#And the eternal blame game

[completeoveranalysis]

[3]

OHOHO Now we’re getting into the JUICY cause and effect. 

Like, we already know that Lava Lamp is being too hard on himself - he always is. He couldn’t have known any of this. He was only trying to do a good thing and protect Sakura. He was under extraordinary pressure and was very young. He did the only thing he could. 

He is not really responsible for the ripples this may have caused in the universe - he doesn’t control the universe. He only made a wish, as he’s allowed to do. 

But on the other hand it IS potentially the result of his action, and therefore he IS kind of "responsible". 

But in that big grey area between “he may have caused something to happen” and “this is your fault”. Lava Lamp doesn’t deserve the BLAME that any of this happened, especially because he was manipulated into doing it in the first place, but he would also be the FIRST person in line to blame literally everything wrong in the universe on his own actions. 

That aside - DO I think Lava Lamp’s time distortion caused Fai and Yui to be born as twins instead of a single person?

OH WOULDN'T THAT JUST BE THE MOST TRAGIC POSSIBLE OUTCOME?

ISN’T THIS WHAT ANGST THAT DREAMS ARE MADE OF?

ISN’T THAT THE JUICIEST DRAMA WE COULD EVER POSSIBLY HOPE FOR?

I kind of want it to be true JUST for the narrative pain of it all.

But - BUT - that still wouldn’t make it Lava Lamp’s fault, and we know Fai and Kurogane will say the same thing in a few pages. 

Said mother who is hiding behind this Read More because of the nature of that scene:

Of course this is where the concept of Lava Lamp’s “responsibility” for things really falls apart. Because sure, maybe the time distortion let Fai and Yui become two people instead of one (like with the egg, and with Watanuki), but it absolutely did NOT cause the death of Kurogane’s parents. 

That was, quite specifically, Evil Wolverine stabbing them with a sword.

[someiicecube]

Anyway, my funniest headcanon has got to be: Mhin is older than Leander.

A hc made even funnier by the fact they're a healer-slash-doctor of sorts (used to be, at least; idk if medical school let them keep their license after doing freelance Soulless hunting).

And no, this isn't feeding into the "Mhin was there in Lovent a century ago" theory either. I just think they're old :3

[inkyminx]

Making 3x3s is still a thing right?

[mordcore]

the computer used to make me feel like i had the entire world at my fingertips, now it just feels like a slightly larger cage.

[cordycepsbian]

[arolesbianism]

Remembers Tali exists and starts wailing and crying

[windsofcourage]

FRUITY HC PROMPTS / @hypnoticallycaucasian / ACCEPTING .

🍎  :    how stable is my muse’s mental health?  have they been diagnosed with any mental illnesses and  /  or conditions?  do they have any undiagnosed mental illnesses and  /  or conditions?  do they or should they attend therapy?  

||. WELL , Link sure does have retrograde amnesia. . . . I'm not kidding about that diagnosis , and he definitely should go to therapy,but to actually answer the question : Link ...exists on a perpetual on a scale, and it always depends on "what time period of Link are you asking about", because the answer will change depending on what he does and doesn't remember.

Link before the Calamity (specifically: before the sword) would have been relatively stable. Outside of being a teenage boy with an extreme sense of duty and pressure to perform, he wouldn't have to contend with much. Healthy home, healthy mindsets, healthy life. It's when he pulled the sword and began to shut his emotions down to be a "reliable hero" that some problems would have begun to manifest. In my headcanon : dissociative episodes (+dissociative amneisa &. subsequent fugue) run congruently with his rising stress levels , and are a related but separate issue to his originally-self-imposed selective mutism.

Link is a slow emotional processor. He thinks through his emotions and takes time to sort them out. (Mostly because he really doesn't get bothered by a whole lot.) But when he's "on duty" or otherwise needed... he doesn't feel himself allowed to take the time to sort it out. Not during, and often not afterwards until well later, either. And then only when he's on his own. In Link's world, it's act first, think (and feel) later. ESPECIALLY when all eyes are on him.

At some point in his development into "Knight Link" (which imo was cemented well before he was actually appointed as Zelda's personal knight), Link's solution to a wealth of emotion without any time to process it all was to focus solely on the physical task at hand, whatever that may be. It ... doesn't shut down the emotion spurring the stress... but he can act. He can do something to stave it all off or fix it while it's happening. Face it head on, and quickly. Unfortunately ... even this isn't always possible in his profession. And this mind vs. heart endeavor is a taxing one. As such, if Link is unable to tackle the issue and fix it, he will rapidly begin to deteriorate into a dissociative episode. Specifically dealing with depersonalization. If the stress continues, Link has a tendency to completely emotionally/mentally black out during these periods. (aka: dissociative amnesia). He'll either seem to be completely spacing out, or completely zeroed in on a task from the outside looking in. (It's caused problems and some serious one-sided arguments with his mother before.)

In some conjunction with this, canonically, Link has been known to voice his inner thoughts and feelings less and less over time. By the time he was appointed to Zelda, it's noted that he barely spoke at all. While he is entirely capable of speech, when he undergoes high stress levels, it can become difficult for him to find the words to voice himself freely. (Now, it is worth nothing that Link is naturally a pretty quiet individual (imo even his voice is on the naturally softer side anyways). Link not talking does not automatically mean he's stressed out. But sometimes there is an inherent inability to speak even if he wanted to.)

All of this is true of Amnesia/Post!Calamity Link, although the triggers are different. Post!Calamity Link struggles a lot more often with depersonalization, derealization and dissociative amnesia + fugue, especially the more he comes to remember his/Hyrule's past. Part of that is due to stress, part of is trauma, and part of it is from just barely cheating death/the reincarnation cycle through the Shrine of Resurrection.

[babycatglimmer]

An analysis of the trio of light, their emotions and their cards from book 7

WARNINGS: bias, overthinking, yapping, delulu, spoilers from book 7, personal theories, daydreaming and thousands of other things.

In all of Twst, so far, there are only 3 characters with light magic. These are Rook Hunt, Silver Vanrouge and Kalim Al Asim. And they, in turn, are the only ones who during book 7 won cards with the same element present.

The only sources of light in the game are also the only ones who cry during their cards. Even though in the main story they are not the only ones who cry in moments of stress or relief, Ruggie for example, they are the only ones who have received cards crying.

Initially I found this a curious choice, but the more you analyze it the more you realize that this occurrence comes from how, unlike most characters, these cards reflect the end of an internal arc for them.

Rook: Throughout book 6, Rook gives hints about how much Vil's overblot affected him psychologically. He talks about nightmares very briefly, and how he still seems stuck in that moment to the point that he risks EVERYTHING to save Vil, even though he knows how irresponsible he is being.

Rook feels guilt, he blames himself completely for Vil's overblot and it clearly haunts him psychologically. It's something that eats away at him, something that is so deep that it even affected his dreams, and that in a twisted way kept Rook far away from Vil in his dream world.

It was this guilt that woke him up, this regret, this sadness, this trauma that haunts him completely. And this is reflected in his card, being the first time we see Rook without his barriers, the guilt, pain and sadness dripping from every expression. He loves Vil, and this pain, the feeling of being a traitor, hurts him more than any arrow.

And it is in this pain that we see Rook's true facet. A boy who loves too much, who feels too much, but who hid it all with his hunter's mask. But as a contemporary poet would say, he is just a man who was making an irrelevant choice but at the same time changed everything.

Kalim: In many ways, Kalim carries a toxic positivity. He tries to see the good side of everything and everyone as much as possible, but he constantly ignores his own discomfort or completely negative emotions.

What is not good, what is not healthy, the way Kalim lives in eternal denial and always suppressing EVERYTHING inside himself.

Until he became furious. In that dream, with that version that practically mocks Jamil, Kalim found himself completely irritated and disgusted. Angry at himself, angry at Malleus and angry at everything that had happened before. It is in this anger that Kalim finally fully computes the events of book 4, it is in this anger that he understands his own feelings and those of others.

He cries because he is frustrated, angry and tired. He cries for everything he has been through, for everything he has been denied, and he cries because it was all stupid and unfair. Kalim, who constantly smiles and brings joy, for the first time is completely tired of the fake smiles and his own denial of reality. Smiling would not change his and Jamil's situation, smiling was not helping him at all.

From a passive smile to determined anger.

Silver: The only one of the three whose tears did not come from stress or frustration, but from pure and genuine relief.

Unlike the others, Silver has always had difficulty showing what he feels. It is said several times that people cannot tell what he is feeling. He has always been different from the others because of this.

"Too human for the fairies."

"Too fairy for humans."

This is actually a very present theme in Silver's narrative, and during book 7 the human factor is put in his face as a doubt. A doubt about Lilia's love and his place by Malleus' side.

At every moment the need to choose, to hide a past he never knew, to discover what his real role is in the narrative of this story. Is he the knight in shining armor who will kill the monster? Is he the prince of an enemy kingdom, who will once again make the same mistakes as his father? Is he one of Malleus Draconiana's followers, trying his best to save his prince from himself?

And the answer? He is Silver Vanrouge, son of Lilia Vanrouge and brother of Malleus. He is not a prince or a knight, he is a brother, a friend and a son. He, who managed to save the people he loved so much, cries with joy and relief for this.

Silver reached his happy ending, surrounded by people who loved him as much as he loved them. People who could not care less where he came from, because the fact was clear who he was.

He was Lilia's little boy, who would fall asleep anywhere spontaneously and unexpectedly.

He was Malleus' little brother, who always smiled in his presence and who always wanted to stay by his side.

He was Sebek's rival, who grew up together both in power and internally. The one who would be by his side, both with the same dream and desire.

They all cry for the same reason, as they have finally finished their stories.

The hunter is still loved by the queen, as she never saw his actions as a betrayal.

The sultan and the sorcerer finally understand each other, they finally understand that they complement each other and do not depend on each other. And together, they can achieve freedom.

The little soldier can now finally smile with relief, as he has finally acquired proof that he has a home to return to.

Simply beautiful, don't you agree?

[livvv-218]

Rules we break

Summary - What happens when you can’t go through with your order of eliminating Sangwoo. Pairings - Fem!guard x Sangwoo Warnings - smut, manipulation, age gap (reader is in her 30s and Sangwoo is in his 40s), unprotected sex, oral sex (fem receiving), mention of being abandoned, guns, swearing

The cold fluorescent lights above flickered as you led him through the narrow corridor. Sang Woo walked in silence behind you, his footsteps muffled by the heavy echo of the empty hall. He likely believed you were escorting him back to the main room after his victory in the second game—Dalgona. How wrong he was.

You didn’t want to do this. Not at all. Despite the walls you’d built around yourself- walls necessary for a job like yours - something about Player 218 had gotten under your skin. You weren’t supposed to care—it was part of the job, after all, assigned to you by one of the VIPs. But from the moment you first laid eyes on him, you knew he was different. He wasn’t like the others—he understood what these games were truly about, what was needed to survive. You couldn’t help but admire that about him. While the others clung to false hopes, he faced reality. He was also undeniably attractive, but you refused to let your feelings cloud your judgment.

The assignment came from one of the anonymous VIPs the day before the games began. Your task was clear: eliminate Sangwoo, without raising any suspicions. The VIP had been cryptic, providing no real reason for the order beyond the vague claim that it was for "revenge." There was no explanation as to why the VIP couldn't simply allow Sangwoo to be eliminated by the games themselves, he just said it had to be done, and that was enough.

You weren’t the only one involved in this execution. A few other guards were responsible for tampering with the security footage, making sure no one would see you leading Sang Woo away from the main dormitory. But you were the one specifically assigned to carry out the final act—to assassinate him yourself.

The reason for being chosen for this particular task was unclear. As a triangle guard, you were hardly one of the higher ranks. But times were tight, and money was money. It was something you needed badly—to pay for your little sister's treatment. She was all you had left after your parents vanished, running off with what little you had to your name years ago. From that day on, raising her became your sole responsibility.

A few minutes later, you reached a red door that signaled you to turn left, instead of continuing straight toward the main dormitory where all the players were. As you made the turn, you could feel Sang Woo’s suspicion rise—he was starting to realize something was off. When you turned around, you found him standing still, staring at you with that calculating gaze. He wasn’t following.

You stepped toward him, your pace quickening, and aimed your gun directly at his chest. The movement was immediate. He began walking again, but you could see the glint of awareness in his eyes, and it made your stomach twist.

After what felt like an eternity, you finally reached the room. Normally, the door would be locked, but today it stood wide open, almost as if inviting you in. Sang Woo tried to maintain his composure, but it was clear—his facade was cracking. You could see the fear in his eyes, the way his shoulders stiffened with every step, and honestly, you couldn’t blame him.

Sang Woo followed you into the room, his movements reluctant, eyes darting around as if searching for an escape. His gaze landed on the corners, and it didn’t take long for him to notice the absence of security cameras. His expression shifted, a flicker of realisation crossing his face. Shit.

You reached for the walkie-talkie clipped to your waist, your fingers briefly brushing against the cool surface before pressing the button. "I'm in the room. This shouldn’t take too long," you said, your voice steady despite the unease curling in your stomach. Seconds later, the crackled voice of the operator came through the speaker: "Received."

You turned to lock the door, the metallic click echoing through the room, then set your walkie-talkie down on the small table beside the lone chair. The silence felt suffocating. Slowly, you raised the gun in your hands, aiming it directly at Sang Woo. His eyes went wide for a split second, and in that instant, panic overtook him. He raised his hands slightly, a silent plea for surrender.

"You don’t have to do this. We both know I’m worth more alive than dead. Think about it." His voice was calm, but there was an underlying desperation in it. Your expression remained void, your hand steady as you moved the gun closer to him.

Sang Woo paused, realizing his attempt to reason with you wasn’t working. His eyes flickered, calculating. Then, with a subtle shift in tone, he tried another approach. "Please. I need this money for my mother. She has no one else but me. Surely you have a family too. Imagine someone holding a gun to them... you’d want mercy, right?"

You knew it was manipulation, a calculated move to tug at your heartstrings. But still, the words lingered in your mind, like a weight pressing down on your chest. It was working.

The silence between you both grew heavy, thick with the tension of the moment. Sang Woo’s eyes never left you as you stood there, the gun still aimed at him. You could see the way his gaze softened, as if searching for a crack in your facade. He didn’t speak immediately; instead, his focus shifted to your mask.

"You're not like them," he said, his voice quieter now, almost coaxing. "You don't belong in this place. You don’t want to do this. I can tell'.

You flinched, but quickly masked it with a cold expression.

He stepped a little closer, his voice dropping lower, almost intimate now. "Take off your mask," he murmured. "Let me see the person beneath the uniform. Let me see who you really are."

You took a sharp breath, your pulse quickening. You knew it was a dangerous request—he was trying to break down every wall you'd built. But part of you wanted to. A part of you wanted him to see you. You hesitated for a second too long, and that was all he needed.

In one fluid motion, Sang Woo stepped closer, his fingers brushing the edge of your mask, tracing it gently whilst looking in your eyes. His touch surprisingly tender. "Please," he whispered, his voice laced with something almost pleading.

He gently cupped the edge of your mask, his fingers brushing against the cool surface, waiting for any sign of protest. For a moment, your pulse raced in your throat, the room seeming to close in around you. He wasn’t rushing—just watching, almost as if he knew you were debating whether or not to stop him.

When you didn't react, when you didn't move to pull away or object, he carefully lifted the mask. The air hit your skin immediately, cool and unfamiliar against your exposed face.

Sang Woo didn’t immediately speak. He simply studied you, his gaze lingering as he took in every detail of your face. For a moment it almost seemed as though there was adoration in his eyes—a flicker of something more than just survival instinct.

His jaw clenched slightly, as if in disbelief, as his eyes traced the curve of your lips, the soft indent of your dimples, the deep, captivating look in your eyes. His breath seemed to catch in his throat, and for a fleeting second, it felt like he wasn’t just seeing a guard, but a person, someone who could break through all his walls.

"You're... beautiful," he finally whispered, his voice low and steady, but there was a softness there that almost seemed foreign coming from him.

Your heart skipped a beat, the soft look in his eyes turned hungry. His hand lingered at your jaw, and before you could react, he stepped in closer, the space between you shrinking with each beat of your heart. His lips brushed against yours, gentle at first, as if testing whether you’d pull away. But you didn't. When he saw that you hadn't pushed him off you, one of his hands moved to your waist and he pulled you closer into him.

He groaned as you gently tugged his hair, his soft lips hungrily devouring yours felt incredible. You chose to ignore the nagging voice in the back of your mind telling you how much trouble you could get into for this. You didn't care, at least at the moment. His hand tugged at the zip on your uniform, pulling it down desperately, like he couldn't wait any longer to have you.

You felt yourself getting wetter as he moaned huskily into your mouth. He unattached himself from your swollen lips and buried his face into your neck, sucking your skin gently and leaving wet kisses all across your neck and on your jaw. You moaned in pleasure as you felt his erection growing against your thigh.

''Jump'', he ordered as he grabbed your ass allowing you to wrap your legs around his waist. He put you down on the table and stood in between your legs, grinding against your thigh, making you moan loudly. You bit your tongue, trying to be quiet, the fear of being caught gnawing at you. But then, Sangwoo’s fingers gently lifted your chin, tilting your head to face him. His breath was warm against your ear, and his voice was low, almost a growl, as he whispered, 'please.. let me hear you baby'. Hearing him begging heightened your arousal even more, making your inner thighs become soaked.

He pulled off your uniform and threw it on the floor, leaving you in nothing but your bra and pants. You moaned in pleasure as he traced your wetness on your pants gently using his finger. He hooked his fingers loosely in the waist banned of your pants and looked at you to ask if it was okay. The moan he received in response was enough, he pulled your pants down to your ankles and kneeled down before you. He licked his lips before placing his face in-between your legs, leaving wet kisses all over your inner thighs. You tug at his hair in pleasure, pushing his face even further up your thighs.

He then started licking your clit, slurping all your juices and leaving sloppy kisses in between your folds. You felt yourself grow close, unable to contain yourself anymore, ''I'm so close Sangwoo'', you said, moaning his name. He looked up at you, his chin soaked with your wetness, ''cum for me baby''. You came undone on his tongue as he continued to flick your clit. 'Yeah, just like that baby. You taste so good. You're being so good for me'' he whispered into your pussy.

He stood up and kissed you hungrily, his tongue entered your mouth deepening the kiss. You grinded against his hard erection making him moan into your ear. You then reached to his trousers to pull them down revealing the massive bulge in his pants. He moaned loudly as you palmed his cock through his pants. ''I-I need you'' he whispered into your neck, the warmth of his breath sending shivers down your body. You responded by pulling down his pants, freeing his cock dripping with pre-cum.

He stood back in-between your legs and lined himself up by your entrance. It felt like heaven. You didn't give a shit how loud you were being this point, you couldn't help it. The way he hit your sweet spot each thrust made you want to scream in pleasure. ''Fuck your so tight baby - I'm gonna cum'' he groaned, his head tilted back in pleasure. A second later you felt him come undone inside you, making you cum too.

You both were a panting mess. His face was buried in your neck, his breath hot against your skin as he caught his breath. He smiled gently at you, his expression softening in a way that you hadn’t expected. His thumb brushed delicately across your cheek, the movement tender, as if he were savouring the feel of your skin against his.

The moment was shattered by the crackling sound of your walkie-talkie. "Number 16, is the job done?" The cold, robotic voice from the other end felt distant, out of place in the intimacy of the room. You reached for the device, your hand still trembling slightly from the closeness you’d just shared with Sangwoo.

"Yes, it’s done," you replied, your voice steady, almost too steady, as if the words didn’t belong to you. They were just part of the job. The moment wasn’t yours to keep.

You placed the walkie-talkie back down on the small table beside you, your fingers brushing it lightly as you turned to Sangwoo. His eyes, still searching yours, softened as you stroked his hair gently, as though you were afraid he might disappear if you let go.

"Thank you," he said, his voice quiet but sincere, his smile a mixture of gratitude and something deeper, something harder to read. His hand reached up, cupping your face in his palm, and before you could even react, his lips pressed against your forehead. The kiss was gentle, almost reverent, and it left a warmth that spread throughout your chest.

"I’ll have to keep you in my room until the end of the games," you whispered, meeting his gaze, your voice dropping slightly with the gravity of your words. "Then I’ll sneak you back to the mainland. I can't risk them finding out you're still alive."

He kissed you again, this time on the lips—brief, but with an intensity that made your heart skip. You could feel the weight of the promise in his kiss, the unspoken bond forming between you. His eyes softened with understanding, nodding in agreement. You knew the risks, and so did he. You know you had made the right decision by sparing his life, you would break the rules one hundred more times if it meant he could live.

[pyxxiestyxx]

Truth and Rumors

You didn't exactly plan on being your space station's liaison to the Affini Compact, but everyone in leadership had fled into the darkness of space hours before the plant's first ships jumped into position. Clearly someone had tipped the C-Suite off somehow; honestly, you couldn't blame them. Everything you had heard about the Compact was…rather terrifying, really. Behemoth plants with rows upon rows of teeth, infectious parasites ready to take over your mind, eternal servitude and endless labor with no pay…you shuddered at the rumors, at the stories. Perhaps worse was the actual propaganda produced by the plants; not that you or anyone else on the station was legally allowed to watch it, but even the few still frames that were shown to you had painted a grisly picture. The limp figure of some Terran Navy hero, cuddled and coddled by the hulking beast of a plant behind her. Apparently they had changed the soldier's gender, or something? The report accompanying the image was rather unclear for that particular detail. And now, here you were: sitting nervously in the largest conference room on the station, the lone Terran at a desk made for over thirty to sit at comfortably. When the Compact had hailed your station, you were one of the few working the comms station, and everyone else had either fainted, screamed, or panicked. Not that you were much better, but it was apparently enough that you were voluntold to answer it. The voice of the caller was…strange. Different, somehow. Calming, and yet thrilling. She introduced herself as Lady Violetta Larella, Fourteenth Bloom, she/her. Blushing, you apologized for not referring to her by her title earlier. In your defense, you hadn't realized she was nobility. She seemed to enjoy that, for some reason. You had only been sitting at the table for a few minutes when there was a sharp knock at the door. The Lady entered as gracefully as one possibly could when entering a door made for someone at least five feet shorter, her long dress trailing behind her as she clasped her hands and smiled. "Hello, darling. It's so lovely to see you in the flesh, so to speak! And just look at you! Why, that video feed certainly dulled your charms~" Her voice was dripping with genuine affection as she stepped over to you, taking a knee and reaching an elegant hand out to tussle your hair. You couldn't help but shudder as she did so; your nerves dancing in abject joy as she gently pet your head. Your eyes slowly closed in utter delight as you sagged back into your chair, your tensed muscles relaxing one by one by one... "Oh, but I apologize! Playtime can come later, dear. Let's get down to business, shall we?" You blinked in confusion as you realized She had stopped petting you, and couldn't stop yourself from letting out the smallest of whimpers as She began to withdraw Her hand. Every single one of Her eyes, each of which ranked among some of the most verdant jewels you had ever seen, quickly seemed to shift and dance to a brilliant violet. Her hand returned, sending your worries scuttling for the door as She did so. "Well…perhaps we can take a few minutes, first. Just to make sure you have been thoroughly examined, of course; it would be my duty as Own…as Overseer of this operation to guarantee your mental and physical wellbeing~" You smiled dreamily as you were picked up and held by Lady Violetta, happy that everything you had heard about the Affini was so clearly wrong. She grinned at you, a wide smile that showed all Her many, many pretty teeth, and held up a single, succulent berry, the sight of which made your mouth water. "Now then…let's play a fun little game. When I stroke downward on your cheek, I want you to open your mouth…"

[aventurineswife]

Hello :D! Can I request how Aventurine, Sunday, and Ratio would handle accidentally taking a joke too far/saying something that hurt the reader?

A Joke Too Far

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Sunday x Reader, Ratio x Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Miscommunication, Emotional Hurt/Healing, Fluff and Angst, Apologies and Redemption, Vulnerable Moments.

Warnings: Emotional Hurt, Minor Self-Deprecation, Angst and Tension, Characters may exhibit self-blame, Fluff resolution (Happy Ending), Sensitive themes of guilt and emotional wounds.

The usually unflappable Aventurine had made a misstep. What had started as light teasing about your supposed inability to bluff during a game of cards had spiraled into a sharp comment about your naivety in real life. Though it had been meant as a jest, your sudden silence spoke volumes. The flicker of pain in your eyes wasn’t something Aventurine could easily brush off.

He leaned back in his chair, feigning his usual relaxed demeanor as the cards slipped through his fingers, but his mind raced. His charm and wit had saved him countless times, yet here, it felt inadequate.

Standing, he made his way to your side, dropping to a crouch so he could meet your eyes. The air of playfulness softened, replaced by genuine contrition. “Well,” he said, voice quieter than usual, “it seems even I can misread the stakes. I didn’t mean to draw blood.”

You glanced at him, unsure how to respond.

“Let me make it up to you,” he continued, his lips twitching into a softer smile. “How about I put my pride on the table? A gamble just for you—I’ll let you choose the terms.” He tilted his head, his eyes catching the light. “All you have to do is say the word, and I’ll pay my dues.”

His sincerity shone through the offer, and you couldn’t help but let the tension in your shoulders ease. Aventurine had a way of making you feel seen, even when he stumbled.

Sunday was known for his eloquence and composed nature, but even he could falter. His comment, a teasing remark about how you seemed too attached to fleeting, mundane pleasures, was meant to be harmless. Instead, it struck a nerve, and you turned away sharply.

The halo behind him dimmed slightly, as though reflecting his own self-reproach. Sunday didn’t immediately speak; he knew words hastily given were often meaningless. Instead, he stepped closer, his presence warm yet unintrusive, like sunlight filtering through clouds.

“I have erred,” he began gently, his eyes searching for yours. “I did not intend to undermine what brings you joy. If I have caused you pain, it is my failure, not yours.”

His voice, calm and steady, carried the weight of sincerity. Sunday placed a hand over his heart, bowing his head slightly—a gesture of respect, almost reverent. “Your happiness, fleeting or eternal, is yours to cherish. I would never wish to diminish it.”

You glanced at him, finding it hard to hold onto your frustration in the face of his humility. Sunday smiled softly, the light behind him glowing a little brighter. “Perhaps I could learn from you, rather than judge. Show me the beauty you see—I would be honored.”

Ratio had been in the middle of one of his characteristically blunt tirades, critiquing a decision you had made during a project. His comment—that it was “hardly a surprise given your level of experience”—was not meant to wound, but the sharp edge of his tone had cut deeper than he realized.

When he noticed your silence, the shift in your posture, he paused. It wasn’t often that Ratio miscalculated, but when he did, he took it seriously. For a moment, he considered doubling down, justifying his words with logic, but the pang of guilt in his chest stopped him.

He took a breath, stepping closer. “I was careless,” he admitted, his voice softer than usual. His eyes, so often piercing, held a rare vulnerability. “My intent was to challenge, not to insult. But it seems I failed to consider how my words might be received.”

You glanced at him, surprised by the uncharacteristic apology.

Ratio removed his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose in a rare display of frustration. “The truth is, I respect your contributions more than I expressed. I let my standards obscure my appreciation.” He hesitated, then added, “I may not always convey it well, but your perspective is valuable to me.”

His straightforward approach made it clear he wasn’t just placating you, and slowly, the sting of his words began to fade. Ratio replaced his glasses and straightened, a small but genuine smile touching his lips. “Shall we try again? Together, this time.”

[ekkkkey]

vestal (chapter IV)

summary: Livia, a young Vestal Virgin, is bound to Vesta's eternal flame and the vow of sacred duty. In Rome, it's common knowledge; touch a Vestal, and the wrath of the gods will descend upon you. But what if someone dares to defy that rule?

chapter I chapter II chapter III

warnings: 18+ minors dni, dub-con, non-con, blood

tags: darkfic, sibling rivalry, no softboys here, religious guilt, mommy issues, Caracalla’s a whole damn goblin and Geta’s just as cursed

word count: ~7k

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The feast hosted by the emperors seemed to draw every noble citizen of Rome. Servants and slaves rushed through the palace halls, nearly running, desperate to prepare everything to perfection—failure meant punishment, and punishment here was rarely merciful.

None of the guests had been warned that Livia would be present, so several men had already tried to court her, only to be met with her cold, sharp rejection. She couldn’t really blame them—not many knew her by face, and white robes weren’t worn by Vestals alone. Still, the looks they gave her made her stomach turn. They were full of… full of what, exactly? Livia paused.

She knew nothing of lust, desire, or the cravings of the flesh, yet she could sense what these wealthy, pompous men were thinking. The emperors wanted the same from her—of that she was certain—but why, then, were their looks and smirks so different from the ones she caught tonight?

Her eyes swept over the riot of color—so many faces. Old, young, dull, clever, noble, brutish. And though she hated to admit it, she was searching for two faces in particular. The young emperors.

Their game insulted her, sowed doubt and unease, yet it also sparked a fire of defiance. A challenge. She would show them she was no mere kitchen wench to be toyed with. She was a priestess of the great goddess, chosen by the divine. They were not worthy to test her.

Memories of her last encounter with Emperor Caracalla flushed her cheeks with shameful heat. How dare he! Her angry thoughts were interrupted by a soft, unfamiliar voice, and Livia quickly wiped the scowl from her face.

"Mistress, please, the emperors await you."

A young slave girl bowed, offering a cup of wine. Livia waved it away. She hated drinking.

Stepping deeper into the hall, she saw them. Oh, what a glorious sight! Her lips twisted, and her brows furrowed. Glorious for the corrupt, pompous nobles who hung on every word of the emperors. For her, the scene stirred barely concealed irritation, though she forced a polite smile to avoid seeming rude.

Geta at least kept some semblance of decorum, lounging back on the bench with his legs spread wide. Caracalla, on the other hand, had sprawled out completely, his legs stretched so far that his toga had ridden up almost above his knees. Livia quickly turned her gaze away.

Geta always prattled on about decorum—so why did everything around her feel like a mockery, an insult aimed directly at her? And he smiled at her now—sweet, soft, like she was a childhood friend and not a captive in his game. His white robes were so blindingly white they seemed to glow in the dimly lit hall, illuminated only by flickering flames. White and gold—holy colours. He was taunting her. She clenched her own white robes, refusing to show how much he angered her.

His golden belt, embroidered mantle over his tunic—it was the embodiment of divinity and high rank. A laurel crown adorned his fiery hair, and intricate gold bracelets gleamed on his wrists. Caesar had outdone himself.

Caracalla, in contrast, seems deliberately dressed in an entirely different manner. He wore black, and only the brightness of his hair and the glint of his golden laurel stood out against his pale face.

And, like his brother, he was dripping in gold.

A long, heavy golden earring swayed with every lazy tilt of his head, its delicate touch grazing his pale neck. Even in dark clothing, he drew her gaze—forcing her to look at the gold dusted around his eyes and the red of his lips, stretched in a smile not meant for her.

Captivated, she found herself following the path of his delicate fingers as they stroked the pale hair of the slave girl at his feet. The whiteness of his hand was marred by red marks—marks she had left on him not long ago.

Livia caught his mocking glance and quickly looked down at her own wrist. No gold bangles there—only dark, blooming bruises. She wrapped her fingers around them, desperately hiding the proof of her shame.

"Priestess of Vesta," Geta greeted her. The room fell silent, all eyes on her with curiosity.

Between the two emperors sat Lucilla, draped in gold silk, looking—if it were possible—even less pleased to be there than Livia. She offered a polite nod and a faint smile, which Livia returned.

Caracalla caught their exchange and leaned toward Lucilla, whispering something. Lucilla paled. Then, under Livia’s disbelieving gaze, she picked a grape from a golden dish and offered it to Caracalla’s red lips. He ate it with a sly smile, never taking his eyes off Livia.

A wave of nausea rose in her throat. Such public disrespect toward his adoptive mother only deepened her righteous anger.

"You’re even lovelier than Appius described!" a coarse, mocking male voice broke her thoughts.

To Geta’s right, slouched among half-naked slave girls, sat three senators—or rather, what passed for senators these days. She recognized Claudia’s husband, laughing loudly at his companion’s vulgar remark. She felt naked under their stares.

These weren’t the wise old men of Rome, the voices of reason and law—they were long dead, executed for treason, for conspiracies against the emperors. In their place lounged the young, the arrogant, the shameless sycophants.

Before she could answer, Geta gave a gracious nod toward a gold-trimmed bench.

An invitation.

Head high, Livia took her seat. Her back was straight, her hands rested gently on her lap. Everything about her posture declared who she was: a Vestal Virgin. No one in this room, no matter how powerful, had the right to disrespect a priestess of Vesta.

But no sooner had the thought crossed her mind than she met Caracalla’s gaze. Smirking, he nibbled at his thumb, his eyes locked on hers, while his other hand idly stroked the slave girl’s hair. Livia’s jaw tightened, and she quickly turned away, offended.

"I hope you enjoy tonight’s spectacle," Geta murmured, leaning in close. "I promised you, didn’t I?"

His words sounded more like a warning, but before she could reply, Caracalla clapped his hands, commanding the show to begin.

The crowd parted, pressing to the walls, as decorations were set in the hall’s center.

She couldn’t say why, but a bad feeling settled in her gut as she watched the performers take their places. And then she understood.

The Rape of the Sabine Women.

Her hands balled into fists as the show intensified, men "abducting" resisting girls under a cacophony of music, shouts, and screams, "accidentally" tearing clothes off some. Livia blinked but refused to look away, unwilling to give the emperors the satisfaction. Women’s bodies didn’t frighten her. She glanced, just once, at the brothers.

They watched, utterly engrossed—laughing, shouting, draining one glass of wine after another.

Livia endured, as expected, watching the performance until the end and even clapping politely. But as soon as it was over, a handsome, finely dressed young man stepped forward. A poet.

Irritated, she let out an impatient breath. Geta had indeed arranged an evening of "culture," but the moment the poet opened his mouth, her ears burned, and her face flushed with red blotches. Never in her life had she heard such filth paraded as verse. Livia could not help herself—her eyes darted away, and it took everything in her not to rise from her seat and flee the hall filled with laughing nobles.

The worst part—the worst—was that the women were laughing too. And that shocked her the most. How could they find this funny? Who thought this was amusing? Her gaze darted across the hall, until it met the sorrowful eyes of Lucilla. The older woman gave a slight shake of her head, silently urging Livia to stay seated.

A senator nearby roared with laughter, spilling wine and clapping. Nausea rose in her throat. Closing her eyes, she silently prayed to the Great Goddess, picturing the quiet, safe sanctuary of the temple. But the sounds didn’t fade, and she was forced to open her eyes—and found Geta watching her.

The paint around his eyes had smeared, the powder blurred and fading. He looked wickedly amused, drunk—and in those black eyes, Livia saw not a trace of reason. Beside him, Caracalla let out a full-throated laugh, throwing his head back in raw delight.

Animals.

The poet finished to thunderous applause and disappeared into the crowd. Livia rose at once. Her palms were slick with sweat, and her heart pounded so hard she thought it might tear through her chest. She was terrified—feeling utterly unsafe.

But why? she asked herself.

"I am a priestess of Vesta, keeper of the Eternal Flame, my title…" she tried to steady herself, but a man’s jeering whistle behind her immediately scattered her thoughts.

Not long ago, the very thought that anyone would dare touch her seemed impossible. Yet now, she stared at her wrists, the dark marks glaring back at her—marks left not by just anyone, but by the emperor himself! Those who dared dishonor a Vestal were punished severely, executed even—but who would dare punish an emperor!? No one even knew!

"Gods, punish him, I beg you, protect me, let justice strike him!" she repeated, pushing through the crowd.

No one seemed to notice her departure, and with relief, she slipped behind a red fabric partition, leaned against a column, and finally exhaled. What she’d witnessed tonight had shaken her. It was worse than those awful encounters when the emperors had tried to provoke her. This time, they had succeeded. Her anger was gone—replaced by fear that made her hands tremble.

The entire hall, every guest, was drowning in wine and debauchery. She had even seen some of the men inhaling white powder from silver trays. Whatever it was, she didn’t want to know.

Catching her breath, Livia slapped her own cheek lightly to steady herself. She had to leave. Return to the House of the Vestals. Tell the High Priestess everything. She couldn’t bear this burden alone anymore.

Cautiously, she peeked past the partition into the room. The feast was still in full swing. Seeing no sign of the emperors, she breathed a small sigh of relief—only to flinch at a soft, unfamiliar touch.

Startled, she turned—and immediately exhaled. It was the same slave girl, dark-skinned, her wide eyes full of fear.

"Leave, Mistress, please!" the girl whispered.

"You scared me!" Livia replied softly, immediately taking the girl’s trembling hands in hers. "What is it?"

"I’m sorry… so sorry… please leave… not again…" The girl was trembling, repeating the same words over and over, her eyes darting in panic.

No matter how much Livia tried to comfort her, the girl only grew more agitated, babbling incoherently. Then—silence.

With a frightened squeak, the slave girl darted behind the curtain, leaving Livia alone. But not for long.

"You abandoned us so quickly," said a voice.

Geta.

His steps were uneven, his gaze hollow, and his tongue kept flicking over his lips, betraying his nervousness. He looked almost like himself… except he was terribly drunk.

Livia pressed her lips together. Pathetic. Did he really need to drown himself in wine just to find the courage to speak to her as he truly wished?

They stared at each other in silence. Only the muffled sounds behind the curtain reminded them they weren’t truly alone. The torchlight made his appearance ominous, aging him, twisting his features into something darker.

"I asked you a question," he said, no longer courteous but angry.

"I wasn’t impressed by the performance, I’ll be honest, Caesar." The words slipped out before she could stop herself. She cursed her own tongue the moment they left her lips. Angering him now was foolish.

As if reading her thoughts, he frowned, clicking his tongue in disapproval and stepping closer. She didn’t move. Geta was not Caracalla.

He seemed to read that in her eyes, too—and something in him twitched. His upper lip trembled.

Warily, Livia met his gaze, searching for some flicker of the old interest, that strained civility he used to wear like a mask. But there was nothing. Not even the torchlight touched those bottomless black eyes. She swallowed.

"I appreciate your invitation nonetheless, Caesar," she tried to soften her words.

It didn’t work.

He said nothing, squinting at her, lazily scratching his neck, smudging the white powder further. His gaze dropped to her hands, her wrist, and his mouth twisted into a thin, bloodless line.

"He does it to spite me," he muttered, more to himself than to her. "But you’re here, with me, whether he touched you or not," he continued, lost in thought.

"May I leave?" Livia whispered, though she knew the answer.

Geta smirked and shook his head, rubbing his hands as if steeling himself.

"You… you’re devout, aren’t you? Please! The goddess…" she appealed to his reason, but it was futile.

He wouldn’t dare, would he? He wasn’t his brother! But no, he was exactly the same.

His hands were ice-cold, yet they burned her wrists. His palm pressed down exactly where Caracalla had left bruises, squeezing until it hurt. Desperate, Livia tried to scream, but he clamped his hand roughly over her mouth, stifling the sound.

"Quiet, priestess, quiet," his drunken whisper scorched her neck. "I don’t like doing things the hard way, understand?"

She shook her head frantically, a tear slipping down her cheek. She didn’t understand anything. Nothing but her own stupidity—thinking she could play games with emperors. Thinking she could win.

Geta lowered his hand, and she gasped for air. He leaned his forehead against her shoulder, still gripping her wrist. She was trembling.

"Now, you’ll please me, won’t you?" he lifted his head and stared at her lips.

Disbelieving, Livia stayed silent, shaking her head, but her wishes mattered little. Who could resist an emperor’s kiss?

If his hands were cold, his mouth was hot, searing. For a moment, she lost all sense of reality, too terrified to react, but then the truth crashed over her. Someone else’s mouth on hers, someone else’s hands on her waist. A man was touching her—touching her in a way he never should have!

Whether Mars or Vesta herself had given her strength and fury, Livia bit down hard, her mouth filling with the metallic taste of blood.

Geta immediately pulled back, his eyes wide with disbelief. Oh, he was stunned! She’d bitten through his lower lip. Blood trickled down his chin, and only when a crimson drop hit the marble floor at his feet did the truth finally reach him.

Rage twisted his handsome face.

She breathed heavily, still reeling from what she’d done. But there was no time to think—before she could even process it, he struck her cheek with the back of his hand. And just as quickly, before the pain could even bloom, he dragged her into another kiss. This one was angry, punishing. Anything but gentle.

He released her. Her mouth tasted of blood, and she spat, unladylike, wiping her lips. Let him kill her! But first, she’d claw his eyes out!

But no, he only smirked, licking his own blood from his lips.

"Leave, priestess, or it’ll be worse," his voice was hoarse. "And remember, you’re still expected at the games."

Only once he slipped back into the hall did Livia realize how badly she was shaking. Only then did the sting of his slap truly bloom across her face. She wanted to sob like a little girl—but not here. Not in this place.

"Imperial blood spills far too often these days, Amata," said a voice behind her—calm, amused, almost gentle.

Caracalla.

Livia turned to him like a hunted creature, silently cursing him with every word she knew. He was drunk and cheerful, utterly at ease—if anything, exhilarated, almost thrilled.

His brother’s little performance had clearly entertained him.

"Perhaps you’ve been praying poorly to your goddess?" His pale brows furrowed in feigned concern. "Could something like this happen to a pure, devoted novice? Or perhaps your goddess is punishing you for something?" He leaned in like a conspirator, his hand covering his mouth as if to protect a forbidden secret. "Or maybe," he whispered, "this is exactly what she wants."

"Please, let me leave," she whispered, her lips stinging from the dried blood, her wrists aching with every movement.

"But what of your punishment?" he asked, with theatrical surprise, raising his hands. The bracelets on his wrists jingled. "Twice now, you’ve spilled the sacred blood of the fathers of the empire! Perhaps I should spill a little of yours?" And with a syrupy smile, his pale eyes, clouded with wine, slowly slid over her face.

The hint was so blatant that even her naive mind understood. The first touch. The first kiss. The first… She shook her head. None of this was ever meant to be part of her life.

"I’m begging you," she breathed, barely audible, not knowing what else to say.

It pleases him. She can see it—the twitch at the corners of his mouth, the lazy narrowing of his eyes as he savors her humiliation. Her pride, once unshakable, is crumbling, and he’s enjoying every second of it.

"Very well," he nodded playfully. She exhales, a breath of relief escaping her—

"But first…"

Caracalla extends his delicate hand, the same one where she’d left her scratches. Mesmerized, she watches the firelight dance on the golden rings. He tilts his head, eyes fixed on her. Waiting.

Her heart stutters. She knows exactly what he wants.

Swallowing her pride, Livia bent, brushing her lips against his wounded hand, hearing his satisfied exhale. It felt obscene to her.

He’d forced her. Forced her to touch him, to bow, to press her lips to his warm, soft skin. Humiliating. But if this was the price of her peace, so be it.

Livia hurried to leave, but as she passed Caracalla, she found herself caught in his iron grip.

He held her for just a moment, just long enough for him to lean close and whisper hotly in her ear: "Tonight, my brother won’t be the only one imagining your face."

The slave girl leads her out of the palace, accompanied by a young man with dark skin. Livia stumbles, nearly collapsing, but the man catches her, steadying her with a firm arm around hers as they descend the steps. She doesn’t care that he’s a man—right now, he’s her only salvation.

"This is my brother, Mistress," the girl whispers. "He’ll help you."

They seat Livia in a carriage. As the door is closed, she casts one last glance toward the palace and catches sight of a dark figure standing on the balcony, watching. She yanked the curtain shut with a shaking hand.

She didn’t have to see his face to know it was one of them.

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The High Priestess stares at her with disbelief, wariness, and fear. No wonder—Livia had burst into her chambers in the dead of night, disheveled, bloodied, bruised. She had shed all her tears on the way from the palace; now there was only one thing she longed for: to tell the truth.

"You weren’t at your sister’s," the older woman says, narrowing her eyes and drawing her cloak tighter around herself.

In the darkness, in her thin nightgown, her hair loose and her face suddenly aged, the High Priestess seems almost fragile to Livia—nothing like the stern, commanding figure she had always known. For a moment, fear claws at her: what if she won’t help? What could this aging priestess possibly do against the emperors? But Livia shoves the thought aside, falls to her knees, clutches at the woman’s legs, presses her cheek against them, and whispers fiercely:

"It was them!"

Her voice quivers with rage. The sister-priestesses loved her for her lightness, her cheerful spirit, but now there’s no trace of that left.

"The emperors!" she spits the words out with such hatred that the High Priestess flinches, stepping back, but Livia won’t let her go. She looks up, straight into her eyes.

"Look at me!" She thrusts out her arms—pale, bruised, trembling.

"My child…" the priestess whispers, stunned. "Why did you go to the palace?"

"Why?" Livia’s breath grows heavy, anger rising in her chest. "Because of my sister, of course! Did you think I stayed there willingly—for what? For a man?"

The High Priestess presses her lips into a thin line. Pity flickers in her eyes, but so does doubt.

"You’re young, beautiful… perhaps you did something wrong, somehow…"

Enraged, Livia springs to her feet, towering over her.

"Me? You think I’m to blame for this?" She scrubs at her lips and wrists as if trying to erase the shame. "You think I would lie? I, who took the sacred vows? I, who gave up my family, my life, everything—just to trade it all for disgrace and dishonor?"

Something shifts in the priestess’s face. She reaches for Livia’s hands, squeezing them, then pulls her into an embrace, gently stroking her back.

"What did they do? Did they…" The look in her eyes says the rest.

"No," Livia snaps, breaking free from her arms, "but they did enough to be judged."

"And who will judge the emperors?" the priestess says, throwing up her hands.

"The Senate! The people! The gods!" Livia’s voice rises, and the priestess hastily motions for her to lower it. "Someone will, Great Virgin!"

"You forget whom you’re speaking of, child."

"What, are they above the law? The people hate them—that’s no secret. Everyone in Rome knows what they are—everyone but children! And they themselves are like children—cruel, vicious—"

She’s cut off.

"And yet these children rule us. They rule Rome. You’ve seen what happens to those who oppose them. The Praetorians, the army, even the Senate—they all stand with them. What is your word against theirs?"

"I am a Vestal Virgin! My word is not nothing!"

"Then stay away from them. Don’t provoke them. Devote yourself to your duties."

The conversation is over.

Livia storms out of the priestess’s chambers without a word of farewell, furious at finding no support. And yet, having finally spoken, a weight lifts from her chest.

She doesn’t want to tell anyone else—but Caesonia is different. Her friend, her sister, her mentor—she cannot keep this from her.

A storm rages over Rome. Lightning flashes illuminate the city with ominous bursts, and Livia is certain it’s the ancient Goddess herself, furious that her priestess has been defiled, dishonored. The thought warms her heart. Let Emperor Caracalla say what he will—she is under her Virgin’s protection.

Here, within the House of the Vestals, she finds refuge—and in Caesonia, the understanding she needs.

The elder priestess asks no questions. She only gently helps Livia undress, combs out her tangled hair, kneads the tension from her shoulders.

Livia sinks into the warm water, closing her eyes in exhausted bliss. Caesonia, wearing only a thin tunic, sits by the pool’s edge, watching her in silence.

Her wrists are almost white again, as they once were, with only faint yellowish marks hinting at the painful memories. She notices Caesonia’s gaze lingering on them.

"What did you talk about with the High Priestess after your visit to your sister?" Caesonia asks, circling the truth.

Livia leans her head back against the marble edge, staring up at the vaulted ceiling. Should she tell her everything?

"That’s not what you really want to ask, is it?"

Caesonia licks her lips, tilts her head, and smiles slyly. She slides into the pool beside Livia, her soaked tunic clinging to her skin before she pulls it off and lets it drift away. She presses close, resting her head lightly on Livia’s shoulder. Cool, delicate fingers trail along Livia’s wrist, barely brushing the bruises with feather-light touches.

"Was it one of the emperors?"

"Who told you?" Livia’s heart lurches.

Caesonia laughs softly, stroking her wrist.

"I’m not a fool. I saw the way they looked at you. I might never have known a man, but I can imagine what’s in their heads when they see a beautiful girl." She tucks a strand of hair behind Livia’s ear and meets her gaze, waiting.

Heat rises under Livia’s skin—not from the water. She looks away, murmuring the whole story. Caesonia listens, wide-eyed, drinking in every word. It’s not the reaction Livia expected; she grows even more embarrassed.

"And what was it like?" Caesonia lowers her voice, though the slaves outside the door can’t hear.

"What…" Livia whispers, confused.

"You know," Caesonia’s hand gently caresses her cheek, "what’s it like to feel a man’s touch? Is it like mine?"

The priestess’s hand strokes her, leaving Livia stunned and flustered, but then Caesonia laughs and pulls away.

"Forgive me! Forgive me, sweet Livia," she says with a wink, sinking into the water up to her chin. "I’m too weak for beauty, and to hear about a handsome man…"

"Caesonia!" Livia tries to sound stern, but can’t help laughing.

"You should be ashamed of your words and thoughts!"

"I’m just teasing, you know that," Caesonia says, then theatrically leans back against the pool’s edge, pressing a hand to her forehead. "Oh, Emperor, I think I’ve twisted my ankle!"

Anywhere else, the joke would have horrified Livia. But here, safe and warm in the water, she bursts out laughing, grabbing her friend’s shoulders and shaking her.

"Stop it, you fool, it’s not funny at all!" When he grabbed her roughly, it wasn’t funny. When he kissed her, it wasn’t funny. But Caesonia fluttering her lashes like some lovesick emperor—yes, that was funny.

They never speak of it again. The bruises fade. Life settles back into its old rhythm. And Livia throws herself into her sacred duties, heart and soul.

But the faster the carefree days flew by, the closer the games drew near. Livia tried not to think about them, but in the restless moments before sleep, the emperors’ faces haunted her—their voices, their touches, their smiles…

One radiant, sunlit day, slaves arrived at the House of the Vestals carrying a covered palanquin. From it, they hauled a massive chest onto the terrace.

The priestesses gathered around, eyeing the ornate, gold-trimmed chest with curiosity. The slaves withdrew quickly, but none dared open it without the High Priestess’s permission.

A wave of dread washed over Livia. Sensing her unease, Caesonia reached out and quietly took her hand.

When the High Priestess finally appeared and lifted the heavy lid, the Vestals gasped in unison, recoiling in horror.

Livia clapped a hand over her mouth, stunned by the sight.

On a bed of crimson velvet lay two severed male arms, hacked cleanly at the elbows. A tightly wound scroll rested beside them. Nausea rose in her throat.

The High Priestess, regaining her composure quicker than the rest, seized the scroll, scanned it, then nodded sharply for Livia to step closer.

"Emperor Caracalla expresses his deepest regrets and begs forgiveness for the inappropriate behavior of a slave who dared leave those marks on you. He sends his warmest regards," she said, her voice like a verdict. Both of them knew he was lying brazenly — and so did he.

Livia’s lips trembled with outrage and fury as she realized whose arms these were. The slave who had helped her escape the palace, who had held her by the shoulders to keep her from collapsing on the steps. So it was Caracalla on the balcony! He had seen them!

"Dispose of them," the High Priestess commanded coldly. "And I shall convey your gratitude to the emperor for his… justice."

Livia only nodded, her heart hammering in her chest. She had glimpsed the depths of his madness—and it terrified her.

Now the days leading to the games became a slow, grinding torture. She buried herself in ceaseless prayer, trying to smother the rising panic that no words could soothe.

"Don’t worry, we’ll be with you, won’t we?" Caesonia said. Livia, dressed in a long white tunic, her hair braided with red ribbons and veiled, stood ready. Caesonia hung an amulet around her neck and stepped back, admiring her.

The arena greeted them with a deafening roar as they took their seats to the left of the imperial box. Young girls approached, holding out wreaths of flowers, and the priestesses accepted with gracious smiles, settling them gently on their heads.

As usual, Livia sat beside the High Priestess, her back as straight as a string. Her gaze was fixed on the arena, and she didn’t allow herself even a glance toward the emperors.

"Emperor Geta is watching you," Caesonia whispered in a low tone. Livia curled her lip in disdain, waving off the comment with a flick of her hand. Let him watch.

Heralds in masks of the seven gods announced the start of the games, held in honor of General Fulvius Plautianus’s victory, who had seized part of Persia in the emperors’ name.

"As if they conquered it themselves," Livia scoffed under her breath, careful no one overheard.

As the gladiators entered the arena, she stole a quick glance at the imperial box. For a moment, their red-haired heads caught her attention, but she quickly turned away, unwilling to meet their eyes.

The games began, the crowd roared, and Livia, finally forgetting the emperors, leaned forward, gripping the railing, her gaze fixed on the combatants below.

The sun climbed higher, and the arena grew bloodier. She noticed the crowd favoring a young gladiator—dark-haired, tanned, powerful. The barbarian fought fiercely, clearly not for the emperors’ amusement. For a moment, his eyes swept toward the Vestals’ box, and Livia, her heart pounding with some hidden sympathy, nodded slightly, silently wishing him victory. He gave no sign, but his next fight was another win.

The emperors leapt from their seats, clapping, clearly pleased with the spectacle. A small monkey on Caracalla’s shoulder screeched, mimicking its master’s applause.

The crowd chanted "Hanno," and Geta, visibly stung, sank back into his chair, followed by his brother. Livia smirked.

To her dismay, the final bout turned against Hanno. Exhausted, he collapsed onto the sand. Her sisters, the crowd, the entire stadium froze in tense anticipation. The verdict rested with the Caesars.

Livia no longer even tried to hide it—she stared straight at the emperors. Caracalla leaned over and whispered something to his brother, then lounged back lazily in his chair. Geta rose to his feet. Behind them, Lucilla sat, visibly uneasy.

Emperor Geta braced his hands on the edge of the imperial box, sweeping his gaze slowly across the crowd, across the men in the arena… Then he lifted his hand—and locked eyes with her. His smile was cold and crooked, his chin lifted in arrogance. The wretch. She didn’t bother to hide her grimace in response…

… And his thumb turned downward, sealing the death sentence.

The crowd erupted in outrage, but Geta sat back smugly, sipping from his goblet and raising it toward her with a mocking nod.

"Livia…" the High Priestess warned, but inside, Livia’s heart burned with indignation and hatred. Did he enjoy making her vulnerable? Humiliating her in front of the gods? Well, then…

She leaned forward, extending her arm, and raised her thumb, staring straight at the emperors.

Oh, their furious, twisted faces were a balm to her soul. They could do nothing to her, say nothing—everyone knew a Vestal’s word in such matters was final.

With a sense of quiet triumph, she settled back onto the bench, her smile unwavering, as the heralds proclaimed the verdict in a booming voice. This time, the crowd’s cheers weren’t for the emperors or the fighters—they were for her.

"You shouldn’t have done that. I told you to stay away," the High Priestess said sadly, but Livia barely heard her. Her heart raced with the thrill of the small victory.

They were escorted into the Colosseum’s inner halls, but Livia felt no fear, walking steadily, carefully holding her long tunic.

And of course, they were waiting for them. The emperors—both dressed in white and crimson, the colors of victory. Geta’s head was crowned with golden laurel, while Caracalla’s unruly curls wore a different wreath. Fresh green laurel leaves made his blue eyes seem even brighter, his skin paler, and he… She turned away. He once again reminded her of Sol.

Many of the senators were there too, and they quickly drew the High Priestess into conversation, leaving the younger Vestals to themselves.

Livia, keeping well away from the emperors, slipped toward a quieter corner of the hall.

"Pious Virgin, may I speak with you?"

Startled, she turned to see Lucilla standing before her, head bowed.

"Of course. Your company is always a pleasure," Livia said.

Lucilla glanced around nervously, then leaned closer, whispering,

"Thank you for sparing the gladiator today… Please, ask me nothing—I beg you—but know that I’m grateful. And in return, I’ll offer you a service. I will tell you how your sister died."

Livia freezes, blinking rapidly and opening her mouth in silence. Lucilla’s story is brief, dry, and lacking in details, but it is enough. Livia knew. She knew who was responsible.

After parting with the daughter of the former emperor, she felt an eerie, almost unnatural calm. Emperor Geta had killed her sister—and now he tried to violate her, as if mocking her grief.

She stood alone by the hall’s far columns, lost in thought, when the very one she had been thinking of found her, his brother beside him. Her gaze was empty, cold.

"Emperor Geta," she nodded. "Emperor Caracalla," another nod.

"I wish to apologize, priestess," Geta began. She could see how the words strained him, how he forced himself to be courteous…

But what was his courtesy to her?

"Tell me, Caesar, what exactly are you apologizing for? For the disgusting advances you made toward me, or for murdering my sister? Do you even remember her? Dark-haired, gentle-hearted. Do you even remember her name? Her name was Cassandra," she said through clenched teeth.

Geta took a step back, and for the first time, Livia saw him completely exposed, vulnerable. To her surprise, his black eyes weren’t looking at her. Instead, he was staring at Caracalla. And Caracalla, in turn, was looking right back at him. On his pale face, there was no smile, no familiar sneer—only an unnerving, stone-cold mask.

"It’s a lie, brother," Geta said, not addressing her once again, and Livia understood less and less. Caracalla didn’t believe him, that much was clear.

"Please, not here," he pleaded. Caracalla said nothing, but his blue gaze shifted back to Livia.

Geta cast her a final look—one full of hatred, bitter disappointment—and hurried toward the Praetorians, disappearing into the crowd.

"Did you know?" she asked Caracalla.

He lifted his head, blinking rapidly, as if shaking off a daze. A crooked smirk slowly returned to his face.

"No, I swear," he says hoarsely, almost whispering. He’s angry—this much was clear—but for the first time, she wasn’t the target of his rage, and it felt… strange. "We…," he trails off, licking his lips, "Cassandra and I—we were good friends. Didn’t I tell you? I wouldn’t have let anyone hurt her, believe me, Livia."

She watches him, eyes narrowed in suspicion. He meets her gaze with that same smirk, peering up at her from under his brows, his pale eyebrows drawn together—pure innocence. Livia shrugs, taking up her proud stance once more.

"And yet, you acted inappropriately towards me," she said, now feeling more confident as his attention was fully on his brother.

"Oh, I regret it," he replied, his lips slightly parted, the tip of his tongue brushing over his upper lip. Did he truly regret it? Livia looked at him again. Not a hint of it. But even empty words carried weight now.

"How do you like my gift?"

A shiver ran through her, the memory of the chest with the severed hands sending a chill down her spine. She said nothing.

The emperor leaned in, his hand brushing the bust behind her, tracing the curve of the nameless marble girl’s neck. The scratches on his hand had healed. Her bruises had faded as well. He glanced at her hands before locking eyes with her.

"If you want," he whispered, his grin widening, "I’ll give you one just like it—with Geta."

For a brief moment, she forgot how to breathe. He was offering her the revenge she’d craved—for her sister, for her own honor! But he was his brother… And yet, with a breath heavy with fury, she answered,

"Yes."

The delight on the emperor’s face terrifies her. Caracalla breathed heavier, his tongue sliding over his lips again and again, and for a moment, she could have sworn she heard a low, strangled moan escape from his red mouth.

His delicate hand released the marble throat of the bust and rose toward her face. Livia nervously glanced behind him—was anyone watching? Fortunately, the column was wide enough to shield them from prying eyes…

What was she thinking? She quickly scolded herself.

But the emperor didn’t touch her. Instead, he plucked a rose from her flower crown and tucked it behind his ear, as if he were a mischievous street boy, not the Father of Rome. It seemed the talk of his brother’s murder didn’t trouble him in the slightest. Had such a thought crossed his mind before? Had it ever occurred to him? Like Romulus and Remus—twins, both of them…

She loses her train of thought as her gaze lands on the large medallion on his chest. Golden, elaborate, screaming wealth—she had no interest in it, until Livia noticed the embossed female profile.

At first, she couldn’t believe her eyes, wondering if it was her own face staring back at her.

"Oh, this is my mother," he lifted the medallion, showing it to her. Livia understands it’s another woman, but she can’t deny the striking resemblance. It terrifies her.

Nervously, she glances up at the emperor. The last time he spoke of Julia Domna, he pressed against her hips, shamelessly moaning. It’s hard to forget such a thing.

He smiles slyly, knowing exactly what she’s thinking, tilting his head, savoring the blush on her cheeks.

"I was just a boy when she died. Father always hated me, but she…" He steps closer, and Livia finds herself backed against the wall, nowhere to retreat. "She loved me. That much I remember."

Livia has no words to reply, but he doesn’t expect an answer. Their faces are almost level now, his eyes burning with feverish intensity. Caesar leans in, but then immediately tilts his head, turning to bury his face in her neck, not touching, leaving a small gap between his lips and her skin. Unconsciously, she tilts her neck, almost as if offering it. She feels his smile against her skin.

"You look just like her, don’t you?" he murmurs, inhaling deeply before once more searing her neck with his breath. "Your goddess didn’t hear your prayers, did she? Didn’t grant your wishes…" He leans back slightly, still staring into her eyes, chin raised arrogantly. She exhales sharply.

"Then I’ll be your god, Amata, and for my help, I don’t need thirty years of devotion. I think it’ll all end much sooner," he purrs.

It’s only now that Livia realizes what she’s agreed to.

[exeggcute]

interesting links roundup #10

>>> permalink <<<

reading

Animals as chemical factories

Are "algorithms" making us boring?

Big Food Gets Jacked

Can the Human Body Endure a Voyage to Mars?

Century-Scale Storage

Crypto trader kills himself on X live to create a meme coin

A Dark History of the World’s Smallest Island Nation

The End of Children

The Getty Family’s Trust Issues

The hardest working font in Manhattan

How Diablo hackers uncovered a speedrun scandal

I Tasted Honda's Spicy Rodent-Repelling Tape (And I will do it again unless someone stops me.)

If You Ever Stacked Cups In Gym Class, Blame My Dad

The Kiss That Changed Video Games

Patterns in confusing explanations

Photographers Are on a Mission to Fix Wikipedia's Famously Bad Celebrity Portraits

The Real-Life Consequences of Silicon Valley’s AI Obsession

Removing Jeff Bezos From My Bed

‘Technofossils’: how humanity’s eternal testament will be plastic bags, cheap clothes and chicken bones

The “Unhinged Bisexual Woman” Novel

Unique formation of organic glass from a human brain in the Vesuvius eruption of 79 CE

What a Crab Sees Before It Gets Eaten by a Cuttlefish

When Your Last Name Is Null, Nothing Works

Who Killed the Footless Goose?

The Worst 7 Years in Boeing’s History—and the Man Who Won’t Stop Fighting for Answers

tools/reference

Ableton: Learning Synths

Cover Your Tracks: See how trackers view your browser

European word translator

OneLook

Refuge Restrooms

River Runner Global

other

BLUEJEWELED

jacksonpollock.org

London Transport 25: ride 25 different forms on transport in one day

What if Eye...? [warning for some flashing graphics/gifs]

10,000-Year Earworm to Discourage Settlement Near Nuclear Waste Repositories

[jheselbraum]

Like did Link have regrets and probably some buried resentment for Zelda due to associating her with the events of oot, if mm and tp are anything to go by? Yeah. But let's not pretend that adult timeline Zelda didn't help Mr Kid in an Adult's Body Getting Brothel Jokes Made at Him dodge a fucking bullet. And child timeline Zelda's plan only fell apart because Rauru is an idiot.

You know what's worse than seeing some dudebro blaming OOT Zelda for "ruining Link's life"?

A "Zelink shipper" saying the same thing.

It's like being stabbed in the back lmao

I think not everyone understands her character:(

[evilminji]

Oh... oh no it's all coming together ( o.o)

Ya'll remember my Danny haunts Space Games post?

That but MORE SO. Harder. Like... ZONE GAME DEVELOPER PASSION PROJECT harder. Because? Special Interest chemicals go brrrrr~☆

And you KNOW... you absolutely FUCKING KNOW! That Danny was minding his business, going about his life, hyped as FUCK for the new Space Game 5 (a niche game but so what? It has REALISTIC physics! It's set on THE MOON!).

Has NOT stopped rambling on about it.

Been driving everyone insane, because it won't be out for MONTHS.

When~?

Youngblood, probably, goes "So what? That sound BORING. There barely anything to DO in that! Not like one of OUR Super Cool ZONE Video Games™. OURS are way better! And we gave LOADS more options then THAT! Now can we get back to-"

Freeze frame, record scratch.

Wait. WHAT!?

Danny is violently answers out of that eternal child faster then you can say "Dude! Chill!" Got them manic Obsession Eyes. Oops. Youngblood forgot Danny is Space Obsessed. But also PROTECTION Obsessed. Meaning he can't LEAVE where he is protecting.

You know.... FOR SPACE.

He needs a work around to feed his Obsession. Video games do it. Since he can go INTO them, but leave at a moments notice, if trouble happens. It's like being both IN SPACE but also AT HIS POST! Double Obsession Feeding! Happy chemicals! Mmmmm, content ecto-goo~

But now? NOW?! He's learning there is BETTER Space?!

WHERE IS THE BETTER SPACE?! *kicks open the portal*

It? Is a terrifying time for everybody. Thanks A LOT, Youngblood. It takes like... five Amazons and Pandora herself tackling the little menace, to get him still long enough to get a semi-coherent answer out of him. Stop him trying to shake down random ghosts for answers they can't GIVE.

Youngblood is grounded.

DANNY has an Obsession-crash headache, is really embarrassed, but honestly no one blames him. No one acts their best when they're Obsession gets suddenly triggered that hard. It was a poor man offered El Dorado, a scholar all the secrets in the world. He got swept up in it.

That SAID, yes, there IS a video game shop near here. There are, of course, countless such shops. It's the Zone. There are countless EVERYTHING. It's the nature of the Zone. Just don't harrass any of the developers and all will be well, Phantom. They're not afraid to put YOU in time out as well.

Deal! ( /☆.☆)/ *grabby hands*

There? Are so, SO many games. For systems Danny's never even HEARD off. Alien ones, new ones, long dead ones. Zone exclusives. It's less a shop and more a sprawling maze.

His grin is FERAL.

Space. Gaaaaaaames!!!

The more realistic the BETTER. Give him that living vicariously like an Astronaut DREAM. But fantasy maybe! Or in the future! Or deep space! Alien mayhaps! There are a few. The blended Obsessions that are kinda like his. Space and video-games instead of Space and Protection.

And? Oh~

Oh they are so SO realistic.

Impossible to play on any Earth computer, too. Not a single chance. Wouldn't even TRY and run. But! He is a Fenton! And he WILL have his Space Games! If his parents can make a portal in their basement? HE can make a Bank of Ectoplasmic Supercomputers in his spare room! Or Bedroom! Depends on renting prices!

He GUTS every landfill for MILES for usable parts.

"Liberates" parts from Rogues, left and right. Fuck their evil plans! He has computers to build! The Justice League? Baffled. Alarmed. Nooooot his problem!!!

He completes his works and? Oh~ the smile is both terrifying and fangy.

Spaaaaaaaace~☆

He starts College. On line, of course, he refuses to leave Amity. And Online can be done at his pace, at his hours. So? For once? He's actually doing WELL. Even BETTER? It helps him remember to leave them games every once and a while. Eat something. Be human.

But... well... it's like a slow flip of his Obsession starving. Now that he has all the Space he could ever want? He... suddenly finds Amity... peaceful? Which is GOOD! It's... it's GOOD.

.........just not for him.

He can almost physically FEEL him mind unclenching it's death grip on the town. Finger by finger. Hands releasing, letting go, as they... reach for something. As he starts taking NOTE of crime rates in major cities. Alien attacks and Rogues, Heros spread too thin, people getting HURT.

In need of PROTECTION.

He... he doesn't WANT to be that fickle. He LOVES Amity! It's his HOME. He wasn't protecting it just because he craved something to protect! In the end, he drags it out longer then he probably should, argues with himself, ignores the problem. Is STUBBORN.

It's only after Dani starts talking about coming back to Amity to stay with him, do the college thing like he did, that he realizes...

Amity's not his Haunt anymore.

They talk. She's excited to help him find a nice shit hole of a city to protect, but also worried because he looks really gaunt. He may LOVE Space... but...

It's the GHOST in him that loves Space. The Astronaut. The Kid who refused to die, who ate a PORTAL TO THE EVERYTHING and crawled out still exsistant, who told Death not only "not today" but "not EVER"? That kid had something to protect. Was and is and always will BE, protection. Himself, his friends, his family or the town. Doesn't matter WHAT it is.

He refused to go, so he could protect them.

The part that DID, though, was starlight. And yeah, he needs it. Feeds it desperately. But it... doesn't exactly support his human half, you know? Doesn't anchor him. Make him want to eat and sleep, be human and alive, connect with people.

Space makes him ghosty.

Dani ultimately convinces him, after spraying him down with a hose and shoving a cheeseburger down his face, to move to Metropolis with her. They get ALIENS! Have Aliens HEROS! BIG DESTRUCTIVE FIGHTS. With lots and LOTS of people who need help! Plus? Gotham is within a day trip!

And UNLIKE Gotham, the Ecto isn't RANK AF in Metropolis.

Seriously, it smells like a burst sewer pipe over there.

Danny agrees. Can totally afford a modest lil place thanks to some patents. Makes one HELL OF A SCENE moving in. With his giant, ominous, futuristic, weirdly day glow green glowing bank of super computers... in this, "we love our Alien Blorbo" Metropolis.

Cause Green and Glowing sure ain't welcome round these parts! No SIR! Somebody call the COPS!

Danny isn't even half way through, when Superman lightly touchs down, a forced grin plastered to his face. The "please, God, not another Rogue. Not a new one. Please!" all but RADIATING off him.

Hmmmmm....

Danny... kiiiinda forgot not everyone was as "I see fuckin NOTHING, man" as Amity natives. Awkward. Welp! Fenton Oblivious Gene's, ACTIVATE!

"Oh, HIIIIIII~☆ Superman! What brings you round these parts? Gosh, it's an honor! Dani! Come meet SUPERMAN!"

Clark knows what he's doing. Danny knows, Clark knows what he's doing. They are both from the Midwest. They ain't gonna break first! You kidding? Clark still has to ask. Inserts himself by INSISTING on helping. A welcome to Metropolis! Ha ha! (How long we gonna lie for, kid? How long? I can do this all day.)

Clark? Learns that Danny has become ABSURDLY knowledgeable about terraforming, spacecraft, aerospace engineering and anything else related to Space Survival. Thanks to... his "games".

Which Clark is PRETTY sure? Are creatively set up, alien, training programs. Cause both of the Fentons are DEFINITELY at least partially non-human. But, eh. Who is he to judge? The "mad scientist" vibe, though... THAT is his to judge. Which he does.

Routine check ins!

And pasta bakes. Because good lord, Fenton, you are skin and bones! And? If it helps with both Watchtower maintenance AND some killer articles? Because Danny is a fountain of Space related knowledge who loves to share it? That's between Clark and the weird, semi-feral, gremlin he's adopted! (Yes, honey, he KNOWS Danny is a grown man. But I did it with BRUCE-)

@hdgnj @babbling-babull @legitimatesatanspawn @hypewinter @mutable-manifestation @the-witchhunter

[shizuturnspages]

What would the yandere like diluc, kaeya, Childe, dainsleif and dottore (more characters) do or react like, if while severely punishing the reader for trying to escape, she will be severely injured and in a vegetative state or brain dead??? This alive and dead at the same time could be.

A Love That Won't Wake

Synopsis: You made a final, desperate attempt to escape your obsessive captor, but it has ended in tragedy. In their fury, your captors inflicted a punishment too severe, leading to an irreversible consequence—you're left in a vegetative state, trapped between life and death. Pairings: [Separate] Yandere Diluc, Kaeya, Childe, Dainsleif, Dottore, Cyno, Scaramouche, Wriothesley x Brain dead Reader

Diluc – The Ghost of a Love Lost

Diluc was never one to lose control… until you.

The moment you collapsed in his arms, your fragile body broken beyond repair, something in him shattered.

He remains by your bedside in a grand, candlelit chamber, watching your still form as if waiting for you to wake up.

Every day, he reads to you, brushes your hair, whispers apologies against your cold fingers. He blames himself—no, he hates himself.

His hands were meant to protect you, not bring you to this state. Yet, deep down, a part of him still clings to the delusion that you can hear him. That maybe, one day, you’ll look at him again.

And until then, he will suffer beside you, forever haunted by his mistake.

Kaeya – A Lover in Ice

Kaeya laughs, but it is hollow, bitter, edged with madness. His hands tremble as he strokes your face, the very hands that reduced you to this unresponsive doll.

“You always did want to leave me, huh?” he murmurs, voice breaking. His sapphire eye glows dangerously as he tightens his grip. “Well, too bad. You belong to me, still breathing or not.”

He keeps you in the coldest part of his estate, preserving you like a fragile sculpture of ice, adorned in the finest silks and jewels.

He continues speaking to you as if nothing has changed, playing his cruel little games where he pretends you’re still resisting him, just so he can feel something other than this gnawing, unbearable emptiness.

Childe – The Eternal Battle

At first, Childe refuses to accept it. “Tch, c’mon, stop messing around,” he chuckles, shaking you gently.

But when your eyes don’t flicker open, when your lips don’t part to curse him—his world crumbles. He falls to his knees, clutching his head, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

He stays by your side, desperately searching for a cure, offering absurd amounts of mora to any healer who might have a solution. But when the truth finally sinks in, he breaks completely.

He treats your body like a fragile trophy, sitting beside you, murmuring about the fights you could’ve had, the life you could’ve lived.

“I should’ve been gentler,” he admits, voice raw. “But if you wake up, I’ll do better. I swear.”

Yet, he knows you never will.

Dainsleif – The Curse of Immortality

Dainsleif had spent centuries enduring loss, but this? This was unbearable.

He looks upon your unmoving form, realizing that even with his cursed longevity, he cannot bring you back.

He becomes obsessed with searching for answers, reading ancient texts, seeking the Abyss for something—anything—that could restore you.

And when all hope fades, he remains at your side, speaking softly, reminiscing on the past, whispering his regrets. His hands never leave yours, as if his touch alone could bring you back.

In his heart, he knows you are lost, but he refuses to let go.

Even if you are trapped in this limbo forever, so will he be.

Dottore – A Broken Doll Can Still Be Fixed

Dottore doesn’t weep. He doesn’t despair. Instead, he grins, tilting his head as he examines your limp body with a clinical sort of fascination.

“How unfortunate,” he muses, brushing a gloved hand over your cheek. “But don’t worry, my dear. This is merely a new phase of our experiment.”

He keeps you alive with machinery, implants, modifications—turning you into a puppet he can control. He speaks to you as if you are still responsive, convinced that with enough adjustments, he can restore you.

And if he can’t? Well, at least you can never escape him now.

Cyno – Judgment in Silence

Cyno stares at you, hands clenched at his sides, his expression unreadable.

His punishment was meant to discipline, to teach you obedience—not destroy you.

A hollow feeling settles in his chest, an ache he cannot name. He watches over you with silent devotion, unable to leave your side, barely speaking, barely eating.

It is a cruel irony, that he—the one who delivers judgment—has become the very thing he despises. He vows to atone, though he does not know how.

Every day, he waits. Every day, he hopes. And when no miracle comes, he kneels beside your bed, bowing his head in silent, endless regret.

Scaramouche – A Love That Never Dies

Scaramouche seethes, his fingers curling into fists as he glares down at your lifeless face.

“No,” he spits, voice trembling. “No, no, NO! This wasn’t supposed to happen!”

He throws a fit of rage, smashing everything in sight before collapsing beside you, his chest heaving.

He refuses to accept this. You are his. You can’t just… leave him like this.

He grips your shoulders, shaking you violently, desperate for any sign of life. And when none comes, he sinks into a suffocating silence.

He keeps your body close, speaking to you, laughing, screaming—pretending you can hear him. He will never move on. He will never let you go.

Even in death, you are his, forever and always.

Wriothesley – The Prisoner and the Warden

Wriothesley was never one to lose control, yet the sight of your broken form sends an unbearable weight crashing over him.

His breath catches as he kneels beside you, his hands shaking. “What have I done…?” His voice is hoarse, filled with something he never thought he’d feel—guilt.

He isolates himself with you, locking you away in the coldest depths of the Fortress of Meropide.

No one is allowed to see you, to touch you. You are still his prisoner, but now… you are also his punishment.

He reads to you, strokes your hair, apologizes in whispers that never reach you. He doesn’t expect forgiveness—he knows he doesn’t deserve it.

But still, he waits.

Even if you never wake up, he will never leave your side.