#Changing of the Guards Parade

[thepastisalreadywritten]

LIVE: Royals join parade outside Buckingham Palace celebrating French Entente anniversary

8 April 2024

Watch live as French soldiers join with British troops in a special Changing of the Guard parade to mark 120 years since the UK and France signed the Entente Cordiale, ushering in strong relations.

—

The Entente Cordiale comprised a series of agreements signed on 8 April 1904 between the United Kingdom and the French Republic, which saw a significant improvement in Anglo-French relations.

On the surface, the agreement dealt with minor issues related to fishing and colonial boundaries.

Egypt was recognized as part of Britain's sphere of influence, and Morocco as part of France's.

By its terms, France promised not to challenge British control over Egypt.

For its part, Britain recognized France’s right, as a power whose dominions are conterminous for a great distance with those of Morocco to act in that country to preserve order and to provide assistance to bring about whatever reforms in the government, economy or military it deemed necessary.

The Entente was not a formal alliance and did not involve close collaboration, nor was it intended to be directed against Germany.

However, it paved the way for a stronger relationship between France and Britain in the face of German aggression.

It should not be mistaken for the official Anglo-French military alliance, which was only established after the outbreak of World War I in 1914.

[newyorkthegoldenage]

The band of the Coldstream Guards, in full dress, march through the streets of Manhattan on April 28, 1939. They were there to play for a month in the British pavilion of the World's Fair.

The Coldstream Guards are infantry soldiers who specialize in light role operations, such as reconnaissance and machine gun operation. But their most famous duty is guarding Windsor Castle and Buckingham Palace. They are the ones who take part in the Changing of the Guard.

Photo: Associated Press

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

Yandere Hybrid Town (4) | Only Human

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Even with your growing community and a town slowly becoming filled with friendly faces, someone continues to rain on your parade. From the beginning most of the citizens are fine to do business with; with slurs uttered under their breath or a lack of manners when trying to complete simple transactions but none have been as routinely problematic as the one and only vixen–Margarine. 

“Well well out on a shopping trip? All by yourself? What a rarity.”

“Please get off my car, Margarine.”

“Aww~Make me.”

You wouldn’t realize Margarine is who she is until your fourth run-in with her, called out by one of her cronies. While the faces of her group tend to change from time to time, the Fox hybrid is a constant. Her laughter is as backward-sounding as her animal ancestors, constantly ringing out when you try to quietly go about your errands in town. At first, it starts with mere leering, laughing, and marveling at your existence from a distance. Saying:

“Oh look, a big-headed hairless mole-rat—oh wait. Even those hybrids have actual strength.”

Or

“Can you believe that thing got into our town? Probably blackmailed their way in because it felt ‘excluded’.”

Or 

“Look the human got a poor animal to do manual labor for them. Watch your necks everyone they might put a collar on you next.”

They’re words you don’t mind kinda. You can learn to ignore it but Margarine like many in town begins to realize that sitting back and watching just wasn’t enough. She is the first of her cronies to start with the small things. Egging your car, slashing your tires, cutting holes in the wooden boxes filled with produce you just bought; that’s all before she outright begins prodding at you.

“What are you looking away for human? Look at me when your better species talks to you!”

“Margarine, your nails! They’re digging into my cheeks–”

“Claws, honey! That’s what’s digging into your cheeks! Get it right, ape!”

It gets to a point that Margarine lays in bed at night laughing to herself as she replays the tearful expression on your human’s face. Playing with her tail as she goes through the workday as she updates her favored column in the Town’s Weekly. Which just so happens to be about the latest gossip in town which conveniently has been talking about you for the better part of three months. Now more than ever she’s getting the recognition she deserves and it just so happens to be by doing her new favorite thing—messing with you. But as the third month concludes some new obstacles arise. 

“Isn’t this a sight? Enslaving our neighbors are we? Looks like those human instincts are finally taking hold.”

“...Margarine please.”

“Please what? ‘Please don’t defend my fellow hybrids from your ‘oh so mighty’ reign.’ I don’t think so–”

“Marge.”

“....Miss Tiffany.”

“Surprised to see you out here. Shouldn’t you be getting coffee for the Chief?”

“I was on my way until I smelt something out of place. Just doing my bit for the community.”

“...I see. Well, the next time you decide to ‘do your bit for the community’ just know if you put a hand on their head around me I’ll tear your squirrelly hide with every bloodhound–guard dog–fox-tearin’ bone in my body. We clear young lady?”

“Y-yes, ma’am.”

She’s such a liar. Despite the other members of your newfound 'friend group' each giving separate and likely real threats against her abuse of their human. Despite feeling as though she’d pee her pants every time their predatorial gazes landed on her, she still couldn’t shake the desire to fall into her usual routine. She got away with it for a while, poking at you while she orchestrated something to keep those worrisome guardians away, to leave her to enjoy finding some new weakness to rant about in her column. Once again everything was perfect until it wasn’t.

“You’re going to have to…tone down this bias towards the unnamed…subject.”

“What?! Why?”

“The complaints we’ve received have doubled since the column first started. And these complaints…who’s giving them can’t be ignored.”

Who’s giving them? Surely that snobby cow and those dogs weren’t big enough…then who?

“So what? Have I lost the column or what?”

“Just…lean into those counterarguments you seem to have.”

“W-w-what!?” 

There was a heavy subtext that even Margarine had decided tried to ignore. With every harrowing tale, to save the face of the alias she assumed she always left something of a counterargument towards the end of every column. A typical ploy in writing to seem unbiased. That’s all it is….and yet as Margarine pouts and ponders going over her old columns, she realizes an interesting trend. Her counterarguments sound….incredibly endearing. 

For all the obvious weaknesses they have, it’s not that bad of a survival skill if someone finds it adorable.

Or

They cry far too easily, perhaps it’s another tactic that’s supposed to make you want to comfort them.

Or 

The way they shy away as their self-proclaimed guardians defend them, some might say is another tactic to get a predator's heart pumping erratically with the need to protect. But not me, never me.

It was her. And with an annoyed swag of her tail and the blood burning in her cheeks, she writes the totally in+sincere turnaround that gets attention on her column. While she didn’t think her pride would allow her to just ignore the anger she felt at your peaceful little existence, with your clawless little hands, and your clumsy little walk. She’d allow herself to be ‘learning’  in her column which seems to revitalize her popularity. But just because her alias is going to learn doesn’t mean she has to. She has no intention of stopping her role as the town bully.

“Haha getting comfortable are we, human?”

“Margarine what are you doing here?”

“Same as you. Going to get first place at the contest tonight.”

“Awfully confident.”

“Yeah considering the competition I won’t have much to worry about.”

“There’s still 4 other contestants including me, I really don’t get—”

“I’m not going to let you get anywhere near that podium and as long as I do this, you’ll stay where you belong. At the bottom.”

“...We’ll see.”

She won’t dare write about how exciting it is to see the defiant look on your human face as your confidence grows. Or how easily you lock eyes with her in any given crowd, the challenge immediately there. It might be a fear response but in the end, it’s a bond not even those dogs or that cow or that snake could understand.

“WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM Margarine?  What do you hate about me so much that you just can’t leave me alone!?”

“Let’s see where do I start? Maybe it’s your voice, your stare or maybe it’s because you’re so disgustingly weak or maybe it’s the fact that you're a grubby colonizing self-righteous human who’s walking around my town like you own the place!”

“What are you insane?!”

She admits to herself, she might’ve taken it too far this time. The competition was an annual event in town. A little romp where everyone competed in a series of challenges to win the Mayor’s Golden Carrot. The golden vegetable does come with a couple of benefits but no one actually cares for those. It’s for the social advantage. The golden trophy that makes everyone in town look at you with respect and admirable envy. A chance for you to gain the community’s respect with the help of your canine neighbors, your new roommate, and your new friend. That was the hope as Mama Tiff successfully won the baking challenge, Eudora the fashion competition, and Stein– who somehow got the award for most fearsome wonder who voted him for that. All that was next was you. A small faceless competition for floral arrangements. 

You worked hard on this….for months you ordered the flowers and grew some yourself. Placing them on your self-made wire skeleton makes the amazing shape of a bunny on its haunches. It was going to be a work of art and with the mayor judging you would have had this in the bag. That is until you return to your tent from a bathroom break to see your flowers in tatters and the one standing above them is–

“Margarine!? How could you!?”

“I always knew you were a stinky fox I just didn’t think you were rotten too!”

“....This is especially despicable even for you.”

“I’M GOING TO KILL YOU AND HANG YOUR TAIL ON MY WALL!”

She doesn’t care that in no uncertain terms they all threatened her life. It’s you. Glaring and screaming at her with a ferocity she’s never seen. You’re stabbing your finger into her chest and practically growling out all the hateful thoughts you’ve never expressed. People are staring. Others are whispering. Some of the children who are old enough are filming. 

“You—”

“NO! Shut up Margarine I’ve taken a lot from you and I’m sick of it! If you hate humans just say that but DON’T EVER go out of your way to interfere with my life again. Otherwise, I may revert back to ‘my savage ways’. But if I did it will only be because you made me!”

And for once her cheeks burn in embarrassment when it’s over. Her tail curling in around her as everyone continues to oggle but it’s not at the human stomping around the fair. It’s on her. Likely chatting about what she’s done and watching still as she scampers to the uncrowded space behind the stalls. Wringing her hands onto the fluffy end of her tail.

She battles with her feelings. Burning embarrassment and something else…something that makes her heart shrivel a little smile widely. As tears fall down she holds her head high already brainstorming how to take herself out of the event for her column. By tonight the whole town will be talking. 

“Why should I care what they say…or make me feel…they’re just a human!”

Rules | Kofi | Commissions

Taglist: @midnight-nightmares@xrenka@candlesworlds-blog@00hellohello00@lem-hhn @kawaii-cakes @ceramic-raven @lilyalone @asleepysouluniverse @mel-vaz @sxftiebee @staarflowerr @horror-lover-69 @stanfordswifey @butratherbutrather @24-7aroundtheclockanxious @li-ravings @librarymouses @cooldonbutt @whoreforeverythingspice @ethereallyoccultazalea @bitchpleaseeeeeeeeee amethysttigerfigurine @n-lol @ask-kokusu2 @greensunflowerjuna @simpforanimeboys @pocketfulofposies

[theetherealbloom]

TAKE ME DOWN TO LIFT ME HIGH

Summary: In the grand city of Rome, you, a senator's daughter, are entangled in a world far removed from your aristocratic upbringing. Your chance encounter with General Marcus Acacius, a renowned gladiator and war hero, changes your life forever.

Paring: Marcus Acacius x f!reader

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI, AU, PWP, Some Plot and more smut, ANGST, Fluff, SMUT, Fingering, PIV, Unprotected Sex, Exhibition Kink, Age-Gap, Ancient Rome, Canon Violence, Gladiators, Blood, Gore, Politics, Sexism (it’s ancient rome, babe), Sneaking Around, Forbidden Love, Loss of Virginity, Boobs,

Word Count: 6k

A/N: The amount of research I had to do for this was insane. I was more obsessed with Greek Mythology than Roman so I needed a refresher. Hehe, there’s not a lotttt of drama, but it leans more into the smut side and just cheesy over all plot lol and a little fun ceremony in the end. Everyone say thank you to @wheresarizona for listening to me go feral over Marcus. Go send her some love cause she deserves it :>

Side note: I’m dyslexic and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!

dividers by: @/saradika-graphics

Song: Selene by NIKI

| Main Masterlist |

The return of General Marcus Acacius was an event of grand opulence. The streets of Rome were alive with screams and celebrations as he rode his golden chariot, smiling and waving at the throngs of admirers. It was as if the bloodshed and death that marked his victory were distant echoes, easily forgotten by the jubilant crowd.

"Long live General Marcus!" someone shouted.

"A true hero of Rome!" another voice rang out.

You weren't supposed to be in the crowd. Your place was at home, learning household chores such as cooking, cleaning, and weaving—the essential skills expected of a Roman matron. Yet, here you were, hidden beneath a hood, blending with the common folk as you watched the celebrated general parade down the street.

As the parade came to an end, you discreetly followed behind the procession, your eyes fixed on General Marcus Acacius. He was dressed in white and glittering gold, a stark contrast to his usual attire of blood-stained armor and weapons. Even though he was smiling and waving at the crowds, you could see the disdain in his eyes for such a grandiose display.

You had heard stories about him, rumors whispered amongst the noble families of Rome. They spoke of his ruthless acts on the battlefield, of his unwavering loyalty to Rome, and of his preferences. Yet here he was, parading through the streets in all his glory, hailed as a hero by everyone.

You couldn't help but feel drawn to him despite everything you had heard. There was something about him that intrigued you, something that made your heart race and your cheeks flush.

Your mind was filled with thoughts of General Marcus Acacius, wondering what kind of man he truly was beyond his reputation as a war hero.

As you stood there, trying to remain inconspicuous, your eyes met his. The connection was electric, almost as if the gods themselves had intervened. Marcus’s gaze was so intense that it seemed to pierce through the crowd and find you alone. He noted every feature of your face, his expression betraying a hint of fascination.

You felt your cheeks flush with heat and quickly looked away, breaking the eye contact. Your heart pounded in your chest as you turned and began to scurry home, the thrill of the encounter leaving you breathless.

Your pulse raced as you made your way through the bustling streets of Rome, trying to push aside the image of General Marcus Acacius's piercing gaze. You couldn't understand why you were so affected by a man you barely knew, but there was something about him that drew you in.

You managed to sneak back into your room, just barely slipping past the household guards. Being the daughter of a senator afforded you certain privileges, including an education that many girls your age could only dream of. Your studies typically included reading, writing, and arithmetic, equipping you with the skills necessary to manage a household and participate in society. You were also taught music, dancing, and literature, for understanding and appreciating poetry was considered a virtue for a Roman woman.

As you settled in your room, the memory of Marcus’s gaze lingered in your mind. The image of his rugged face, scarred from countless battles, and his piercing eyes was etched into your thoughts. There was something about him that was both terrifying and captivating.

A soft knock on your door interrupted your reverie. It was your handmaid, Lydia, her expression curious.

"Where have you been?" she asked, her voice low but firm.

You hesitated, then sighed. "I went to see the procession."

Lydia’s eyes widened. "The general’s return? You could have been caught!"

"I know," you admitted, "but I had to see him."

"Why? What could be so important?"

You bit your lip, unsure how to explain the inexplicable pull you felt towards the gladiator general. "I don't know, Lydia. It's just... when our eyes met, it felt like something changed."

Lydia shook her head, her expression a mix of worry and understanding. "You must be careful. The world outside is not as forgiving as the walls of this villa."

The days following the procession were filled with a whirlwind of emotions. You couldn't shake the image of Marcus from your mind. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw his intense gaze, felt the inexplicable connection that had sparked between you.

The grand villa of your father was abuzz with preparations for the evening’s banquet. Slaves hurried to and fro, setting tables with fine silverware and arranging elaborate floral displays. The scent of roasted meats and freshly baked bread wafted through the air, mingling with the delicate fragrance of flowers.

Tonight, your father, a respected senator, was hosting a dinner in honor of General Marcus Acacius. The entire house was a flurry of activity, with guests arriving in their finest attire, their laughter and chatter filling the atrium. You stood near the entrance, feeling the weight of your responsibilities as the senator’s daughter.

Your mother approached, adjusting the drape of your stola with a critical eye. “Remember, you must be on your best behavior tonight. This banquet is crucial for your father’s alliances.”

You nodded, though your mind was elsewhere. Ever since you had seen Marcus in the parade, you couldn’t stop thinking about him. The memory of his piercing gaze had haunted you, and now he was here, in your home.

"Come," your father said, his hand on your back guiding you through the crowd. "I want you to meet someone."

You followed, your heart pounding in anticipation. As you approached, you saw him standing there, taller and more imposing than anyone else in the room. Marcus Acacius, the hero of Rome, the man who had invaded your thoughts and dreams.

"General Acacius," your father began, his voice carrying the weight of his status, "allow me to introduce my daughter."

Marcus turned, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. He bowed slightly, a gesture of respect, but his gaze remained unwavering. "My lady," he said, his voice like velvet, "it is an honor."

General Marcus was the most strikingly handsome man you had ever seen. His chiseled features were framed by dark brown eyes beneath thick, black eyebrows. His long, aquiline nose and firm mouth, accentuated by a sensuously full lower lip, completed the picture of rugged masculinity. He stood tall, towering over most men, with a lean, muscular body and broad, powerful shoulders.

His hair, a captivating mix of salt and pepper, was cut short and fell in loose curls around his head, with distinguished grey patches in his beard that added to his allure.

"The honor is mine, General," you replied, your voice trembling despite your efforts to stay composed.

"Please, call me Marcus," he said, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "We are, after all, in more intimate surroundings."

Your father chuckled, clearly pleased with Marcus's easy charm. "I will leave you two to get acquainted," he said, patting Marcus on the shoulder before moving away to mingle with other guests.

The moment your father left, the air between you and Marcus seemed to crackle with electricity. He took a step closer, the heat of his body radiating towards you. "I must confess," he murmured, his voice low and intimate, "I have been looking forward to this moment."

You swallowed hard, feeling the blood rush to your cheeks. "As have I," you admitted, your voice barely a whisper.

Marcus's eyes darkened with desire, and he reached out, his fingers lightly brushing against your arm. The contact sent a shiver down your spine, and you felt your knees weaken. "You are even more captivating up close," he said, his voice husky. "I find myself drawn to you, like a moth to a flame."

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words caught in your throat as his hand slid up your arm, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. He leaned in, his breath hot against your ear. "Do you feel it too?" he whispered.

You nodded, unable to form a coherent response. The intensity of his presence was overwhelming, his scent, his warmth, the sheer power of his focus on you.

As Marcus's hand continued to caress your arm, you felt your heart race with a mixture of excitement and nerves. You had never been this close to him before, and the realization that he was interested in you sent a wave of exhilaration through your body.

His lips brushed against your earlobe, making you shiver. "I want to know everything about you," he murmured, his voice sending sparks down your spine. "Your hopes, your dreams, what makes you laugh and what makes you cry out for mercy."

You turned towards him, meeting his intense gaze. "I want to know about you too," you said, feeling bold in his presence.

A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he leaned closer. "There is not much to tell," he said modestly, though the way his eyes roamed over your face suggested otherwise. "Just a soldier who has dedicated his life to serving Rome."

But there was something more behind those words, something hidden beneath the mask of duty and honor. You could sense it in the way he held himself, in the intensity of his gaze.

"I don't believe that," you said firmly. "There is so much more to a person than their profession."

Marcus's smile widened into a grin as he took another step closer to you. "You are wise beyond your years," he said appreciatively.

The room around you seemed to fade away as you became lost in each other's gaze. It was as if there was no one else in the world but the two of you.

Suddenly, a loud noise broke through the moment – someone had knocked over a vase nearby. The sound jolted both of you back to reality and Marcus stepped back slightly.

"I should go check on that," he said regretfully.

Marcus's lips lingered on your skin for a moment longer before pulling away to look into your eyes. "I promise, we will continue this conversation another time," he said softly.

You nodded, feeling a rush of warmth at his words. You couldn't wait to spend more time with him and get to know him better.

As Marcus turned to leave, you couldn't help but watch him walk away, his confident stride and broad shoulders filling you with a sense of admiration. You sighed dreamily and turned back to the feast, only to be greeted by your handmaids with teasing grins.

"What was that all about?" one of them asked, wiggling their eyebrows suggestively.

You feel your cheeks heat up, trying to hide your excitement. "Nothing," you said coyly. "Just a conversation."

As the guests were seated in the triclinium, the air was filled with the sounds of conversation and the clinking of goblets. You found yourself seated across from Marcus, who looked imposing in his formal attire. His presence commanded the room, yet his eyes frequently strayed to you, a subtle intensity in his gaze.

The evening progressed with toasts to Marcus’s victories and speeches praising his valor. You tried to focus on the conversations around you, but your mind kept drifting to the man across the table. Finally, you could bear it no longer. Under the pretense of needing fresh air, you excused yourself and slipped out into the garden.

The cool night air was a welcome relief as you wandered through the manicured paths, the soft glow of lanterns illuminating your way. The garden was a haven of tranquility compared to the lively banquet inside. You found a secluded bench and sat down, letting out a sigh of relief. The gentle rustling of leaves and the distant hum of voices from the villa created a serene backdrop as you tried to gather your thoughts.

As you sat there, the faint sound of a conversation caught your attention. You turned your head slightly, realizing that a group of senators had gathered nearby, their voices low but urgent. You recognized the voices of some of the most influential men in Rome, including your father.

"I hear that Emperor Caracalla is eager to stage a grand spectacle," one senator said, his tone conspiratorial. "He wants to solidify his power and win the favor of the masses."

"Indeed," another replied. "I heard he plans to pit some of the finest gladiators against each other. And there are whispers that General Marcus Acacius himself might be forced to take part in the games."

You felt a pang of concern at the mention of Marcus's name. The thought of him in the Colosseum, fighting for his life, was almost too much to bear.

"Emperor Geta is not pleased with this idea," a third senator interjected. "He sees it as a waste of a valuable military asset. But Caracalla is determined. He believes a victory in the arena will elevate Marcus to legendary status, securing loyalty from the soldiers and the people alike."

Your heart pounded in your chest as you processed their words. The political machinations of Rome were ruthless, and it seemed that Marcus was caught in the middle of it all.

As the senators continued their discussion elsewhere, their voices drifting away back into the villa, you felt a presence behind you. You turned to see Marcus emerging from the shadows, his eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made your breath catch. He moved silently, his powerful form cutting through the darkness like a predator stalking its prey.

"My lady," he said softly, his voice sending a shiver down your spine. "It seems we both seek refuge in the quiet of the garden."

"Marcus," you whispered, your voice trembling with a mix of fear and longing. "I overheard the senators. They plan to have you fight in the Colosseum."

His expression darkened, and he closed the distance between you in a few swift strides. "I know," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "The emperors play their games, and I am but a pawn. But tonight, I do not wish to think of such things."

He reached out, his hand cupping your cheek, the warmth of his touch igniting a fire within you. "Tonight, I only want to think of you."

Your breath hitched as he leaned in, his lips brushing against yours with a tantalizing softness. The kiss deepened, his hands roaming over your body, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. His touch was both possessive and gentle, his need for you evident in every caress.

"Marcus," you gasped, your hands tangling in his hair. "This is madness. If we are caught..."

"Let them find us," he murmured against your lips. "I would rather face the lions in the arena than be without you."

His words sent a thrill through you, and you responded with a fervor that matched his own. Your bodies pressed together, the heat of your passion driving away the cool night air. The world around you seemed to fade, leaving only the two of you, lost in each other.

"Promise me," you whispered, pulling back slightly to look into his eyes. "Promise me you will come back to me, no matter what happens."

"I swear it," he said, his voice filled with determination. "No matter what the emperors or the gods throw at me, I will return to you."

With those words, he captured your lips again, sealing his promise with a kiss that left you breathless. 

Your breath hitched in your throat as he reached out, his fingers tracing the delicate curve of your neck, sending shivers down your spine. He leaned in, his warm breath ghosting over your skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. 

His voice, a velvety whisper, sent a wave of desire flooding through you as he murmured, "I want you. Here. Now."

The moon was high in the sky, casting a soft glow over the garden, as Marcus pressed you against the wall. His hands roamed over your body, igniting fires with each touch. You could feel his desire for you, and it only fueled your own.

Without breaking the kiss, he lifted you up and pressed you against the garden walls. His body hovering over yours as he trailed kisses down your neck and along your collarbone. Every nerve in your body was on fire, and you couldn't contain the moan that escaped from your lips.

With a growl of need, Marcus captured your lips once again while his hands began to explore under your dress. The feeling of his warm skin against yours sent shivers down your spine as he traced patterns along your thighs.

"Marcus," you gasped between kisses. "We shouldn't-"

"Shhh," he whispered, gently sliding your white cotton robe off your shoulders. "I can't resist you any longer.”

Marcus unexpectedly reached out his large, rough hands and cupped each one of your breasts, weighing them in his palms. Your body jolted at the sudden touch, your skin tingling under his warm heat. You could feel the calluses on his fingers, hardened from years of wielding swords and other battle weapons, leaving tiny marks on your delicate skin like a trail of fire.

As he squeezed and rotated your breasts gently, desire surged through you, igniting a deep longing within. You wanted to surrender yourself completely to him, to offer up not just your body but your very being to his every whim. The sensation was so overwhelming that you yearned to throw your head back in abandonment and give in to the all-consuming pleasure he evoked.

The protests that had escaped your lips now transformed into guttural moans of pleasure as his skilled fingers worked their magic on your most sensitive spot. Every touch sent electric shocks through your body, making you shiver and writhe against the wall. As Marcus trailed his fingertips over every inch of your slick flesh, you felt yourself becoming more and more lost in the overwhelming waves of pleasure coursing through you. With each stroke, your body arched further off the wall, desperate for more of his touch. It was like a symphony of sensations, building and crescendoing until you were completely consumed by the intensity of it all.

He slid a finger between your legs and pushed it deep inside you. Pleasure shot through your body, causing you to arch and writhe as he expertly stroked your tight passage.

"My lady, you have an incredibly tight cunt," he grunted out, his voice strained and revealing his own growing arousal. His features twisted in pleasure and his eyes glinted with a primal lust.

He firmly grasped your aroused nub and slid another finger into your tight, welcoming entrance. "We have to be quiet or we'll risk getting caught," he whispered in your ear.

You nodded eagerly, pleading, "Yes, anything. Please."

As his skilled fingers gently rotated over your sensitive clit and his other digit pumped inside your wet, pulsing core, you couldn't help but surrender to the pleasure he was bestowing upon you. From the moment his eyes locked on yours, you knew you were his to be used however he pleased, your body a vessel for his insatiable desires. With each expert movement of his fingers, you felt yourself spiraling into a dizzying state of pure ecstasy, completely at his mercy. Your flesh responded eagerly to his touch, begging for more as he claimed you as his own.

The General's gentle touch on your skin was electrifying, bringing a growing pleasure to your body that felt almost overwhelming. You could feel yourself getting too hot, too tense, and you were afraid of releasing the intense climax that was building inside you with just a single touch. 

"Oh Goddess," you gasped, tilting your head back against his shoulder and shutting your eyes as your desire became sharper and more urgent.

A sharp cry escaped your lips as his long finger penetrated you, rotating and rubbing inside your core while his other fingers worked relentlessly on your sensitive clitoris. Your body squirmed against the intense pleasure, your hands grasping at his muscular arms to anchor yourself amidst the overwhelming sensations. He chuckled softly as you began to move your hips in a circular motion, still continuing to bring you pleasure with his skilled touch for several minutes. Just as you were about to reach the edge of climax, he eased off slightly, keeping his movements quick and light.

But eventually, your body tensed up and convulsed, your movements erratic and desperate, your breaths coming in short gasps. As the tension in your loins grew tighter and tighter, you let out a high-pitched wail and reached the peak of ecstasy. Your walls pulsated around his probing finger, which was now coated in even more of your warm juices.

As the waves of pleasure subsided, Marcus gently turned you to face him again. His white robe and short toga were cast aside, leaving him naked in front of you. He stood tall and proud, his lean and muscular frame on full display. But it was his erect penis that took your breath away. It was massive, thick and much longer than average, standing rigid and red above a nest of dark pubic hair.

His impressive and exposed physique took your breath away as you gazed upon it. "Oh, my Goddess!" you exclaimed, feeling overwhelmed by his sheer size.

Without hesitation, Marcus reached out and grasped your thighs, pulling you closer to him. He leaned over your body, closed his fist around his member, and guided the tip towards your still-dripping entrance.

He managed to get the thick bulbous tip of his penis through your opening. You immediately felt stretched and full. You gave him a pouting look, your hips wriggling in an effort to accommodate him. “You big brute, you’re tearing me apart.”

He clenched his teeth, sweat starting to matt his silver and grey hair at his forehead. The pleasure of being inside such a tight flesh was almost dizzying, and he had to pull in all of his control to prevent himself from plunging completely inside of you. 

That would come later, he promised, once you had been well oiled by him. He pushed again and managed another inch, and slowly continued to advance his penis inside your channel. 

“You’re so tight,” his voice was harsh and strained, as if in pain. It wasn't too far from the truth; she felt tight around him, almost like a vice grip. But despite the discomfort, she was so warm and smooth inside.

With a groan, he slid the thick bulbous tip of his penis into your opening. A sharp pang of fullness shot through you as your body stretched to accommodate him. You gave him a pouting look, your hips wriggling and contorting in an effort to ease the pressure. "You big oaf," you playfully scolded, though there was a hint of pleasure in your voice.

He clenched his teeth, beads of sweat beginning to form on his forehead as he fought for control. The sensation of being inside such tight, warm flesh was almost overwhelming, and he had to take deep breaths to calm himself. He promised himself that he would give in completely once you were well-oiled by him.

He pushed with all his strength, feeling the resistance of your body as he slid deeper and deeper inside. The walls of your channel were smooth and slick, clenching around him like a vice. He couldn't hold back the grunt that escaped his clenched teeth, a mix of intense sensation coursing through his body. It was a pleasurable pain, like being held in a fierce embrace by someone who loved you too much - an exquisite torture that he never wanted to end. But with each slow and deliberate thrust, he knew that the pleasure would only intensify, building to a climax that would leave them both breathless.

Slowly but surely, Marcus eased his penis deeper into your body. With each inch of progress, you both felt the intensity of your connection grow stronger. Your entire body trembled with each thrust he made. When he was halfway inside you, Marcus used his fingers to stimulate your clit, sending waves of pleasure through your body. Your core throbbed with ecstasy as Marcus took advantage of your relaxed muscles and thrust deeply inside you until he was fully engulfed.

You and Marcus both groan at the same time. He quickly covers your mouth with his hand, gently hushing you. "Shh, my Carissima... I know it feels good, but we must be quiet. We can't risk your father catching us in this compromising position." The General continues to stimulate your sensitive spot, using his fingers to tease and moisten it further.

Your hips continued to rock and push against his manhood, your desire growing with each movement. You leaned back and moaned as General Marcus Acacius took full control of your body. He held onto your hips tightly as he thrust deep inside you, the pleasure intensifying for both of you. It was clear that neither of you was far from reaching the peak of ecstasy.

You let out moans and contorted your body as the large, broad, man moved back and forth between your legs. As your face twisted in pleasure and your head thrashed about, you experienced this unfamiliar sensation called sexual pleasure. Your climax came quickly and intensely, feeling like it lasted for several minutes. You threw your head back and let out a scream as the intense pleasure broke through between your thighs. A hot wave of pleasure spread throughout your body, causing your hips to writhe against Marcus'.

As your body trembled and released into an intense orgasm, you felt Marcus' muscles tighten beneath you. A deep, primal roar escaped his lips as he too reached the peak of his climax. The sound echoed through the gardens blending with the rhythmic pounding of your heart and breath. It was a moment of pure, raw passion that left you both gasping for air and tangled in each other's embrace.

As the intense pleasure slowly subsided, you became aware of the small droplets of blood trickling down your thighs and onto the grass. It was a sign that your virginity had been taken, marking the end of an era and the beginning of a new one.

General Marcus Acacius carefully pulled out of you and helped you to sit up. You could see his concern in his eyes as he looked at the blood staining his robe on the ground and your thighs.

"Are you hurt, Carissima? I didn't mean to be so rough..." he asked, his voice filled with worry.

You shook your head, still trying to catch your breath. "No… I'm fine," you managed to say.

He let out a sigh of relief and gently wiped away the blood with a nearby cloth. You winced slightly at the slight soreness between your legs but it was nothing compared to the intense pleasure you had just experienced.

Marcus held you close, his strong arms wrapped around you protectively. "You were amazing, my love," he whispered in your ear.

A flood of emotions washed over you as you realized what had just happened between the two of you. You had shared an intimate moment with General Marcus Acacius, someone who was forbidden to you because of your status as a daughter of such nobility. And yet, in that moment, none of that mattered. All that mattered was the overwhelming feeling of love and desire that consumed both of you.

Your mind was spinning, knowing all too well what would happen if anyone found out about your relationship with the General. Your father would surely punish both of you severely and possibly even sell one or both of you off.

Even with the knowledge of what had just happened, and what could, it was difficult for you to feel remorse or embarrassment. Instead, you felt a sense of contentment and fulfillment that you had never experienced before.

Marcus chuckled warmly and gave you a soft kiss on your lips. "You are truly something special, Carissima," he said with adoration in his eyes.

You blushed at his words, feeling a surge of happiness wash over you. Despite the risks and consequences, being with Marcus felt like the most natural thing in the world.

But as the reality of your situation sank in, a sense of worry crept into your mind. How would you continue this relationship without anyone finding out? How could you possibly be with Marcus when your father would never allow it? Or worse, your father having you marry someone else?

Marcus brushed his fingers against your cheek, and it felt like he could read your mind. "We will find a solution, my love. I promise I will marry you and make you my wife," he whispered to soothe your fears.

The weight of Marcus' words settled heavily in your heart. The thought of being married to the man you loved filled you with joy and hope, yet the reality of it all seemed impossible.

"How could we possibly make that happen?" you asked, your voice laced with worry.

You couldn't help but feel a sense of doubt. How could someone as powerful and respected as General Marcus Acacius be able to marry someone like you? You were just a daughter of a nobleman, while he was one of the most influential men in the kingdom.

Marcus spoke with unwavering assurance, his gaze locked onto yours. As you looked back into his eyes, all your doubts and fears dissipated. You were certain that he would do anything to keep you safe and by his side. "We will find a way, my love. I will do whatever it takes to make you my wife."

"I believe in you," you said softly, placing a hand on his chest.

Marcus smiled and leaned in to kiss you again, his lips gentle and loving against yours. In that moment, everything else seemed to fade away except for the two of you.

"But we must be careful," Marcus reminded you, his tone serious once again. "We cannot let anyone find out about us until the time is right."

You nodded in agreement, understanding the risks that came with your relationship.

"We must also gain your father's approval," Marcus continued. "It won't be easy, but I am determined to prove myself worthy of you and your family."

You couldn't help but admire Marcus' determination and love for you. Despite the challenges ahead, he was willing to do anything to be with you.

As the sun began to rise, you woke up in your room with a smile on your face. Today was the day that Marcus would finally meet with your father and ask for your hand in marriage. You could hardly believe the moment had arrived, the day you had dreamt of for so long.

Ever since he had first confessed his love for you, the two of you had been meeting in secret, stealing moments together whenever possible. The clandestine nature of your meetings had made your bond even stronger. The thought of being with Marcus made every challenge worth it.

You dressed carefully, choosing your finest gown, and adorned yourself with simple yet elegant jewelry. Your heart raced with anticipation as you made your way to the garden where the betrothal ceremony would take place. The air was filled with the scent of blooming flowers, and the gentle rustle of leaves created a serene atmosphere.

In the garden, your father stood with Marcus, deep in conversation. The sight of them together filled you with a sense of pride and hope. Marcus, in his formal attire, looked every bit the honorable and powerful man that he was—a general respected by all of Rome.

Your father turned to you, his expression warm. "My dear daughter," he began, "today is a momentous day as the gods have blessed us. General Marcus Acacius has proven himself to be a man of honor and valor. It would be a great honor for our family to be united with his."

Marcus stepped forward, his eyes never leaving yours. "It is my greatest wish to make you my wife," he said, his voice filled with sincerity. "I promise to honor and protect you for all the days of my life."

The betrothal ceremony commenced, a formal ritual between your two families. Your father and Marcus exchanged respectful bows, symbolizing the joining of your households. Gifts were presented, and the dowry was discussed and agreed upon. A scribe stood by, ready to document the agreement in a written contract.

Marcus then produced a small, ornate box and opened it to reveal a beautiful finger ring. "This ring," he said, "is a symbol of my commitment to you, a tradition that stretches back through the ages."

He took your hand gently and slid the ring onto your finger, his touch sending a thrill through you. The ring was exquisite, a delicate band adorned with intricate engravings that spoke of ancient craftsmanship. 

"You honor me with this gift, Marcus," you said softly, your voice trembling with emotion.

Marcus smiled, his eyes full of warmth. "The honor is mine, my love."

With the ring in place, you turned to the scribe, who handed you both the written agreement. You signed your name carefully, your hand steady despite the whirlwind of emotions within you. Marcus signed next, his signature bold and confident.

Finally, the moment came to seal the betrothal with a kiss. Marcus stepped closer, his gaze locked onto yours. He cupped your face in his hands and leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a tender, sweet kiss. The world seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of you in that perfect moment.

As you pulled away, you saw the approval in your father's eyes and felt a rush of joy and relief. You were now betrothed to Marcus, the man you loved, and your future together was set.

"Let this day be the beginning of a lifetime of happiness," your father declared, his voice filled with emotion.

Marcus took your hand, his grip firm and reassuring. "Together, we will face whatever the future holds," he promised.

And with that, your hearts intertwined, you knew that your love would endure, growing stronger with each passing day. The journey ahead was full of promise, and with Marcus by your side, you felt ready to embrace it all.

[evening-desire]

How will our fem boy be if we were to date him?

good question!! also i'm so sorry it takes so long for me to answer this, and also it's very short, I've been busy with my j*b sigh.

yandere!popular!mean!femboy : what's it like when dating him?

cw : bullying, violence, possesive behaviour, blood, uh if there's anything else lmk.

first of all, nothing really change lmao. oh you really thought he would be nicer to you just because he's dating you? *loud in correct buzzer* WRONG.

he's just the same old mean self even though he's your boyfriend, just a little- if not more possesive and obssessive over you than before.

oh what's that? you're just going to the kitchen to grab some snacks? he's coming with you. why are you talking to that lame girl huh? are you cheating on him? what? she was just asking some stuff about school? well she should know better to not glance even worse- trying to talk to what's his.

only he- have the privilege to hear your beautiful voice.

the next day, that same girl that wad asking you about a group project is getting transferred to another school. rumours said that she went home with broken nose, missing nails, and big red marks on her cheeks yesterday.

rumours said that she got beaten up by a drunken man, but you know better who's the real culprit behind that.

he'll parade you around, walking through the school ground with his bag over your shoulder, as he clings into your other arm with a smug smile as people whispering around you.

looks like you have to get used to the attention now that you're dating the most popular person at school, don't worry if they ever dare to make an eye contact with you, he'll pluck their eyes out of the sockets with his glittery pink acrylics nails.

yes, he will still order you around like his servant, but much less frequently, sure he still order you to buy him something from the vending machine or cafetaria, but he will give you his money and told you to do whatever you want with the change instead of using your own money.

his crude comments towards you will lessen, only the lighthearted comments stays. like how silly your outfit is before dragging you to the nearest store and book the entire store just so you can choose a "less" lame outfits.

one day he'll sit in front of you in a korean bbg restaurant and complains about how you "made him soft" and stuff like that, before shoving grilled meats into your mouth.

but if you're a vegan, he will make sure to always bring you to the best vegan-friendly restaurant in town, and don't even think about splitting the bills either, he will glare are you- definitely offended that you're even thinking such thing.

he's already so possessive over you before dating, and it's just keep getting worse when dating you, you can't escape him for even just an hour, he will start thinking that you are cheating on him.

not that he didn't trust you, he didn't trust other people. what if someone take you away from him if he let down his guard just for a second? you know that other people are worthless scum that's always jealous of him, they always wanted what he have. they can try copy his style, buying the same branded bags, outfits, even the same nails design as his.

but they can never have you, no. he will never let people near you, let alone have you. only he can.

besides, how can you need other people when you have the prettiest, hottest, richest, boyfriend right by your side?

and god forbid when you want to break up with him btw.

divider by @.adornedwithlight & @.cafekitsune

[luceleste]

Where Flowers Bow

Chapter 2

pairing – Satoru Gojo x f!reader summary – Invited to Duke Satoru Gojo’s palace as a potential bride, you arrive with nothing but a ruined name and perfect manners. Among jewels and judgment, you’re just another candidate in a parade of perfect girls — until a stranger in the garden, who isn’t what he seems, speaks to you like you’re real. In a palace of masks, someone has already chosen you. You just don’t know why.

warnings – renaissance!AU, female reader, eventual SMUT, strangers to lovers, angst with comfort, political drama, emotional tension, power imbalance, mentions of social hierarchy/class pressure, slow burn, manipulation, masks and appearances, gojo’s mother is named midora. reader’s mother is important in the story. the language leans slightly formal and poetic in tone to match the setting. more to be added.

word count – 7k

notes – I was so excited to post Chapter 2! Thank you all so much for the love you’ve shown to our Duke, it honestly means the world to me♡ I really hope you enjoy this chapter! Also I don’t think I can hold back the slow burn much longerrr omg

divider by @thecutestgrotto

previous chapter / next chapter

You hadn’t touched your food since he arrived.

You had tried — once, twice — but your throat had closed too tightly to swallow. Even the wine felt like glass. The silver spoon had trembled slightly in your grip, and you set it down before anyone could notice. Before the illusion of poise cracked.

His presence had changed the room.

It was subtle, but unmistakable — the shift in posture, the sudden hush in conversation, the way even the candle flames seemed to flicker with caution. Everyone felt it. The other girls, their mothers — all of them straightening their backs, softening their expressions, arranging themselves like portraits hoping to be admired.

But none of them knew what it was like to have been seen already.

You weren’t just holding your breath.

You were holding back the scream that had been clawing at your chest since the moment he walked through the door. Since the moment you realized that the man in the garden — the warm, impossible stranger — was no stranger at all.

You had shattered the best — the only — chance of your life in the span of a few unguarded minutes in a garden.

What good was a shared moment if it left you exposed? If, by letting your guard down, you gave him reason to doubt whether you were fit to stand beside him?

And even if that moment had meant something to him — even if it had stirred something — he didn’t show it now. And a single conversation, no matter how tender, was never going to be enough.

Because in the end, the decision wasn’t his alone. The Duke could have his preferences, but it was the Duchess who would make the final choice. And she wasn’t looking for quiet memories or hidden smiles. She wanted an alliance — a future built on legacy and bloodlines, not on sunlight and sentiment.

Yes, you weren’t meant to be there. But you never imagined it would end like this — in silence.

The matriarchs had taken over the conversation now, their voices steeped in honeyed civility. They traded compliments like currency, each word polished and precise. Across from you, the girls smiled on cue, tilted their heads just so, lifted their glasses with rehearsed elegance. Every gesture was calculated to be remembered.

You tried to do the same.

You nodded. You agreed. You smiled when you must.

But every motion felt hollow — as if your limbs remembered the choreography, but your spirit had slipped somewhere beneath the surface. As if the girl they saw was just an echo stitched from etiquette and your mother’s last hopes.

Duchess Gojo tapped her mouth with a white napkin and set her wine glass down with grace.

“Lady Vale.” Her tone smooth and precise, turning her gaze to the blonde girl who had just finished eating. “I understand your family oversees the western estates. I’ve heard the vineyards, in particular, have flourished under your father’s care.”

Lady Vale straightened at once. Her smile bloomed on command — poised, delicate, perfectly measured. She had been waiting for this.

“Indeed, Your Grace. We’ve had an excellent harvest this year. The grapes took well to the early frost.”

The Duchess gave a small nod — not warm, but unmistakably deliberate. Approval, of a kind.

Vale seized the moment.

“We brought a few bottles of our private reserve as a gift.” She added, shifting slightly toward the Duke. “I do hope His Grace has the chance to try it. It is our pride.”

Her mother leaned in before the words had even finished leaving her daughter’s lips, slipping into the conversation like it had been rehearsed — extolling the quality of the vines, the particular soil of their land, the generations of winemaking tradition. It was clear as water: any opening to draw the Duke into conversation would be fully used.

“I will try it soon. We appreciate the gift.” The Duke replied simply, his voice even, offering no room for further exchange.

You saw it — the brief falter in Lady Vale’s eyes, the way she blinked twice as if surprised by how quickly the moment passed. But she recovered smoothly, folding back into her poise as if the silence had never touched her.

“My daughter and I brought white figs from our estate, Your Grace.” Came the voice of Lady Tara’s mother next. Tara launched into a description of the desserts made from them, casually mentioning her own preferences.

Duke Gojo offered no reply.

“Thank you for the consideration.” The Duchess said instead, her voice a shade warmer — perhaps to compensate for her son’s silence. “Our cooks will be pleased to receive such a delicacy.”

A moment passed, and you heard it — the subtle shift of silk as Countess Shinto adjusted in her seat.

She hadn’t spoken all evening. Like you.

But unlike you, her silence wasn’t hesitation — it was control. She didn’t need to chase attention. She drew it effortlessly, like gravity.

She moved with the composure of someone long accustomed to being watched. Waited until conversation lulled just enough — then spoke.

“Your Grace.” She said, voice smooth and measured. “We brought silk and velvet from our most recent journey.”

Her mother inclined her head, the gesture fluid, perfectly timed. “She chose the fabrics herself. My daughter has a discerning eye for tone and texture — the court tailor in the capital said as much.”

“We hoped they might suit the house’s taste” Shinto added. Not proud. Not false. Just certain.

The Duchess offered a small nod — her smile subtle, but approving. “Thoughtful. Our household always appreciates refinement.’”

A pause followed. Not abrupt — but noticeable. A space where Lord Gojo might have spoken.

He didn’t.

Not a word. Not a glance.

But the silence didn’t seem to touch her.

Shinto merely folded her hands in her lap, posture serene, gaze steady. As if she hadn’t expected anything more. As if silence itself had bowed to her long ago.

And once again, you were certain the man you had met in the garden had never truly existed.

The one who had nearly knelt in the grass beside you, plucked a flower like it meant something, and told you — with that laugh, that dazzling, reckless laugh — how he once cut his own hair as a child and nearly gave his mother a heart attack. The one who smiled like you were a mystery worth solving. Like he wasn’t in a rush to solve it.

That man felt like a dream.

No — worse. A trick your mind had played on you.

But the man sitting before you now?

He was too cold. Too distant. Too untouchable to laugh over childhood mischief or pass you petals like a secret.

Your heart raced. You’d spoken too freely, wandered where you shouldn’t have, laughed too hard at his silly stories. How could you have been so—

A sudden, firm pressure closed around your wrist beneath the table — your mother’s hand. A warning.

You looked at her.

And then you realized: everyone at the table was looking at you.

Everyone but him.

You lifted your chin before you had time to think.

What were they talking about again? Ah — the gifts.

“I’ve heard you enjoy painting as much as I do, Your Grace.” you said quickly, your voice carefully composed. “We brought some rare paints and pigments for your collection.”

Your mother’s eyes remained hard, but she smiled nonetheless — all polite pretense.

“They’re her favorites.” She added smoothly. “We hope they’ll suit your taste.”

The Duchess arched an eyebrow. Whether it was approval or disdain, you couldn’t tell. She was almost impossible to read.

“Oh, I do enjoy painting.” She said at last, a strange glint in her eye — too brief to name. “Though I rarely find the time for it. What is it you prefer to paint, young lady?”

“Flowers, Your Grace. I love painting them.”

And it was true — at home, in stolen hours away from your mother’s fury, you would paint blooms in every shape and color, letting them speak in ways you could not.

“They are a beauty worth capturing.” Lady Gojo said, lifting her glass as a servant refilled it. Her tone was gentler this time, almost… reflective.

You thought the conversation had run its course. The Duchess shifted slightly, preparing to stand. Her hands touched the table.

And then —

“You should visit our garden, then.”

His voice.

Soft. Measured. But somehow, it struck like lightning.

His eyes were on you.

And for just a second, you saw how a flicker of something passed across his face. And though his posture didn’t change, and his mouth gave nothing away, there was a softness there. As if he did see you — not fully, not openly, but enough to make your heart catch.

You hadn’t expected him to speak. Not to you. And certainly not of that place. The memory of sunlight on stone, of quiet laughter you shouldn’t have shared, surfaced too quickly.

Still, you didn’t trust it. You couldn’t afford to.

You felt your spine pull taut, your breath a little too fast. Your hands were still clenched beneath the table, pressed against your skirts to keep from shaking. The fabric was warm where your palms had stayed for too long.

You had already ruined everything once.

But maybe — just maybe — this could be a thread to hold on to.

So you did the only thing left to do.

You smiled — gently, carefully — despite the way it tugged painfully at your cheeks. Despite the burning shame nestled just beneath your ribs. You shaped the words as if they belonged to someone steadier, calmer, better trained than you.

“I’d love to, Your Grace.” Your voice as firm as you could manage.

And in that moment, something in his eyes almost — almost — eased.

A pause bloomed across the table.

Not long — only a breath —

but long enough for everyone to feel it.

And in a room like this, nothing went unnoticed.

Not when so much was at stake.

Lady Vale’s fingers tightened ever so slightly around the stem of her wine glass — the gesture invisible unless you were watching for it. Lady Tara’s chin angled a fraction higher, as if she’d tasted something bitter but refused to spit it out. Even Countess Shinto — unflinching, composed, so practiced in indifference — turned her head minutely toward you, her gaze cool and unreadable.

No one spoke.

But they all saw.

The Duchess lifted her glass and took a slow sip of wine, her eyes never leaving you. Her gaze wasn’t sharp like it had been with the others — it was quieter, more deliberate. Like she was measuring something only she could see.

Like someone assessing something they didn’t expect to find valuable — but just might.

Her eyes moved from your face, over your posture, and paused briefly at your mouth. Your smile, however carefully stitched, did not escape her notice.

“Good.” She said. A single syllable, soft as velvet, sharp as a blade. “Perhaps you young ladies should walk in the garden tomorrow morning. It thrives in spring. It would be a shame to waste it.”

There was no room for refusal.

Lady Tara was the first to respond, her voice light, too quick. “It would be an honor, Duchess.”

The others followed — each in their own cadence. Agreement rippled across the table like a wave, soft and synchronized.

You echoed them a second too late, but no one called attention to it.

“Then it’s settled.” Lady Gojo continued, rising to her feet. “You’ll walk the gardens before the day’s arrangements. But for now — rest. Your personal maids are waiting just outside.”

Chairs shifted. Napkins were folded. The ritual began to dissolve.

The Duke stood when his mother did, offering her his arm. He hadn’t spoken since his quiet invitation — no glances, no words. But as he turned to escort the Duchess out, his gaze passed over the table one final time.

And perhaps it lingered.

“Good night, Ladies.” His voice smooth, distant.

And with that, he was gone.

The sound of his footsteps faded before anyone dared to speak again.

The air didn’t exactly relax — it was still too heavy for that, too full of expectation — but it shifted. A tension drawn tight across the room loosened by a single knot. Shoulders lowered. A few glasses were quietly lifted again. Breaths were taken — the kind people didn’t realize they’d been holding.

Relief wasn’t spoken, but it moved through the space like a breeze.

The silence didn’t last long.

Chairs scraped softly against the floor. Silks rustled. One by one, everyone began to rise, smoothing skirts, adjusting posture, offering farewells laced with courtesy. Compliments were exchanged again between the matriarchs — all so gracious, so performative. You and the other girls followed the script without thinking. Smiles. Nods. Curtsies. Nothing too much. Nothing too real.

As you passed through the doors, you spotted Ysera waiting just outside, ever composed, her hands folding over the dark blue apron she wore.

She did not speak. She merely inclined her head and turned, her quiet footsteps already guiding the way back toward the guest wing.

Your arm remained locked with your mother’s, her grip neither gentle nor cruel — just firm.

For a while, only the hush of shoes on stone filled the silence. The corridors felt longer than before, more echoing.

“You did not do as terribly as I thought you would.” Your mother said. Her tone was slightly softer than it had been before the banquet — but only slightly. The words held no warmth. No praise. Just an observation.

You looked at her, unable to help yourself. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?” Her eyes snapped to yours. Cold. Disapproving. That look she gave when your spine was a hair too relaxed or your voice too alive. You felt the reprimand before she even spoke.

You exhaled quickly. “I’m sorry, Mother. Thank you.”

“Yes, you should be sorry.” She said at once, voice returning to its sharper edge. “You will deserve a compliment if you marry. Not before.”

She wasn’t lying.

And she wasn’t trying to wound — not exactly. This was just the truth, as she saw it. As she’d always seen it.

“I should be fuming at you.” Your mother went on, each word crisp and low enough that Ysera couldn’t hear. “Your mind was not in that room. I saw it. They saw it. And I don’t care where it wandered — it had no business leaving that table.”

You said nothing. You couldn’t. Because she was right.

Your mind hadn’t been in that room. It had been caught somewhere between flowers, fountains, and a man who made you feel both seen and forgotten — all in the same day. You’d been trying not to shake. Trying not to let the memory of sunlight and laughter undo you. Trying not to wonder if he remembered it too.

But none of that would matter to her. To your mother, what mattered was that you had slipped — and someone might have noticed.

“It won’t happen again, mother.” Whether that was a promise or a lie, you didn’t know yet.

—

Three soft knocks at your door jolted you awake.

You blinked into the dark, disoriented. It was still night — pitch black outside. The only light in the room was the silver wash of the moon through your window.

“My Lady?” a woman’s voice called gently. “Are you awake?”

Three more knocks.

“Yes, I am.” Your voice was rough with sleep as your hands moved to rub the tiredness from your eyes.

Truthfully, you hadn’t been sleeping well. Your thoughts had refused to settle. Your body ached from the posture you’d held all night — still, perfect, composed. It had taken you two full hours, at least, before exhaustion finally won.

“My apologies.” The voice continued. “I know it’s late. But Lord Gojo sent me.”

The sleep vanished instantly.

Your breath caught. The haze cleared all at once. Your eyes opened wider, and your heart — traitorous, reckless thing — leapt to attention. A familiar heat rose in your chest, sharp and immediate.

Before you could think, your feet found the cold floor on their own.

Your legs moved without permission.

Your hands opened the door too fast. Too eager.

You hated this.

How everything about him took your control. Your voice. Your posture. Your body.

He commanded without even trying — and you obeyed, without meaning to.

Standing in the hallway was an older woman — short, aged, but steady. Her gray hair still held hints of black, and her dark brown eyes were clear and kind. The lines on her face spoke of long years, but her smile — soft and certain — was the warmest you had seen in years.

She held a folded piece of paper delicately between her hands.

“I probably woke you up, my lady. I am really sorry for that.” She bowed with grace. “But he asked that you receive this tonight.”

You took the paper slowly. Your fingers brushed hers, and she didn’t flinch.

“Oh.” Your words didn’t come out for a second. Surprised. “Thank you… ma’am.”

“No need to thank me, my lady.” She replied with a small shake of her head. “I’ll let you rest now.”

There was something about her. The way she looked at you, without judgment or expectation, reminded you of things you hadn’t felt in a long time. Comfort. Safety. Ease.

“I’m sorry for the trouble.” your voice a little steadier now.

“No trouble at all.” She said with that same soft smile.

You looked down at the folded note in your hands, your fingertips brushing the edges like you might read it through touch alone.

And then — just as she passed the first shadow — she stopped.

Her voice returned, quieter now. Just above a whisper. But meant to be heard.

“You’re as beautiful as he said.”

Your breath caught. You looked up, startled — but the woman was already walking away, her figure shrinking into the dark corridor with slow, steady steps. Her presence lingered even as she disappeared, like the scent of something warm left behind in a cold room.

You stood frozen in the doorway. You opened your mouth, thinking to call out — to ask, to thank, to hold onto something — but no sound came. You didn’t even know her name.

Did you hear it right? Or had your tired mind twisted the silence again, made it gentler than it really was?

You shut the door behind you softly, your back pressing against it like you needed something to hold you up.

Your thumb traced the fold. It wasn’t sealed with wax, as if it hadn’t needed ceremony.

The woman’s words echoed faintly in your head.

You weren’t sure how you felt about them — only that they had landed somewhere deep in your chest.

You stepped toward the window, where the moonlight spilled silver across the stone floor. That’s where you opened it.

His handwriting looked rushed in places, like he hadn’t meant to write it. Or hadn’t planned to send it.

You’re not the only one pretending not to remember. But for both our sakes, we must forget it. It was never supposed to happen, after all. Still — the garden is quieter without your voice.

You stared.

You read the message again.

Then again.

The words didn’t change. They didn’t soften, didn’t twist into something kinder. They were exactly what he meant — and somehow still not enough.

He remembered. That should have meant something.

But he wanted to forget. And that meant everything.

something sharp settled behind your ribs — not quite sorrow, not quite fury, but some cracked place in between. You couldn’t tell what stung more: that he’d reached out… or that he had only done so to push you away.

Why had he written at all, if this was what he meant to say?

Why remind you of what he refused to let you keep?

Your hand tightened around the letter. Not enough to tear it — just enough to feel the paper bite your skin. As if pressure alone could draw something else out of the ink. Something better.

You pressed the edge of the message to your lips, then lowered it slowly.

He made you laugh, he made you feel seen — only to look right through you the next moment. And now this: a few lines that tasted like closeness and distance all at once.

Was it a joke to him? A game?

Maybe he was amused by how easily you cracked. Maybe he was entertained by your trembling at the banquet. Maybe you were nothing more than a plaything

You closed your eyes, drawing in a breath through your nose. It burned, just a little.

The garden was quieter without you.

But let it stay quiet.

Your eyes drifted to the blue flower beside your bed — beautiful and intact, like it wasn’t already dying since the moment he plucked it from the bush and handed it to you like it meant nothing at all.

You reached out and touched the edge of the petal, just to make sure it was real.

Were you supposed to stay intact too?

As if he hadn’t pulled you loose from your roots?

You folded the note again. Carefully. Precisely. As if care might mask the ache settling in your chest.

He got to walk away untouched. You were the one left to wither in silence.

—

The morning breeze brushed against your skin.

The garden breathed in a quiet mist, each leaf touched by the faint glow of the early sun. Flowers stood still in the hush of dawn, their vivid colors painting the paths in soft pinks and creams. The air smelled of jasmine and fresh earth.

In the distance, birds sang in soft, chiming harmony.

It was just as beautiful as you remembered — but this time, the sense of belonging was gone. No ease, no peace. Only a delicate tension, blooming as carefully as the roses.

The flowers had opened with the same precision expected of the women now walking among them — graceful, composed, blooming under scrutiny.

Laughter came in delicate bursts. Nothing too loud, nothing real. Lady Vale hadn’t stopped speaking since she arrived. Every few steps she gasped or murmured in delight, lavishing praise on the roses, the hedges, the stone benches.

“This is lovelier than the court’s own gardens.” She sighed, trailing her fingers across a low hedge. “The Duchess has such impeccable taste.”

Her voice was melodic, polished from years of flattery. Her compliments were not really about the garden.

Perhaps not being in the presence of the matriarchs eased the pressure slightly — but only slightly. It still lingered, heavy and watchful

Countess Shinto walked a step behind the rest, as she always did. She hadn’t said a word, but you could feel her attention sweeping over everything. Everyone.

You kept your steps steady. Your chin high. Your smile easy. Every movement carefully measured, as if by instinct.

But your chest still ached from the night before.

Your makeup had done its best, but the shadows beneath your eyes were stubborn. You hoped no one would notice. You knew they already had. Tara’s eyes had lingered a second too long. Vale’s smile had been just a touch too amused.

Your thoughts had outpaced your sleep by miles.

And yet, here you were — laced into silk, hair pinned, posture perfect. There had never been another option.

“I heard the Duchess imported these roses from overseas.” Lady Tara’s voice was clearer than usual, as though she wanted to remind the garden that she belonged in it.

Her golden hair was swept into an elegant twist today. She wore green — a precise match for the vines climbing the trellises. Intentional.

“Beauty tends to be worth the distance.” Vale answered, her tone breezy but pointed. “For those who can carry it.” The hem of her soft pink gown skimmed the gravel like mist. A pearl comb glinted in her dark hair.

“Well.” Tara said, too sweet. “We all know Her Grace carries beauty like she carries a weightless feather.”

The pause that followed was just long enough to make the intent behind her words obvious. She wanted it to be heard.

“It’s not beauty that matters.” Countess Shinto’s voice was unmistakable. “It’s who notices it.”

The comment floated into the air like perfume — and settled between all of you like smoke.

You felt her gaze land on your side, steady and unblinking. You didn’t dare look back.

Countess Shinto’s eyes lingered a moment longer before she turned back to the garden, as though satisfied she’d seen enough.

After a time spent wandering the winding paths — careful not to stray from the ones intended for display — a pair of maids approached, their presence signaled only by the faintest rustle of skirts and the scent of rose water.

“My ladies.” One of them said, bowing slightly. “The Duchess has asked that you rest for a while. The sun is rising quickly, and you mustn’t overtire before the midday activities.”

Rest. Of course. You were being handled like porcelain.

The gazebo stood just ahead, its white columns wrapped in flowering vines, wisteria trailing like threads of silk from its wooden beams. A breeze caught the petals, scattering a few across the stone steps like confetti.

Lady Vale stepped forward first, lifting her skirts in a perfect gesture of practiced grace.

“This spot is lovely.”

“Lovely,” Tara echoed, taking her seat with the poised ease of someone who had never rushed in her life. “And merciful. I was beginning to feel the sun already.”

Countess Shinto entered last, her silence as deliberate as her posture. She didn’t sit. Instead, she stood just inside the gazebo, eyes fixed outward.

You followed them in, hands folded before you, every movement careful and rehearsed.

“This garden must require constant tending.” Vale murmured as she plucked a loose petal from her sleeve. “Everything so… curated. As it should be.”

“Perfection rarely grows wild.” Tara said, idly tracing the carved edge of the wooden railing.

“Some things bloom best under pressure.” Countess Shinto added. Her voice, like everything about her, was elegant and impossible to dismiss.

She was unnatural in her composure — a woman born for this life, or perhaps carved into it. Even her words sounded like the closing line of a well-written romance.

A pause followed, filled only by birdsong and breeze. The maids returned with a silver tray of delicate pastries. You accepted a small tart without truly tasting it.

The silence wasn’t quite comfortable, but it wasn’t as suffocating as the night before.

Lady Vale leaned forward, her eyes catching something past the trailing vines.

“Are those… blue flowers?” she asked, already standing. She stepped toward the edge of the gazebo, skirts brushing the wooden floor.

You had already noticed them.

Clustered among the hedges just beyond the gazebo, the blue flowers stood open — bright, resilient, impossibly alive. You thought of the one by your bedside, and how it refused to wilt.

“Indeed.” You said softly. “Striking, aren’t they?”

“Delicate without being pale.” Shinto’s gaze lingered. “I can see why someone might favor them.”

Tara tilted her head. “Too much so, perhaps. Blue is rare in flowers. It makes them seem… unnatural.”

“Not unnatural.” You said, the words slipping out before you could stop them. “Memorable.”

The blond girl turned her eyes toward you, not with open challenge — but with the flicker of one forming. She didn’t respond. She simply took another bite of her pastry, chewing slowly.

The moment lingered with the quiet buzz of veiled meanings — the kind only women trained in poise could keep alive.

But before you could shape your next word, footsteps stirred the gravel behind the gazebo — too deliberate to belong to a maid.

Your body tensed before your mind caught up, recognizing the rhythm, the weight, the presence. The silence that fell among the other girls confirmed it.

The air shifted — not colder, not warmer, just heavier.

Then you saw him.

The Duke looked as if sleep had never dared disturb him. His white coat shimmered faintly in the light, tailored so precisely it caught the sun like it belonged to it. His posture was elegance made flesh, hands clasped behind him, every step controlled. Only his eyes betrayed anything — because they found you, and they didn’t leave right away.

Beside him walked another man, darker-haired and quieter in demeanor. His clothing, though simpler than Gojo’s, spoke of power in restraint. A portion of his long hair was tied neatly back, the rest falling against his shoulders. He walked like someone who’d been listened to all his life — and never needed to raise his voice.

All of you rose as gracefully as etiquette allowed, heads bowing in unison.

“Your Grace.” You chorused.

Lady Vale smoothed her skirts without making a show of it. Lady Tara brushed a crumb from the corner of her mouth. Countess Shinto tucked a strand of hair behind her ear in a movement too fluid to be accidental.

And you tried not to come undone.

“Ladies.” The Duke greeted, voice steady and light. “Forgive the interruption. My mother asked me to see if everything was to your satisfaction.”

“Everything is to our liking, Your Grace.” Shinto replied, her hands resting neatly at the small of her back, gaze poised.

“The garden is more beautiful than I expected.” Tara added, stepping forward half a pace.

“I’m sure the day will be blessed by every color it blooms.” Vale murmured, her smile as delicate as porcelain.

You opened your mouth to speak — but nothing came.

Not again. You couldn’t let this happen again.

He’d asked you to forget. To let it go. Still, his eyes found you again, and this time they stayed.

“Lady…” he said your name, low and clear.

You felt every gaze tilt toward you. The spotlight was soft, but blinding.

You drew in a breath and smiled. You’d done it before — a hundred times, a thousand. Smiling when you wanted to crumble.

“As they said, my Lord.” You replied, voice steady. “Everything is fine.”

He didn’t blink. He didn’t need to. He knew it wasn’t true.

But he nodded, accepting the lie.

“Perfect.” He said, and finally turned his eyes away.

The man beside him made a small, polite sound — the kind meant to prompt something without ever appearing to.

“Ah. Of course.” The Duke turned slightly. “May I introduce Count Suguru Geto, one of the court’s most trusted advisors — and a personal friend to our family.”

Count Geto bowed with perfect form. “A pleasure.”

“A Count.” Lady Tara purred, curtsying with practiced grace. “A surprise visit. We’re flattered.”

“I came earlier for the seasonal briefing.” He replied, his tone warm and calm — like a lullaby. “To assist the Duke with a few of his duties.”

“I assume my uncle will be joining you in some weeks, then.” Countess Shinto added, her words smooth as polished stone. She spoke of one of the men from the high council — an expected name in these circles.

“Indeed he will.” Geto gave a nod, his expression courteous but unreadable.

The conversation thinned, leaving behind a quiet too polished to be casual. A moment stretched.

As though remembering a thread left hanging, Vale gestured lightly with a gloved hand.

“We were just talking about those blue flowers.” her tone brightening. “Aren’t they rare? I don’t think I’ve seen that shade anywhere else in the grounds.”

Count Geto followed the motion of her hands but offered no opinion, his expression serene. Countess Shinto remained silent, her eyes fixed on the Duke instead.

Gojo turned to follow their gaze — slowly. His eyes settled on the patch of blue in the hedges. You saw the faint pause in him, the way his shoulders shifted slightly, his breath caught just a fraction too long.

“They weren’t meant to bloom this season.” Gojo said, voice smooth but low. “Strange things — they appeared when they shouldn’t. No gardener knew why”

His words slipped into the garden air like something too heavy to belong there.

You felt them land.

A quiet bloom appearing out of season — wasn’t that what you were? Something unexpected. Unwanted. A disturbance in the order.

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But your chest felt tight, like the corset had been pulled too close.

He hadn’t looked at you when he said it, but he didn’t have to. The pause in his voice, the glance at the flowers — it was for you. Or because of you. Which hurt in its own way.

You turned your gaze away from the blooms before anyone could see too much in your eyes.

“I believe the ladies were due at the Winter Room shortly.” Count Geto said, ever the diplomat. “Shall we escort them, Duke?”

Gojo didn’t answer right away.

His gaze lingered on the blue flowers, still untouched by wind or footfall.

“Of course.” His voice was lighter than his expression.

You and the other women straightened almost in unison, backs held tall with the elegance drilled into you since girlhood. The gravel crunched softly beneath your shoes as you fell into step behind them, the Duke and the Count leading the way back toward the palace.

You’d been warned that today’s activity would be a calligraphy display — a favored pastime among noble courts, where the steadiness of one’s hand was taken as evidence of one’s refinement.

You weren’t surprised by the choice.

But you were worried.

Your calligraphy wasn’t poor, but set beside the polished flourishes of the others — especially someone like Lady Vale, who likely had tutors from the capital — it might seem almost plain.

The group slowed as they neared the entrance to the east wing, where sunlight filtered through the high stained-glass windows in long, golden slants.

The conversation, what little of it remained, breathed only through Count Geto’s soft diplomacy — smooth words offered like oil to keep the silence from grinding.

A maid waited ahead, already holding open the heavy door to the Winter Room, her eyes lowered in the quiet discipline of someone trained never to observe too much.

One by one, the others stepped forward.

Vale glided with the confidence of someone born to be seen. Tara muttered something inaudible to herself. And Shinto glanced once toward the vaulted ceiling, then passed through the door like a shadow into light.

You moved to follow.

But fingers brushed your wrist.

Not a tug. Not a demand. Just the right kind of pressure to stop you cold.

You turned.

He hadn’t said your name because he didn’t have to. He stood just inside the boundary of what was proper — a breath too intimate, a moment too long — and yet not enough to make you retreat.

He filled the space between you, his presence pressing in like gravity. You could see the fine threadwork at the collar of his coat. And the storm behind his eyes.

“Stay a moment.”

It wasn’t loud enough to be overheard. It wasn’t gentle enough to be dismissed.

Behind the door, the polite hum of voices continued, rising and falling in elegant waves. No one had noticed you were no longer behind them. Not yet.

He glanced at the young maid holding the door. She bowed quickly — and disappeared down the corridor without a word.

Then he pulled you gently aside, just enough to move you out of view from the Winter Room. You were alone in a sliver of hallway framed by columns and dappled with quiet morning light.

His hand was still on your wrist.

He hadn’t let go.

You didn’t know what to say. Or if you should speak first. You didn’t even know what expression your face was wearing.

Your pulse thudded beneath his fingers, betraying you entirely.

“Did you receive—”

“Yes.” The word escaped you too quickly, too sharp.

He paused. A flicker passed over his features. The kind of shift you wouldn’t notice unless you were already looking too closely. Which you were.

“Good.”

The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful. It was thick. Waiting.

You narrowed your eyes slightly, not out of defiance — but confusion. Disappointment, maybe.

“Is that what you wanted to ask, Your Grace?”

His gaze didn’t move from yours.

“No.”

Another breath. Another beat of that awful, beautiful silence.

“Then what?” You asked.

He looked down — not out of shame, but restraint — and when he met your eyes again, there was a softness that hadn’t been there since the garden. Something worn and vulnerable.

“I keep thinking of something absurd.” His voice low, almost tender. “That maybe the flowers bloomed out of season for you.”

His lips curved — not quite a smile. More like a betrayal of composure.

“You do these things, don’t you?”

A pause. His gaze dropped briefly to your lips before returning to your eyes.

“Bloom when you shouldn’t. Stay where you’re not supposed to.”

The words settled between you like something delicate — and dangerous.

For a moment, you forgot the Winter Room. The other girls. The weight of watching eyes. You forgot what you were supposed to be.

“Please, don’t say things like this, my lord.” The words left you quieter than you intended. They weren’t sharp, but they weren’t soft either — suspended in the air like something unfinished. Not quite a plea. Not quite a warning. Something aching in between. “You don’t know me that well.”

His fingers tightened gently around your wrist, grounding you. Not enough to hurt — never that — but enough to keep you from drifting away. Enough to remind you how close he was. How close he still was.

“You’re right.” He said, and his voice was calm — too calm. “But I know your true self better than anyone in that room.”

There was something raw under those words. Like he needed so say it.

“I met her in the gardens.”

Your breath caught. The way he said it — like it hadn’t been a fleeting moment. Like it hadn’t been a mistake. You felt your throat tighten, and you swallowed it down, trying to hold onto whatever composure still clung to your spine.

You stepped back just slightly, enough to make space. Enough to breathe.

“Yet you were the one who asked me to forget it.”

You didn’t mean for it to sound like an accusation. But maybe it was.

There was a flicker of something in his eyes then — regret, or something near it — and for once, he didn’t have an answer ready.

“I didn’t mean the latter to sound cruel.”

He let go of your wrist — slowly, as if the decision cost him something — but his gaze didn’t falter.

“I only meant…” He paused, brow tightening, eyes searching yours. “I thought it would make things easier. For you. For both of us.”

The echo of your own breath filled the narrow space between you. The golden light from the windows washed over his cheek, softening his profile into something almost gentle.

“I don’t think it worked, Your Grace.” Your voice nearly stumbling over the words.

“No.” He murmured. “It didn’t.”

A moment passed — both of you quiet, not brave enough to break it.

You tried not to look at him now. It was hard enough. The nearness. The things unsaid. The fact that, just for a second, he hadn’t been the Duke — just him, just you.

Then, gently, his hand moved again — not toward your wrist this time, but up. Fingers brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear with a tenderness that didn’t belong in this palace corridors.

Your breath caught.

And just as quickly, his hand dropped, the warmth in his face replaced by something more familiar — that practiced distance, that cool poise he wore like a second skin.

“We should go in.” The softness in his voice retreating behind duty.

He turned slightly, as if to lead the way.

“Be mindful of Lady Midora.” He added quietly. “My mother enjoys seeing how well her guests know the rules—and how they pretend not to.”

His gaze lingered on yours, steady and unreadable. Then he turned and stepped into the room, leaving you behind with the echo of his warning.

Once again, he had drawn you in, only to retreat just as quickly. He must have found some thrill in the game.

You inhaled slowly, smoothing your skirts as if that could settle your thoughts. Whatever had passed between you — in gardens, in glances, in words never meant to be spoken — didn’t belong in that room.

So you did what was expected.

You fixed your smile and stepped through the door. And you carried the ghost of his touch like a secret — hidden beneath silk and silence.

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[themeraldee]

The Lucky Winner - Part 4

[Masterlist] | [Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] | [AO3]

18+ Only | 6.8k | Homelander x fem!Reader | Insecurity. Jealousy. Implied shower sex. Phone sex. Mild voice kink. Homelander is being a sex pest again. Or just a pest.

Summary: Homelander insists on taking your relationship to the next level.

Author’s Note: I don't know why I decided that Part 4 is when I should include somewhat of a plot but it happened so the voice kink fic continues😂 Major shoutout to @anotherhomelanderblog for all the editing help and keeping me sane throughout the process 💗

“And you live like this?” Homelander asks incredulously, drying himself off. He hands you the damp towel and you promptly hang it up to dry, wrapped in a fluffy towel yourself.

“Most people live like this! Also most people are smart enough to not waste all their hot water on making out,” you say with a laugh and a playful eye roll.

“Ohoho, that was a lot more than making out.” Homelander’s brazenly parading around naked and you can’t help but follow the line of his slender body. It always feels special to see him without the suit. Although he still clearly prefers to keep it on, he’s not feeling particularly worried about swapping his superhero suit for the birthday one around you. 

“Well still—it’s no wonder we ran out.” 

Your lazy morning rolling around in bed quickly turned into messing around under the spray of the hot shower water. And while Homelander’s right and it was more than making out, you didn’t get to experience more than a few thrusts before the water turned cold, rudely interrupting you both.

Homelander has never been one for giving up. He held you in place, keeping you nice and warm as he thrusted into you. All the way to the finish line. Needless to say, the morning couldn’t have started better.

It could have been warmer though.

He finally finds his underwear somewhere in between the pile of his thick suit. You mentally wince at him reusing the same underwear he had on before he slept over last night. He may neither exert himself nor sweat, but it still catches you off guard. Many times you’ve offered him the space to store his spare clothes, but he denies the offer every time, saying it’s just as easy for him to fly back. 

This behaviour is equally as perplexing as him never changing into something you’d deem more comfortable. It’s always been the full suit or fully naked. You don’t think there has ever been a third option. The cartoonish nature of his persona comes through vividly in moments like these. While you haven’t rummaged through his portion of the wardrobe back in his place, you wouldn’t be surprised to see multiple versions of the same superhero suit. 

And yet, along with the rehearsed lines he can’t always help but avoid, this makes him seem larger than life. Unfamiliar. Untouchable. Unattainable.

Thoughts like these frequent your mind each time you see yet another headline speculating about his love life come across your newsfeed. Whenever someone mentions the dreaded topic out loud, your gut clenches, your heart drops and you get shaken by the idea that you’ve somehow stolen America's golden boy.

Homelander, on the other hand, has been nothing but eager to celebrate your relationship. You haven’t shared your concerns with him yet. You don’t think he would quite understand your worry about stealing him from his devoted fans. He’s been constantly coaxing you into uprooting your life and moving in with him, officially being with him. His little nudges like today are just the tip of the iceberg.

The idea of being offered to the media vultures as their new chew toy fills you with dread just thinking about it.

You turn away from watching Homelander redress. You unwrap the towel you’ve tucked in around your chest, bunching it up in your hands and bending over to wipe leftover water droplets off your legs. 

You don’t get very far before you hear a whistle. “Don't you look good enough to eat? Well, again.”

You automatically straighten up, covering what you can with your towel. Pointless, really. Homelander can easily see through whatever he wishes. Still one of his stranger powers, if you do say so yourself. You can never quite tell whether he’s staring at your tits or your heart—both options feeling equally voyeuristic.

You shake your head at his silly flirting. While he can be obnoxious and overly cheesy, there’s something to be said about being so blatantly flirted with. Knowing you’re desired so… carnally—as cliche as that feels to say in your head—feels reaffirming. Confidence boosting, even. 

This alone allows you to think that maybe having a public relationship wouldn’t change anything between the two of you.

You hear the familiar creak of leather as he puts his gloves on, stretching his fingers and squeezing his fists to get them comfortable.

“In fact, if you moved in with me—like I keep telling you to—we wouldn’t be having this problem at all.” 

Or not. The slightly pushy tone brings the recurring anxiety back up.

During the storm of your internal thoughts, you dig out a fresh pair of underwear. You’ve gotten into the habit of actively wearing the pretty pieces Homelander can’t seem to stop himself from sending to your home address—amongst the other obscenely expensive gifts. Ever since you’ve once dressed up for him, he made it his mission to dress you in lingerie of all the colours of the rainbow and more. Feigning scientific interest in seeing what colour matches your skin tone the best—though he still favours the Homelander panties that started it all. 

However, knowing how perverse he can be with his penetrative vision, helps with not feeling underdressed at any given time.

Homelander takes no note of your internal struggle, instead focusing on his fantasy of what life is meant to look like for the two of you while you start getting dressed.

“Then I could fuck you in the shower for as many hours as my lady wishes, hm?” He gives you a cheeky smile as he passes by, walking out of the bedroom and into the living room.

You laugh heartily at his comment while you pick out your clothes. Normally, you’d keep it cosy and comfortable enough. At least, before Homelander. Now you pick something a little more put together, knowing you’ll be stopping by the Vought tower as part of his plan for the day. 

“Hours seems a bit much. I don’t know if looking like a wet prune is a good look on me.” While you put your clothes on, you look up to see what he’s up to through the open bedroom door. While any other person would entertain themselves by turning the TV on or scrolling on their phone, Homelander just walks around. As if he hasn’t seen this space a thousand times over.

At your response, he turns to you. A bewildered look crosses his face before he lets out a sarcastic chuckle. “Funny.” He readjusts a photo on the wall, making sure it’s perfectly straight. It’s a selfie you took of the two of you on the couch. Not the best quality, but Homelander insisted you make it the centerpiece of the photo wall. “Don’t know about the prune part but wet is easily the best look on you.” He waggles his eyebrows at you. 

“It’s a little silly of you to think otherwise, don’t you think? I know you’re smarter than that.” While some might get easily offended at his words, you’re used to his crass words.

You watch as he points his gloved finger at you while he steps further backwards. 

Finally dressed, you come out of the bedroom, not bothering to shut the door. Homelander walks to the kitchen with you following.

“I just thought you liked it here.” You lean against the small breakfast bar as you watch him open the fridge and take out the jug of whole milk you keep stocked at all times for his sake only. 

He doesn’t bother pouring it out into a glass and neither does he close the fridge while he takes a big gulp, closing his eyes in the moment. Putting the jug down, he licks his lips clean as he opens his eyes. It’s bizarre how strangely erotic he manages to make the whole ritual seem.

“I do,” he says once his eyes are less glazed over and focused back on you. Properly snapping to attention, he acts offended. “Of course I do.” As if you suggested something so horrifying it insulted his very being. “But it would make things a lot easier.”

He takes another indulgent big gulp before closing the jug and putting it back in the fridge, shutting the door with a nudge of his elbow as he walks past.

He makes his way around while you’re still leaning against the breakfast bar. His lips trace the shell of your ear as he settles himself riiight behind you. “Imagine all the fun we’d have, huh?” He tilts his head to place a little kiss on your cheek, very close to your ear.

The timbre of his voice vibrating through your ear just warms you to your core. He still knows how to disarm you so thoroughly. If anything, he happily abuses this little quirk of yours.

“We wouldn’t have to settle for a fucking quickie in the morning.” His arms settle on your hips as he, excruciatingly slowly, drags his hips against your ass. “You know, I very much enjoy a good old breakfast in bed. What do you say? As soon as you move in, I’ll be waking you up with my tongue between your thighs. Now try saying no to that.”

“Nice try. You’ve done that here before.” You try to remain calm and collected but your voice betrays you, coming out in a stutter. While his voice—the sexy, slow tone he abuses anytime he wants to get his way—along with the visuals, is already wetting your fresh panties through and through.

“Hm, but there I wouldn’t have to think about flying back just to make it to a stupid meeting. I’d get plenty more time with you. Think about it. Every break in my schedule I could come back for a kiss and a cuddle. Maybe a little romp with my best girl.”

“Oh so suddenly we’re happy with quickies?” You chuckle breathlessly.

“Well y’know, I’m a busy guy. Gotta work with what I’ve got.”

“Speaking of—shouldn’t you be heading out? You’ve got a busy schedule ahead of you.”

“Alright, okay. I got the message. Think about it though, babe, will you?” Homelander finally allows you to gather yourself as he steps back, not so discreetly adjusting his dick after all that teasing. You constantly wonder where he gets this sky-high sex drive from.

“Sure. I’ll think about it.” You take the moment to walk around the breakfast bar, reaching for a coffee pod to pop into your machine for a quick pick-me-up. With a twist of your wrist you notice the time. “Oh, you should head out now if you don’t want to be late.” 

He slots behind you again, unable to stay away for even a moment. “Let me take you with me?” His arms wrap around your stomach, squeezing softly as he nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of you in between little kisses.

The coffee machine finishes whirring, and with the smell of fresh coffee it breaks you out of the daze.

“Mhmm, then you’ll definitely be late. And I want my coffee. And some breakfast. You go have your meeting, I’ll be there in time for your interview.” 

“Promise?”

“Promise. Kiss goodbye?” You ask for it before he does. Immediately, he turns you around in his arms, trapping you in his hold so he can deliver what he deems an acceptable goodbye kiss. It’s long and deep and were you in public you’d be blushing to the tips of your ears. So much for the little goodbye peck you imagined.

Once Homelander leaves, you take the time to have a quick breakfast before preparing your overnight bag. While Homelander can’t take you to the set of the talk show he’s getting interviewed about his new movie at, he insists you come to his place to watch it live. Afterwards, he’ll be eager to fly back home to spend more time with you, listening to everything you’ve got to say about his appearance.

Entering the Vought tower always leaves you with a level of anxiety in your gut. This isn’t your territory, you don’t feel safe here. Each camera feels like the watchful eye of every stakeholder, observing you walk around freely as if you’ve not been greedily devaluing their best asset. 

You feel like the mistress everyone but the wife knows about. The overseeing eye of Vought management is already unhappy with you as is—Homelander said so himself, unaware or uncaring of the effect that information would have on you. It’s why you’ve started dressing better, trying to appear smart and classy. Worthy. Defending your position by his side.

You like to pretend like you belong. But everyone knows you’d be lost without him in tow.

This isn’t your world.

And it never will be.

Arriving at the penthouse allows you to release the breath you didn’t know you were holding. While Homelander’s space is odd at best and downright unliveable at worst, it’s part of you now. With its impersonal portraits of historical figures or perfect marble statues that make you feel self-conscious each time you undress, the decor leaves a bad taste in your mouth. Who is Vought to not ever allow him peace and quiet from this persona they’ve built for him? It really feels like he only gets to be himself when he’s around you. At home with you.

So why he constantly insists on the idea of you moving into this hellscape permanently confuses you to no end. Sure, your home isn’t luxurious by any means. It’s small and cluttered—less so now you’ve gotten rid of some of the Homelander memorabilia—but it’s comforting, warm, and inviting.

You’ve already gone through the effort of adding some warmth and home to this… space. Blankets and throws, pillows and trinkets that made you think of him. Anything that takes away from the sterile museum-like feel of the place.

Today you have brought a little picture frame. It’s the same photo you saw Homelander adjusting just an hour or so earlier. The print isn’t of great quality and neither is the photo, but he seems particularly fond of it, so you’ve gone ahead to frame this one for him too.

Dropping off your bag on the living room couch, you walk over to the bedroom, swapping out an existing impersonal historical portrait of Abraham Lincoln for the silly selfie of the two of you. You fret around with the positioning until it feels right, running your hand over the frame with an absent smile. The photo lets you forget about the madness of your life; it lets you instead think of the love you share with each other. However fragile it may feel at times.

Your phone rings in your pocket. You fumble around, like you’ve been caught doing something vulnerable and intimate. 

You swipe without looking at the screen properly, pressing the screen to your ear.

“There she is.” 

Something about the way he purrs into the phone melts your anxieties of the day into nothing. While grounding is what you need, his voice goes beyond that. You’re not grounded. Not with him. It feels like you’re flying instead. Lightheaded and full of excited nerves, you can’t escape the heartfelt bright smile lighting up your face.

“Hey baby. Ready for your interview?” 

“Am I ever not? You’ll be watching, right?” He knows you will. The question is rhetorical at best.

“Are you kidding? Of course I am.” You chuckle breathlessly into the phone. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

You make your way to the couch, sprawling across the leather, your phone still against your ear. Something about this makes you so giddy. Here you are in Homelander’s apartment, sitting on his couch with his voice in your ear. It feels like a fairytale.

It doesn’t feel real.

“That’s what I like to hear.”

Ever since Homelander’s discovered your little quirk—which admittedly was clear to him from day one—he’s been more than happy to ramble on and on and on. No matter what it’s about. He likes to have you listen.

“Is she already there?” You change the topic, not wanting to dwell on your inner discomfort for too long.

“Who? My co-star?” he asks with an innocent enough tone.

“Yeah. Her.” You bite your tongue to stop yourself from saying more.

“Careful there, you’re sounding a liiittle jealous.”

This talk show interview centres around Homelander’s new movie, Homelander: Hero’s Heart. The first one in his range that gave him a tangible love interest. His previous movies focused on action, patriotism and Homelander ultimately being the hero that saves the day. Vought are still on a mission to boost numbers in certain demographics—your demographic—so saving the damsel in distress was the logical next step for them.

It wasn’t too obnoxious. Just one on-screen kiss by the end of the movie. But you can’t shake the enormous pit of insecurity at the bottom of your gut anytime you think about them going through all those scenes together. Just how many takes was it really?

Okay, maybe you are a little jealous.

“I’m not. I’m just curious.”

No. You���re being unreasonable. Throughout all of the shooting Homelander came home to you, seeking solace. Seeking familiar and comforting touch. Complaining to you endlessly about the other actors’ poor skills.

Homelander clocked your jealousy early on. With a cheeky grin he prodded and poked, making you lash out and admit to your unsavoury feelings. The verbal conversation usually ended there. Instead, you got your frustration out physically. Night after night, he fucked you into the mattress, proving just where you stand. Until you couldn’t even stand anymore. 

Those nights, he’d sit you in his lap, pushing his thick cock inside you as he held you close. Face to face, chest to chest, he’d grunt and mewl in between kisses. Homelander would revel in your possessiveness of him, getting you to repeat ‘you’re mine’ over and over again. You’d rarely do any of the moving. Homelander liked taking it in his own hands in these moments. He’d wrap his hands around your hips, squeezing where he could reach, bouncing you with deliberate movements down onto his lap.

Logically, you know Homelander wouldn’t cheat on you with a random actress. But it’s hard not to compare yourself to her. She’s another gorgeous face amongst the constant stream of supes, actresses, models or celebrities he has instant access to. And you’re… well, you. The fact that he chose you out of the mix should leave you with some sense of relief, but it doesn’t. 

“Mhm, sure you are. As luck would have it, she couldn’t make it. Real shame, huh?” Homelander can be surprisingly sweet sometimes. To his credit, it was never his actions that made you jealous. Your own insecurity latched onto rotten ideas, spreading like mold across your healthy mind. 

Homelander plays into your possessiveness of him, more than eager to hear how much you love and want him. Only him. 

It makes you wonder if he had something to do with his co-star’s absence. 

“You know women are gonna go crazy over you after this. I’m sure they’re all waiting for you to spill some crazy stories about being a romantic on and off set.”

“Are they now? You know, I really don’t fucking care what they want to hear. I don’t care about them. I care about you.” 

There's a desperation to his response that catches you off guard. It's impossible to deny him the adoration he wordlessly requests.

“Oh. That’s—Ahah—I care about you too. You know I always love to watch you.”

“Good. Good. I want you to watch. I want you to listen... You’ll do that right? You’ll listen—”

“—to every word. To every single word.” The breathless quality to your tone shocks you.

It makes Homelander moan.

When did you both get so worked up over this?

“Good—fuck. Always such a good girl, aren't you? My biggest fan.”

“Not just a fan.” You huff out. You’re not offended per se, but after seeing what other so-called-fans say about him online or how little love they share with him, it would be an insult to label you as one of them.

“Pfft—of course you're not.” He scoffs in disbelief. Even he doesn’t believe his own words. “You are everything. You're everything to me.” 

Your eyes widen. Your heart pounds against your ribcage. The unashamed proclamation said so clearly by the strongest man in the world makes you pulse and clench.

You're not worthy of being his all.

It leaves you speechless. Over the past few weeks your mind has started waging war with your heart. Oddly, today feels like the final battle of which will win.

Your body is nearly shaking. The palm holding your phone feels clammy. You try to get comfortable, but you’d only achieve that by clawing out of your own skin. Something feels different—wrong—about today.

“Helloooo, don't go quiet on me now.” There's a new, dangerous tilt to his already deliciously rumbling voice that makes you soak your underwear. 

“Sorry… I just—you’re so—I just… I love you so much.” You trip over your words. Something you’ve said so many times feels oddly loaded.

“D’aww, how cute. That’s better.” With an audible swallow, you slide your hand down your body. Pressing into your flesh through your clothes as you go, trying to pretend it isn't your hand exploring your own body.

You imagine it’s his. Following the route it has done so many times before.

You ache with the need to be touched and filled and worshipped. Your cunt throbs painfully under your layers, soaked and weeping. Even the slight press of your fingers feels electric. Too little and too much at the same time.

You swallow the saliva that’s gathered on your tongue. You scrunch your eyebrows when you roll your hips into your hand, a gasp coming out involuntarily.

“I can hear you. Do it.”

“Y-you can?!”

This brings you back to the first phone call that kick started this whole relationship. Back then, you had some courtesy to not touch yourself to the sound of his voice. You’ve lost all that courtesy by now, but the reveal that he could hear you all along makes you embarrassed for your past self.

You undo the fastening on your bottoms with a shaky hand. Your hand immediately slides under your layers, into your panties, with your fingers already forming a familiar shape. Your eyes roll back when your fingers glide along your inner lips, gathering slick and bumping your clit where your fingers meet. You repeat this motion a few times, thoroughly wetting your pussy, letting your head hit the armrest like a deadweight, your phone still loosely tucked against your ear.

“Jesus Christ, listen to yourself. Might have to move into the bathtub before you flood my couch, you know.” 

“Not like you actually care.” You huff out half a laugh, barely coherent with your slurred speech. 

“No you’re right, I don’t. Now spread your legs for me, gorgeous, I want you to put your fingers in.” 

You nod as if he could see you—though for all you know, maybe he can.

You push your bottoms down far enough that they won’t be in the way. Adjusting yourself on the couch, you curl your fingertips inside yourself with a little wiggle, letting out a sigh. Like this, you’re definitely gonna make the couch wet.

“Feel good?” While he purrs low, you hear the sharp grin in his tone.

You hum softly as you focus on moving your fingers in and out. “Not as good as when you do it. Actually, hah, it doesn’t compare at all.” You’re not even trying to butter up his ego before his live appearance. He’s just that good to you.

“That’s the sp—fuck—spirit.” 

Having been with your lover many times, the familiarity of that stifled whimper leaves you gasping. You don’t need super hearing to know that Homelander’s wrapped his own hand around his cock. You’ve come to memorise and categorise all the pretty little sounds he makes.

You don’t even remember hearing him unclasp his belt, too lost in your own pleasure. 

“Are you…?” 

Through the phone comes a clipped exhale. “—Yes.” The rough, rhythmic stroking now becomes audible to even your human ears. Your cheeks feel hot. The sensation climbs up all the way to the tips of your ears.

“Oh. That’s really sexy.” You whimper, melting into the sofa as you spread your legs as far as the garment you pushed down allows. “Aren’t—aren’t you worried about someone walking in?” You alternate between rubbing your clit and fingering yourself as a way to make your body tingle all over.

The response you get is a barely restrained moan straight in your ear. His voice trails off into a sweet rumbly groan that has your fingers rubbing faster.

“Don’t care. You make me feel fucking crazy.” 

How is it that you have such an effect on him? From morning till night, he never seems to have enough. Before Homelander you were racking up two—three at most, really—self-love sessions a week. These days you’re lucky if you only end up with two a day. The resolve in his proclamation brings back some of the confidence today has been slowly chipping away at.

Plus, his absurd words make you snicker.

“I make you feel crazy?” Your voice is all breathy. With each moan in your ear, your own touch feels electric. Your fingers stick to rubbing your clit: circles that started slow, teasing and loose are now tight and fast, nearing on too strong a stimulation. 

“Uh-huh.” He’s barely responding at this point, but you don’t mind. 

“Mhm, really? You’re so good to me, you know that?” Knowing Homelander is there in his guest dressing room of the host’s set, fisting his sensitive cock raw because of you, makes your head spin. The gratification that fills you with is intoxicating. Drunk on the power you have in your hands, you change up the pace, rubbing your clit more languidly, taking your time to instead sweet talk your boyfriend into blowing his load into his underwear right before his interview.

“They don't deserve you.”

“You do so much for the world.”

“They never appreciate how much of an honour it is to have you serve them.”

“You’re so perfect.”

The combination of Homelander’s signature stuttered groan and the rustling of fabrics tells you your words are all it’s taken for him to finish. 

“Wow, what a show, superstar on and off the stage,” you tease him a little. You hear the familiar click of a belt come through the phone.

“Smartass. Speaking of, I gotta be on set in a few. But what kind of boyfriend would I be if I left you hanging like that. Need to hear my best girl cum her brains out on the other side.” 

“Don’t be silly, you’ve got to go live in a few.”

“Then you better hurry up.” He laughs airily. The orgasmic high makes him exude even more of this strange energy. “Don’t think I haven’t heard you going pretty crazy over there. Doubt it’s gonna take you long anyway. Never does when I’m talking to you, hm?”

“Oh my god.” You exhale, your hand back at full speed. You dig your feet into the couch, pushing against it as you stroke your clit faster, your hips meeting your hand firmly, accelerating your climb to ecstasy.

“Mhm, that’s right. That what I am to you, honey? Your god?”

“Y-yes… yes, you are.” Your lips are shut tight when you’re not talking, breathing heavily through your nose as you feel the warmth spread throughout your body. From your core, to your chest, to your limbs. You start to feel the tips of your toes tingle with the electric sensation.

Somehow, he always manages to make your body feel sensitive all over. Even indirectly.

“Gonna listen to me live like it’s gospel, aren’t you? Listen to eeevery word I say. Wouldn’t be surprised if you used to constantly fuck your brains out while watching me. What’s that, got nothing to say?”

You really have nothing to say. While he clearly knows it, it's embarrassing to admit to something you may have occasionally indulged in before he became a tangible part of your life.

It doesn’t stop you from whimpering as you feel the tethers loosen. 

“Come on baby, time’s ticking. You better come for me now—” 

You hear barely audible knocking at his door. The line picks up a foreign muted tone, but you’re not really processing it. Your orgasm takes over and you stutter out a choked gasp, heels pushing into the couch before they fully relax into the leather, the tingling waves of your orgasm spreading to all your limbs.

“Mhm, I’ll be a minute.” His voice sounds further away, like he’s covered the phone and moved it away from his ear while he talks back.

In retrospect, the shame of orgasming on the phone to him while he’s talking to someone else should’ve stopped you from getting there, but it’s him you’re talking about. It’s hard to restrain yourself.

“See, I knew you could do it. Now go put yourself together, missy. I want you to pay attention.”

“Uh-huh. Yeah, I will… Just—hah—gotta catch my breath a little bit. I will, I’m excited to see you.”

“Good girl. I love you, alright? I’ll see you soon.”

“I love you too.” You smile fondly.

Homelander ends the phone call and you take a moment to gather yourself. You breathe in deeply. The first big exhale lets you release some of the muscle tension you’ve gained as you hurriedly brought yourself to orgasm.

As you pull your now uncomfortably soaked underwear and bottoms back on, the next inhale brings the tension back in a different way. 

All your nagging thoughts return like a flood, crashing through you. Your gut churns, the anxious feeling of it all souring your post-orgasmic high. Is there even more you bring to this “relationship” besides sex?

Shaking your head to clear your thoughts, you get up off the couch to clean up and make yourself presentable in the bathroom. While nobody is here to see you, you feel dirty sitting in your wet and cooled underwear. You swap it for a fresh pair from your overnight bag, tossing the old ones in the laundry hamper.

Sitting comfortably on the couch in your den of pillows and blankets is a familiar enough routine. Due to your secretive relationship status, Homelander can’t take you with him. You watch from the safety of yours or his home, watching your favourite hero live on TV.

You click the remote to the channel Homelander’s talk show appearance will be broadcasted on and wait until the time they’re live with some pointless scrolling on your phone. You can’t help but gravitate towards the Homelander-centric gossip pages, Instagram fan accounts or Reddit forums. Each time relieved that there’s still no information on you. Nobody is none the wiser.

The TV speakers burst with the audience’s roar of applause, tearing your eyes up and away from your phone. You smile at the support he gets. Though it turns ugly and cracks very quickly. Some possessive part of you wishes you were there backstage cheering him on as he walks on set in front of all these people.

Homelander oozes confidence with every sure step. This is his element. Big bright smiles and a quick broad wave to the audience you don’t see. He looks handsome. Hair parted slightly, loose and charming, just like his smile. He’s calm and collected. Definitely not like someone who was just getting his rocks off a few minutes ago.

He brings the smile back all the way to your eyes. All sour thoughts dissipate when you see him like this. It’s not fair to feel awful when it’s time for him to have his moment. You know better than that.

While there’s hardly a need for it, he’s introduced to the audience. 

“Homelander, welcome, thank you for joining us.” 

“Always good to be here, thank you for having me.”

Homelander’s seated and the interview begins. So unlike any of the other usual guests he takes up the majority of the space with his larger-than-life quality. So much more suited for something better than this.

“I’m sure all the ladies are very excited for the movie’s opening weekend.” 

“Great start.” You roll your eyes as the audience cheers  and whistles again. Nothing like objectifying him the moment he walks into the room.

“It’s what I’m—well, what we’re all hoping for, it’s a wild ride. I can promise you that much.” While your lover is a little snarkier behind the scenes, he’s a class act in front of the cameras. You’re always proud to see him do so well.

“Well that’s a glowing review if I’ve ever heard one! We all enjoy a love story. Let’s not be modest here, you’ve been voted The superhero heartthrob. It’s no wonder this movie is already pulling record sales at the box office.” The interviewer speaks into the side of her palm, acting secretive as if each word wasn’t clearly picked up by the lav mic.

“Oh stop it, that silly thing.” He brushes the compliment off, shrugging his shoulders boyishly. 

“No seriously, I think this is exactly what the audience wanted. We all love a superhero flick, don’t we, folks? But the little touch of spice and romance? Instant crowd pleaser. Tickets are selling like hotcakes!” 

“Insipid cow.” You can’t help yourself but comment on the over the top vapid glazing happening right before your eyes. Muttering obscenities to yourself you miss Homelander’s response and only vaguely take in the following mindless chatter in its entirety.

They treat him like a circus animal. 

“Who’s your favourite cast member to do scenes with?”

“What is it like to juggle acting with protecting the city?”

“What’s your guilty pleasure when you’re off duty?”

One mundane—pointless—question after another makes you wonder how he puts up with the pomp and phoniness of it all. You know you couldn’t. You even imagine yourself sitting next to him. You see the difference. You see how differently the world would see you.

As soon as you started thinking of the labels the world would describe you with, you couldn’t help yourself but compare the two. Him; popular, handsome, loveable, patriotic. A true ray of sunshine. You on the other hand? You already envision the headlines. Nobody. Golddigger. Leech. Attention seeker. Maybe even a thief?

You’ve stolen America’s perfect poster boy and the penalty for said crime is the heaviest guilty conscience. 

There he is talking about his latest save of the week. His movie premiere and his day to day crime fighting activities. You can’t help but compare yourself to the woman interviewing him. She looks well presented, put together, classy. You never feel that way. Do thieves and criminals even get to feel classy?

It’s clear to you now that you don’t belong. It’s clear to everyone. Is it not? He must see it too. It’s only a matter of time until he realises that he’s trying to force you into a mold you were simply not born to fit into.

You often wonder how long until Homelander decides to move on.

The next line of questioning that catches you out of your doom spiral.

“Let’s circle back to the start. It’s a shame your co-star couldn’t make it today. What was it like to work with her as your love interest?”

Your ears perk up. Until now Homelander has never squashed the rumours of their supposed fling. You’re not entirely sure if it was due to Vought’s ruling or his own sick enjoyment derived from your jealousy.

“Oh well, she’s lovely. Things were kept very professional. She’s a very talented young woman, it was a pleasure to work alongside her. She got on well with everyone on the team, a real star. The main cast is usually made up of our superhero line-up, so she exceeded my expectations. Especially since I was a little wary myself of the change.” 

You can’t sit still, fidgeting in your spot, you run your tongue in between your teeth when you’re not nervously biting the inside of your cheek.

“Sooo all the rumours we’ve heard about a little behind the scenes romance are not true?” 

“No. Definitely not. Sorry. We all got on very well, but not that well if you catch my drift.” The mic catches the sound of the audience’s synchronized ‘ooh’ and you clench your fists.

He’s yours. You hate how they all think of him.

“Well you can’t blame the rumours. People are eager to see their favourite hero in love. It’s the first time Vought has released a love interest-themed movie. Why the change?”

“Well you tend to see us saving your homes and neighbourhoods. I think Vought wanted to show everyone that at the end of the day we go home and hang up the capes. We’re people too.”

You remember the evening he was whining to you about his premiere talking points. This one sounds awfully familiar.

“Do you? Hang up the cape?” The interviewer has a twinkle in her eyes like she hasn’t before. She clearly thinks that she’s getting the scoop of the year.

“Sometimes, when the time’s right. The city’s protection comes as the utmost priority but I have some downtime.”

He does. 

With you. 

Something that’s always felt exhilarating about this was the secrecy to it all. Knowing Homelander comes home to you. You’re the one you know he’s making hints to. You’re the one who’s going to praise him for a job well done once he’s back.

That has always felt good. Right?

So when did this excitement turn to dread?

“Could you share what you do in your spare time?”

“Well then you’d know where to look for me. Some things are better kept quiet.”

“Ooh a secret! Don’t we love a mysterious man, ladies?”

“Jesus fucking Christ, shut up already.” You groan hitting the couch cushion with the back of your head in frustration. This crowd flirting is getting old real fast.

“You make it sound a whole lot more exciting than it is. I just like to find my peace.” 

“That begs the next question. It’s been a few years since your last relationship. So after this movie everyone’s asking, are you looking to find your peace with a certain lucky someone? And what can the ladies do to get your attention?”

You straighten up from your lazy lounging. Feet on the ground with your elbows on your knees you intertwine your fingers and lean forward. You don’t remember him preparing for this conversation.

“First of all I’d like to say thank you to all the lovely ladies who have reached out to me or those who have written me a very sweet letter—I have read them all, don’t worry.” Homelander sends the camera a cheeky wink. Even in your tension you can’t help but chuckle at the blatant lie.

“But unfortunately for them, I am already in love. There’s a scoop for you.” He tilts his head towards the interviewer with a knowing smirk. There’s a mix of ‘ooh’ and gasps in the audience followed by applause.

Your eyes widen, jaw dropping and you barely get a gasp out. What the fuck is going on?

“Oh? Well isn’t that exciting! Who’s the lucky lady?” Scoop indeed. The interviewer is grinning ear to ear, knowing her live viewership is skyrocketing. Like it’s all a game. Like this isn’t your fucking life.

“I can’t say yet. But I know deep in my heart that she’s the one.”

“The one! Well well ladies, it’s time to pack your bags. Sounds like we’ll be seeing a massive rise in the sales of the vanilla Homelander-approved ice cream to soothe all the heartbreak you’ve just caused.” 

You can’t focus on anything they’re saying. Your heart is racing. The panic is quickly trying to take over. But you take a deep breath. Maybe he’s messing around. Maybe it’s some Vought initiative. Maybe it’s another fake PR relationship he hasn’t told you about? However much that would hurt. 

“So tell us everything you can. How long have you known each other? How did you meet?”

“We met a little under a year ago. One crazy encounter sprinkled with pure luck brought us together. But some details I will keep for myself. We’ve been keeping out of the public eye. My sweet love bunny is a little camera shy. And I get it, I’m a famous guy. Our love wouldn’t have had the privacy and time to bloom if we were public from the get go.”

No. Nonono. This can’t be happening.

“I think I just heard the entire country go ‘aww’. How romantic! Will you be coming public now?”

“Yes. It’s about time I shared her with the world. I’ve been selfishly keeping her to myself. But I really can’t wait for you all to meet her.” 

Homelander winks at the camera and you know damn well it’s not meant for the audience.

“Fuck.”

Taglist (you can add yourself to be tagged when I post a new Homelander fic)

@ker0senebunny @itsvaleriesucka @thychuvaluswife

@nervoussystemss @littlegaaby @natliecole @sing1art

@infinetlyforgotten @rafecamsgirlll @hom3landr @mrsdesade

@nommingonfood @jokesonyoupup @chaimshelii @gingeraleluke

[hobgoblinsandpeachfuzz]

here have a musical number as a treat*

*i don't write songs very well forgive the cheesiness

But on the plus side, instead of this being my planned finale I now have a rough outline of where I wanted all this to go and more doodles planned xD

We'll see how long it takes to get to all of it xD

(pt. 1, pt. 2, pt. 3, pt. 4, pt.5, pt. 6)

outline under the read more:

Act I

Overture: Lady Ambrosia kidnaps the players and the narrator so they will tell her story.

Matchmaking (A woman with a kingdom must be in want of a consort)

Just Leave Everything to Me but evil and fairy like

More Important Things

Tadius and Ella agree that there’s too much work to be done to be focused on this. Both are reassured in each other’s commitments, and there is lingering romance. 

Mischief and Romance - Lady Ambrosia Approaches Ella

She tries to go for the kill here first and asks what love looks like to her. Ella does reveal she is in love, but she also confirms her suspicion—Lady Ambrosia is a fairy.

A Quest

Ella sends Sir Crumb to inform the Fairy Queen

The List

Ella was a dead end. Tadius is now the next victim. Lady Ambrosia has finished her list of bachelors and approaches Tadius with them.

Mischief and Romance - Lady Ambrosia has acquired a new target

Lord Cornelius Appleton

Destiny

Tadius laments the clearly destined love between Cornelius and Ella. Ella celebrates the good things in her life now, and how she will protect them, and how she loves Tadius. Lady Ambrosia plans on making things a whole lot worse before they get better—destiny is her plaything after all.

The Bachelor Parade

All the bachelors are introduced and present themselves to Ella, Lord Hop-a-Lot, and Tadius. Tadius does not do his usual good job of keeping in how he feels. Ella reprimands him.

Tadius’s Soliloquy

(Based on How I Am meets Who Am I)

He’s pissed! They were doing good and now distractions are happening! Royals end up only caring about parties and silly things (and maybe he’s in love and can’t admit it!) Ella would never do this!

Take What You Want

Lady Ambrosia steps in right after the soliloquy to encourage Tadius not quite yet fairy reveal. She explains that she has seen that the Queen favors him. It wouldn’t be hard to do all the things they want to do if they were both on the throne.

Tadius isn’t fully convinced yet, but he’s thinking.

Cornelius and Ella

A duet where they reminisce about childhood. Tadius sees them get close and leaves before Ella explains to Cornelius that her heart belongs to another. In being her friend, he encourages her to go for it. Ella says it’s Tadius, and Cornelius, a good dude, reminds her she has changed so much already, who cares about Tadius’s upbringing. This can only make the world better. (A positive spin on Take What You Want)

The Ball

The Way I’m Meant to

Ella and Tadius fight and then confirm their love.

Take What You Want Reprise

Ella leaves and while in love and feeling better Tadius still has fears and doubts. This isn’t how things are done. Lady Ambrosia preys on them. When Tadius affirms that he believes in Ella and loves her and will do the right thing, Lady Ambrosia is grossed out and has to go to plan C: possession. What’s important is she is only revealing his darker impulses—none of this is not something within Tadius himself.

Act II

Sir Crumb returns and tells Ella what the Fairy Queen told him. She’ll need to go to the forest herself to be able to get the means to defeat Lady Ambrosia. She leaves with Sir Crumb and asks Lord Hop-a-Lot to keep an eye on things.

A New King in Town

Dark Tadius Emerges and declares all the Bachelors can go home. He will be marrying Ella and he will be King. Fairy Guards drag them to dungeons. He is VIBING HARD.

Sisters

Ella talks to the Fairy Queen. She cannot grant Ella another wish, but if Ella takes a wand from her branches she can at least have one moment of starlight to confront Lady Ambrosia. The Fairy Queen sings about the two sisters duality and how they are oft opposed but have to survive together.

Ridiculous

Lord Hop-A-Lot tries to get through to Tadius. He sings his genuine feelings on royalty, magic, fairy tales, and love—it’s ridiculous. Hard work is all that matters, and sense. Lord Hop-A-Lot tries to remind him of Ella—everyone knew they were in love. Tadius thinks he is doing this for Ella—magic has hurt her so. But now he is at war with himself. He is also ridiculous.

The Way I’m Meant to Reprise

Ella returns with the wand and Sir Crumb and confronts Dark Tadius. Love does conquer all especially within the powers of a fairy of romance.

Mischief and Romance and Green and Goodness

Lady Ambrosia Fights Back. She is defeated by the wand in a kick ass fairy battle.

Tadius and Ella (a reprise of sorts of Cornelius and Ella)

Tadius apologizes profusely to Ella. It was him, it was his darkest thoughts, and Ella forgives him. She still chooses him, no matter what. Their dark impulses are actually quite the same. But as a team, they can balance each other. 

They apologize to all the nobles and bachelors. There likely will be further fallout but they’ll deal with it together.

The Way I’m Meant To (Finale)

Tadius and Ella get married. Lady Ambrosia crashes and flirts with Lord Hop-a-Lot. 

Storytelling (A woman with a kingdom must be in want of a consort)

The narrator finally escapes Lady Ambrosia’s clutches and sings his own version of the beginning song to end.

[onlyforsebastianstan]

Breaking Bucky

Summary: Set in 1940s Brooklyn, this story follows you, Bucky Barnes, and Steve Rogers, lifelong best friends navigating the complexities of love and jealousy during wartime. Bucky, a charming playboy, dismisses your feminine side, treating you like “one of the guys” while parading his dates in front of you. Despite your unspoken love for him, he insists you’re not the dating type. When Steve, newly transformed by the super-soldier serum, pretends to court you to make Bucky jealous, tensions rise.

Genre: Historical Romance | Slight Angst | Jealousy

The dance hall was alive with the brassy wail of trumpets and the shuffle of polished shoes on the wooden floor. Brooklyn’s wartime energy pulsed through the crowd—soldiers on leave, girls in victory rolls, and the bittersweet hum of a world that didn’t know what tomorrow held. You, Bucky Barnes, and Steve Rogers had been inseparable since you were kids, dodging trouble and sharing dreams in the backstreets. But lately, the air between you three crackled with something new, something unspoken.

Bucky was the same old charmer, a playboy with a smile that could talk his way out of anything. Every week, he’d waltz into the hall with a different girl on his arm, each one flashier than the last. He’d parade them past you, tossing you a grin as he spun them onto the dance floor.

“Whaddaya think, doll?” he’d say, his latest date giggling as she clung to him. “She’s a knockout, right?”

You’d force a smile, swallowing the ache in your chest. “Sure, Buck. She’s swell. Just like the one last week.”

He’d laugh, mussing your hair like you were his kid sister. “Stick to bein’ our pal, kid. You ain’t the datin’ type.”

That stung, though you never let it show. You weren’t all frills and lipstick like his girls, but you had your own charm—slacks and a sharp tongue, a girl who could keep up with him and Steve in a scrap or a laugh. You’d loved Bucky for years, a quiet ache that lived in stolen glances and brushed-off compliments. But he never saw you as anything more than a friend. He’d made that clear, dismissing your feminine side like it didn’t exist.

Then Steve changed everything. The scrawny kid who’d always been in Bucky’s shadow came back from that army program looking like a Greek god. The first time you saw him, striding into the diner with broad shoulders and a new swagger, your jaw dropped.

“Steve?” you said, cola fizzing over your fingers. “That you?”

He grinned, a little shy but steadier than before. “Yeah, it’s me. Guess I grew a bit.”

Bucky, slouched against the counter, froze. His eyes flicked between you and Steve, catching the way you stared. His jaw twitched, but he covered it with a laugh. “Well, hell, punk. You tryin’ to steal my thunder now?”

Steve just chuckled, but his eyes lingered on you. Bucky saw that too.

A few days later, you and Steve were at the diner, splitting a plate of fries. Bucky was off with another dame, probably charming her at some jukebox joint. Steve leaned in, his voice low.

“I told Bucky I like you,” he said, his new confidence making his words bold. “Told him I wanna ask you out.”

You blinked, caught off guard. Steve was your best friend, but your heart was knotted up with Bucky. “Steve, I… I don’t—”

He held up a hand, a sly glint in his eye. “Hold on. When I told him, you know what he said? That I deserve better than you. Said you’re not a guy’s type.”

Your stomach twisted. “He said that?”

“Yeah,” Steve said, but his grin was scheming. “Thing is, I think he’s full of it. I think he’s crazy about you but too stubborn to admit it. So, how about we shake him up? Pretend we’re together, make him jealous. See if he cracks.”

You hesitated, the hurt of Bucky’s words stinging deep. Not a guy’s type. You’d spent years hoping he’d see you, really see you. Maybe this was the push he needed. “Alright, Steve. Let’s do it.”

The plan kicked off the next Saturday at the dance hall. You traded your usual slacks for a dress that hugged your curves, the kind of outfit Bucky’s girls wore. When you walked in with Steve, his arm looped through yours, heads turned. Including Bucky’s.

He was by the bar, mid-flirt with a redhead in a polka-dot dress, when he saw you. His smile faltered. His eyes swept over your dress, then snapped to Steve’s hand on your waist. His grip on his glass tightened, knuckles whitening.

“Looks like he’s noticin’,” Steve whispered, steering you toward the dance floor. “Let’s give him a show.”

You nodded, heart racing. Steve pulled you close as the band played a slow tune, his hands gentle but deliberate. You could feel Bucky’s eyes burning into you from across the room, but when you glanced over, he was back to charming his date, laughing too loud, like he didn’t care. Your chest ached. Maybe Steve was wrong. Maybe Bucky didn’t feel anything.

Steve sensed your doubt. “We need to up the ante,” he murmured as the song ended. “Follow my lead.”

He guided you to a quieter corner of the hall, near the edge of the dance floor, where the lights were dim and a pillar blocked most of the view. From Bucky’s spot at the bar, the angle was perfect—or perfectly deceiving. Steve leaned in, his face close to yours, his hand cupping your cheek. To anyone watching—especially Bucky—it looked like he was kissing you, his lips hovering just a fraction from yours, his broad frame shielding the truth.

Your heart pounded, not from Steve’s closeness but from the thought of Bucky seeing this. “You sure about this?” you whispered.

“Trust me,” Steve said, his voice low, playful. “If this doesn’t break him, nothin’ will.”

Across the room, Bucky froze. His date was talking, but he wasn’t listening. His eyes were locked on you and Steve, on the way Steve’s hand cradled your face, the way your bodies were pressed close. From where he stood, it looked real—too real. His glass hit the bar with a clink, and before his date could protest, he was striding across the room, his face a storm of anger and something deeper.

“What the hell’s this?” he snapped, grabbing Steve’s shoulder and yanking him back. Steve stumbled, playing the part perfectly, his hands raised in mock innocence.

“Easy, Buck,” Steve said, a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. “Just dancin’ with my girl.”

“Your girl?” Bucky’s voice was low, dangerous. His eyes flicked to you, and the raw hurt in them made your breath catch. “Since when?”

You opened your mouth, but the words stuck. This was the plan, but seeing Bucky like this—his jaw clenched, his hands trembling—made it feel too real, too cruel.

“Since she decided she wanted someone who sees her,” Steve said, stepping closer to Bucky, his voice steady but pointed. “Not someone who treats her like she’s invisible.”

Bucky’s gaze snapped to you, and for a moment, the whole world seemed to shrink to just the two of you. “Is that what you think?” he asked, his voice rough. “That I don’t see you?”

You swallowed, heart hammering. “You tell me, Buck. You’re the one who said I’m not a guy’s type. That Steve deserves better.”

His face twisted, like you’d slapped him. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he said, stepping closer, his voice dropping. “I said it because… because I didn’t want him takin’ you. I didn’t want anyone takin’ you.”

Your breath hitched. Steve stepped back, giving you space, his part in the plan done. The crowd around you faded, the music a distant hum. It was just you and Bucky now, the truth hanging heavy between you.

“Then why didn’t you say somethin’?” you asked, voice shaking. “All these years, you parade your girls in front of me, tell me I’m nothin’ but a pal. What am I to you, Bucky?”

He ran a hand through his hair, his eyes wild, desperate. “You’re everything,” he said, the words spilling out like they’d been trapped too long. “I’ve been tryin’ to ignore it, tryin’ to keep you close without losin’ you. I’m a mess, doll. I chase girls because it’s easier than facin’ how I feel about you. But seein’ you with him—” He gestured at Steve, his voice breaking. “Seein’ him kiss you? I can’t do it. I can’t lose you.”

You stared at him, heart pounding. “He didn’t kiss me,” you said softly. “It was just for show. To make you see.”

Bucky blinked, his anger faltering, replaced by confusion. “What?”

Steve chimed in, his grin wide. “It was a setup, pal. You were too damn stubborn to admit you love her, so we gave you a push.”

Bucky’s eyes darted between you and Steve, realization dawning. For a moment, he looked like he might deck Steve, but then his shoulders sagged, and he turned back to you, his expression raw. “You let me think that… to get to me?”

You stepped closer, your voice steady despite the tears in your eyes. “I had to, Buck. I’ve been waitin’ for you to see me for years. I’m done waitin’.”

He looked at you, really looked at you, like he was seeing you for the first time. Then, without another word, he closed the distance, his hands cupping your face as he kissed you. It was fierce, desperate, full of all the things he’d never said. You kissed him back, hands fisting in his jacket, pouring every ounce of your heart into it.

When you pulled back, breathless, he rested his forehead against yours. “I’m an idiot,” he muttered, his voice thick. “I love you, doll. Always have.”

You laughed, tears spilling over. “Yeah, you’re an idiot. But you’re mine.”

Steve, still lingering nearby, clapped his hands together, grinning. “Told ya it’d work. You’re welcome, jerk.”

Bucky shot him a glare, but there was no heat in it. He pulled you close, his arm around your waist, and for the first time, you felt like he saw you—not as a friend, not as one of the guys, but as you.

The band struck up another tune, and Bucky leaned down, his lips brushing your ear. “Dance with me, doll. No more games.”

You smiled, taking his hand. “No more games.”

See my other stories here >>> Masterlist <<<

[truthdogg]

It’s fitting and inspiring that trump’s ridiculous birthday party was not only attended by troops who clearly did not want to be there, but was heavily overshadowed by regular people holding their own better-attended marches all over the country.

Putting personal profit aside for a moment, there has been one primary motivator for Trump’s actions in his second term: obeisance.

Every move he has made, every speech he has given, every order he has signed, can be traced back to his desire for people to bow down to him. It was the point of his unauthorized tariffs, it was the point of illegally calling up the national guard and marines, it was the point of his recent “you spit, we hit” speech, all of it.

“No Kings Day” was aptly named, and it was motivating. Remember that it typically takes only 3.5% of people protesting to effect a major social change. That’s it. If you’re out protesting, you’re punching way above your weight.

Despite the paltry coverage of protests by US media (we have to read foreign papers to even find out about them), and the subsequent overcoverage of isolated property damage, it’s possible that this weekend could wake them up.

There’s a market for honest coverage, and I believe that the 3.5% number is key in making them aware that this market exists. In our hyper-capitalist society, it’s sadly essential for them to internalize that before their stories will reflect it. Perhaps we are getting there.

[silcobrainrot]

Okay I gotta talk about the Kuleshov Effect for a minute because I see a lot of people talking about how Silco and Vi were looking at each other on the bridge and it's got me scratching at the walls.

The Kuleshov Effect is a film editing effect. It is a mental phenomenon by which viewers derive more meaning from the interaction of two sequential shots than from a single shot in isolation.

In other words, the way a movie or show is edited influences the way you think or feel about it. This kind of subtle manipulation is very powerful and is used throughout film and television to guide the audience's emotional journey and can be used to influence characterization and plot just by putting things in the right order. When people talk about "unintentional implications from the writers" I have noticed several times that the cause of the unintentional implication actually being the editing, not the writing.

On the bridge just before the opening credits of episode 8, we have two perspectives: Vi's perspective and Silco's perspective. Rather than show what Vi's doing in one long sequence, and then switch to Silco's perspective in one long sequence, the editors break these sequences into smaller shots and inter-cut them.

The most common use of intercutting like this is when shooting dialogue: cut to one character, cut to the other. Because of this, to our minds, this sequence looks like they are having a silent conversation, but they aren't. They can't even see each other.

Silco can't see beyond the smog, flood lights, and oncoming parade of enforcers, and it's safe to assume Vi can't see past these obstacles either. They have no way or reason of knowing the other is observing the bridge.

So, now that we know they can't see each other, let's look at what happens if we reorder the clips so these are two distinct sequences rather than one long one.

The sequences on their own are not staged the way a conversation would be staged, because both characters are in the centers of their respective frames.

Vi is looking at the bridge where her childhood friend was about to fight her sister so she could get away. The last thing that happened on the bridge that she knows of is another bomb going off, just one. She doesn't know if Ekko or Jinx are still alive. Maybe she's wondering if she should have stayed instead of leaving Jinx again.

Silco is panicked and caught off guard by his own reaction. He has a moment of emotional vulnerability while his back is turned to his employees and while the enforcers are still too far away to see what's happening on his face. He steels himself before standing up, and faces down the enforcers before walking away.

So, why edit this scene this way? If they can't see each other, why make it look like they can? Specifically because they wanted these characters to have an emotional exchange, but can't, because they are physically too far apart. Vi and Silco only get two scenes together and they only talk directly to each other once. This helps fill in a hole where we want these two to interact, but plot-wise it makes no sense for them to be able to. The editors change the entire meaning of both of these sequences if the emotions on their faces are a conversation.

What I like about this is that it gives you two options for how to interpret this, and both can be true at the same time. You can look at each sequence on its own, and you can look at it the way the editors were manipulating you into seeing it. I do love what they've done here, and I think it's important when analyzing media to know what tools and techniques the creators have used to tell their story and be able to deconstruct their little tricks to inform your interpretation.

Anyway thank you @sweetestsixshooter for reminding me I wanted to write this down lmao

[aquaholicsanonymousworld]

A Taste of Honey

Pairing: Rick Hatchett x AgeGap!Reader

Summary: At first, Rick Hatchet was just another rich man willing to pay for your company. It wasn’t personal—it was a business arrangement that bought you designer bags, first-class flights, and a seat at the most exclusive tables. He didn’t expect more from you, and you certainly didn’t expect more from him. But somewhere along the way, something shifted. Rick Hatchet has everything. So why does he seem so lost? And why do you suddenly care enough to try to fix him?

You were never ashamed of what you were.

If rich men wanted to throw their money at you, you let them. And Rick Hatchet? He was no different.

The first time you met, it was at an intimate rooftop dinner in Manhattan, hosted by one of his business partners. You’d been brought along by a mutual acquaintance—just one of many beautiful women meant to fill the empty seats and flatter the egos of men too powerful for their own good.

Rick noticed you immediately. Not in the leering, indulgent way most men did, but with a curious, measured gaze—like he was trying to figure out if you were worth his time.

You didn’t expect him to pursue you. Not really.

But the next day, a black Amex card arrived at your apartment with a note written in smooth, deliberate handwriting:

"I’d like to keep you around. Indulge yourself. - Rick"

And that was how it began.

The White Lotus resort in Thailand was just another perk of being with Rick. You were here because he wanted you here—because he liked having something beautiful at his side, something effortless to parade in front of his business partners.

But the longer you were around him, the more you started noticing things you shouldn’t.

The way he stared at his untouched drink for minutes at a time, as if trying to remember why he even ordered it.

The way he let conversations pass over him, nodding at the right moments but never really engaging.

The way he disappeared for hours at a time, only to return looking ten years older than when he left.

Rick Hatchet was tired. Not just physically, but deep in his bones, in a way that made you ache for him.

You weren’t supposed to care. That wasn’t part of the deal.

And yet, one night, after a long dinner filled with empty smiles and meaningless small talk, you found yourself saying, “You’re miserable here, aren’t you?”

He blinked at you, genuinely caught off guard. “What?”

“You don’t actually like any of these people.” You tilted your head, studying him the way he had once studied you. “You’re just playing along because you don’t know how to stop.”

Something flickered in his gaze—just for a second. But then he chuckled, shaking his head. “Sweetheart, I pay you to look pretty, not to analyze me.”

You didn’t smile. “You pay me to be here. Doesn’t mean I don’t see things.”

For the first time in your arrangement, he didn’t have a quick response.

The next morning, you found him by the edge of the resort’s infinity pool, staring out at the horizon.

“You didn’t come to bed last night,” you murmured, sitting beside him.

He let out a low breath, rubbing his temple. “Didn’t feel like sleeping.”

A beat of silence. Then, for reasons you couldn’t explain, you reached for his wrist, fingers brushing over his pulse. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

He turned to you, amusement flickering in his tired eyes. “Do what?”

“Pretend.” You hesitated, choosing your words carefully. “That you’re fine. That you actually enjoy all this.”

Rick exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “And what would you have me do instead?”

“I don’t know.” You squeezed his wrist gently. “Something real. Something that doesn’t feel like running in circles.”

Rick was silent for a long time. Then, in a voice so soft it almost didn’t sound like him, he admitted:

“I don’t remember the last time anything felt real.”

From that moment on, things changed.

Rick still spoiled you—he didn’t know how to show affection any other way—but the way he looked at you was different. Less detached. Less like you were just another ornament in his collection.

You started catching glimpses of the real him in small, unexpected moments:

When you made him laugh—a real, unfiltered laugh, not the practiced one he used in public.

When he reached for your hand absentmindedly, like he just wanted to feel something warm.

When he watched you sleep, something wistful in his gaze, as if wondering how you could rest so easily while he never could.

And somewhere along the way, you stopped seeing him as just a paycheck.

He was still complicated. Still guarded. Still drowning in whatever demons he refused to talk about.

But you couldn’t ignore the fact that you wanted to save him.

One night, after a dinner that was somehow less suffocating than usual, he pulled you onto the balcony of your suite, away from the noise.

"You know," he murmured, brushing a thumb over your cheek, "this wasn’t supposed to happen."

You tilted your head. "What wasn’t?"

"This." His fingers trailed down to your chin, tilting your face up toward his. "Me caring about you."

Your breath hitched.

"Do you?" you asked softly.

Rick exhaled, resting his forehead against yours.

"Yeah," he murmured. "I think I do."

And for the first time in a long time, it felt real.

[thevoidscreams]

How would each primemarch be if their wife is pregnant with their child?

No real warnings for this one other than pregnancy Lion: He's as cool as ever on the outside but he's secretly a mess on the inside. The lion is not the kind to be very open with his emotions so to some (Of the few who actually know) it might seem he has no feelings at all about his wife carrying his progeny. However those who know him better notice how close he keeps you from the start. He's not going to allow anything to happen to his beautiful lioness. 2: Went out for milk and didn't come back. Fulgrim: "Oh have you heard? My darling wife is with child." This man could not be anymore different, he makes sure everyone knows and is appropriately excited. After all how could they not be? He was going to have a child that was truly his own. He parades you about in clothes that show your progressive belly and he makes a show of rubbing it in. Not even his most beloved brother Ferrus is spared. Well to be fair Ferrus is especially the target of the pheonicians excitement.

Perturabo: He is quietly delighted his giant hands have never been so gentle. His honor guard becomes yours for the whole duration, not that they weren't ordered to keep you safe as well, but now they are especially vigilant. He doesn't make a fuss about it outwardly but the nursery soon fills with tiny marvels of engineering for your future child.

Jaghatai: He's also quiet about it, but he's always been a bit aloof about his brother. But in private he is incredibly happy, practically worshiping your body. Making sure you only have the best food. He's a very dedicated husband and soon to be father.

Leman: Is boastful about it. But also very vigilant. He's not letting you out of his sight so long as you've got his pup in your womb. He keeps you warm on cold nights as he refuses to let his child be born anywhere but on Fenris so you do have to suffer the biting cold. Don't worry though, you'll have more furs than you can shake a stick at to keep you comfortable.

Rogal:

No one even knew you were pregnant until the kid came. Though their were signs, kinda, like every place you stepped foot in having even more recent additions to the defenses. His best sons being put on guard duty. A rare quiet smile on his contemplative face and stern face. His apothecaries are the only ones not completely shocked.

Curze:

Oh boy if he was a mess before?... Hes actually quite mellow for most of the pregnancy, of course that is once he's established paternity. It's not that he doubts you, it's that there are other men on his ship and he can't trust them. He holds you even closer now at night. Whispering feverish, yet loving inanities to you. His hard bitter laugh has a softer edge to it now. Could it be that he might finally have two good things in his life to bring his mind out of the darkness?

Sanguinius: I'm saying it now, he started trying early, as soon as the ring was on your finger. Sanguinius loves his sons and that love is only amplifies for the child growing in your womb. But along with that love is a terrible anxiety, what if the child is touched by his thirst, doomed to live with the curse as he and his other children are? He'll love them all the same absolutely nothing will change that. And he somehow loves you even more for this gift of life you are creating with him.

Ferrus: His massive metal hands hold you so gently when you give him the news. He has so much to do, and so much to be. Now he must also be a real father, not only to his astartes, but to a small bundle of life that will share half of his dna. Should he tell anyone? Fulgrim? His father? Ferrus feels very real uncertainty about it. He will tell no one, he decides and puts an even more robust guard around you at all times unless you are with him, in his arms. It becomes the safest place in universe just for you.

11: Went out for smokes and didn't come back.

Angron: How did this even happen? Most people assumed your marriage to this giant butcher was all for show. But no, he is your husband and despite his moments of temporary insanity at the clawing of nails in his brain, he managed to do it. He won't touch you unfortunately. Despite his general disposition about things he does not hate you, and his fear of the nails keeps his hands at bay. No matter how much you plead. He will not risk the life of his child. In his moments of clarity you hold his hand, and kiss it, he tells you he loves you. You alone in the universe as he twitches at the biting of the nails. Maybe he will go back to perturabo and finally allow his brother to aid him. For your sake and for your child.

Roboute: Also quite hush hush about the pregnancy, he journals the whole experience, and builds the nursery with his own hands, putting his own little touches on the place. His hearts swell with delight every time he thinks about it. He holds you in his arms as he picks the handcrafted animals that will go into the rooms. He thanks you softly for allowing him to have this experience. He also has the whole timeline planned out for the pregnancy, you let him have it despite knowing that these things hardly ever go exactly according to plan.

Mortarion: Is this even allowed? Is what he keeps thinking to himself, but he is happy. Fearful as well as you progress, what if he ends up being like the awful monster that raised him? Or even like his own father. He vows to not be those men, he promises to you over and over that he will be the best father. On his knees, he swears to you. He loves you so much and his love your child as well.

Magnus: As soon as you tell him that you're with child he begins divining. Looking into the potential futures to ensure his child's safety. He messages you with his collection of scented oils as he tells you of the endless futures he's seen. He loves to touch you, to feel the aura of his little one growing inside you. He'll know them better than even you by the time they're born. His sons are just as joyful about all this, but do come up with some wild concerns that you never even considered. Magnus puts all theirs worries and yours to rest, telling you hes seen what may happen and will not allow any negatives to come to pass. He is arrogant, for sure, but it does make your fears less.

Horus: He couldn't have kept it under wraps even if he tried. His sons soon learn from the mournival and now every lunar wolf is on high alert to keep you safe. Even Ezekiel, those that's on orders from his primarch. Horus spends as much time as he is able with you. He's glad to be a father, a true father, fulfilling his unspoken desires at long last. He treats you like a queen, and you are never far from his side. As he speaks soft words of love to you and kisses your hands and cheeks.

Lorgar: Lorgar looks at you as if you hung the stars yourself when you tell him. He dedicates himself to you throughout the whole process, at you beck and call the whole time. He acquires for you the most luxurious things he can to pamper you. Most of your evenings are spent with him massaging you with lotions or oils as her tells you tales from his compliances. He adores you so much. Vulkan: He is likely the most outwardly expressive with his delight. Not boasting or bragging but delightedly sharing the good news with his family. It's a nice feeling, to be so openly praised by a primarch. He, like many of this other builder brothers makes toys for his soon to arrive child. He's attentive, maybe even a bit smothering. But it's all to ensure that you are happy and well. His sons are also over the moon at the news, there much beloved legion mother carrying their brother or sister. You will certainly be very safe and loved, that's for sure.

Corvus: He might tell a few of his brothers and his father, but other than that he keeps it a rather private affair. He will of course keep you close and when he is unable will have a silent guard keeping an eye on your every move to ensure your safety. At night when he holds you, he will sing you to sleep with his soft mellow voice. His dark eyes scanning the shadows for any movement. He will keep you and his little chick safe in his nest. Alpharius/Omegon: The question is who's the father? True they are twins of a sort, technically two halves of what would have been one being. But still. Either way, no one but the three of you will even know until the baby comes and even then it's largely going to be a rumor. You are well cared for as you always are, but the two fathers will ensure that regardless, nothing happens and no one knows.

[holylulusworld]

Bucky & Ducky (5) - Family time

Summary: Bucky Barnes. Ruthless mafia boss. Soft only for his wife and…well, Ducky.

Pairing: Mobster!Bucky Barnes x Wife!Reader

Side pairing: Mobster!Bucky Barnes x Ducky the duck

Warnings: mafia business, fluff, unusual friendship

A/N: Thanks to @buck-star for the idea and brainstorming with me. I did it…😅

Catch up here: Bucky & Ducky (4) - The new family member

Bucky & Ducky Masterlist

It’s Bucky’s day off, and he decides it’s time to get more things for Ducky. While you push the shopping cart along the aisle, your husband keeps an eye on Ducky sitting in a box inside the cart.

“Why did we come here again?” You ask, glancing at your husband. “We have everything for Ducky at home.”

“I read online that ducklings like—” He clears his throat as you start giggling. “What?”

“You signed up for that forum and googled stuff for ducklings, am I right?” You grin at him. “Right? You had to find out every little detail about ducklings.”

“I like to be informed, you know me,” Bucky grins. “And Alpine needs new toys. We don’t want her to feel left out. She’s still our queen.”

“I know,” you fake a sigh. “She was there before me and was your first love.”

Bucky’s features soften, and he brings you into his arms to kiss your neck softly.

“You’re my only queen; you know that, doll. There is no one more important than you. Not Alpine. Not my business. Nothing and no one comes before you.”

“I know,” you say, and wrap your arms around your husband. “But it’s nice to hear it now and then, Bucky.” He smiles and nuzzles his face in your neck, earning odd looks from other customers, but Bucky doesn’t give a shit. “Let’s get everything you want to buy for Ducky, and something nice for our queen too.”

He laughs. “You spoil her the most. Do not try to pretend you do not love our queen. You love her more than me.”

“No,” you giggle but fist his shirt. “You know that there is no one more important than you, Bucky Bear. Not even our pretty queen, Alpine.”

“That is an awful rhyme.” He pecks your lips. “I still love you, though. This won’t change, even though your rhymes and jokes are not funny.”

“Steve says my jokes are funny,” you pout and stick your tongue out.

“Steve tells you so because you are my pretty wife,” Bucky teases before stealing another kiss. “Let’s go back to shopping. People are already watching us.”

“Let them watch,” you grin at your husband. I like to make people jealous with my hot husband.”

“Baby doll, if you keep on talking dirty to me, I won’t be able to hold back. I’ll take you right here, next to cat beds and cat food.” He threatens with a smirk, but you know, Bucky is damn serious.

“Bucky,” you giggle, “as much as I love it when you lose control, I like this store and don’t want to get banned.”

He laughs when you mention locations you got banned from because you didn’t stop him from getting too cocky. “Fine, let’s get everything for Ducky.” Bucky pecks your lips. He’d love to get naughty right now but doesn’t want to get banned from the pet store too.

Ducky quacks loudly as someone walks toward your cart, a tiny dog in their arms. “Good boy,” Bucky grins as the woman hurriedly walks away, pressing her dog to her chest. “We don’t need a guard dog. We have a guard duck now.”

“You know Ducky is a duckling. He’s not scary at all, but cute,” you point out, but Bucky is not convinced.

“He’s a tough duckling for his age.” Bucky carefully takes the box with Ducky out of the cart to carry him toward the cat beds. “What do you think, Ducky? Do you need a better bed?”

You grin as your husband starts parading around the store, showing Ducky all the things he wants to buy for the duckling.

“Uh—I guess it’s only the two of us now, Alpine,” you say, looking at Alpine sitting in the shopping cart like the queen she is. Alpine meows and goes back to sleeping on the expensive pillow you put in the cart. “How about you get a new collar?”

Alpine lifts her head. She looks at you, suddenly interested in what you have to say as you pick a new collar for her.

“She’s talking to a cat.” You hear someone whisper. “I bet she’s one of those cat ladies. Lonely and crazy.”

“Doll, look at this!” Right before you can get angry and give these people a piece of your mind, Bucky comes back with a shopping cart full of things you’ll never need. “I found all the things I read about online and some.”

“I can see that,” you laugh. “Bucky, we don’t need all the stuff for Ducky!”

“Oh, no, no…” He shakes his head. “Not all of it is for Ducky. I got something for Alpine too. And a chewing toy for the guard dog.”

“Steve?” You giggle. “I didn’t know he liked chewing toys.”

“Did you just make a joke about my best friend?” Bucky grins. “I knew you had it in you to be funny.” He steps closer to peck your lips. “Let’s go home. I want to test the things I ordered online for…us.”

“For us, huh?” You tug at his tie. “We should hurry then…”

[isagrimorie]

The BAU Team Target Board

Criminal Minds Evolution 17x09

I love this board because it mixes Character/Actor photos. The more candid photos are definitely (especially for JJ and Penelope) AJ Cooke and Kirsten Vangsness.

I wish my copy of the episode had better quality so I could read what's on the files.

The yellow stickers for the characters:

Tara Lewis

Pilates at the Gym every Monday.

Jennifer Jareau

Takes the same route to work every day.

Babysitter every Wednesday.

Has two cars: Audi and Honda.

So... JJ is definitely going to change her route and maybe change it up every other day. Also, change schedules for the babysitter.

And possibly sell and buy new cars.

Emily Prentiss

Cigarette Smoker

Faked Death

Big House with 2 Car Garage.

Travels outside of town.

First: Erica Messer is really happy she got Emily to smoke this season when she fought so hard to get that to happen on the OG show.

Faked Death -- see this is where things start to go, where and how are they getting this information on Emily? Especially with the photos of Emily undercover as Lauren.

Also, now Luke and Tara may have some inkling about Emily's past.

Big house with 2 car garage - Okay, money bags Prentiss!

'Travels outside of town' - WHERE DO YOU GO EMILY?? Do you still do the whole Sin to Win Weekend in Atlantic City? WHAT IS THAT ABOUT? How much is the buy-in? Probably more than $50,000 buy-in Rossi had to pay for during that one episode.

David Rossi

Multiple food deliveries a week, usually Chinese takeout.

Goes for a walk at 7-- around (?)

Penelope Garcia

Leaves House Every Morning at 6AM.

Luke Alvez

Bedroom on top floor - last window

Leaves kitchen side door open during the day.

Walks dog early on the morning before sunrise.

Guard dogs?

Parades around towel after shower.

LMAO. The last one.

Edited: @overpoweredcacti suggested the kitchen side door bit is on Luke’s side and that makes sense because I was confused because I could’ve sworn she was in an apartment too!

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Godly Things | Chapter 60 Chapter 60 | like father, like son⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

You weren't sure how long you stood there—back pressed against the wood, breath caught behind your ribs, the weight of that thing still staring at you from across the feast seared into the backs of your eyelids.

You'd barely noticed your own body move, feet pulling you forward, deeper into the silence.

The hallways here were strange. Curved like ribs, veined with gold. Quiet, but not still. You walked. You didn't think. Just moved. Past oil lamps flickering along the walls. Past empty sitting rooms with gauze-draped lounges and wine trays left untouched. Past murals of gods in battle and birth, their eyes following you in paint that shimmered faintly when the light hit just right.

You kept walking. Until your hands stopped shaking. Until your chest hurt less.

Until you found the balcony.

You didn't even know you were heading toward it. It was just... there. A pair of tall arched doors already cracked open, soft light spilling through the seam. You stepped through them without question, drawn by the air. By the quiet.

The change hit you all at once—cool breeze, sweet sky, nothing but space.

And for the first time in what felt like hours, you could breathe.

You stepped out slowly, sandals brushing against the polished stone. The balcony stretched wide, held up by columns carved with stars. There were no guards. No nymphs. No gods watching from behind veils of perfume and praise.

Just you. And Olympus.

And light.

You moved toward the edge, hands curling around the railing as you looked out. The city unfolded below you—white marble, golden rooftops, the faint hum of music still drifting from the banquet hall far below. Gardens sprawled out like spilled ink, trees heavy with fruit and blossoms that moved even without wind. There were birds—bright ones—drifting between towers, their calls sharp and joyful like they didn't know anything bad had ever happened here.

It was still sunny.

Your brows furrowed.

Still bright. Still glowing like the day hadn't ended. You squinted up at the sky, hand lifting instinctively to shade your eyes.

How long had you been here?

Hours must've passed. At least, you thought they had. It felt like they had. You'd sung. You'd been paraded. Crowned. Fed. Kissed. Threatened. Watched. Pulled. Touched.

Yet, the sun hadn't moved.

You stared at it—high in the sky, unmoved, like someone had nailed it there. The clouds didn't drift like they should. The light didn't shift. Everything looked frozen in time, stretched into a forever kind of afternoon.

A trick, maybe. Or a performance.

Or maybe Olympus didn't care about time the same way mortals did. Maybe they didn't need hours. Just moments.

Just enough space to trap you in them.

You exhaled slowly, deeper than before.

The breath dragged down your chest like you were trying to pull up something that had sunk too far inside. You gripped the railing tighter, metal cool beneath your palms, and stared at the horizon.

This high up, the clouds didn't look soft. They looked heavy. Too still. Like they weren't made of mist at all, but marble cut into the shape of weather.

Everything here looked perfect. Beautiful. Clean.

Except you.

Because underneath your skin, the panic still lurked. It clawed at the edge of your thoughts. Bit at your lungs every time you remembered his face. Melanion.

And yet... you couldn't fall apart.

Not yet.

You looked down at your hands—still trembling, just slightly. Not enough for anyone to see. But enough for you to feel.

You tightened your grip on the railing. Squeezed until the metal stopped feeling cold.

You were not that same girl in the alley.

You were not helpless anymore. You had been killed. You had been erased.

And now you were here.

You had been stitched back together by a prophecy, dragged into godhood by a sunbeam's obsession, and draped in gold you didn't ask for.

But your breath?

That was yours.

And right now, that was enough.

You tilted your face toward the sky—toward that frozen sun. You breathed in deep. Once. Twice. Felt the air fill your chest and settle low in your belly. You let it anchor you. Let it remind you that you were real. That your body was still here. That no matter how many gods touched you or claimed you or tried to carve their names into your ribs—you were still you.

You weren't a muse.

You weren't a symbol.

You were a girl who had survived.

Not a saint. Not a story.

Not a prophecy waiting to be fulfilled.

Just someone who'd bled once and kept breathing after it.

Your fingers loosened on the railing.

You blinked at your reflection in the metal—soft and warped in the curve of it. The crown still sat on your brow, catching the light like it had any right to be there. It shimmered as if earned. As if forged for you.

But that wasn't what you saw.

You saw the stiffness in your shoulders. The faint sheen of sweat behind your ears. The dried edge of strawberry juice clinging to your bottom lip. And behind all that—eyes too wide, too alert, scanning even the clouds for danger.

You were tired of danger.

Tired of being someone else's prize. Someone else's project.

You exhaled, lips parting around the breath like it had weight. Like it carried more than air.

And then... you thought of him.

Telemachus.

The name slipped into your mind like water through cracks—gentle, inevitable. It curled beneath your ribs before you could stop it, and suddenly you were saying it aloud, quiet and soft against the breeze.

"...Telemachus."

It came out as a sigh. A wish.

You leaned forward, resting your elbows on the balcony rail. The wind lifted your hair and cooled your cheeks, and still—you closed your eyes. Because gods, it hurt. Not the sharp kind. The dull kind. The deep, slow throb of missing.

He would've known what to say.

Not to fix things. Not to wrap you in some gold-trimmed comfort the way Apollo did. Just enough to make it real again. Grounded.

He would've stood beside you, not in front.

He wouldn't have told you you were his.

He would've asked.

You let the image come—just for a second. Just long enough to remember the feel of his hand brushing yours, the way his laugh had curled around your name like it was something worth smiling about.

In your mind, he stood beside you now—barefoot, warm, sun-touched from a day too long at sea. He'd lean forward, arms slipping around your waist, chin nudging into the crook of your neck like he'd done it a thousand times before.

You swallowed.

Your mind tried not to imagine him replacing the arms that had been around you earlier. Not Apollo's golden grip. Not Dionysus' wine-sweet cradle. His.

It was his chest you'd want to fall into. His lap you'd crawl into if you were allowed to want that much. Not soft like Dionysus'. Not god-sculpted like Apollo's.

But home.

You flushed at the thought—your body responding to the fantasy like it had a mind of its own.

Telemachus' mouth on your shoulder, his voice low, whispering some joke just for you. His hands on your hips, warm, steady—holding you not like you'd break, but like you were real. Like you were his choice, not some divine accident dressed in silk and prophecy.

You shifted your weight, heart stuttering.

No.

No. Stop.

You slapped your cheeks gently with both palms, letting out a frustrated little sound as you dropped your forehead against the railing."Get it together, ____."

You were letting your heart drift again—turning to someone who wasn't here, who couldn't pull you from this high tower and tell you it was going to be okay.

You didn't need him to save you.

You just... wanted him here.

Even now, your arms ached in that quiet, heavy way. Like they missed something they were never given time to hold.

You lifted your head slowly, eyes dragging upward toward the sky again.

Still bright.

Still stuck.

And you whispered—like a vow, or a promise, or maybe just a prayer, "You'd be proud of me, wouldn't you?"

Because you needed to believe he would be.

You needed to believe that he'd see you like this—crowned, steady, terrified—and still smile that soft, small smile like nothing had changed. Like you were still you. Not a myth. Not a marvel. Just someone worth holding onto.

And more than that... you needed to see him again.

Your breath caught.

Not because you were crying—but because you almost could. Because the ache of wanting him back wasn't loud, wasn't sharp. It was constant. Steady. Like the quiet hum of something missing in your bones. Like a room you kept returning to in dreams, only to wake with your arms still empty.

You clutched the railing a little tighter, blinking fast as your chest rose—then stilled when it hit you.

The air.

The shift.

A heaviness crept in from nowhere—buzzing like static against your skin. Not cold. Not hot. Just wrong. Like your body had walked into something that didn't want you to move. It started at the base of your spine, then wrapped around your shoulders, up the back of your neck, into your scalp like invisible fingers threading through hair.

You shivered.

The breeze stopped.

The sky didn't dim—but something in you did. You could feel it. Like a shadow stretching without shape.

Then—before you could even turn a voice. Low. Booming like the crack of a storm echoing through a closed chamber.

"Leaving so soon?" it asked. "How rude... to walk out on a party thrown just for you."

You froze. Every part of you stilled, breath caught somewhere high in your chest. You didn't dare turn—you couldn't—because something about that voice wasn't just divine.

It was final.

And deep in your chest... your heart skipped and didn't quite start back up the same.

You stayed frozen, your body knowing something before your mind caught up—like instinct whispering, run, while awe and terror stitched your feet to the floor.

Slowly, you turned.

Your breath hitched halfway through, chest tight as your eyes finally rose to meet the figure standing just behind you.

Gods.

No.

Not just a god.

Something bigger.

Taller than Hephaestus and Ares combined. He filled the entire doorway like he'd been sculpted from stormclouds and sky. Broad shoulders swelled beneath a thick gold collar that looked more like a sun-forged mantle than armor. Bronze cuffs encircled both wrists, crackling faintly at the edges with stray arcs of lightning that hissed across his skin like it couldn't sit still.

Electricity shimmered along his body—not wild, not chaotic, but contained. Controlled. Like every spark was choosing to stay where he wanted it. Even the clouds at his feet seemed to bend under him—parting gently to let him walk, billowing with every slow step he took toward you.

And his face—

Your throat closed.

Sharp, regal, etched with smile lines like thunder had kissed the corners of his mouth. A jaw carved in command. Skin dark, sun-warmed, glowing faintly with power. His lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile—but it wasn't unkind either.

His hair—

Gods.

It fell in thick silver-white curls, cascading down his back and shoulders like a lightning strike frozen mid-fall. It shimmered in the light of Olympus, catching on the wind like smoke and stars and war banners all at once. A few strands curled around his face, framing golden eyes that glowed like twin suns waiting to split open the sky.

Those eyes stayed on you.

Curious. Focused. Hungry in that divine, thoughtful way—like he was trying to decide if you were something precious... or simply interesting.

Your breath stuttered.

You couldn't move.

Not because he held you still—but because you didn't dare.

And then—before you could stop yourself, before your mind caught up to your mouth— his name fell from your lips in stuttered, breathless whisper.

"...Zeus."

It wasn't a question. Not really.

You weren't a fool.

The power that rolled off of him in slow, electric waves had already told you the truth. It tingled at the edge of your teeth. Made the hair on your arms lift. Made the metal on your crown pulse warm, like it recognized its god.

The murals.

The stories.

The throne rooms carved into cloud and thunder.

You'd seen him in painting after painting—etched in stone, drawn in gold. The split-skied god. The one who wrestled Titans, who ruled storms, who sat higher than all the others.

And now?

Now he was standing in front of you.

Real. Alive. Smiling.

He tilted his head at your voice, the movement too smooth for something so massive. A slow, pleased grin pulled across his mouth—not cruel, not gentle. Just... interested. Like a lion catching sight of something unexpected in its den.

"Well," he drawled, amusement lining every syllable. "There it is. I was wondering when I'd hear my name in that voice."

You blinked, lips parting, heart slamming.

Zeus took a step forward. Clouds moved beneath his feet, parting and curling like they were carrying him. The air buzzed louder, static following close behind.

"I've been waiting a long time," he continued, golden eyes fixed on yours, "to put a face to the name."

Another step.

You didn't retreat, but your back pressed tighter to the balcony rail.

"Apollo's muse," he said, almost to himself, like he was trying it on for the first time. His gaze flicked down and up again, sharp but curious. "The mortal girl with the storm-colored voice. The one who's managed to stir up Olympus just by existing."

He smiled wider.

And gods, it was devastating.

"I have to say," he murmured, "you're louder than I expected."

Your lips parted, but no sound came out.

Not because you didn't have words—but because none of them felt safe. None of them felt right. Not when the god of gods was looking at you like this. His gaze moved slowly. Not in a rush. Just deliberate. Measuring.

You felt it trail down your arms, brushing over every place where your body still remembered fear. Over your collarbone, where the crown's weight pressed against your skin. Over your ribs, where your breath stuttered, where your heart wouldn't settle.

"You don't look like much," he continued, and gods, his voice—it was quieter now, but no less sharp. "But the world seems to like you anyway."

The words should've stung, but they didn't. Not coming from him.

They just... settled. Like clouds collecting in the pit of your stomach. Because he wasn't insulting you. He wasn't complimenting you, either. He was stating something. Like a fact he hadn't decided what to do with yet. Like he was trying to figure out how someone so small had made the entire pantheon shift sideways.

Then—his eyes crinkled. Just slightly. And that not-quite-smile deepened.

As if you amused him.

As if this whole thing—your story, your songs, your existence tangled in his children's hands—was a twist he hadn't seen coming.

And suddenly... the air wasn't yours to breathe anymore.

It felt borrowed.

Thinned out.

Not choked, but close. Like Olympus itself was watching through his eyes now, waiting to see what you'd do next.

And for a moment—you did nothing.

You just stood there, pulse stuttering, every breath caught on the edge of your tongue like a wrong note in a quiet room. Your fingers twitched at your sides, unsure if they should reach, retreat, or just curl into fists and pretend they weren't shaking.

Then finally—because something had to give—you dropped your gaze.

Eyes down. Shoulders stiff. Your breath left you in a soft, uneven stream. "I... I'm sorry. Forgive me," you murmured, barely above a whisper.

You didn't even know what you were apologizing for.

For leaving the feast?

For drawing too much attention?

For daring to stand on a balcony too high, too quiet, with a name too loud in your chest?

You didn;t know. You just said it because it felt safer than silence.

Zeus' reaction was immediate. A laugh—low and sharp. More of a scoff than a real sound of joy.

"Apologizing?" he echoed, his tone rich with disbelief, like you'd just offered him a wet fig as tribute. "I insult your appearance, and you—" he chuckled, not kindly, not cruelly, just curious—"you give me an apology."

His golden eyes shimmered faintly as he took another slow step forward. You could feel the heat of him now—like standing too close to lightning that hadn't struck yet.

"How soft you must be..." he mused, and his voice went quieter, thoughtful. "How sweet."

Then—in a blink—he moved.

You barely had time to flinch.

His hand came up, big and warm, calloused in places you didn't expect. Fingers pressed against your cheek, palm cradling your jaw with shocking gentleness. Not squeezing. Not hurting. Just there.

He tilted your head slightly to the side, then the other. Studying. His thumb brushed along your cheekbone, the pad of it slow and unbothered, like he was trying to memorize the shape of you.

You gasped softly—barely audible—and without thinking, your hands shot up, landing against his wrist—instinctive, trembling. You barely wrapped your fingers around him. Your hands looked small, almost ridiculous, clutching his arm like they could stop anything. Your thumbs didn't even meet.

But still... you held on.

Just in case.

In case he squeezed.

In case the thunder cracked.

In case the king of Olympus changed his mind about whether you deserved to be standing here at all.

Zeus blinked once, then his brows lifted.

Not in anger.

In... surprise.

Like he hadn't expected you to touch him.

Not out of reverence, or duty, or fear—but in defiance. Or maybe hope. Your trembling fingers wrapped around the wrist of a god, your body still and too small, and you didn't pull away.

That look on his face—arched brows, a slow twitch at the corner of his mouth—it was almost impressed. And then, he chuckled.

Again.

Richer this time. A little darker. Less amused, more... interested.

"Brave little thing," he murmured, letting you go.

Then, he lifted his hand lazily and the clouds beneath his feet responded like they'd been waiting. They stirred. Rolled. Then moved.

A sudden gust curled around your ankles—soft at first, then stronger. Thicker. You gasped, feet skidding slightly, and before you could even think to run or question or speak—

The clouds rose.

They gathered fast, spinning like mist wrapping around pillars, and from them—figures began to take shape. Not human. Not quite. Silhouettes formed in smoke and fog, tall and faceless, their bodies made of storm-wind and ash and gold.

You yelped—sharp, startled—as one of them wrapped an arm around your waist, another brushing at your legs, lifting you gently but firmly from the ground. Your hands scrambled against the sudden weightlessness, knees kicking slightly as you were swept upward like a doll held by the sky.

Your breath hitched. "W-Wait—!"

Too late.

They held you suspended, hovering now just above the balcony stone—then placed you gently before him face level.

Your sandals barely brushed the mist that pulsed below you.

Zeus stepped forward once, close enough that the glow of his eyes painted your skin in gold. He tilted his head again, like a man admiring a painting after someone raised it to the proper height.

He hummed—deep and pleased. "That's better."

Then, casually, he leaned against the balcony rail behind you—massive arms folding atop it, one foot crossed over the other like this was any other afternoon.

And now? Now he looked.

Really looked.

But this time... his gaze had changed.

Gone was the casual curiosity. The vague amusement.

Now it was focus.

Weight.

Like he'd decided you were worth his attention now.

And gods help you... you weren't sure if that was a blessing or the beginning of something you couldn't escape.

You tried not to flinch under it—that stare, steady and storm-heavy. But your body betrayed you. Your fingers curled slightly at your sides. Your shoulders lifted, just a little, as if shrinking might make you disappear.

It didn't.

Zeus stayed quiet for a moment longer, then, at last, he spoke.

"You've caught quite the few eyes here on Olympus," he repeated, voice dry, almost amused. "And I'm not talking about the usual pantheon gossip."

His gaze slid toward the distant skyline—toward the sun-drenched horizon where the palace rooftops cut through clouds.

"Things haven't been this messy," he went on, tone growing more sardonic, "since... what was it? That prince my son was so pathetically infatuated with? Centuries ago."

He waved a hand dismissively, like the name wasn't worth remembering. Like even the idea of it bored him.

"Hyacinthus," you said before you could stop yourself. Quiet. Careful.

Zeus blinked once, then snorted. "Right. Him."

A pause. Then his mouth twitched again.

"Didn't bother to learn the name," he muttered. "That whole mess was too dramatic for my taste. The poetry. The mourning. Pity, really."

He looked back at you, eyes narrowing with that same storm-born curiosity.

"But I suppose you can't blame me for wanting to see you for myself, can you?"

The question sounded like a trap.

You blinked, breath caught in your throat.

He leaned forward slightly, one brow arched.

"I mean, really," Zeus continued, tone shifting into something wry, almost condescending. "Every god you pass seems to forget how to let go. Apollo won't stop writing. Hermes pulled strings I didn't even know he still had. Even Artemis calls you sister now—and she barely looks twice at her own hunt."

You didn't speak.

"And then there's Ares," he went on, chuckling low in his throat, "grinning like your scars make you royalty. Athena, analyzing you like a riddle she hasn't solved. Dionysus—well, he's another story entirely."

His gold eyes glittered now. "So... tell me," he said, tilting his head again. "What is it about you?"

The air around you buzzed with heat and static.

Zeus smiled slowly.

"Because from up here... it looks like you're starting to become one of us."

Your lips pressed into a frown.

Not deep. Not obvious. Just enough that the soft line of your mouth flattened, the muscles in your jaw ticking faintly. You looked away again—eyes shifting toward the horizon, toward anything that wasn't him. That wasn't gold and lightning and ancient attention curling around you like a net.

You didn't even know why that comment unsettled you so much. It wasn't the worst thing someone could say.

Not here.

Not in Olympus.

Not when half the gods had already draped offerings at your feet or pressed promises to your lips. Not when every path you walked lit up with the weight of divine favor, whether you asked for it or not.

But still... something in your chest pulled back from it.

One of us.

Maybe it was the way he said it. Or maybe—maybe it was because deep down, in the part of you that hadn't forgotten the smell of portside air or the feeling of sleeping curled up beside Lady's warmth—you knew.

If you ever became one of them...

It wouldn't have been by choice.

It would've been carved into you.

Offered in pieces. Demanded. Sung.

Taken.

You blinked the thought away.

When you looked up again, he was staring.

Zeus hadn;t moved, not really. But his eyes were half-lidded now, gold gone sharp around the edges, like the sun narrowing through a stormcloud. His mouth was still tilted up in that not-quite-smile, but the warmth had cooled.

He must've taken your silence for something else.

Hesitation. Uncertainty—maybe even awe—because suddenly, he leaned in.

Close.

Close enough that you could smell the storm on his skin. That electric, charged scent that wasn't fire or rain but something between. A god's scent. Like static clinging to silk.

His voice dropped to a low, velvet murmur. "You know..." he said, dragging each word out like a secret, "Apollo... tries."

Your spine stiffened.

Zeus smiled wider.

"He's passionate, I'll give him that. Poetic. Obsessed, even. But..." he leaned in closer, his breath brushing the edge of your cheek, "he's still a boy playing with fire. Loud, eager. Sloppy."

You didn't move.

Couldn't.

"I don't fault him," Zeus whispered, the words coiling like heat in your ear, "but if you were the object of my desire..."

His hand lifted—not touching, but hovering—just beside your face.

"...you'd already have a palace by Helios' rise. A golden one. Carved with your name. Built for worship."

Your breath hitched.

"You'd wake up to ambrosia on your tongue," he purred, "and stars in your bed."

He tilted his head slightly, and you swore the sky behind him darkened for a second.

Then, a chuckle. Low. Cruel. Soft.

"But that's the difference between a king," he said, pulling back just an inch—just enough for you to breathe again—"and a son."

You blinked, your breath coming out slow and tight. Like your lungs had to remember how to work without the storm breathing down your neck.

The words clung to you. Not just the meaning, but the weight beneath them. That difference. That contrast. That unspoken offer glinting beneath every syllable.

And suddenly—your heartbeat knocked like a warning bell against your ribs. Fast. Too fast.

RUN! RUN! RUN!

Your fingers fidgeted without permission, brushing at the edge of your skirt, the ends of your sleeves. Anywhere. Something to do. Something to stop the heat rising up your chest.

You forced a breathy laugh—awkward—stuttering, "Th-Thank you, my lord. That's, um... generous of you."

You didn't look at him when you said it because if you did, you knew he'd see it.

The panic. The flicker of no behind your practiced smile.

But Zeus didn't speak again. Not right away. He leaned just slightly on the rail, the look in his eyes unreadable—but not gone. Still watching. Still calculating. Still deciding just how far this little conversation would go.

And before he could speak again—before his hand could close that last inch between you—a voice rang out like silver.

"Ah—____! There you are!"

Your name, spoken like a laugh. Like the punchline to a joke no one else was in on.

Your head whipped around, Zeus' did too—though slower.

There, hovering casually in the arched doorway of the balcony, was Hermes.

He was smiling. Not wide. Not warm. Tight. Too tight.

The cords in his neck stood a little tense beneath his collar. His caduceus rested lazily over one shoulder, swaying in an uneven tempo as if restless.

"You wander off like this again," Hermes said, still grinning, "and I'm tying a bell to your ankle. Or maybe your braid. So I hear you before you wander into Tartarus."

He chuckled lightly—but his eyes?

They were locked on Zeus.

And they didn't laugh at all.

He began to drift forward, his sandals barely brushing the balcony as he hovered, weightless and watching.

The clouds around you stiffened. Not by command. But by instinct. Because the king of Olympus was not used to being interrupted.

Zeus straightened as Hermes approached, his full height unfolding like a mountain pushing out of the clouds. The amusement in his face faded, just a bit, replaced with something colder. More... annoyed.

"Hermes," he said, flatly. The name left his mouth like a dropped stone. There was no warmth to it, no welcome. Only the faint scrape of irritation sliding beneath his tone. "So eager to interrupt your elders? I wasn't aware my conversations required a time limit," he added smoothly, though the sharpness in his golden gaze said something else entirely. "Or that you had taken up the habit of tracking my guests."

A pause stretched between them, but the silence was clear.

The warning. The annoyance. The possessive thread of displeasure, thick in the air.

Before you could even register how you were suddenly the subject, Hermes only gave a grin. It was sharp. Breezy. Dangerous.

And upside-down.

He twirled mid-air, flipping lazily until he floated belly-up, arms folded under his chin, legs crossed at the ankles like he had all the time in the world to drift above his father and act like none of this was serious.

"Oh come on, Father," he sang sweetly, giving you barely a glance before turning his eyes—bright and unblinking—back to Zeus. "You're hogging the guest of honor. And during a feast Apollo insisted hold? That's so unlike you." He giggled—soft and hollow, like it came from someone floating through something far away. "I mean, you've got her out here like a prize falcon. A golden cage, some cryptic praise, a few riddles and compliments—and you wonder why everyone starts calling you overbearing."

Zeus' nostrils flared faintly.

Hermes flipped again, landing gracefully on his feet, his winged sandals sighing into silence as they kissed the marble floor. He walked with that loose, casual saunter that made it easy to forget how fast he could move if he wanted to.

He strolled toward you—not toward Zeus. Not directly. Toward the faceless cloud-figures holding you aloft.

He gave them a once-over, eyes glinting, and tsked under his breath. "Hmm. Heavy-handed, don't you think?" he muttered, loud enough for his father to hear. "Father has so many rules about divine interference, but I suppose they bend differently when it's you at the center of it all."

The clouds around you shivered. You weren't sure if it was from his words or his presence.

Maybe both.

Hermes smiled wider, turning back to Zeus—but there was an edge now. Cold under the grin.

"Or is this another one of those do as I say, not as I thunder moments?"

Zeus' jaw ticked, and the sky rumbled—just once. Low. Quiet. Like Olympus itself was holding its breath.

The pressure between them sharpened—two gods, two storms, neither moving, both too old and too familiar to flinch first.

Zeus didn't speak right away. But his posture shifted, shoulders rolling back, jaw firm. His gold eyes darkened, flickers of lightning dancing faintly across his temples like a headache trying to claw its way through divinity.

His voice came like slow thunder. "Careful, Hermes."

It wasn't loud. It didn't have to be.

"This is not a game you want to win, Hermes."

Hermes blinked.

Then—he giggled—actually giggled.

He tilted his head, all airy innocence, the tips of his curls bouncing as he pressed his palms together like a child trying to look saintly. "Me?" he said, gasping softly like he was wounded. "I'd never, Daddy Dearest."

The way he said it—Daddy Dearest—dripped with the exact kind of mock affection that could drive gods to war or laughter.

"I'm your favorite," he added sweetly, winged sandals twitching with faux pride. "You know I'm a daddy's boy through and through. Even when I was stealing Apollo's cows and breaking into Tartarus with no shoes on. I mean, please—"

He stepped in just slightly, like he couldn't help himself—then reached up and flicked an invisible speck of lint off Zeus' shoulder. Real slow. Real gentle. Like he was doing him a favor, grin wider, eyes twinkling as he twirled his staff lazily in one hand.

"—all I've ever wanted was to make you proud."

Zeus didn't blink, didn't move, but the rumble in the clouds above you returned—quieter now, but meaner. Closer. Like the sound of a storm rolling over a field that's already burned.

Hermes' voice softened, curling at the edges like smoke. "Buuuttt," he continued, tilting his head again, "as much as I'd love to give you all the time in the world to... converse"—his gaze flicked briefly to you, then back to Zeus—"I can't help but wonder what she'd think..."

He didn't have to say the name, but he did anyway.

"...Hera."

The moment the name left his mouth, Zeus' expression dropped. The gold in his eyes dimmed—not with fear. But something colder. Annoyance. Calculation.

A man weighing consequences that stretched far beyond lightning and pride.

Hermes just smiled, sharp as broken marble. "You know how our Goddess Queen can get," he said lightly, as if talking about the weather. "So touchy about appearances. So prickly when it comes to..." he gestured vaguely toward the clouds still holding you, "...unusual displays."

He leaned in just a little, lips curling.

"She hates surprises. You remember that Father."

Zeus didn't answer, instead his jaw clenched. His shoulders stiffened. And for the first time since appearing on the balcony, the King of Olympus looked... inconvenienced.

A low growl buzzed from the sky overhead, and then—quietly, through gritted teeth—

"Fine."

He didn't shout.

He grumbled.

The clouds at your feet shifted immediately, beginning to lower you without hesitation. The faceless mist unwrapped from your legs and waist, placing you gently back on the balcony like you were something borrowed being returned too late. You gasped as your feet hit the floor again. Soft. Steady. Your knees almost buckling.

Zeus stepped back with a final glance toward Hermes, his mouth hard.

And Hermes?

Hermes just winked.

You barely had time to settle your feet back onto the stone—heart still rattling in your chest, knees buzzing from the pressure of being held by storm-borne hands—when you felt it:

That final look.

Zeus gave you one last once-over.

Slow. Heavy.

Like he was imprinting you into memory—carving your shape into the back of his eyes so that even when he left, you'd still echo somewhere behind his vision.

Then—without a word—he turned and began walking back toward the palace, every step causing the clouds underfoot to roll away from him like they were glad to be dismissed.

Hermes didn't flinch, didn't smile. He just watched.

Calm. Steady. Arms crossed loosely now, mouth twisted with the kind of practiced indifference that only barely masked how much he wanted to speak again.

"See you later, Father," he chimed, casual as ever. "I'll be sure to drop by soon."

He flipped his caduceus upright, twirling it once. "I've got a parcel that desperately needs your co-signature."

Zeus didn't answer, but his glare—the one he shot over his shoulder, sharp as a blade drawn mid-turn—said enough. Veins of lightning flickered faintly at his temples.

Then the god-king stepped past the threshold, and the doors of the palace swallowed him whole.

Silence fell.

Just you and Hermes now. The clouds were calm again. The sky felt lighter.

Hermes sighed and stretched his arms above his head, groaning just loud enough to be annoying. Then, softly—half under his breath, but very much meant for you to hear—he muttered,

"Like father, like son..."

You glanced at him. You weren't sure which he meant—but the way Hermes' mouth twisted, you had a feeling it wasn't a compliment.

The messenger god rolled his eyes dramatically, flicking an imaginary speck from his sleeve. "Honestly, everyone's always comparing Apollo to me, but he's starting to act more and more like him lately."

Then he chuckled—bitter and amused.

"And Ares?" He whistled low. "He might not be married, but I already pity whatever poor sap ends up having to call him a husband one day. You'd think all that growling would wear him out."

A beat.

Hermes leaned in slightly, whispering with mock scandal, "But nope. Still makes time for Aphrodite. Every. Damn. Week."

He shuddered like it physically offended him. "Divine adultery is a full-time job around here, apparently."

You gave a weak, breathy laugh—still shaky from everything—but Hermes didn't press. He just stood there for a moment, letting the silence settle again. Letting the thunder fade completely from the sky.

Then—he turned to you, his whole demeanor changing. The sharpness that had danced behind his eyes while sparring with Zeus eased. The tension in his jaw melted. His mouth softened into something more familiar—still sly, still knowing, but... gentler.

Like the version of Hermes you'd met when he handed you your divine lyre. The one who smirked when you'd get flustered. The one who made a joke when you started overthinking it.

And now?

Now he looked at you like you were still here.

Still whole.

He stepped a little closer and tilted his head, scanning your face like he was checking for cracks.

Then—his fingers reached up.

You flinched, just slightly, until you realized what he was doing.

He brushed his knuckles along the side of your head, searching—then found it.

The ribbon.

That same one from earlier, still twisted slightly in your hair, knocked loose from all the wind and divine nonsense. Hermes clicked his tongue softly, smirking.

"Tsk, tsk," he murmured, carefully adjusting it. His fingers were deft but warm, moving with practiced ease as he smoothed it back into place. "Can't leave you alone for one moment without you getting nearly snatched up by thunder and arrogance in a toga."

You laughed—shaky but real this time.

He grinned at that, then leaned back just slightly, his hands dropping to his hips. "You know," he said, "the only way to curb Zeus when he's in one of his moods is to mention Hera."

He raised a brow, eyes twinkling like a boy who'd just gotten away with something and was already planning the sequel.

"Nothing makes lightning pause faster than the idea of his wife walking in with questions and a wine cup."

He shivered again, but this time in dramatic fear, mock-whispering, "Gods help the man if she actually shows up. I've seen Titans tremble less."

And something about it—his voice, his grin, the relief of hearing a joke that wasn't layered in threat—just broke something in you.

You didn't think, you just moved.

In the next breath, you surged forward and threw your arms around him.

Hermes froze.

For half a second, he stiffened like someone who hadn't been hugged in a while—or maybe just hadn't expected it. His staff knocked lightly against your side as your momentum carried you into his chest. But then—then he laughed.

Low and surprised and a little breathless. His arms came up, wrapping around your back, one hand rubbing up and down your spine like it was second nature.

"Well... hello to you too," he chuckled.

You didn't answer, didn't lift your head. You just pressed your face deeper into the fabric of his toga, your nose tucked into the space where his collar met his neck. It smelled faintly of cloud-swept winds and something older—like air that had been moving for centuries.

You didn't want him to pull away. Not yet.

Because seeing him—really seeing him, whole and safe and you again—made everything else come crashing down.

The feast. The lyre. Apollo's lap. The scrolls. The forge. Dionysus. Zeus. Melanion. All of it. Too much, too fast.

Your throat tightened.

You didn't want to cry. Gods, you didn't. But your chest was shaking in small, uneven jerks, and you could feel the sting start to crawl up behind your eyes.

Finally—finally—you pulled back, just enough to see him.

Your eyes were glassy. Wet around the edges.

Hermes clicked his tongue gently, brushing his thumb under your left eye. He wiped away the starting tear like it was nothing, then flicked the drop from his fingertip like it had offended him. "You're not supposed to make me look soft in front of the storm king, you know."

You gave a wobbly laugh, your fingers still curled slightly in the fabric of his toga. "I haven't seen you in forever," you mumbled, your voice cracking a little at the end.

He sighed dramatically, leaning his forehead lightly against yours for a beat. "Olympus does that," he murmured. "Turns time into something that slips between your fingers and calls it favor."

Then—he leaned back, flicking his brows up like nothing had happened.

"Anyway. You're being summoned."

You blinked. "Summoned?"

He nodded. "Apollo's looking for you. Said something about wanting another song—'Doesn't even have to be new,'" he mimicked in a pouty, sunstruck voice. "I overheard while delivering a message to Dionysus from one of his... many wine-soaked devotees."

He raised his brows pointedly, lips quirking into a smirk.

"So, imagine my surprise," he added, placing a dramatic hand on his chest, "when I arrive on business, only to find out there's a full feast happening. Candles, dancing nymphs, cursed wine pets, everything. And not a single invitation with my name on it."

You opened your mouth, but he just raised his hand like he wasn't done yet.

"No message. No scroll. Not even a courtesy dove. I'm wounded." He sniffed, eyes sparkling. "Truly."

You laughed, and he gave you a sly little wink.

"But," he continued, stepping backward now, toward the balcony entrance, "if I'm going to show up uninvited—" he gestured between the two of you, "—I may as well do it with the prized muse everyone's looking for."

His grin widened.

"Can't wait to see Apollo's face."

Then, without waiting, he reached forward and gently grasped your hands—cool fingers curling around your wrists with an ease that made you forget you'd been trembling minutes ago.

"C'mon," he murmured, tugging you along with that weightless, feather-footed step of his. "Let's go ruin someone's dramatic entrance."

But before you could cross the threshold—you stopped.

Just... stopped.

Hermes, still holding your hand, blinked. His steps stilled mid-float and he turned to look at you, brows pinched. "Hey," he said, light but cautious. "What's—?"

You weren't looking at him. Your gaze was on the floor, fixed somewhere near the edge of the balcony, just past the shadows cast by the torchlight. You didn't speak right away, and when you did, your voice sounded... far away.

Not angry. Not panicked.

Just low.

Almost dead.

"...That... That thing Dionysus was dragging around," you murmured. "That... thing in the chains."

Hermes said nothing.

You lifted your chin a little, just enough to look past him—past the palace's golden archways and back toward the memory you hadn't asked for. "That was him, wasn't it?" Your fingers curled faintly in his. "Melanion."

Hermes' expression didn't change at first. But his thumb brushed once across your knuckles, like he already knew what you were asking—and was weighing how to answer.

A long pause passed between you.

Then finally, quietly—

"Yeah," he said.

Your breath hitched and you turned away again, swallowing against the tightness growing in your throat. The cool air hit your face, but it didn't soothe. Not this time. Not like before.

Hermes kept his voice even. Soft.

"You don't have to worry about him," he said. "He's not going anywhere. That's his punishment. Olympus-style. A little poetic justice, if you will."

You shook your head. "That's not why I'm asking."

He fell silent.

You looked at him—just barely—over your shoulder, eyes wide but tired. "How long?"

Hermes hesitated.

Then...  "Since the day you woke up... the day I brought you back from death."

You inhaled slowly, your chest catching on the drag of breath. Your arms crossed loosely around your middle. You didn't know if it was from the cold or the weight of the answer.

You should've felt something good. Relief. Triumph. Maybe even something righteous. The man who killed you—the one who laughed while you bled—was being punished. Still punished.

Just like you said he would be.

Even if your threat had been weak. Even if your voice had cracked and your hands had shaken. You warned him.

And the gods had listened.

They made it real.

So why did you feel sick?

Why did your heart crawl at the memory of his eyes—those broken, unfocused eyes, like something behind them had been ripped out and never returned?

Why couldn't you stop remembering the way he didn't fight back?

The way he just existed now. Dragged on a leash, head down, not even human anymore.

Just a hollow shell in a wine-soaked joke.

You pressed your lips together tightly, not wanting your mask to slip and allow Hermes to see what was written on your face because at this point, you didn't even know what it meant.

But apparently, you didn't hide it well enough because Hermes let out a loud groan through his nose and dragged a hand down his face.

"Oh, come on," he huffed, turning away for a second like he had to physically pace out the frustration. "Are you—? Seriously? This is the part you're hung up on?"

You didn't answer.

His wings twitched at his heels as he stepped back toward you, the usual levity in his voice starting to fray.

"He's not even human anymore," Hermes snapped—not cruel, but raw, like someone trying not to raise their voice at a friend. "And believe me, that's generous. I held back."

You looked at him, startled.

He gestured wide, motion sharp now, like the words were bursting out whether he liked it or not. "You know how many gods would've wanted him undone completely? Gone. Erased. Struck down before his soul could so much as shiver in the Underworld? Ares would've ripped him in half. Aphrodite suggested I even set his family tree on fire."

His voice pitched—tight, angry. Not at you.

But for you.

"He stabbed you," he said, his tone dropping low and flat. "He killed you. He dragged your name through mud and blood and didn't feel an ounce of regret doing it."

Your throat tightened. You couldn't look at him anymore. You turned your face toward the marble pillar, the glow of Olympus bleeding in from the arches, voice barely above a whisper. "...I know..."

Hermes stopped.

The silence that followed stretched a little too long. You expected him to pace again. To sigh louder. To push.

But instead... he exhaled.

Softly.

Quietly.

And when he spoke again, it was calm. "If you feel that strongly about it," he murmured, "then I suppose we can cut his sentence short."

Your head whipped up, stunned.

Hermes just shrugged—like it was nothing. Like altering the divine punishment of a cursed soul was as casual as flipping a coin. "Dionysus won't be thrilled," he added, smirking faintly. "He just got him broken in. He likes dramatic little accessories, and 'revenge pet' is very on brand."

That did it.

You didn't think—you just moved again. Your body surged forward, emotion crashing through you like a tide, and you wrapped your arms around him in another hug—tighter than before. Desperate. Grateful.

But this time... you actually cried.

Not just the tightness in your throat. Not just the sting in your eyes. Actual tears spilled down your cheeks as your breath hitched against his chest, quiet and shaky.

"I-I'm sorry," you mumbled, the words barely holding shape as your face pressed into his toga. "I just—I keep taking. You keep helping me, and I just take and take and I—"

Hermes laughed. Not unkindly. Not mockingly. Just warm and incredulous, his arms looping around you easily, one hand ruffling the back of your hair with a soft tsk.

"Gods, you're a crybaby," he said fondly, like it was an inside joke now. "What am I gonna do with you?"

You sniffled hard enough that your shoulders jumped, but you didn't pull back.

And Hermes just hummed, voice low and content. "If all it takes is doing a few simple favors to have you cling to me like this..." He gave your back a lazy pat. "...then I really don't mind doing them."

You finally pulled back—reluctantly, breath hitching once as you wiped at your cheeks with both hands. Your fingers came back damp, and you winced a little, sniffling quietly as you tried to collect yourself.

"I mean it," you mumbled, voice still a little wobbly. "I know gods aren't really in the business of... doing things for people."

You looked up at him, and the weight of everything you meant sat heavy behind your eyes.

"I... I know there's an order to things. Rules. Favor. Power. That you guys do what you want, when you want. Because you can. And no one really gets anything unless you feel like giving it."

Your voice cracked again, but you pushed through it, your words soft and breathless as you stared up at him. "But still... you help me."

Your lashes were wet, tears clinging to the edges like dew on string. You didn't even realize how tightly you were still holding onto him.

Hermes sighed. A long, quiet sound that felt more like surrender than anything else. Then—he smiled.

Not his usual grin. Not clever. Not cocky.

Just... real.

He reached up, brushing his knuckles along your cheek before gently wiping a tear from beneath your eye. His touch lingered—soft, steady, unspoken.

"You always look at me like that when you're about to break my heart," he said, voice low.

You blinked. But before you could ask, before the words could land, he was already stepping back—mask slipping gently back into place.

His hand dropped from your face, but he didn't let go entirely. His fingers found yours again, weaving slow between them with a gentleness that grounded you. Like he could smooth the last of the tremble from your bones if he just stayed close enough.

"Now," Hermes said, his tone shifting—lighter, mischievous, tugging you gently toward the doorway, "let's go remind Olympus who its favorite muse really belongs to."

But the way his thumb circled the inside of your wrist—absent, careful, like it meant something more—said what he didn't.

And with that, he led you back into the light. Back into the warmth. Back into the world of gods.

A/N: hey lovelies!!! sry for taking too long, my job realized school/college is out for then summer and they wasted NO time scheduling me 😭😭 luckily since it's thundering/stroming rn in Memphis i was sent home early so i thought: it's my fav weather AND i have no plans?? might as well update ahahah! also.... ZEUUUSSSS! i know a lot of you were anticipating his arrival (some didnt even want to see his name lolol) but it'll be kinda of a let down it i dont a least give a scene between mc and the king of gods (i mean all he knows is what he's heard, i feel like its in character for him to meet her hahaha) and i also know that mc tend to be a mary sue (as in she stuff seemingly gets fixed---like the 600 ithaca soldiers, adn now melanion), but tbh?? i kinda think it fits/think it's the point... for sure it wont be THIS easy for mc in the isekai fic cuz i want to be mroe experimental/showing how it feels to be a regular mortal/and not favored my a god... alright, sry for the rambles hahah! see you lovelies, nest update! plz take care and thank you all for the well wishess/reminders to take of myself, hehehe it makes me wanna just write all day and post non-stop but ya know.. life be lifeing 😩

also i've been blessed with more fanart, hehehe ❤️❤️❤️ (email: wattywriter04@gmail.com | tumblr: winaxity-ii) also because wattpad/tumblr is being a meanie, i can't show 18+ drawings on here, even if edited 😭😭 but don't worry i shall still sing my praises! but good news! i have them available on archiveofourown (ao3) and have my account/books to where guests can see so you guys don't have to make an account ❤️❤️ also, if you haven't seen my last update/PSA i'm no longer doing personalized notes under each art i receive 💔 i fully explained why in my last update/psa so plz read it to get full transparency....

from simp_0207 (p.s. i know you've sent me a few, but i'm goign down the list/order i received them, so no worries lovely~ i shall get to them all; p.s DON'T APOLOGIZE I LIVE FOR YOUR DRAWINGS/REFERENCES ESPECAILLY THE QUAN MILLZ 😭😭 okok sorry, no more notes, ❤️)

[MELANION]

Ngl, this scared me in the best way possible 😭😭 like i feel bad for him?? but at the same time FUCK HIM lololol

[MC MEETS MELANION]

Once again, feel so bad for him, but he lowkey could have avoided this if his ass listened smh

[APOLLO AND ARTEMIS]

ack---my chest 😭😭 not me being weak-kneeded for twins 😩imma sucker for them ngl

[DIFFERENT MC DESIGNS]

ahhhhh---love everysingle one of them! like how do you even narrow it down!?!?! my drawings would come out looking like biblically-correct angels 😭😭

from alexv2012

[MC DESIGN]

scar placement?? *mwahhh* can really feel the 'been through hell and back' with this one

[MC AND ??? (😭😭 I'M SORRY I'M NOT SURE AND DIDN'T WANT TO PUT THE WRONG PERSON)]

😭😭💔lemme stop playing and find a god that'll become obssessed w/ me 😩

[MC GOING THROUGH THE (E)MOTIONS_CH.54]

lolol i'm so soft/dumb cuz why i'm going 'damn she going through it' only to remember this is fanart from my book 💀💀

from mipo

[MOON AND SUN]

i really like that it's a painting! idky the drying smudges just fueling the creativity rn...

[CELESTIAL GAZE]

this is so fucking cool.... the pupils being the sun/moon?? ATE

[PROPHETIC SIGHT]

this one was really cool to try and breakdown with my sis--so many interperations made i even decided to use one later in the book 😩

from DragonWhiskers12

[DRAGON!APOLLO & DRAGON!APHRODITE]

my babies in dragon form ahhh! make me wanna do more out-of-norm fics fr

from tassec

[MC DESIGN]

baddie reader fr

from saltyfruitbat

[HEPHAESTUS]

daddy?? i mean--who?

[MC DESIGN]

stooppp why the green hair immediately remind me of midoriya (mha) 😭😭 not me seeing mc as a lil crybaby now fr 💀

from Kath_Realm21

[MC DESIGN_CH.43]

me when i'm excited to see y'alls reaction for an update 😭😭😩

[APOLLO AND HERMES]

atp, yeah apollo, i understand fr 😭😭

[TELEMACHUS]

ahhhh my bby 😭😩

from blys4ckk 

[MC AND TELEMACHUS]

ME NEXT!-- excuse me??

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