eggs?" Spencer asks, pulling away from you.

You both wince as connection is lost, resisting the urge to pull him back in again, to be selfish and keep the warmth of him near.

He stretches, arms raised above his head, back cracking. You stay still, stretched across the bed as he moves into your bathroom and wets a washcloth.

"No, I don't really like scrambled."

Spencer hesitates, at the foot of the bed, one knee propped up on the edge. "What?" He asks, frozen, still as a statue.

"I'll eat them but this morning they were too eggy."

"Too eggy," Spencer mutters, voice aghast, cleaning you before pinching your thigh playfully. "Come on, time to get you to work."

The moment lingers, shifting into something softer, something easy.

And then—

You’re standing in the kitchen, hours later, Spencer in his undershirt, stirring a pot of something that smells like warmth, like home.

Your stomach grumbles again.

Spencer smirks, not even turning around. “Should I start reciting poetry, or—”

You throw a dish towel at him.

||||

There is the weight of Spencer pressed against you in the morning, the heat of his breath on your skin, the steady rhythm of his fingers tracing patterns into your ribs. And then there is the cold side of the bed, the imprint of him faded from the sheets, the silence of an empty apartment that settles like dust in your lungs.

He’s gone.

Not forever. Neer forever.

But the difference between knowing something and feeling it is vast, and this morning, you feel it.

The bed is too big. The air is too still. The coffee is too bitter without his absentminded habit of adding too much sugar to the pot when he thinks you aren’t looking.

His absence moves through the space like a ghost, turning everyday things into echoes of him.

A book left open on the table, spine cracked, a scrap of paper sticking out with notes in the margins.

A half-full mug beside the sink. He always assures you he'll finish it later but never does. You don't mind, savoring the reminder of him when he leaves in the middle of the day with little notice.

The sweater he left draped over the back of a chair, smelling like warmth, like him, like something undone.

You exhale, pressing your fingers to the edge of the table as if grounding yourself, as if it might keep you tethered.

You knew this would happen.

It always does—cases that stretch into days, weeks, phone calls that come at odd hours, the sound of his voice wrapped in exhaustion and apologies, the waiting, the not-knowing.

You reach for your own coffee, cradling it between your palms, letting the heat seep into your fingers.

Your phone buzzes. A message. Short, simple.

Spencer: I miss you.

The breath in your chest stutters.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard, a response forming before you can even think about it.

You: I miss you too. It’s too quiet here.

Three dots appear. Pause. Disappear.

You wait, staring at the screen, willing the space between you to close, even just a little.

Spencer: I’ll call you tonight. Stay in my sweater until then.

You let out a breath, something soft, something caught between a laugh and a sigh. You reach for it, slipping it over your shoulders, wrapping yourself in the remnants of warmth.

It’s not the same.

But for now, it will have to be enough.

||||

The door unlocks with a quiet click.

You don’t move right away.

You should—should stand, should cross the room, should meet him in the doorway. But instead, you sit still, curled into the couch, the weight of waiting still heavy in your limbs, pressing you down.

Footsteps. Familiar, careful.

“Hey,” Spencer murmurs, quiet, hesitant, like he isn’t sure if you’re asleep, if he should wake you, if he’s allowed to break the silence.

You inhale sharply, and that’s what does it—what snaps the moment in two. You push up from the couch, feet hitting the floor, your body moving before your mind catches up.

You are in his arms.

He exhales sharply at the impact, his bag slipping from his shoulder, his arms wrapping around you with something desperate, something relieved, like he���s been waiting for this moment just as much as you have.

The scent of him—faint cologne, the sterile bite of too many hotels, the quiet warmth that is Spencer—hits you all at once. You press your face into his shoulder, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket, holding tight.

“You’re back,” you breathe, and it’s obvious, unnecessary, but you need to say it, need to hear it, need to confirm it.

Spencer laughs—soft, exhausted, fond. “I’m back.”

You feel the words vibrate through him, feel the shape of them beneath your hands, the weight of them settling between your ribs.

“Did you miss me?” You laugh, a quiet, breathy thing, your grip tightening on his jacket.

“Not at all,” you say, pulling back just enough to look at him, to see him. His face is tired, his eyes a little shadowed, but there’s something soft there, something bright just beneath the surface.

His lips twitch. “Liar.”

You hum, tilting your chin up just slightly, brushing your nose against his, letting the warmth between you settle.

“Say it anyway,” he murmurs.

So you do. “I missed you, Spence.”

His breath stumbles and he kisses you.

It’s not rushed. It’s not desperate. It’s homecoming, warmth where there was once cold. It’s touch where there was once absence. It’s the quiet, certain return of something that never really left.

It takes a while for Spencer to let go and, even when he does, he keeps a hand on you. Not even after the kiss fades into breaths, not even after his bag is abandoned by the door, not even after you’ve guided him toward the couch, pressing your hands to his shoulders until he sinks into the cushions with a sigh.

You don’t ask him about the case.

Not yet.

Instead, you move around him, nudging his shoes off with your foot, smoothing his hair back from his face, pressing your fingers into the stiff muscles at the back of his neck. His eyes flutter shut, and he exhales slow, like he’s unspooling one spiraling thread at a time.

“You look exhausted,” you murmur, brushing your knuckles over his cheek.

“I feel worse,” he admits, cracking one eye open to look at you. “I think I might actually be a ghost.”

You hum, tilting your head. Slowly, you press a finger into the center of his chest, thumping it against his sternum twice. “I don’t know, you feel pretty solid to me.”

Spencer lets out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head. “Okay, fine. Maybe I’m only part ghost.” He waves a hand in the air, "I hover between realms, or whatever those silly books you read would say."

“Well,” you say, ignoring the dig at your admittedly less-academic reading preferences, pressing your lips to his temple, lingering, “if you were a ghost, you’d be a talkative one. Following me around, rambling about hauntings and historic criminal cases—”

Spencer scoffs. “I’d be a great ghost.”

“Would you?”

“I’d be an educational ghost.”

You snort, letting your fingers trail down his arm, wrapping your hand around his wrist, pressing against the pulse there. “I think I prefer you educational and alive.”

Spencer smiles, but it’s softer now, more worn, and when he leans into you, it’s not just playful—it’s relief.

You shift, curling into him, letting him fold himself against you like he’s been waiting for it for days. He buries his face against your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin, and you feel the tension still lingering in him, the weight of something else.

Something he’s not saying. So you just hold him.

One hand drifts into his hair, threading through the soft curls, the other smoothing over his back, steady, slow. His fingers flex against your side, gripping, holding, grounding. He sighs, deep, exhausted, pressing closer like he’s trying to escape something.

You kiss the crown of his head. “You don’t have to tell me,” you whisper. “But you can.”

Spencer is quiet for a long moment, his breathing uneven, his fingers still pressed into your skin. “The case was a little boy,” he murmurs, barely above a breath. “He lost his—” His voice wavers, and he swallows hard. “His whole family. We nearly didn't find him in time."

It's the most he can give you, the most that the public has probably heard, too, but it's enough to impress upon you the true horrors he's facing.

You close your eyes, tightening your arms around him. “Spencer.”

He shakes his head, shifting just enough to rest his forehead against your collarbone. “I just—I keep thinking about him. How small he looked. How scared.”

You press your lips together, blinking hard, willing yourself to keep it together for him. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice thick. “I know that doesn’t help, but I am.”

Spencer exhales shakily, nodding against your skin. “It helps.”

You don’t know if that’s true, but you keep holding him anyway. Keep smoothing your hands down his back, keep whispering his name, keep pressing your lips to his temple, his cheek, the corner of his mouth, like you can will the heaviness away.

“I’ve got you,” you murmur against his skin. “You’re home.”

Spencer lets out a slow, shuddering breath. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I am.”

Spencer doesn't move much, pressed against you, letting himself be held. His breathing steadies, his hands no longer gripping like he’s afraid of being pulled away.

You shift, just slightly, pressing your cheek against the top of his head. “You wanna do something mindless for a bit? Watch bad TV? Read a book with no footnotes? Stare at a wall together?”

Spencer snorts, muffled against your skin. “Tempting.”

“I'm very persuasive when I want to be.”

“That’s one word for it.”

You pull back just enough to look at him, narrowing your eyes. “Excuse me?”

Spencer finally lifts his head, and there’s something lighter in his expression now, the weight of the case still lingering, but no longer pressing quite so hard against the edges of his mind.

He shifts, settling further into the couch, his knee bumping against yours. “You bullied me into watching a terrible documentary about haunted dolls last time I came back from a case.”

Your mouth falls open in offense. “It was informative!”

Spencer levels you with a flat look. “It was ninety minutes of a guy holding up dolls to the camera and whispering ‘Do you hear that?’”

You press your lips together, fighting back a laugh. “Okay, maybe it wasn’t the most scientific—”

“There was a scene transition shaped like a skull.”

“You didn’t have to watch it!”

Spencer gestures at himself dramatically. “I was physically incapacitated by exhaustion!”

You shove at his shoulder, laughing now, and he catches your wrist easily, pressing a quick, warm kiss to the inside of it before letting you go. The gesture is so easy, so thoughtless, that your chest goes tight with it.

Spencer sighs, shifting so he’s half-leaning against you again, pressing his forehead briefly to your shoulder before pulling back. “But,” he admits, softer now, “it was kind of nice. Sitting with you. Not thinking for a bit.”

You hum, tucking your legs beneath you, leaning into his warmth. “I am great at the whole ‘not thinking’ thing.”

Spencer huffs a laugh. “That’s not what I meant.”

“You sure? I distinctly remember you asking me how I manage to not overanalyze things while I was eating a bowl of cereal the other day.”

“That was—” He pauses, brows knitting together. “Okay, yes, but that’s because you were reading the cereal box like it was literature.”

“It was a compelling narrative, Spencer.”

He tilts his head. “The ingredients list?”

“The lucky leprechaun’s backstory,” you clarify.

Spencer just stares at you.

You grin, nudging his knee. “It’s called escapism, genius.”

Spencer shakes his head, exhaling something close to a laugh-sigh, then shifts again, tucking himself more comfortably against your side.

"Unless you're calling me dumb," you muse, not ready to give up teasing him. He takes the bait easily.

"I would never say that-"

"i'm pretty certain that's what I'm hearing."

"Absolutely not." You sit silently, humming dramatically, hoping for a compliment that you're sure is to come. "You're one of the smartest people I've met, actually. That's why your taste in books and documentaries appalls me."

"You're good at groveling, Dr. Reid."

He doesn't answer, chuckling and pressing his lips against your shoulder in response instead.

After a moment, his fingers brush against yours, hesitant for only a second before twining them together. Quiet settles between you again—not heavy this time, not suffocating. Just easy. Just you and him. Spencer squeezes your fingers lightly, voice soft when he speaks again.

“You make coming home easy.”

Your throat goes tight, and you squeeze back. The shift in tone is palpable. You long to linger in the feeling of warmth and safety and the earnest way he mumbles it. “Good,” you murmur, pressing your forehead to his temple. “Because you are home.”

Spencer exhales, slow and steady. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I know.”

You don’t move immediately after Spencer settles against you, letting his weight sink into the couch, his fingers loosely tangled with yours. He’s relaxed now, softer, the weight of the week still lingering in his tired eyes but no longer pressing quite so hard on his shoulders.

It’s the perfect time to strike.

You reach for the remote, flicking through streaming options with intense purpose.

Spencer glances at you, suspicious. “What are you doing?”

“Putting something on to help you unwind.”

His eyes narrow. “What kind of something?”

You hum innocently. “Oh, you’ll see.”

Spencer watches as you select a YouTube documentary—one you know is riddled with inaccuracies, one that will absolutely send him into a spiral.

The second the dramatic narration begins, Spencer physically tenses.

You stifle a smile. You watched it when he was gone, something mind-numbing after a long day at work, and have been waiting to see his reaction to the ridiculous claims of the conspiracies.

The documentary wastes no time getting things wrong.

A sweeping shot of pyramids. An ominous, overly intense musical score. And then, in bold, serious tones:

"The ancient Egyptians, known for their fascination with aliens—"

Spencer inhales sharply, head snapping toward you, eyes wide with horror. “Their fascination with WHAT?”

You shrug, biting your lip. “Aliens, love. Keep up.”

Spencer throws his hands in the air. “Ancient Egyptian society was a highly advanced civilization with remarkable achievements in engineering, mathematics, and medicine—why does everything have to be aliens?”

You pat his knee comfortingly. “Shh. The experts are speaking.”

He turns back to the screen just in time to hear the narrator say:

"Some theorists believe the Sphinx was originally a statue of a dog, not a lion."

Spencer physically jolts, glaring at you again.

“A dog?” he scoffs.

You bite back laughter. “I don’t know, Spence. It kinda looks like a dog if you squint.”

He looks betrayed. “It doesn't. I know you don't think it does.”

You hum thoughtfully, pretending to study the screen. “Maybe, like, a bulldog?”

Spencer presses the heels of his palms into his eyes like he’s in pain. Give me the remote. There's a better, actual documentary, about 1940s Germany that I wanted to show you instead of this-” he gestures toward the screen, "garbage."

You grin, nudging his side. “Oh, you love it.”

“I do not—”

A new segment starts, this one even worse, featuring a so-called “historian” confidently stating that the Romans invented cheese.

Spencer makes a noise nearly resembling a laugh and you know you've got him.

“No they didn't," he says, deadpan, shaking his head and clicking off of the video.

You lose it. You cackle, curling into his side, shaking with laughter as Spencer queues up an actual documentary, switching on subtitles for you.

“I hate you,” he mutters, but his voice is fond, his arm still wrapped tight around you.

“No, you don’t,” you tease, leaning into him.

He sighs dramatically, dropping a kiss to the top of your head.

“No,” he murmurs, softer now. “I really don’t.”

And just like that, the warmth settles back between you, easy and earned.

Even if he’s still muttering about the Sphinx as the documentary starts.

You settle down like that, listening as Spencer adds his own interesting facts to the documentary. This is home, wholly and truly, sitting on this couch next to him.

You're sure to ask questions, keep him talking, until he falls asleep, missing the sound of his voice the second he dozes off.

[aventurineswife]

Hello, my sweetheart!

Today’s request shall be: Sunday, Aventurine, Dan Heng—With a reader who likes to pretend they’re asleep in order to see how their partner reacts. Whether it’s in the morning to prolong their cuddles, or curious if they leave them be or “wake” them up. 🤭💙❕Bonus when the men know their partner is still awake and either teases them or plays along.

Soft Lies and Sleepy Smiles

Tags: Sunday x Reader, Aventurine x Reader, Dan Heng x Reader, Fluff, Domestic Moments, Playful Teasing, Established Relationships, Light Banter, Soft/Affectionate Moments, Subtle Intimacy.

Warnings: Mild suggestiveness, Mentions of past trauma (Implied for Sunday & Dan Heng, but not explored in depth), Minor physical contact (Soft touches, forehead flick, kisses), Aventurine being a smug menace (Because of course), Sunday’s quiet intensity (He’s poetic and a little too smooth for his own good), Dan Heng’s understated softness.

A/N: Hi lovely!! Thank you for this hehe, I hope you like it!! 🤭💙✨ Ignore any mistakes, I'm writing this at like 3:28 am 🧍‍♀️🙏😭

Tagslist: @themiddletenmasibling

The warmth of the Astral Express' quarters felt almost unreal—soft golden light filtering through the curtains, the gentle hum of the train beneath you, and Sunday’s slow, steady breaths beside you.

He was always an early riser, preferring quiet contemplation in the mornings. But today, as you lay curled against him, you decided to stay still, feigning sleep just to see what he’d do.

For a while, he didn’t move. His eyes remained on you, a silent observer as his fingers traced idle patterns against your arm. Then, barely above a whisper—

"You're awake, aren't you?"

You held your breath, keeping up the act.

A soft chuckle. The kind that barely touched the air but sent a shiver down your spine. His fingers grazed the edge of your jaw, the flutter of his wings betraying his amusement.

"It’s unlike you to be this still," he mused, voice like the quiet ripple of a dream. "But if you insist on pretending..."

He shifted, drawing you closer—enough for you to feel his breath against your temple. His halo gleamed faintly in the dim light, golden and unblinking, like an ever-watchful eye.

Then, just as you thought he’d let you continue the charade, Sunday whispered something against your ear, so soft it sent heat rushing to your cheeks.

"Would it be cruel to wake you with a kiss? Or shall I let you remain lost in your dreamscape?"

Your resolve wavered. The warmth of his lips barely ghosted over your cheek, and you couldn't help it—a tiny twitch of your mouth, a sharp inhale.

His hand, featherlight, cupped your cheek.

"Caught you," he murmured, voice laced with quiet victory.

You peeked open an eye, meeting his gentle yet knowing gaze. A smirk tugged at his lips.

"Next time, love, you’ll have to try a little harder."

Aventurine was warm. Unfairly so, draped lazily beside you in bed, the fur-lined edges of his overcoat tossed haphazardly over the chair nearby. The morning light slanted through the window, painting soft golds and deep greens across the room.

You, ever the curious one, decided to play a game.

Eyes closed, body perfectly relaxed—you stayed still, waiting to see how he’d react.

For a moment, there was silence. Then—

"Hah, what’s this? A little trick from my darling?"

His voice was honeyed, teasing. You felt the mattress dip as he shifted, his hand brushing ever so gently against your exposed shoulder.

"You’re terribly convincing, I’ll give you that."

There was a pause, and then—a sharp flick to your forehead.

Your body betrayed you. A reflexive twitch.

"Ah-ha! You flinched!" His laugh was rich with amusement. "Sorry, sweetheart, but you’ll have to bluff better than that."

You groaned, cracking an eye open. Aventurine grinned down at you, eyes gleaming with mischief.

"I’ll have to reward you for the effort, though. Tell me, love—should I make it up to you with breakfast, or perhaps…" He leaned in, his breath ghosting against your lips. "Something sweeter?"

You rolled your eyes, but your heart raced nonetheless.

"Cheat," you muttered.

"Always," he replied, pressing a playful kiss to your forehead.

The gentle rocking of the Astral Express made for the perfect excuse to stay in bed a little longer. Dan Heng, ever composed, lay beside you, his breaths steady and deep.

You decided to test him. Would he wake you? Leave you be? Perhaps... tease you?

You kept your breaths even, your face perfectly serene. A few minutes passed before you felt him stir.

Soft movements. The rustling of sheets.

Then, ever so carefully, you felt his fingers brush against yours—hesitant, barely there.

You almost smiled.

He knew.

Rather than calling you out, he played along. His hand shifted, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

Then, a whisper, barely above the hum of the train.

"If you want more sleep, I’ll let you rest."

A pause. His fingertips ghosted over your knuckles, almost as if he was hesitant to let go.

"But I’d rather you stay with me a little longer."

Your resolve broke. Slowly, you opened your eyes, meeting his steady gaze. A small smile tugged at his lips—soft, barely there, but unmistakable.

"Good morning," he murmured.

And just like that, you melted.

[tsunaso]

Hi!!

Could I get Zenitsu from demon slayer that swears he straight start to fall for male reader? Like maybe reader is confident and flirty/make dirty jokes with him but he is so deep in denial that he’s always refusing and stuff until he realizes he’s daydreaming of reader and wanting to go along with it?

Not sure if I’m describing it well, and you’re welcome to take the concept and run with it however you like but I thought bi disaster would be funny and a cute bottom

“IN A FLASH”

pairing. “Straight”!Zenitsu Agatsuma x Top!male reader

synopsis. Zenitsu is 100% straight—or at least, that’s what he keeps telling himself. But between your constant flirting, your cocky smirks, and the unwelcome daydreams about being pinned against a wall, he’s starting to lose his mind. And maybe, just maybe… he likes it. — 1.7k

warnings. mdni, nsfw, amab reader, dirty jokes, tiniest bit of power play, first time (with a man), overstimulation, handjob, aftercare

a/n: You did a great job describing what you wanted! Thank you for sending in my first request!

Zenitsu was not in love with you.

Nope. Not a chance. Absolutely not.

It didn’t matter that you were tall, confident, and smirked like you owned the place. It didn’t matter that you rolled up your sleeves during training, your arms a little too toned, a little too veiny for him to not notice. And it especially didn’t matter that you had a habit of leaning in too close, whispering dirty jokes just low enough for only him to hear.

Because Zenitsu?

Zenitsu liked women.

He loved women. Soft hands, long hair, big br—

"Are you blushing?"

The sound of your smooth, teasing voice snapped him out of his spiraling thoughts.

Zenitsu immediately flinched, whipping around to see you grinning down at him, elbow resting on his shoulder.

His stomach flipped.

"No! I—Why would I—?! I AM NOT BLUSHING!"

In his panic, he stumbled backward—tripping over absolutely nothing—and fell flat onto his ass.

You burst out laughing, loud and shameless, crossing your arms as you watched him writhe in his own embarrassment.

"You totally were," you smirked. "What’s the matter? My rugged good looks getting to you?"

Zenitsu felt his entire soul leave his body.

"SHUT THE HELL UP!" He practically threw himself back to his feet, pointing at you in a wild panic. "I AM 100% STRAIGHT, OKAY?! I LOVE WOMEN! BIG BOOBS! SOFT HANDS! LONG HAIR!"

You just raised an eyebrow.

"...Alright, bro. You want a medal or something?"

Zenitsu twitched violently.

This was your fault.

For months, you'd been torturing him.

The casual hand on his shoulder. The way you'd sit too close, your thigh pressed against his. The way your gravelly, stupidly deep voice sounded whenever you murmured some filthy joke into his ear, leaving him to short-circuit in real-time.

He hated it.

He hated you.

He was definitely not going to start thinking about it later.

Absolutely not.

　　　　　　　　　　─────・୨ ✦ ୧・─────

It started small. Little things.

Like how your voice was kind of deep.

Not too deep—but just enough to make his stomach flip when you said his name.

Or how your hands were huge.

Not that he was paying attention to them. Not that he was imagining how they’d feel gripping his waist, holding his wrists, pinning him—

WAIT, BAD. BAD THOUGHT.

Zenitsu shook his head violently, slapping his own cheeks.

He was just tired. That was all. He needed to train more.

…But training wasn’t exactly helping.

Because lately, you were standing too damn close.

"Need help with your stance?" you murmured from behind him, your chest almost pressed to his back.

Zenitsu froze.

His entire body locked up as your hands brushed over his hips, adjusting him like it was nothing.

Like you weren’t completely ruining his life.

"I—I GOT IT!" he shrieked, flailing away from you like you were on fire. "THANKS, NO NEED TO TOUCH ME, I’M PERFECTLY FINE—!!"

You just blinked at him, amused. "Dude, chill."

Zenitsu was not chilling.

He was losing his fucking mind.

　　　　　　　　　　─────・୨ ✦ ୧・─────

It got worse.

He started having thoughts.

Thoughts like, "What if he pushed me against a wall?"

Or "What if he held me down?"

Or "What if I just… let him?"

"NOOOOOOO—!!!" Zenitsu bolted upright in bed, screaming into his pillow.

What the hell was that dream?!

WHY WAS IT KINDA GOOD?!!

He buried his face in his hands, rocking back and forth in despair.

"This isn’t happening," he whispered. "I love women. BIG BOOBS. SOFT HANDS. LONG HAIR."

…Your hair didn’t look like a womans, but it always looked kinda nice.

WAIT, NO, STOP—!!!

Zenitsu launched himself out of bed. He needed a distraction. Immediately.

　　　　　　　　　　─────・୨ ✦ ୧・─────

Zenitsu was determined to prove his 100% absolute heterosexuality.

Which is why, the next morning, he could be found on his knees in front of a random woman, gripping her hands, screaming into the sky.

"HELLO, BEAUTIFUL LADY! HAVE I MENTIONED I LOVE WOMEN?!"

The woman blinked. "…Are you okay?"

"I’M SO OKAY!" Zenitsu laughed, manic and desperate. "SO, SO, SO OKAY! WOMEN ARE BEAUTIFUL! GORGEOUS! PLEASE MARRY ME!"

You watched from a distance, arms crossed, fighting back a smirk.

"He’s been acting weird lately," Tanjiro mumbled beside you.

You chuckled. "Yeah. I noticed."

Zenitsu’s entire body stiffened.

Because your voice—your deep, amused, cocky voice—was right behind him.

He turned slowly, staring up at you with wide, panicked eyes.

"Yo," you grinned.

Zenitsu squeaked.

Just straight-up made a noise like a fucking chew toy and bolted in the opposite direction.

You laughed.

Because oh yeah.

You definitely knew what this was.

　　　　　　　　　　─────・୨ ✦ ୧・─────

Zenitsu’s back hit the wall, his breath coming in ragged, uneven pants.

His whole body was shaking, his hands gripping at nothing, his legs weak beneath him.

This was your fault.

You were too close.

You had him trapped, one hand flat against the wall beside his head, your strong, calloused fingers gripping his chin, forcing him to look up at you.

He tried to glare.

Tried to resist.

But his face was burning, his eyes were wide and panicked, his chest rising and falling way too fast.

This was wrong.

This was not supposed to happen.

"I—I don’t—” Zenitsu stammered, but his hips twitched forward, betraying him instantly.

You smirked. "Not like what?"

Your voice was too deep, too smooth, too much.

Zenitsu let out a sharp, shaky breath, his fingertips digging into the wall behind him.

"I—I'm not—"

He cut himself off, biting his lip hard, his eyes squeezing shut.

Because if he looked at you any longer, he was going to break.

And then—

You grabbed his chin, tilted his face up, and kissed him.

Zenitsu shattered.

A sharp, wrecked little noise escaped him, somewhere between a whimper and a gasp, his body going stiff—then melting completely.

His hands shot up to grip your shirt, his fingers fisting the fabric so tightly his knuckles turned white.

He didn’t pull away.

He couldn’t.

His whole body was burning, his mind spinning, his lips parting helplessly as you deepened the kiss, teasing, taking your time breaking him apart.

Zenitsu’s legs gave out.

You caught him instantly, one strong arm wrapping around his waist, keeping him pinned against you.

He hated how good it felt.

He hated how easily you overpowered him.

He hated that his dick was aching, twitching, throbbing, already soaked with precum—

But most of all?

He hated how much he loved it.

　　　　　　　　　　─────・୨ ✦ ୧・─────

Zenitsu didn’t remember how you got him to bed.

All he knew was that he was on his back, his clothes half-off, his skin burning, and your hands were on him.

Too much.

Too good.

Too overwhelming.

His breath was shaky, his legs spread open beneath you, his whole body trembling like a leaf. He should’ve been embarrassed—should’ve pushed you away, should’ve pretended he didn’t want this.

But when you dragged your palm up his inner thigh, tracing over sensitive, untouched skin, his whole body jerked violently, a shocked little whimper spilling from his lips.

His hands shot up to cover his mouth, his fingers pressing against his own lips as if that could stop the noises from escaping.

You smirked.

“Oh? You like that?”

Zenitsu furiously shook his head, eyes blown wide, face burning.

"NO—"

You hummed, dragging your fingers up his trembling stomach, stopping just at the waistband of his underwear.

"You sure?"

Zenitsu bit his lip hard, his whole body twitching in anticipation.

He could feel himself leaking, soaking the fabric, his thighs clenched but trembling, struggling to stay still.

He was too sensitive.

Too needy.

And when you finally hooked your fingers into his waistband and tugged his underwear down—

Zenitsu gasped, his breath catching, his dick twitching against his stomach.

Fuck.

He looked away immediately, his chest rising and falling way too fast.

He couldn’t do this.

He wasn’t supposed to like this.

Then your fingers wrapped around him, slow, teasing, barely applying any pressure.

And Zenitsu cried out.

A sharp, wrecked moan slipped past his lips, his hips jerking forward before he could stop himself.

"S-Shit—"

You chuckled. "You're shaking."

"Sh-Shut up," he whined, his voice cracking, his fingers digging into the sheets.

He was burning up.

He felt too hot, too exposed, too weak.

But it felt good.

Way too fucking good.

Your grip tightened just slightly, your thumb swiping over his leaking tip, and Zenitsu’s whole body twitched.

His breath hitched, a choked moan spilling out.

"I-I—oh fuck—"

You smirked. "Already close?"

"NO—" Zenitsu’s voice cracked, his cheeks burning.

He was not going to cum just from this.

He was not going to embarrass himself like that.

He was not going to—

You leaned down, dragged your tongue over his tip, and Zenitsu screamed.

His fingers fisted the sheets, his whole body seizing up, his dick twitching violently.

And then—

He broke.

"OH—OH FUCK—"

His back arched sharply, his hips bucking up, his breath stuttering, and then he let out a wrecked little sob, cumming way too fast, way too hard.

His chest heaved, his legs shaking, his body completely wrecked beneath you.

You pulled back slightly, grinning down at him.

"That fast?" your voice was low, amused, teasing. "Thought you had more stamina, Thunder Boy."

Zenitsu whined into his hands, his whole body trembling, his mind completely blank.

He should’ve been mortified.

But then—

Your hand wrapped around him again.

And Zenitsu twitched violently.

"H-Hah—w-wait, I just—"

Your grip tightened slightly, stroking him slow, teasing, letting him feel the overstimulation creep in.

Zenitsu gasped, his hips jerking forward weakly, his thighs trembling.

"You're still hard," you murmured, voice silky smooth. "Guess that wasn't enough for you, huh?"

Zenitsu let out a broken little noise, his nails digging into your arms.

He couldn’t handle this.

He was too sensitive.

Too fucking weak.

"B-Be gentle," he whispered, his voice tiny.

You smirked, kissing his heated skin.

"No."

Then you kept going.

And Zenitsu?

Zenitsu didn’t stand a chance.

　　　　　　　　　　─────・୨ ✦ ୧・─────

Zenitsu refused to let go of you.

His arms were wrapped around your waist, his face buried in your chest, his breath still shaky.

You smirked, running your fingers through his messy hair.

"You okay?"

Zenitsu huffed weakly, his fingers tightening their grip on you.

"I still like girls," he mumbled into your skin. "I just… really like you too."

You chuckled. "Oh yeah?"

Zenitsu whined. "Don’t make me say it again—!"

You grinned. "So you liked it?"

Zenitsu froze.

Then, with a mortified little whimper, he hid his face in your chest.

"D-Don’t say it out loud, idiot!"

You laughed, holding him tighter.

[muwapsturniolo]

Home 🐰ྀི C. Sturniolo

"What are you doing? It's one am and I can hear your keyboard clacking from downstairs."

⟢ nothing but fluff tbh

dividers by @bernardsbendystraws

Waking up at 1 am, alone, was something Chris was not used to and didn't like.

Usually, Bun would be wrapped up in his arms, her body molding itself into his. So to say he was confused by her absence would be an understatement.

"The fuck is she?'' He grumbles to himself as he crawls out of bed, slipping on his slides and sluggishly walking out of the room. He rubs his eyes and yawns, making his way up the stairs. To his surprise, he sees Matt fast asleep on the couch, holding Doll's favorite stuffed animal.

A penguin.

He only knows it's her favorite due to her attachment to it, the girl refusing for it to be anywhere but the bed right next to Mr. Wrinkleton. This was a clear sign that the girls were in Matt's room doing who knows what.

With a soft grunt, he makes his way to the bedroom, knocking twice on the door before peeking his head in. He planned on being playfully irritated, the idea of sleepily scolding the girls for staying up late and spending time with each other funny to him. However, when he sees Bunny fast asleep, still in her leotard from practice, he can't find it in himself to even joke.

His eyes cast over to Doll whose sitting at Matt's desk, fingers flying across the keyboard as she types in vigor. At the sound of the door opening, her eyes dart over to Chris, squinting at him.

"What are you doing?"

"What are you doing? It's one am and I can hear your keyboard clacking from downstairs." They both knew he was lying, but Doll was too confused by his statement of the time.

"It's 1 am?" Chris nods and rubs his eyes once more. "Yup, and I'm here to retrieve my girlfriend since you held her hostage and kicked Matt out the room. He's asleep on the couch by the way, curled up with that hot penguin."

"Did you just call a stuffed animal hot?"

Chris rolls his eyes and walks further into the room, moving towards the sleeping girl on the bed. "No, you goof. I'm not calling a stuffed animal hot, it's one of those special ones you throw in the microwave so it gets hot. Stop trying to make me sound like a freak." Doll flicks him off before saving whatever is on her laptop, and standing up.

Chris smiles softly as he looks down at Bunny, carefully lifting her up into his arms. She stirs in her sleep but doesn't wake up, snuggling into Chris and holding him softly.

Chris and Doll walk out of the bedroom, Chris throwing a small 'goodnight' towards Doll as she gently shakes Matt awake.

The couple enters Chris's room, the boy laying Bunny down gently on the bed. He looks down at her baby pink leotard and sighs, already walking over to his closet.

As he shuffles around in the closet, Bun slowly begins to wake up, stretching and blinking softly as she looks around the room.

"Chris?" she voices softly, causing Chris to turn around. He walks closer with an oversized shirt in hand, motioning her to sit up. She grumbles as she does so, looking up at Chris with sleepy eyes.

"M'tired."

He chuckles softly and begins taking her leotard and tights off, not even caring that she's now naked in front of him. "I know, you were knocked out when I grabbed you from Matt n' Doll."

He slides the shirt over her head, helping her put it on. Once she's all dressed, he kisses her forehead and lays down with her, pulling her close and sighing out in contentment.

"M'sorry."

"F'what?"

She yawns softly before tilting her head to look up at him, "for not being in bed with you... I know you can't sleep without me, or at least you prefer not to."

He knows there's truth in her words, all he can do is pull her even closer. He plants a firm yet soft kiss on her lips, mumbling against them.

"Because you're home to me."

[chunibyo-x-sorcerer]

Yuria sighs, "I hope they didn't or else they won't confess to each other." She said as she is rooting for Miko and Kisho. Both of them are her dear friends and she wants to see them happy together. "I think they already did. Because I heard some laughing..." Hana whispered. "I can check inside with Miryu." Rioto suggested to which Miryu snorts.

"What?! It's an idea!"

----

"I'm serious...I mean....jeez...I am getting chased by a guy who is so high up on preferences...because well...he is saying something after I gave a different answer to him about what type of woman is..not that soft boobs and thighs part. He kept telling me...like." He recalls what Todo said to him and he relays it to Miko in that conversation.

I THOUGHT THIS GIRL YOU WANTED WAS YOUR TRUE QUEEN OR PRINCESS!? WHAT SORT OF ANSWER IS THAT!?" He said now shaking him.

"A WOMAN OF YOUR LOVE SHOULD BE ALWAYS FIRST! YOUR QUEEN! YOUR GODDESS! DO YOU EVEN LIKE THIS GIRL!? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU!?!?

"SO yeah....he kinda tossed me across the classroom." Kisho laughs. "In a way...you're my first....love..Miko." Kisho blushes.

Miko felt the same but she smiled even with her eyes looking at him. "Same h..here. I will do my best too so I know your always happy and supported no matter what." she felt happier thanks to this.

"Oh and your we..welcome. I know you didn't mean to..." she said back.

Mi-sun blinks yet, she looks to see Ieiri nudge her. "I think you were right. Such precious young love." she whispered back to smile. However, a sudden noise made Miko blink as well. What in the world was that?

"Sorry sorry, I just wanted to at least congratulate them for being a couple.." Hana utters back.

"I get that but not yet. Your making too much noise." Yuria said.

"You two are something else. What if they already can hear us?" Nobara said with Maki chuckling at this.

"It's possible even so. "she said.

[cherrysweets-world]

Eyes of the Gods XI

series masterlist - part ten

Pairing: Geta x fem!Reader x Caracalla

Summary: You dream of the future of Rome

Warnings: 18+, minors dni, unhealthy relationships, controlling behavior, period typical sexism, obsessive/possessive/ relationships, talk of pregnancy, historical inaccuracies, manipulative behavior, jealousy, mentions of slaves/slavery, mentions of miscarriage(not readers), past domestic abuse, unedited

Word Count: 5.5k

With Macrinus safely detained, the palace descended into uneasy silence once more. Macrinus was stubborn; he had yet to reveal what poison he had used but the healer had not been overly concerned. Other than some irritation and bruising at the back of your throat and a slightly unsettled stomach, you were miraculously fine.

It would have turned out differently if Caracalla hadn't been so quick or you had not noticed the difference in the taste of the wine. The 'what ifs' continued to flit around your mind as your hand curled around your stomach, fingers trembling.

It had taken what seemed like hours for Caracalla and Geta to fall asleep. They lay on either side of you, Caracalla's hand on your left shoulder and Geta's on your chest. Caracalla occasionally thrashed in his sleep, seemingly choked with panic , but he seemed to have settled down in the last half hour.

Before, when it had been just your life in danger, you had not felt quite so torn. You had even proven that you were able to somewhat defend yourself. And whilst the ferocity of the emperors was an issue for most, you had found yourself benefitting from it, becoming complacent.

That was not what you wanted for any child of yours. To have to constantly be alert, ready for some kind of attack. The worst being the one you couldn't even see, like poison.

Your thumb idly brushed over your stomach. It was too early to tell whether you were with child and then, of course, there was the poison to consider. Women lost children all the time, even without outside interference. The inner workings of your womb were a mystery to you.  

Your throat throbbed. In your mind you saw a child, red-haired and giggly, and already you knew you would do anything to protect them. Anything.

The air was still and tranquil. You lifted your hand from your stomach and wrapped your fingers around Caracalla's warm hand, lifting it to your mouth a pressing a soft kiss against it. You did the same for Geta before slowly easing out of their arms and shuffling to the edge of the bed.

Your feet were cold against the floor. If they wake up, you told yourself, I shall take it as a sign and think of this no more.

Seconds passed, then minutes. The emperors did not stir.

Serenity overcame you as you accepted the actions you would take next. You could not stay, waiting to find out whether you were with child, only for that child to later come to harm. That would destroy you. Not for the first time, you wondered what kind of man your father had been to raise a hand to his only daughter.

Still, a part of you hoped the emperors would wake and demand that you get back into bed, even as you padded across the room and eased open the door to face the Praetorians.

There were only four stationed outside the door. Many had been sent to guard Macrinus, as though he might manage some miraculous escape, and there were more stationed at all entrances to the palace.

"I am going to visit the healer," you lied smoothly, easily. "I only need one of you to accompany me."

The halls were still and bathed in moonlight as you got further and further away from the emperors'. You had taken advantage of the Praetorians and the fact they would not question you. You forced yourself to set aside your rapidly building guilt.

You had no real plan. Instead you were relying on guidance from the fates. If your attempt was unsuccessful, then that simply meant your destiny was here, with the emperors. If you were successful. . .

As you approached the infirmary, you saw a female slave pause at the entrance, glancing over at you before dipping inside. The beginning of an idea began to take root inside as you got closer and closer, the potent smell of remedies and tonics swirling around your head.

You stopped at the door of the infirmary, glancing back over at the Praetorian. "I would prefer to visit alone."

The man looked uneasy but ultimately agreed. He opened the door for you and you cringed at the noise it made before slipping inside, pressing your palms against it so that it would not make a sound.

The room consisted of two main chambers; the entry way and then the infirmary itself. You could hear the groans of the sick and the low tone of the healer as he talked with someone - probably the woman from before.

You had been here only once before but if your memory was correct, you could find what you were looking for in the set of draws closest to you. You painstakingly pulled the draw open, anxiously glancing over your shoulder for any sign of more guards or the healer.

The draw was full of tunics, just like the ones you had worn before. These ones were perhaps a bit rattier from frequent washes but that was even better. Silently you pulled one out, dropping it on top of the draws before yanking off your own clothing, followed by the jewels the emperors had given you. You left a single bejeweled pin in your hair, tucking it as deep as you could and arranging your hair around it.

Stupid, stupid, stupid, your mind insisted. You did not care. You needed to get away, to be alone with your thoughts. Your mind was a jumbled mess that you had no hope of untangling without the aid of time.

You folded the clothing around the jewelry, giving the cuffs one last mournful stare, before gently placing them in the draw and pushing it shut. There was no telling how much time you had left and getting caught at this point would mean you would have a lot more to explain.

In the other room, you could hear the woman and healer moving about. Heart-pounding, you tugged on the tunic and smoothed it out before attending to your hair. The woman had been of similar build to you, her hair a similar shade, and you arranged yours to mimic hers.

Before it was too late, you went to the door and pulled it open. There was a chance the healer might get curious and come to see who was there so you let it fall shut quickly and did not look at the guard. He was stood with his back to the door, spear at his side. You scanned his side profile once, searching for suspicion, before turning your back to him and beginning to quietly tread away.

It was a pain to make sure you did not turn back or walk too quickly, lest you look suspicious. You kept expecting to hear the shout of the Praetorian, or the questioning tone of the healer. Neither of these things happened. If you had not been so preoccupied with trying to breath steadily, you would have been speechless at your fortune.

Naturally, you headed for the kitchens. That might have been the worst place to go before but now there was no-one there to recognise you. You entered the stairway, finally allowing yourself to descend into a swift pace. It was not inherently suspicious; in fact, it made it more likely that anyone who saw you would leave you alone, assuming you had been sent on some errand by an impatient master.

You paused only once to glance around the room where you had spent so many years of your life. The kitchen was not completely empty but the men at the stove hardly spared you a glance, too busy spooning soup into their mouths.

The kitchen had provided security, food and warmth to you on many an occasion. You could smell the day's food lingering in the warm air. It was also potentially the first place the emperors would come looking for you, so with once last look, you pried your fingers from the entrance and dove deeper into the slaves' quarters, heading for the exit.

Far too late to turn back now.

As expected, there were more Praetorians stationed at the exit. Your hands began to sweat as you approached them. It was impossible to predict whether one of them would notice you, even without the luxurious clothing and jewellery.

You came to a stop in front of the guard who stood directly in your way, leering down at you with hard eyes. He searched you for the mark of a slave but did not find one.

"Where are you going?" he asked, breath wafting down into your face.

"An errand for the healer," you swallowed, the motion painful.

"At this hour?"

"He said it could not wait."

The other guards were beginning to turn around, curious. If one of them recognised you it would be over. You could not even begin to imagine the type of punishment you might face.

Finally the guard grunted, moving aside to let you pass. You tried not to allow your relief to show on your face. Instead you nodded your thanks, lowering your head once more before passing by all the guards without a peep. It felt as though you were passing through a pack of dogs who may catch your scent and alert their owners at any moment.

Sweat beaded along your brow and you swiped at it as inconspicuously as possible. Each step felt like a mile but you did not stop, not even as you began to feel the palace at your back, looming over you. Your eyes began to sting and still you did not stop, the night enveloping you like the old friend it had once been.

You walked on, and on, and on.

The stench of the cells was almost indescribable. Piss, blood and fear. Geta breathed in the latter, let it settle in his chest, reminded himself of whose fear it was. Reminded himself that he was the one in charge.

The Praetorians stopped outside a specific cell, flanking him on either side. Macrinus was sat at the very back, spine pressed against the wall and chin held high. His skin looked sallow already from a single night, dark eyes peering out at him with pure hate.

Perhaps that would have disturbed Geta before. This was, after all, the same man who had pandered to him and fawned over his brother for several months now. How had he been so blind? How long would it have been before Macrinus plunged a knife into his back?

Somehow, none of that felt like it mattered anymore.

Geta leaned forward until his chest brushed against the grimy bars. "You have one chance to answer, master of lies."

Macrinus laughed loudly, smugly. "What poison did I use on your lady love?"

"Where is she?"

Macrinus paused, smile twitching on his lips before they pulled back into a fully-fledged grin. He clapped his hands together, letting out a bark of laughter. "She is gone? Truly? Well, I hope you don't mind my saying so, but I do wish she had chosen to go a day or two earlier. Might have saved me from all this trouble.”

Geta slammed his palms against the bars, the sound ringing throughout the dimly lit room. He observed Macrinus a moment longer before turning to the Praetorians. As much as Geta wanted to torture Macrinus himself, he had other priorities.

"See to him," he spat, "make sure he understands that this is not a laughing matter."

Geta was almost at the foot of the stairs by the time the yelling started. He lingered for a second, waiting for satisfaction to hit, but it did not. Instead his chest felt tight, uncomfortable.

Torturing Macrinus did not bring you back.

Part of him had known Macrinus had no direct hand in your leaving. Geta recalled your shiny, panicked eyes, the wobbly smile you had given him before going to bed. Fear of Macrinus, of others like him, had driven you to do something incredibly reckless.

It was something Geta almost understood - almost. Mostly he was angry and shaken by your absence. Understanding could come after you were returned to his side. For now there was only panic and the faint realization that somehow, at some point, he was going to have to tell his brother.

You spent the rest of the night curled up in the streets, as close to a fire as you dared get without drawing too much attention to yourself. When the sun rose you rose with it, stretching your arms above your head and brushing the dirt from the creases of your tunic.

There was nowhere to go, no-one to see. Aimless, you began to walk. If you stayed in one place too long you were certain the Praetorians would soon stumble upon you. You dragged your feet, kicking up tiny dust clouds as you trod on.

You supposed that eventually you would have to find employment elsewhere. The single pin you had kept would get you a bed for a couple nights as well as a few necessities. It was worth more than that, no doubt, but you would have to downplay it's value in order to avoid suspicion about how you had acquired such a thing.

Your hand drifted up to your hair, brushing against the pin you had buried in it. It would be hard to give it up and you were not ready. You swallowed thickly, barely noticing your own thirst, and continued on.

You stuck to side streets, avoiding the markets and stalls. The Praetorians arrived sooner than you had assumed. At first you were not sure whether they had been sent to look for you but when you saw them stopping merchants and children, grilling them with questions, you knew you had to be more careful.

Every corner you turned there was more of them. You squatted to press your hands into the rough surface of the street, running them over your tunic and eventually your face. Tiny stones stung as they rubbed against your palms but it felt necessary. It was likely they were looking for some fresh faced, well-dressed young woman rather than some rumpled slave.

Hopelessly, you drifted through the side-streets until deciding that it was maybe better to hide in plain sight. You rambled through the marketplace, keeping your body angled firmly away from any passing guards, pretending to examine the merchandise. You got more than a few dirty looks from merchants who probably assumed you were planning on stealing. You made sure to keep your hands in plain sight at all times, lest anyone kick up a fuss.

As the morning trickled by and made way for the afternoon, it became difficult to ignore the hunger brewing in your stomach and the thirst that was beginning to turn your tongue into an immovable object. Several times you thought about stopping, about trading your pin away, but the thought of drinking some untested wine or posca made you sick.

You had not expected this new aversion to liquid and it only served to make your life more difficult. Every time your throat itched with thirst you remembered Caracalla kneeling in front of you, forcing you to empty the contents of your stomach.

I could drink if they were here, you thought, leaning against the side of a building. There would be no need to worry then, because they would not allow any harm to come to you.

With a sigh, you pushed off of the building. You could hear the sound of playing children ahead and followed it, curious. A long time had passed since you had played in the street with your friends as a child. Even then it wasn't something you had been allowed to do often, thanks to your father.

You thought again of the child you might be carrying. What kind of life would they live? Out here, with you, there would be poverty but also joy. You would not be the type of parent your father had been. You imagined yourself as your mother, gentle, reassuring. You missed her now more than ever and mourned over the loss of any advice she may have been able to give.

Your own situation was vastly different to hers but a mother's input could be a valuable thing. You could not imagine how she had lived all those months when you were still small, still fragile. How she had protected you from your fathers quick temper, you did not know.

You imagined your own child and whom they might resemble. Already you felt fiercely protective over a being that may not even exist. A pang of guilt stabbed at your chest as you thought about Geta and Caracalla, distracting yourself with thoughts of what kind of fathers they may have been.

You rounded a corner and almost collided with a running child. Their speed almost took the pair of you to the ground but you managed to steady yourself, the beginning of a smile playing on your lips.

"Sorry!" the child said, offering you an apologetic grin before speeding off.

You watched as he darted about with his friends, playing some game that you had not seen since your own youth. You settled back against a wall and watched, amused.

Palatine Hill was calling you. The emperors were calling you. There was an ache in your bones that was not caused by an ailment that could be cured with medicine.

How had you come to yearn for the two people who you had once feared? You thought back to that day in the kitchens, the way you would have done anything to avoid their attention. Now their eyes were no longer on you and you felt their absence more keenly that anticipated.

The palace had always been a home of sorts. It had kept you fed, clean, clothed. All of that felt like nothing compared to the way you had felt beside the emperors or between them in bed. Fear had given way to something that was, in some ways, scarier.

It was not just fright for your potential child that had made you walk from their room earlier. Only now could you admit it, admit that your own blossoming feelings had sent you reeling and running scared.

How could they not? If you were to admit to how you felt, things would change. You would have to acknowledge that, despite the way they treated those around you, despite the terror they brought upon the citizens of Rome, Caracalla and Geta had clawed their way into your heart so viciously that you were not certain you could remove them without causing yourself physical pain.

"I am a fool," you whispered to yourself, "a selfish fool. Minerva, grant me your wisdom. I need it now, more than before.”

Once again your eyes were drawn to the children. Your hand settled on your stomach again as your mind clouded with thoughts of the emperors.

Geta had said your child would be heir, future emperor or empress of Rome. Maybe it was naive to believe him, but you did.

Geta and Caracalla could be cruel, vicious, despite the tiny changes they had made in the last few months. But your child would not only have them - they would have you.

You knew yourself to be kind, compassionate, empathetic almost to your own detriment. What would Rome be like if she had a ruler with these qualities as well as the necessary strength and decisiveness? A ruler who did not have to fear for their life because they were beloved by their people?

Your mind began to race with hope as you gnawed on your bottom lip. You struggled with trusting your own choices, but something about this felt right.

For once you saw Rome for what she could be, rather than the harsh reality of what she was. You saw yourself with the emperors, safe and content, belly swollen with the future of Rome. Your closed your eyes, let the image sink in. There were countless risks but the rewards were plenty. Not just for you but for Caracalla and Geta. For the people of Rome.

All you had to do was believe that they would protect you and your child. And had they not done that thus far?

You loved Rome for what she was, despite her flaws. You loved your emperors in the same way.

With a shaky breath, you turned and began to make your way back to Palatine Hill. There was no way of telling what reception you would get but you felt certain that you must face it regardless.

Caracalla was disturbingly quiet.

After an hour had passed and there had still been no sign of you, Geta finally told him. Your clothes and jewelry had been discovered not long after and Caracalla sat with them now, fingers opening and closing around the fabric.

Geta had had them brought to Caracalla's rooms where they could discuss you privately. The tale of your escape was slowly unwinding. Your disguise, your lies. Geta had briefly felt mildly impressed; that was, until his focus turned onto ways to make sure you would never be able to do such a thing ever again.

"Macrinus has killed her," Caracalla rasped, "he poisoned her -"

"No, brother," Geta knelt in front of Caracalla, allowing his own fingers to brush your stola. "It was her own terror that made her flee - but she is still here, in the city. She will be back."  

Caracalla rocked back and forth, mouth working furiously as his hands tightened into fists. Geta got to his feet, recognising the signs of an outburst waiting to happen. Geta also wanted to shout and scream - he could not resent his brother for doing so.

When he had awoken in the early hours of the morning he had, at first, been so deliriously happy it made his head spin. He had you by his side and Macrinus in a cell. Then he had felt the space between him and his brother, felt how cold it was, and had felt sick to his stomach.

It had taken five minutes to locate the Praetorian who had gone with you to the infirmary. Like the fool he was, he had still been waiting for you despite nearly three hours having passed. Much confusion had followed and it had taken several more hours to uncover the details of your escape. By that time you could have been miles away - but still in the city. Geta was certain you were still in the city.

The idea that you weren't made his breath short and his palms sweaty so he refused to think about it.

Caracalla shot to his feet, your stola a limp ball of fabric in his fists. "We must execute those who were stupid enough to allow her to slip away - start with that Praetorian! Start executing people and she will certainly return!"

Geta wanted to do just that. He ran his tongue over his pale lips, deep in thought. If there was someway to guarantee you would return, Geta would execute a hundred Praetorians without a second thought.

"There are Praetorians in the city now. I am certain they will return her to us, brother," Geta gripped his brother's forearms and shook him. "The gods will see her safely returned."

Indeed, the man would be dealt with, but Geta had decided on sending him out to look for you instead. His own desperation to keep his life would ensure he did a thorough job.

Caracalla slumped foreword, resting his forehead on Geta's shoulder. "How could she do this? I thought - I thought -"

Geta ran his fingers through Caracalla's hair in what he hoped was a soothing motion. "It has already been done, we need not dwell on it now. If - when - she returns, we will deal with it then."

Macrinus would pay for his part in all of it. His part and more. That was certain.

Geta’s lack of anger towards you had taken him by surprise. All he felt was a frantic desperation to see you, to have you tucked safely at his side. Consequences be damned - you had to be here to face the consequences and you were still nowhere in sight. The afternoon was passing by and you were still not here.

Caracalla let his head fall back, blazing eyes darting around Geta's face. "She will never leave this place again."

Geta laughed, near-hysterical.

“Never,” he agreed, “never.”

A group of Praetorians spotted you once you were within two miles of the palace. You recognised Consus and he, in turn, must have recognised you.

The surrounded you on either side, boxing you in as you walked the rest of the way to the palace. There was a sense of relief in the air but no-one was entirely relaxed. The reaction of the emperors was on the forefront of everyone's mind, you were sure.

You may be punished. You accepted this with your chin held high. Still, you would do your best to explain your feelings and motivations, however rash they seemed. Stomach churning, you marched on and tried to ignore the wobble in your knees.

Maybe you were being entirely too hopeful in thinking they wouldn't physically harm you. No matter how hard you tried to imagine it, you could not see either of them raising a hand with the intent to hurt you. If that was to be your fate, well, then you would deal with it.

For the first time since it had all began, you felt a sense of control. You had chosen to go back. You had been able to see beyond the emperors and get a sense of your own feelings without being distracted by wandering hands and sharp eyes.

The palace winked at you in the setting sun. There was no feeling of impending doom or terror. You felt resolute, ready for whatever may happen after you entered that building.

There had been no plan, no thought out plot to deceive. Only a sense that you had to get away, like a trapped animal gnawing off it's own limb. Your mind had been well and truly clouded. By the attempts on your life, thoughts of an heir, the emperors.

Now you felt as though your mind had had a chance to clear some of the debris from the last few weeks and it had left you wanting. Wanting them.

The Praetorians became tense as you entered the palace. The entire place was on edge, as though it was seconds away from coming apart. It was hard to believe this was your doing. You would address that gnawing feeling of guilt later, after you had righted your wrong.

The Praetorians did not stop. They urged you on, closing in tighter around you as though you might slip away. Their nerves were affecting your own. You ran your tongue over your bottom lip, internally cringing at the dryness you felt. To have your confidence slip from you now would not do.

They took you to a place you had not been before. It was similar to other parts of the palace but you did not recognise it. You stopped at the door, pressing your hand against the intricate carvings and letting the edges bite into your palm. Hesitant, you glanced at the Praetorians.

They shuffled even closer. Leaving again was not a possibility, even if you wanted to. Despite their tough demeanor you could see the pleading in their eyes. You nodded, partially to yourself, and pushed open the door.

The room was an office, smaller and more formal than the one in the emperors' chambers. The desk sat on a slightly raised platform and was decorated with objects, many of which you had never seen before. The most interesting was a globe, golden and polished in the sun that was streaming into the room from the huge window behind the desk.

Geta stood there, alone.

His back was to you but you knew he was aware of you. You could see it in the hunch of his shoulders, the way his thumb was rapidly swiping back and forth over the cup he was holding. You swallowed and it was audible in the still room.

Finally, Geta turned to face you. His face was white with layers of make-up, already dark eyes smeared with kohl. The colour contrasted with the red of his eyes. This was how you had always pictured him, before you had ever gotten close enough to see what was beneath.

"Explain."

You wove your fingers together and tried not to make it look like the nervous gesture that it was. His lips were pale, bloodless, and you levelled your eyes on them as you began to speak.

"I had never considered what it is, what it really is, to be emperor," you admitted. "Not until that man tried to kill me and even then - I thought only of myself and why it was happening to me."

Geta was listening intently. You took it as a sign to continue.

"Then, there was the mention of an heir, and I became aware of the fact that I would have to guard more than just my own life," you blinked hard, letting the words spill out. "I thought I could live with people wanting to kill me - but people wanting to kill my child -"

Geta set his cup down. "You were worried for the life of our child? A child that we cannot even be sure you are carrying?"

"Not just that," you raised your hands, "but you and Caracalla! I am aware that there have been attempts on your lives before but it seemed that my presence was spurring these people on. If they could get to me, they may have been able to get to you!"

Geta pressed a hand to his forehead and began to laugh bitterly. "You have no idea the pain you have caused today, and to say that you did it because of us? It is difficult to believe."

"It is the truth," you said stiffly. "I left because I - I love you. I came back for the same reason."

The words sat heavy in the room. Instantly you wanted to take them back, scoop them up and swallow them and let them marinate inside you a while longer. They felt too fresh, too raw, and you wanted to protect them for just a bit longer. You kept your eyes trained on the floor, mortified at your own forthcomingness.

The sound of draws opening and closing piqued your interest but you could not bring yourself to look up. Only when Geta's feet appeared in your eyeline did you dare to life your eyes from the floor.

He held out his hands and you gasped. In each one was a perfectly carved child, petite and mischievous. You recognised them immediately. Romulus and Remus.

"I had these made," Geta said quietly, "after I saw that old carving you have been carrying around all these years. It was a wolf, was it not? I thought you might appreciate these additions."

You could hardly speak. That day felt so long ago now but you remembered the way your wolf had clattered to the floor, the way Geta had snatched it up and examined it with curious eyes. You had been embarrassed to see him handle your tattered old toy.

You reached out to touch them but Geta pulled back, nostrils flaring. "If you accept them now, you cannot take it back. They will be yours and you - you must not abandon them. Ever. No matter how good you believe your reasoning to be."

Your lashes fluttered against your cheek. "I would never."

You held out your hands and let Geta place the children into them. He closed his fingers over yours and squeezed tight until the pain was almost too much. You did not pull away.

He pulled you close until your chest was pressed against his. "You have been unimaginably reckless and there will be consequences."

You did not have it in you to be scared anymore. "I understand."

"Those will come later," he said, staring down at you. "You love me?"

"I do," you breathed.

Geta brushed his nose against yours. "I shall have you say it a thousand times. As punishment."

"I shall take this punishment without complaint," you offered a tentative smile.

"As you should," Geta pinched your waist. "I love you. There, it is not such a difficult task."

You pulled away, clutching the carvings to your chest. You could practically feel your eyes shining. Geta's eyebrows scrunched together as he observed your disheveled appearance. He poured you a cup of wine and you drank it gladly, hardly even pausing to consider the danger.

"Drink it all," he instructed, "and then you must see my brother."

Authors Note - hint: he wasn’t just talking about the carvings.

For those who think Reader got off lightly - it’s not over yet. Rough makeup sex anyone? And she is also about to have guards practically wedged up her ass and will never spend a moment alone again ever ever ever

Geta is also just happy that Reader came back - especially since she did it by her own choice. This might build trust for normal people but he’s content to just make sure it neverrrr happens again

Please reblog, comment, like, etc! I struggled with this chapter and support is what truly motivates me ♥️

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[bytemee]

crying on stream (not clickbait) — yu jimin.

synopsis. you really need to stop playing random horrors at 2 am.

pairing. karina x gn!streamer!reader

warning(s). reader cries at a horror game, emotional support gf karina, this is so silly and sweet, let me know if there's more

words. 639

authors note. 1/2 drafts im posting tn before all the freaky stuff and angst floods my page. this is also based off this tiktok i saw

masterlist. navigation.

you had no idea why you thought playing a horror game at 2 a.m. was a good idea—especially with karina asleep in the next room. but here you were, curled up in your chair, gripping your keyboard like your life depended on it. your chat was loving every second, spamming laughing emojis and "you're so cooked" messages.

then, it happened.

the door behind your character slammed shut. the screen flickered. a deep, guttural noise rumbled through your headphones.

you froze. your breath caught in your throat, hands hovering over the controls, but you could not bring yourself to move.

"no, no, no, no, no..." you whispered, barely making a sound.

username LMAOOO YOU'RE SO DONE username WHY AREN'T YOU MOVING HELLO?? username NAH THIS IS BAD 😂

your fingers twitched over the keys, but before you could even think about getting out—

the screen went completely black.

your headphones crackled. a distorted whisper slithered through the speakers, low and scratchy, like something breathing right into your ear. then, for half a second, the lights in the game flickered back on—

the killer was right behind you.

you slammed the pause button.

your whole body locked up, muscles so tight it felt like you might pass out. chat was going insane, but their messages barely registered.

you couldn't scream. not with karina asleep. you couldn't even let out a proper gasp.

instead, a quiet sob slipped out before you could stop it.

you pressed a hand over your mouth, shoulders shaking as you tried to breathe. tears welled up, but you blinked fast, trying to keep yourself together.

username ARE YOU CRYING BRO?? username NAH THIS GAME REALLY BROKE THEM username this is so sad but funny at the same time 😭😭😭

after a few deep breaths, you forced yourself to unpause.

you needed to get out.

with shaky hands, you turned the lights back on, unlocked the door, and ran. the second you stepped out of that room, you ripped your hands off the keyboard, dropping them into your lap as a deep exhale left you. a few stray tears slipped down your face, and you wiped them away, sniffling.

"oh my god," you muttered, still feeling the adrenaline in your veins.

then—

a tap on your shoulder.

you screamed.

the fear you'd been barely holding in came crashing down all at once. you flinched so hard your chair almost tipped over, another choked sob slipping out as you panicked.

your chat lost their minds.

username HELPPPP username THAT WAS NOT THE GAME?? username DID Y'ALL SEE THEIR SOUL LEAVE THEIR BODY username I THINK THEY JUST DIED IRL

then came the worst part—a soft, familiar laugh.

your head snapped to the side, eyes wide as you saw karina standing there, looking impossibly amused despite being fresh out of sleep. dress in your an oversized hoodie, her hair a little messy, she smiled at you before shaking her head.

"you're so dramatic," she whispered, barely containing her giggles.

you didn't even have the energy to argue. Without thinking, you reached for her, pulling her into a hug off-camera. she easily melted into you, wrapping her arms around your shoulders and resting her chin on your head.

username WHO IS THAT???? 😳

username WE CAN SEE THE SHADOW WTF username THE WAY THEY JUST WENT SILENT TO HUG THE AIR LIKE BFFR

karina ran her hand up and down your back, pressing a soft kiss to your temple before whispering, "you okay?"

you nodded against her shoulder. "i hate this game."

she snorted. "then stop playing horror games at night, hm?"

you sniffled. "never."

she sighed, but she didn't let go. for a while, you just stayed there—holding onto her, ignoring chat's growing curiosity, letting your heartbeat finally slow down. eventually, she whispered, "wanna sleep now?"

you exhaled. "yeah."

with a final squeeze, she pulled back and grabbed your hand, and you turned back to your stream, rubbing your eyes before clearing your throat.

"alright, chat," you muttered, voice still wobbly. "i'm ending stream. i need therapy."

the last thing chat saw before you disconnected was your teary eyes, ruffled hair, and hand out of frame, fingers curled like you were holding onto something—someone.

then, you were gone.

[monstersholygrail]

i love tiger bf and deer reader 🫶😩

AWE OMG thank youuuu, I’m so glad!!!

Literally am so happy about all the love they’ve gotten. I’ve been wanting to write more for them for weeeeks. But I haven’t gotten any good ideas for fics :((. They’re such a fun and cute pair and deserve more!

Tiger Hybrid bf is just such a grumpy cat. He’s mean to everyone except for you, his sweet Deer Hybrid. His lil doe. He can’t find it in himself to ever be mean to your sweet face. Just melting for you like a cat in the sun.

Of course, you like it when he’s a little mean in the bedroom. But there it’s like his instincts take over and he can’t help himself, pouncing on you like the prey you are. Relishing in the way you submit for him. It brings you both a special kind of release that sends tingles down your spine.

But the minute he’s finished working you both through your orgasms, his prey instincts get replaced with his protective instincts. He curls around your plush body, arms drawing you into him. There’s nowhere safer than in his arms and he doesn’t plan to let you out of ‘em.

He’ll worship you day and night without stop. Of course he’d rather perish in a fight to the death than admit it to you. It isn’t hard to tell though as when he’s not worshipping your body and giving you one explosive orgasm after the next, he’s kneading at your soft belly, purring lowly into your neck. He can’t get enough of your soft squishy body and you’ve never felt more cherished and desired in your life.

You and your Tiger Hybrid bf are just the absolute cutest, I cannot!!

[newtonsapfel]

I love their dynamic so much. They did that for each other when they were fractured differently - them coming to terms with the aftermath of the spiderqueen's crown, them carrying each others secrets readily, "No debts between us.". They have never been whole, there have always been fractures in each of them, and they have always looked out for each other. And I love them for it. Them carefully holding each other close, helping the other piece themselves back together without expecting the scars to vanish, but instead carefully helping seal them - like Kintsugi, making the breaks a beatiful, important part to understand the whole.

Something about Dorym to me is that they are fragile. And I don't mean their bond or their love or relationship being brittle. It's the fact that they are broken and hurt but they care so much for each other. They are soft. They are glass but their touch is gentle and they heal and they know how to mend broken pieces. Their love is a bright, beautiful flame that they carry between their closed fingers. It's hard to let the darkness in but they do it carefully and slowly. Together. And I really appreciate Dorian pointing out that he cannot yet say it was all worth it, because the pain is still an open bleeding wound. But he knows Orym will tend to it the way he did for him. He has always trusted in him. Only they know each other's every edge and chipped piece.

[ot8xbangchansgirlsblog]

𝕎𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕕𝕠 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕞𝕖𝕒𝕟?

part one

Warning: Angst, cursing, Tired reader, really clingy Felix.

Summary: Y/n's exhausted and slowly breaking down.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Today was one of those mentally off days. Y/n’s body felt like it was on autopilot, moving without her full control. Every step she took seemed harder than the last, her mind foggy and clouded by exhaustion. Her stomach churned from the overdose of caffeine that had only made her feel worse, mixing with the emptiness of not eating anything all day. Her skin had lost its usual warmth, now pale and clammy, drenched in sweat as the lack of sleep began to hit its peak. It was a feeling she knew all too well, but one that still managed to knock her out every time.

She barely heard her manager’s voice through the haze, his words distant as he waved his hand in front of her face. “Y/n, are you listening?”

She flinched, her heart racing as the sound of his voice jerked her from the haze. Her eyes focused on him, trying to piece everything together. “Uh… what?” she mumbled, blinking in confusion, her brain struggling to catch up.

Her manager sighed but gave her a soft, understanding smile, though there was a hint of impatience there. “Oh right… I finished filing the documents you asked me to—”

“Great!” he interrupted, raising an eyebrow, his tone lighter now as he leaned forward. “Can you just go over them again and make sure there aren’t any mistakes?”

Y/n mentally groaned, the thought of reviewing pages of fine print when her head felt like it was splitting open. But she knew the importance. She couldn't afford to mess anything up.

He really was a sweet man—kind, professional, and understanding. It wasn’t his fault that they were all running on fumes. But the reality was, some idiot had royally messed up one of the key projects they were set to present. It had thrown everything off course, and now everyone was scrambling, working endless hours to catch up with the other departments that had their shit together.

“Yeah, sure. I’ll get started right now,” she said softly, the words almost coming out as a whisper. She blinked a few times, gathering the willpower to lift herself from her chair. “May I be excused?”

Her manager gave her a soft smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Of course, dear. Thank you so much for your hard work.” He hesitated for a moment, his gaze softening as he looked at her. “I really do appreciate it, more than you know.”

Y/n nodded, trying to hide the fatigue creeping into her bones. Before she could leave, he stopped her, holding out his wallet and pulling out his company card. “Here, take this,” he said gently. “Get yourself some dinner... well, technically breakfast.” He glanced at his watch, a guilty laugh escaping him when he realized it was already 3 AM. “You really don’t have to, but I can’t stand seeing you like this.”

She took the card hesitantly, his concern evident in his eyes. “You really don’t have to, sir. But… thank you.” Her lips curved into a tired but genuine smile, her mood shifting slightly, softened by his kindness.

He gave her a reassuring smile, watching as she stood, her shoulders heavy with the weight of the night’s work. "You deserve it, Y/n. Get some rest when you can, okay?" She nodded, grateful, and walked out of the office, the card tucked into her pocket.

It was around 4:30 AM when Y/n's phone vibrated softly on the desk. She glanced at the screen, seeing Chan’s name light up. His call was a relief in the quiet, late hours of her work shift.

“Baby?” His voice sounded husky, still laced with the grogginess of just waking up. His tone carried a trace of concern.

“Hey, Channie,” Y/n said sweetly, though her voice wavered from exhaustion. Her eyelids fluttered in an attempt to stay open as she balanced the phone between her shoulder and ear, all while continuing to work.

“Hey, where are you? It’s 4 AM…” Chan's words came out in a small panic. Y/n could tell he was still trying to shake off sleep, his voice deepening with worry.

“I’m sorry, babe, I’m still at work,” Y/n sighed, turning a page in her file while typing something up. She clicked a few buttons on her laptop before glancing out the window. The city streets were silent, the world wrapped in a peaceful stillness that seemed a world apart from her busy desk. “Mr. Ji asked me to finish something quickly... I'll be home in a bit, I promise.”

Chan let out a frustrated groan, but his voice softened. “Still at work? Baby, it’s 4 AM. Come home already.” There was a slight panic in his tone now. He shifted under the covers, careful not to wake up Han, who had been nestled against him the entire night. The warmth of his touch was still fresh on his skin, but his concern for her outweighed any desire to stay in bed.

“Yeah... I know, I’m sorry. But Mr. Ji is being really worried about this project,” she explained, the guilt in her chest growing heavier with every word. She didn’t want to add more to his plate. “I’ll be done soon. I’ll be home before you know it.”

There was a pause, followed by Chan’s soft, frustrated sigh. “I can come pick you up right now…” His voice was filled with worry. “You don’t have to be out so late by yourself.”

“No, babe—” Y/n interrupted gently, “it’s way too late, and you have practice in an hour and a half. Get some rest, okay? I’ll be home soon.” She spoke with a calmness she didn’t entirely feel, trying her best to soothe him.

Chan’s frown deepened, even though she couldn’t see it. “Who’s going to drop you off? You shouldn’t be out at this hour alone. It’s not safe…”

“I’ll ask Yi-so Unnie to drop me off,” Y/n reassured him, trying to sound convincing. “She’ll take me home. Don’t worry, please? Just go back to sleep.”

There was a long silence, and Y/n could almost hear his internal battle. Finally, with a resigned sigh, Chan let out a quiet, “Okay... just call me if you need anything, alright?”

“I promise,” Y/n said softly, a smile tugging at her lips despite the weight of the moment. She felt the stress melting a little with each reassuring word. “How are my boys?”

“They’re good, all asleep,” Chan replied, his voice lighter now. He’d finally crawled back into bed, pulling Han back into his arms, the warmth and comfort of his body providing a sense of peace. He closed his eyes, feeling the tension in his shoulders slowly ease.

"Felix is mad at you," Chan said, chuckling lightly, his tone teasing yet knowing. Y/n furrowed her brow. Chan knew all too well how dramatic Felix had been these past few days, sulking about how little time Y/n had been able to spend with him due to her hectic schedule.

Y/n sighed, leaning back in her chair, and pinching the bridge of her nose. "I know, I know," she muttered, clearly exhausted herself. "Is he sleeping with you?" she asked, her voice carrying a hint of concern, though there was a small smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. Felix always slept with her every night, curling up beside her for comfort and companionship. Her long nights at the office had clearly been taking a toll on him, and that made her feel a pang of guilt.

Chan chuckled softly, shaking his head. "No, he's with Changbin," he replied, his voice still laced with a tired yawn. He stretched his arms overhead, the exhaustion evident in the way his shoulders slumped.

Y/n’s frown deepened slightly, the guilt gnawing at her as she glanced over at the clock on the wall. "I really need to wrap this up," she murmured more to herself than to Chan. It was late, and she knew Felix would be waiting for her, feeling abandoned.

"He'll survive," he said, teasing again, though there was a comforting warmth in his voice. "But maybe just send him a text before you come home, so he knows you haven’t forgotten him completely."

Y/n gave him a small, grateful smile. "I will," she promised softly, though her mind was already on the long to-do list she still had to get through. The work would never stop, but neither could her relationship with Felix—she just hoped he understood.

“I’m glad to hear that. See you soon, my love,” Y/n replied, her heart aching as she imagined him lying next to Han.

“Did you eat something?” His voice was soft, his eyes growing heavy with sleep again.

“Yeah, baby,” Y/n responded, a tiny lie slipping past her lips. “Get some rest. You sound exhausted. I love you.”

“I love you too,” Chan murmured, his voice growing quieter. He drifted back into sleep, the call fading into silence.

Y/n smiled as she quickly hung up, her gaze drifting back to the screen. But the guilt still gnawed at her—she was only halfway through her work, and the night was far from over.

It was now 5:20 AM, and Y/n was almost done with her work. The office was quiet, save for the soft hum of her computer. She was confident she’d be wrapped up by 5:45. Letting out a loud yawn, she stretched her arms overhead before grabbing her coffee cup. The bitter taste jolted her awake, though only slightly.

"Hey, neighbor," came a familiar voice. Hae, one of her co-workers, knocked lightly on the office door before pushing it open. "Hey, love," Y/n greeted with a tired smile, her eyes flickering up from the pile of papers she was working through. "Are you done with work?"

"Almost," Hae replied, swinging herself into the office chair with a casual stretch. "Are you?"

"Yeah," Y/n groaned, rubbing her face and flipping a page in her book. "I’m so tired. I can’t wait to get out of here."

"Same here," Hae agreed with a dramatic sigh, flopping back in her chair. "So, once we’re done, wanna grab breakfast? We don’t have to be back until 8 anyway." She rolled her eyes at the thought of getting only a few hours of sleep.

Y/n laughed softly. "Yeah, sure. Mr. Ji gave me the company card, so we can go get something to eat."

"Great!" Hae beamed, standing up from the chair with a bounce in her step. "See you in a bit." She waved and stepped out of the room, leaving Y/n chuckling at how adorable she was.

The moment Hae was out of sight, Y/n’s focus returned to the computer screen in front of her, but not for long. Her phone vibrated on the desk, and without looking, she picked it up. It was one of her boyfriends, likely Changbin.

"Hey, bunny," Changbin's voice came through the phone. She could hear the sound of him rattling around in the kitchen, probably making his usual protein shake. "Where are you? Did you head out for work already?"

"Hey, baby," Y/n sighed, leaning back in her chair. "I didn’t come home last night. I’m still at work."

“What? You didn’t come home?” Changbin’s voice was filled with concern. “Why? That’s so unhealthy.”

She winced, knowing what was coming. "Yeah, but remember how I told you we’re behind because of one of my coworkers?”

"Yeah, I remember..." His voice softened, but she could tell he was holding back his irritation.

“Binnie, be nice,” Y/n scolded, cutting him off before he could say something sharp. "We’re almost done, though. Just a bit longer."

He exhaled loudly. "But you’ve been coming home really late these past few days, going to work really early. You barely eat and you're practically running on coffee. We’ve barely seen you.” He pouted, even though Y/n couldn’t see it. She could hear the concern in his voice, though.

“I know. I know,” Y/n whispered, feeling her chest tighten. She was trying so hard to stay composed, but the weight of everything was getting to her. The constant pressure, the long hours—she was on the verge of breaking down. "I’m just...really tired."

There was a pause on the other end before Changbin let out a sigh. "I’m heading to the gym right now, but I’ll swing by and drop off your jacket. You need anything?"

Y/n shook her head, even though he couldn’t see it. "Don’t bother. I’m leaving the office now. You’ll probably find me home." She tried to sound nonchalant, but her voice was tight, like a rubber band stretched too thin.

“Are you sure?” Changbin asked, his voice laced with worry. "I can grab you something to eat, too, if you need it."

"No, it’s okay," Y/n quickly dismissed him, trying to push back the feelings welling up in her chest. "I’m leaving soon. Go work out. I’ll be home before you know it."

"Okay..." Changbin’s voice was defeated, but he didn’t push her any further. "I love you. Call me if you need anything, alright?"

"I will. I love you too." Y/n's words came out a little too quickly, but she needed him to hang up. Her head was starting to ache, and she couldn’t bear to talk much longer. She pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to fight back the tears that threatened to spill over. "Bye, my love."

She hung up, her fingers trembling slightly as she set the phone down. For a moment, she just sat there in silence, the office lights buzzing overhead. She closed her eyes for a beat, trying to steady her breathing, but the tension was too much. It was too much.

"Finally," Y/n huffed, letting the tension leave her shoulders as she stood in the empty office, basking in the quiet after a long day of work. She had managed to finish everything in time and turned in all the reports. She finally felt like she could breathe. "Hey, neighbor, you finished?" Hae's voice cut through the stillness as she leaned casually against the doorframe. She was already wearing her coat, a small bag slung over her shoulder, ready to head out.

"Yeah, just handed everything in," Y/n said with a relieved smile. "Lemme grab my stuff and we can go."

As she tossed a few stray papers into her bag and pulled on her coat, Hae lingered in the doorway, trying to make small talk. "It’s quite chill outside," she noted, shoving her hands into her pockets.

"Yeah," Y/n chuckled, the image of her boyfriend popping into her mind. "My boyfriend wanted to bring me another jacket just because it’s so cold."

Hae raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Aww, that’s sweet. How are they, by the way?"

"They're good," Y/n said with a soft laugh. "Probably really mad I didn’t come home. I kind of...forgot to charge my phone." She cursed under her breath as she fumbled with her dead phone. "Great timing, huh?"

"I've got a charger," Hae offered with a grin, pulling out a cord from her bag. "We can charge it at the cafe."

"Thanks," Y/n said, gratefully accepting the charger and slipping her phone back into her bag. She locked her office door and followed Hae out into the chilly evening air.

After they grabbed a quick breakfast at the cafe, they parted ways. Y/n didn’t realize until she was on her way home that she had completely forgotten to charge her phone after all. The day had already begun for most people, but for her, it was time to sleep.

When she arrived at the house, she could hear footsteps echoing through the halls, indicating that everyone was getting ready for their schedules. Y/n sighed softly, pushing her tired body to unlock the door. She stepped inside, shedding her shoes and coat, and called out, "I’m home!"

Her feet dragged on the floor as she made her way through the house, exhaustion pulling at every step. "Babe?" Leeknow's voice came from the kitchen, and he appeared in the doorway. Dressed in sweatpants, a hoodie, and a cap, he looked comfortable but clearly concerned as he rushed over to her.

"Why weren’t you answering our calls?" He asked, pulling her into a warm hug, his worry evident in his voice.

"My phone died, my love. I totally forgot to charge it," she explained softly, resting her head on his chest. "Are you good? Did you sleep well?" she asked, planting a soft kiss on his lips.

"Yeah, I did," he replied, brushing a hand gently through her hair. "But you, you're burning up," he frowned, his palm coming to rest on her forehead. "Are you sick?"

"No, just really tired," she yawned, fighting to stay awake as her body screamed for rest.

"Okay, go wash up and get into bed. I’ll make you some warm hot chocolate," he cooed, guiding her toward the stairs with gentle hands.

"I just had breakfast, baby. Just get ready for work. I promise I’m okay, I just need to recharge before going back in," she reassured him, giving him one more soft kiss on the lips. "Go on, I’ll be fine."

Leeknow looked at her with concern, rubbing her cheek with his thumb. "O-okay... but I’ll come check on you before I leave, yeah?"

Y/n nodded, offering him a tired smile, before slowly making her way up the stairs, feeling his eyes follow her every step. His worry gnawed at him as he watched her sluggish movements, but he didn’t say anything.

Upstairs, the house was busy with everyone getting ready for the day. Y/n managed to sneak past everyone and into her room, where she quickly washed up and changed into something more comfortable. She turned off the lights, allowing herself to collapse into her cozy bed. A sigh of relief left her lips as she curled up, closing her eyes and letting the weight of the day melt away. The sound of the house buzzing with activity was drowned out as she finally allowed herself to fall into a deep, well-deserved sleep.

20 minutes hadn’t even passed by when suddenly her door opened and closed. She was too tired to open her eyes to see how it was but she could tell by the persons cologne.

Her blanket shifted, the soft fabric sliding off as Felix’s body pressed against hers, seeking warmth. His small sniffles reached her ears as he nestled closer, his head resting against her chest. "Y/nnie?" he mumbled, his voice thick with something between sleepiness and sadness.

Y/N’s eyelids fluttered open slowly, the hazy room coming into focus. She blinked once, twice, before realizing Felix was right there, pouting, his soft features contorted with a mixture of discomfort and longing. He wrapped his arms around her waist, his hands cold against her skin as he nuzzled his head under her chin, snuggling into the crook of her neck.

"Hey, babyboy, what’s wrong?" she murmured softly, her voice thick with the grogginess of sleep. Without even thinking, her hand instinctively moved to stroke his arm, soothing him with gentle touches. She threaded her fingers through his tousled blonde hair, the faint scent of his shampoo mixing with the warmth of his body.

Felix let out a soft whimper, his voice muffled against her skin. "You didn’t cuddle with me last night..." His words were laced with an almost childlike sadness, his lower lip protruding in a small, endearing pout.

Y/N’s heart tugged, and she felt a wave of guilt rush over her. Felix always craved her attention, often joking about it, but tonight was different. He needed her, and she hadn't been there. "I’m sorry, Lix," she whispered, her fingers brushing through his hair again. "I had so much work to do. It was a long night…"

"I know, but still…" His voice faltered, and he tightened his hold around her waist, his body curling further into hers, as if trying to get as close as physically possible. "You’ve been working so much. You don’t even have time for me anymore."

The guilt in her chest tightened. Felix was right. He was always by her side, but recently, the overwhelming weight of her responsibilities had kept them apart. "Baby," she started, her voice low, "I'm really sorry. It wasn’t intentional."

Felix looked up at her with big, wide eyes, his brow furrowed in that familiar, pouty expression she knew too well. His voice wavered, vulnerable. "But… I don’t get it, Y/N. You’re always with Han and everyone else. When it’s my turn… I’m always the last one."

She felt her chest tighten at his words. This wasn’t how she had intended for him to feel, but exhaustion clouded her thoughts, making it hard to communicate. "Sunshine," she interrupted gently, her tone more fatigued than she intended. "Can we talk later? I’m just so tired right now."

Felix’s face shifted, a flash of hurt crossing his features. "Fine. If you don’t love me anymore, just say that. You’re always laying up with Han and the rest, and when it comes to me, you just ignore me…" His voice cracked as he pulled away from her, slipping out of her grip. His body shifted away as he sat up, the room feeling much colder without him against her.

"Felix, it’s not like that," Y/N protested, frustration rising as she tried to reach for him, her tiredness now turning into worry. "I promise, I do love you. I just—"

"Whatever," he muttered, his tone sharp now, tinged with bitterness. He stood up, pacing away from her bed. "You don’t get it, Y/N. You’ve been too busy for me. I’m not going to sit here and beg for your attention anymore."

"Please, Lix," Y/N pleaded softly, trying to push herself up from the bed, but her body felt like lead, heavy with exhaustion. "I’ve been up all night, but I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m sorry."

Felix turned to her, his back facing her as he stood by the door, frustration radiating off him. "I get it, okay? You’ve got a million things on your plate. But it’s fine. It’s whatever." His words dripped with resentment, his shoulders slumping as if the weight of the conversation had drained him.

Y/N’s heart sank as she watched him storm out of the room, the door shutting behind him with a soft thud. She sank back into her bed, her mind reeling with guilt and exhaustion.

She hadn't wanted things to get like this, but as she lay there, her eyelids fluttering shut again, she couldn’t help but wonder if the rift between them had gotten too wide to fix with just a few apologies.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Don't forget to reblog and follow! <3

A/N: Thank you anon!

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[goldfades]

i miss baby hayes joe and reader so bad but do you think you can do a quick little blurb of hayes saying “ mama “ for the first time?

i missed them sm too!!! here's a little blurb babe, new fics are coming soon i promise!

It had been the ongoing debate in the Burrow household for weeks now. A friendly, but very serious bet between you and Joe—who would Hayes say first, "Mama" or "Dada"?

Joe, ever the competitor, was convinced it would be Dada. "I mean, c’mon, babe," he’d said one night, sprawled out on the couch with Hayes tucked into his chest. "I’m with him all the time. He watches me throw a football around, he hears everyone call me ‘Joe’—‘Dada’ just makes sense."

You had snorted. "First of all, I am also with him all the time. Secondly, I carried him for nine months. He literally owes me."

Joe had laughed, all smug and sure of himself, and that’s when the bet was made. No money involved—just bragging rights. The ultimate I told you so.

And now, here you were, on an otherwise uneventful Tuesday evening, sitting cross-legged on the floor of the nursery while Joe lounged on the rocking chair, tossing a small plush football in the air, Hayes babbling away in the middle of the room, completely unaware that his first clear word was about to decide a war between his parents.

"Alright, buddy," Joe leaned forward, setting the football down as he patted his hands against his knees. "C’mon, let’s say it. Say ‘Dada’—you can do it."

You rolled your eyes. "Not fair, you’re coaching him."

Joe smirked. "It’s called encouragement, honey. Ever heard of it?"

You ignored him, scooting a little closer to Hayes, who was entirely focused on a little wooden ring toy in front of him, his chubby fingers gripping at it like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

"Hayes," you said softly, tapping a finger against the carpet to get his attention. His big, Joe-blue eyes flicked up to you, and your heart melted just like it did every single time. "Say ‘Mama.’ You can do it, baby. Say ‘Mama.’"

Joe scoffed. "That’s literally the same thing I just did."

"Yeah, but when I do it, it’s cute."

Hayes looked between the two of you, his gaze bouncing back and forth, his little brain clearly working through something. And then—

"Mama."

The room went silent.

Your mouth parted, heart stopping in your chest, and you swore you could hear the sound of Joe’s soul leaving his body.

Hayes blinked up at you, completely innocent to the life-altering moment he had just caused. Then, like he could sense your excitement, he grinned, bouncing slightly where he sat, saying it again—

"Mama! Mama!"

You gasped, hands flying to your face as you turned to Joe, wide-eyed, victorious.

Joe, meanwhile, looked absolutely betrayed. Like his best friend had just stabbed him in the back. Like he had just lost the Super Bowl.

"You’ve gotta be kidding me," he muttered, scrubbing a hand down his face.

You beamed, reaching out to scoop Hayes into your arms, peppering kisses all over his chubby little cheeks. "That’s right, baby! Mama! Oh, you’re so smart, my sweet boy!"

Joe shook his head in pure disbelief, letting out a deep sigh as he stood up, hands on his hips. "Unreal. After everything I’ve done for you, man? You’re a traitor."

Hayes just giggled, completely oblivious, and you could not stop smiling.

"Guess what, baby?" you teased, flashing Joe the smuggest grin known to mankind.

Joe pinched the bridge of his nose. "I don’t want to hear it."

You leaned in closer, still holding Hayes tight. "I told you so."

Joe groaned, dramatically flopping onto the carpet beside you, rubbing his hands over his face before peeking up at Hayes. "You wound me, little man. Thought we were teammates."

You just laughed, running a hand through Joe’s hair, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. "Better luck next time, Dada."

[megalony]

Undo What's Done

This is a new Emperor Geta imagine I had an idea for, I hope you will all like it.

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Summary: (Y/n) and Geta have always known they were betrothed to each other, and their love bound them too. When (Y/n) becomes pregnant before marriage, Geta asks his father to arrange their marriage sooner. But the Emperor is sadistic and puts (Y/n) and her unborn child in jeopardy.

(Set before the twins become Emperors)

I am hoping to make this into a little series.

Enjoy.

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"My lady."

A tender smile flushed (Y/n)'s features when Geta brought her hand to his lips. The kiss he placed there was soft and tender, almost like the brush of a petal against her skin, so light that (Y/n) almost thought she'd imagined the touch.

She liked the way his eyes seemed to darken when they dragged up and down her frame like he was drinking in every inch of her. He always seemed to look at her in the same way. Whenever they were permitted to be in each other's company like this, Geta always had that sense of longing in his eyes, he always seemed to have an underlying desire hidden away in those eyes that only came out when he was in (Y/n)'s company.

He didn't seem to want to release her hand. His thumb stroked over the back of her fingers and his head inclined to one side as he straightened up in front of her.

Geta allowed his eyes to divert towards the maid stood a good few feet away from them on the path. It wasn't the same maid who usually accompanied them when they were permitted to meet.

Usually (Y/n) had a stout, stern governess who hovered so close she became a shadow, an omen looming over (Y/n), warding off anyone who dared look at her. She always glared at Geta as if he was somehow improper or unruly or as if she didn't know who he was. He didn't like her. He could barely talk to (Y/n) when the governess was lingering so close by.

This new maid seemed to understand the basic rules of ettiquette. She didn't hover too close to intrude on their conversation, she didn't want to walk beside them as if she were one of them or had their status. She was lingering in the background, walking behind them to give the sense of propriety that was required, but nothing more.

"Shall we?"

(Y/n) nodded, trying to bite back her eagerness as she looped her hand through Geta's elbow and let him lead the way.

She didn't have to turn her head to know her maid was following dutifully behind them, this time at a distance rather than what her usual governess would do.

It would be improper if (Y/n) and Geta were allowed to meet alone without a chaperone. Despite Caracalla being here for this visit and now walking alongside his twin, he wasn't classed as a chaperone because he was their age, and he was a boy. (Y/n) was the daughter of a Senate, she couldn't be alone with any boy or man, no matter who they were, she had to be escorted and chaperoned to ensure nothing untoward happened.

"How have you both been?" (Y/n) jangled the bracelet on her wrist and moved her hand to rest on Geta's forearm.

Her eyes danced between him and his brother stood on his other side, watching the twins express matching smiles and share a look before they glanced back to her. It wasn't often that (Y/n) got to be in Caracalla's presence too, unless they were all at a ceremony or with all the Senates.

When (Y/n) and Geta met, they only had a chaperone. It was nice to be around both Princes for a change.

"We've been training."

"You've been training, I don't find it very enticing." Caracalla corrected while his head lolled from left to right and he began tenderly plucking the petals from the flower in his hand.

He didn't like training, it was too controlling and strict. When he held a sword, he liked to wield it however he chose and plan an attack in his own way rather than following some old crone's orders. And he didn't like it when Geta was instantly much better at something than him. Neither of them had paid much attention to their studies unless it was of countries and war, and they were well read, but they didn't spend lots of time reading.

Their interests lay outside of books and sword training in the great hall.

"And you?"

"Mother has me brushing up on my Latin." (Y/n) didn't mind her studies, and she loved reading, one of the things that differed between her and Geta.

She leaned her head on Geta's shoulder as they continued walking and a flowing conversation enraptured around the three of them. These were the moments (Y/n) longed for. In between studies and her parents hosting dinners and parties, there wasn't a lot that (Y/n) found her own sense of pleasure in and she didn't have a lot to look forward to.

But these meetings with Geta, the time she got to spend with him, whether that be over lunch or going for walks or simply wandering the palace when she was permitted to visit, these were what (Y/n) longed for. These were what got her through her studies and kept her going each day.

They were both waiting for the day they would be married.

It wasn't often that anyone betrothed to another found a genuine likeness and love for the person they were joined to.

(Y/n) and Geta had been betrothed since they were children. At first, it hadn't been decided which Prince (Y/n) would be joined with. Not until the twins were nine and it was decided that she would be suited with Geta.

Since that age, they had seen each other at dinners, they went out on horse rides together and met when (Y/n) was brought along to the palace, since her father was a Senate.

They had found themselves falling for each other and (Y/n) couldn't have been more relieved that the person she was to spend her life with was someone she loved. There was nothing worse in her mind than marrying a man she didn't love. It posed the risk of a dull or sorrowful life and (Y/n) absolutely dreaded the thought of being in a loveless marriage and finding love with another who she would never be fated to be with.

She knew she was lucky, far luckier than most of the people in Rome and those who were in her position. Women were married to the best suitor and simply told to go along with it. She knew her own parents weren't in love, they had grown accustomed together and got along, but it wasn't love. It wasn't what (Y/n) and Geta had and they weren't even married yet.

"This way."

(Y/n) glanced her head to look behind her when Geta suddenly tugged on her wrist and pulled her a few feet back until they were safely hidden behind a hedge.

Somewhere along the way, Caracalla became distracted and was chittering away to himself as he admired some of the statues in the garden. And (Y/n) noticed her maid had taken a seat on the marble bench along the path. She too seemed to be lost in her mind as she began to read the book she had brought along with her.

Clearly the maid hadn't been briefed on keeping (Y/n) within her sights at all times. But she must know that nothing untoward would happen, or she presumed nothing would if she was within close range. She didn't want to babysit (Y/n) when she wasn't a little girl needing protection and guidance. And the maid was far too meek to dare correct either of the Princes if she thought they were doing something wrong or childlike.

When Geta took a few more steps back, (Y/n) felt her heart jumping into her throat as he led her towards the clearing near the pond. They were well and truly out of sight now. They were hidden from both her maid and his twin, both of whom hadn't seemed to notice or care about their absence.

For the first time, possibly since they had known one another, they were truly alone. Truly allowed to talk and be close and smile and share words that no one else was permitted to hear.

(Y/n) could feel her heart beating out of her chest when Geta sank down to sit on the grass and she found herself doing the same. Sitting so close to him made her stomach flip. Being this close, with their thighs touching and their arms meshed together and Geta's hand now entwined with hers with no one to glare or observe, it was bliss.

"I heard father talking to the Senates, I think he wants the wedding to proceed soon."

Geta had tried not to get his hopes up when he heard his father talking in a meeting, but he knew what had been said. He knew his father's health was starting to fail, and he wanted to see at least one of his son's get married and secured so when they took the throne, there would be no quarrell about their succession. It would make Geta's stance and power higher if he was married, especially to the Senate's daughter.

His heart had jumped into his throat when he heard his father talking about the wedding.

He wondered if his father would try and find a bride for Caracalla too, but if one of the twins had a bride then there would be no rush to find one for Caracalla. He seemed happier being solitude with the women their father brought to the palace for them.

"I'm glad to hear it." (Y/n) couldn't bite back the smile that spread across her lips at hearing such news. She knew her mother was eager for the betrothal, she had been so happy when (Y/n)'s father came home and announced their daughter would be a future Empress. There was no higher honour (Y/n) could have or that she could bestow upon her family and rise them to the top of Rome like this.

But it wasn't about status or security for (Y/n). If she were worried about marriage then that would be a comfort, but she was simply eager to be with Geta. Be with the person her heart wanted, the person who loved her back.

The conversation flowed easily between them and (Y/n) found herself relishing in the sound of Geta's laugh. It wasn't often that she heard him laugh, and to be the only person within earshot to hear such a melodic noise made (Y/n)'s smile brighten.

She knew what a ruthless man the Emperor could be. She knew he had often beat the twins into submission, whether to get them to listen or to behave or simply because he was in a drunken rage. She knew it made their lives hard, always walking on eggshells and wanting to rebel against their father but not being able to.

So to see Geta so relaxed and happy and carefree like this, it was a lovely sight.

(Y/n) cast her head over her shoulder to see whether the maid or Caracalla were within sight yet. Neither of them were. As much as (Y/n) loved being alone with Geta, she felt like they were on borrowed time. She didn't know whether the maid would care or if she would brush this off and think it was okay. Her governess would of thrown a fit and raged at (Y/n) for being promiscous; she probably would have said (Y/n) was a tart for being alone with a man, especially the one she was engaged to.

But all the worries and panic surging through her veins fizzled out the moment a soft hand pressed beneath her chin and tilted her head to the left.

(Y/n)'s smile morphed into something resembling shock when Geta's lips planted upon hers.

She wanted to push him away. She wanted to scold him and tell him that acting like this wasn't proper, that they were pushing boundaries by holding hands every time they met and a kiss was far too promiscous. But the touch was invigorating.

The softness of his lips and the eagerness behind his touch and the feeling of his hand cupping her cheek made (Y/n) want to melt on the spot.

It didn't matter that their teeth clashed and (Y/n) was sure that she had a cut to her upper lip when both of them leaned in and pressed a bit too eagerly into the kiss. All that mattered was savouring this feeling and dragging it out into something more, into a moment that couldn't be ruined by anything.

Stars twinkled in front of (Y/n)'s eyes when they finally parted for air and she let her temple rest against Geta's. She could see those deep brown eyes swirling like batter mix and his pupils expanded until they were almost eclipsing what was left of his iris's.

Her hands fell to his shoulders, brushing her fingers across the dip at his collarbone and the base of his neck as their noses pressed together and she watched a breathless smile take over Geta's expression.

"That's better," Geta's words were spoken against (Y/n)'s plump lips and she seemed to inhale each word while his eyes searched hers.

He knew it was a risk to kiss her when it was against social cues and he didn't want (Y/n) to think he presumed her to be anything like the women who frequented the palace. But she was the one he wanted, she was the one he thought about in the dead of night. And what harm could there be in kissing her when their wedding seemed to be imminent?

"You are very forward, you know. And we have no chaperone." (Y/n) tried to look behind her both to prove her point and to ensure that neither her maid or his twin had seen them. But she couldn't move her head far with Geta's hand cupping the side of her face.

"I can't help it, I seized my chance. I pray the wedding is soon, then there won't be any need for a chaperone." The displeasure was clear in Geta's eyes. He didn't like having to be watched and assessed like they were still little children or absconding fools.

If he were Emperor already then he would have set the plans in motion for their wedding by now. But when they were married, none of this propriety would be necessary and no one would be able to judge their relationship and their eagerness to be around one another.

And when Geta and his brother were finally on the throne, out of the shadows cast by their brute of a father, things would indeed be much better. Geta wanted to have (Y/n) close, to be wed and have her by his side at all times. But that meant having her at the palace, where she would be around his father. He didn't want his father to take out his anger on her or be crude to her.

Up to now, the Emperor had been nothing but curteous, he could do nothing else when being improper would risk the betrothal if he displeased (Y/n) or her father. But once they were married, Geta would keep (Y/n) as far out of the way of his father as possible. He and Caracalla only spent time in their father's company when he wanted to talk matters of state or teach them something.

His drunken rages weren't often taken out on the twins anymore, but Geta still didn't want (Y/n) around him.

(Y/n)'s hands moved from Geta's shoulders to cradle either side of his neck and her thumbs began to trace the edges of his jaw as she took a deep breath and closed the gap between them.

She knew she shouldn't. (Y/n) knew kissing Geta was going against the rules that had been instilled in both of them since they were little. She knew doing this now would lead to more, that this would push them to catch any opportune moment together in the future. (Y/n) knew that this broke the boundaries and every other meeting they had, they would want to do this and more, and it wasn't a good habit to allow.

But she couldn't help herself. Not when Geta was all she could think about, all she wanted, and he was right here with no one to stop them or tell them it was wrong.

And when she heard Geta mumbling "So beautiful," against her lips, it made her mind go fuzzy and sent her heart into a frenzy.

This is what it would be like when they were married. No one would watch them or chaperone them when they were bound together. They would be free to kiss and link arms and take walks or be left alone in a room together and no one would call them improper or look down on them or think they were being risqué.

And maybe in a few short months, that would be their reality. Their wedding was set in stone, and even though a date hadn't been picked yet, clearly the Emperor was thinking about deciding such a date. Their parents had been waiting for the right time, as it was up to them when the wedding would proceed. Hopefully that time would be soon.

"We- we should- we should get going." (Y/n) could barely pant each word against Geta's lips when he leaned in further and seemed to swallow her words without taking them in.

Surely her maid would notice if they were gone too long? And they weren't allocated much time to spend together today, they would have to be back inside the palace soon for (Y/n) to leave with her parents. As much as they both wanted to stay here, it wasn't practical; they didn't have long.

"Soon."

"Geta-"

"Stay here with me a while longer, please?"

There was very little willpower within (Y/n) to argue and with Geta's chest leaning into hers until he was almost laying her down on the grass, she couldn't find it in herself to disagree. Not when his touch was heavenly and there was no one ruining the moment or telling them to stop like normal. Fate was giving them a chance to be together, to be in their own company. This was too good of a moment to ruin just yet.

Geta prayed his father would set a date or it was going to physically tear him apart not to be this close to (Y/n) every day. Princes had been married much younger than Geta was now. The renounced princess Lucilla had been wed and bore her child at fourteen.

They were meant to be together, both in fate and in writing, their futures were entwined.

And he didn't want this moment to end; what could go wrong?

***

Uncertainty and sheer unbridled panic dwelled within Geta's gut as he entered the study he rarely passed these days.

His sweating palms clenched into fists to try and compose himself and stop himself from turning around or melting into a concerned puddle on the marbled floor. It wasn't like him to panic. Not anymore. Not since he had been little.

Panic didn't come into things when Geta had spent the last decade shielding himself and his twin from their father's wrath. Panic didn't seem relevant after the beatings and the arguments and all the shouting he had endured during his childhood. Even the death of their mother hadn't made him panic like it should have as she would no longer be there to shield the twins from their father's drunken tyrany.

But in this moment, Geta felt more panic than he had ever felt before and he knew it was because he had no way of knowing how his father would react and what he would say. Or do.

If his father had done what he should have done in the first place then Geta wouldn't be feeling this overwhelming sense of anxiety. If things had gone smoothly and according to plan then this wouldn't be a problem.

He tried to hold his head high and straighten out his shoulders when he walked into the study and closed the door behind him. At least there were no guards in here, he could have a private talk with his father without any staff listening in or watching eagerly like they normally did.

"What do you want?"

There was a sense of dismissal in the Emperor's voice as if Geta was coming to him to ask for a sweet or to have his father's attention like he was a child or a peasant off the street. He and Caracalla had grown up never wanting their father's approval or attention and Geta certainly wouldn't start now. This was a business talk, nothing more, nothing less.

Geta did his best to steel himself and his expression, even though his father hadn't bothered to turn around to face him. He knew it had to be one of his sons, no one else walked in unannounced or got away with walking in and staying silent and so presuming.

"To talk to you, about when you plan to set a date for when I marry Lady (Y/n)." It was so hard to get his words out in the right order without being too presumptuous or coming across as rude. Geta knew better than most that if his father so much as thought he was being rude then he would become enraged and very uncooperative.

His father finally turned around to face him and Geta wasn't sure what to make of the amused expression on the Emperor's face. He had one hand leant on his desk so he was slouched back at an angle and one brow was arched up as he looked over at his son.

"Why the sudden rush, boy?" That tone of voice made it hard for Geta not to show his distain.

It irked him to no end that their father rarely used the twins names. He used cast off names or jibes to refer to them and Geta had never been sure why. They were the boys the Emperor had longed for, twin boys to rule the Empire he was building, and yet he never referred to them with an ounce of kindness in his voice or a smile on their face.

Their mother had been the one to use their names but even then it was hard to remember a time when she had been affectionate. She never did anything when their father used to raise a hand to them, so it hadn't been hard on either Geta or Caracalla when their mother died.

"We want to be married." Being nocholant wasn't doing Geta any favours, he could see it in the way his father's shoulders slouched and how he huffed.

Usually if the twins acted as if something wasn't a bother to them or they weren't interested, their father didn't question it. They had learnt to hide from him what they wanted and desired or he taunted them and tried to take it from them like life was a game and he wanted to win. At all costs.

"And you will, when the time is right." That seemed to be an end to the conversation as the Emperor looked down at the pages he had scattered about on his desk.

"The time is now."

Geta began to spin the golden ring around his index finger in a manner to calm himself down and keep his composure.

They had waited long enough. Geta had expected to be married by now, he expected to have a wife and be his own person and gain more respect and freedom that came with marriage. He didn't want to keep waiting around like this as it was torture, and it was taking too long.

"Why? You think being married will put you ahead of your brother for the throne? That's a dirty tactic." The Emperor clicked his tongue, although his smirk was evident.

That was a nasty way of gaining what he wanted, but the Emperor would admit he respected his son more if that was his game. If he thought that being the twin who was married or who had children would put him higher in line for the throne, then that was one way to go. The people of Rome would be more inclined to have Geta on the throne if he brought stability and heirs.

It had never formally been discussed which son would take the throne. On technicality, Geta was elder as he was born first, but to the rest of Rome, the Emperors shared the same birthday so they shared the same birth right.

It wasn't often that twins thrived, usually one thrived and the other, a weakling, would perish. Having them both survive into adulthood and gain strength and minds of their own was a surprise to the Emperor and to Rome and it meant choosing one to be a successor.

"We would rule equally, my marriage has nothing to do with that-"

Frustration dwelled within Geta as he tilted his head down and closed his eyes, trying his best to control his emotions that were going to get the better of him at any moment.

Why could his father, for once, not just agree with him and do the right thing? Couldn't he set a date- preferably soon and let this be an end to the matter. He had pledged Geta to marry (Y/n) and so far he had done nothing to show that he meant this intention and was going to hold up on the agreement. Geta was starting to lose faith and it would do his father no good to lose the faith of (Y/n)'s father and the rest of the Senates if he didn't follow through with this marriage sooner or later.

"Then why so eager all of a sudden?"

"(Y/n) is with child. If we're not married, the child won't be legitimate."

Something tore at Geta's heart when he watched his father's smirk turn into a sinister grin.

He knew telling the truth wouldn't incline his father to agree, but he prayed his father might just go along with this. It was a predicament after all and if his father didn't agree, he would cause an uproar.

It wasn't supposed to happen like this.

But their families had let them meet more often now that their studies were over and Geta and Caracalla were focusing more on how to rule than their tutoring. And those small moments they stole together turned into afternoons when (Y/n)'s maid and even Geta's guards simply daudled and twiddled their thumbs or sat waiting while they went into the gardens or the temple in the palace grounds.

Those moments had led to something more and caution had been lost. Now they were stuck.

On their last meeting (Y/n) had wept as she told Geta she knew she was pregnant. She couldn't confide in her mother, her maids would tell both her parents and her father would become outraged if he knew. The only silver lining was they were already betrothed. (Y/n) was spared the insult of being called a stupid girl when she had lain with the man she was engaged to.

And if they got married now, then there would be no outrage or suspicion or gossip. They would be married and announce the pregnancy and no problems would arise. (Y/n) could have the baby and Geta would have an heir. But he couldn't abide by the thought of his child being deemed illegitimate simply because his father delayed on the wedding.

That couldn't happen.

A deep sigh left the Emperor's lips as he turned to fully face his son. One leg crossed over the other and he leant his hips back against the desk while his arms crossed over his chest. He seemed to delight in the way Geta bristled and held himself taller with his pointed chin jutting out and his lips curled into a snarl as if he was rearing for battle.

"You surprise me. Were there not enough whores to satisfy you?" One hand waved at his side to refer to the many women who resided in the palace on the sole basis of being ready to tend to both Prince's every need.

Geta refused to answer such a question. He could feel the fury rising within him at the indignation that his father was implying (Y/n) was one of those women too. She wasn't. She wasn't like the whores and concubines the Emperor brought to the palace. (Y/n) wasn't like that and Geta hated how his father could smile and so easily presume and speak such a thing.

"You do realise that she should be pure if you are to be wed. A future Empress should be above reproach and pure, which now, she isn't. Thanks to you… presumably." The Emperor shrugged his shoulders and slowly shook his head as if he were somehow disappointed.

But Geta couldn't understand his words or his logic. How could his father think or imply she wasn't pure when the whole point of that was to give herself to Geta, which she had done. The only difference was it had happened before marriage, not after.

(Y/n) was above all reproach, she was reagal and pure and without any fault or doubt about her. She was perfect in every way and everyone who knew or even looked at her could see that. No one would know what had happened if they were married now, as soon as possible.

"She is to be married to me, what does it matter? She was pure and if we are married no one will know."

"This isn't how a lady of her status should act, let alone someone marrying a future Emperor. I might have to rethink this betrothal."

A deep rumbling could be heard within Geta's chest as his eyes went wide with fury that raged a burning fire like a volcano within him. That wasn't allowed. How could he say such a thing? How could he imply that?

His hands clenched into tight fists at his sides until his milky white skin almost looked grey and any trace of colour went straight to his face that was turning a deep shade of blood red. His knuckles threatened to pop out of place and his nails began to create indents into his palms as he shook in a volatile manner.

Geta knew without a doubt that if this was anyone else, they wouldn't act this way. Any other Emperor would sigh, they would say Geta had let himself down and should have known better, but they would agree. They would agree this was the right thing and arrange the wedding.

Why was it so bad when they would have been married by now if the Emperor had already made an effort to start on the arrangements. It would all have been over and done with by now, but the Emperor had busied himself with other matters and Geta had succumbed to (Y/n)'s grace and beauty. It was his fault, he would take all the blame for this but he wanted to rectify this, if only his father would agree and take heed.

"Don't do this!" Geta's voice boomed throughout the study and the threat weighed heavy until his father's amusement faded.

"Calm down boy, she's just a-"

"I'll say I forced her if you don't allow this marriage to go ahead. You'll ruin everything, our lives, her reputation. My child. You can't- I won't let you do this!"

If it came to it, Geta would make it well known that he had done wrong. He would let it be known that he forced himself on (Y/n) if his father tried to make her look to be anything less than a lady of honour. Geta would take all the blame and he would make sure everyone knew that his father wasn't allowing the marriage.

He couldn't let his father do this. There would be no repercussions for Geta. This thing happened all the time, the Emperor himself had been with countless women and had illegitimate children in Rome who he didn't know nor care for.

But this was (Y/n). A lady of high honour and reputation, the daughter of a Senate who was betrothed to one of the Princes. This would be a great shock if people found out and if the engagement was broken, (Y/n)'s life would be ruined. Her father would cast her aside, she could bring no higher honour than marrying a Prince and if that didn't happen because she and Geta got ahead of themselves then her father would shun her.

She would be cast aside with a child to support and no one of any status would want to marry her.

Her life would be over. Geta couldn't allow that all because he let himself get carried away and urged her to do the same.

He couldn't let that happen because his father was a vindictive soul who didn't deserve to be on the throne. If he had his way the Gods would strike his father down on that very spot right this minute, then he and Caracalla would rule and everything would be set right again.

"Remind me stulte, who is the Emperor? Speak out of line again and you know what will happen." The way the Emperor's voice deepened and his hand clenched into a fist made Geta inwardly shudder.

Clenched fists were a sign of an impending slap or punch and although Geta had always tried to protect Caracalla, he had never fought back against his father. A child could not win a fight against a man.

Geta's lips curled into a deep snarl and he tried to hold his father's gaze, despite the reeling emotions within him. Geta hadn't paid much attention to his schooling, but he had remembered a little of the Latin which he had learnt, so he knew his father had referred to him as an idiot. It was a new phrase Geta wasn't used to being called, but he was used to far more spiteful and degrading terms than that.

He just wanted to do the right thing. He wanted to be married to the woman he loved, the one he was bound to, and secure her and their child. Was that such a bad thing?

But Geta could see in his father's wavering expression that he was done with this conversation. He wasn't going to talk about it any further, at least not today. But each passing day that ticked by made things worse for Geta and so much worse for (Y/n).

He watched with growing distain and hatred in his eyes as his father waved a hand to dismiss him and turned to face his desk again while he spoke over his shoulder. "I'll think on it and decide what to do for the best. Leave this with me, boy."

That didn't bode well for Geta, he could feel it in his bones.

***

"Geta… I'm afraid."

(Y/n) wrung her hands out in front of her and sank her teeth down into her lower lip to try and control the storm raging within her. It was turning her stomach in loops and knots that couldn't be undone and her chest was alive with nerves like thousands of birds trapped within her ribcage, fighting to break free.

This wasn't going to work, she could just feel it. No matter how much they wished for this to happen and work out, something told (Y/n) that it wasn't going to.

She couldn't stop from tapping her feet against the stone floor and the rings on her fingers were clashing together and straining as her numb fingers felt like they were going to snap from how much she was fiddling with them.

"This will work. They can't refuse, all will be well. Do you trust me?" Geta reached out to tangle his hand with (Y/n)'s, stopping her from panicking so much when he entwined their fingers together.

He squeezed her hand tight and began smoothing his thumb over the back of her hand.

And when he looked down at her, he found the smallest etching of a smile on her face as she nodded to his question. "Yes."

Of course she trusted him. (Y/n) would admit that she had been utterly panicked and overwrought when she realised she was pregnant. A dreaded part of her thought that this wouldn't be glad news for Geta, but he had proved wrong. (Y/n) trusted him enough to tell him and he assured her he would do everything within his power to ensure their wedding took place.

It was the Emperor who was disagreeing with them. He seemed to find it entertaining. He hadn't mentioned anything to (Y/n)'s father, praise the Gods, but he was simply ignoring and blanking Geta on every occasion when Geta brought up the marriage.

'I haven't decided yet.'

'This is something that requires careful consideration.'

Those were the main variations Geta seemed to be getting from his father and he had given up. He wouldn't squirm and wriggle under his father's metaphorical foot any longer. He was going to go ahead with this marriage whether his father made any arrangements or agreed or not.

When (Y/n) turned and cast a glance over her shoulder, her worried eyes locked on her mother.

She was fiddling with the belt around her waist, pinning her dress in place against her figure. It wasn't often that (Y/n) ever saw her mother look nervous. Unhappy, angry, incontent, certainly, but nervous and furious like she currently was, this was something different.

(Y/n) didn't have a choice. She had to tell her mother because if they were doing this, then they needed witnesses and (Y/n) knew as much as her mother would be forever disappointed in her, she would at least try to help and rectify the situation. Not like her father. He would cast (Y/n) out the moment he heard the news.

"Let's proceed, shall we?" The brisk voice of Gaina's voice made (Y/n) shiver despite how she nodded along to her mother's words.

(Y/n) let Geta lead her into the chapel, with her mother and Caracalla following close behind.

They were going to get married.

There was no other way. If the Emperor wouldn't arrange the proper ceremony as he promised and should dictate, then Geta had to resort to desperate measures. He found a priest willing to perform the ceremony simply because he was afraid of the wrath Geta promised to impose on him. Geta might not be Emperor yet, but he was a Prince, he had the next highest authority and he could make this man's life not worth living.

And everyone in Rome knew that this marriage was planned and preconstrude, it was known to everyone. So this wasn't really going against the Emperor's rule or wishes when he himself had declared this betrothal.

"This is only what was planned for us, we aren't doing anything wrong. Once my father sees that, he will have to accept it. You will be my wife, and no one will dispute that. I promise."

Each word was murmured against the side of (Y/n)'s temple and she could feel the words soaking into her skin. His promise had an enchanting effect, making (Y/n) feel like a spell was being cast over her with a sense of magic flowing through her veins.

(Y/n) squeezed his hand and looped her free hand around his bicep, gluing herself into his side as if to ensure that they were forever bound to one another.

This wasn't how either of them thought or planned for their wedding day to proceed. They didn't think they would be in a small chapel a far ride from the Palace with only two people to be their witnesses. But somehow, this was better.

There were no spectators, no onlookers. No Senates murmuring their approval or bickering, no people fussing and trying to outdo and outlook everyone else. And there was no enraged Emperor breathing down their necks for everyone to be afraid of.

As long as Geta had his twin present, he didn't care about anyone else. And he could see his brother smiling out the corner of his eye. Caracalla's golden tooth glistened in the midday sun and the blue sash draped over one shoulder glistened like a sapphire. He had his hands clasped in front of him, his shoulders straight but his eyes set on his twin and future sister as if silently ensuring they were okay and everything was going to go according to plan. Their plan.

Geta let his eyes focus on the cream dress (Y/n) wore with golden tassels and silk and thread woven to make her look radiant, like a beam of light directly from the sun. There were flowers in her hair, something Geta hadn't seen before and the way she held herself and smiled made Geta feel unworthy.

This shouldn't be happening in this way, with such secrecy and deceit and unbridled panic. But this was what they had to do, and if this worked the way Geta hoped it would, then his father would see reason.

His father would hate the scandal of one of his sons getting married in a private ceremony with no announcements and no members of the council present. He would organise another wedding, a proper ceremony for pretenses and so all of Rome could know and rejoice.

That was what had to happen. There was no other way for the Emperor to save face after this marriage was officiated. Geta would embarrass him if he had to, but this wedding was a necessity.

***

"You've done it now, boy."

Shivers tore throughout (Y/n)'s body and she winced, coiling her arms towards her chest out of instinct. Her head aimed down and her teeth chomped down on the inside of her cheek when the Emperor's harsh words whipped through the air.

They had all been anticipating this, they knew what would happen when he found out, but somehow this was more frightening than anything (Y/n) had imagined. And she had come up with thousands of theories and examples and scenarios.

Her head angled to the left when she felt a careful hand curling around her elbow and her heart clenched when she saw the panic written across Caracalla's face. He wasn't even the one who would get into trouble for this and yet he was fretting. That was the reaction his father got out of the twins for just about anything they did, whether it was good or bad.

(Y/n) sidestepped until she was pressed into Caracalla's side and she let him loop his hand properly through her elbow as he tried to cast his eyes down to his feet. But he couldn't refrain from watching his twin. Geta had always been the more stubborn out of them both, he was always the fighter, the one willing to take any blow their father lashed out and he was always shielding Caracalla from his wrath.

Both of them looked ahead towards Geta, stood in front of his father like two opposing forces going to battle.

For once, Geta didn't quite look the young boy he truly was, nor did he look small in his father's presence. He looked bold, aged, mature. Or maybe that was simply how he came across to (Y/n).

"You wouldn't act or do the right thing, so I did." There was a nocholant tone to Geta's voice and the look in his tired eyes showed that he didn't want to fight or argue. He simply wanted his father to give in for once, and do the right thing.

But the Emperor scoffed as if he had been thoroughly insulted- which he hadn't as Geta could of said much worse to upset him- and he stepped closer until he and his son were almost nose to nose.

"Marrying one of your concubines is the right thing for a Prince, do explain."

"Do not forget who betrothed us for the last ten years, father. This was your doing, the arrangement was signed. What man, nay, Emperor goes back on his word?"

Vile poison spat from Geta's tongue as he pushed his palm against his father's chest to make him take a step back.

This had been prearranged. This had been laid out, carved into stone and told to the world. Everyone knew of this marriage arrangement, it was the Emperor who had been debating going back on his word when he knew the uproar that it would ensue if he did. He was the one telling Geta he wouldn't sanction the marriage and he didn't think (Y/n) was worthy now she had been 'tainted' by the one person she knew she was allowed to be with in the world.

Geta would admit he had done wrong by going behind his father's back, but he had been righting his mistake. Something his father clearly wouldn't do or admit to and that was a bad trait in a leader.

"I wouldn't of needed to if you'd of chosen one of the whores in the palace instead of bedding that one out of wedlock." The way the Emperor pointed a crooked finger towards (Y/n) had her coiling into Caracalla's side and gripping his arm so she didn't shed one tear or one morsel of emotion for him to pick on.

She could see her mother's stature bristling as she stood a few feet away with a look of indignation on her face. Gaina would never speak out of turn to the Emperor, she knew better, but it took a lot of self control to stand there and hear her daughter referred to in such a manner.

In her eyes, the Prince was just as much to blame for his frolicking actions as (Y/n). They had both gotten ahead of themselves and succumbed to lust and desire before marriage. If they waited until their marriage was arranged and done with, then there would be no problem.

But Gaina was relieved about how Geta tried to rectify things. God only knew that all Geta had to do was imply the child wasn't his and (Y/n)'s credibility would have been torn to ribbons. He could have turned his back on her and told his father he didn't want this marriage and that would be the end of (Y/n)'s life. But Geta had done the right thing, something Gaina wouldn't expect from a boy of his background and status.

Geta's hands clenched into fists at his sides while his skin bristled and he pointed his chin up towards his father.

"Enough! We're married now, as is proper and you can't undo what's done. This is what's right and what I want, punish me how you see fit but it is done. I won't see my child be cast out or a bastard because of you."

Panic ensued through everyone in the room and (Y/n) flinched at the tone of Geta's voice and the fury that boiled over in the Emperor's eyes. She couldn't help but move her free hand down to her stomach that her gowns weren't hiding very well anymore.

The Emperor had wasted precious time. Everyone in Rome would know by the haste in their marriage and when the baby had been born that the couple had acted untoward. It wouldn't take much to work out. But if the Emperor had simply agreed in the beginning and arranged a quick marriage, they might just have gotten away with it.

When Geta cast his head to look over his shoulder, he watched his twin slightly nod his head in agreement and the look in Caracalla's eyes showed he agreed and was fully supportive of his brother's words. And he noticed how his wife- such a strange notion to think of now- was refusing to look anywhere but at the floor.

She knew the Emperor wasn't going to agree, she had told Geta that she believed he would try anything he could to stop this because he was cruel and he liked to see his sons suffer. It was all a game to him, a game which Geta had bested him at.

"I think you forget who you're dealing with, little boy. The priests answer to me, and no lord or Senate, let alone a Prince, can be married without my distinct approval. Which you did not gain, I hasten to add. I can annul this marriage by sunrise, then we will see what becomes of this child."

Tears burned in the corners of (Y/n)'s eyes and she leaned into Caracalla, suddenly fearing her legs were going to give out on her.

He would really go that far. He would have their union annulled because he was vindictive and they didn't have him there to approve something which he himself had orchestrated. They already had his approval in way of writing and a gentleman's handshake with (Y/n)'s father from years previous. A bond which the Emperor was clearly willing to break.

If he did this it would sever connections within the Senate. Some would side with (Y/n)'s family and father, others would agree with the Emperor simply to save their own necks. Trust in the Emperor would be lost and the people of Rome would know and sense this. Trades would go down if people thought the Emperor was no longer a man of his word.

This union was planned and in writing, he couldn't throw the sanctity of that away and claim it was out of respect or self preservation when going against this marriage was what was going to ruin them all.

"If you try to annul this marriage then all of Rome will lose faith in their untrustworthy Emperor. You gave your word, you agreed in writing, I had all the approval I needed from you."

What more could Geta have done to rectify the situation? Why could his father not go along with this? Was he that bent on things being done by his word and command that he wouldn't allow this because Geta used his initiative?

Geta wished his father would fall to his demise. He wished him to die right here in this moment. When he and Caracalla took the throne, nonsense like this wouldn't happen. People would know where they stand, Geta would always follow through on his agreements and promises. And (Y/n) would never be treated in this way ever again.

If he knew he could get away with it, Geta would have murdered his father himself by now. But he didn't have the respect of the guards and the rest of Rome yet to commit such an act and still be placed on the throne.

"Do not test my patience, I'd be willing to let her be one of your favoured women, she would be taken care of. I wouldn't cast her out on the street or put her at the mercy of her own father. I presume he has no knowledge of this marriage either and that I will need to have words with him."

Terror clutched at Geta's heart when the clicking of heels caught his attention and he turned just in time to see (Y/n) flee the room.

She wouldn't stand and listen to insults like these any longer. Insults that were going to become a reality because the Emperor wasn't going to listen to them, that was clear.

Tears burned down her face and it became harder and harder to take a proper breath when her lungs began to seize up.

How dare he say such things. How dare the Emperor imply he would be doing (Y/n) a favour by letting her remain as one of Geta's whores here in the palace. Being one of those women would degrade (Y/n), she would never marry, never be loved or respected by her family or anyone else.

She would be a common concubine raising the Prince's child in the depths of the palace, watching as the Emperor forced Geta to yield to his demands and possibly marry someone else. (Y/n) couldn't live that life, she couldn't be a woman of the night, she would rather die than face such disregard and disrespect.

Her hands fisted in her dress, hiking it around her ankles so she could run without threat of being tripped up. She didn't know where she was aiming for. Her father was with the rest of the Senates somewhere in the palace, and she had a dreadful feeling that the Emperor was going to tell him the news. Today. She couldn't face him. She couldn't face anyone else.

She had it in mind to run home and collect her things, to pack up and vanish before her father had the chance to cast her out and tell her she had dishonoured her family and was no longer part of the (Y/l/n) family or name.

The dark part of her mind told her to find a knife or head to the kitchens and look for almonds and the rest of the ingredients to form cyanide. If this marriage was annulled, (Y/n) couldn't wait for the Emperor to be dethroned or to pass away and have the twins on the throne. She would be cast out by then, she would have an illegitimate child. Taking her own life would evade that scenario and the Emperor might just be kind and remorseful enough to make her death look natural.

The hand that curled around her wrist stopped her from becoming lost in her tragic thoughts and she would of screamed if she had any air left in her lungs. Her sandals skidded along the polished floor and her body jerked to the right as Geta reeled her towards him.

He let her fall into his chest and steady her hands on his shoulders and his hands frantically moved to cup her face, trying in vain to wipe away the tears that wouldn't stop falling.

"Love, it's alright I won't-"

"He will- he- he will annul our marriage," Tears continued to stream down (Y/n)'s face as she hiccupped through her words. "Once he tells my father, I- I'm done. Cast out, d-dishonoured. He will ruin me."

Geta couldn't be sure whether she was referring to her own father or his, but it didn't matter. Once her father knew, her world would shatter. He would oppose the Emperor's annulment but if it went through, he would cast (Y/n) aside. She would lose her home, her dowry, her family and her life. She would have nothing but the love of a Prince who couldn't be hers any longer and a child she wouldn't be able to protect or support.

Her trembling hands tightened around his shoulders and she tried to tilt her head down until Geta's hands squeezed her neck and prevented her from looking away from him. He cupped her face harder and pressed their temples together until their noses were squashed together and their breaths started to entwine.

"He can't annul what has been done, the church has sanctity. The marriage had witnesses and is consummated. Love I promise you that I won't let this happen. I'll announce it, I'll tell everyone, I'll find the priest and bring him here so he can't do anything. I will do what I have to so you and our child are safe."

Rage dripped from each and every word he spoke and (Y/n) could feel the fury boiling through him and into her bones. He was gripping her so tightly that she was starting to shake and the way he smashed his lips onto hers was like no other time he had kissed her before.

There was no fever, no childish smiles or a sense of longing or desire. There was no relief and peace and sanctity like yesterday when they were married. This time, there was desperation in the way Geta kissed her, like he couldn't control anything but their touch and he wanted to keep this for himself.

His lips overcame hers, his mouth consumed her and when she tried to part her lips to breathe Geta simply inhaled the air she consumed. He kissed her until her teeth hurt and her lips were tingling and her lungs were screaming as she gasped against his mouth.

Her knees threatened to give way and her hands moved from his shoulders to grip his wrists as she inclined her head and finally managed to part from Geta just enough to gain some air.

"You'll stay here with me, you won't leave my side." It sounded more like an order than a request and (Y/n) nodded along to each word.

Leaving wasn't safe, not when her father was going to find out and if he found her, that would open another universe of problems and arguments. Being around Geta was the only way (Y/n) could remain safe.

She leaned into him until her knees started to waver and Geta was the only thing holding her up and preventing her from collapsing to the floor. But she couldn't stop crying.

There was very little they could do against the Emperor who held all control here. He could do whatever he liked, he could ruin (Y/n)'s life and reputation and their love and he seemed thrilled at the prospect.

Geta could try all his might, he could tell all of Rome he was married, he could ensure the priest didn't allow their marriage to be annulled, but the Emperor could go to great lengths to get his own way.

What were they going to do?