#|| his anger issues come from somewhere.

[revvnant]

insomnia is just wrecking my shit but i can must will think about michael's little cycles as a late teenager. specifically like. the ups and downs of dealing with abuse. i feel like a lot of resources focus on the abuser's cycle - honeymoon, tension, incident, reconciliation - but not very much on the victim's. in my experience, if it goes on long enough, there does come a point where you disconnect from that flow. especially if you're in the stage between realising the abuse is happening and getting out. the helplessness and frustration of being unable to leave once you know you're being mistreated creates its own cycle. knowing what's happening, you may try to use logic to start to control the situation, but because the abuse tends to be nonsensical, no amount of pointing out the behaviour or arguing your case or even highlighting that it's irrational is going to make it stop. eventually you exhaust yourself and enter phase two, playing dead. since it's so out of your control, you decide to just stop caring and let it happen. they're still doing the exact same song and dance and you are being dragged along for the ride. it doesn't matter if you argue, because it's going to keep happening, so why waste your time and energy that could be put towards recovering from each incident? but then they keep happening, and your energy comes back, and it turns into frustration again. because you don't deserve to be treated this way. sometimes this leads to a fourth phase, where the frustration triggers a blowup, and then guilt and self-blame over the ensuing issues; lots of 'maybe it was my fault because i let it slide for too long and got angry', 'oh am i just as bad as them', etc. this leads back into the attempted rationality phase, trying to 'fix it'.

so there are fluctuations in michael's behaviour. sometimes he's a doormat. sometimes he fights back. and it's tied to the way he constantly has to manage his own energy/resources, while throwing himself against the brick wall that is william's treatment of him. and some of those bricks are made up of the honeymoon phase! but when you're far enough along that you've caught on to the game, those moments can start to sour, too, because they never last. sadly from an outside perspective this does make mike look unstable which just adds to the problem. such is the hammer they're beating him with.

[lovebugism]

✶ ┄ HOUNDS OF LOVE !

part one | part two

summary: you and marcus live lightyears apart within the city walls when emperor geta takes a greater liking to you than expected. you start to find a strange sense of understanding within the crazed emperor, while general acacius plots your escape. (11k)

pairing: marcus acacius / f!reader, emperor geta / f!reader

contents: established relationships, angst, hurt/comfort, cw for mentions of war, mentions of sex work, brief mentions of emotional abuse (geta has anger issues he's working on), swearing, smut 18+ (dubcon, unprotected sex, exhibitionism & voyeurism) (this is another dark fic!! please heed the warnings!!)

“Meet me in the garden,” you pant against the General’s mouth as you kiss him with a desperate sort of fervor. It’s all wet and hungry and unforgiving, like biting into an apple. “At sunset, on the morrow. Say you’ll meet me there.”

Despite your delicate touch, you cradle Marcus in a most violent hold. You keep him impossibly close with one hand wrapped around his neck, tanned and taut with the strain of war. Your other twists in his hair, dancing through the greying curls of fine silk. You embrace the General within the candlelit crypt where, before now, only death seemed to roam.

Marcus stands as still as the statues of ghosts surrounding you. You lick into his mouth like you plan to breathe life back into his lungs, even while he withers into nothingness at your feet. A thin layer of your spit coats the scruff of his chin. He balls his calloused hands into fists at his sides and pretends a part of you isn’t glittering upon him. He holds onto plausible deniability like a shield.

“It is not safe,” Marcus murmurs in a gruff whisper when you pull back to take a breath. His lidded eyes dart over your kissed face — gaze heavied, lips swollen. Beautiful devil, fallen angel. “You know this.”

Not anymore, he wants to say. Not while you belong to Them.

“Why not?” you challenge, always so girlishly gentle in your stubbornness. “Everyone will be at the feast, Marcus— No one will see us, I’m sure of it.”

Your eyes flit between his kissed mouth and dark-eyed gaze. Universes shine in your irises despite the shadows of the labyrinthine tomb. Marcus feels a white-hot knife twisting in his chest as he resists the urge to hold you.

“It’s the world we live in now, petal. There is little use in questioning it.”

“But why?” you question, anyway. “Why must we live in this world, hm? The war is over— We could make our own, somewhere far away from the city. Somewhere no one could ever find us—”

You create heavens with your naivety.

Marcus burns them down with words.

“The Emperors would not stand for losing their general. For them, the war is never finished,” the General interjects in a sorrowful deadpan, aching when your face twists with grief. “And if they misplaced you? They… They would burn cities to the ground in their hunt… They would set the world aflame before they stopped searching for you.”

Marcus knows this because he knows himself — every star in the sky would burn out before he stopped looking for you. He knows this, too, because he knows the Emperors. Perhaps better than anyone else in the entire world. 

Geta and Caracalla were born with the belief that they possessed ownership over everything they touched. Anyone stealing from their Empire would meet a swift and tortuous demise. They were merciless gods who dangled life and death on their fingertips. Only those who kissed the ring would make it out of their rule alive.

And you knew it, too. 

That was the worst part of it all: you knew it.

Tomorrow comes and passes like rolling summer clouds, slow and heavy and suffocating. You watch from the royal garden as the sky turns from a glittering sapphire to milky shades of peach and lavender. Another day gone by that you’ve spent grieving on your own. 

Though time marches mercilessly on, threatening to untie unbreakable bonds, it changes little of how much you and Marcus have grown together. Like cherry trees kissed with the promise of spring, with your roots tangled gracelessly together. It’s a knot that cannot be undone, not even by the promise of death. 

And for that, you figure you must be grateful.

Because as you sit on the stone steps of an artificial lake, twirling your fingers in the warm water of the koi pond, you wonder how dreadful it must be for the multi-colored carp. To swim in circles your whole life, to think the world is only as big as the bricks holding you hostage. 

At least you know what it means to grow up in the rolling green of an infinite countryside. At least now you have gardens to roam in the greatest city in the world. At least now you get to live.

A breeze sweeps suddenly through the garden, rippling the crystalline water and rustling the bright green leaves over your head. It carries the soft sound of footsteps scraping the stone trail. Your ears perk, your heart stops, and your head whips over your shoulder. You hope to see Marcus standing at the steps below you.

Your chest tightens and deflates all at once at the sight of Emperor Geta.

He’s adorned in his white-gold cloak, with his laurels sat atop his strawberry-blonde curls, and carrying a jeweled ring on each finger. The sunlight paints the man in flaxen rays of light. The rainbow-colored flowers seem to bloom with every one of his steps. All you can think is how beautiful he is — much too pretty to be so cruel.

“I did not mean to frighten you,” the Emperor concedes, eyes wide and palms splayed in surrender. His sandals scuff the cobbles with each hesitant stride.

“No, of course not,” you blurt with a rapid shake of your head, a quickness sure to give away your choked-back terror. “I just… I only thought you’d be at the dining hall with the rest of the court.”

“I was. Until the handmaidens notified me of your absence.”

You meet his wide-eyed expression with a narrowed gaze, lips curling into an unsure smile. “How can I be absent from a place I do not belong, Your Majesty?” you quip, though your voice threatens to shake.

Geta’s brows furrow. His ringed fingers twitch at his sides. “Belong?” he echoes.

“The feast is for nobility, and I grew up in a brothel,” you answer, giggling quietly under your breath. “I am certainly the farthest thing from royalty.”

You flash him a gentle smile and playful gaze, but the Emperor only frowns. 

He can hardly stomach the thought of it — of his most precious thing living in the countryside, surrounded by filth, touched by unworthy hands. He’s glad you’re now, where only he can touch you. Where he can make you clean.

“There is a place for you there, nonetheless,” Geta tells you and takes another step closer. He stands at the bottom of the stone steps and tilts his chin to his chest. His chocolate eyes harden as he presses more firmly, “And I will see that you attend.”

His sudden glacial disposition makes your stomach wrench. You’ve grown so used to him now, learned all the ways to keep him satisfied, that you’ve forgotten how quickly angered he can be. You don’t want to remember his wrath. 

You nod at the invitation with a wavering smile, knowing you aren’t at liberty to turn him down, and rise from your spot by the pool.

You hold your gown in both hands as you descend the stairs, flinching slightly when Geta rushes to help you. Sometimes, you think he can sense your worry, or that he regrets snapping at you the way he does. Either way, his efforts to pivot the situation are apparent to you — like he never learned how to apologize, so he’s forced to improvise in the matter.

His warm, petaled hand engulfs you to ease you down the tricky cobbles. 

“I only mean that… it is strange. Being without there… Or anywhere, really,” he admits, talking slowly like each word is foreign to him. His gaze darts from yours to the vacant path ahead. “I find that I am looking for you in places I knew you could not be. It’s foolish, I know.”

His gentleness is perhaps more striking than his rage.

“It isn’t foolish, Your Majesty,” you insist as you reach the bottom of the staircase. You peer at him through your lashes and fake another smile. “I just didn’t know you were such a poet.”

Geta doesn’t understand your meaning. Where was the poetry in his words? How did such burdensome feelings of tenderness make him a poet? 

“Neither did I,” he muses, guiding you out of the garden with his hand in yours.

Though still riddled with feelings of uncertainty, Geta is strangely moved by how you’re looking at him now — with the sun sparkling in your softened gaze, more gentle than anyone deserves to be looked at. So he figures he can be a poet for you, if he must.

You bathe again in the rosehip oil Geta always insists you wear, and dress yourself in the fine silk gown you know he prefers. The pale blue fabric drapes off your shoulders and flows to your ankles, cinched at the waist with a jewel-encrusted belt of gold. Your skin and body are adorned, in this moment alone, with perhaps more money than you’ve ever seen in your life. 

The thought makes your head swim as you amble to the dining hall. 

The silent guards at your side make no effort to rush you for fear of the Emperors’ wrath. Still, though, the notion that they are commissioned to ensure your attendance is not lost on you. Any attempt to flee will surely be met with force — if not from the knights, then from Geta himself.

The feasting is long done by the time you arrive. Mingling bodies flit around the crowded manor in a blur. Live music swells distantly as rose petals fall from thin air to decorate the marble floor. You wring your hands nervously together as you weave through the bustling court, gravitating to the large open window at the back of the hall — where you know the Emperors rest on their plush, velvet chaises.

Caracalla notices you first.

The boy rises from his lounged position — laurels crooked on his blonde head and robe shifting up his pale thighs — and smiles at you with all his crooked teeth. His lone golden tooth glints in the sunlight. 

“You showed,” he announces to no one in particular, just before his wild head swivels to his brother on the other side of the couch. “See, brother? I told you there was naught to worry about. Did I not?”

Geta does not appear happy to see you. His features remain in an emotionless scowl while his smokey eyes rake over your form. “You did,” he responds distantly, if only to appease his younger brother.

Caracalla doesn’t seem to notice the tension caging him on both sides as he flashes you another toothy grin. “He threatened to send the Praetorians after you,” he lilts like it’s some kind of silly secret. 

The Emperors’ bodyguards line the wall behind them, as well as all the entrances and nearly every window. They were like your Marcus — military veterans, strong and sharp and ruthless — though you imagine the only soft side you’ll ever see of them is a fist. They are certainly not the kind of people you want sent after you.

“Well, you were right, Your Majesty,” you grin. “There was naught to worry about. I was simply making myself presentable for the court.”

Caracalla holds his ringed hand out for you as you near him. You bend at the waist to kiss the emerald on his ring finger. The motion is muscle memory to you now. “You look beautiful,” he slurs like a child. “Like a fairy, almost.” 

“You flatter me, Your Majesty,” you nod politely and rise to full height again. 

You feel his ocean eyes on your body as you pass him by, glassy and sparkling with a boyish sort of wonder. A stark contrast to the way his brother glares daggers at you. 

“You certainly took your time,” Geta monotones in place of a greeting.

You stand obediently at his side and twist your clammy hands into knots. “I was only getting dressed, Your Majesty. I wanted to look pretty for you—”

“Nonsense,” the Emperor spits and turns away. You’re always pretty, he’d say if he could get the words out. Instead, he softens his suddenly hardened edges and flashes you a gentler glance. “I thought you’d defied me,” he confesses, as though in lieu of an apology for his fleeting hysterics.

“I couldn’t,” you murmur with a quiet smile.

Not wouldn’t, he notices. Not shouldn’t.

But couldn’t. Like your body was fated to listen to his command.

A funny feeling sparkles like gold in his chest. It makes him fidget uncomfortably on the couch. “Sit down,” he instructs with a wave of his ringed hand before slouching back in his seat, pale arms splayed along the edge of it. His brows pinch when you descend onto the empty spot beside him. “Not there.”

You freeze in place. Your eyes widen and dart to his thighs, spread out and hidden beneath the skirt of his robe. You look to Geta once more and cower beneath his expectant look. You sink hesitantly onto his lap, feeling like your heart’s in your throat as you lean into his chest. 

Your unsure hands curl around his shoulders. His curls brush your cheek. He smells overwhelmingly of musk and wine and cinnamon. Something about it makes you dizzy.

You survey the room from your position in Geta’s lap. Most people aren’t looking, you find, too busy talking and flirting and dancing together. A few noblemen across the way leer incredulously at you, though, like they’re trying to gauge if they know you from somewhere. You presume you likely slept with one or more of their sons during the war, most of which are likely dead now.

A few women crowd behind the chaise — all dressed in muted shades of silk, all dripped in jewels and gold. They’re pretty, effortlessly so, as they talk into their goblets full of wine. Some looked relieved to have the Emperors’ attention off of them. Others sneer at you for it, having no idea you’d switch places with them in a heartbeat if you could.

Your eyes dart across the dining hall, almost instinctually so. They lock immediately with Marcus the moment he enters the room. 

The General wears his black-gold armor and a faraway look in his eye as he leads a group of foreign gladiators into the manor. A hush lulls over the crowd, which parts for him without thinking. Marcus navigates through it with an absentminded sternness, like every step is muscle memory. 

He softens only when his gaze meets yours. 

His puffed-out chest deflates with a wavering exhale at the sight of you, a lamb on the lap of a man who holds a knife to your throat. He blames himself for it most of all, knowing he’s the one that brought you to slaughter. 

“Finally!” Caracalla shouts into the silence, voice ringing through the hushed court. “Where have you all been— In the showers together?” 

A bout of laughter rolls over the crowd as the blonde boy leans over to you. You try not to grimace at the bitter smell of wine on his breath. “Who nearly missed the games, little dove,” he croons too close to your ear. 

The nickname makes you tense. You muster a smile, anyway, and remind yourself to breathe. “What a shame that would’ve been,” you lilt in response.

“The armor is tricky, Your Majesty,” Acacius confesses, voice deep like a cathedral organ. “Especially for those who have not donned it before. Such as yourself.”

There is a bite to his words despite their monotoned delivery. Caracalla pays it no mind as he lounges back on the couch, wine sloshing in the chalice he holds in a limp hand. “Get it out with it, then,” he slurs.

Each gladiator faces the other. One is tall and sturdy, like an oak tree. The other is shorter and lankier, much too young and far too pretty to fight in such gruesome battles. As Marcus’ voice booms throughout the quiet dining hall to introduce them — The Barbarian versus The Might Vincenzo — Geta presses his mouth to your ear. 

“Which one shall we bet on, little dove?” he whispers to you as his hand curls tighter around your waist. His other idles over your skirt, pale and jeweled and warm, though his long fingers threaten to dip between your thighs.

You blink hard to keep your head from swimming. “Hm?”

“Which one of these imbeciles do you think will win?” Geta repeats.

“Oh, um, I— I don’t know, Your Majesty,” you stammer in response. It’s hard to think about anything other than how close Marcus is to you now. How pretty and wartorn he looks. How desperately you wish to hold him.

“Just guess,” the Emperor presses, squeezing softly at your hip. “It’s only for entertainment, anyway.”

How could certain death possibly entertain you? your mind races as your mouth blurts, “The little one, then.”

“Really?” Geta hums in amusement. His dark eyes, smudged with brown liner, squint softly at your glossy profile. They flit across your features like he’s seeing you for the very first time, though you aren’t looking back at him to notice. “Hm. I would’ve picked the oaf.”

“Well, it is the most obvious choice, Your Majesty. Though, I find it’s often the smaller ones that surprise you—” 

You turn your head to look at him. Your breath catches audibly in your throat when you find the Emperor much closer than expected. He’s so close your eyes nearly cross to meet his gaze. So close, that the tip of his large nose threatens to brush the bridge of yours. So close, you get drunk on the alcohol tainting his breath.

Geta’s wine-stained mouth curls upwards in a cynical smile. “They do, indeed,” he croons quietly, raspberry breath fanning warm over your jaw. 

Chills pebble along your skin accordingly. It takes great strength from you to break his magnetic chocolate gaze. You turn away from the Emperor and focus instead on the gladiators circling one another. Vincenzo moves in seemingly practiced motions, unfazed by the brutality of such duels. The nameless Barbarian houses a great sadness in his young eyes — a hardened look of regret, perhaps, for what he knows he must do. 

“Let’s not entertain them for our amusement, brother,” the Barbarian mutters lowly to his opponent, blade hanging limp at his side.

The larger man charges like a rhino. A deep roar sounds in his throat as he thrusts his knife towards the younger boy’s neck. The Barbarian dodges the swing with ease, possessing all the swiftness of a snake as he ducks past his opponent and slices his muscular bicep with one fell swoop.

The crowd gasps in a mixture of horror and amusement as Vincenzo’s blood drips onto the floor like deep red wine. It stains the marble in fat droplets, blending with the rose petals littered at the gladiators’ feet.

You flinch at the sight. Your breath hitches as you turn away — eyes squeezed shut, brows tightly furrowed. Geta chuckles with merriment. You feel it rumbling in his chest as he murmurs, “Don’t be frightened, little dove. It’s only a game.”

Something in you aches when the Emperor reaches for the jeweled goblet at his side. Your fearful eyes remain fixed on his face while the hall erupts in a symphony of violence — of battle cries and laughter, of dropped blades and dull smacks. 

“Here,” Geta offers with the wine in hand. “Drink. It will calm your nerves.”

He presses the rim of the chalice to your mouth. His gaze never waves from your lips as they part to welcome the bittersweet raspberry. The wine pools like blood on your tongue. It tastes like guilt going down.

Dusk falls over the city like a wounded swan. The velvet darkness outside your window makes shadows of everything it touches, only partially diminished by blinking stars and waning silver moonlight. The crescent shape of the bright white orb would fit just perfectly beneath Marcus’ jaw, you think to yourself. 

The thought alone sends a warm, melancholic feeling down your spine — with such an intensity only the tenderness of twilight could elicit.

You slide from the crimson satin of your mattress with a tight chest. You migrate towards the entrance — bare feet padding faintly along the floor, thin cotton nightgown trailing behind you. You stand before your bedroom door and rap your knuckles rhythmically against the wood. 

Twice, once, three times. 

And then you wait.

“It’s me,” you hear Marcus murmur from the other side.

Your heart swells like sunshine in your throat. You smile wide despite yourself, with no one else around to see it. “It’s been Romulus for nearly a fortnight,” you tell him, panting slightly from where you’d held your breath in anticipation. “I was starting to think you’d been banished from your post here forever.”

“You know the Emperor likes to torture me,” he quips, though his usual monotone never wavers. 

It might’ve been easier on you both, if Geta had shipped him off to lead another meaningless campaign. At least then Marcus could miss you from leagues away. Instead, he has to guard your bedroom door and miss you from the other side of it. Torture is an understatement.

“Well, I quite like it when you’re here,” you confess quietly, tracing shapes onto the doorframe with an absentminded hand. “Makes me feel safe.”

You wait patiently for a response.

“Good,” is all the General can think to reply.

Your face pinches with concern. Your chest does, too. “Are you angry with me?”

“Why should I be angry with you?”

“I don’t know… Our conversations together have grown so short— I worry you do not wish to speak with me at all.”

Though you cannot see him, Marcus flinches at your words. He stands like a statue outside your door, in the middle of the dim corridor, and glares over his shoulder into nothingness. “It isn’t true,”  he insists, voice low but honeyed still. “I wish to speak with you always.”

“Then why do you not?”

“Because it isn’t safe,” he repeats, though you never seem to hear him.

“Will it ever be?”

Marcus goes silent as he ponders for a moment. Quiet engulfs the bedroom all over again, filled only by crackling candles. “No,” he answers after a few long moments. “Not for a long while.”

You feel like he’s stabbed you with a freshly sharpened blade, right between your ribcage and into your bleeding heart. It would hurt less, anyway.  “Why?” you wonder aloud in a pained whimper, knowing the answer will do nothing more than twist the knife.

The answer sits ready on Marcus’ tongue, as though the question of why has plagued him long before you asked it.

“Because I… I ruined you. By bringing you here.”

“You saved me,” you correct.

“I destroyed you,” he retorts, voice heavy with choked-back emotion.

“I would be dead if it weren’t for you,” you remind him of the blatant reality, which threatens to consume you every time you see his face. You wish you were holding it now, cradling Marcus’ bearded cheeks in your supple palms, so that he might understand the weight of your words. “I would’ve lost everything if you hadn’t taken me with you. I would’ve been tortured, probably killed. But now I get to—”

The word gets caught in your throat. You swallow hard and fake a smile at nothingness. The pretending comes naturally to you now.

“Now I get to live. Both of us do.”

There is a brief moment of knowing silence. This isn’t what living is supposed to feel like — fleeting touches in dark crypts and whispered conversations through bedroom doors. Both of you know it, but it’s a truth too brutal to admit out loud.

“Marcus?”

“Yes?”

“You know… We aren’t unspectacular things, Marcus,” you speak slowly and with a strangled intention. “We’ve already come so far. We’ve survived so much— We can survive a little more, can’t we? Until it’s safe again?”

“I don’t presume we have any other choice.”

“We don’t,” you sigh. “Because I love you.”

“I know,”  Marcus nods, with an air of surrender in his words. “Because I love you, too.”

You fall into the heavy wooden door as though it were your lover’s body. You did not need to see him to feel held by him. He hadn’t touched you, and he didn’t need to. His presence alone affects you in such a way that it feels like he has been caressing you for a long, long time.

Marcus’ heavy armor clunks faintly on the other side of the door as he stands up straighter. Emperor Geta enters his line of sight, a shadow slinking down the candlelight corridor. He clears his throat. “Your Majesty—” the General announces, for you and you alone.

He hears your feet pad against the floor as you scurry from the entrance.

“Dog,”the Emperor greets in a cynical deadpan. 

His sandals scuff the cobbles when he stands before the taller man. The torches hanging on the walls bathe Geta’s face in flickering amber hues, highlighting his tired features where the makeup had worn throughout the day. He seems weighed down by a certain kind of grief. The kind that makes Acacius feel ten feet tall.

“Have you been guarding my Empress like a good little hound?”

Marcus nods politely, though the term of endearment catches him momentarily off guard. To be the Emperor’s whore was one thing, but it was entirely another to be referred to in such high regard. The General tries to contemplate what that must mean as he answers, “Of course, Your Majesty.”

Geta grins despite his visible fatigue. “Good boy.”

You’re already back in bed by the time the door swings open. You lounge along the expensive satin sheets and pretend you’ve done nothing but wait obediently for the Emperor, while simultaneously swallowing down any remaining feelings of longing and heartache.

Geta enters the room like a rolling storm cloud. He wears all the chaos of the day in his mussed blonde curls, smudged makeup, and wrinkled garb — a palpable sort of disarray. You scramble on the mattress to greet him, like you often do, until he dismisses you with a wave of his hand.

“No. Don’t,” he commands. “Stay there. Don’t get up.”

You obey, freezing partially upright, with your elbows holding most of your weight. Your face swirls with concern at his look of annoyance. Your heart drops to your stomach in fear.

“Are you alright?” you ask him, though the Emperor pays you little mind as he migrates to the table by the window. 

He pours himself a chalice of wine. The glugging flagon fills the heavy silence. You swallow hard and stare timidly at the back of him. “Are you angry with me?” you repeat once more — a question that seems to accompany womanhood, especially when bound by the innate violence of man.

“I couldn’t be,” Geta answers like it’s obvious, sparing you a fleeting glance over his shoulder. He turns away to down the full goblet in three lengthy gulps, then wipes his stained mouth with the back of his hand. “It’s only my brother,” he confesses through labored breaths. 

Your worry lessens, but only slightly.

“Is he alright?”

“He’s acting like a child,” Geta spits, angered all over again, as he pours himself another cup. “More so than usual.”

“Has something happened?” 

“Nothing that should concern you.”

“Well, it’s certainly bothering you, Your Majesty,” you coo in slow and calculated measures as you rise from the many cushioned pillows. “So, forgive me, but it cannot help but concern me as well.”

Geta is unaccustomed to such tenderness. He tenses beneath it, glances hesitantly over his shoulder like he plans to find a ghost sitting in your place — as though he’d only heard the words in the wind and not from your mouth. A foreign feeling swirls again in his hollow chest, like a blizzard of snow or a flurry of rose petals.

“He’s jealous of me. Just as he always has been,” the Emperor tells you as he stalks toward the bed. He gestures mindlessly with his hands, and the wine sloshes over the rim of the gold chalice until it hits the stone floor. He raises it to his mouth, tips his head back, and down the bittersweet pomegranate.

His neck is long and milky white. His protruding adam’s apple bobs with each languid swallow. A drop of deep red trails from his mouth and down his chin once he’s finished. He rubs it away with a fist. You forget to stop staring.

“Lay down,” he commands, chest heaving. 

Your body obeys without a second thought. You lie back on the velvet cushions, docile and willing, in a way that comes naturally to you now. You’ve been Geta’s thing for so long that a part of you has grown used to it. Needy for it. 

The mattress dips beneath the Emperor’s wait as he kneels beside you. Your mind starts to reel. 

Your brain seemingly anticipates an inevitable pleasure, which comes to you like clockwork most nights. It makes your mouth water like a drooling hound that knows when it’s feeding time. A funny feeling stirs in the pit of your belly and pools like honey in your undergarments. Your thighs clench together when a subtle throbbing begins to pound between them.

You should be grateful when Geta crawls beneath the sheets only to rest his head on your chest.

You’re shocked, most of all, by such a foreign act of tenderness.

Your breath catches when his cheek presses to your breast. He nods gently to rub his burning skin over the smooth cotton. A deep exhale fans from his nose as he rests his body weight against you. 

You cradle him with hesitant hands and remind yourself to breathe. Your fingers scratch lightly over his clothed shoulder while your others comb through his strawberry-blonde locks. It’s a warmth so foreign to the two of you that it threatens to bring you both to tears.

“He says he wants someone like you— my brother,” Geta admits after a few moments of long silence.

“A whore?”

“A paramour,” the Emperor corrects, face twisted in irritation at your use of the term. He focuses on the muffled sound of your heartbeat when anger threatens to consume him. A heavy sigh deflates his chest. His anxious fingers twist in your nightgown. “I told him he could have his pick— Between us, we have plenty of women to go around, but… He insists his mind is stuck on you.”

Your bated breaths come to you in trembling inhale-exhales. You hope he doesn’t sense how frightful his words have made you. 

Geta is cruel, yes, but he is at most times predictable. Though Caracalla may be kind, he is most of all volatile. And there is nothing more dangerous than an erratic, easily excitable ruler.

“And what did you tell him?” you wonder with a feigned sense of curiosity.

“That you were mine, of course,” Geta blurts like it’s obvious. “He offered to share, to which I told him that he should be grateful that I’m sharing the throne alone with him… And now he’s off with his monkey, crying like a child…”

You feel strangely comforted by his words. You breathe a sigh of relief through your nose and rake your fingers through his blonde-brunette curls. “Your brother is a fragile thing, Your Majesty,” you advise in gentle murmurs. “You must be gentle with him.”

“I don’t know how to be gentle with anything,” Geta confesses, half-muffled into your chest. “Least of all, with someone like him.”

“Shall I speak with him? Perhaps I can calm him— make him understand?”

“It’s my burden alone.”

“It is mine as well, Your Majesty. So that mustn’t be true.”

Geta turns slowly to face you, with all the hesitance of someone unused to such kindness. His chin rests on your clothed sternum and bobs with each word. “You shouldn’t have to carry it,” he whispers into the honeyed silence of the candlelit bedroom.

You muster a small smile. “I know. But I will, anyway,” you shrug. “When you care for someone, your brain has little say in the matter.”

Geta falters at your admission. A foreign emotion swims in his chocolate button eyes. He’d rather blame it on the flickering flames strewn around the room. “Is that what this is?” he mutters, almost to himself, when he finds the breath to say the words.

Your fingers in his hair slow to a stop. “What do you mean, Your Majesty?”

“This… This tenderness,”  the Emperor answers, spitting the word like it’s the first time he’s ever tasted it. His face scrunches distantly, as if it were sour on his tongue. “Sometimes it overwhelms to the point of tears. It’s a… a blinding radiance, like… a knife— lodged somewhere deep in the body…”

You cup Geta’s freshly shaven face between two, gentle hands. He swears he sees the sun.

“Why do you speak of love like it hurts you, Your Majesty?”

He swallows hard. “Because it does,” he confesses before rising from your body. 

You mourn his warmth as he swings his legs over the side of the mattress. He sits with his back facing you. His dove white robe hangs off one pale shoulder when he bows his head.

“I never believed in it as a child— the permanence of it all, of… love. And yet, I… I find myself longing for it anyway. Like a fool.”

You rise on one elbow and resist the urge to touch him. “Wanting to be understood by someone doesn’t make you a fool, Your Majesty.”

“I know that I… That I haven’t been the most gentle with you at times. But I am… I am sorry for it,” Geta tells you in near inaudible murmurs, flashing you a sheepish glance over his freckled shoulder. “I understand it must be difficult for you.”

“What, Your Majesty?”

“To be caught between all that was. And all that must be.”

Your stomach wrenches at his words. Your chest tightens beneath the weight of them until you have to fight for every wavering breath. You take a trembling inhale and rise so you’re sitting at his side, taking careful calculation in the following words you speak.

“We cannot… We cannot choose who we love, Your Majesty. We can fight ceaselessly against it, perhaps, but it doesn’t change fate.” 

You reach out for him with one tremoring hand. You rake a rogue curl behind his ear and hope he doesn’t know Marcus’ face is the one stained permanently behind your eyelids. 

“We love who we love, Your Majesty. And the rest stay ghosts.”

Geta’s eyes glitter with an emotion you’ve not seen from him before. His dark eyes flit between both of yours, as though searching for something in your gaze — sincerity, perhaps, or maybe an equal sense of longing. 

You blink, and his mouth is on yours. Geta kisses you back onto the velvet-satin and settles over you once more. It’s wet. Hungry. Unforgiving.

You kiss him back with a similar intensity, clutching his robe in both hands, desperate to understand him.

Marcus remains on the other side of your door — an invisible ghost, an unwilling witness. He hears all of it, as clearly as he would if he were seeing it with his own eyes. A hollow feeling of yearning and hunger gnaws at the pit of his stomach as he tries to imagine your pleasured form. The painting behind his eyelids is blurred and distorted with time.

He wishes he could see you now, even with Emperor Geta fucking you into the mattress.  He could pretend that he was the one fucking you, at least, and let the image alone bring his withered form back to life. 

You’re together in his head, entwined still, with your mouths bruised in a relentless kiss.

Marcus hopes you’re still together in yours, too.

General Acacius spends most of his nights in the crypt, which he feels is rather fitting for a half-dead thing like him. When he is not surveilling your bedroom door, or being otherwise taunted by Emperor Geta, he finds a strange sanctuary in the dreary tombs. It is perhaps the only place where he is left alone. 

Caracalla is petrified by thoughts of ghosts, and Geta detests history, so neither is likely to show their face in such an ancient mausoleum. Which is ideal for someone plotting an insurrection.

You find him there in the wee small hours of the late, late night. He wears a deep red cloak over his white robe, perhaps to conceal himself, as he shuffles around the room to snuff out flickering candles. You wonder who he lit them for because you know he does not need them. He’s grown too used to navigating in the shadows.

Your sandals scuff suddenly against the damp cobbles. Marcus does not seem startled by the intrusion. He knew you were there by the sweet scent of your perfumed body alone. There is nothing about you he would not immediately notice.

“What are you doing here?” he wonders with his back facing you, voice low with a timbre that bounces off the tomb walls.

“I wanted to see you,” you answer sheepishly.

Marcus says nothing in response.

You wring your hands into knots and shift your weight on your feet. He extinguishes the torch on the far wall, and shadows engulf the windowless crypt — save for one lone candle flickering atop Emperor Commodus’ cracking tomb. Your eyes flit from the flame to Marcus’ silhouette, gaze swimming with uncertainty.

“May I ask you a question?”

“I don’t see why not,” he monotones and flits across the room like a ghost.

“What do you do down here?” you ask. When your voice inevitably trembles with distant alarm, you quip, “I only mean it mustn’t be healthy— Spending so much time in the dark.”

“It’s none of your concern,” Marcus insists with a venom that makes you flinch. He hooks his pointer finger around the hook of the candle holder, and the dancing flame paints his statuesque features in shades of amber. He softens immediately at the sight of you.

“I just do not wish to incriminate you,” the wartorn man confesses.

Your chest aches with an immediate concern. “What does that mean? Please do not tell me that you’re doing something perilous—”

“No,” Marcus interjects firmly, then amends. “Not yet, at least.”

“Explain it to me, then. Help me understand.”

“It’s best you do not know, petal. It’s safer that way.”

The word alone makes you cross. You wish he’d stop using it.

“But I will tell you when the time is right, I swear,” he assures you, though his voice threatens to tremble with wavering strength. His dark eyes flit between both of yours, heavy with an emotion you cannot place. “I will keep you safe no matter what, you know that—”

“It’s not me I’m worried about, Acacius,” you murmur with a stern glint in your eye, clutching the downy fabric of his robe in your fists.

“There is naught to worry about, petal. I assure you.”

Marcus takes a step closer to you despite the voice of reason in his head telling him otherwise. He lifts his free hand and swipes a callused palm over your cheek, soft and warm with sleep. You lean into his touch like a cat. A funny feeling blossoms in his chest.

“I’ve been thinking… About what you said some days ago… Making a new world for ourselves…” He talks slowly and deeply and nearly to himself. You nod against his palm to egg him onward. “You were right. We deserve better than this— Why should we have to live like dogs?”

Marcus swipes his thumb over your jaw and takes another daring step closer. You feel the heat from the candle he holds in his free hand, though your eyes remain on his face. You couldn’t look away from him if you tried. A part of you is hesitant to blink even, for fear that you might miss him for a millisecond too long.

He angles your gently head upward with his weathered palm. You can smell the musk on his tanned skin from here, as well as the ale and mint leaves on his breath. It’s dizzying. The ground seems to sway under your feet at the dwindling proximity between you.

“We love each other, don’t we?” he murmurs in a honeyed voice.

You nod without a second thought. Your mouth waters with the hopes of tasting him.

He nods with you. “So fuck the war.”

Marcus ducks down to press his mouth to yours. His lips swallow your own in a kiss, lingering and languid and deep enough to drown in. 

You melt into his touch with a heavy sigh exhaled through your nose. The warm breath fans across his unshaven cupid’s bow while your hands migrate to his hair. You twist the greying tendrils in your fingers, keeping him impossibly close against you. 

When Marcus goes to grip the fabric of your nightgown in both his hands, the candle holder tumbles to the ground. The gold clatters audibly across the cobbles. The wax light falls on his side, and the flame begins to dwindle on the murky stone floor. 

You wonder, briefly, if it will take fire — if the smoke will give you away, or if the tomb and all its history will burst into flames, or if the inferno will take you and Marcus with it.

Though it snuffs quickly out, bathing the two of you in a navy blue darkness, you figure you wouldn’t care if it did burn you to ash. Not as long as Marcus was there to kiss you into embers.

Marcus’ face consumes your dreams. 

The details are blurred with the haze of sleep, but he was there — touching your face, asking to try again. You merged into one another like ghosts. Like drops of melted honey. Like lovers of Pompeii turned to ash. Every day, you tell yourself that it is unsafe to love him more than you do now. And yet he haunts your dreams, and yet you find more love in you for him.

And yet…

A violent hand pulls you from your gentle slumber. It jerks mercilessly at your arm, snatching you from your peaceful dreams and waking you into a nightmare.

“Wake up!” a strident and familiar voice bellows into the quiet bedroom, lit only by the faint blue of an early morning. The words are punctuated by another rough tug at your wrist. You awake to the sharp aching in your fingers.

“Wha—” you slur, trying to blink away the bleary mist as you lift your heavy head from the pillows. “What’s going on? What’s happened?”

“Up!”

You’re urged from the mattress by the unforgiving fingers digging bruises on your arm. You squint through the sleep and ebbing darkness to find Geta looming over you — blonde curls mussed on his head, swollen eyes wide and wild, velvet robe askew on his shoulder to reveal his pale chest. His skin there is flushed red with anger. You don’t know what you did to deserve his wrath.

“Geta?” you gasp through a faint whimper in your throat, trying to pull your wrist from his grip. He only holds you tighter. “What are you doing— You’re hurting me.”

“Liar!” is all he shouts in response, like he doesn’t even hear you.

The crazed Emperor drags you out of bed just to drop you to the cobbles. The thin sleeves of your nightgown slip off your shoulder; the skirt of it bunches at your thighs. You make yourself as small as possible as you shrink away from the man towering above you. 

“I don’t understand,” you squeak through the heart in your throat.

“Liar!” he shouts again.

His voice rings through the shadowed bedroom. You cower in response. He sobers at the fear twisting your features, but only slightly. His heart pounds hard against his ribcage, beating red-hot rage through his veins. He can hardly hear you through the rushing in his ears.

“What have I done?” you whisper, voice trembling.

“You have made…” Geta trails off, swallowing the emotion threatening to strangle him. He blinks away burning tears and spits, “A mockery of me.”

Fear ebbs into confusion. “I have not—”

“You lie!”

“I do not!” The volume of your voice startles even you. You blink up at him with wide, pleading eyes, searching for any ounce of mercy within him. 

You find none. 

Just a man made of towering orange flames, threatening to set you ablaze. 

“I have given up everything to be here,” you whimper. “To be at your side. To understand you—” 

“Make no mistake… Your lies no longer have an effect on me, little dove,” Geta interjects through a bout of cynical laughter. He shakes his head and grins despite the tears glittering in his eyes. “You think you are so clever. That you were brought here, to my Empire, to be cherished...”

The Emperor takes slow, daunting steps towards you. You shrink away from him and choke back a sob bubbling in your throat. Tears fall from your lashes in fat droplets down your burning cheeks. 

Geta grins like it pleases him.

“Let me be clear, so there is no longer any misunderstanding…” he tells you, speaking in slow, deep murmurs as he crouches before you. You can see the flecks of gold glimmering in his deep brown eyes from here. You can see the fire swimming within them, too, as he assures you, “You were created merely for me to destroy you.”

The throne room is absent of its usual bright red roses and ornate gold decoration. The chandelier overhead has not yet been lit. Instead, the spacious room is illuminated by an ever-rising sun — which basks everything it touches in shades of melancholy blue. 

The servants light torches along the wall while you and Marcus stand together before the scowling Emperor. Something about it strikes a feeling of nostalgia in your chest, though these circumstances are much different than the ones you were brought here under. Geta no longer looks at you with lust in his dark eyes. He looks at you, instead, with betrayal.

“Thanks to the civic virtue of some good men…” the eldest Emperor quavers into the silent room. “…Your insurrection has been revealed.” 

Your stomach twists at his words. Your mouth falls softly agape with shock. Of any explanation you could’ve been given upon your sudden imprisonment, you couldn’t have expected this one. You thought, perhaps, that he had somehow found out about your meetings in the crypt with Marcus. You would’ve been able to stomach that, at least. Your love for Acacius is something you’d be willing to die by.

But not this.

Not something you were completely unconscious of.

Geta continues tearily. “The honor… The dignitas that Rome has bestowed upon you— All this, you have forfeited by your treachery.”

“Emperor Geta, please,” Marcus sighs. His deep voice echoes through the empty throne room like a heavenly, sorrowful instrument. He bows his head and swallows hard, knowing now that he must beg for mercy. Not for himself. But for you. 

“Torture me, if you wish, but let her go. She had no part in this—”

“Forgive me,” Geta spits emotionlessly. “But I have no cause to believe you, General.”

Marcus turns to you then, tired eyes wide and pleading. “Tell him. Go on, it’s alright,” he urges gently, though your silence makes his chest ache. “Petal, tell him— Tell him you were unaware.”

You say nothing.

“Tell him!”he repeats in a shout that rings through the quiet throne room. His trained apathy splinters for the first time in front of Geta. He is perhaps more fearful now than he has ever been before. No war was nearly as frightening as the thought of losing you.

“What does it matter?” you mutter in response, voice fragile like glass. “He made up his mind the moment he found out.”

“Then take me if that’s what you want,” Marcus says, pleads to the merciless Emperor. His sandals scuff the stone floor as he takes a step closer in surrender.  “Put me in the Colosseum— Crucify me on the royal steps, if you must— But please, do not make her suffer for something I brought upon her. Do not punish her for my sins.”

“You are the Great General Acacius…” Geta croons bitterly. “What could one more splash of blood possibly mean to you?”

“Everything,” Marcus answers without a second thought, voice heavy with a predestined grief. “It would mean everything.”

Something in Geta shifts. You see it flickering in his dark, teary eyes. A surge of power, almost, like a stroke of bright white lightning. The corner of his pink mouth twitches as he tilts his chin upward. “Step back ten paces,” he commands suddenly.

Marcus’ brows pinch first in confusion, then relax a moment later when he inevitably obeys. His feet sound along the cobbles as he takes ten slow steps backward. He mourns the distance it puts between the two of you.

“Turn around,” Geta’s voice echoes through the vacant throne room.

You hear Marcus take a wavering breath in. He spins on the heel of his leather sandal until his back is facing you. His heavy eyes flutter shut as his chin falls to his chest. He searches for an ounce of hope within himself, knowing he’d lost all of it some time ago now.

The Emperor smirks. “Good dog.”

Acacius seethes.

Geta’s dark eyes, rimmed red with emotion, flit back to you. Something heavy settles in the pit of your stomach — dread, perhaps, or maybe acceptance for what’s surely to come. 

“Was it a lie?” 

“What?” you ask with bated breath.

Geta shrugs, then readjusts his robe when it falls from his shoulder. “Any of it.”

“No.”

“Tell the truth.”

“I am.”

Geta snarls at your subdued emotion. “I am the Emperor of Rome. I could have my pick of whores— You being here is a privilege. Do you understand?”

You nod once. “Yes.”

“You came from filth— to the greatest city in the world,” Geta spits the words like so many drops of venom. He waves his hands up and down your form, pale fingers now void of their usual gold rings. “You were just… some whore without a face before I made you better. I did this!” 

He gestures wildly around the darkened manor, voice breaking at the volume of his shouting. His robe falls askew to reveal more of his bare chest as spit coats his bitten lips. You remain in place while the Emperor inches closer. The fear has left you, as well as any instinct to cry — your grief is too violent for that now.

“I brought you here,” Geta convinces himself. His saliva splatters on your cheek in faint droplets. Tears glitter on his cheeks like stained glass windows. A fire flickers in the deep brown of his eyes. 

“I willed this— I cared for you with every bit of conscience as I was born with.” He takes a deep breath and steps back, shaking his head in disgust. “And yet…”

He turns away. 

You’re able to take in a deep breath for the first time in several minutes when he parts from you. The leadened weight on your chest remains.

“If you do not wish to be here, I certainly will not make you,” Geta rambles in teary blubbers. “One whore is as good as any other— Perhaps I can find one who is capable of pretending she cares.”

You step towards his retreating form. “Geta—”

“Go!” he shouts, looking back at you with a crazed look in his sleep-worn eyes. He wipes spit from his chin and quietens, strangled by an unavoidable emotion. “Now. Walk through those doors, and I promise no harm will come to you. Just do not stand before me and patronize me in this way, I will not stand for it.”

His promise makes your chest swell with hope. You remain frozen even still, stuck at an unnavigable crossroads. Such assurances of safety mean little to you when Marcus

has a sword to his throat. 

You look at the man over your shoulder. He has not moved from his spot some feet behind you. His back still faces you, though you notice his hands are balled into trembling fists.

Even if it were true — even if Geta really planned to let you go without a knight slitting your throat — it would mean little without Marcus. You would not know where to go without him. You would not be able to live with yourself if you left him here, not knowing what Geta planned for him. You would be away from the city, yes, but it would not be freedom.

Your instinctual will for survival is replaced by the primal need to keep Marcus alive.

To do that, you must reach for the bloodied hand of death.

You turn away from your lover — away from the opened cage door and the promise of freedom — and rush to the heartbroken Emperor. You clutch his cotton robe in your fists and tug at the gold trim to pull him closer. You meet him in the middle, entwining your mouth with his.

You kiss him. Hard. With enough ardor to snatch the breath from his lungs. His pink lips part for yours, almost instinctually so, and you swipe your tongue over the rough pad of his own. He tastes of sleep and honey and very distantly of wine. He gets heavy against you as he falls into your kiss. His hands cling to the skirt of your nightgown until his fists start to shake.

You pull away only when he’s melted for you all over again, when the red-hot anger has ebbed from his milky white body. A thin string of saliva keeps you connected until it splits against your chins.

“I know… I know you are hurt, Your Majesty,” you speak in slow murmurs, and through uneven breaths. Your fearful eyes dart over his face and find him utterly kissbitten — mouth swollen, eyes heavy, cheeks flushed. “And I know that it is difficult to forget pain. But I’ve found it’s harder to remember happiness. Glory.”

Each word from your mouth is stamped with intention. 

You speak of glory only with the hopes that he might remember his many useless wars, all of which Marcus has won for him without complaint. There would be no Empire to rule without the Great General Acacius, who dares not to sneak a glance at the two of you over his shoulder. He, instead, keeps his heavied gaze on the torch hanging by the door. The flame sears his vision until he can see you dancing within it.

“We have no scar to show from sweetness, do we?” you quaver with a forced smile, cupping Geta’s burning cheeks between both your hands. You swipe your thumb over a fat tear clinging to his cheekbone. “How can we allow ourselves to be blinded by anger when there is still so much love?” 

Geta snivels and rests his forehead against yours. His long lashes flutter against his glowing cheeks.

“I wept for you,” the Emperor confesses quietly, words weighed down by tears. “I had come to believe that… If I wanted something badly enough, the sheer strength of my desire would make it mine. I see now that it was foolish—”

“Perhaps it is true,” you whisper to him, breaths entwining and kissing both your cheeks. If he notices your voice shaking, you hope he confuses it with desire and not with fear. “Perhaps that is why I’m standing here now. Because I am yours…”

A moment of silence lulls over the blue hour. The quiet feels deafening in the large throne room, quelled only by the sound of heavy breathing. Yours hitches in your throat when Geta parts wordlessly from you. He sniffles once, then exhales hard through his mouth. 

Your gaze remains fixed on his face in an unwavering stare as you try to gauge his reaction. His features are emotionless, but his heavy-lidded eyes flit back and forth between yours — as though he, too, were trying to measure your sincerity. 

Your fate, in that split second, teeters on a knife’s edge. You hold your breath and wait for him to raise his hand. Not to hit you, maybe, but to sic his guards upon you like dogs — either to drag you into a cell or to be kind enough to kill you on the spot.

Geta lifts his palms only to cradle your jaw between them. His long fingers wrap around your neck like he intends to choke you there. He drags your mouth back to his instead. Your noses smush together with the intensity of his touch. It’s all teeth and tongue and spit. Desire and anger and grief. A billion things he licks into your mouth.

The weight of his hunger smothers you. Consumes you. He could kill you this way, if he wanted. There is little difference, you’ve found, between a bite and a kiss. It only matters how deep he buries his teeth into you.

Your chin shines with his spit when he parts from you. Geta’s chest heaves with labored breaths, flushed and swelling with proud. He hasn’t yet let go of your neck. You wonder if he can feel your thrumming pulse against his fingers.

“Show me, then,” he pants. “That you’re mine… Prove it to me.”

The Emperor goes to step back from you. Your hands dart for his wrists, holding him there when he threatens to pull them away. Geta’s eyes widen in shock.

“Don’t make him watch,” you plead in a delicate whisper.

His wide, chocolate eyes flit over your shoulder. He seems to forget about Marcus’ presence until that very moment. He looks back to you, at the plea swimming in your eyes, and nods once in response. 

“Take him,” he calls to the knights lurking in the darkness.

Their heavy armor clinks together as they comply without complaint. They lead Marcus to the door with their hands on the hilts of their swords. You watch him leave from over your shoulder, in the very corner of your eye. You hope he understands, but you wouldn’t blame him if you didn’t. You find it hard to forgive yourself even now.

Marcus always said that people find out who they truly are during times of war. Maybe this is who you are. Maybe you cannot kiss the devil without taking some of his sin.

The door closes with a heavy thud across the room. 

The weight of being alone with the Emperor washes heavily over you. Like drops of ice-cold rain. Like warm, melted honey.

Geta peers at you with a similar uncertainty. Head bowed slightly, wide eyes glittering from beneath his lashes. You do what you have always done — take care of this man the way he’s asked you to, placate his anger with your body. Giving yourself away is as natural as breathing most days.

“Sit down, Your Majesty,” you urge in a gentle whisper.

The Emperor listens as obediently as his knights. 

The sound of his sandals padding along the cobbles fills the suffocating quiet. He descends upon his throne like he was made for it, spreading his legs before him and propping his arms along the golden rests. He looks like a painting upon his seat of power, bathed in the deep blue of an early morning. An angel dragged to hell.

Geta watches you with an unwavering stare as you take slow steps toward him. His brown-eyed gaze goes glassy at the sight of you, an angelic thing all dressed in white. His thighs part to welcome you between them. He tenses under your palms when they smooth over his milky white chest, past the sparse chestnut hair littered there and down to the tie of his robe.

His stomach rises and falls in heavy, uneven pants under your touch. You unknot the string with bated breath, then brush the golden trimming to his sides. He’s bare underneath it, likely from where he’d been brutally roused from his slumber. His cock is on immediate display — resting on his fuzzy thighs, half-hard and glowing red at the tip.

You descend to your knees to take care of him on instinct. His hands dart to your shoulders to stop you. “Ride me,” he commands, though it sounds more like a plea as it spills his swollen mouth.

Wordlessly, you straddle his thighs. The cotton fabric of your nightgown bunches at your hips. You spit into your palm and reach between your bodies for his cock in a single practiced motion. He feels like velvet in your fist. 

Geta’s nostrils flare with a heavy exhale when your hand drags up the length of his cock. His head tips back onto his throne when your fist falls back down again. Your lips find the expanse of his long, white neck like a deep-seated compulsion. You kiss his pulse as though it were his mouth. He cradles the crown of your head and brings his lips to your ear.

“You love me,” he sighs within a moan when your thumb brushes the head of his drooling cock.

You can’t tell if it’s a command to repeat the words back to him, or an affirmation he repeats only for himself. Either way, you nod in response and line his stiff cock at your entrance. Geta’s mouth parts in a silent moan at the feeling of your silky cunt. 

“I do,” you whisper just before you mount him. 

There is a dull ache in your belly when he pierces you, though you’ve grown accustomed to his length with time. Your satin folds split to welcome every inch of him accordingly. Your hips rock back and forth over his supple thighs and your velvety walls pulse around him, swallowing him further inside.

Your breathy moans entwine and fill the air. You keep a white-knuckled grip on the back of the golden throne as you ride him, without break and without mercy — in spite of the burning sensation in your thighs. You tell yourself it’s to finish him quickly, though a primal part of you chases after your own pleasure.

Geta’s breaths leave his parted mouth in huffed exhales as you bounce on top of him. He mourns the sight of him disappearing in and out of your glistening pussy but fights to keep his eyes open to watch the rest of you. Your fucked-out face swirls in a mixture of concentration and pleasure as Geta lifts his hand for the collar of your gown.

He unties the dainty knot at your sternum and tugs the fabric down your chest, baring your breasts for him. His mouth waters at sight of your plush skin, moving in time with your rhythmic grinds over his lap. 

A strangled moan sounds in your throat when he takes your left nipple in his mouth. You caress the back of his head, twisting your fingers in his honey hair in an effort to keep him close. He runs the rough pad of his tongue over your sensitive tit and smiles when he hears you whimpering. 

“You love this,” he mutters against your chest. “You love when I fuck you. ”

You nod until the words catch up with you. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“God—” he grunts through gritted teeth, tipping his head back when one particular grind makes him twitch inside you. His hands grip your thighs over your skirt. His fingers threaten to sear bruises onto your skin. “Your pussy was made for my cock, wasn’t it?”

You nod again.

His right hand parts from you only to come down a moment later. The dull smack of his palm against your clothed hip echoes through the throne room. “I don’t think I heard you.”

“Yes,” you squeak with your face scrunched, trembling when your clit drags across the thatch of pubic hair at the base of Geta’s cock.

“Who’s cunt is this?”

“Yours—”

His hand lifts again. You hear the impact of his palm against your ass before you feel it, a subtle stinging you find a strange comfort in. Geta laughs in maniacal, breathy chuckles when you keen for him. 

“I can’t hear you.”

“Yours!” you exclaim in a feeble gasp, clutching the Emperor to your chest. You shudder on top of him when an orgasm rakes suddenly through your body. It flows quickly and without mercy, but never quite ebbs. You’re left a whimpering, weeping mess while the aftershocks of your pleasure consume you. 

“It’s yours,” you squeak in nearly inaudible blubbers, pressing your kissed mouth to the shell of Geta’s ear, repeating the phrase like it’s the only one you remember. “’S your pussy… It’s yours…”

The words alone are enough to make Geta burst inside of you. 

He tenses all over. His dull nails press crescent shapes into the skin of your thighs. His rosy mouth parts to exhale a guttural moan. You feel his cock jerk with your drooling confines right before he spits several loads of cum inside you. Your cunt pulses around him, instinctually milking him for every drop of liquid pleasure, and a whimper sounds in Geta’s throat.

You feel it bloom in the pit of your belly like a flower — something soft and warm and seeping. As the two of you relax against one another with wavering exhales, you feel his cum leaking out of you like drops of summer rain. It pools on his lap and drips down to the throne underneath him, tainting the gold with a mixture of your sin.

It proves a point. Marks a territory.

Geta swells with pride.

Your back slouches as you melt into his body. You hide your burning face in his neck as his feverish grip on you loosens. Geta twitches beneath you when your cunt pulsates around his softening cock. “Mm…” you hear him hum, mixed with a laugh you feel rumbling in his chest. His head tilts back as a lopsided smile tugs deliriously at his mouth.

He runs a gentle hand up and down your spine, a reminder of his being there despite your feeble efforts to dissociate your brain from your body. You can’t ignore the warmth of his touch on your tingling skin, or the way your hearts press together and beat to the same rhythm.

A distant feeling of acceptance pools in the pit of your belly along with the Emperor’s cum. Your grief is a much more discreet thing, however, and you miss Marcus like an unstitched wound that won’t stop bleeding. Like a knife lodged somewhere deep in the body.

“I think… I think I’ve found an adequate punishment for the General,” Geta pants, the crooked grin audible in his words. “Perhaps he will learn his lesson when I’ve fucked a child into you—”

You tense when the Emperor’s palm splays over your stomach.

“—Perhaps then he’ll understand that you’re mine.”

[blueberrypancakesworld]

I am yours and never ours

Caracalla x wife!reader

warning : Spoilers for Gladiator ii, hurt/comfort, kissing, implied mother issues, mention of violence, cuddling, no use of y/n

Summary : It was a mistake to kill the hero, to not give him the mercy he should have received. The riots a sign of overthrow and fall and entrenched in the palace the two brothers and Caracalla's wife, nerves are thin and after a forgetting of temper it seems only love can calm a frightened Caracalla to bring order to the situation.

info : omg the scene was so sad and tense, the bond between the two, i'm fully in my gladiator era. Have fun reading :)

masterlist

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It had only taken a fraction of a moment, the sun had been right over the Colosseum, giving everyone a chance to get their bearings. Shouts of cheers, boos and cries mingled with the loud voice of Rome.

The emperors sitting impatiently on their chairs, the younger one screaming for death at last, the older one seeming to grow more agitated with every breath, and in the centre the weeping princess as the arrows pierced her beloved.

Justus Acacius was dead, unjustly killed despite the surrender of both fighters, a death that had the emperors rejoicing, but a death that only a few hours later at nightfall had the people roaring.

What at first was still disbelief and shock had become a popular uprising, at the latest with the tumult, the flames raging in the streets and the numerous courageous citizens.

The two brothers also became aware of the uprising and the royal family withdrew in disbelief and indignation to avoid being drawn into it.

Even the Sun of Rome, Caracalla's wife, could not reassure the people who loved her; they seemed to hate her as much as her husband and brother-in-law.

Looking out from behind the solid walls of the palace, she saw the metre-high flames, saw the angry crowd and the few troops of the emperors who could hardly do anything.

Gods have mercy on us she thought and took another sip from her glass as she heard more screams of death and moved away from the window, going back to her family but seeing only the same tension in Geta.

Rarely had she seen him like this if he didn't burst under the pressure at any moment so she was sure he would storm out himself, ,,There may be many but they don't have the weapons and courage of our troops" she said calmly and tried to pour Geta another glass but he turned away.

His gaze had barely noticed her so absorbed he seemed to be thinking about how he could save them all, ,,Ungrateful" he hissed as he looked out and saw nothing but treachery.

The silence in the palace was interrupted only by the footsteps of Macrinus, who withdrew in her presence, she did not trust him and he did not trust her, but her concern lay more with her beloved Caracalla.

She glanced at her husband, who was sitting on a lectus and feeding Dundus his little monkey to calm himself down somehow. However, he looked just as miserable as his brother, they both looked tired, exhausted and completely overwhelmed by everything.

She gave him a smile, trying to keep him amused, ,,You'll all see blood," Caracalla said, returning the smile - it was to be expected that he wanted a whole bloodlust. A betrayal hurts deeply.

Even if it hurt inside her, helplessness and fear had a grip on her too…only Dundus the monkey seemed happy as he let out another little screech when he got a grape.

A mistake.

All of a sudden all she could see was Geta hurrying around, ,,Get that annoying monkey out of here!" shouting at his brother and slapping the wine in his brother's face.

Startled, she gasped, calling out Geta's name in warning, his eyes filled with anger and remorse, she knew it was the situation, knew the tension but nothing would help.

As she hurried over to Caracalla and gently placed her hand on his shoulder, he looked more like a weeping dog than an emperor, ,,Come my king, we should feed Dundus somewhere else" she said, helping him up slightly and telling him to go ahead into the throne room.

She walked past Geta who just looked down shaking his head and cursing himself, he had taken it too far. ,,I'll be right back why don't you get us some wine Macrinus" she said and didn't bother because his fake smile told her all she needed to know as he disappeared and she sighed and hurried on her way.

Her footsteps echoed in the empty corridors and the throne room, Dundus shrieked and she heard the sniffle, ,,Love? My King Caracalla, where are you?" she asked quietly, swallowing down the lump rising in her throat as she thought back to the episodes he had already had.

She and Geta loved him but this madness would be the downfall of them all. She continued to walk around the room, first looking behind the throne where he sometimes hid, but he wasn't sitting there.

,,Caracalla? It's your sun, do you understand?" she asked and finally saw the blond head of hair peeking out from behind one of the curtains behind which he had curled up.

She heard his crying, the sniffling as he peeked out from behind it and she got down on her knees, ,,It's-It's all right, come here to me, you know who I am, don't you?" she continued to ask calmly, hiding the slight trembling in her hands under the fabric of her clothes as she saw the man she loved so fragile.

Slowly he emerged from his ‘hiding place’ and nodded cautiously as he crawled towards her, ,,You…you're my wife," he sniffled his words barely intelligible as Dundus continued to tote on his shoulders and the chain rattled.

Nodding hastily, she smiled slightly relieved that he at least recognised her, sitting in front of her probably not quite knowing what he wanted or needed, ,,You are mine" he seemed to understand instead as he placed his hand on hers and she didn't pull it away.

Yours, mine, ours words she had heard so often, she was his wife but our joy.

It's like a coin with two sides only one can come up and the other stays in the shadow, only the balance on the edge can go but with enormous precision or trust and love…something that was all the more difficult at such a time between the two brothers.

She nodded again and pulled him close, lying in her lap like a boy with his mother, his, ,,I'm yours," she assured him, carefully using the sleeve of her dress to wipe his face.

Mostly delusional, she quickly realised that he was like a small child who simply needed her mother, a woman who had died at an early age and she filled that role.

An initial squirming soon turned into an amused laugh as she wiped the wine from his face and at least he wasn't crying, ,,Tickled" he muttered and she couldn't help but smile bitterly, the delusion was a horror and a blessing in one.

Another coin.

Dundus played with the blond curls as Caracalla's fingers, which had been playing with each other before, slid to hers, ,,He's been hurting me since we were sin the womb, you're not his or ours…you're mine…like Rome should be mine," he suddenly said, gripping her tighter.

Blue eyes showed the fire of madness and she stroked his cheek, she knew the story of the womb, but she knew just as well that madness could be transmitted by whores, was it a lie or the truth?

Trying to stifle a shaky breath, she placed a kiss on his lips, tasting the wine, tasting sage and tasting blood, ,,You two are like the creators of Rome, two sides my love. But think what Geta has done for you, for me, for all of Rome…you are the king, Geta is the god and I am the sun," she reminded him of the story she had made up during one of his episodes.

Caracalla a king of honour who could have all the blood in the world, his brother the political god and she the sun who held them all together.

A story that made him pause, his memories shrouded in mist, he needed time while she continued to hold him gently and stroke his cheek, his grip on her hand tightening and softening, ,,Yes? Yes, I think so…I think so...despite the pain, I-I still have you" he slowly realised and sanity returned to his being.

As he cuddled up to her and laid his head in the crook of her neck and held her like that for a moment, tears in her eyes as she blinked them away and thanked the gods again that nothing bad had happened.

Caracalla's hand was also on her cheek and she saw the gold tooth as she smiled, ,,Thank you my sun" she heard him say before he pulled her into a kiss, finally back to her senses as he slowly pulled away from her and helped her stand up.

Despite the riots, despite Geta and despite the madness, the Emperor was still here, gently grasping her hand and once more locking her in a kiss, even if Rome fell they would not give up trying to help him out of this doom.

From the moment she had taken him as her husband, she knew that she would always be there for him and that Caracalla would never stop loving her. Because even in madness there was nothing stronger than love.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

@potatoesenpaii , @rainbowbox , @thankyouperconte , @myromanempire81 , @k-yurieee

[covenofagatha]

A dance with death (and her wife) (Part 8)

You struggle after Rio and Agatha disappear from your motel room

Word count: 5500

Warnings: murder, sex, oral, strap-on, sex toys

A/N: thank you to everyone who read this fic and I really hope you guys are satisfied with the ending!

It’s been a month since you’ve last seen them. 

It’s been a month since they fled your motel room and left in their respective cars, going somewhere, because they either thought you were serious about catching them, weren’t entirely sure, or for some third reason unknown to you. 

You can’t believe they would just leave like that. Leave you like that. After everything, they thought you would just betray them? 

Blood had boiled through your veins that night, anger at having come so close to what you think you’ve always wanted, and you had swept through the room in a tornado, throwing flowers and shoving papers off the table and banging on the wall. Tony tried to get you to calm down but you had snarled and he had looked at you like you were a feral, rabid animal. 

Maybe you were. 

You grabbed your keys and stormed off to your car, leaving Tony to deal with the dead body. Lead foot on the gas pedal, you drove hysterically to Agatha and Rio’s house, pleading and begging and praying that they would be there. 

It didn’t even look like they had come back. You turned the place upside down, out of rage, out of fear, out of hurt.

You had sunk to your knees and hadn’t moved from your spot on the floor the entire night until you felt a hand on your shoulder after light was breaking through the windows. 

Looking up, a pinch of hope in your heart, you were incredibly dismayed to find that it was only Tony. 

“Come on, kid,” he had said. “Let’s get you home.” 

You had numbly agreed and two hours later, you were on the jet with him flying back to Miami. He had told the Westview PD that you had gotten far too entangled in the case and that for your own safety, he was pulling you off it. Plus, it seemed that the killers had left Westview. 

You couldn’t bring yourself to reveal their identities, even though you knew it wouldn’t be hard for them to piece it together with Agatha and Rio gone too. 

When you had landed back in Miami, you had attempted to resume your normal life, but the memories of their mouths against yours and the thrill you felt with them haunted you. 

The cases in Miami were boring, even when it was a female killer. It was as if all the colors in the world had faded and everything was just a dull gray now. 

Tony made you go to therapy but it didn’t help. And you kind of had trust issues with therapists now. 

You would wake up, go to work in a zombie-like state, come home, and sit in the dark until you dozed off, hoping you would wake up to find them standing there. 

They never did. 

Two weeks after coming back, the bags under your eyes were prominent and you looked racoonish, you were hardly eating because you couldn’t taste it, and you were getting maybe two hours of sleep a night. You spent the nights now pouring over the database, trying to find new cases that could be them in case they were trying to send you a message. 

Nothing. The Witch and Lady Death, Agatha and Rio, had completely vanished. 

They had brought you into their life, made you remember what you did, made you into a murderer, and then left. You were supposed to be with them right now, wherever they were. 

It was funny, you hadn’t been completely sure you wanted to go with them until you couldn’t. 

The irony left a bitter taste in your mouth. 

“Agent, you need to stop all this moping and crying,” Tony had finally snapped at you one day, about three weeks after you’d been back. “They’re gone, they got away, let it go. You’re going to kill yourself if you keep this up.” 

You had clenched your jaw, your resentment at him being the reason why you were here coming back with a vengeance. It had dissipated a little, but now it was a roaring fire in your head. “I quit,” you had said, and his mouth had dropped open but you were already putting your badge and your gun on his desk. 

It has been a week since that, and you’ve spent it curled up on your couch, staring into space. 

There’s a knock on your door and you stumble toward it. The pizza guy is standing on your porch and you take the box and hand him a $20 before slamming the door in his face. 

You’re not sure when the last time you’ve actually said a word out loud was. 

Maybe since you’ve quit. 

You know you’re in a depressive episode, it happens sometimes, but this one feels worse than all the others. 

And then the sadness turns to anger and how dare they do this to you. Do they not realize that they’ve completely fucked up your life? Are you ever going to see them again? 

When you get to the bargaining point soon after, because apparently you’re going through the five stages of grief, a plan begins to form in your mind. 

Their murders brought you to Westview. Maybe you can bring them here. 

For the first time, you let yourself go into the suitcase of clothes they gave you. You reach into the small pocket of it and pull out a vial, one you took from their house on the last night when you had torn through their house. One of Agatha’s “potions.” 

And you finally feel life starting to seep back into your bones. 

Now you just had to figure out who. Could be a random person, it would definitely be easier that way. But you need to draw attention to yourself, need to make sure that they see it. 

Your doorbell rings and you shove the vial back into the bag and go see who it is. 

It’s Tony. You swing open the door and he breezes past you into your living room. 

“Come on in,” you mutter sardonically under your breath, your voice sounding hoarse. 

You can hear him scoff and then the curtains are drawn and you wince when you realize just how dark it’s been in here. The sunlight burns you and you take in the mess that your house has become. Plates with half-eaten food and cups still mostly full litter the coffee table and bookshelves, stuff you couldn’t even be bothered to clean. 

Tony points to the box of pizza. “Early lunch?” 

As if you know what time it is. “Yeah, something like that,” you shrug. Did you order that today? Or was that from yesterday? The day before? It’s all completely blurred together. 

“How are you doing?” He asks and you almost snort. 

How does it look like you’re doing? “I’m hanging in there,” you say and he forces a smile. There’s an awkwardness between you and the man who used to be a father figure and you know it’s all your fault. 

“Why don’t you come over for dinner tonight? Pepper’s out of town and it’s just me, so let me cook something for you. I want to make sure you’re eating, I’ve been worried about you,” he admits and it tugs at your heartstrings just a little. 

You nod. “Yeah, okay, sure. What time?” 

He checks his watch and you can see 11:31 am on it. You could’ve sworn it was some time in the evening. “How about six? I can make some pasta? Chicken alfredo, your favorite, how does that sound?” 

“That would be great,” you agree, trying to ignore how much it hurts that he remembers. 

“Okay, good,” he says. 

A silence stretches between you and you rock back and forth on your feet. “Um, can I bring anything? Dessert or a side or something?”

He smiles for real this time and chokes out a laugh. “How about that crumb cake you used to bring to all the dinners? Remember when Happy ate almost the entire thing and then pretended he hadn’t?” 

“Like the crumbs weren’t all over his mouth and his suit,” you finish the story, chuckling. Back when things were simple. “I can whip one up, don’t worry.” 

“Excellent. Well, I guess I’ll see you tonight then?” He says and you purse your lips in an attempt to smile. Did you forget how?

“Yeah, thanks,” you confirm and he dips his head before making some excuse about why he has to leave. You lead him to the door and then close it after him, exhaling for a long time. 

A random person being killed might not get the attention of Agatha and Rio. But the director of an FBI branch? 

That would most likely do the trick. 

Now you just need a few more things. It can’t just be a sloppy kill, you need it to be direct, exact. You need it to be so much like their murders, need it to look like The Witch and Lady Death followed you back down to Miami, that they know with one-hundred percent certainty that it was you. 

You have the drug. You have a knife that can be used to cut through his flesh. You have some bleach, but you don’t have the hydrofluoric acid for clean-up or a purple azalea. 

It will be tough, probably impossible, to get the acid so you drop that. Even if it appears to be a copycat killer, the result will still hopefully be the same. 

Or they won’t come and you’ll get arrested.

It’s a risk you’re willing to take. 

You go to the grocery store to pick up the things you need for the crumb cake and then stop by a florist to get the flowers. It’s a smaller one, a little further out of town with no cameras, so it will be harder to track down whoever bought the flowers soon to be at a crime scene. When you order a bouquet of purple azaleas, the older lady at the register coos. 

“Aw, honey, whoever you’re getting these for must really be a special someone. These are beautiful flowers,” she tells you and you smile wistfully despite yourself. 

“Yes, they are,” you agree, talking more about the people being special than the flowers being beautiful, but both are true. The sickly sweet honeysuckle scent has become a pleasant smell to you, whereas before, it made you want to throw up. 

She hands the bouquet over to you and you pay in cash. Then you drive back to your house, put the flowers in a vase, and bake the cake. 

An hour later, when it’s ready, you take out the vial and douse the top with it. You shouldn’t feel a thrill, shouldn’t feel a burst of adrenaline run through you, but this is the most alive you’ve felt in a month. 

You put on a dress, black for the occasion, and do your hair and makeup. It feels like you’re on a death march, walking toward something inevitable that will either make or break you. If it doesn’t work, if it doesn’t bring them back to you, you’re not sure what you’re going to do. 

Spend the rest of your life on the run? Rot in prison? Or –

No. You’re not going to think about that, not even going to count that as an option. It’s going to work. It has to. 

And then it’s time to go. You wrap up the cake, put a blazer over your dress and slip the knife and a single flower into the pockets, grab cleaning supplies, and get in your car. You’ve been to Tony’s house a few times for FBI Christmas parties and the occasional dinner with Tony, his wife, and a few other colleagues, but you still remember which way to go. It’s complete muscle memory, you don’t even realize that you’re driving until you get there. 

Your heart rattles against your ribcage, but not from nerves. It’s from excitement. 

God, you’re really fucked in the head, aren’t you? You tell yourself that it’s not because you’re about to kill him, it’s because you’re going to see them soon. 

It doesn’t take long for Tony to open the door after you ring the doorbell and your breath is already coming out short and shallow so you have to slow it before he suspects something. 

“The cake,” you say, presenting it to him and he rubs his hand together before taking the pan from you. He leads you into the kitchen where you smell the pasta he’s been cooking. It makes your mouth water and for the first time in a month, you actually want to eat. 

The dinner is nice; pleasant conversation, good food and wine. He catches you up on some cases the FBI is working on, but there’s no hostility in his voice. You laugh and smile and do whatever is appropriate, just killing time until the main event. You haven’t been able to stop thinking about them, about Agatha and Rio, and your fingers twitch against your leg in anticipation. 

Tony goes and gets the cake and your breath stutters in your throat when he unwraps it. “Do you want a piece?” He asks, cutting himself a big one. 

“No, I’m pretty full,” you say and he shrugs, accepting it without a fight. You watch him with wide eyes as he takes his first bite and you swallow hard when he goes back for more. 

“Mm, this is so good,” he moans with his mouth full and you can’t help but wonder how long the drug takes to work. 

You don’t have to wonder much longer, because after the fourth bite, he coughs. You can’t breathe when he sets his fork down and reaches up to loosen his tie. There’s a change on his face and it absolutely delights you. 

He slides his chair back and you jump up. 

“Is there something in this?” He asks, but he sounds weak, tense. You walk around the table as Tony slides forward out of the chair and onto his knees. You bend down and tilt his chin up with your fingers. He’s struggling to hang on, little gasps slipping out of his mouth, but your eyes gleam as you take in the sight. 

The skin on his face tightens, shrivels, and dark lines etch into his face as his cheeks start to hollow out. You’ve got to give it to Agatha, she knows her way around chemicals. 

It’s only another minute or two and his body goes limp and slips down to the floor. The heat inside you is back, the ache floods through you, and more than anything, you wish they were there to take care of you. 

They will be soon. 

You just have to follow through on the rest of it. 

Standing up, you stretch your back just a little and then bend back over and grab onto his feet. You’re stronger than you look, but it still takes a good amount of effort to drag him into the living room. Agatha and Rio didn’t seem to stage their crime scenes per se, but no body was ever found in the kitchen, always on the floor of the living room. 

You straddle his body, unbutton his shirt, and pull the knife out from your pocket. Taking a deep breath, you hold it over where his heart is, grip the handle with both hands, and plunge. 

It goes in easy. Blood oozes out, but honestly, not as much as you thought. You remember reading that once the heart stops, the body doesn’t bleed as much, but since he just died and you’re cutting near the heart, there might be a little. 

That must be why Agatha and Rio had a relatively easy clean-up. 

You grunt with the exertion, dragging the knife in a circle. It’s harder than it seems to break through the bones of the ribcage, but you’re finally able to reach in and grab it. 

Pulling the heart out makes power rush through you and you squeeze it just to know what it feels like. It’s squishy almost, and more blood spurts out. 

And then you grimace. What are you supposed to do with it? You could leave it, but then you risk your DNA being found. You could take it with you, but you have no need for a heart. 

An idea crosses your mind and while it’s not a great one, it will definitely take care of the problem. You take it back into the kitchen, stuff it into the drain, and put a plastic container over it before turning on the garbage disposal. You have to hold the container with two hands so it doesn't fly off from the sheer force of the disposal destroying the heart. 

When you finally stop hearing resistance, you wash the container better than you’ve ever cleaned something before, making sure to get rid of any trace of chunks of heart and blood. 

And then you run out to your car to grab the bleach, gloves, and sponges from your car and get to work, scrubbing the floor until there’s nothing left. And then you put the purple flower into the gaping wound of his chest and you’re gone. 

When you get back to your house, you call the police and leave an anonymous tip about the sound of a struggle coming from Tony’s address, too impatient to wait for Pepper to come home and find him. 

And then you bide your time. 

A day passes. You turn on the news to see a special report about the director of the Miami FBI branch being murdered in his own home by seemingly the same killer as one from New Jersey. 

Two days. There’s a nationwide manhunt for the killers. You wonder if you’ve made it even more unsafe for them to come get you. 

Or maybe they’re just not coming. 

Three days. 

You’re back on the couch, in a cocoon of blankets, coming to terms that maybe you’re just never going to see them again. You wear the clothes they got you, anything to make you feel like they’re still in your life, and spray their perfume over you and over the blankets and over the pillows until your entire house smells like Thanatos. 

On the fourth day, you decide that you need to eat something or you’re going to wither away right there. You trudge your way into the kitchen slowly, a quilt wrapped around your shoulders, and you’re opening the fridge when you hear something. 

Your door is opening. 

Forcing yourself to calm down, you grab leftover chicken alfredo you took from Tony’s house and turn around. The container slips from your hand when you find Rio and Agatha standing there on the other side of your island. 

“Hi,” you breathe, feeling like you could cry tears of relief. 

Rio takes out a knife, twirls it between her fingers, and stalks over to you. You step back against the refrigerator and she presses the blade to the center of your clavicle and you should be scared. 

But then she leans in and sniffs up your neck like Agatha did in the evidence locker that day and you’re just excited. 

The older woman’s eyes watch the two of you carefully and you meet her gaze, seeing the heat in them. 

The knife digs into you, piercing your skin, and you can feel blood dripping down. Rio’s eyes dart down and her hazel eyes are dark when they flick back to yours. 

“Hey, doll,” she says, voice husky. “We saw your little stunt.” 

A smirk pulls at the corners of your lips. “Did you like it?” 

Agatha walks over, trailing her fingers on the surface of the island. She invades your space and swipes up the blood from your chest and holds her finger up to your mouth. “We sure did, superstar,” she says and you envelope her finger with your lips, sucking your blood off it. 

And then Rio sticks the knife into the waistband of her pants and draws you in for a hot kiss. She moans when she tastes the metallic flavor on your tongue and grips your waist to pull you in even closer to her. 

Agatha yanks on your hair, dragging you away from Rio’s mouth with a strand of saliva and then her lips are on your swollen ones, tugging and biting your bottom lip. 

While her tongue slides into your mouth, Rio kisses down your neck and over the slight puncture from her knife, soothing the sting. 

“I didn’t think you guys would come,” you confess against Agatha. 

Rio bites down on your collarbone and it makes you hiss. “We just wanted to make sure you actually wanted this,” she says hotly. Your chest flushes and she takes out the knife again and swiftly cuts through the silky fabric of your shirt. 

“I do,” you say, pleading for them to believe you, pouring all the emotions you’ve felt the past month at the thought of losing them into your tone. Rio kisses down your breasts, nipping at you through your bra and it makes you gasp. 

Agatha pulls away from you and steps behind Rio, moving her hair and pressing her mouth to the younger woman’s neck. “Poor Rio was so upset to think you would betray us like that,” she purrs and Rio nods, pouting mockingly. “I think you better make it up to her first, show her how much you want this.” 

The double meaning is clear and you are only too eager. You flip her around so her back is against the fridge, maybe a little more rougher than you need to be, and sink to your knees in front of her. 

You fumble with the waistband of her pants and she tips your chin up with her knife, reminding you of the night she did that with her gun. 

“Do a good job and we’ll reward you,” she says. 

Your hands finally drag her pants and underwear down and you smirk. “Ask your wife if she thinks I did a good job last time,” you retort and Agatha chuckles darkly from behind you and grips your hair before shoving your face into Rio’s dripping pussy. 

Rio gasps and Agatha holds you in place while you flatten your tongue and drag it through Rio’s folds. Her hips jerk on your face and you look up through your eyelashes to watch Agatha kiss her wife. 

Her scent invades your nose and her flavor fills your tastebuds and you moan, losing yourself in her. You lick around her clit until she’s practically shaking and she has to wrap an arm around Agatha’s shoulders to stay balanced. 

When you finally give in and suck on her clit, Rio keens and you can feel her growing even wetter on your chin. You see Agatha grip Rio’s throat and the sight makes you groan from how hot it is. You can hear Rio’s messy breathing as she starts to rut her hips against your face and you pick up the intensity, lapping harder at her cunt. 

Your jaw starts to hurt but you don’t dare stop because when you dip your tongue inside and curl it up, licking up against her walls, she clenches and the prettiest sounds you’ve ever heard fall out of her mouth. 

“I’m close,” she pants and Agatha, still sliding her lips against her wife’s, reaches down to rub Rio’s clit, her finger bumping against your nose while you keep thrusting your tongue inside Rio. 

Rio’s getting tighter around you and her breaths are more constricted until she finally lets out a loud moan and her whole body jerks and her walls clamp around your tongue as she rides out her orgasm. 

Agatha steps back so you’re able to rest back on your heels and you smile up blissfully at them, the entire bottom of your face soaked. 

“Did I do a good job?” You simper and Rio’s hand grips into your hair and pulls you up. It stings but it only makes you more turned on. 

Rio cleans your face with her mouth, taking extra care to suck on your lips. She nips and you breathe out sharply. “You did acceptable,” she says haughtily and you grin. 

“Let’s go, superstar,” Agatha says, leaning in to kiss you and then Rio, wanting to taste her wife. “Where’s your bedroom?”

You point down the hall and you follow them to it. You can feel the pool between your legs and each step puts the tiniest bit of pressure on your clit, making you squirm while you walk. 

“Please,” you whisper. They seemingly ignore you and tell you to sit on your bed while they root through your room, maybe looking for a wire or a camera or something. 

But then Rio chuckles when she opens your nightstand drawer and you know what she’s found. “Look, Aggie,” she says, holding up some of your sex toys that you keep in there. It’s been far too long since you’ve used any of them and you clench involuntarily around nothing. 

Agatha walks over and pulls out a harness and a dildo and shows them to you. “Do you want me to fuck you with this, pet?” She asks and you nod eagerly, practically drooling. 

“Agatha,” Rio says in a hush, holding up another toy, a small egg vibrator and a remote. When she thumbs at the dial on the side, it turns on in her hand. “Wear this so I can control it while you’re fucking her?” 

You let out a filthy moan at the question and the older women laugh. “Seems like we got our answer,” Agatha says, making quick work of pants and underwear. You shrug off the tatters of your cut shirt and quickly take yours off too, the cold air on your sopping pussy making you shiver. 

Rio kneels down and kisses Agatha’s thighs and then mouths at Agatha’s cunt for a few seconds, before sliding the toy into her. Agatha lets out a small groan and your jaw drops open. You might cum the second you feel her skin on you. 

The electricity is back, for the first time in forever, and it races under your skin, lighting your entire body up. You’re hungry, so hungry for more, and Agatha steps into the harness and Rio helps her fasten the dildo into it. 

Agatha climbs onto the bed and you scramble back to lay against the pillows, legs propping up and spreading. 

“So eager,” Agatha tuts, positioning herself and rubbing the dildo against your entrance, coating the toy with your wetness. She drags it up and down and presses against your clit until you’re sweating under her, your hands coming up to hold onto her hips. 

She pushes the tip into you and your walls bear down around it, clenching and trying to drag it in. Agatha chuckles at your desperate state, but it quickly turns into a moan when Rio turns the dial on the control and she jerks forward violently, pushing the toy all the way inside you in one motion. 

Your head drops back and your back arches, forcing your hips up even more so you can somehow feel her deeper. “Fuck,” you curse, the fullness exactly what you need to satiate the ache inside you. 

Agatha takes a deep breath, fingers digging in tightly to the bed next to you, when Rio turns up the vibrations. 

“Pet,” Agatha says in a low voice, slowly starting to shallowly thrust inside you like it would hurt her to pull out more. You sharply inhale when she curves into the spongy spot each time and your heart is beating so fast you think it might explode. It feels so good already that tears are pricking in your eyes and Agatha leans down to capture your lips as she picks up the speed. 

The vibrations from the toy inside her are so strong that it’s affecting the dildo inside you and you’re reduced to a moaning mess. You tilt your head and through your hazy vision and the fog settling in your head, you can see Rio with a hand between her legs, watching you get fucked by her wife. 

“I wanted you guys to come back so badly,” you practically sob, hips rising to meet each one of her thrusts, each motion of the cock in and out of your body rubbing against your clit and making you gasp. 

Agatha chuckles breathlessly above you, the exertion causing a slight sheen of sweat to perspire on her forehead. Her cheeks are red and she tosses her hair over her shoulder so she can see you better. She’s biting on her red lip as she takes you in. “We know, superstar. We missed you, too. But we’re never letting you go now.” 

“Good,” you say and you pull her down for a kiss. Her thrusts are getting sloppy now, losing rhythm and her hips stuttering, but you don’t care because you’re already so close. 

And so is she, by the looks of it. Her cock fills you perfectly, and you can feel the veins on the toy dragging against your walls, and she’s panting into your open mouth, both of you exchanging hot air between the two of you. Your senses are heightened, on fire even, and you’re on the edge, tingles, fireworks, spreading through your body. You’ve never felt this alive in your life and you crave more before you’re even done right now. 

And then she puts a hand around your throat and it’s like all the air from your lungs dissipates. She squeezes lightly and you moan explicitly, feeling like a livewire is running through you. 

“Agatha,” you whine. 

She huffs and somehow speeds up, and she lets out broken whimpers when Rio turns the vibrator up even more. “Cum for me, pet, cum with me,” she says and presses on your throat to constrict your airway ever the slightest and you do. 

You slur incoherent words while you orgasm, the dam inside you breaking and pleasure floods through you like nothing you’ve ever felt before. Agatha slumps on top of you, her hips convulsing inside you involuntarily as she rides out hers too. 

She lays there for a minute or two, your walls twitching around her. And then she pulls out and flops on the bed next to you. Rio comes over and gingerly takes the strap-on off Agatha and pulls the toy out of her. 

“You both okay?” Rio jokes and you both nod, thoroughly worn out. 

“What now?” You ask and the two of them look at each other. You cannot survive them walking away from you again. 

Agatha props herself up on an elbow and brushes a sweaty hair off your forehead. “What do you want, superstar?” 

“You two.” 

Rio chuckles. “Good, because if you didn’t say that, we brought gasoline and we were going to set your house on fire.” 

You gape at her and look back and forth between Agatha and Rio. “For real?” They both nod solemnly, although you can see Agatha trying not to smile. The wheels in your head turn. A fire started this whole thing, fifteen years ago. Maybe it makes sense that fire is what ends it. “Do it,” you tell them. 

“Excuse me?” Rio says, clearly taken aback. 

“Set my house on fire, make it look like I’m dead. I have the azaleas downstairs, we can scatter them outside and make it look like The Witch and Lady Death killed me. My death is faked and we go off the grid. It makes sense. You guys followed me from New Jersey, took out my boss, and now you took me out, too. The last two connections to your case.” 

It’s a good plan, even they have to admit it. 

So Agatha goes and gets the gas while you pack up a small bag of things. You leave Rio’s knife and the empty vial from the drug in the living room so it looks like The Witch and Lady Death burned in the fire too. 

You douse the kitchen and trail it to the front door so you have an easy escape. Rio hands you the matchbox, and it makes the same sound it made when you strike the match on it as the last time. You take a deep breath, look at them, and they nod. 

You flick it and a brilliant blaze of fire erupts, quickly spreading through the whole house. 

And you don’t even look back on your way to their car, the three of you sliding into it. 

Agatha pulls out of the driveway and you smile to yourself. 

You don’t know where you’re going or what will happen, but you’re with them now, so everything is going to be okay. 

[lemonlover1110]

𝐌𝐲 𝐁𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝

Toji Fushiguro

[Chapter 14] Feelings of Betrayal

← Previous Chapter - Story Masterlist

Pairing: Toji Fushiguro x f!Reader

*It's a shorter chapter but for a reason🥹❤️ Baby is coming up so i made a little form for baby names since I don't have one picked out. If y'all want to submit any names that you really like

*also please send any asks to @tojilover1110 <3

Discord +18 - Twitter - Ko-Fi

Toji’s tapping his foot, growing impatient as he waits for Shiu to show up. He called Shiu, and the man agreed to meet up to talk about everything that’s going on. Toji is convinced that you’re lying to him, not because he thinks Shiu is above that but because you’d say anything to get back at him. 

When Toji first confronted Shiu about the issue, Shiu sounded completely lost. He doesn’t know why he didn’t think of it immediately, you were clearly lying. But he doesn’t want to outright accuse you of lying without getting confirmation from Shiu first. 

There’s a knock on the front door, and Toji nearly runs to get it. He hasn’t been waiting for too long, but for him it feels like an eternity. His thoughts have just been consuming him… The thought of you and Shiu being together fills him with an unprecedented rage. 

“Hey…” Shiu awkwardly greets Toji the moment the door opens, and it answers all of Toji’s questions. Shiu did something with you. He sounds as guilty as charged. It’s not something that Toji usually picks up on, but there’s just something off that gives everything away. Toji stands in the middle of the doorway, making it impossible for Shiu to get through. “So… Are you going to let me in?”

“Did you sleep with her?” Toji won’t let Shiu inside so easily. He fears he’ll have a reaction that will lead to severe consequences, so he’d rather have Shiu outside, somewhere where he can easily slam the door shut.

“What are you talking about?” Shiu’s clearly guilty, even though he tries to play it off. It makes Toji want to strangle the man right there and then, but he has questions that only Shiu can answer.

“You know what I’m talking about.” Toji tries to keep himself calm because he knows he won’t solve anything if he just starts beating the shit out of Shiu. Shiu stays silent, biting his tongue. He came with the idea that he’d be honest with Toji, but he feels different standing right in front of him. 

“We didn’t– But we…” Shiu takes a deep breath, taking a step back to put more distance between him and Toji. “She gave me a handjob but that’s as far as we got.”

Toji’s vision slowly turns red, and he takes deep breaths to calm himself down. His hands go to his pockets as a precaution. Maybe a few months back he would’ve had Shiu pinned down and beaten some sense into him, but Toji remembers one thing over and over again: He’s going to be a father again soon. He’s not going to get into any trouble, even when the matter comes to you.

“Of course.” Toji scoffs. Toji has to look at the ground because the mere sight of Shiu is enough to get him to lose control. “You just couldn’t wait, you had to dig your claws in. Is waiting a year too hard? Or at the very least until my daughter is born.”

“The daughter you don’t want.” Shiu can’t help but point out, because he doubts that he really cares about that detail– Toji is just hurt and willing to use anything to paint Shiu as a bad guy.

“I want my daughter, don’t you fucking dare.” Toji is shaking from the anger that consumes him. He tries to take another deep breath to calm himself down. “Don’t you fucking dare going anywhere near her again, I’ll fucking kill you.”

“She’s allowed to do whatever she wants. You two aren’t together because you were a bad husband to her. You always were.” Shiu says, and Toji’s teeth dig into his bottom lip so harshly he could bleed. “She’s allowed to move on with whoever she wants.”

“Not you, dammit! You’re supposed to be my best friend!” Toji yells, slapping his hand on the door, which makes Shiu take a step back. Shiu puffs out a breath, thinking of what to say next. 

Shiu is one of Toji’s closest friends. He does owe Toji loyalty– But really, who else is there to blame other than Toji? Shiu won’t allow himself to suffer simply because Toji got to you first. Maybe if you had done something to Toji, he wouldn’t allow himself to get close but you didn’t.

“I’m sorry, Toji.” Shiu sighs. “I’m not going to pass up on the opportunity of a great woman just for you. Just because you couldn’t appreciate her doesn’t mean I shouldn’t get a chance.”

“Curse you, Kong. I’ll kill you.” It could be an empty threat, but Shiu will not take his chances with Toji. Not when Toji goes back into his apartment, leaving the door wide open. Shiu isn’t a coward, but he values his life enough to know when to walk away.

When Toji walks back, Shiu is gone, which ends up being the best decision for the both of them.

Toji tosses and turns in his bed at night, too much on his mind which makes it impossible to sleep. This doesn’t happen to Toji, he barely looks at his pillow and he’s asleep. But not tonight. Tonight he keeps thinking about you and Shiu, wondering how this is possible.

You’re allowed to move on (even though he doesn’t want you to) but not with Shiu. And Shiu shouldn’t be doing this in the first place. He doesn’t know what hurts worse, the betrayal from Shiu or the fact that you chose his best friend of all people. He guesses Shiu’s betrayal stings the most since he did nothing to the man to make this happen. 

This is what Toji practically asked for, so he can’t complain. Maybe he should’ve been better, and wiser after everything; perhaps he would’ve had a better fate. 

Toji can’t do much. You’ve made your decision and he can’t force you to change your mind, as much as he wants you to. It fucking hurts that it’s Shiu, but at least Shiu will make a great step-dad. 

Yeah… His priorities have changed. He still longs for you to be by his side on the cold bed, but it isn’t his main focus. The daughter he didn’t want is what he cares about the most now.

Maybe a low blow is all he needed for him to reconsider what he should prioritize. 

Toji sighs, sitting up in bed before turning on his lamp. He won’t be able to sleep no matter how much he tries, he might as well continue working on the baby blanket. Her arrival is just in a few months. 

But he’s gone through this before, she’ll be here in no time.

[ssahotchnerr]

Jack still sort of maintaining a relationship with Roy the first few years after Haley dies (Aaron thought it was important to maintain those connections for Jack even tho it hurt Aaron to do 😭 it was easy with Jess who he loves but SUCKED with Roy) but he gets extremely exclusionary once Ellie is born. Him being like “I will spend time with MY grandson who belonged to MY daughter but I will not be wasting my time, energy, and money on a child you’ve had with another woman. A child who – might I point out – would not have been born if you stayed married to my daughter and didn’t get her killed in the first place.”

Aaron being pissed on Ellie’s behalf (and his feelings are hurt tbh) and you being pissed on both of their behalfs. But, unexpectedly, Hc that Jack overheard this conversation and basically says to Aaron the next time Roy wants to take him somewhere (Aaron didn’t want to make HIM feel bad on top of everything else by banning him from seeing his grandfather, so he was gonna let him go), “I don’t want to spend time with grandpa Roy if he’s gonna be mean to Ellie. Thank you, but I’ll stay here.” SUCH A GOOD BIG BROTHERRRRR you and Aaron are so proud 🥺❤️

OHHH MY GOD??

roy just completely refuses to acknowledge that ellie exists 😭

it happened right from the start: when aaron shared the two of you were expecting, roy brushed it off, muttering something incoherently in response. after she's born, aaron invites him over for family dinners, he refuses to come. he's invited to ellie's first, second, third birthday party, doesn't come. every time he comes over, he acts like he's never seen her before. disregarding her completely.

it becomes very clear very fast that he wants to spend time with jack and jack only. as much as aaron hates to admit it, in a way, he understands. roy's bitter about what happened to haley, so this was somewhat expected. it's a different situation that's hard to navigate - ellie isn't related to him, so if roy doesn't want to bring her along to places, whatever, aaron's not going to force roy to do anything. the issue is what an issue it is. how ellie is being treated.

it's more of a problem when ellie is a bit older, and wants to tag along with jack wherever he goes. she just wants to be included 🥺 sweet ellie simply says hi when roy comes over to pick up jack, he ignores her. the next time, she draws him a picture, and he doesn't accept it.

aaron gently confronts him, and that's when roy brings up haley and how this child is a disgrace to her. imagine he full-on admits he wishes she never existed?? 😭 ellie's a product of what happened to haley, he'll never forgive aaron for getting her killed, so he'll never accept this child's existence. she shouldn't exist.

that angers aaron and he starts going off - ellie is a part of this family, whether you like it or not. and fine, you don't have to love her (saying that SHATTERS aaron's heart) but do not treat her like she's nothing. aaron won't let that stand.

it starts a huge argument 🥺 roy refuses speak to aaron, except when it comes to arranging his time with jack, and the conversation is very short at that. he doesn't speak much to you either (never has). again in his eyes - you're haley's replacement. jack's new "mom"

and it's especially sad because ellie knows about haley too :( - not the story, but the simple, good things: jack has another mommy, she's not here with us anymore but you can talk to her with a candle. haley has never been a avoided topic in the house, she's encouraged. and so ellie loves haley in her own way :( so to call her a disgrace in haley's name?? when she's also keeping haley's memory alive? :((((

you feel awful. you know how hurt aaron is but he doesn't allow himself to show it. he hates talking about it, and he's always in a mood whenever roy's with jack. you feel awful for your daughter who doesn't know what's going on. you feel awful for jack who's taking an unnecessary weight on his shoulders in terms of this too.

ellie's confused and upset, this is the first person who's ever shown her unkindness. aaron gently tries to explain, but also, how do you explain this to a toddler? so he simply apologizes and scoops her up into his arms and holds her close :( he feels awful, and as if he's failing her in someway. this is "his fault", isn't it? 😭

so if roy's taking jack out, aaron or you, or both combined, take ellie out for the day to do something fun. or try to keep jack heading out on the down-low. it sucks, you still both encourage jack to spend time with his grandfather - maintaining that important relationship - even though it's exceedingly complicated behind the scenes.

and jack, being the sweet sensitive kid he is, picks up on the tension immediately. and he's torn 🥺 he wants to appease his grandfather, knows what he's doing isn't right, but also doesn't want to betray his little sister, letting behavior like this continue. he feels guilty :( he takes the initiative and brings it up to roy himself, asking if ellie can come with them someday, like to the zoo or to a movie. but roy's pretty level-headed and his mind is made up - absolutely no ellie.

so jack gets really upset :( he gets home one day and cries about it :((( you're trying to console him, as is aaron (who's close to tears himself), and ellie wanders over :( she gets sad whenever jack is sad :( and while she has no idea what's going on exactly, she just buries herself right up into jack's side as he's crying. to comfort him too 🥺🫶🏻

overall it's a reallyyyy messy situation, one that you can only hope resolves with time :(

[phantoms-world-and-more]

Danny hits batman with the anti-creep stick

So dannys 19 and is taking astro engineering at gothem university

To save money he lives in the cheepest apartment he can find, its not like it going to kill him again

Danny was ok with the attempted break ins, he was ok with the broken AC, he was ok with the spam callers

What he wasent ok with is the fucking parcor wannabes who decided his roof is the best spot to be in

He gave up his sleep during his teen years he was NOT willing to do the same in his twentys

So after a month of the same assholes on his roof he decided to do something

.

.

.

He wasent expecting a man in a purple suit that looks like Ronald McDonalds evil twin

Or a furrie with anger issues to be with him

Danny looked at them for a good minute before deciding he's seen weirder stuff in his fridge

He charged the fenton-anti-creep-stick and smacked the clown on the head

He dropped like a brick, the flowes in his hands dropping and giving a puff of some weird gass

He turned to the furrie and said

You two can flirt somewhere else just not here

He was polite, or tried to be at 2:37 in the morning, but the furrie said that he cant just intervein in a fight "itS DaNGErouS"

Danny looked him in the eyes said too bad furrie and bopped him with the anti-creep-stick

Danny was about to call the cops to come collect these two weirdos when he saw a tracking system on the furries arm, it showed that someone was going to come this way

.

.

.

Jason saw alot of things in his life

He came back from the dead, faught crime in pixie boots,became a crime boss, tried to kill a clown and his brother on multiple occasions

But even he was at a loss

The joker was knocked out and on the ground

But so was batman

Just as he was about to call for backup when adoptee-to-be stepped out of the shadown hilding a stick taller than him and giving him the most dead stare

Collect the furrie and Ronald McDonald and keep them off the roof they can flirt somewhere else, if they ruin my sleep ONE more time they'll have a lot more to worrie about than the anti-creep-stick

[11rosebunny]

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ 𝐓𝐎𝐗𝐈𝐂 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐒 (𝐁𝐎𝐅𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐍 + 𝐉𝐎 𝐓𝐎𝐆𝐀𝐌𝐄)

content: f!reader, possessiveness, a hint of gaslighting and manipulation

Haruka Sakura

He tends to push everyone else including you and won't properly communicate his feelings if he feels it's too complicated for others to understand.

It gets extremely frustrating if you're trying to tell him what's wrong, he'll lie and say nothing, shift the topic somewhere else, and worst part is if you keep on trying to ask, he'll somehow make it your fault for worrying even though he's on the brink of falling a part. He still struggles with opening up to others but he can't continue to push away others that deeply care for him.

Hajime Umemiya

Sometimes, he forgets he can not treat everyone the same way, this goes for how he treats women especially. At first he didn't understand how friendly he acted towards girls while dating you was a bad thing, it took him a few days to understand your perspective and put himself in your shoes.

Eventually, he ended up getting a taste of his own medicine when he saw you being friendly towards Hiragi, since that moment, he understood boundaries with other people.

Toma Hiragi

His caring gratitude becomes a little too much to the point where you don't have to lift a finger.

If you simply ask him anything, a drink, to go to a place, to be picked up, or if he just decides to clean up after you, make sure you're okay, and practically do everything for you, he's on it right away.

The only downside is he expects you to stay obedient. If you don't want to do something with him (aside from sexual cases) he starts to tell you about all the different things he's done for you. It's a very well trick that he's not even aware of to make you comply to whatever he says. You can't even argue with him either because he is right about doing so much for you without you having to ask half of the time.

Taiga Tsugeura

He tries to be friends with everyone. At first it isn't a bad thing to keep up a good reputation but it's come to a point where if a person did something weird and rude in the past, he will continue to try to get on their good side.

You had to talk him out of it that a friend to everyone is a friend to nobody.

He still struggles to get rid of that habit of his and is currently doing a good job at it. So good for carrot head!

Mitsuki Kiryu

Everyone knows he's popular with the ladies, and most would think that would be his toxic trait, but in reality, it's his lack of communication. It's not like Sakura, where he'll push everyone away but Kiryu tends to have a hard time keeping up in the social life.

On some days, he's the driest person you'll ever meet but inside he doesn't see anything wrong with it because no matter what he still loves you.

He got confused when you accused him of not loving you, he was baffled because he didn't understand because he was sure as hell he did in fact love you. He's slowly starting to improve, and tried to text and talk more to make you feel happy.

Hayato Suo

He doesn't understand why you'd want to hang out with anyone other than him, this was a back then problem so thankfully, he grew out of it.

Before, since you two grew up together from a very young age, when you started to talk to other people he started to grow bitter, and didn't understand why you'd speak to them and not him. It was a small anger management but he soon grew out of it when he got older thankfully.

Jo Togame

His brave behaviour sometimes turn into the most possessive person on earth. He won't like it if you even go somewhere by yourself, he'll try to keep you in his sight at all times and would even forbid you to do some things, regardless if you really wanted to do it, he does not care and will shut it down with an argument if he has to.

Because of that, his jealousy issues are also quite high, to the point where if he has to make you cry, then so be it.

[mmywanda]

Go to Sleep — W.M

——

Pairing: Mommy!Wanda x Fem!Reader

Warnings: bad relationship with mother, mommy!wanda, implied drugging, lactation kink, pet names. men & minors dni.

A/N: My first Wanda fic, pls be nice :,)

——

To say your relationship with your mother was rocky would have been an understatement. Most nights were full of screaming matches, mainly on her behalf but occasionally you lost your cool, unable to hold back.

"Just get out of my sight!" Your mother yelled, pointing to the front door of your shared home. You were old enough to get your own place, but you had been struggling to hold down jobs that earned proper money, consequently forcing you to stay living with your mom. Oh how you wished things were different.

"I'll sleep somewhere else tonight but I'm coming back tomorrow to take my things. I'm done here." Sadness and anger seeped through your words. This had happened enough times now, you having to sleep at a friend's house. But this was your last straw. You couldn't spend another night under this roof.

"Fine." Your mother looked away, seemingly unable to bear the sight of you. Taking a deep breath, you ran upstairs, grabbing the essentials, toiletries, a change of clothes and phone charger. Without saying another word to the other woman, you left the house, backpack slung over your shoulder. It was a cold night, causing you to shiver, wishing you'd brought a coat, but you weren't going back now. Your shaky hands reached for your phone, unlocking it and pulling up your friend's contact. At the same time, you saw it was almost one in the morning. Did you really want to disturb him? And besides, none of your friends were particularly close to you, not by your choice. It was like every friend you made, they just didn't like you enough. And you didn't know why.

As you scrolled through your contacts, desperately trying to find someone who would probably be awake, you caught sight of the woman who was very close with your mom.

Wanda Maximoff.

She had told you to call night or day, knowing the issues at home. And now seemed like the perfect time to utilize that offer. So you hesitantly pressed the call button. She picked up on the forth ring.

"(Y/N)?" A sleepy voice sounded through the phone, and you could picture her rubbing her eyes from tiredness.

"Hi.. uh.." Unexpectedly, tears started to form in your eyes, voice wavering. You heard a ruffle of sheets, she had sat up, her voice now turning into concern.

"Are you okay?"

You nodded, then remembered she couldn't see you, so you mumbled, "Yeah.. uhm.. I just don't know where to go."

"Where are you? I'll come and pick you up." You could hear another ruffle, presumably Wanda getting ready to leave, but you quickly stopped her.

"No, no, I can walk to yours, I'm not far." You were already waking her up, intruding on her night, the least you could do was walk a couple of blocks. After her initial protests, she finally gave in. So you slipped your phone into the bag and started the journey. Walking alone at night always scared you, but it didn't take long before you were knocking on a door. The door swung open immediately, and you were met with a very worried Wanda.

"(Y/N), I've been so worried since you called." She wrapped her arms around you, and you could smell her floral scent. You'd always loved her. In fact, you'd spent most of your teenage years crushing on her secretly. Like any teenager, to be honest. You hugged her back, sniffling quietly.

"I—I'm sorry, I just didn't know where else to go, and everyone's asleep and you said to call whenever I wanted, and my mom hates me and—"

You were cut off by Wands pressing a finger to your lips. "Sweetheart, don't worry. Come in, you must be freezing." Her soft tone melted you to the core, and you couldn't help but follow her inside, shivering at the warmth. You weren't quite aware of what she was doing, because you were lost in your self destructive thoughts, but a few minutes later she was standing in front of you with a hot mug of cocoa. More tears prickled in your eyes, because not even your mother had shown you this type of kindness. You held the mug in your hands, warming up. Her thumb reached out and wiped your stray tears.

"It must have been a big fight, huh?"

You nodded, looking down at the smooth chocolate. "Yeah.. she told me to 'get out of her sight'. But I don't know—" You trailed off, a strain in your voice. "I don't know where I'm going to go. I have nowhere. None of my friends like me enough to let me sleep on their couch until I get my bearings."

She sighed softly, her empathy radiating off her. "You can stay with me, honey, as long as you like." Her voice was gentle, exactly what you needed, a stark contrast to the voice that had just been shouting at you.

"You mean that?" Your eyes lit up, feeling warm inside.

She chuckled, tucking some of your hair behind your ear. "Of course, sweetheart. I have a spare room already set up."

The relief spread through your body— you had a place to stay! Someone who actually wanted you!

"Thank you so much, thank you." Your thanks came gushing out, before she guided your hand on the mug up to your lips.

"Drink, darling."

You sipped, and the chocolate was sweet, slightly too sweet? You didn't give that any mind though, just drinking the warm liquid. "Mhm, this is good."

"Anything for you, sweet girl."

You suddenly felt very sleepy, eyes beginning to close. You hadn't been this tired before, right? "Sleepy.." You mumbled, body feeling heavy.

"That's okay, baby, let's get you to bed."

She took the mostly finished mug out of your hands, washing it up in an instant before slipping an arm around your waist and guiding you up the stairs. If you had been more aware, you would have noticed more of your surroundings. The pretty decor, the cosy feel of the house, but you weren't in any state to admire any of that.

"Poor thing.." She murmured, and led you into a bedroom. You collapsed on the bed, yawning softly as you curled up. You could smell the sheets, just the same as Wanda's scent. You smiled to yourself before realising you must be in her bed. You woke up a little more.

"I thought I was going in your spare room?"

She smiled knowingly, laying down beside you, pyjamas already on from before. "It's okay, baby, mommy wants you here." She whispered, pulling the sheets over your clothed body. "Don't worry about anything."

You tried to think straight, to wonder why she had called herself 'mommy', though you found that you didn't care at all. Your mouth felt dry all of a sudden, and you licked your lips, seeking out something you didn't know you wanted.

"Do you want to nurse on me, baby?" Wanda's voice was floating around you, through the clouds of sleepiness. You didn't want to ask what that meant because before you knew it, she was guiding your head towards her chest, where she had pulled down her night shirt to reveal her breast.

"Suckle, sweetheart, I know you want it."

You nodded mindlessly, your lips latching onto her nipple, sucking gently and humming when you felt the sweet taste of milk. Could life get any more perfect than this, you wondered.

"That's it honey, go to sleep. Mommy will be right with you."

——

[solxamber]

Hello! I saw your fic(?) On the reader being similar to the white rabbit!

So I had a similar idea but with absolem the caterpillar from Alice in wonderland. With heartslabyul, octavinelle and pomefiore (added on maybe chenya ?). Basically the reader is a 2nd year and is a very cocky person when it comes to things like subjects they get high scores in along with having bad anger issues? This is just an idea I have at the top of my head 😅 I also don't make requests often if that was clear lol.

Thank you if reading my request ! :)

It's been so long since I read Alice in Wonderland but I hope this is what you wanted <3

Absolem! Reader with Heartslabyul, Octavinelle and Pomefiore + Che'nya

Rest of the characters: here

Riddle Rosehearts

Riddle Rosehearts had no idea how to handle you. On one hand, you were technically a model student—when you weren’t terrorizing everyone with your arrogance, that is. On the other hand, your cocky attitude made his eye twitch like he was seconds away from writing up a whole new rule just for your ego.

“You may have gotten the highest score in Alchemy,” Riddle said stiffly, his hands clenched behind his back like he was bracing himself for an incoming tidal wave of sass, “but that does not excuse you from following protocol during experiments!"

You leaned back in your chair, all smug grin and half-lidded eyes. “Oh, Riddle, Riddle, Riddle. If I followed your ‘protocol,’ we’d still be stuck trying to figure out how to transmute lead into potatoes.”

His face flushed as red as a rose. “That is not the point!”

“I’m just saying,” you replied with a shrug, “your rules are cute, but some of us prefer actual results.”

There was a long, tension-filled silence. Then, Riddle’s lips twitched, and you could almost hear his brain rewriting Rule 392: No Sassing The Dorm Leader.

Trey Clover

If Trey had a talent, it was the ability to defuse a situation with nothing more than a laid-back smile and a soft-spoken word or two. But when it came to your outbursts, even Trey occasionally had to roll up his sleeves.

“You’re getting pretty fired up over here, huh?” Trey said, folding his arms and giving you that calm, big-brother smile.

You narrowed your eyes. “They just don’t get it, Trey. If they’d actually listen to me, we’d be done with these stupid group projects in half the time.”

Trey hummed, still as placid as ever. “Maybe. Or maybe they just don’t appreciate being called ‘incompetent cabbage heads’ every time they mess up.”

You raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t call them that this time.”

“Oh, my mistake. That was last week.” Trey chuckled, grabbing a cupcake from a tray. “Anyway, maybe you should try a new approach. Like, I don’t know... baking?”

You squinted at him suspiciously. “Is this another one of your ‘therapy via baked goods’ attempts? Because the last time I tried, Cater put the whole thing on Magicam, and I’m still seeing memes about ‘exploding tarts.’”

Trey just smiled knowingly. “Everyone’s gotta start somewhere.”

Cater Diamond

“#MoodSwings, am I right?”

Cater had this incredible (and incredibly annoying) ability to pop up just when you were about to lose it. Today was no different. You were fuming over some insignificant thing someone said in class, and right when you were about to explode, there he was, phone at the ready.

“I swear, if you tag me in another one of your posts—” you started, but he was already snapping pics, duck-lip selfie style.

“Whoa, chill, bestie! It’s not my fault you’ve got that ‘rage extrodinaire’ aesthetic. The followers eat it up. Seriously, you should start a channel. #CaterToYourAnger.”

You glared. “I’d start with a video called ‘How to Get Away with Smashing Cater’s Phone.’”

Cater grinned, absolutely unfazed. “Aww, love you too, cupcake. Just think of all the likes we’d get!”

Ace Trappola

Ace? Oh, Ace lived to rile you up. He thrived on it like a plant soaking in the sun.

“So,” he said, leaning back against the wall with a smug grin, “I heard you were bragging about your Potions grade again. Shocking.”

You glared daggers at him. “I don’t have to brag. The results speak for themselves. Unlike your grades, which are probably hiding in the shadow of your last failed test.”

“Oof, that’s cold. You sure you’re not secretly studying Ice Magic?” Ace shot back, raising an eyebrow. “You know, all that boasting is just you overcompensating for something. Like, maybe you’re secretly terrible at everything else?”

Your temper flared instantly, and you stepped closer, ready to unleash your wrath. “Say that again, and I’ll show you what happens when—”

“Oh, hold on—Deuce! Hey, Deuce!” Ace shouted, and before you could lay into him, Deuce was running over, looking confused and ready to brawl for no reason.

“Are we fighting? We’re fighting, right?” Deuce asked, fists already up.

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “Deuce, no one’s fighting.”

“Yet,” Ace muttered with a wink, and you had to resist the urge to scream.

Deuce Spade

Deuce tried. He really did. But no matter how hard he tried to match your fiery personality, he just couldn’t seem to get it quite right.

“You know, I’ve been practicing too,” Deuce said one day, puffing out his chest like he was about to impress you. “I’m getting better at Transfiguration!”

You blinked. “Really? Didn’t you turn someone’s textbook into a chicken by accident last week?”

Deuce’s face turned red. “I-It wasn’t a chicken! It was... okay, maybe it was a chicken, but I’m improving!”

“Sure you are,” you teased, crossing your arms. “I bet your next experiment will turn the whole dorm into a petting zoo.”

Deuce stared at you for a moment, clearly weighing his options. “...That would actually be kinda cool.”

You facepalmed. “Deuce, please.”

Azul Ashengrotto

Azul wasn’t intimidated by your cockiness. No, in fact, he saw it as something to be... monetized. Because why not take that overblown confidence of yours and turn it into something profitable for the Mostro Lounge?

“You could be quite the business partner,” Azul remarked, smiling slyly from across his desk. “With your top grades and undeniable talent, I’m sure students would pay handsomely for tutoring sessions.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “What’s the catch?”

Azul feigned innocence. “Catch? Why, there’s no catch at all. Just a little... arrangement. I take a modest percentage of the profits, and in return, you gain access to the resources of the Mostro Lounge. Think of it as... a mutually beneficial partnership.”

You tilted your head. “So basically, I do all the work, and you skim off the top?”

Azul’s grin widened. “A shrewd observation, but I prefer the term strategic partnership.���

Jade Leech

Jade, on the other hand, was a master of subtlety. He didn’t confront you head-on like the others did. No, Jade had this unnerving way of quietly watching you, like a predator biding its time.

“Your temper is quite fascinating,” Jade remarked one day, his eerie smile never faltering.

You crossed your arms defensively. “Fascinating how?"

“Oh, just the way it flares up so quickly. It’s almost... predictable.” He tilted his head slightly. “I wonder, how well do you control it in dangerous situations?”

“Why, are you planning to test me or something?” you asked warily, already regretting the question.

Jade chuckled softly. “Oh no, nothing of the sort. I’m merely... observing. You’re quite the specimen, after all.”

You shuddered. “Please stop talking like I’m some kind of lab rat.”

Floyd Leech

Floyd, on the other hand, lived to push your buttons. He loved it when you lost your cool because it meant you were interesting. And Floyd? He thrived on interesting.

“Oi, Shrimpy!” Floyd’s voice echoed across the lounge as he slung an arm around your shoulders. “Heard you got top marks again. Big shot, huh?”

You side-eyed him. “Don’t call me Shrimpy.”

“Awww, but I like it!” he whined, pouting dramatically. “You get all mad when I do it. It’s fun! Do it again! Get mad!”

You groaned. “Why are you like this?”

Floyd grinned, his sharp teeth gleaming. “Why not? It’s more fun to watch you blow a gasket. Maybe I’ll squeeze ya real good next time you freak out.”

You shook him off. “No thanks, I’d rather not have my ribs crushed.”

“Awww, but that’s the best part!”

Vil Schoenheit

Vil couldn’t stand your cocky attitude. Mostly because he couldn’t stand anything that was less than perfection—and in his eyes, you were far from it.

“Such arrogance,” Vil remarked, inspecting his reflection in a compact mirror as you ranted about how no one appreciated your brilliance. “It’s one thing to be talented, but it’s another thing entirely to lack grace.”

You rolled your eyes. “Oh, please. Like you’ve never been confident in your own abilities.”

Vil snapped the compact shut, finally looking at you with a sharp, withering gaze. “Confidence is one thing. Vulgarity is is another.” He raised an eyebrow, his perfect lips curving in a condescending smile. “And darling, you’re teetering dangerously close to the latter.”

You huffed, crossing your arms. “I’m just saying, if everyone else could keep up with me, maybe I wouldn’t have to be this way.”

Vil waved a hand dismissively. “Keep up with you? I highly doubt that. There’s a fine line between confidence and crudeness, and you’ve trampled right over it in those worn-out boots of yours.”

You glanced down at your boots, scowling. “Hey! My boots are perfectly fine!”

Vil gave you a once-over, a pitying sigh slipping from his lips. “I could recommend a stylist, but I doubt even the best could save you from that attitude of yours."

Rook Hunt

If there was anyone who found your fiery personality endlessly amusing, it was Rook. The man seemed to delight in your temper tantrums, treating them like some kind of grand performance.

“Oh, what a magnifique display of passion!” Rook exclaimed one afternoon, after you’d shouted at some poor first-year for knocking into you. “Your fire burns so brightly, it is a wonder you do not set the very air ablaze!”

You glared at him, still fuming. “I’m not trying to entertain you, Rook.”

“But you do! Oh, you do!” Rook clapped his hands together, his eyes shining with admiration. “To witness such raw emotion—it is truly a gift. You are like a tempest, sweeping all in your path.”

“Pretty sure that’s just a fancy way of saying I’m a walking disaster.”

“Non, non, non!” Rook laughed, shaking his head. “You are a force of nature, one that cannot be tamed! To tame such a spirit would be a crime against beauty itself!”

You blinked at him, unsure whether to be flattered or concerned. “Okay, sure. Whatever makes you happy, Rook.”

Epel Felmier

Epel had mixed feelings about you. On one hand, he admired your guts—your temper was something to be feared, and Epel respected that. On the other hand, you were annoying.

“You know, just ‘cause you’re good at Magic History doesn’t mean you gotta rub it in everyone’s face,” Epel grumbled one day after you’d corrected him in class. “Ain’t nobody here tryin’ to hear that.”

You leaned against the desk, a smug grin on your face. “It’s not my fault you can’t keep up. Maybe if you spent more time studying and less time trying to look tough, you’d have better grades.”

Epel’s face turned red. “I am tough! And if you say somethin’ like that again, I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” You raised an eyebrow, daring him to continue.

Epel gritted his teeth, fists clenched at his sides. “I’ll... I’ll... kick your butt in PE next time!”

You snorted. “Sure, Epel. Let me know how that goes.”

He muttered something under his breath, probably swearing revenge in the form of some country-style wrestling move, but you were already too busy planning your next academic triumph to care.

Che'nya

Of course, Che’nya didn’t mind your attitude at all. In fact, he found it downright entertaining. He’d pop up at the most inconvenient moments, grinning that mischievous grin of his and waiting for you to lose your cool.

“Nyah~ Why so serious, Y/N?” Che’nya’s voice floated down from seemingly nowhere. “All that steam comin’ outta your ears can’t be good for your health.”

You looked up, scowling as you spotted him lounging in a tree, that trademark grin never leaving his face. “What do you want, Che’nya?”

He tilted his head, blinking innocently. “Just wonderin’ if you were plannin’ to blow a gasket today. I’ve got a front-row seat!"

“Get down here before I make you,” you snapped.

“Oooh, feisty! You know, it’s a good thing you’re not in Wonderland.” He chuckled, disappearing and reappearing right beside you. “You’d fit right in with all the wild tempers down there.”

You rolled your eyes. “And you’d fit right in with the pests.”

Che’nya laughed, not the least bit offended. “Nyah~ You say the sweetest things! See ya around, Hothead.”

And with that, he disappeared again, leaving you to stew in your own frustration. Typical Che’nya.

Masterlist

[deathbxnny]

Hi

Can I request a jinx x fem reader with abandonment issues that only grew stronger with jinx disappearing after silco death

(Sorry if that was long it’s my first time requesting :))

Please don't leave me. | Jinx x Fem!Reader

Hey there, dear Anon!! I absolutely love your request, and dw, it isn't long at all! Thank you for your great ask, and I hope you'll like this!!<33

Content: Heavy angst, abandonment issues, unhinged Jinx, grief, hurt/kinda comfort?, established romantic relationships, spoilers for season 2, sfw

Reader is afab and uses she/her pronouns!

((Not proofread))

One day, she was there with you at your side, cuddling you to sleep whilst she promised to be back soon from a mission. And the next, she was gone for good, far away somewhere to escape her adoptive father's murder, including you, it seemed.

In a way, you weren't all too surprised by it, considering how her episodes were. Yes, it drove you mad to be apart from her for more than a couple of hours. But you were used to it and told yourself that she'd be back for you eventually. You two had an unreadable bond. You were always her "pretty girl" since she first met you. Would it be dramatic to say that it was maybe even love at first sight? It never was to her, at least. She always was the one to claim that you were made for eachother.

Yet now you wondered if it was all a simple lie. Or maybe she had forgotten all about you in the heat of the moment, the panic drowning out any emotion she had for you. And you stopped thinking about it about three months into her disappearance, hoping that acceptance would set you free from the exhausting cycle of fear and depression you were in.

How were you even functioning without her anymore? The answer to it was "not at all", but even that was too simple. Jinx had abandoned you. She had done the one thing she swore she'd never do because she out of all people would understand how much that hurt. How much it messed with one's soul and body. Every second without her tormented you, and you couldn't help but wonder why you weren't enough for her to at least take you along to wherever she went. You would've followed her to the end of the world if it meant not ending up alone like this anymore.

You were going crazy and it only solidified when one night you found yourself waking up to the image of her laying on her side in your once shared bed, those magenta eyes glowing in the darkness of your room. You had imagined this moment plenty of times before in many different ways. In some daydreams, you scream at her in anger for abandoning you, and in others, you simply ignore her and turn away, just like she had with you. Neither of those things happened, and instead, you burst into tears and practically jumped onto her.

You asked her for an explanation. You asked her why she abandoned you. You asked her if she still loved you. But all she did was soothe you as you cried and sobbed, her hand carefully rubbing your back up and down with a newfound softness she had never had before. Whatever she experienced in her absence must've changed something in her. You could feel it deep down. The way her soul seemed lighter and calmer. But your anger for just leaving you like this didn't subside, even when you drifted off to sleep.

You woke up to an empty bed, though, and that confirmed that you must've been hallucinating... until you notice a small note on your nightstand detailing her return in a couple of days. She hadn't forgotten you after all. She had come to find you despite her grief and tribulations.

And that made you smile weakly for the first time in months as her love finally seeped in again, even from afar.

[obsessive-valentine]

Dark-Yandere!Farmer x GN!Reader

Wishing it was summer so bad so have this.

Being used to your captor being crude and rough towards you to keep you in line and obedient, today came as a shock when he seems to be empathetic and soften for you when you get sick during a heatwave. TW- kidnapped reader, non-con touching and hint of farmers past anger issues traumatising reader making them paranoid.

Its stifling hot, all the windows and doors are open for circulation and lace curtains drawn to try keep the house cool, but it does little. He had left the house earlier than usual to start his morning chores before the heat got unbearable, he had kissed your head and left hours before sunrise. You hadn’t seen him since. You probably could walk a few steps outside and see him in the distance somewhere but you barely had the energy to drag yourself from the bed to the sofa- infront of the fan.

You wished you hadn’t wasted energy on finding a cooler spot because the fan was only pushing around the hot air. With a exasperated sight you excepted your fate, waiting to succumb to heat stroke and begin vomiting. Laying flat on your stomach with only a vest top and underwear on, thinking about how good a glass of water would be right about now.

Until the dreaded sound of heavy boots stomp onto the deck, and into the house. “Fuckin’ hell” he huffed wiping sweat from his face with the shirt he instead slung over his shoulder when the sun had risen. You almost jumped a mile when the next time you opened your eyes from a slow blink he was standing right infront of you.

You braced yourself for whatever might come, used to being exposed to emotional whiplash. You could never read his face until it was to late, you tried to calm yourself from overacting by reasoning that you haven’t done anything wrong recently.

He leaned down without a word, the back of his dirty calloused hand pressed against your cheek and then the other one “you’ve been drinking water?” He questions suspiciously straightening up and towering over your form. You stayed laying down wishing to sink into the sofa, how do you tell him you couldn’t be bothered? You mumble a pathetic ‘no’ staring lifelessly at his dusty beaten up boots.

Expecting a scolding or to be told to ‘toughen up’, you flinched when instead you were met with his rough hand rubbing your back out of pity “hang tight for a moment”. It could have been just a minute or hour from when he left the room and returned with a glass of ice and water, you were to disorientated to get a grasp of the time or if you’d blinked or napped.

Slowly he pulled you up into a sitting position by your wrist, you groaned as a pulsating ache in your skull began “I know, hurts hu?” He steadies you with a firm hand in your shoulder before giving you the glass of water and made sure you drink it all. You feel the cold salvation trickle down your throat leaving your mouth cold for a moment, savouring the way the ice kissed your lips.

“Stupid of me, shoulda checked up on you. Think it’s heatstroke” he takes the cup off you once it’s all gone and places it on the table before bending down to pick you up “Can’t I trust you to look after yourself for just a few hours? This is why you need me sweetheart” he rather softly lectures you as he carries you down the hall, to the bathroom, turning on the cold tap to the bath.

He helped you out of what’s left of your clothes and steadied you as you stepped into the slow rising water. You felt to nauseous and uncomfortable to mind being naked or the fact he was also stripping down and slipping in the small bath behind you.

To tired to fight when he pulled you to rest your head back onto his shoulder or when his hands wandered when washing you with a cold cloth. You just closed your eyes and welcomed the cold goosebumps that spread up your legs and arms. You both stayed there for maybe half an hour, laying back in the cold with his hands mindlessly gliding up and down your body.

...

“Come on, I got work to finish” he huffed out pulling away his hands, watching you stir awake from you half conscious sate before getting out and wrapping a towel around himself. You grabbed ahold of his hands as he helped you out and handed you a towel. He wordlessly left but returned with one of his shirts walking past you to wet it under the cold tap “put this on, it will keep away heat rash and cool you down” his eyes wandered as you pulled it over yourself but you were none the wiser, struggling to pull the wet shirt over you as it clung to your skin.

Pulling on his clothes and boots he then lead you outside onto the shady front porch, sitting you on the old rocking chair with a book and glass of water. “Holler if you need anything, sweetheart” you felt a lot better but still exhausted, and for a moment relaxed and unafraid of the unusually caring man. That is until he turned around for a breif moment as he walked away “don’t you go wandering”

He was half smiling and it sounded light hearted but you knew it was anything but. It was a clear threat. A wave of sickness reintroduced it’s self, but now for a different reason.

You didn’t read the book but rather watch him work in a nearby field with sleepy eyes. How he would lovingly interact with the animals, how scarily strong he was lifting and dragging feed and muck around, how he’d carefully and proudly inspect his vegetables when watering them.

One of the livestock-guard-dogs came up onto the deck to keep you company, laying at your feet, and the cool breeze against the wet shirt sent waves of relief over you body.

...

At some point you had fallen asleep and when you woke up it was late afternoon and your shirt was dry, the chair rocked forward a bit then arms snaked around your waist and under you butt. You almost flew into fight or flight mode until you remembered where you are and who with, even though yet another headache you knew it was useless.

To your surprise he scooped you up and sat back down In the chair with you in his lap “welcome back to the land of the living” he joked, he didn’t even have to look at you to know he’d woken you up, to busy digging around in his pocket for a cigarette. You didn’t answer still getting to grips of what time it is after being rudely pulled from a heat coma.

“How you feeling? Want me to wet the shirt again?” He lit the cigarette before pressing the back of his hand to your cheek seemingly satisfied with how much your temperature has come down “no thank you” you glanced at him but adverting you eyes quickly remembering how unusually soft he treated you this morning when you were dazed and confused. Wondering when he’d become crude and rough again.

He hummed in a response resting against the back of the chair dragging you down with him, he takes a long drag of the cigarette “How about we watch a movie tonight? Got some old DVDs in the attic” he offers looking out contently at his farm and his free hand runs through your hair. “I’d like that” you said sounding more like a question, unsure if there was a catch but there was nothing.

Just a short nod and some peaceful quiet with the chirps of birds and one of the horses whinny’ing in the nearby field. There was no lingering dread or fear, just peace. And maybe if you closed your eyes and imagined hard enough you could trick yourself into thinking you are on a summer country vacation with the man you dreamed of as a teenager.

For the first time since you got kidnapped, you aren’t plotting an escape, trying to stay quiet and unseen, or fearful of facing the mans wrath or worried about spending the night in the shed. Your heads empty and feel rested.

...

Tomorrow you’d lash out again, remembering today and how you seem to be slowly accepting your situation -accepting your kidnapper. With a clear-head in the morning you will grow afraid of the reality that your stuck here for life. But as for today, you have a moment of peace - free from worry and perhaps a bit of contentment even if just for the night. As he finally has the chance to lovingly hold you close -watching the movie he let you pick.

[thecameronchronicles]

Lessons With Mister Cameron

TW: sex without a condom, "public" sex, surrender of virtue, manipulative behavior, dirty talk, vulgarity, rafe is a warning all himself, isn't he?

SUMMARY: You always thought it was a fantasy until he calls you after class to discuss your paper and decides you need a more hands-on approach.

Lessons With Mister Cameron

"Y/N?"

Your eyes rise in a swift snap that stabilize where you actively evade every day in your second class of the day.

Cool blue eyes appearing ready above a smirk widen your own to the particular focus he leaves for you to discern. But it is the particular fullness of those tempting lips on topics that should bore you to death that make you the avid scholar. Only now, the sudden attention from him makes you question the last five minutes of class as you were busy in a daydream of his touch.

In what would be your first touch.

"Once the hour is over, come see me...yeah?" His gold pinky ring catches the light as he rubs his lips, drawing an unfair attention. You can only nod as any words feel jumped on the tip of your tongue. A sheen of something mirroring pride cast in his eyes and it leaves you going over everything you have done for his class.

You wonder if you made a mistake where he will offer extra credit, your mind drifting to a more illicit way your inexperienced body was willing to give it. You fidget in the worry of your lip and fingers in rush through your hair before ultimately coming to the dreaded final moment of the class.

"Remember that my office is closed on Tuesday." He calls to the class, most in a rush to carry on with whatever collegiate party is already beginning across campus. Meanwhile, you wait until the room clears until finally standing.

Your legs feel unstable as you come to his desk as he has his back turned but a smirk in the tilt of of his head as he pulls up a paper.

Your paper.

Of those you have aced, you understand precisely why it is that he holds it with such regard.

"I dont want to have to fail you..." Your breath squeezes only the gasp of an exhale.

"Please Mister Cameron-" His brows knit and his jaw clenches in anger.

"Mister," he unwinds his fists at the title and pulls tension from his neck with a cock of it. "Cameron was my father..." He issues a step forward, expensive cologne awakens your want to humor whatever mischief dances behind his eyes.

"You can call me sir." The swallow is heavy as you nod.

"Y-yes sir."

"You're an innocent little thing aren't you?" He asks in a turn around his desk, the words almost unbelievable if not for the grin lifting half of his mouth in amusement.

"I-"

"You would have to be to misunderstanding the subject. Almost like you haven't...been intimate." You swallow and it meets somewhere against the attempt to breathe until you are rigid.

You wonder if it is obvious.

How can be possibly know you're a virgin from the lacking detail of a paper? Why not just assuming you're a prude?

"Now I can't send you into the world," he extends his hand before leading it back in and loose at his side as if exhausted, "with such a misunderstanding. I need you to sit for me." You begin to step in the direction of the front lecture chair before he makes some call between a whistle and distaste. You see him tapping the edge of his desk.

"Here." There is no honey in his tone. It's more like whiskey and you have an overwhelming pull to be intoxicated by it.

You place your silhouette on that which he summoned before he turns away and begins to write. He could have written the answers to an upcoming test and all you could focus on was the muscles working against the tight fabric of his shirt.

A snap of his fingers tore you from a vision of the fabric around you as you climbed the length of him as he lay outstretched in bed. Maybe this desk-

"Where is that mind running off to? Hmm?" He asks using his pinky to force a look from you. His touch is limited but enough to send sparks instead of blood through your veins.

"I'm...nervous, Mister-" his brow flexes, "sir..."

He seems pleased. Deeply, sinfully, pleased.

"Let us begin with the act itself as you seemed to glaze over the necessary details..." A diagram stands before you; a man and a woman.

"Have you ever been aroused, Miss Y/LN?" You slowly nod. A moment of silence lay between you as if he wants details. A fire behind his eyes validates this before he moves on.

"It happens as the body's response to stimulation. Foreplay can heighten the response-"

"Foreplay?" You almost whisper, the word somehow dirty.

"Yes. What a boy-or girl does to turn you on..." His expression shifts from contentment to intrigue, almost astonishment.

"A kiss, if done right...a caress..." His head cocks as he steps just against the skin of your legs. "Dirty words for innocent minds needing it to get, in your case...wet." You struggle to breathe. His scene, his proximity, the tension, it's all too much.

"It can be anything tender or vulgar, up to the taste of the person. In my experience, it's the gentle stimulation of a girl that makes her the most ready..."

"L-like what s-sir?"

"Like... rubbing her nipples....kissing her neck....juuust tracing her clit." The images flash for all but the last.

"You've never had anyone touch you there before have you, Miss Y/LN." He is impossibly close, the features you managed to fantasize over are amplified until you're breathless.

You can only shake your head, too embarrassed.

"Mmm...There are different kinds of people. Some who like to rush. Some who prefer to take their time. Me, I'm a proactive type of person, but I digress...I prefer to show...not tell...May I?" He motions for your thighs and you nod, your body alive by its own ambition as you can only wait in awe.

Your first touch. From HIM.

"Take your hand and feel." You shouldn't. Someone could come in. Someone could report you or him. He could lose his job. You could get kicked off campus. But the heat behind his eyes makes you tempt the reasons and worries until you're obeying.

"There's so many sensitive little parts there, but my favorite is that little button-" When your eyes are heavy he grins. "There...." His hand is over yours, not touching more than the skin of your fingers and yet it is erotic beyond that of your own touch.

"Do exactly what feels good..." He leans over you, dragging his nose along your shoulder as he inhales.

"Dammit..." You whimper as he looks with lustful eyes narrowed in need.

"Foreplay for a man?" He unbuckles himself, the sound of buckle and stretched vinyl resonate through you.

"To stroke..." He gently escorts your hand, giving plenty of time to pull away, but you only feel beckoned. Only it isn't to wrap around him, he holds your palm upright.

"Spit on it. Get it really wet." You pause before he uses his other hand to your jaw, his thumb guiding your mouth open.

"Tongue out." He spits and you are tempted to swallow the taste of him. You obey instead, as he motions exactly where he wants it. You then lubricate his hand in your dual spittle until he drives it against him.

"Oh yeah...." His head comes back, eyes closed, apple of his throat bobbing in unkempt pleasure. "Rub your thumb over the head-ohhh yeah...yeah yeah yeah..." His brows clench and his jaw falls slack as his eyes open to you, unrecognizable of the man who taught you since early fall.

"Did I say to stop touching that sweet little pussy?" You heat to his words, never heard them towards you, or at all for that matter.

"Keep. Fucking. Rubbing." He issues his order, falling victim to the novice touch sending him into orbit. Such a soft hand on his hard velvet and you feel high knowing you're causing this to him.

"Wh-what else can I do for a man?" He has you standing in a second.

"Your mouth." He pushes you onto your knees, his thick cock dripping and glistening for you.

"And not just a man. Me. Only me. Now open that pretty little throat." He is gentle with your hair in a pet before sliding over your tongue.

"Fuck! How do you know to do that with your tongue?" His eyes turn into slits as he has you against his desk, a cautious hand around your throat.

"Fuck, yes, baby." He manages, the grip worsening but for guidance.

"Just breathe through your nose." The feel of him is madness. You should feel degraded and dirty but you feel empowered and confident, enough to test him. You wrap your tongue around him, using it to taste the veins struggling in pulse against your devoted muscle. You claw at his thighs as he struggles to keep his moans silent and yet neither of you bother to care.

"You lying to me? You let someone between those perfect little thighs? Hmm?"

"N-no!"

He scoffs.

"I bet not even your little fingers know how tight you are. But you're gonna let me know, aren't you?" You nod, hesitation lasting only the duration of doubt silenced by his fingers pushing aside your panties and sheathing inside.

"Oh fuck's sake." He sighs.

"Is it...okay?"

"Okay?! You're so fucking tight I need to get you close or I'm not bust the second I get inside."

"You're gonna..."

"Say it."

"You're gonna fuck me?"

"Just like I've imagined since you first walked into my class. But first. I'm getting you ready because I don't wanna hurt you. At least not yet..." He lowers himself and uses two fingers to beckon you to the edge of the desk. Sitting in his chair as it screams beneath him, he pulls you dependent on his arms as he keeps his eyes on you.

"Another way to stimulate a woman..." He uses the tip of his tongue as his finger holds the panties aside. It's explorative at first until purpose comes when he meets your clit.

"Do not fight it. I need it." He pulls you against his face. "I fucking need it." He proves it in the starvation of his taste. He savors and attacks in equal measure, his mouth never leaving as his hot breath only amplifies the sensation.

"Ohhh yeah baby...ride my fucking tongue." Your body obeys that which you struggle to rein in. He forces your hips when you still, until your body buckles.

"Come! Now!" He growls, vibrations from his order pull you to the edge as his two fingers inside stroke a patch of nerves send you over.

"Oh!" You cry out, his name burning in your throat. "Sir" feels too distant for the way you feel so vulnerable to him.

"I need to be inside you right fucking now." You nod viciously as he stands, not caring to wipe his mouth, as you see yourself having wet him. Curious and looking for an excuse, you pull him to you and kiss him.

"A way to please a girl...kiss." You manage as he growls.

"Fuck!" He takes you against his mouth, pushing himself inside you at the same time to cause a distraction. Immediate pressure stills you as pain lingers in the horizon.

"Fucking is meant to be for procreation but we have fun trying." He scoffs. "You. Nobody else fucking gets to try with you. Got it? You need it, you come to me! Shit!" He recants, pulling out enough to see you coat his cock. "Say it."

"You."

"Good girl." He thrusts, your breath taken as a stinging pain surprises you from the pleasure he brought you.

"That was your hymen. You're gonna be sore and you're still gonna fucking take it." You grip onto his shoulders and feel him take you as he pleases. Your body is wound tight until he kisses your neck, your collarbone, and up around to your ear. You can't adjust to anything as he leads a hand to your throat and guides you backwards until you meet the desk. Papers shove beneath you as he moves with fluid abandon.

Like waves to a shore, if the waves were turbulent from a storm that was Rafe Cameron.

His weight pins you flat in the thrashing you wish to make freely, your thighs shake, and he continues. You try to speak but feel compressed in the need to hear his grunts, so eager and delicious. You wish to taste them but in the try see him reach over you and to the rim of the desk, gripping it tightly.

"Mine. Fucking mine. Pussy-ass, lips, say it. Say you won't leave." There's something sad behind his eyes, former neglect bleeding from his desperations that still come out more as orders.

"I ..I won't."

"Good-ah girl." He hoists your leg over his hip and dives into you.

"That pressure building is an orgasm. Since you already got one...you're gonna wait until I come before you get your next one." He stands between your legs, the sight of him inside you making you gape. His grin should be illegal as he licks his lips and drags his thumb along the swollen bottom half.

He takes your ankles and leads them beside his ears as he uses his forearm to pin your calves to his chest.

"Deeper is always better. You can change angles."

"How many?"

"Don't worry, baby, you're gonna know them all." He leans forward, constricting your breath as he pounds.

"Oh fuck yes..." He seethes behind clenched teeth, such passion masked in vulgarities.

"You feel me? My cum wants to fill you up until it drops down your thighs. Gonna take it? You can also let me...ahh shit ...you can let me fill your mouth or just cover you ..."

"Wherever you want, Sir."

"Ugh fuck-you need to tell me. I need to hear you say it." He grips your neck again, slowly teasing you with slow depth and shallow speed. "I need to see your innocent little lips dirty for me."

"Come inside me!"

"Yeah? You want it inside?"

"Please!"

"Ohhh you're gonna fucking get it...so...fucking...deep." He becomes unhinged, his muscles tightening as he pounds you into the desk. Reports and essays crinkle in ruin beneath you as he burrows into your neck, kissing only to bruise your skin.

"Say it again."

"C-come inside me, sir. Please."

"Take it." He growls. "You're gonna feel it and you're gonna come because I fucking said so. So...come!" He growls, a pressure building from your toes now surges through you completely. The tight coil in your stomach unwinds between your legs and you coat him as he spills inside you.

"Fuck!" He erupts, the tremors of release coursing through you both.

"And now... you have me inside you. And since I didn't use a condom..." Your eyes widen.

"Sir..."

"Naive little Y/N, you're mine now.."

You struggle to rise, half in astonishment and half in fear. Your body aches in the pull he made to your virtue, in smithereens at his hands and beneath his devilish grin.

"You will come back on Tuesday..." You remember him telling the class his office was closed that day.

"But you said..."

"Tuesdays are for us." He kisses your lips, leaving behind a softness unexpected and almost forbidden. He doesn't even bother to look over your shoulder as he leaves but you long to follow him. If not for his words you may have assumed this was a one-time thing. Thankfully in the promise of a few days, you won't have to wait long.

But you know it will slowly chip away at you.

Consume you.

And you look forward to Tuesday above all else just to be touched by Mister Cameron.

MASTERLIST

[dovesdreaming]

౨ৎI want to wear his initial on a chain round my neck౨ৎ

Hi I hope this is good! I found getting jacks character hard and when I first imagined this it was a lot fluffier than what it turned into! But I would be happy to right a fluffier version of anyone would like that!! 1.3k words

Needs editing!!

Warnings: suggestive

Requested:@fuck-i-burnt-the-tea

Jack had never been a sentimental person. He was a pirate, they couldn’t care for anyone but themselves. Jack was widely known for that, not even having loyalties to his crew. There were very few things Jack cared about in this world. The first being his compass he kept it by his side at all times and never let it out of his sight and the second was a recent development. He had developed feelings for you. He didn’t know how it happened it went from you joking around with each other to him actually confiding in you, what was happening to him. Jack thought he could get rid of these feelings by pushing you away but the distance only made his heart want to be in your presence more. Jack didn’t understand feelings and he’d be damned if he let them get in the way of finding his recent treasure interest. There was a slight issue with this though as his compass would point in the direction of the treasure but then make a ticking motion towards wherever you were. He debated throwing you overboard or getting rid of you somehow so that he could finally get back to his pirate life yet he just couldn’t bring himself to do it.

His crew had also become attached to you, it was impossible not to. You had a way of drawing everyone and making them feel comfortable. The men aboard also didn’t mind a woman on ship but they all respected you and would protect you if needed but after they had seen you fight a rival pirate ship they decided they more than likely would never be needed.

Gibbs had noticed a change in jacks behaviour, how could he not he was the only other person than you that was close to him.

He had suspicions but never brought it up because he knew that the Jack sparrow would never admit to having feelings for someone.

Jack was always a flirtatious person and when he noticed his feelings for you develop he cranked his flirting up to the point he would flirt with a mop if it looked like a woman to rid himself of thoughts about you. He needed you out of his head and this lead him to have multiple one night stands every time the ship docked somewhere, sometimes even several a night. He thought it was working but in reality it only made him crave you more.

You had feelings for Jack sparrow before you even joined his crew. His name was whispered throughout the pirate community with many mixed comments about him. From some of the stories you had heard he sounded like just your type of man. You however ended up on his ship by accident you had been looking for a permanent crew to join and this had been the only ship accepting new crew mates. You and Jack found common ground straight away and from there you only grew closer. You never thought much of your relationship until you felt you stomach bubble with a mix of anger and sadness every night when you saw Jack take another woman to bed. Inside you knew you were jealous but you weren’t ready to admit that to yourself yet, especially when he takes a new woman every night.

One night when you and Jack were hanging out at the bar you both had a few two many drinks. Most of the words coming out of your mouths now didn’t make sense to anyone, it was just drunk babbling. Jack had been eyeing up a few women that were across the bar all night and this had deepened the feeling in your gut. You were nearly blind drunk and jealous which were not good combinations. You became touchy with Jack, reaching your hands out to touch his hair and rub his shoulders. You also stared directly into his eyes making Jack question what had gotten into you. You launched yourself at him, grabbing his face in your hands and smashing you lips into his. He hesitated before his drunk haze of want took over and he kissed you back. The kiss got deeper and deeper before he lead you away and you became another woman he took into the night with him.

You woke up in an unfamiliar bed and you looked around to see clothes strewn across the room. The vague memory of last night was at the forefront of your mind yet the face of who you left with was a blur until you turned your head to find no other than your captain. Realisation hit you like a wave and you were frozen in panic. Your mind raced with thoughts and as you saw Jack stir from his sleep all your mind could come up with was to pretend you were asleep til he left, leaving all decisions to him.

Jack awoke and collected his clothes like he did every morning after his nightly activities. It was routine at this point and he usually didn’t bother to even spare a glance to the person in bed with him. He couldn’t remember any of their faces if he tried. Yet as he was walking toward the door he stopped dead in his tracks as he recognised the article of clothing on the floor. It was your average dress yet it sparked an image in his mind and that’s when his memory flooded back. He saw images of the night before with a woman under him. The face of the woman slowly came into focus and it was you. His head snapped to the figure in bed still and sure enough he saw your face just peeking from the covers still asleep.

He panicked and ran out the door slightly slamming it in his hastily exit.

Your relationship was slightly strained from this point on both wanting the other yet feeling as though the other didn’t feel the same. Jack was also still struggling to allow himself to have feelings like this. He wanted to make a gesture to show he cared for you. He was just waiting the perfect thing to present itself to him.

He had found what he thought might do the trick. He found a necklace within the chest that the crew had been looking for the past couple of weeks. It was a chain necklace embroidered with jewels and conveniently a j engraved into it. It was like his compass had led him here all along, knowing his heart wanted to give you himself. He snatched it from the chest before anyone else saw and stuffed it into his pocket for safekeeping.

Jack had been going back and forth about giving you the necklace. He couldn’t decide whether it was too big of a gesture or too small of one. He just wanted to show you that he cared about you.

He had called you into his quarters and sat down on his desk. You were left standing in front of him, questioning why he had brought you in here. He stared at the ground before reaching into his pocket. You saw the necklace shimmer in the sunlight from the window behind, it casted spots of sunlight across the room. This made you even more confused. He twirled the necklace in his hands before speaking “this is for you”. He leant his arm out with the necklace in. You took the necklace carefully into your hands, taking every detail of it in. You heart jumped when you saw the j engraved and ran you thumb over it. You looked up to him questioningly, what did this mean? He looked away and said he wanted to show his fondness for you (jacks code word for something along the lines of love you guessed). You walked over to him and asked him to put it on for you. As he clasped his initial round your neck you didn’t feel owned by Jack, you felt he knew you. This necklace was the silent acknowledgement that you both liked one another and wanted more. It was a silent agreement that you were each others and no one else’s.

Thank you for reading! And again if anyone wants a fluffier version I have a good idea for it!!

[angstywaifu]

I Just Want To Talk To Them - Garrick Tavis x Reader

Prompt - “Who did this to you? I just want to talk to them” @fw-gt A/N: This is for the Garrick girls who love the cocky flirty side of him. Enjoy. Masterlist

I winced as the healer prodded around my now very broken nose. Cleaning up what she could of the blood that had run down my face. Which was a lot. The mender had fixed most of the damage, but had to use their abilities on other cadets. Meaning I still had some bruising and tenderness where I had taken the full force of an elbow to the face during a challenge.

It had been a stupid mistake. One I knew Garrick and Xaden would lecture me about later. I had dropped my guard and my opponent had seen it. I had lost the challenge because of it. My first one this year. Wrecking my streak of going undefeated for two years. So close to a perfect three year streak. Luckily neither had been at challenges to see what had happened. But there was no way I could hide what had happened. One cause my nose had been broken and couldn’t be fully healed. Two it would be the talk of the quadrant.

“Use this a few times a day, should clear up the bruising and tenderness in no time. If you have any trouble breathing or any issues just come back.” She says with a smile as she holds the healing balm out to me.

I nod a thanks and take it from her hands before pushing off the bed. I was half expecting Garrick or Xaden to be waiting for me as I leave. But I don’t see them anywhere. Meaning they hadn’t heard yet. Or they were waiting for me somewhere. Due to the last class of the day still being on the corridors are quiet. Meaning the bathrooms would be as well. I decide to head there, knowing the healer would have only got some of the blood off my face and clothes. And my suspicions are correct as I stare into the mirror in the bathroom. Most of the blood around my nose and mouth is gone, but the blood that had worked its way down my neck hadn’t been touched. It almost looked like I had bathed in blood if the rest of my skin and clothes weren’t free of blood. That would be a sight to see. I quickly scrub the blood off my neck. I should have gone to my room and grabbed new clothes and showered. But with training with the other marked ones tonight, showering now probably wasn’t my smartest idea. As I leave the bathroom the corridors are filled with people and chatter. The last class of the day clearly done. I quickly rush over to my room, avoiding any stares that might feed any rumours that had started. I open my door, quickly shutting it behind me as I lean up against it, closing my eyes and sighing in relief.

”Who did this to you?” A gruff stern voice says from my desk.

I jump and nearly drop the healing balm in my hands, awkwardly juggling it till I catch it. I look over to meet Garrick’s gaze. Garrick who is leaning back in my desk chair, his feet resting on the desk as he twirls a dagger between his fingers. If it wasn’t for the words that had left his mouth I would find it attractive. And honestly still did. But with the fire and anger in his eyes, a chill runs down my spine. Garrick had clearly heard I had lost my challenge and ended up in the healers quadrant, but not to who. His eyes lower to my neck and uniform where some of the blood still lingers.

”It was just a challenge. It doesn’t matter.” I tell him as I go to walk behind him and place the healing balm on my bedside table.

But Garrick moves with a speed I’ve never seen before as his feet drop from the desk, turning the chair to grab my wrist, pulling me to a stop. Despite him sitting, I feel small under his gaze. His eyes commanding me to give up the information. This was why he was a section leader. He embodied leadership and authority without even trying.

”It. Matters.” He emphasises each word. “Now, who did this to you?”

”Why does it matter?” I say back as sternly as I can.

With the look in his eyes I know if I give up the name it wont end well for them. Even if it was a challenge where the goal was to fight each other and come out the other side the victor. Garrick didn’t care. He had always been protective of me. More so than any other marked cadet.

”I just want to talk to them.” He says with a smile, a smile that showed he did not want to just talk to them.

”We both know that is not what you are going to do.” I tell him before removing my arm from his grip and walking over to my bedside table.

I hear his slight chuckle at my words. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I turn to find him staring at me as I narrow my eyes at him. Garrick does his best attempt at a sweet smile, but with the anger still burning in his eyes contradicts it.

”You do. I can see it in your eyes. You do not want to just talk to them Gar. It was a challenge, they did what they were meant to do.”

”They hurt what I care about most.” He says as he stands, the chair sounding like it sighs in relief. He walks over and stands in front of me, grasping my chin between his fingers, forcing my face to look up at his. “So I will ask again sweet heart before I go find them another way. Who did this to you?”

My mind goes blank. Did… did Garrick just call me sweet heart? Wait. What he cares about most? I must look at him confused, as he smiles and chuckles at me He leans down, placing his mouth next to my ear.

”If you tell me who it is, I may just come back and reward you for it once I’m done talking.”

Before I can even think or register what I’ve done I blurt out the name of the cadet who I had been put up against for challenges. A sinister smirk gracing Garrick’s lips that has my heart fluttering.

”Good girl.” He whisper before kissing my cheek and walking out the door. Part 2

[laylaplease]

Warnings — Angst & Fluff, Professor x Student relationship, reader feels inferior, implied smut, descriptions of sex, inappropriate touching (brief), degrading (brief), reader's jealous, Anakin has anger issues, word 'homicidal' mentioned, neglection, Anakin is slightly aggressive.

Word count — 2.3k

Notes — Another lovely request, loved it! I'm not too good at angst because anything that doesn't involve Anakin being head over heels for the reader makes my heart ache, whoops. Also, REAL sorry if somebody's name's Janette, I love the name but reader calls her a slut.

"Dismissed." Professor Skywalker tosses his glasses aside and leans back in his chair. A delicate frown is present between his eyebrows.

He hadn't looked at you once.

An hour-and-a-half-long lecture and not one stare at you. Not a glance at the outfit you so carefully picked for him; the absence of his touch was already unbearable, but the way he avoided your darting eyes broke your heart. You wanted him to look at you. To look at you the way he does at night.

You look at his hands, slender fingers gripping the chalk; they're supposed to be on you. Gripping your hips to push himself deeper into you, holding your wrists, caressing your waist, and kneading the delicate flesh of your thighs when he pushes them back over his broad shoulders... Why isn't he looking at you?

You stuff your books into your tote, zipping it up with a forceful pull, purposely creating an irritating sound in your last attempts to get his attention. You feel a disappointed twitch in your eyebrow when he remains seated, toying with his pen while staring down at somebody else's essay.

One of the students makes her way towards his desk, slipping him another report while batting her lashes in an attempt to ease his feelings about turning in late. She leans forward, pointing at something while trying to explain herself, a cover up to push her clevage to his eye level. He takes her paper and piles it up with all the other works, nodding at the little tease and sending her off with a comment about how he won't tolerate it ever again. You wonder if his pants get a little bit tighter at the sight of her too.

You leave last. You always do. Despite his obvious uninterest in entertaining your need for his attention, you give him one last chance.

"I'll pick you up at six." He mutters, still not looking at you. 

Your silence obviously disturbs him; you don't greet his preposition with a smile and an eager puppy-like nod like you usually do.

"That's alright with you, darlin'?" He adds with a raspy voice, glancing in your direction.

Your heart sinks and insides flutter when the vibration of his tone reaches your ears. How can he do this to you? How can he pretend like you don't exist and then dare to offer his nighttime company? And yet, you want nothing else but to feel his lips all over your body again, even at the price of your dignity. You find enough self-respect to slam the door in his face.

With 6 p.m. approaching, you find yourself sitting at your vanity mirror and trying to decide if your body's mere worth is some cheap lip gloss and a skimpy dress for your professor to tear off as soon as he parks his black Chevy somewhere secluded enough.

Before you know it, he's outside your house. You watch him get out of his car, flicking the ashes of his cigarette onto the concrete and tossing the butt somewhere in the grass. He adjusts the collar of his shirt and knocks on your door.

You wait. Ten seconds, twenty, half a minute. Your heartbeat increases with each passing blink of time, and you're pretty sure he knows you're doing it on purpose. Eventually, you decide that you won't offer for him to come in. Grabbing your jacket and purse, you make your way out.

"Hi, love." He greets you with a smile, which is entirely different from how he's behaving during lectures. He's welcoming, almost sweet; maybe it's just a silly trick to make you crave his attention, thus allowing him to strip you off your panties quicker.

Anakin leans in to peck your cheek, which you dodge by turning around to lock your doors. He waits for the lock to click in place before wrapping his arms around your waist and pressing himself against your back.

"You're mad. Why?" His lips brush over your clothed shoulder. 

He can feel how your body quivers when you swallow a lump that's been in your throat since 8 a.m. You hate how loving he can be; you hate how he manipulates you with his touch, making you feel like you're more than just a naive student for him. You hate it, and you crave it. His hands are warm on your waist, and you can feel your cheeks getting hotter from the forming tears.

"Darlin'?" He kisses your pulse point gently, waiting for you to speak.

"Let's go." You blink the wetness off your eyelids and head towards his car. Your sides instantly shiver when they aren't shielded by his grip.

Anakin starts the car in silence, giving you an uncomfortable look at how you didn't even allow him to open the door for you. The engine roars to life, and he's about to drive off when he leans across your body.

"Seatbelt, darlin'." He doesn't wait for you to reach for it — he's already buckling you in.

"Why don't you look at me?" You begin speaking when he's out on the road.

"What do you mean, bunny? I am. You look gorgeous. Like every night." His hand leaves the gearstick and finds place on your knee, gently caressing the inside of your thigh. 

"During lectures. You'd rather look at some slut like Janette instead of me." You cut him off, complaining about the unfairness of his actions.  

"And you?" He laughs. Mockingly. "You are not a slut? Spreading your legs whenever I call you." His hand on your thigh glides up to brush against your panties. "But you like it when I call you that, don't you?"

He doesn't take you seriously at all. He is oblivious to the fact that his words claw a gaping hole in your chest, leaving your heart sore and lungs collapsing at the attempts to hold your pains. You push his hand off your core in a disgusted manner and shut your legs close.

"You're seriously mad at me?" He shifts gears, and you feel how the vehicle starts speeding, your body tensing in alertness.

You know he's not going to hurt you, not physically, and yet you can't stop shuddering. Your cheeks heat up once more, and this time there is no strength in you to stop the inevitable.

"I treat you well, don't I? Do you know how you'd be treated if I were somebody else?!" The highway is ending as he's taking a turn towards your usual spot of desire. His tone is increasing with every word.

"Drive me home!" You slap the panel, hysteria in your voice is present as thick tears drop onto your lap.

"You're not going anywhere!" He stops the car on the sidewalk, not making his full way into the forest. That's when he can finally see your mascara-stained cheeks.

Anakin groans at the sight; his fingers curl into fists as he pounds onto the steering wheel. "You're so fucking-" He groans again, trying to stop himself from saying something he'll regret later, and leans to rest his head, sighing deeply.

The car fills with your sobs and sniffles. You sit there, buckled up like a child who's been denied candy, and weep. Anakin lets out a sigh and frees himself from the seatbelt, clicking yours off too.

"Come here."

"No! I'm done doing this; I'm done letting you use me like I'm worthless!" 

He sighs again, rubbing his face aggressively, trying his best to contain his anger and focus on how your whines are hurting his ears and heart.

"It's okay, come here, bunny." He places his hand on the back of your head and pulls you to lean on his shoulder. Pathetically, you wrap your arms around his neck and continue sobbing into his button-up. "There she is; come here." He grabs you by the waist and pulls, guiding you to climb out of your seat and onto his lap.

Unfortunately, his gesture only forces more tears. You rest your head on his shoulder, eyes squeezed shut. He cradles your quivering body to his chest, one arm wrapped around your legs and the other keeping you in place by your back. 

"Silly girl, you've ruined your make up." He wipes your cheeks with his sleeve, black ink staining the cotton. "I'd never force you, you know that? If you don't want to, you don't need to go with me, yeah?" His anger seems to be ceasing, and you wish your despair was too. His attempts to comfort you are bittersweet.

"You said I was the prettiest girl... You always say that; you touch me, you- you... How can you do this? Why don't I matter to you?" Words spill from your mouth; endless thoughts are rushing through your mind, and your tongue is unable to catch up with all of them. And his hands. His hands, his hands, his hands. His hands are holding you, caressing you, wiping away your tears, and it hurts, hurts, hurts so bad you want to tear his perfect face off his skull and drive his stupid Camaro into a lake.

"You are, you are the prettiest girl; you're the perfect girl, bunny, my perfect girl, okay? Of course you matter." He seems to be pretty unaware of your homicidal ideas because he keeps stroking your hair, trying to console you. "Of course you matter; look at me." He cups your cheek and forces you to face him.

"Why won't you look at me?" You manage to form a full sentence, uninterrupted by little sniffles.

"Well because..." He sighs. "You know it's not right. We can't have people know about us." His finger gently brushes a strand of your hair off your cheek. "You're my student. A good one at that; I wouldn't want anybody to think your A's are earned with your pretty little pussy." He chuckles at his crappy attempt to make you laugh.

"So you'd rather hurt me?" Your eyebrows furrow, and anger slowly replaces sadness at how naive he thinks you are. "What could a little glance give away? A little praise? A text message about my pretty clothes when nobody's looking?!" Anakin is getting a taste of his own medicine, feeling the exact same emotions you feel when he shouts at you for being sensitive.

"Well, that's the thing, darlin', somebody is always looking. I don't want to risk it; you have to understand..." He coos at you gently, his lips pressing against your cheeks. "You're such a sweet girl; I can't put you at risk, why don't you get it?" 

You knew that it wasn't just you. He had to protect himself too; he was a well-respected professor, his career was great, he was loved, but... But still. Your little heart couldn't comprehend the fact that your love wasn't enough for him. That he didn't love you a bit more to show some affection that wouldn't involve an orgasm eventually. 

"I just... I just want to feel like I matter..." You sniffle the last tears away; there is disappointment in your voice. You are aware that this relationship is not meant to go anywhere, and you wish he'd deny that. Even if deep down, you both would know it's a lie.

"You do, bunny, of course you do. Do you have any idea how it's hurting me too? To have you crying in my arms..." Anakin cradles you closer to himself. "I just wish you could be happy, sweet girl. I'm sorry I've done this to your heart, I'm sorry for ever laying my hands on you..." He kisses your cheek, trailing up to your temple, and sighs. "I'm so sorry, darlin'..."

You sit there in silence, the headlights of cars passing in the distance casting short flashes of light over you both. The car's getting colder, and Anakin tries his best to embrace you and keep your body warm. 

"Let's get you home, bunny." He caresses the back of your head, touching it so delicately that you'd think you were made of porcelain. "You should get some rest."

Home? No. No, no no no. You don't want to go home. You want to stay. You want to be held, and you need his arms to caress you. You can't go home and rot in self-pity the whole night. You need him. 

But you can't say that; the words are stuck in your throat, and you're pretty sure he wouldn't be able to understand the depth of your feelings. So you cling onto him, your arms squeeze his body impossibly close, as if doing that could close a wound that's open inside of you. 

Anakin chuckles softly. "You don't want to go, do you?" He nuzzles his nose into your cheek and kisses it. "That's okay. I don't want to let go of you either. I just love holding you, precious." 

"Can I stay with you?" You hesitantly whisper in the crook of his neck; his skin shivers under your lips.

"For the night?" He pulls away slightly to gaze into your eyes. Tomorrow's Saturday, and you can seriously see him considering bringing you home. 

"I don't want to be alone." 

He smiles warmly, his hand cups your cheek once again, and gently kisses your lips, lingering for a moment. "I was about to ask you." He smiles and pecks your forehead. You know he's lying, but he couldn't tell you no when your doe eyes stare at him pleadingly and the thought of you crying yourself to sleep stabs his heart.

"Let's go, bunny. Get you a milkshake, mmm? Then I'll cuddle my princess to sleep. I can't bear seeing your little heart ache." He urges you to move off his lap and back into your seat. 

You can swear his hands were trembling ever so slightly when he put the key back into ignition and started the car. Maybe this time he'll love you in a way so the pleasure fills your heart instead.