#I COULD WATCH THIS GLORY ALL DAY FOREVER!!!!

[averagewriter-inthedark]

The Cost of Honor ⚔️ | Gladiator II Imagine

My Masterlists

Characters & Pairings: Emperor Geta x Empress!reader (romantic), Marcus Acacius x daughter!reader (platonic), Emperor Caracalla x Empress!reader (platonic)

Content Warnings: light angst, fluff, slight NSFW/allusions to sex but nothing explicit, love at first sight??, mentions of pregnancy, violence, and death, soft!Geta who only loves his wife & ooc!Geta, historical refences and mythology (not completely accurate to the timeline) | female!reader (she/her) | wc: 9.2k

Requested 📨 yes/no (rules for requests)

Premise: When General Marcus Acacius gave the hand of his only daughter to Emperor Geta in exchange for glory his once ambitious self desired, he expected her vexation towards him and their relationship to be forever altered. But what Acacius had not planned for was the wicked emperor and his bride to overcome their odds and prove to Acacius what the cost of honor truly meant.

note: I have watched Gladiator II every damn day this week. I need help. And I hope you like this.

dilectus meus = "my beloved," in Latin

Ubi tu Gaius, ego Gaia.” = "Where you are Gaius, I am Gaia." traditional roman wedding vow.

--------------------------------------------------

The moment the ships were spotted approaching the coastline, the bells of the city rang and echoed against every wall, igniting celebration amongst its people who took to the streets and cheered for their impending arrival. A symbol of victory for the Roman army, led by the esteemed General Marcus Acacius, over the conquering of Numidia. Men, women, and children of all social class lined the pavement to get a glimpse of Acacius, the spitting image of a God in his regal attire, in his chariot on his way to the grand palace, passing the beauty of the Colosseum which served as a reminder to the people of how far men go for freedom.

“We love you Acacius!” Shouted from each side, the sound rivaling the drums. Acacius’ hand waved to the crowd with a tight smile on his face. If he could skip the festivity and retire to his home he would. The long months of travel and war had taken a toll, and Acacius grew tiresome of it all. Conquering lands on behalf of the emperors. All while they bathed in their riches. Driving Rome further into a depression where the corruption runs so deep it is nearly impenetrable. 

But while Acacius wanted nothing more than to relieve himself of his duty, his loyalty to the emperors and Rome was immeasurable, all because of young ambitions he came to regret. 

As the chariot approached the stairs leading to the palace, three golden figures emerged gaining more cheers from the crowd. Sunlight reflected off the beautiful golden laurels on their heads. Resembling the likes of the Gods they worshiped, the three stride forward, passing members of the Senate and Praetorian guards, until stopping a few feet away from the top step. 

“Acacius!” “Acacius!” “Acacius!”

Acacius ascended the stairs to the rose petals dropped by children. When the three came to his view, his tight smile turned to a small, but genuine one as his eyes connected with the figure in the middle. He received a small one in return, but it was guarded. Not at all warm or inviting. 

No, the last he got one of those was a lifetime ago. 

Ignoring the heaviness in his chest, Acacius approached the three and came to a still in front of them, raising a closed fist over his heart. “Emperor Geta,” he greeted the man to his right, bowing slightly before turning to the man on his left, “Emperor Caracalla.” Heart skipping, Acacius’ focus shifted forward to the last figure. Her own laurels glistened beneath the veil she wore. Acacius’ tone became soft as the words left his lips, “Empress Y/n.” 

Marcella Acacia Y/n. Beloved and only daughter of General Marcus Acacius, step daughter of former Empress Lucilla, and the treasured wife of Emperor Geta. 

Adored by the people, feared by the Senate, she was viewed as the Mother of Rome. A vessel sent by the Gods, Y/n held power and influence like no other. The type that made Senators flock to her side. The type that made gladiators fight beyond their limit in the arena in hope to gain mercy should the Empress grant them her favor. The type of power that made the people of Rome forget about the tyranny due to her status as their beloved general's daughter.

The type of power that had even the emperor's themselves turn to her for council. 

“General Acacius,” Geta replied in acknowledgment, earning Acacius attention.

“I have taken Numidia in your names. That your dominion may eclipse that of every emperor that came before.”

“Crown him with laurels, sister,” Caracalla tilted his head to the side. The servant approached from behind holding the pillow to present to her.

Y/n stepped forward, taking the golden headpiece from the pillow it rested on and raised it over her fathers head. Their eyes met briefly before Acacius’ traveled down to bow, allowing his daughter to place the heavy crown on his head. When she did, cheers erupted from the crowd, followed by the Senates’ applause. 

“Acacius!” “Acacius!” “Acacius!”

“Well done, father,” her whisper reached his ears over the noise. Acacius straightened, small smile returning as gave a curt nod.

“Your praise is most beholden for, my Empress.” His hand encased hers, bringing to his lips to gently kiss. When he let go, he noticed the alert stare from the men behind Y/n. Watching him like a hawk about to feast on its prey. 

Y/n clasped her hands in front of her, returning to her husband's side who then motioned for them to begin walking indoors. Acacius led them down the steps into the foyer, the cheers from outside dimming and the four gathered in a close circle to converse while everyone else migrated to different corners. Guards positioned on every column, and servants hustling to keep everything in order. 

Geta grabbed two goblets of wine from a table, “In honor of your conquest,” he handed one to Acacius and the other to his wife. “There will be games in the Colosseum,” he and Caracalla grabbed their own goblets from a servant. 

Acacius did not appear pleased by the announcement, “I require no games in my honor.” His eyes flickered between the three as he spoke, “Serving the Senate and the people of Rome is honor enough for me.” He went to click his goblet against theirs, but Geta drew his away before he could.

“You are too modest, Acacius,” he told him, guarded amusement in his eyes. “Does not suit a general as accomplished as yourself.” It was then he tapped the goblets together, Y/n following before raising it to her lips to taste the sweet liquid inside. 

“The glory is yours not mine,” Acacius insisted, “I only ask for some respite from war,” he paused, noticing the way his daughter’s eyebrow raised, her gaze shifting to Geta’s as though she knew Acacius' request was unwelcomed. “To spend time with my wife.”

“Your wife,” Caracalla repeated with a sniff, while Geta moved behind him to place his goblet down and brandish a sword from one of the guards. The emperor stepped closer to Acacius, “Remember the privileges we have granted her? Where is she now to ignore such an occasion?”

“There are victories yet still to come,” Geta surveyed the weapon as he returned to his wife’s side. It shined under the light, waiting to taste blood before being sheathed. “Persia,” it clicked against Acacius’ armor as Geta tapped it on his shoulder. “India.” He tapped the other shoulder, leaving the blade level with Acacius’ neck. “Both must be conquered.” 

Y/n, who had yet to speak, watched her father. Anyone else would be trembling with fear at the sight of their loved one with a sword to their neck, but the empress remained poised. No flicker of panic in her eyes. Hands holding the goblet steady. She awaited his answer, observing the way he managed to uphold composure despite the lingering threat pointed at him. 

“Rome has so many subjects,” he finally said, not breaking eye contact. “She must feed them.” Then, as though he never believed Geta would follow through with harming him, Acacius lifted his hand and brushed the blade off his shoulder. 

“They can eat war,” Caracalla belted with a chuckle. Beside him Y/n’s expression mirrored her husbands. Stoic and dissatisfied. 

The sword hitting the ground echoed as Geta launched it away and fell into the pond with a loud splash. 

“Your triumphs,” Geta emphasized with a hardened tone. “Will be celebrated,” right hand raised, he presented it to Acacius, “as attribute to the greatness of the Roman people.”

The snarl Acacius held back was not missed by his daughter, who clenched her jaw as he took her husband's hand to kiss his ring. When he pulled away, the empress finally spoke. 

“Husband, brother,” she addressed while keeping her focus on Acacius, “might I have a word alone with my father.” 

Geta and Caracalla shared a look, both contemplating the request as the tension from the last five minutes had yet to cease. The former appeared reluctant, peering at his wife before nodding to Caracalla. The twin retreated instantly, but not before bidding a glance to the general in warning. Geta leaned down, his hand coming to Y/n’s hip while whispering something into her ear Acacius unfortunately could not hear. “Call for me shall you need to, dilectus meus.” His lips then traveled to her cheekbone, pressing a kiss and Acacius missed how Geta’s hand brushed over her stomach with fondness as he pulled away, leaving the two alone. 

“You’d be wise to withhold implications of refusal to a direct order next time you bring victory to Rome, father.” Acacius’ heart skipped, a wave of nerves suddenly filling him at the tone he received from his daughter. 

His Empress he should say. After all, he’s the one who put her in that position. The young girl he raised who cried at the sight of a wounded animal or hid under the table when his comrades visited had vanished. In her place was a woman who held the highest position one could have in Rome. 

“Forgive me,” he placed his goblet on the table beside him. His thirst quenched. “I meant no offense. My travels have rendered me famished, and the thought of leaving the city so soon after returning is disheartening.” 

“I understand,” she mused, placing her own goblet beside his. She assessed him once more before speaking, “The emperors are too occupied with their excitement over the expansion of the empire to consider your words as an objection to their plan for further conquest. Not to mention their eagerness for the games ahead.” She tilts her chin up to add, “I would not worry for any possible repercussions.”  

Acacius cleared his throat, moving his arms behind him as he straightened his back. To have Y/n speak to him as a ruler would to her subjects was still unnerving despite the many years since she ordained the title. “That is comforting to hear.” 

The soft murmurs of conversations around them filled the space. Geta spoke with Senators huddled by the feast table, while Caracalla occupied himself with his beloved pet monkey, Dondus. With the two distracted, Y/n took advantage and motioned to the hallway leading away from the foyer. “Walk with me.” 

  Departing, Y/n and Acacius strolled the halls of the palace. Away from prying eyes and ears, allowing them to speak more freely than they were afforded in a place consumed with ambitious men in power. 

“The emperor's desire your presence in the palace during the course of these games. We’ve prepared your chambers and hope they are to your liking.”

Acacius withheld a sigh, not liking the idea of residing in the palace despite Y/n being close. He wished to return home, to spend what little time he had left in Rome with Lucilla. And while Y/n didn’t exactly order him to stay, her words left no room for objection. 

“That is a generous offer. I am grateful for your hospitality.” He pauses to take in the scenery of the gardens. Several statues, mostly the Gods but one of each of the rulers. Hundreds of flowers lining the bushes. Poppies, daisies, lilies, and roses. Orange, white, pink, and red. Acacius recognized them as Y/n’s favorite, specifically the orange poppies which were rare to come by in Rome. 

In fact, the only place in the city where they bloomed was the royal gardens. Now considered the symbol of the Empress.

“Might I inquire, my Empress,” He watched her pluck a poppy, bringing it to her nose. Her expression briefly shifted to one of delight. “When will I be permitted a visit to my wife? I have missed her, just as much as I have missed you, and wish to ensure she was taken care of during my time away.”

Y/n did not meet his eye as she replied, focused on the flower in her hand, “You’d be pleased to know Lady Lucilla was well provided for these last few months, General.” Calling him general instead of father stung, but Acacius did not let it show. Y/n led him to a bench overlooking the pond. “In fact, the emperors proposed a benignant offer the last time she visited the palace.” 

Acacius stiffened, dread consuming him at this revelation. Having his wife at the palace when he was away at war always worried Acacius. For he was unable to intervene when senators or the emperors attempted to manipulate Lucilla. As an influential member of Rome’s elite, the daughter of emperor Marcus Aurelius, Lucilla was both feared and adored. Much like the reputation Y/n herself was beginning to garner. Of course, Acacius was confident in his wife and knew she could take care of herself. 

But even with his daughter as empress, Acacius felt unease at the ‘what ifs’. One word, one action, could crumble the world around them.

Acacius licked his lips, inhaling before finally saying, “May I know this proposal?”

Y/n told the truth, not a speckle of hesitance. Lucilla would have told him anyway, so why beat around the bush. “The emperors’ wish for her to adopt them.” She did not have to look at her father directly to know his face was coated with shock. And maybe fear. 

“Adopt them?”

“As her sons,” she confirmed, plucking another poppy to inspect. “Geta reminded her that during her fathers time, an emperor who lacked a son would adopt another as his heir. As you know the emperors’ mother and father died long ago,” Y/n peered at him over the flowers, watching his reaction. “And though they’d never admit it aloud, they desire the affection one is given by a maternal figure. They view Lucilla as the closest thing.” 

In the years they’d been married Y/n learned all there was about her husband and his brother. The dark years during their father’s reign. Their worries for the empire. Geta’s suspicions of the Senate. Their love for theater and bloodshed in the Colosseum. And of course, the loneliness that came from being deprived of a parents’ love. 

Time had been her greatest adversary when breaking through the concrete walls Geta had built around him. What she feared would be a heartless marriage, bloomed into one of friendship followed by genuine, passionate, union between the two. Late nights cuddled in bed, exchanging words of comfort. Gifts for any occasion. Staying by each other’s side no matter the situation. Y/n was his pillar of hope, and he was hers. Therefore when it came to the deep feelings Geta stored away, the type an emperor would rather suffer in silence than show his subjects, the only person he shared them with was Y/n.

Acacius had been the most surprised by the ruler's relationship, thinking back ten years prior to the moment he announced the betrothal to his daughter. She was five and ten years of age, Geta two years older. Acacius was an ambitious man, full of fire and rage. Wishing to climb the ranks and earn his place as the top general in Rome’s army after many years of being second to the current one at the time. 

At the time the young twins had recently come to power upon the death of their father. The other generals were hesitant to take more lands. Believing the quality of the empire should be their priority. Taking his chance, Acacius, ignoring Lucilla’s headed warnings, promised to continue conquering on behalf of the emperors if one were to take his daughter as their empress. 

Neither wished for marriage. The senate knew that. Acacius knew that. The whole damn city was well aware the twins enjoyed the many pleasures they were afforded being emperors and did not desire marriage and children. But they needed Acacius. Needed him to extend their empire to embed their names in the history books. 

After weeks of deliberation, mostly the twins arguing over who would sacrifice their freedom of bachelorhood, a letter with the royal seal was sent to the Acacius household. Announcing Emperor Geta’s intent to take the hand of Marcella Acacia. Under the condition they were to wed a week following her eighteenth nameday. 

“How could you?!” Tears streamed down Y/n’s face as she sobbed. The opened letter laid on the table where she, Acacius, and Lucilla sat. The young girl pushed off her chair to stand, fury in her eyes, “How could you let this happen?”

“Y/n,” Lucilla reached out to grab her hand but was brushed away.

“Do you believe me to be some broodmare you may sell at the highest bidder?”

“Daughter, you must understand--.”

“What I understand is you have let your greed consume you!” His eyes widened, shocked by her outburst. Y/n didn’t let it stump her, continuing to scream and Lucilla quickly dismissed the servants. “Do not sit there and lie to me about your intentions.”

Acacius stood from his own chair, face hard as he looked down at her, but controlled himself, “You are angry, therefore I will allow this spectacle from you--.”

“Acacius,” Lucilla warned, heartbroken for her step-daughter. 

“What my intentions were or are is not of your concern. The matter is said and done,” he steps closer, voice lowering. Y/n continued to silently cry, sniffing as she held her head up to him. While his heart strained at the sight, Acacius did not show it, “We all have a duty, whether we like it or not, Y/n.” 

“This was not my duty until you made it so!” 

“Enough!” His scream broke through the air, causing the two women to flinch at the volume. “You will marry Emperor Geta and you will become Empress of Rome! Start acting like one.” 

Y/n shook her head, throat tightening as a sob threatened to release. “They have not been emperors an entire year,” her voice cracked, chest pounding as the anxiety within her rose. “And already there are whispers of their cruelty.”

“What have I told you about listening to tasteless gossip?” But Acacius heard the stories as well. Word spread of the twins' thirst for blood and savagery. Their rough pleasures with concubines, sending slaves to the Colosseum to fight for mere enjoyment. It was despicable. 

And now his innocent, loving daughter was to become the wife to one of them. All by his doing.

Y/n glared, scoffing in disbelief, “It is said Emperor Caracalla impregnated one of his concubines--.”

“A rumor.”

“--and that he ordered her to be executed!” She seethed. 

Acacius rubbed a hand over his face before holding it up, promptly ending the conversation, “Emperor Geta has graciously granted you three years to prepare for your role.” Y/n let out a sound of anguish, turning away from her father to cry freely into her hands. “You will remain here, your mother will guide you, and I expect you to listen. I do not want to hear any more objections or indignity. Do you understand?” When Y/n did not reply, Acacius repeated more firmly, “Do you understand?”

Breath catching in her throat, the girl slowly faced Acacius with glistening eyes. She swallowed, mouth dry from crying that when she spoke her voice was hoarse. “I understand, father.” 

For the next three years under the guidance of Lucilla, Y/n was prepped to become Geta’s wife. Really it was preparation for her responsibilities as Empress. Geta was a private person so they were at a loss when it came to knowing things he liked and disliked. She wondered if he’d call upon her to meet in person before the wedding. But he never did.

Acacius was promoted and served the emperors as expected by continuing the expansion of the empire. Gaining glory where he became adored by the people. It made Y/n angry. It made her resentful of her father. But she withheld her tongue. Doing what was expected of her.

When the day arrived, as planned a week after her eighteenth nameday, Y/n was brought to the palace alongside her parents, the Senate, and Rome’s elite members of nobility. The citizens gathered at the gates, lining the pathways to get a glimpse of their new Empress in full celebration as the city bells rang. Y/n rode in a golden horse drawn chariot with her father, Lucilla and General Darius behind them. The train of her white dress and veil flowed against the wind. She waved to the crowd, but thankfully they could not see her grim expression that was covered by the veil.

Trumpets and drums sounded as the chariot approached the steps to the palace. The walk up was all but a blur. Y/n gripped Acacius’ arm, letting him lead her into the foyer where everyone awaited. The veil obscured her vision, but she made out the silhouette at the end of the altar. 

Geta.

As regal as ever. The spitting image of Jupiter. Or Mars. Or Pluto. Depending on how one saw it. 

Y/n’s pounded at a rate she’d never experienced before. So hard against her chest she swore her ribs were beginning to ache. Her palms were sweaty, and the veil began to stick to her forehead from the precipitation that gathered. Squeezing her eyes, she focused on her breathing. Leaning on Acacius as she kept up with pace. The trumpets and drums were replaced by the light melody of a harp. 

“May the Gods watch over me,” she mentally prayed, the distance between her and Geta closing in. “And grant me the strength in this moment.”

The two came to a stop, Acacius bringing her hand to lips before handing it to the emperor. Y/n’s jaw clenched, eyes still closed as she felt Geta bring her forward so they were directly in front of the officiant. The traditional wedding versus belted from his lips, calling upon the Gods to grant their favor for the union between their vessel Emperor Geta, and his chosen bride. Proclaiming their marriage to be a symbol of unity, a beacon of hope to Rome and her loyal subjects. 

When no one voiced objections, the exchanging of the vows and rings followed. Geta went first as per standard. Plucking the golden band with his sigil from the pillow, and repeating the words of the officiant as he placed it on Y/n’s finger. Squinting her eyes and not glancing at Geta just yet, Y/n picked up the golden band reserved for him with a trembling hand and took his in hers. 

“My Lady, repeat after me,” the officiant addressed her. “Ubi tu Gaius, ego Gaia.”

“Ubi tu Gaius, ego Gaia,” the vow sealed the promise of consent. Making her his wife both legally and under the eyes of the Gods. ‘Where you are Gaius, I am Gaia.’

It was then time for Geta to crown Y/n with laurels, bestowing the title of Empress of the Roman Empire, and secure the marriage with a kiss. Y/n squeezed her eyes shut again when she felt his hands move to grasp her veil. Praying her knees wouldn’t buckle and send her tumbling to the floor. The fabric kissed her cheeks as it lifted, revealing her face to Geta for the first time ever. She felt him fold the veil past her hairline, fingers brushing against her temples as his hands drew back. Sending heat down her spine. 

Only when she heard Geta clear his throat did Y/n open her eyes, locking on a pair of dazzling brown ones resembling melted chocolate. So striking it made her still. 

He was beautiful. Captivating. His beauty was spoken of during the course of their betrothal by guests at her home, but no words compared to the sight of him before her. The man deserved to have statues and portraits of him throughout the empire. Bewitching every man and woman to cross his path. 

Y/n gulped, the action noticeable by how Geta’s eyes drifted down. As their eyes locked once more, they held the stare for what seemed like forever. For Y/n, she experienced a feeling she couldn’t describe. It wasn’t butterflies, it wasn’t her mind telling her to run. It was calm. Like when the ocean became stagnant after a powerful storm. As though all the anxiety she battled leading up to this moment was vanishing. There was still an underlying concern, but staring into Geta’s eyes, she saw something in them she believed was understanding. Sympathetic. 

“Ahem,” the officiant drew their attention back, Geta’s soft expression replaced by annoyance, making Y/n stunned by the sudden shift. The officiant seemed so as well by how he stammered out, “the ah--the laurels, my Emperor.” 

The laurels. Laid on a purple pillow made entirely of pure gold. A symbol of her title.

Geta’s hands seize the crown, lifting it up and making a show of it to the guests before hovering it over Y/n’s heads. At first her gaze remained on the floor, but, with a sudden urge of confidence, Y/n met his eyes. And just like the first time, everything around them blurred. Leaving them as the only two in the world. Gods how she wished she knew what he was thinking. If he was undergoing the same feeling as her.

Geta’s movements were slow. Placing the headpiece on Y/n with accurate precision it took her breath away. The veil and her hair beneath it. Once satisfied with his work, Geta’s hands slid down, brushing her cheeks on its journey until he cupped her chin and drew her to him as he leaned down. 

Y/n inhaled, heart stuttering as she leaned into his touch, meeting his lips in a tender kiss. Their noses grazed, making her eyes flutter shut. Seeing it as it was her first kiss, Y/n kept still and allowed Geta to take the lead. It was a simple press of mouth to mouth, but enough to create heat in every cell in her body; she felt like a volcano preparing to erupt. 

Lasting only mere seconds, the two pulled away at the explosion of cheers. The walls of the foyer echoing with the applause and the blessed words from the guests. Y/n, however, did not turn to face them, her focus completely on Geta. Who in turn, only had eyes for her. 

At the feast table, Y/n sat in between Geta and her father. On the opposite side of Geta was his brother, beside him Lucilla. Not having an appetite, despite the array of foods presented to her, Y/n snacked on a bowl of pomegranate seeds. Mindlessly at first, but then as she brought another seed to her lips she paused. Pulling it away to examine it, her mind wandered to the tale of Proserpina and Pluto. 

The beloved Goddess taken by the God of the Underworld to become his Queen. And how the consuming of pomegranate seeds sealed her fate. 

How ironic.

Swallowing thickly, Y/n shook the thought away and resumed eating. The sweetness hit her taste buds and she chased it with the bitter wine. 

By the time the feast ended Y/n’s face hurt by the amount of fake smiling she did towards senators and their wives. Genuine ones were reserved for the servants, albeit small ones. And whenever she and Geta happened to lock eyes her expression was rather tight, but managed to convey a sense of comprehension.

Saying goodbye to her parents proved difficult. Y/n wanted to avoid it all together but it was inevitable. No longer was she under their care and protection. Her place was beside Geta, ruling Rome and all she owned. If she desired a visit with her parents they’d have to come to the palace, or she’d have to get her husband’s permission to go to them. 

Lucilla hugged her close, pressing a tender kiss to her temple while whispering, “All will be well, my darling girl. The Gods will protect you, and I promise to visit frequently. Write to me as often as you please.” Y/n’s bottom lip quivered, but she kept herself together.

“Thank you,” she murmured with a sniff. “For everything.” Lucilla had been in Y/n’s life since she was nine years old when she married Acacius following the death of her brother Commodus at the hands of the mighty gladiator Maximus. Her own mother died of fever two years after her birth, and Lucilla raised Y/n as her own. 

Pulling away from the hug, Lucilla bowed in respect, beaming softly at her daughter, “My Empress.” Water pooled in her eyes, Y/n tilting her chin down before watching Lucilla depart down the steps to wait for Acacius. When he came forward, a lone tear finally spilled from Y/n’s eyes. Cascading down her cheek until meeting her jaw where it fell and hit the floor. 

Acacius’ expression was one of anguish. Guilt. A Y/n swore she saw regret. But whatever regrets her father had did not matter. He signed her fate three years prior, and now he was reaping what he sowed. 

“My Empress,” He bowed. Y/n inhaled sharply, straightening as she stared at him. 

“Father.”

“This is where I leave you, but rest assured I will visit as soon as I can. I am off to Hispania and should return in time for Saturnalia.”

“Then I bid you good fortune on your journey,” Y/n clasped her hands in front of her, twiddling with the rings on her fingers. “And may the Gods protect you for what you may face ahead.”

For a moment they just stood there. Staring at each other. Unsure of what to say next as the relationship between them was forever altered. At one point in time Y/n adored Acacius. She prided herself on being the daughter of an esteemed general. Favored by the people and those in power. She remembered the relief when he’d return home from battle. The excitement of opening gifts he’d brought her. The late nights spent hearing his tales. 

“Daughter,” Acacius began, licking his lips as he tried to say the words he’d been thinking about all night. “I--.” Y/n cut him off with a raised hand.

“Please, I do not wish to hear excuses, apologies, or affirmations. As you told me when this was arranged, what is done, is done. I’d rather we’d leave on a civil note, than attempt to reconcile any misforgivings we have toward each other.” Pausing Y/n contemplated her next words, but knew if she never said them it would plague her mind for eternity. “All I have left to say is this, you pride yourself on your honor. You gained so much in your service to Rome, and now you’ve acquired more by your now status as father to her Empress.” Acacius swallowed thickly, Y/n exhaling as she studied him with an unreadable expression. “While part of me understands why you went the lengths you did to achieve such honor, I require time before I can find myself forgiving you.” 

This is what Acacius was afraid of. That Y/n still held bitterness for his actions. His shoulders dropped in defeat, “I understand.” It pained him to say it, but knew better than to defend himself. “ I…hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me one day, daughter.”

“I do as well,” she agreed softly, “But this is the cost of honor, General.”

Hearing her call him ‘general’, and not ‘father’, felt like a blade to the chest. Acacius wanted to pry the word from her vocabulary and never have her utter it again. It lacked the warmth and love calling him ‘father’ had. General was what his subordinates called him. It was what senators called him. Not his daughter.

He was about to reply when a guard approached, drawing their attention. “Emperor Geta has departed, my Empress. He sends a message; he will accompany you in your chambers momentarily.” It took every ounce of her not to physically recoil. Nodding firmly as she thanked the guard who then bowed and took his leave. 

Stepping forward, Y/n offered her hands to Acacius, “Take care of yourself and Lucilla, father. May the Gods watch over you in these coming months.” He took them, bringing them up to kiss her knuckles then leaning to kiss the middle of her forehead. Just below the laurels. 

“Goodbye, daughter.” 

As Acacius descended the steps to the awaiting chariot, Y/n watched from the top. Letting the tears fall freely when her hand fell back to her side after waving goodbye to her parents. She didn’t care that there were guards posted on the side. Nor did she care of the onlooking citizens watching from afar. 

Releasing the emotions, out in the open, was the most liberating feeling she had all week. 

“Your majesty,” a servant assigned to Y/n gently called out, “It is time to ready you for bed.”

Wiping her cheeks, Y/n let out a shaky breath before responding, “Yes of course.” Turning to face the servant, Y/n put on a brave face and followed them to her private chambers. Preparing herself with each step for what was in store for her. 

Sitting on the ottoman at the end of the bed, finally alone, Y/n leaned her elbow on the mattress, knees bent to tuck her legs so she was leaning against the bed at an angle, and closed her eyes as her hand met her forehead. She was out of her wedding dress, now donning a silk nightgown beneath a flowy robe and the many pins removed from her hair. The air was cool thanks to the open doors leading to the balcony, causing goosebumps along her arms. Geta would arrive shortly, therefore Y/n took advantage of the minute of peace. Knowing what awaited her once he did. 

The reality of her new world hit her like a ram. She was no longer just Y/n, the childhood nickname given by her father. She was Empress Marcella Acacia Y/n, wife to Geta and future mother of Rome's heir. 

She’d have to sit in Senate hearings, attend games in the Colosseum--which would begin in two days time to celebrate the royal marriage. Her honeymoon would be spent watching men fight to the death for her favor during the day, and in bed performing her duty to Rome. Providing an heir. 

“By Fortuna if you hear me,” she prayed aloud, “I call to you for guidance and grant me your favor as I navigate this marriage and the position you and the Gods have blessed me with. Please,” she pleaded with a slight crack in her voice, “if love does not come from this union, at least afford us the sentiment of friendship. At most respect.”

The sudden gush of wind hitting her made Y/n believe for a moment Fortuna had heard her. Sending it as a sign. That she was listening, and she would do her best to watch over the empress. It brought solace. 

A moment later her peace was interrupted by the booming sound of the chamber doors opening. Sighing, she remained in her position, but shifted her head so it laid on her palm. Opening eyes, she saw Geta emerge from around the privacy screen that separated the bedroom from the rest of the chamber. He too was out of his grand attire. Sporting a red and gold robe tied at the waist and slippers on his feet. 

“Hello,” she greeted, barely above a whisper. She wasn’t sure what exactly to call him. He hadn’t granted her use of his name. Emperor was the formal and likely appropriate title, and husband felt odd. 

Geta approached slowly, expression neutral which made it hard for Y/n to figure out what he was thinking. He gave a curt nod, “Empress.” 

The title made her shudder, shifting on the ottoman to make space for him. “Forgive me for asking, but how would you like me to address you? In private and in public.” The look of surprise was evident on his face, not expecting her to ask such a question. He sat on the ottoman beside her, leaving a bit of distance between them.

“The proper way to address me in front of others would be my title,” He said affirmably, “Husband would also be appropriate--both in private and about.” Licking his lips, his voice takes a softer approach. “But when it is only us, you may call me by my given name.” 

Y/n’s heart fluttered, sitting up a tad straighter. Honestly she hadn’t expected him to allow such a thing. Calling someone by their given name was personal. Intimate. It signified respect.

“Then I must ask you to call me Y/n,” she told him with a small smile. 

“Y/n,” He tested her name on his lips. 

They sat there for a moment. Basking in the quietness the night afforded. However neither could deny the awkward tension in the air. 

“I ah,” Y/n swallowed, face heating up as she tried to look anywhere but his eyes. Fearing she’d fall deep into something she’d be unable to pull herself from. “Might I inquire something of you before we…,” she trailed off, not wanting to say, ‘consummate this marriage.’ “Just for tonight, if you allow me.”

Geta thought for a moment, bringing a hand up to rub his chin. He knew she was stalling, and frankly he was fine with putting off the act for another hour or until the Senate came knocking at the door to see proof. “What is it?”

“I know not to expect much from this marriage.” She swore there was a flicker of surprise hit his face, but she brushed it off. “We have a duty to perform in the eyes of the people, I accept that,” Y/n was cautious with her words. Wanting to avoid any offense that may anger Geta. She heard the rumors of his temper. She did not want to be on the receiving end of it. Ever. “But, if it is possible, I’d like for us to form a basis of friendship?” Now there truly was surprise written all over him. It worried her. 

“Well,” He mumbled, stroking his jaw before letting his hand fall back to his lap. “I cannot guarantee that…friendship,” saying it felt odd, “will be up to your satisfaction.” The way her mouth turned down caused his stomach to turn, quickly adding, “But, I can at least promise to do my best.” Her smile returned, and Geta mentally sighed in relief. 

“That is all I ask.” 

The conversation turned into the two asking questions. Simple ones, but it felt natural. Both genuinely interested in their answers and taking time to process before asking the next. Geta learned Y/n enjoyed reading poetry, she discovered his knack for collecting. She told him her favorite foods, and he told her how he prefers the color red over others. 

“What’s your favorite flower?” She asked, placing the goblet of wine he had poured her on the end table after taking a sip. 

“I don’t have one,” He glanced away with a frown, taking a sip from his own goblet. “I suppose lilies if I had to choose. The palace gardens are full of them.” Pausing to think before nodding as though satisfied with his answer, he turned to Y/n. “What is yours?”

A tiny smile curled on her lips, “Poppies. Orange poppies.” The answer surprised him.

“Orange poppies?” he repeated with furrowed brows. They were not native to Rome. In fact it was believed the flower grew thousands of miles away from the city.  “Those are rare.”

“Likely why I am fascinated by them. My father,” she cleared her throat, feeling a sudden wave of emotion, the memory surfacing. “On one of his expeditions he came across a field of orange poppies--told me it reminded him of the sky when the sun begins to set.” She thought of the nights spent standing on her balcony to watch the beautiful color shine down on the city. It was her happy place. “He brought several home as a gift.”

The fondness in her expression sent an unfamiliar warmth in Geta’s chest. So soft and gentle. She looked like a vision of Venus, so beautiful it made his breath hitch. Leaning back against the mattress, Geta swallowed another gulp of wine, “Do you still have them?” At her head shake he felt disappointment.

“No,” she hummed with a sad smile. “They did however last a long time before wilting. I then pressed them with books to frame on my wall.” She made a mental note to send word to Lucilla to pack the item for her the next time she visited. “To be honest it surprised me they lasted the journey.”

“Where did your father find them?”

Her brows pinch, deep in thought. Geta couldn’t help but think how adorable it was. The way her brows furrowed as her mouth shifted. It was like he could see her mind working to bring her an answer. Pulling into the depths of her memory. 

Eventually she shrugs, offering an apologetic frown, “I believe somewhere between Gaul and Germania. Unfortunately I cannot place the exact name or location.” 

“That’s alright,” Geta replies, finishing off his wine and discarding the goblet on the end table closest to him. An idea popped in his head, and he made sure to follow through with it in the morning. 

Before long there was a knock at the chamber door. “Come in,” Geta called, annoyed at being disturbed. Nerves tickled Y/n’s stomach when a guard emerged, a little astonished to see the two sitting together still in their night robes. 

“Apologies, Emperor,” he bowed to Geta, then to Y/n. “Empress. The Senate wishes to confirm the consummation.” The rulers noted how the guards’ focus drifted to the untouched bed. Indicating they had not performed the act. Y/n gulped. 

Geta on the other hand waved dismissively, “Inform them they will have their confirmation. When I deem it so.” 

“Yes, Emperor,” the guard quickly bowed and departed to avoid being berated. The second he was out of their sight Y/n snatched her goblet and downed the rest of her wine. She was going to need it. 

“Well,” she exhaled, wiping at her mouth, missing Geta’s lingering stare of the action. “We should get to it then.” The goblet hit the table with a *clink* Y/n turning to face the man fully and willing herself to calm down. Remembering Lucilla, and even some servants, advice of the marriage act. She’d experience pain and discomfort. Men were the ones who got pleasure, for women they had to endure. 

It sounded like a nightmare.

Standing up, Y/n removed her robe leaving her in the sheer night dress, placing it on the ottoman under Geta’s watchful eye. Her body began to tremble, and she squeezed her eyes shut as she brought her fingers to the straps, but was suddenly stopped. “Wait,” Geta, still sitting, placed a hand on her arm. Perplexed, Y/n’s hands froze, turning to Geta to find him tense.  “You do not have to remove it.” 

“I do not understand….”

“You are uncomfortable,” He stated, making her cheeks heat up. It was the truth, how could she deny it? It was written all over her. Shuffling on her feet like she was preparing to run the hell out of there. 

Standing up, Geta moved her hands back down to her side, before placing his on her shoulders. There was something about his expression, along with his gentle touch, that made Y/n’s heart beat faster. Warmth pooling in her stomach as Geta’s eyes flickered to her lips and back to her own. “It will do us no favors if you are not relaxed. It’ll make it far more painful for you,” his tone turned serious, “and I do not wish for that.”

It stunned Y/n to hear Geta be so concerned for her comfort. As though he wanted her to share the pleasures sex had on an individual. She truly was at a loss for words. “I--how?” was all she could say. 

Instead of replying, Geta’s fingers trailed down the length of her arms until they met her waist, making her gasp when he lifted her up. Her hands went to his neck to hold steady while he maneuvered them so she was sitting on the edge of the bed and propped her feet on the ottoman, Geta kneeling on the furniture between her legs so they were level. 

A warm hand cupped her jaw, bringing her face close to stare deeply into her eyes. “For this to be good for the both of us, I shall need you to trust me.” His nose brushed against hers, hot breath fanning her mouth. “Do you trust me?”

If this wasn’t the sign Fortuna heard her prayers, then Y/n did not know what it was. Here was the man she dreaded for years about. The one who craved bloodshed and war. Who was not afraid to send a man to his death for mundane offenses. Who was not shy about obscene acts with concubines in public. Here he was kneeling before her for consent to the marriage act, taking her feelings into consideration, instead of forcing her to endure it without any care.

After what seemed like forever, brought out of her thoughts by Geta’s finger moving to trace her cheekbone, Y/n whispered, “I trust you.” 

He closed the gap between them, his lips pressing against hers so soft it made her head spin. Y/n responded with the same tenderness, gasping when his mouth went to her chin. Then her jaw, then along her neck. 

“Lay down for me, my Empress.” 

Y/n must have been a favorite among Fortuna. At least that’s what she seemed to believe. As the weeks, months, and eventual years went by, Y/n’s marriage to Geta surprised her every day with the newfound friendship they formed. It was like their match had not been a political arrangement fueled by ambition. Geta was irrevocably devoted to Y/n. Showing not so much in words but with actions. 

He filled the library with every literary work. Had the kitchens prepare her favorite meals. Showered her in the lavish silks and gems. There were freshly picked roses or lilies from the gardens on her nightstand every morning. And though they did not share a bedchamber every night, Geta would sit on the balcony of hers at the end of the day where they would have tea and converse. Y/n listened to his vents about the Senate, and complaints of his brother. He’d open up about his frustration with their lack of popularity, to which Y/n offered advice on how to win the people's favor. 

There was companionship between the two. Bringing comfort to the otherwise stressful environment being rulers had.  And though neither voiced it, they knew there was something blossoming with how they’d light up whenever the other entered a room. The lingering gazes. The brushing of one's hand as they passed. Kisses to the knuckles at Senate meetings and adjusting clothing when it’s out of place. Then there was the tiny detail Geta had dismissed his concubines. Something Y/n had no knowledge of until three months of being married.  

Eight months into their first year of marriage, Geta unveiled the project he’d been planning since their wedding night. It had taken months, longer than what he anticipated, but then again he had to send men to Gaul and Germania, find the flowers and bring them back so they may plant the seeds in their gardens to grow them. The journey itself took over five months, then eight more weeks for the poppies to bloom. 

“Geta,” Y/n murmured in awe of the hundreds of beautiful orange poppies covering the entire garden grounds. Matching the sky above as the sun began to set on the horizon to end the day. It was exactly like how her father told her when he saw the field all those years ago. Plucking one closest to her, she brought it up to inhale, sighing in content at the familiar scent she had missed. “How did you…?”

“I sent an expedition to Gaul and Germania,” He explained, taking a seat on the bench by the fountain. She joined him, clutching the poppy as though it were a lifeline while gaping at the man with utter adoration. Their closeness spread heat between the two, and Geta cleared his throat before speaking again, “Thought you might enjoy having your favorite flower steps away rather than miles.” 

Her heart soared, so much so it made her eyes water. “I do not--I do not know how to even begin expressing my gratitude for this gift.” Peering at the poppy she traced one of the petals, the smoothness glided along her fingertip. “This is absolutely perfect, Geta. I cannot thank you enough.”

“You are welcome,” he replied sheepishly, tugging at the fabric of his toga around his neck. Suddenly feeling hot despite the cool breeze. He froze when Y/n skidded closer to him on the bench, making their thighs touch. Time stopped with only the gentle sound of the fountain and birds flying above reminding them where they were. His eyes never left her figure as she leaned forward into his space. Y/n secured the poppy on the lapel of Geta’s toga so it was tucked between the fabric and his golden shoulder plates. The orange color contrasted with the white and gold. Come to think of it, the flower matched his hair. And Y/n wondered if it was a sign from the Gods that the color of her favorite flower would remind her of her husband’s hair and vice versa. 

Adjusting it as best she could so it would stay, Y/n tapped the petals a final time before retracting her hands. However when she went to place them in her lap they were caught by Geta, his mouth colliding with hers in a kiss full of passion. “Hmmph!!” Catching her off guard it made her gasp, allowing Geta to slide his tongue past her lips and deepen the kiss. Her palms went to his cheeks, bringing him closer as his arms went to her waist. Hauling Y/n into his lap to press their chests together. 

“Never did I believe the Gods would permit me the privilege of receiving genuine, raw love,” Geta pulled away from the kiss, his eyes still closed and tone dropping an octave with reverence. “Nor did I believe I’d be capable of giving it to someone. For all my life I was deprived of love, save for the piece reserved for my brother.” His eyes fluttered, peering up at Y/n as his hand glided along her back affectionately and it brought goosebumps on her arms. Her breath hitched at the way he was looking at her. 

“I--,” he gulped the saliva that had piled in the back of his throat. “You have bewitched me, Y/n. Beyond anything I could have imagined. You consume my every thought--when I sleep you fill my dreams,” Once the confession left his lips Geta could not stop, cupping the back of Y/n’s neck to hold her close to him. All the emotion that had been building up for months finally released like a dam. “Since you have come into my life I cannot see a future where you are not in it. You are my anchor for when I feel lost at sea,” Inhaling Geta finished with, “These last eight months I have grown to love you, Y/n. And I hope you have come to feel the same.”

There it was. The four letter word that held so much power. The one that if anyone had asked Y/n four years ago when she was first betrothed to the emperor that she’d hear him declare it in the palace gardens surrounded by her favorite flower, she’d have told them they were mad. 

He waited for her reply, growing wearing with each second that passed. It was the most vulnerable Geta had ever been, and he felt he might vomit if Y/n didn’t say anything. The fear of rejection plaguing his mind. 

That fear diminished when Y/n brought him into a kiss that took his breath away, much like he did to her. His arms tightened around her, not letting an inch separate them as he met her kiss feverishly. The one on their wedding day may have signified their union, this one represented their undying love for each other. A beacon of hope for their future.  

“I love you, Geta,” her mouth caressed his with every syllable. Pressing soft pecks each time they met, he shuddered beneath her touch. “I think I have for some time, but was too afraid to say anything when I had said on our wedding night I did not expect anything out of this marriage. And I’d be lying if I said I was not fearful of the kind of man rumors painted you to be. But I was wrong,” she brushed a strand of his flaming hair away to hold his face, thumb stroking his cheekbone. “You have enchanted the very depths of my soul.” She kissed him once, “Ubi tu Gaius,” she kissed him twice. “Ego Gaia.”  

They sat there, on the bench overlooking the fountain pongs, tangled in each other's arms within a field of poppies as the sun departed and allowed the night to take claim of the sky. Between kisses they sighed and breathed each other’s air. And at times they simply stared into the other’s eyes. Neither needed words to vocalize the emotions pouring out of them.

And when Geta took his wife to bed that night, he sent word to the servants to move his things into hers when morning arrived. For they would not be needing separate chambers anymore. When the day ended the emperor would remain with his empress. Having tea on the terrace before he’d lift her up and carry her to their bed. Where he’d worship her for hours with only the Gods to bear witness and repeat the action the next morning. 

Acacius returned home in time for Saturnalia just as promised, arriving at the palace for the celebrations with Lucilla in hand, both excited to see their daughter for the first time since the wedding. But when they came face to face with the empress, Acacius saw first hand the fruit that bore from the seed of his ambition. Y/n and Geta were no mere strangers, they were not emperor and empress. They were husband and wife. He knew then that any loyalty reserved for him perished. Her allegiance was for the man feeding her pomegranate seeds and kissing away droplets of wine that may have fallen from her lips. 

Thinking back to the last words Y/n spoke to him, Acacius realized then what truly was the cost of honor.

[zarinaa113]

The second gif is, in my opinion, is the COOLEST THING TOOTHLESS HAS AND EVER WILL DO!!!!!!!!!!!

Fight me.

There is something so incredibly satisfying about these scenes I cannot describe

[devilander]

a mirror in half-light

18+ 1.5k. homelander x supe f!reader. blood, dirty talking, cunnilingus, use of telepathic powers, acts of violence mentioned (not between reader and HL)

From someone so concerned with shielding his mind, Homelander quickly comes to appreciate your telephatic powers and how useful they can be. Especially during a boring Seven meeting.

prompt sent by @infinetlyforgotten, thank you so much 🤍

When you were first introduced to the Seven, many, including your new colleagues, compared you to Mindstorm. Sure, there were some similarities—the ability to see a person’s thoughts or to project specific images. But that’s where it ended. 

The ace up to your sleeve, which distinguishes you and earned your supe name as Quickstep, is both your telepathic precognition, giving you leverage in hand to hand combat, and your crown and glory—possession. Supe or non-supes, all could have their minds hijacked by you; an ability Vought decided not to publicize. 

Your fellow partners in fighting crime knew, though; and from day one you could feel Homelander watching you with suspicion, a stare so filled with distaste your knees almost buckled. 

Seeing you in a corridor, Homelander signaled for you to approach.

“Quickstep,” he sneered, invading your personal space until he towered over you and your neck ached from looking so high up. “If I catch you using your little powers on me, be sure I’ll crack your spine. It’ll be easier than stomping on an ant. Got it?” His sudden artificial smile did nothing to lessen the weight of his words. 

Homelander was your hero, always, since childhood. Not only that, ever since you saw him for the first time, the shining blue eyes, the softness of his blonde hair, that commanding voice... You were a goner. And he most certainly knew. The disappointment almost, almost broke your heart. 

Little by little, however, with the unspoken promise you wouldn’t pry on his mind, you’d grown close. Partners in fighting crime, yeah, of course, but you had his back, no matter what. 

In one of your missions together, Homelander smeared in an innocent’s blood from head to toe, your first instinct was to help him—clean the mess. And you couldn’t lie, him in his violence and brutality did something to you. 

“Hey, you,” you murmured. “Let me help you, okay? Let me take care of it. Let me protect you.”

Surprisingly, he acquiesced. It took no more than minutes to possess the mind of some poor bystanders, having them fight and commit atrocious acts; they wouldn’t know what came over them and Vought would be too happy not to disclose. In quick action, the narrative changed; from rabid supe, to terrorist crowd. 

Later, you found yourself in his penthouse, in his bathtub, naked and cleaning the gore as he squeezed your waist. When you sealed your relationship with a bloodied kiss, you knew there was no turning back—and you loved it. Loved his quirks, his humor, his beautiful nose and soft hair, loved his flaws and all that came with it. Loved the tie that bound you forever. 

“I love you. I love you so much,” you whispered in his ear as you lay in his bed, a few hours before your meeting with the rest of the Seven. “I ache for you all the time. It overflows, sometimes.” You giggled, remembering when your desire burned you so passionately, so intensely, your mind had one focal point: Homelander and what he could do to your body. Without realizing, all your wants and needs were suddenly projected on his mind.

In the first time, you were fearful he’d throw a fit, but he simply grinned devilish at you. 

“Wow,” he laughed. “If I’d known more about your dirty little mind I would have put it to use a long time ago, babe.” 

After that, it became a fixture, in bed, in daily moments where voicing your thoughts wasn’t an option, or in missions when silent communication was useful. And bit by bit, he delighted in it, veritable proof of your devotion and love.

As it were, in this stolen moment, cuddled in his bed, he answered. “And I love you, my darling, My own mirror.” He nuzzled your neck. “No need to scream in my mind, I’m gonna eat your pretty pussy until you beg me to stop.” 

“I’d never,” you said breathily. 

Slowly kissing from your collarbone, to your stomach and thighs, mischievously looking you in the eye as he bit and kissed and licked everywhere around your cunt. His strength was enough to keep you in the exact place he wanted. Such a delicious torture. 

Finally he turned his attention to your clit, dragging his tongue over it in elaborate patterns—he was relentless, and you both moaned at the contact. You were loud, thrashing and screaming at the slightest touch, but only for him. He played your body perfectly. 

Your hands found his hair, soft to the touch, and yanked, wanting him closer and he groaned—the vibrations going straight to your core. Soon he started tongue-fucking, just as you liked it, going deep and slow, alternating to trace your slit from your asshole to your clit; not one part of you ignored. 

“Fuck, you taste so good. You’re fucking made for me, your pussy is mine, mine, understand that?”

“It’s yours! It’s all yours. Please, Homelander, please—”

“Please what?”

“Let me come, let me come in your mouth, I want to feel you.” It was all too much, the mess his tongue made, the wetness running down your pussy and dripping in the mattress.

Moaning, he plunged two fingers deep inside you, as he squeezed your ass, bringing you even closer. You cried from the pleasure he woke in you, and even in this madness you caressed his hair, closing your legs until he was in the position you liked most: with a perfect view of his face, his soft locks, his bright eyes. 

He smirked, squeezing you tighter, until you no longer touched the bed, and he slapped your ass so hard your whole body trembled. 

“Like that, princess? Like when I do whatever the fuck I want with your sweet body? Now show me. Show me what you want.” 

You complied instantly. 

You imagined him feasting on your pussy, licking it all until his spit and your slick became one and the same. His fingers marking your ass, your thighs; biting so deeply even your invulnerable skin would cleave to his superior strength. You wanted his tongue deep inside you, for yours on end, fucking your pussy so good your legs would spasm and you would scream for all the Tower to hear, pussy clenching just the way he liked. You wanted it all—Homelander slurping on your clit and swirling his tongue, making you squirt and swallowing it all, leaving his chin a beautiful fucking mess. 

In the aftermath, body boneless and exhausted, you wanted his fingers, for him to drag it all over your juices and make you swallow and gag on it. Then, in a little tenderness, he'd give you a breathtaking kiss, further proof of your intimate lovemaking. 

As you projected all of this on his mind, his smile grew bigger, more wicked. And you knew he'd deliver it, or even more. 

“You really are such a slut.” You giggled; it was all in the game.

Later on, as all the Seven were debating their latest terrorist attack, and what plan they'd need to put in action, all you could think was Homelander. His hands on you, his tongue lapping at your clit and his disheveled hair—which, you noticed, he didn't fix for the meeting. It wasn't fair, he was too mean at taunting you.

You couldn't keep your eyes off of him and he knew. Flashes of your morning together ran through your mind. No matter how satisfied you'd been, you wanted more, again, all the time. You wanted his kisses and devastation, his head between your legs and his mouth both teasing and giving you the most world-shattering pleasure. 

You wanted to caress his hair, your newfound obsession, while he fucked you, hiting that sweet spot and filling you up with his come.

In your daydreams, you tuned out from the conversation, and like being burned you found Homelander staring straight at you, an expression oh so familiar. Unintentionally he'd become the spectator of your fantasies. 

Rising from his chair so quickly you barely caught it, Homelander said, “That's enough for today. I have other things to take care of. Quickstep, you stay.”

Whispers of complaint were quickly shut down, as Homelander glared at them until each and everyone left the room.

“Well, well, seems like someone is still wantin' for more.”

He laid his hands on your chair, then turned it so you were face to face. 

“I couldn't help it,” you smirked. “I can't get enough.”

“But that's not fair, don't you think?" He clucked his tongue. "It's your turn to please me.” He pulled you from the chair, and manhandled you until you fell to your knees with a thud. “Now, princess, get to work.”

[epigstolary]

Tough Guy

Tw: Fat shaming, toxic masculinity, gaining as femininity

I can’t believe you still try to act like the big, muscly tough guy you used to be several hundred pounds ago. I mean, come on, who do you think you’re fooling? You’re about as intimidating as a baby elephant. Sure, the deep voice and the sleeve tattoos probably probably made you look pretty tough when you were in shape and 200lbs of muscle; but baby, those days are long gone. There’s a ton of fat packed onto whatever’s left of your physique under there. Those tattoos have gotten stretched and folded over your fat rolls so much that I can barely tell what they are anymore. And I just can’t take the deep voice seriously when it comes out so husky in between the labored wheezing that passes for breathing with you. Nobody’s gonna be shaking in their boots when you’re out of breath just from sitting on the couch, are they?

And even when you do get up, you don’t exactly look like the picture of health and fitness. A slow waddle is your typical pace, all your fat shifting from side to side with each intended step, your body clearly having to fight against it to keep moving forward. And all your indulgence has left you with a wide, bottom-heavy, pear-shaped physique more reminiscent of a well-fed housewife than a strong, buff gymbro. Nobody’s going to be mistaking you for one anyway, though, since your lazy ass can’t help but get red-faced and exhausted after just a couple minutes of walking around. You talk a big game about your glory days and everything you could do if you put some time into conditioning. But let’s face it: you’re about as out of shape as someone can be, and those wide hips and thunder thighs don’t scream athletic or manly.

I know it must be hard for you, though, since that’s still the guy you are in your head. The big, beer-drinking, meat-eating, football-watching manly man. Well, you missed the part where all that beer had a ton of calories, all that meat had a ton of fat, and all that football left your fattening ass planted on the couch all weekend, every weekend. I totally thought you were going to say something eventually about not needing me to bring you so much to drink and so many snacks, but nope, you never seemed to notice that you’d worked yourself up to eating an entire party’s worth of food all on your own between Saturday morning and Sunday night. And it’s not like I was going to stop you, was I?

I’d have thought your bros teasing you about how fat you were getting would be enough for you to at least start thinking about it, too. They may not be the cut jocks they were when you were younger, but aside from a couple with dadbods, they’re all in reasonably good shape. But not you. And you let them pat and rub your belly to put you in your place every time they come over to watch the game, take their jokes about how the blobby flab inflating your arms is all muscle, let them snicker at you for finishing off the food they leave behind to keep to their diets. You think you’re still just one of the boys, when really you’re more like their fat, chubby mascot.

So here you sit, munching on nachos swimming in beef queso, eyes glued to the third match of the day. Love handles bulging over the waistband of your athletic shorts, overtaxed by the titanic rump, bulging hips, and bloated thighs anchoring you to your seat. Tits flopping across your beer belly as you shout at the refs on tv. Chubby, shapeless arms wobbling with your gestures as you criticize guys in peak physical condition, lecturing about how they should be playing when thirty seconds of that level of activity would leave you panting on the ground. And me, just smiling and nodding and agreeing, knowing those 2,500 calories of goo are going to be blowing you up even more by tomorrow.

This can’t last forever, of course. Eventually, you’ll wind up so fat, heavy, and hard to move that you won’t be able to ignore how far you’ve fallen. You’ll have to confront the (at least) quarter-ton body you’ve grown, and consider how blubbery you were when it stopped being manly. Spoiler alert: you passed that point a looooong way back. You’ll face the fact that there’s nothing masculine about a guy whose manhood is buried in several inches of soft, yielding lard. That there’s nothing macho about a guy who has to move fat out of the way so he can reach for the remote or his next meal. That nobody envies a former athlete who’s so bloated and heavy he can barely make it to the mailbox and back. That you’ve eaten yourself out of everything you used to know about yourself.

But don’t worry; I’ll still pretend you’re my manly man, and you’ll eat that up too so you don’t have to pay attention to the last of your fitness slipping away. I’ll tell you that you look so big and strong, while you’re shoveling those pork rinds into your mouth. I’ll giggle that you seem so tough and stoic, while you’re planted on the couch, huge fat rolls flowing in all directions. I’ll whisper that you’re still so fit and athletic, after you come back huffing and puffing from hauling your big back from the next room. I’ll say all the things you want to hear. Just keep eating for me, baby. I want my tough guy to be big, and strong… and big.

[no-phrogs-in-hats]

hii, could you write a fluffy smut where Reader is a virgin (no experience)? Basically Agatha takes Reader’s virginity, but in slow steps to make her comfortable and showing Reader everything. Reader being untouched since forever -Reader is really HORNY- 

Step by Step !NSFW!

Agatha Harkness x fem!reader

Warnings: porn with the tiniest bit of plot??, loss of virginity (R), oral (R receiving), fingering (R and A receiving), soft agatha, explicit consent, hand holding kink if you squint, not beta read we die like the coven

A/N: Hi! I'm so sorry I've been gone, my canon event decided to happen in November instead of October, but I'm getting back into the groove! I was so excited to write this because I've been needing soft smut lately so I hope you enjoy!!

It was agony. No relationship of yours had ever progressed slower–not that you minded. But it was a bit painful.

With Agatha being over 300 years old, she had learned a thing or two about patience. Going through the Road had brought you closer together, and you were now in your sixth month of this relationship. You had held hands, kissed frequently, even moved in with each other, but you hadn’t had sex.

No other relationship you were in had lasted this long. Agatha was so much more different than your last partners: she had more wit than what was good for her, she made you laugh every day, and more importantly, she put your needs before anyone else’s. She consulted you in important decisions and let you be a part of her life. She cared about you deeply–more than anyone had before, and the thought of that made you tear up.

How thankful you were that nothing else had worked out.

After receiving a peck on the lips while making dinner for the both of you, you smiled, “Do you wanna watch a movie tonight?”

“Okay,” Agatha responded, turning her head quickly and raising her eyebrows, “but no more Fifty Shades. I don’t care if it was just so we could make fun of it, that shit was weird.”

You giggled, “I wasn’t gonna suggest Fifty Shades. I’ll let you pick.”

The domesticity after moving in with Agatha was palpable–and you wouldn’t have it any other way. You developed a nightly routine with her: you would make dinner while she cleaned out Señor Scratchy’s cage. The both of you would sit down for dinner while Señor Scratchy ate on the floor beside the table, you’d talk about your days and the new shows you two were watching together, Agatha would usually tell a story or two from her “glory days” as she’d call it, and then the two of you would clean up the kitchen together and retire to the living room with a glass of wine each, finally going to bed around eleven. 

But tonight, every minute of your routine pained you. All throughout dinner you wanted to shout at Agatha to take you right there. You were so painfully turned on, you were sure she could tell.

Doing the dishes, you had to hold yourself back from pulling her into a passionate kiss and having her fuck you right there on the counter.

But now, it was nearly nine, and the movie Agatha had picked out wasn’t even halfway over. You were so close to taking matters into your own hands–that was, until Agatha’s touch on your thigh felt anything but innocent.

As her fingers trace a line up and down your thigh, you find it hard to control your breathing. Her fingers continue, getting closer and closer to the apex of your thighs.

“Do you like that?” she asks, muttering in your ear.

You take a deep breath, “Yes.”

She hums, chuckling softly and looking back at the television, “Keep watching the movie…”

You obey, despite how hard it is, and continue watching the movie as her fingers don’t leave their position and you become more and more needy.

The movie is over by eleven, and soon, you’re saying goodnight to Señor Scratchy and turning off the lights.

As soon as you get in the bedroom, Agatha’s shirt is off and she’s left in her bra. The sight almost makes you drool and she smirks, “You like what you see?”

“I–ye–Uhh–”

“Cat got your tongue, sweetheart?” she drawls, and steps closer to you. 

Her hand is on your chest and she walks you backwards until your knees hit the bed and you collapse onto your back. As she crawls toward you, you sit up and scoot yourself back until you’re in the center of the bed and Agatha is in front of you..

Your hands go around Agatha immediately when she kisses you, pulling her closer. A chill runs through you at the feeling of her chest against you and it amplifies when her hands run under your shirt.

She pulls away from your lips just enough to mutter, “Is it okay if I take this off?”

“Yes,” you whisper, and your shirt is discarded in an instant with your lips back on hers.

Her hands move to your back and her fingers lightly touch the band of your bra. “What about this?”

You nod, “Yes.”

After removing her own bra, the two of you in nothing but your underwear, and the heat between you increases immensely. Your hands run over every inch of each other’s bodies as you kiss passionately.

Agatha pulls away from your lips and looks you deeply in the eyes, holding your face with her hands. You had never seen such an expression on her. Even when sad, she’d keep a hard exterior. But this is new. This is soft and loving. It’s filled with warmth but tinged with concern.

“Are you absolutely sure you want to continue?” she asks softly.

You nod your head, “Yes, Agatha.” She leans in to kiss you again, but you stop her.  “Wait. I’ve…never done this. Is it alright–can we go slowly?”

Anxiety courses through you. You’re waiting to hear the familiar words that your past relationships would throw at you.

“Oh…Well, I only wanna be with someone who’s experienced…Sorry.”

“I don’t date virgins, sorry.”

Instead, these words never come.

Agatha smiles softly, “Of course. We can go at whatever pace you want. We’ll go one step at a time.”

“I’d like that,” you mutter, almost having to hold back tears. “Thank you.”

Smiling again, Agatha kisses you and pushes you slowly down onto your back. “I’m going to touch you now,” she says. “Is that okay?”

You look into her eyes and nod.

“I need to hear you say it.” Your cheeks grow warm at the sound of the sternness in her voice. “Yes,” you respond. “That’s okay.”

“Good girl,” she smiles, and kisses you once again. 

You can feel your pulse quicken and breathing pick up as her fingers skim over skin–down your chest, brushing over your nipples and over your abdomen, down to your hips. 

She sits back and takes a good look at you as she continues to hold your thighs. “You look so good like this…”

You become flustered, hiding your face in your forearms before Agatha leans down and pulls them away. “Oh, don’t hide yourself from me, darling,” she smiles. “You have nothing to be worried about.” She sets your arms down gently, “Take a few breaths for me…that’s it. Do you want me to stop?”

You shake your head no quickly, “No! Please, don’t stop.”

“Okay,” she whispers, kissing you deeply and then making her way down your body. “It’s okay if you don’t finish quickly–or at all. It’s just about feeling good. Okay?”

You nod and she kisses your hips and licks up your thighs, and delights in the way goosebumps form over your skin. Her fingers pull aside the gusset of your underwear and run up your slit, circling your clit.

When you moan, Agatha hums, placing a kiss on your thigh. “That’s it,” she coos. “Let it out. Tell me how good it feels.”

When her sentence ends, it’s only seconds before you feel her tongue on you now. You let out a long moan as she continues, drawing short, languid lines with tongue.

“More,” you pant. “More, please, Agatha.”

She looks up at you, “I’m going to use my fingers next, okay?”

“Okay,” you nod, and gasp at the feeling of her fingers tracing your entrance as her tongue continues. “Oh, my god, Agatha…”

When her two fingers slide in and curl, your back arches and you grab her free hand. You relish in the way her fingers interlock with yours and it makes the pleasure all the more enjoyable as you start grinding your hips into her tongue. 

Your hand clasps over your mouth as a whimper turns into a particularly loud moan, “God, Agatha–oh, fuck!’

“Do you want me to go faster?” she asks, not removing her fingers. You don’t respond until she curls her fingers again, “Answer me.”

“Yes!” you moan. “Yes! Please, go faster!” As she quickens her pace, your body feels like it’s on fire. “Fuck, fuck, fuck! Yes! Don’t stop!” Your back arches and you gasp when Agatha sucks hard, moaning loudly. “I’m–oh, god–please, Agatha! I’m gonna cum! Don’t stop!”

Agatha hums against you and tightens her hold on your hand, “Keep going, baby. You can do it…cum for me.”

She seems to enjoy the view a whole lot more as you shake and moan beneath her. “Good girl,” she says as she crawls back up to hover over you. With her fingers still slowly working inside you, her hand lets go of yours and takes your chin. “That was a lot for your first time,” she says quietly, and kisses you. “But you did so well for me.”

You smile into the second kiss and hum as you taste yourself, taking pleasure in how Agatha’s fingers still haven’t moved from their original position inside you. “I love you,” you whisper against her lips before taking your own hand and sliding it down Agatha’s body. You find the edge of her underwear and move your hand beneath them. “Is this okay?”

Her lips brush yours and she huffs as your fingers gather her arousal and circle her clit, “Yes, just like that. Keep going, baby.”

When her lips clash with yours again, her own fingers inside you start again. You’re both breathing heavily into each other's mouths and your foreheads press into each other as Agatha begins to rock her hips on your fingers. Your second orgasm didn’t take long to hit and Agatha’s first didn’t take long either–neither did your third or her second.

The entire situation was so erotic, you could barely handle it. You had read books, watched movies and TV, even watched porn a few times. But nothing compared to this. Nothing compared to Agatha’s delicate touch and passionate kisses–the sounds she makes when she finishes and the praise she gives you as come undone beneath her. You had only ever dreamed of someone like her.

Agatha lays on her back with her arm around your shoulders, the comforter and bedsheets askew in a wild mess around you. You’re both breathing heavily and you place little pecks on her hand and wrist.

“Are you–are you sure that was your first time?” Agatha huffs tiredly.

You giggle and bury your face in her neck. As you kiss the exposed skin softly, you say, “That impressed, huh?”

“Quite,” she answers.

Moments of silence and kissing go by before you lift your head and look Agatha in the eyes. “So, do you wanna go again?”

Agatha laughs and kisses you, “You are completely insatiable!”

[zarinaa113]

The second gif is, in my opinion, is the COOLEST THING TOOTHLESS HAS AND EVER WILL DO!!!!!!!!!!!

Fight me.

𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧 (𝟐𝟎𝟏0)

𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐠𝐢𝐟𝐬 | 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐭𝐭𝐲𝐝 𝐠𝐢𝐟 𝐭𝐚𝐠

[brailsthesmolgurl]

"What's my hidden perk?"

Preview: The LADS boys and their hidden perks. (lemme know if you guys want a part 2 hehe)

SYLUS - horseriding

Quirking his silver brow, his crimson orbs tailed your gaze. A gaze that went from bottom to top, a view you could not believe witnessing in front of your eyes. The giant figure of your boyfriend on top of a Dutch Draft. "Are you planning to just stand there and watch me in awe or do you plan to ride with me?" His voice thick, specifically laced with proud mockery as he was enjoying the look of shock you had been wearing ever since he had told you that he is good at horse riding. He extended his palm to you and took your hand, providing balance to you as you walked up the steps and took a seat in front of him, on top of the horse. This is afterall, your first time riding a horse.

It all started out as a harmless joke while the both of you were watching some National Geographic show about horses. Till he nonchalantly mentioned that he has been riding horses from a very young age and hence the surprise date for today. Featuring your boyfriend, with a horse--that you had no idea where he got from. You tensed up when you felt his chest pressed against your back, his breaths fanned over the top of your head. You hate to admit it—but you still do anyways— how he always manages to get a reaction out of you, be it stemming from a simple gesture. "Now that you have found out about my secret talent, does this mean we get to ride horses more often?" He leaned down, whispering seductively against the shell of your ear. "Or perhaps you would just prefer riding me, sweetie?"

RAFAYEL - good with kids

“Careful.” Rafayel grabs ahold of your forearm, guiding you past the puddle in the vast garden. The date came about to be a surprise, with the charming boyfriend of yours appearing at your doorstep in the mid evening, seeking you out from the stuffiness of your house to embrace Mother Nature in all of its glory after a whole day of heavy rain. Blushing slightly, you continued walking with him down the cobblestoned pathways, enjoying the coolness of the rain till sounds of laughters filled the air. A couple of kids were perched over a drain cover, staring into the waters with their beady eyes.

Rafayel drops his hold from your forearm and held onto your hand, the casual yet romantic gesture still greatly affects you. “Come on, let’s see what they are looking at.” At a certain extent, when you stared at your boyfriend from a distance, interacting with the children, laughing and chuckling as he was playing catch with them made your stomach feel warm. For someone like him, who spends most of his days locked away in that mansion of his, interacting with only a fish and canvases, you had never thought of him to be good with children. However, Rafayel had yet again managed to surprise you. Seeing him waltzing over to you, with a huge grin stapled on his face, you can’t help but mimicked his expression. “You seemed bored. Do you want to join us cutie?”

XAVIER - has an annual pass to amusement parks

It took forever for the both of you to plan a date due to the recent influx of wanderers. Captain Jenna had gotten the both of you to be split up into two different shifts; with you being the leader for the day shift while your boyfriend, Xavier is incharge of the night shift. Hence, when the wanderers' amount had finally decreased, Xavier did not hesitated to ask you out on a date. "I had always wanted to bring you here. It was on my list." He spoke, hands holding tightly onto your smaller palms as he led you past the huge archways of the theme park. Colours of all spectrums welcomed you, revealing the colourful fanfare of a theme park and you could feel your inner giddiness peeking through your smile.

As the both of you stood in line for the tickets, you were surprised when Xavier muttered to you. "Since it is your first time here, I will buy the ticket for you." When it came to your turn for the ticket purchase, your boyfriend only requested for one and you tapped onto his shoulder nervously, immediately asking him if he was only going to get one and watch you from outside or perhaps he may need some aid for funds. The man however beamed shyly, ear tips turning a shade of rubicund when he tried to explain himself. "I...uhm...have an annual pass?" The hidden question mark at the end of his sentence made you chuckled in return, mind already imagining how funny it would be to see him riding the theme park rides all by himself. "But, I got you an annual pass too." He held up the golden ticket in his hand. "From now on, we can both come together as much as we want."

ZAYNE - good at snowboarding

Zayne had appeared at your doorstep a little too early than his usual timing, which is usually going by your timing as you do like taking your time to sleep in and he do not find the need to disturb your beauty sleep. But today seems to be different when he appeared in front of your door with a coat in his hand. When you asked him about the purpose of him coming so early, the man only kept it short and simple, replying accurately to what you had asked. "I had taken a few days off of work and I had booked us a spot at a ski lodge." When you had an eyebrow raised, he continued to explain himself. "You had been watching the snowboarding event for the Olympics recently. I assumed you would like to try it yourself." You weren't exactly surprised at how conscious he tends to be, but you are more concerned of yourself as you had never done any snowboarding in your life.

"You had never snowboarded before haven't you?" Zayne questioned, those forest green orbs of his meeting yours with amusement. As you nodded, you could feel your cheeks heating up, warming you from the harsh cold winds. You hesitated though, asking him in return if he were to know anything about snowboarding given that during the safety briefing he did asked a couple of questions here and there. "Me? I would not say I am good at it, but I did tried it before, ever since I was a kid." He patted your head, a small smile tugging onto the end of his lips. "Don't worry, I will hold onto you the whole time and make sure you do not hurt your knees or fall into the snow." His arm snaked around your waist, pulling you close against his side and he planted a kiss onto your forehead. "But you can definitely fall into my arms if you slip."

[satinroses]

Oh, I wouldn't say freed... More like, under new management!

Spoilers for 5.3 Natlan Archon Quest!

Yan!Pantalone x GN! Reader (x Yan!Capitano)

Summary: Having clawed his ways from the slums of Liyue Harbour to being seated at the table of a God, seizing opportunities has become Pantalone's second nature and now that the first harbinger is... indefinitely indisposed, what kind of banker would he be if he didn't capitalise on such a unique situation by finally stealing away Capitano's precious consort, the same one that has plaguing his every waking moment since the very moment he first laid eyes upon them?

Warnings: Sensitive themes, Yandere Behaviours, do you have stockholm syndrome or are you going mad from social isolation? your choice!, manipulation, social isolation, anxiety, you're all around not having a good time, mild nsfw implications, fearing for your life (not from Pantalone), losing the will to go on, you literally can't catch a break

3.5K Words

A/N: did i intend for the title to be a Megamind reference...? perchance... also please forgive any inconsistencies or grammatical errors. I have not yet finished the Natlan archon quest but I've seen the spoilers and i hope that fine ass man rests in peace. I'm still high on copium and am praying that because his body is still alive then Dottore can work his magic and fix him somehow someway (if that happens i may even write a part 2 in celebration! Or even if it doesn't!)

Anyone who knew anything about the first harbinger would be well aware of the reverence and tenderness he lavished onto you. Your safety and protection would forever be at the forefront of the harbingers mind, before retrieving the gnosis, or bringing glory to the Tsaritsa or even striking down the heavenly principles. As such it’s not unusual for the harbinger to keep you sequestered away in the dark, lonesome manor you have learnt to call home ever since your marriage. After several years it was now commonplace for Capitano to be gone for days and weeks at a time, hardly breathing a goodbye, just pressing one adoring and gentle kiss to the back of your hand and a second hot, gruff kiss to your lips before storming out of the door, blade sheathed on his belt. 

This time he had strayed from the established routine, Capitano had warned you that he might be gone for a bit longer than usual but he would return to your arms within a month. You remembered the silent voice in your head bitterly wishing that he would never return, how the heavenly principles love to play their cosmic jokes. 

After a month had passed and the letters from your husband (since you were wed he had made a point of writing you a detailed letter every single day, describing his journey and detailing how dearly he missed you and how everyday away from your side was utter agony) had stopped arriving. You had spent hours pouring over every letter he had sent since his departure but not once did he mention anything that could explain his sudden silence. That was the second thing that unnerved you, if there was one thing you had learnt through your several years of marriage to the first harbinger, it was that his loyalty and devotion was second to none. The idea that your ever loyal hound would stray from his routine was peculiar enough. Once another week had passed without any word from or about Capitano you began to pester the servants and guards for any information from the outside world but they refused to breathe a word to you. 

Although you publicly admitted you held much contempt for Capitano for prying you from your home, you couldn’t help the unease that seeped into your bones. You had spent countless mornings watching him train, the brute force and unrestrained power he used to slam his blade down into the frozen ground, the innumerable agents he dispatched with one measured swing of his sword and on rare occasion when you were close enough to danger to personally witness (a scarce occurrence as even leaving the estate was uncommon) how his onyx blade was stained with a viscous crimson inch or that seemed to seep everywhere, even sticking to the fur of his cloak. When he pulled you into his chest after the fighting was done you’ll never forget how sickening the coppery scent was, clinging to the inside of your nose until you felt like you were suffocating on it. That combined with the utter love-sick devotion he had proven himself a slave to, you found the idea that anything could prevent Capitano from writing other than death to be utterly humorous. Somehow despite the hatred you harboured in your heart for the man, the idea of a man of Capitano’s impossibly imposing stature somehow being struck down felt impossible, even if it was the pyro archon herself to do so. You simply refused to entertain such an idea. That night you had come to a conclusion: There has been a mix up! or the messenger was attacked on the road! or maybe Capitano's letters slipped right out of the messengers pack and he simply hasn't realised. You repeated these mantras to yourself compulsively.

But as the weeks continued to amble on by with no word from your husband you couldn’t help but find that a more extreme reason to be the only excuse for his sudden silence.

As you spent days pondering on the possibility of your captor’s passing, the idea that any day now a Fatui official would wander in and give you an official declaration of Capitano’s passing and would send you on your way with perhaps a pouch of Mora for your troubles. The more you fantasised about your freedom being returned to you, the more you realised how unlikely such an occurrence was. That morning you had been nothing short if giddy, any day now you would be free to return to your family and you could pretend these past years were nothing short of a bad dream - by evening your joy had turned to ash in your throat. If your husband (even after several years of calling him that, it still caused your throat to constrict painfully as though the very word was poison) had truly been defeated then you had become nothing to the Fatui but another loose end to tie up. There was no way they could know for sure just how much information regarding the sensitive inner workings of the Fatui that Capitano had shared with you. There was no way they would let you wander free when you were a living, breathing compromise to all their plans. Even in the event of his death, you shall be returned to his arms soon enough. You couldn’t stop an overwhelming feeling of defeat swallow you like a wave as the realisation hit you that nothing would bring Capitano greater joy.

After several weeks of agonising suspense you had debased yourself to pleading with the servants and guards for even just a rumour of what was to become of you. Again, they showed you nothing but cold indifference as they continued their tasks, completely unaffected by your desperate pleas.

Your feet bled from the constant pacing as your mind was utterly consumed with anxiety. The unknown and the terror of what was to come had driven you half mad with unease. All day you wept for how unfairly your life would end, never truly getting to live before your life was stripped from you. All night you didn’t dare get even a wink of sleep for fear one of the guards would slip into your chambers and finally put an end to you. Your mind had endlessly ran through every possibility of escape but it seemed just as impossible as it had before, if not more so. You weren’t sure if the isolation and fear was finally taking complete control but you were almost certain there were more guards surrounding the estate now then there had been prior to Capitano’s departure.

That night you sat on the floor of your chambers, hunched over your bed as you wept into the thick duvet for even a brief illusion of comfort. Your hands were clasped tightly together in prayer, crimson crescents marring your hands with the frantic devotion you called out to your Goddess. Sobbing into the bedsheets you called aloud for the Tsaritsa, beseeching her to take some mercy on her devoted follower and either return Capitano to you safely or offer you a quick and clean death and put an end to this torment for you couldn't bare another day of it.

For the first time in days and after hours of desperate cries for your goddess to extend you some of her benevolence, you slipped into an uneasy slumber, half expecting to wake up to a blade to your throat yet you had lost the will to endure. As the sun rose you were awoken by the distinct noise of the main doors slamming shut as heavy footsteps strode into the Grand Foyer. Breathlessly you rose to your feet, certain that the Tsaritsa had heard your prayed and returned your husband to you. You scrambled as fast as you could down the winding corridors, paying no mind to how your limbs were trembling with adrenaline or the rumpled nightclothes you were still dressed in. As you burst through the door you skidded to a halt on the polished marble floors. Instead of being greeted by Capitano’s open embrace, ready to sweep you into his arms now that you were finally reunited, your eyes instead landed upon the ninth harbinger who now stood just a few feet in front of you, his gloved hands clasped tightly behind his back as he gave you what appeared to be an attempt at a genuine smile. 

You froze. In your relief at the possibility of Capitano’s return you hadn’t even registered this as an outcome. You had only met Pantalone perhaps once before, at your wedding a few years prior. That had been the only day Capitano had permitted you to be around any of colleagues. What was already no doubt an uncomfortable event for all involved but the groom had only been exacerbated by the eccentric personalities seated in the audience. You had sobbed the entire way through the ceremony with two Fatui soldiers having to grip onto your arms and practically force you down the aisle. At the very least the 11th harbinger had the decency to look genuinely concerned as you were dragged down the aisle. You had half thought the man might attempt to put a stop to it but when the time came to ask for objections not one person came forward. After the ceremony you could also recall an interaction with the knave. Although the whole day had been a blur, you remembered that she briefly took you aside and sternly forced her handkerchief into your hand, refusing to take no for an answer. You wouldn’t exactly call the woman doting but whatever small sympathy the woman was capable of, it’s clear she had attempted to extend them to you. You had spent many nights after the ceremony thinking back on your interactions with all the harbingers, Pierro and Pulcinella’s cold indifference at the ceremony, Sandrone and Dottore’s impatience to leave as quickly as socially acceptable to return to whatever invention or experiment had currently caught their attention, the varying looks of pity you received from Tartaglia, Arlecchino and La Signora, the quiet smile on Columbina’s face and… the one harbinger you just couldn’t get a read on. Pantalone had turned to watch as you were forced down the aisle and his eyes had not left you once since. Even as the festivities had begun and Capitano had whirled your reluctant form across the crystalline ballroom of Zapolyarny Palace, his eyes didn’t once move from you. Now you were feet away from him and his eyes enclosed around you once more, fixated so wholly on you as though nothing else in the world could or would ever matter even remotely as much as you did in this moment.

Your breath hitched as he sauntered closer, removing his finely crafted leather gloves from his hands. You shut your eyes at once, although you could no longer see him, you could hear the clicks of his shoes echoing through the foyer and getting closer. Once he was but a few inches away from you, you tensed your shoulders to brace for impact but it never came. You couldn’t help but flinch as you felt both his hands clasp firmly down on your shoulders, holding you in place. After several seconds you finally allowed your eyes to flutter open. Pantalone’s eyes bored into yours as he tutted with what was likely an attempt to display sympathy but instead came off as patronising.

”Now now” he breathed out, his hands now began to rub up and down your shoulders in soothing motions “There’s no need to look so frightened” he exhaled, almost sounding amused.

”Where is Capitano?” you asked. You hardly recognised your own voice with how hoarse it had become from the past weeks of weeping.

”Shh shh shh” he muttered, his hands moving from your shoulders, up to your cheeks. He cupped your face affectionately as he spoke in a gentle tone as though afraid the slightest upset might frighten you off. With a deep sigh he began “I’m afraid Capitano is occupied… indefinitely. No matter how dearly I’m sure he would wish to see you, I’m afraid you won’t be reunited for a long time yet.”  He paused for a moment, his gaze darting across your face for any idea of your internal workings. His stare was bright and brilliant, even when hidden behind the glasses that sat firmly on the bridge of his nose. He made you feel exposed, as though every second under his stare he stripped away a little more of your walls. He left you feeling bare and cold, you wanted to shrink away from the ninth harbinger. He had told you what you needed to hear and now you wanted to sink back into the depths of the manor and await whatever fate had in store for you, as long as it was far away from him. After another moment of his assessment he seemed satisfied and continued

”It’s with a heavy heart that I bring the news that the mission to acquire the Pyro Archon’s gnosis was not successful” his tone was one of deep sorrow however you could see the tiniest ghost of a smirk dancing across his face as his attempted to maintain composure. “Of course I am delegating as much funding as financially possible to restore your husband however I’m afraid the damage was quite extensive, It’s unlikely that even with the unparalleled scientific minds in the Fatui that we will ever be able to return him to you.”

Once again your heart began to patter against your ribcage. If what Pantalone said was true then you truly were a liability. You cleared your throat and took a deep breath before you spoke, desperate to at least maintain a façade of dignity in the face of such dire circumstances

”Have you come here to kill me then?” You asked him. In response the harbingers eyebrows shot up almost comically, for the first time this morning he looked completely astounded.

”Kill you? Now why ever would I do that?” His hands were still planted firmly on your cheeks, his cool skin soothing on the heat on your cheeks as his thumb tenderly traced the tear tracks that were still emblazoned on your cheeks from your night of sorrowful prayer. He hummed contentedly before continuing, “admittedly there were a few of my colleagues that had suggested to wash our hands of you entirely and slip some arsenic in your food or simply have one of the soldiers stick a blade through your heart” He paused again, assessing you. He could almost feel your breath hitch as he inched slightly closer, his thumb now tracing idle patterns on your cheeks “don’t worry my dear, I shut down such discussions swiftly. I would never wish to have the blood of someone so lovely on my hands. No, that wouldn’t do at all” Now he let a full grin fall across his face. You believe he was attempting to make it comforting but instead it felt predatory, like a lion grinning down at a lamb. “My colleagues and I have thankfully come to a compromise. Although I’m certain you would never run and spill any secrets you may have learnt from your time in such close proximity to Capitano… unfortunately several of my fellow harbingers didn’t feel quite so confident in your loyalty.” One of his hands now reached to brush through your hair gently, his grin grew until he was baring all his teeth at you. Now he didn’t just feel like a lion, he looked like one too “For the foreseeable future you will be taking up residence at my estate. Please don’t fret my lady, I’ll ensure you are well looked after.” His watched you expectantly, as though he believed this to be wonderful news for you. You stared at him blankly. Last night you had prayed to the Tsaritsa for your husband returned home or death but it would appear she had managed to present you with a 3rd, much more terrifying option. Although he may not be quite as physically imposing as Capitano, he somehow made you feel much smaller. Every shared touch and exchanged glance with Pantalone felt intimate and expectant, every brief glance at your lips was a promise of something more to come, every tender caress a precursor for a carnal embrace. Even now he seemed half shocked you hadn’t jumped into his arms in glee at the news you would now be staying with him. Of course you were thankful that he had intervened on your behalf and given you another chance at life but a more animalistic and instinctual part of you as you stood here alone with Pantalone you almost would have preferred being left in this dark, reclusive manor to rot. Capitano took so much from you but he left you your dignity, your sense of personhood, despite his desire to take and take until there was nothing left, he had always strove to be selfless for your sake. With a man like Pantalone, even now with his grip on your face, deceptively light but the muscles in his fingers were tense, ready to clamp down the moment he deemed in necessary. From what little you knew of Pantalone from Capitano’s descriptions, he was the head of the Northland bank and had built himself an immeasurable amount of wealth. Did Pantalone know when you've taken too much from someone? Did he care?

Part of you wished to pry his hands off your cheeks and flat out refuse him, scream out that you want nothing to do with him and flee back to you bed chambers like a child but unfortunately the rational part of you took over, the part of you that was screaming at you to seize this last chance at life he was offering you and so when he extended his hand to you and whispered into your ear in a saccharine tone “Shall we?” You couldn’t help but accept.

Pantalone's POV:

The carriage ride back to his estate wasn't long but he had given his driver instructions to extend it for as long as possible. You seemed bewildered when he sat right by your side, thigh to thigh, instead of sitting across from you. His arms wrapped tightly around your shoulder, constricting you to his side like a serpent. You were sat close enough to his side that he could smell the saccharine smell that emanated from you.

Since the moment he first saw you he had known that there was no one else in the world for him but you. Every single night since he saw you, he couldn't sleep with the extremity of his yearning. It was indescribable agony to know that you were laying in the bed of the First harbinger. Innumerable priceless artefacts and artworks had been destroyed in his rage at the thought of you being by that undeserving wretches' side. Now having you so close after yearning and longing for countless years, it was a high unlike anything else. Feeling your skin against his, you were so close that he could almost feel your warm breath on his skin, it took every scrap of restraint in his body to not begin to ravage you the moment the carriage door shut.

He knew he could never challenge his fellow harbinger publicly, especially not one so revered as Capitano and he knew where his strengths lied. If it came down to a duel then there was a slim chance he would succeed.

However as he matured from a street urchin to the wealthiest man in Snezhnaya, he had learnt that if you cannot beat them at their own game then simply don't play it. It had taken several years of calling in favours, pulling countless strings and funding dozens of failed experiments and dead-end expeditions in order to convince his fellow harbingers that it would be best if Capitano faced the pyro archon alone.

Of course he didn't receive the news of Capitano's supposed immortality well but it doesn't matter that he is still breathing. He may as well be a corpse at this point. He's sure that by passing the funding for a few more of Dottore's experiments then he can convince him to put the matter of restoring Capitano's soul on the back burner.

He had come to terms with how risky this plan was the moment he first set it into place several years ago but he has formed his entire career on a succession of flawlessly executed gambles. His entire life he has been beating the odds and he's not going to stop now that the recently widowed object of his adoration and obsession sits a mere inch away, still draped in nothing but their thin night clothes.

He will admit that perhaps it was cruel to keep you waiting all those weeks, he should have come to collect you the moment the news reached him of Capitano's failure but when he saw the frantic, desperate look in your eyes as you burst into the room, he knew that he had made the right call. You weren't in the position to deny him anything now. He could finally rest easy knowing you were seated right in the palm of his hand, exactly where you belonged.

[hidden-behind-the-fourth-wall]

For Rome - Chapter 1

Summary: A weary Roman General, Marcus Acasius, sets out to find the so-called "Angel" his soldiers speak of—a woman with a gentle touch and an even softer voice. What he discovers is far more extraordinary than he ever imagined.

Pairing: General Marcus Acasius x F!Reader

Warnings: a description of injuries (I'm not a doctor or do not have any medical education so apologies), nothing here yet. English isn't my first language so all mistakes are mine for which I apologise.

Words: 6K

The life of a soldier was never an easy one, but the life of a Roman soldier? It was a crucible of steel and blood. General Marcus Acasius knew this better than most. War had carved its lessons into his flesh and seared them into his soul. He had lived through campaigns that churned the earth with rivers of blood, watched comrades fall like broken reeds, and seen hope flicker and die in the eyes of too many men. This was not a life he would have wished upon his worst enemies—let alone himself.

And yet, here he was. Bound by duty, chained to Rome’s legacy, and crushed beneath the weight of serving not one, but two emperors whose names would forever leave a bitter taste on his tongue.

Two boys drowning in power they neither earned nor understood. They were spoiled by their station and cruel in their ignorance, wielding authority like a child might a blade—clumsy, reckless, and devastating. Marcus had long since lost count of the orders he had executed on their behalf, justifying them under the banner of Rome. Yet he knew the truth. He had not fought for Rome in years. He fought for their whims, their games. And the cost? Endless bloodshed. Endless grief.

The screams haunted him most—the keening wails of mothers clutching lifeless sons, the choking sobs of widows, the silent, hollow-eyed children whose futures he had stolen with the sweep of a sword. He had grown sick of it all. Sick of blood-soaked glory, of starving masses, of men reduced to mere tools in the grotesque machinery of imperial ambition.

Perhaps that was why he found himself here now, in the shadowed underground of the subcity. The stench of rot and despair clung to the narrow alleys, and the skeletal frames of the impoverished haunted every corner. It was a place forgotten by the sun and abandoned by Rome, yet it thrummed with whispers.

Whispers of you.

An “angel,” his soldiers had called you. At first, he had dismissed their reverent tones as the drunken ramblings of battle-weary men. What could an angel possibly look like in a place like this? But the way they spoke of you lingered in his mind, drawing him down into this forsaken part of the city.

It was not the talk of your beauty that intrigued him. He had seen beauty before—false and true, fleeting and eternal. What struck him was the way his men, hardened and stoic, described your hands, your voice, your presence. They spoke of the way your touch could ease pain, how your smile softened the sharp edges of their suffering, and how your words, simple and kind, could light the darkest of days. They described you with an almost childlike awe, as though you were something beyond their comprehension, something Rome itself could not tarnish.

Marcus wanted to scoff at their adoration, but the weight in their voices told him otherwise. Could someone like you truly exist in this ruined city? A city bloated with greed, corroded by power, and built on the bones of the desperate? He needed to see for himself.

You were said to help those Rome had cast aside—the soldiers, the beggars, the orphans, and the broken. While the wealthy insulated themselves from the rot, you faced it head-on. Even Lady Lucilla, a shrewd and guarded aristocrat, spoke of you with an uncharacteristic fondness. “A stubborn creature,” she had called you with a rare smile. “She takes only what she needs, no more, even when I insist. She’s maddeningly selfless, like a fool chasing the wind.”

It was those words that lingered as he descended into the subcity. They painted an image of someone unyielding, someone who refused to be swallowed by the darkness around her. Someone who, perhaps, could remind him of what it meant to fight for something greater than power.

The streets grew narrower, the air thicker. His boots crunched against the broken cobblestones as he approached the small gathering place where you were said to tend to the sick and weary. His heart, hardened by years of war, beat faster, not with fear but with something he couldn’t quite name.

The room was not what he expected.

Makeshift beds lined both sides of the narrow space, occupied by men, women, and children in various states of weariness and healing. Yet, unlike the countless barracks and field hospitals Marcus Acasius had seen in his lifetime, this place radiated an unusual serenity. The faces of the sleeping bore no trace of the gnawing fear he had come to associate with suffering. It was as if some invisible spell had been cast here, lulling their troubled souls into a rare and precious peace.

He inhaled deeply, preparing for the sharp sting of blood and rot so common in places of injury and despair. Instead, the air was clean—remarkably so. It smelled faintly of herbs, maybe lavender, and something subtler, something soothing. It reminded him of the private quarters back at his villa, of the rare nights when he could sleep without the shadows of war pressing against his chest. A ridiculous thought, he chastised himself.

And then, he saw you.

You stood with your back to him, entirely focused on the child sitting on the small, battered chair in front of you. Marcus had made no attempt to move quietly—he was a soldier, not a thief—but you hadn’t turned at the sound of his boots on the stone floor. It wasn’t fearlessness; it was trust, an unshakable calm that marked every movement of your hands as you adjusted the sling cradling the boy’s injured arm.

The child couldn’t have been older than eight. His tear-streaked face glistened under the dim light, and yet his lips curved into a smile—soft, hesitant, but undeniably genuine. A smile on the face of an injured child. Marcus stared at the sight, unmoored. He had never seen such a thing before. In the chaos of war, even when children were treated, their screams and sobs were met with indifference, their pain an afterthought. But here, this boy laughed—a pure, light sound that bounced off the walls like a small rebellion against misery.

“General.”

Marcus turned to his right, startled from his reverie. One of his men lay in a bed nearby, his head wrapped in clean bandages, his arm in a sling not unlike the boy’s. He bore the marks of battle but looked far better than Marcus had expected. There was color in his cheeks, and his voice, though tired, carried a note of gratitude. “I didn’t expect to see you here, sir.”

With a quick wave of his hand, Marcus silenced the man’s attempt to rise and salute. Before he could reply, a burst of laughter drew his attention back to you.

The boy was laughing again, his small body shaking with mirth. From where Marcus stood, it seemed you were scolding him, your finger jabbing lightly into his tiny chest. But the smirk tugging at the corners of your lips betrayed you. Whatever you were saying, it was no reprimand. It was a game, a tease, an effort to pull the child out of his fear and into the safety of his own joy.

You lifted the boy off the chair with ease, steadying him as his bare feet touched the floor. His brows knit together as you handed him a small cloth bag, but his frown vanished the moment he peeked inside. His wide, shining eyes spoke volumes. To him, whatever lay within was a treasure.

“Food,” the soldier beside Marcus murmured, his voice low as if sharing a secret. “She always sends them off with something to eat and a few bandages, in case they need more later.”

Marcus turned to him, his expression unreadable.

“We soldiers don’t take the bags,” the man added, his lips curving into a faint smile. “It’s our way of helping her, in a sense.”

Marcus’s gaze shifted back to you, just as the boy flung his arms around your waist. The child’s face pressed into the fabric of your tunic, and for a moment, Marcus expected you to flinch, to recoil from the dirt and grime clinging to him. But you didn’t. Instead, you wrapped your arms around him, holding him as though his small embrace was a gift you treasured.

The light in your eyes was unguarded, pure, as though you had managed to unearth something sacred in this forsaken world. And in that instant, Marcus understood. It wasn’t just the calm you brought to the room or the kindness in your actions. It was the way you saw them—not as burdens, not as broken things to be fixed, but as people.

His gaze landed on you then. You had paused in your work, looking at him with a flicker of curiosity. For a moment, your eyes studied him, piecing together who he might be. Then came the realization, settling over your face like a shadow. Marcus braced himself, expecting anger, distrust, or even fear. He was, after all, the embodiment of the Rome that so many here had suffered under—a man of war, destruction, and discipline.

But no such emotion crossed your features. What he saw instead was recognition and something that startled him even more: worry.

You moved toward him with a grace so natural it seemed deliberate, your steps soft and careful, as though you were wary of waking the injured souls around you. Not that the child’s laughter hadn’t already done so—it rang through the space like a bell, impossible to ignore. Yet your gentle tread felt like a habit born not of necessity but of respect.

“General Marcus Acasius,” you greeted him, your voice low but warm, your lips curling into a soft smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. The worry lingered there, quiet but unmistakable. “Whatever brings you here? I hope you’re not injured?”

Your voice was something else entirely. It carried a tenderness he had not heard in years. It reminded him of a mother soothing her child after a nightmare. No wonder his men had spoken of you the way they had; he could see now how easily they must have fallen under your spell.

“Nothing to worry about,” he replied, surprised at the gravel in his voice. “Just a few bruises—annoying more than painful.” He didn’t know why he admitted it out loud. Perhaps it was the way your eyes held his, unwavering and full of quiet concern, or the way your tone invited truth without demanding it.

“I can take a look at them, if you’ll let me.”

You stepped closer then, as if reaching out to touch him, but your hand hesitated mid-air before falling back to your side. It was almost imperceptible, that moment of pause, but Marcus saw it. It wasn’t fear. It was something else—an acknowledgment, perhaps, of who he was and what he carried. You were cautious, yes, but not timid.

Your attention shifted to the soldier in the nearby bed, and the smile on your face broadened into something softer, brighter. “Emascus,” you murmured, moving to his side. Your hand brushed gently against his forehead as you checked his temperature, your touch featherlight. “You’re not running so hot anymore. That’s a relief.”

The soldier nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

Marcus watched the exchange, a strange mixture of emotions stirring in his chest. Gratitude was chief among them—gratitude that someone cared for his men in a way he no longer could. Your hands, your voice, your presence—it was a balm for these battle-weary souls. But beneath that gratitude was a deep sadness. It pained him that such care could only be found here, in the forgotten corners of Rome, among those cast aside by the empire he had given his life to defend.

Your voice drew him from his thoughts.

“Would you be so kind as to wait for me in that room there?” you asked, gesturing toward a door at the end of the corridor.

For a moment, Marcus didn’t register that you were speaking to him. When he did, his brows lifted in surprise. There was an unexpected firmness in your tone—not commanding, exactly, but resolute. Though your words were phrased as a request, there was no mistaking that you fully expected him to comply.

“I like my patients to have an ounce of privacy while I take care of them,” you continued, your smile returning, this time with a hint of mischief. “If you allow it, my lord.”

Something in your tone almost made him laugh. He hadn’t been spoken to like this in years—not with such quiet authority, not by someone who seemed utterly unshaken by his presence. You didn’t seem to see the weight of his title, only the bruised man standing before you.

His lips twitched, amusement threatening to break his stern facade, but he merely nodded and turned toward the door. He left the soldier in your care and entered the room you had indicated.

The space was small but neat, with a wooden bench against one wall and a table holding an assortment of salves and bandages. It smelled faintly of herbs, the scent even stronger here than in the main room. As he sat, Marcus felt a strange sense of anticipation, as though crossing the threshold of this room had marked the beginning of something he couldn’t yet name.

He leaned back, his gaze drifting to the door as he waited. For the first time in years, he wasn’t thinking of battles or emperors. Instead, his mind was filled with you—your quiet confidence, your steady hands, and the unexpected strength in your voice.

He hadn’t even noticed when his eyes closed. The stillness of the room wrapped around him, lulling him into an unfamiliar calm. It was unlike him to let his guard down. Years of war had taught him to remain vigilant, always aware of his surroundings. Yet here he was, letting his defenses crumble in the quiet warmth of this strange place.

The great General Marcus Acasius, lulled into a fleeting peace by a mere slip of a woman. He almost chuckled at the absurdity of it. Somewhere in the heavens, the gods were surely laughing.

When he woke, the room was darker than he remembered. The soft glow of a single candle now lit the space, casting flickering shadows across the walls. He blinked, his eyes adjusting, and realized the other candles had been extinguished. The lone flame illuminated a desk cluttered with papers, small jars, and bundles of herbs.

You sat there, leaning over a parchment, your brow furrowed in concentration. The light caught the curve of your cheek and the faint smudge of ink on your fingers. There was an endearing focus to the way you worked, your nose scrunching slightly as if deep thought required such a gesture.

A strange thought crossed his mind—you looked almost...adorable.

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

His voice was rougher than he intended, and he regretted it when you jumped, startled by the unexpected sound. Your hand flew to your chest, but the alarm faded quickly, replaced by that familiar, calming smile.

“You seemed like you needed the rest, my lord,” you replied, standing to light the other candles. The room grew warmer, brighter, the flickering light chasing away the shadows and revealing more of the space. You moved with practiced ease, each motion deliberate yet unhurried.

Moments later, you handed him a cup of wine. “It may not be as fine as what you’re accustomed to, but my father always said it’s good manners to greet a guest of high rank with wine rather than water.”

There was a playful lilt to your voice, a teasing cheerfulness that felt out of place yet oddly welcome. It caught him off guard—not just the tone, but the fact that you spoke to him as if he were merely a man, not a general burdened by the weight of Rome’s empire. There was respect in your words, yes, but also a grounding quality that made him feel human, rather than the untouchable figure most people treated him as.

He took a cautious sip of the wine, raising a brow in surprise. It wasn’t the finest vintage he’d ever tasted, but it was far from the worst. Given your introduction, he’d expected something barely drinkable.

His surprise deepened when he noticed you pouring yourself a cup of water.

“I prefer to keep my wits about me,” you said, catching his expression. “A clear head is important, especially if someone comes in need.”

But when he didn’t respond, still staring at you with mild bewilderment, you reached for his cup and took a small sip of the wine yourself. The casualness of the gesture startled him. You drank as if it were the most natural thing in the world, then placed the cup back in his hands with a smirk.

“See? I’d make a terrible healer if I poisoned my patients.”

“And since when am I your patient?” he asked, his tone caught between amusement and disbelief. Few dared to address him so directly, let alone with such nonchalance.

“Since you admitted your bruises,” you replied, settling onto the edge of your desk with an easy grace. You leaned forward slightly, your gaze locking with his. “Speaking of which, will you let me see them? I might be able to make them less...annoying.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, almost forming a smile. The way you quoted his own words back at him carried a lightness he hadn’t felt in years.

For a moment, he simply looked at you. In a world that demanded so much pretense, you were refreshingly unguarded, completely at ease in your skin. There was a peculiar strength in your openness, a quiet defiance of the world’s harshness that left him disarmed.

And against all odds, he found himself nodding.

“Let me help you with this,” you said softly, gesturing to his armor.

Your tone was steady but not commanding, leaving the choice entirely to him. Marcus hesitated for a moment before nodding, a small gesture that carried more weight than you realized. You hadn’t moved an inch until he gave his permission, a restraint he found rare and striking. You valued dignity, it seemed—not just your own but that of others—and in a world like his, where power often crushed such considerations, it felt like a delicacy.

Your hands, though small, moved with confidence. It wasn’t the first armor you had removed, that much was clear. Yet there was a care in the way you handled the clasps and buckles, as if you weren’t simply working with steel but touching him directly. That thought made Marcus uneasy, though not unpleasantly so. You were a mystery, a curious creature that didn’t fit into any category he knew.

When you finally peeled away the layers of armor and his tunic, leaving him in his undergarment, your sharp intake of breath didn’t escape him.

“Those look a bit more than just annoying bruises,” you chided, your voice carrying both concern and a quiet reprimand.

Marcus felt strangely exposed—not just physically but in some deeper, more vulnerable way. He had been treated by healers before, but those were men, soldiers like himself, who patched him up with brisk efficiency and little ceremony. This was different.

Your fingers brushed over his scars and bruises, light and careful, yet purposeful. Some of the older wounds bore the telltale signs of sloppy care: reddish bandages, poorly healed scars, and swelling around the stitches. Your grimace deepened as your gaze settled on two scars that had become infected.

He watched your face, noticing the way your lips pressed together in frustration, your brows knitting with disapproval. It wasn’t directed at him, though. That much was clear.

“You don’t look too happy,” he said, his voice laced with dry humor.

You sighed, your fingers continuing their examination. He winced when you pressed gently against one bruise, testing for deeper damage. But when your hand moved to the large bruise near his ribs, the pain was immediate and sharp. Marcus flinched, a curse slipping through his clenched teeth as his hand shot up to grab yours, stopping you from pressing further.

“Forgive me, General,” you said, your tone clipped, “but at least now I know you do feel pain. You’re just a complete moron for ignoring it.”

“Excuse me?” Marcus exclaimed, genuinely taken aback. For the first time in years, someone had spoken to him with such boldness, and he wasn’t sure whether to be offended or impressed. “Do you care who you’re speaking to?”

Your expression didn’t waver. In fact, you seemed entirely unbothered by his title or his irritation. “You can sentence me to death for my words if you wish, my lord,” you said, your voice firm but laced with a frustration he could only describe as maternal, “but it doesn’t change the fact that you have multiple broken ribs. And you’ve neglected them. Not to mention whoever last treated your wounds should be stripped of any right to practice medicine. Two of these scars are infected, and I’ll need to reopen, clean, and stitch them properly.”

You glanced up at him then, and his breath caught. The anger in your eyes wasn’t for him—it was for his neglect and whoever had failed to care for him properly. There was something about that look, fiery and determined, that melted something in him he hadn’t realized was frozen.

“So you can do whatever you wish with my head,” you continued, your tone softening slightly but still resolute, “but only after I’ve taken care of you, my lord.”

Marcus stared at you, speechless. No one had ever cared for him enough to risk their own well-being for his. You had to know the danger of speaking to him this way, yet here you stood, unwavering.

And, to his surprise, he didn’t mind. He found that when it came to you, he didn’t care about his status or authority.

“Where do you want me?” he asked at last, the faintest hint of amusement in his voice.

You blinked, caught off guard for the first time. Your reaction was subtle—just a few moments of hesitation—but it was enough to make him smirk. A small, childish triumph stirred in his chest, a victory that felt sweeter than any battle he’d won.

You were good. Really damn good. It didn’t take long for Marcus to understand why his men preferred you over the hardened healers in the camps. Your hands were smaller, gentler, moving with a precision that was both calming and mesmerizing. But it wasn’t just your touch—it was the way you talked him through each step, explaining what you were doing as though giving him a measure of control. It was a strange thing for him to find comfort in, but it steadied him in ways he didn’t expect.

When the time came to reopen his infected scars, you hesitated. Your expression faltered, guilt flashing across your features like a crack in the calm façade you wore. “Brace yourself,” you said softly, almost pleading. And when the scalpel touched his skin, you winced, as though the pain you inflicted was your own to bear.

It hurt, of course, but it was nothing Marcus hadn’t endured before. Yet the way you worked, with such care and purpose, made it impossible to look away. Your movements were swift but deliberate, your focus unwavering. You cleaned each wound with an attentiveness he had never experienced, as though the scars on his body were more than just marks of survival—they were something sacred.

“You’re better behaved than your men,” you teased as you began cleaning the second wound.

Marcus raised a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Oh?”

“I remember Euthris once proposing that a kiss would make him feel better,” you said, a grin tugging at your lips.

He chuckled, the sound surprising even himself. He had known women who would have slapped a man for such a comment without hesitation. And yet here you were, laughing about it.

“I do apologize for my men,” he said, his tone warm, amusement lacing his words. Truthfully, he understood the poor soldier’s sentiment. He surprised himself by realizing he wouldn’t mind a kiss from you either. But he was no longer as bold as he once had been—age and experience had tempered him. “I assume he left thoroughly disappointed?”

You shook your head, a playful glint in your eye. “I kissed his cheek to thank him for donating his food bag to someone else.”

Marcus blinked, taken aback by your words. His expression softened as he processed them. Perhaps his men were flirtatious, even bold, but they were also honorable.

“They’re good men,” you continued, your voice quieter now. “I’ve noticed the way they leave their bags behind, or how they slip coins into places they think I won’t see. They could spend those coins on something for themselves, but instead, they choose to help. You should be proud of them, my lord.”

“I don’t believe I’ve had much to do with their actions…” Marcus began, but his words faltered as you began stitching the reopened scar.

Your apologies came soft and quick, almost teary, as the needle pierced his skin. He wanted to tell you it was fine, to reach out and brush the concern from your face, but he remained still, letting you work.

“I didn’t know about your existence,” he said after a moment, his voice quieter now. “I came here because I overheard my men talking about you during one of their drunken nights.”

You flushed at that, your laughter turning awkward and small.

“They spoke of an ‘Angel,’” he continued, his eyes fixed on your face. “And I had to see for myself.”

“You must be disappointed then, my lord,” you whispered with a hint of humor, turning to the next wound. Again, you apologized softly when the needle broke through his skin.

“I never had an image in mind of what an angel might look like,” he said. His voice dipped, becoming almost reverent as he reached up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. The movement was instinctive, unplanned, and when your body froze beneath his touch, he hesitated. Had he crossed a line?

“But if someone were to ask me now,” he continued, his hand retreating slowly, “I would give them your description.”

Your breath hitched, and your wide eyes lifted to meet his. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the air between you thick with something unspoken.

You had heard of General Marcus Acasius. His name carried weight, whispered among soldiers and citizens alike. He was a formidable force, a man whose strength and cunning had turned the tide of many battles. But more than that, he was spoken of as a good man—merciless in war but fair, unwavering in his duty.

When he had walked into your space earlier that day, the first thing you noticed was how unfairly handsome he was. You had wondered, fleetingly, how a man like him could ever be sent to a battlefield. But now, as you stitched the last wound and felt the weight of his words sink in, you realized he was more than his reputation. He cared for his men, even as he neglected himself. He spoke without arrogance, treated you with respect, and carried a depth that made you want to know more.

“Forgive me, my lady. It seems I’m as ill-behaved as my men,” Marcus chuckled, the sound warm yet apologetic. His gaze dropped to your hands, which had frozen mid-motion after his words and touch. You swallowed hard, regaining your composure, and quickly returned to stitching the last wound.

When you finished, your voice was soft, almost hesitant as you asked him to remain lying down. If the room hadn’t been so quiet, he might have missed it entirely. Without waiting for a response, you turned to your table, busying yourself with a small bottle and herbs.

The smell that wafted from your work was unlike the harsh medicinal odors he’d grown accustomed to—sharp, biting scents that clung to battlefields and camps. This was different, a subtle and soothing aroma that seemed to fill the space with peace. He found himself breathing it in deeply, drawn to its unfamiliar comfort.

“You have nothing to apologize for, my lord,” you said after a moment, your voice steadier now. When you turned back to him with a medium-sized bottle and a piece of gauze, he noticed the faint flush on your cheeks. His lips curved into a small, unbidden smile, his ego growing slightly at the sight.

“Rather than ill-mannered,” you added, a shy smile tugging at your lips, “it was quite charming, I must admit.”

Marcus chuckled again, his gaze resting on you as though you were some kind of art—something rare and unexpected in his world of violence and chaos.

“But I am no lady,” you continued, meeting his eyes briefly before glancing away. “I’m just a girl from the lower classes, trying to carve out a place for herself in this cruel world.”

“You are the reason my soldiers are still standing,” he replied, his voice steady and sincere. “If anyone is worthy of the title, it’s you.”

His words took you off guard. There was a weight to them, a charm so effortless it almost felt unintentional. “Not to mention,” he added with a faint smirk, “you still haven’t told me your name.”

Your reaction was almost comical—your hands paused mid-action, and your mouth opened as if to reply, only for you to close it again, too embarrassed to speak. Marcus couldn’t hold back the laugh that burst from him. It was deep, genuine, and so free of burden that it surprised even himself. He hadn’t laughed like that in years, and you, caught in the sound of it, found yourself smiling despite your flustered state.

Finally, you managed to stammer out your name. The way he repeated it, soft and deliberate, made your heart skip a beat.

“I…” You cleared your throat, willing the warmth in your cheeks to fade. “I’ll apply this oil to the bruises on your ribs, then wrap them with bandages. I assume you won’t accept the bandages from me.”

When he nodded, the smirk on his face grew, earning a roll of your eyes.

“Fine,” you said with mock exasperation. “But I insist you take the oil and use it before bed each night.”

He hesitated for only a moment before accepting the bottle. He knew well enough he couldn’t find anything like it elsewhere. But as you began to pull your hand away, his fingers closed gently over yours, stopping you.

From beneath the folds of his armor, Marcus retrieved a small leather bag. Without hesitation, he placed it in your hand. The weight of the coins surprised you, and you immediately began to shake your head.

“I cannot accept this,” you said firmly. “I won’t—”

“You can,” he interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument, “and you will, my dear.” His smirk softened into something warmer, his voice quieter as he added, “You’re doing an incredible job—not just for my men but for everyone who comes to you. If not for yourself, then take it to help them.”

You looked down at the bag, then back at him, your throat tightening as the emotions you had kept at bay finally broke through. Tears welled in your eyes, spilling over before you could stop them.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “From the bottom of my heart.”

Marcus, sensing your discomfort at showing such vulnerability, simply nodded and looked away, giving you a moment to collect yourself.

Steeling yourself, you poured some of the oil onto the gauze and began to gently apply it to his bruises. Your touch was soft but deliberate, your movements careful as you worked. The warmth of the oil seeped into his skin, its soothing scent filling the space between you.

As you finished and prepared the bandages, Marcus watched you with quiet fascination. He hadn’t expected to find someone like you in a place like this—someone who treated others with such care and dignity, no matter their station. He couldn’t help but admire you. There was a quiet strength in everything you did, a resilience that didn’t demand attention but couldn’t be ignored. Yet, alongside that strength, you carried a gentleness that was rare in a world like his—a softness that didn’t falter, even under the weight of the pain and chaos you confronted daily.

“I want this oil to be gone in three days,” you said at last, your voice steadier now, though the lingering care in your eyes hadn’t wavered since he first saw you. “Every night, it should be applied.”

You looked at him then, something sterner flickering behind your gaze, and for a moment, he saw the fierce determination that lay beneath your calm exterior. “And please,” you continued, the words firm but kind, “do not overwork yourself. Those ribs need time to heal, and they won’t get it if you keep pushing yourself.”

He smiled at that, a quiet acknowledgment of your concern, and nodded. His eyes never left you as you worked, wrapping his torso with bandages. Despite the size of your hands, your touch was confident, and your movements were precise. To his surprise, when you finished, he found himself able to breathe a little easier.

“The dressing of broken ribs is crucial for your health,” you explained, as though anticipating the thoughts running through his mind. “Even if it hurts a little, it needs to be done tightly enough to provide support.”

You glanced up at him, your smile gentle but teasing. “My biggest concern was that one of the ribs might puncture your lung. And, well, no one wants that.”

He chuckled at the light humor, his chest rising and falling more easily than it had in days.

“I won’t waste your hard work on me,” he said sincerely, his voice warm with gratitude. There was something in his gaze—a softness, an intensity—that made your breath catch for just a moment.

You nodded, stepping back and surveying your work with a satisfied expression.

“Do you need help dressing?” you asked, tilting your head slightly.

Marcus moved his arms tentatively, testing the bandages’ hold. To his relief, the sharp pain had dulled significantly. “No, I think I’ve got it,” he replied, shaking his head with a small smile.

“Good,” you said, turning back to tidy your workspace. “I want to see you again in three days for an inspection.”

He pulled his tunic over his head, watching you as you worked, your movements fluid and purposeful. He couldn’t help but notice the care in even the smallest gestures—the way you arranged the jars, the precise manner in which you cleaned your tools. His gaze lingered, and a soft smile touched his lips when he realized how intently he was observing you.

You continued speaking without looking at him. “Of course, if you decide not to take my head before then.”

At that, Marcus frowned. But when you turned to him with a playful smirk, his confusion gave way to quiet laughter.

“And who would take care of my soldiers the way you do?” he replied, his tone gentle but sincere.

Your expression softened at his words, and you rolled your eyes in mock exasperation. “Three days, General,” you murmured, turning to leave.

As you disappeared into the hallway to check on your other patients, Marcus remained where he was, his mind lingering on the sound of your voice and the way you had looked at him—not as a general, but as a man. He was already counting the hours until he’d have an excuse to see you again.

[just-some-user-hunny]

Balerion bonded to bastard! Reader

~ In this Scenario, Balerion is still alive and breathing- albeit barely, and with little enthusiasm. He'd remain still in the sand, seafoam lapping at his scales, yet he feels little reason to move. He's old. Ancient, and tired. The rise and fall of his breath is gradual and laboured- slow like the moving tide. Ever since Viserys drew his last breath, Balerion felt as cold as the sea. His days of glory and war are memories grown old, and he is tired. He feels like sleeping forever now, listening to the faint call of seagulls and the noise of crashing tides.

~ Bastard! princess reader captures glimpses of him from her windows view, watching the old beast wither and fade upon the beach like he were a memory fizzling away into the seafoam. At first glimpse through the rain speckled glass pane- she had mistaken him for a large mountain of black rock.

~ now she's frightened, but, intrigued. She is still a child, a scared and desperate one, so she hatches a plan to reach the beach and perhaps ask the dragon nicely if he'd take her back home. (Besides, dragons do look scary, but Caraxes was nice to her. Maybe he'll be nice too?)

~ like a slippery little mouse, one day she escapes during dinnertime. Fueled to seek out the dragon after a one-sided argument with Daemon across the table. Whilst the servants and knights searched the castle grounds for her, she finds herself on the coastline, and beelines towards the mountain of a dragon, Balarion. She doesn't know who he is, all that he's a dragon. Dragons have wings. They can fly. He could take her home, away from these mad people.

~ her courage burns like a wavering candle, tears streaming down her face in distraught and desperation. The sounds of dragons roaring in the dragon pit fizzle her blood, she can hear the troubled songs of Caraxes and syrax in the distance, and it stirs her on to waken the sleeping dragon. Despite her little trembling hands and accelerated heartbeat.

~ Balarion is awoken- disturbed at the sound of a sobbing child. It is such an odd and peculiar sound to his ears, it startles him enough to raise his heavy head from the sand and look down upon a child he has never seen before. Inhaling deeply, he also doesn't recognise their scent. But there is some trace of dragon blood within her.

~ "excuse me, can you take me home? I need to go home, my mummy is there!". She proclaims as loudly as she can. As clearly as her choked up voice allows her.

~ Balarion feels himself grow soft at the sight of the little child- as soft as a dragon can be.

~ He blinks slowly at her, gently lowering his head to move closer. The sudden bravery of a mere child to approach him intrigues him greatly, and a rejuvenation overtakes his body. Suddenly his aching body doesn't feel so tired anymore- his stiffly folded wings that once enveloped the moon, suddenly feel spry and strong.

~ like a mountain unearthing itself from the earth, his massive body groaned and shuddered like a rolling thunderstorm- lifting from the cold evening sand and bubbling salty seafoam. The little girl stumbles backwards clumsily, afraid that maybe she has just prodded a sleeping angry beast, but she is met with no fire or teeth. this large, monstrously large dragon, is bowing his head to her. Like a mighty stag would do for a little fawn.

~ anxious- and brimming with excitement, her hands clasp upon the rough black scales of the sides of his neck. She climbs higher and higher, until she finds herself clambering onto the back of the beast, where an ancient and worn saddle remains. Roughly woven rope that has seen better days, and a simple leather seat awaits before her- and she climbs on.

~ her whole world seems to tilt and shift, like the earth was moving right beneath her feet as Balarion rises with a steady and heavy rumble. The stars are glittering above in the skies, and the cool evening air laps at the waves till they form foamy hills of white upon the dark sapphire waters. her heart is beating loudly and wildly in her chest now, her blood fizzling like lightning, and she stares across the ocean with determination soaring inside her. she's on the dragon now, and he seems eager to fly.

~ grappling the worn thick reins between her small hands, she recalls a word that the pale haired man called out to his crimson scaled dragon before he took off into the sky. The word is foreign, and doesn't quite suit the roll of her tongue. But she speaks it, a command that holds no hesitation.

~ "Sōvēs!".

~ Bastard! Princess had risen high into the sky, clutching for dear life upon the reigns that were held so tight in her hands, her knuckles had turned pale. The wind rushed and soared, and her ears felt like they had popped as they ascended higher and higher across the sea. Balerions' wings were unsheathed like the night sky as they beat against the wind, and although his body was aching and old, he was not brittle or weak.

Salt air rushed over her face like a splash of icy water as they flew over the ocean, and she watched the castle grow smaller and smaller as the wind carried them away.

~ they flew and flew, but Balarion grew weary from the sudden flight, and turned back towards the shoreline. Bastard! princess was at a loss of what to do- for her own stomach was churning at the realisation that she didn't know where she was trying to go. The old dragon seemed to also sense that, and made the decision for the both of them to head back towards the cold stone castle.

~ Awaiting upon the shoreline, was a small army of armoured men, and the white haired man, who wore an astounded expression. His eyes wide, and jaw slack in what could only be described as euphoric horror. The king, Viserys, despite his weak and brittle body, had ordered to be escorted outside to see with his very own eyes as to what was happening. They had heard the uproar of Balerions' wings from within the castle, Daemon had at once thought a sudden hurricane had hit amidst his search for the little girl he had stolen away, haste in his step as Rhaenyra attempted to sternly reason with him - until the unmistakable shrill deep noise of rumbling dragon-song erupted in the distance like thunder. Both adults stilled- their expressions still and astounded.

~ it was until the sudden and panicked cry of a knight that confirmed everyones hesitant thoughts.n

~ "Balerion the black dread has arisen! And the princess is with him!"

~ that was all Daemon needed to hear before he bounded for the exit. With haste.

~ Balerion had returned to the beach, just as the knights had suspected. They fell speechless at the sight of such a large and imposing dragon land back upon the sandy coastline, his energy low, but not gone.

~ Viserys was in utter disbelief, and excitement. He couldn't believe what he was seeing. He had believed he would be the last rider of Balerion the black dread- the last targaryen to mount the beast that once was ridden by Aegon the conqueror, and many other infamous names.

~ The princess's little head of hair and frightful eyes peered down from her towering view upon the dragons back- eyeing the army of knights. Balerion grumbled a growl so low and frightening, it rattled the knights bones in their bodies. Their braced weapons could only serve as emotional support against such a beast.

~ "Dohaeras! Balerion!" Viserys roared in his deep and broken voice, his command did not hold as much power as it used to- but Balerion acknowledged it with an absentminded glance.

~ Eventually, through carefully worded coos and reassurances from young frightened handmaids that beckoned towards the bastard princess- she yielded. Wordlessly, Balarion lowered his head and allowed her to clamber down. Right into the shaking arms of a young woman in servants cloth, who had stood so close to the dragon, she felt her skin take heat and sweat profusely. The frightened and frustrated little girl was exhausted, and hungry. She has eaten very little earlier, picking at breadcrumbs like a little bird, and sipping only a little water. Her head lolled helplessly into the crook of the maiden's neck, weak and tired. the anxious woman backed away quickly.

~ Half asleep, and very upset, the little princess was placed into Rhaenyras' awaiting out-stretched arms. Her own little boys gathered around her like lambs as she petted the girl's back to comfort her. She fell limp, and asleep not too long after, and everyone breathed a sigh of relief.

~ Balerion watched them closely as they took his new little rider back up to the castle, even following as close as he could reach whilst still on the sand.

~ Viserys was white faced and trembling, a wry smile on his face, whilst Daemon was left expressionless. His palm cradled at the handle of his sword, troubled.

~ "The black dread yielded to her word Daemon- I had not thought that was possible". Viserys muttered.

~ "Neither did I". Daemon uttered back. His voice was even, and calm, yet his eyes held a thousand yard stare.

~ This was not supposed to happen. She was so young- and now with the black dread within her command? There was no saying of what may happen.

To be continued...

[ruruumin]

four mondays before christmas

₊˚ ᗢ itoshi rin x gn! reader.

⤷ decorating a christmas tree with him.

“why are we decorating so early?” rin asks. in his 6’1 glory, he stands almost the same height as the plastic christmas tree you bought from the store. he holds onto a large strand of string lights that were alternated between a turquoise blue and white. 

today was november 30th. while it was officially the end of autumn (a shame because he wished it could last forever, it being winter meant he had to stay inside more often), it was too early to be setting up a tree in the living room. you should have at least waited for the thanksgiving leftovers in your fridge to be finished before doing anything christmas-related.

“because it’ll be fun coming home to a fully decorated living room!” you smile, guiding his arms around the tree to secure the lights between the thick, sage green leaves. “this is our first christmas living together, so i want to make it special.” 

now this brings back memories. from the day you signed the lease with him, to moving in all your stuff into a shared room, he vividly recalls the time you and him decorated the living room together. from plushies to a large cream-colored sofa that sat against the wall, it became a place he could call home. he’s looming over you with a light scowl, not a heavy one, because god knows he’s too in love with you to give you one of his signature itoshi frown. 

“you should have waited a little until it was december, idiot,” he mutters the last part softly, watching as you connect all the lights together. rumbling through an old cardboard box, you pull out several matching ornaments. 

“why is our tree turquoise blue this year? shouldn’t it be the regular christmas colors?” 

a hum escapes your lips, “i thought it’d be cute to do a different theme every year. my idea for this year is a winter wonderland, so i got a ton of fake snow and blue ornaments!” holding up said decoration, you let it dangle in front of your boyfriend. “wouldn’t it be cute to do something new every year?”

he ‘hmphs’ in response. this was rin’s way of saying: i love you so much, i want us to keep living together every single year and have a different tree so we can show sae how much better of a couple we are, because we are still together. 

or at the very least, that is what you think he’s saying, because he is quietly humming alongside the same christmas song as you, eyes lovingly watching you as you tie your turquoise ornaments to the tree. 

[tinybeetiny]

Sit and Watch How It’s Done: J.Y

SMUT | 18+ | MDNI

I don't really know where I got this idea from.... I think this might be one of the longest things I’ve ever written… I hope it lived up to the expectations and I’m so sorry if it didn’t 🥹

->Starring: YunhoXAfab!Reader, brother!San, boyfriend!Mingi

->Genre: Little bit of angst, Smut

->Cw: Explicit language, unprotected sex, cheater Mingi, MIngi refers to reader as girlfriend still, cuckold Mingi!!???, Yunho is a little manipulative!!?!!, mean Yunho, big dick Yunho, oral (m and f receiving), fingering, overstimulation, praise, degradation, slight dacryphilia, creampie, squirting, multiple orgasms, let me know if I missed anything

Masterlist | Ateez Masterlist

You walked through the lobby of the grand hotel that your boyfriend was staying. He’s been on tour for 5 months and you missed him tremendously. With the help of your brother you were able to surprise him in the next city they were going to but what you didn’t know was that he was going to give you a surprise of your own.

You make your way down the hall with a room key in hand, your steps bouncy with anticipation. You missed Mingi and you couldn’t wait to see him again. You loved your phone calls and facetimes with him but they weren't enough. You longed to be in his presence again and now that you were so close the long hallway seemed to stretch on forever. But as you approached the door you felt some hesitance. Would he be happy to see you? Of course he would, he would constantly tell you over the phone that he was counting down the days until he could be with you again. You heard some commotion on the other side of the door but you just assumed that Yunho or someone was in there with him.

You use the keycard to unlock the door and you push open the door but when you finally set your eyes on Mingi the sight knocks the wind out of you. There was your boyfriend in all of his glory fucking some random girl from the back. They hadn't noticed you yet until your bag hit the ground. Mingi's head whipped around ready to tell off whoever barged into his room but his face dropped when he saw you standing in the doorway "Oh my god" he whispered out. You say nothing, picking up your bag and turning to leave. Mingi scrambles to his feet trying to put his boxers back on while rushing over to stop you from leaving "Baby wait" He grabs your arm stopping you in your tracks. You rip your arm away

"Get off me. How could you?" Your voice raises and you feel hot tears flood into your eyes "I'm sorry. Please just hear me out" He begs but his words make you angry.

Hear him out? Is he serious? You glare at him momentarily before you yell "SAN" You walk across the hall banging on your brother's door "SAN" you yell again and Mingi begins to panic "No no no" But he's a little late. San swings open the door with alarm and the first thing he sees is your distraught face and Mingi's terrified expression "What the hell is going on?" San's question is answered when the girl bolts out of the room fully dressed.

It's quiet for a minute, no one saying anything or moving. The tension was so thick that Mingi felt like he was going to pass out. Finally, San takes a small step forward "Mingi?" San's voice is eerily quiet and it makes the taller boy take a big step back. He's never seen San so enraged and he wanted nothing more than to shrink back into his room. Then everything happened so fast. San lunged at Mingi, the two slamming back into the hotel room door "YOU PIECE OF SHIT" "SAN STOP" "I'M SORRY" Your loud voices cause the others to come out of their rooms. "San what the fuck" Jongho rushes over to try and pull San off Mingi. Seonghwa runs over to help Jongho. You feel an arm wrap around your shoulder and you look up to see Yunho as he pulls you into his chest. You lean into him, his warmth dulling the ache slightly.

Yunho ushers you into his room as Seonghwa and Jongho try to hold San back. Their voices muffle as Yunho closes the door and urges you to sit on the bed. You sniffle as a couple more tears slip down your cheeks. "Oh angel, don't cry." He coos as he kneels in front of you, his thumb brushing the tears away. You sniffle again as you stare at him with teary eyes. He watches as a tear runs down your cheeks and can't help but strain tight in his pants. He knows he shouldn't feel this way, especially considering the circumstances but he thinks you are absolutely breathtaking when you cry. The way your wet eyelashes hit your cheekbones when you blink. He can't help but imagine how the same teary eyes would look with his cock shoved down your throat.

The soft sounds of your cries bring him out of his thoughts "You're too pretty to cry over men like him" Maybe it was your broken heart doing the thinking but as you stare into Yunho's eyes you feel a little flutter. You've never really looked at him like this before always being blinded by Mingi but now your vision has been tainted. Something about the comforting hand on your thigh and the way he looks at you with such intense eyes causes a surge of warmth to shoot through you.

You're not sure who leaned in first but the feeling of Yunho's soft lips on yours is all you can focus on. The kiss starts off slow, almost like he's testing the waters but when your hand comes up to grip the collar of his shirt his self-control starts to waiver. You pull him in closer deepening the kiss and a little moan gets caught in your throat. He pulls away, breathless "Sorry, that was inappropriate” he’s not sorry. “I should go. Give you some space to breathe.” He gets up to leave but your hand shoots and grabs ahold of his wrist “Please don’t leave” you whimper. He stares into your big doe eyes “I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to stay” his tone is low, he knows what he’s doing, he knows exactly what he’s doing. With your emotional state and how you reacted to the kiss, he knew he had you right he wanted you. Ever since he met you he’s been infatuated, almost drawn to you but you were Mingi’s and he couldn’t betray his best friend like that. But with what just happened how could he let a perfectly good opportunity slip through his fingers.

“No please. I want to feel something other than hurt right now” you plead hoping he would give you what you wanted. “I can’t do that to Mingi” yes he can. Yunho liked you first, Mingi knew that, he knew all too well “Fuck Mingi. Please Yunho. I need this” you tug on his wrist. He pauses, acting as if he’s thinking it over before he leans down pressing his lips to yours again as he gently lays you down on the bed. You sigh into the kiss and your hands come up, entangling themselves in his pretty brown locks.

You feel dizzy and can only focus on how good his lips feel as they make their way down your neck. His fingers play with the hem of your shirt "Please touch me" you beg as he nips at the skin right under your ear "Tell me where" He whispers. You grab his hand and place it on your breast, letting out a sigh when he squeezes slightly. He slips your shirt off and your nipples harden in the cold hotel air. He leans down taking one of your perk buds in his mouth and your back arches slightly, a little moan leaving your lips. He switches the other nipple before he trails kisses down to the waistband of your sweatpants. He looks up at you asking for permission with his eyes, you nod your head and he wastes no time pulling your pants along with your underwear off.

His intense stare has you squirming and you're suddenly fully aware that you're completely exposed but before you can move to cover yourself he dips his head licking up your slit. You let a high-pitched whine when he attaches his lips to your clit. Your hand grips his hair, holding on for dear life as you grind against his face. You gasp out when you feel his fingers slide in. His eyes nearly roll when he feels your tight walls squeezing his fingers so well and he can only imagine how good they'll feel around his cock. He continues to lick and suck at your sensitive nub as his fingers abuse your g-spot. Your moans come out one after the other as your stomach tightens and your hole flutters around his skillful fingers "You gonna cum for me?" you nod your head vigorously pulling him back to your needy pussy. Your eyes roll back as you cum all over his tongue, which he happily cleans up.

He continues to suck on your clit helping you ride through your orgasm until you're pushing his head away from overstimulation. He pulls away, spit and cum covering his chin "You okay" You give him weak thumbs up "Wanna taste you now" you mumble and he helps you sit up and takes his own sit next to you "You don't have to you, you know that?" he reassures you "Mmm I want to"

Your knees dig into the rough carpet as you settle between Yunho's long legs. You stare at his bulge that strains painfully in his jeans. You reach to unbutton his jeans before pulling them down his legs. You palm him through his boxers, your mouth waters feeling how hard he is. You grab the waistband of his underwear and pull them down, his cock springing free and slapping his stomach "So big" you whisper staring at his pretty pink tip. He smirks down at you as you take his girthy base into your hands. You place a small kiss on the head of his cock and he sucks in a breath when you give it a little lick. You wrap your lips around his mushroom tip and slowly move down his shaft. You stare up at him as he hits the back of your throat and tears gather in your eyes as you gag. "Oh fuck, that's it." He moans. His hand holds the back of your head, guiding you up and down. He revels in the way the tears stream down your cheeks as you continue to choke on his cock.

“(Y/n) are you in here? Please let me ex-” Mingi's words are cut off when he walks into the room and sees you on your knees choking on Yunho’s cock. He watches as Yunho grips the comforter below him, head thrown back and his lips parted. The sound of your gagging and lewd slurping fills his ears “What the fuck” Mingi’s words come out slow. You jump at his voice, trying to pull off Yunho but his large hand comes down and keeps you in place. He takes your hair in a makeshift ponytail, helping you bob your head up and down “No need to stop for him Angel. Come on, you’re doing so good” He looks up and stares into Mingi’s surprised eyes "What? You want to take a picture? Maybe watch?" Yunho teases trying to hold back a moan. Mingi doesn't know who to look at right now, you with Yunho dick shoved down your throat or Yunho who has you swallowing his dick.

He's not sure what possessed him to move but the next thing he knew he found himself sitting in the corner chair watching Yunho cum down his girlfriend's throat. He watches as Yunho pushes your head down as he thrusts his hips up making you gag “Just like that. Suck my cock just like that, such a good girl” He stares at Mingi as he bites his lip, antagonizing him. Mingi felt his leg bounce in irritation not wanting to continue looking at the scene in front of him but he just could not tear his eyes away. I mean it's not like either of you tied Mingi to the chair, he was free to get up and leave whenever he wanted but yet he stayed glued to his seat.

Yunho lifts your head off and pulls you up to lay you on the bed. His soft lips move feverishly against your own. He grabs the base of his cock rubbing it through the wetness, spreading it around. Your brain goes fuzzy when he slips and you let a little cry when he pushes his fat tip into your dripping hole, the stretching making your eyes roll. Mingi has to physically restrain the moan from escaping him just from hearing how wet you are. He adjusts in his seat, his jeans feeling tight.

The air deflates from your lungs as he pushes his cock in inch by inch. He lets out a deep groan when he bottoms out "Fuck Yunho you're so big" You whimper out. You’ve never been this full. Sure Mingi's big but Yunho was a whole different story. The way your walls mold to each ridge and vein, like he was made for you "So tight, squeezing me so good" His eyes screwed shut. He slowly pulls out and you clench around his tip trying to keep him from escaping “Patience” he looks over at Mingi whose face is full of anger but his eyes hold desperation. Your mouth falls open when sheaths himself back in.

He starts off with a slow pace, giving you a moment to adjust to his size. The sound of Mingi’s heavy breath fills the room and it only encourages Yunho to speed up his pace. The sound of the lewd squelching of your pussy bounces off the wall and Yunho gets lost in the softness of your walls. He takes your legs and throws them over his shoulders, pushing on the little bugle of your tummy. Your mouth opens and little gasps are the only noises that come out. "I love your pussy, taking me so good" The way he looks down at you with lust filled eyes makes you clench around him. The burning sensation grows in your stomach again and he pushes closer to the edge "Oh fuck Yunho. You're gonna make me cum" Your voice raises a couple notches and your back arches as you cum all over his cock. He groans, feeling your needy little hole trying to milk him.

He continues to fuck into you, not giving you any time to recover. His thumb brushes over your clit and your body jolts as you cry out, tears running down your face. You whine as you try and push him away but he grabs your hands and pins them over your head, his hips somehow moving even faster. You feel another orgasm approaching and you feel absolutely spent “M’gonna cum again.” Your fingernails dig into this arms as the pleasure takes over “Oh my god” You throw your head back as another orgasm rushes over you "That's it baby cum all over my cock. Lookin so pretty. So fucked dumb" His cock slides in faster due to the extra lubrication. His arms hook under your knees, pressing your thighs to your chest and the new position has your eyes rolling back.

His forehead rests against yours as he fucks you deep. "Did he ever make you cum like this hm?" You barely comprehend his question as his hips move faster. You shake your head "Wow Min, you can't even make your girlfriend cum and yet you think you're good enough to cheat tsk tsk tsk" If there was ever a time Mingi wished the ground would swallow him whole it would be now and to make things worse his dick was painfully hard, the scene in front of him hotter than he'd like to admit. He knew he should be furious watching his best friend fuck his girlfriend but after his actions, he had no right. So he stayed in the chair, gripping the armrest so tight his knuckles turned white. He's never heard you moan like this before and he hates it. He watches as Yunho pulls another orgasm out of you. He watches the way your eyes roll back and your mouth falls open, a beautiful chorus of noises escape "That's it Angel, doing so good for me" Yunho praises.

The overstimulation washes over and a high-pitched whine escapes you “S’too much YuYu please” you push on his stomach in an attempt to get him to slow down ‘YuYu!?’ Mingi’s eyes narrowed at the nickname. Hot burning jealousy bubbled deep within him but again who is he to sit there and feel some type of way when he, just mere moments ago, hurt you in ways he couldn’t even imagine. But what better karma than to sit and watch your best friend fuck your girlfriend way better than you ever could.

“Yunho wait. Slow down” you gasp for air as you feel pressure building up again. “Just a little bit longer. Almost there” he gritted out. His paces started to get sloppy as he felt himself getting closer. His thumb rubs small circles on your clit trying to draw out another orgasm "Yunho wait, fuck stop" Your eyes widen in panic but before you can push him away your eyes roll back and you gush all over his lower half, soaking the sheets below you. You thighs shake and you let out a small scream. Both men stare in shock as you lay there, chest heaving. They watch as your body twitches from the new sensation.

“You want me to cum in you? Fill your sweet little pussy full of me?” You nod dumbly, your brain turned to mush as his hips continue their brutal pace. He lets out low groan as he spills into you. He pulls out and watches his cum pool out of you. He looks over at Mingi with a small smile “What’s the matter Min? You look like you’ve seen a ghost” Mingi doesn’t say anything, he really doesn’t know what to say honestly. But the look on his face is very satisfying “Maybe you should call that girl to uh fix your problem there” Yunho gestures to Mingi’s hard on and the little wet patch on his jeans.

Taglist: @e3ellie @yoonshiiu @yunlazia @jonghoslilstar @sugakooie

@lemonkait00 @ginevrsstuff @atztrsr @honsans-atiny-24 @zaynsfl4m3s

@life-is-a-game-of-thrones @atzlordz @certifiedmoa @melanated-writersblock @hwasbabygirl

@yuyu-s @morethingsfandom @sanriogyu

If you would like to be a part of the taglist please fill out this form

[thefiery-phoenix]

Hello! Is it ok if I request Yandere headcanons for Gitae kim? It’s ok if you’re not ok with it! Also just wanted to say that I really love all your Yandere content!

YANDERE GITAE KIM HEADCANONS

Freaking hell, he creeps me TF out but why does he look so good, it's just unfair

Please, for the sake of your own sanity, RUN. Just RUN. That's it. Or at least, run as much as you can since he'll end up finding you anyway since he's the leader of a freaking Cartel and the son of Gapryong Kim after all and is a complete sadistic beast in the form of a man. It's rare that he would ever develop feelings for someone and even if he does, he'll be too egoistic and arrogant and proud to admit it, he'll treat you more like a pet of some sort to be precise. But you're HIS little pet, that he loves in his own dark twisted way. It doesn't matter how you meet this deranged flesh eating cannibal here, the second he sets his eyes on you and his mouth curves upwards into a smirk, that's when you're a goner and you might as well just kiss goodbye to your life and freedom

It was a usual day for you and you were walking back to your house after a long tiring day. You put on some earphones and walked down the alleyway, humming to your favorite tunes feeling the cool breeze against your skin. You tried to ignore the men lurking in the alleyway with beer bottles and cigarettes strewn on the ground as they looked drunk and intoxicated while their lecherous gazes landed on you, leering at you and making all sorts of lewd perverse comments about your body that made your skin crawl. You put your head down and didn't want to get into some kind of confrontation which was the last thing you wanted, when one of them ended up grabbing you by your wrist and you screeched on top of your lungs and thrashed around for all you were worth, pleading with them to let you go as tears streamed down your cheeks and your neatly combed hair was now frizzled and became unkempt with a few of your hair strands falling into your face. One of the men ended up striking you hard across your face as you whimpered in pain and clutched at your now stinging cheek and trembled. Before one of them was about to tear off your shirt, in the blink of an eye, the man's hand was now on the ground leaking crimson as the man screamed in agony and fear and you felt your heart stop beating when your gaze landed on a raven haired guy with blood splattered across his well toned muscular chest and had a black leather jacket with a cruel smile etched on his face as he watched the man fall to the ground, whimpering at the sight of his severed hand

What the man did next would remain ingrained into your memory forever. The stranger with the axe swung his axe around and the head of the man who'd been tormenting you now lay on the ground, his crimson blood painting the gravel of the ground crimson as he cut off a chunk of his flesh and bit into it and tore through the meat like an apex predator. At this point you didn't know if you were safe even after being supposedly saved by this man in front of you as his eyes landed on your whimpering and trembling figure and he smirked sadistically. "Relax little girl, I'm not going to eat you...unless you want me to'' he spoke as his eyes surveyed across your features. You reminded him of a scared vulnerable little prey, a weak little lamb that he could take advantage of and the mere thought of it just excited him as his eyes glinted with malice. Before he could even say something else, your fear consumed you and you ended up blacking out and losing your consciousness. You were about to pummel straight to the ground before he grabbed you by your waist and held you in his arms as he let out a soft chuckle, amused that you fell for him already which did give him a bit of an ego boost

You were so weak, so helpless and so fragile like a little doll that he would love to have in his grasp. He wonders how you'd react if you'd see him in his full glory while he beats up people and murders them on a usual day, you wouldn't even last a second without trembling and crying like the helpless little lamb that you were, which was cute in his opinion. "Looks like I'm takin' you home, eh?'' he said as he hoisted you over his shoulders like a sack of flour and fished out your ID to find your address and made his way to your house. You were quite surprised when you woke up the next day in your own bed and you felt your head was slightly groggy as you massaged your temples and sighed to yourself, secretly glad you were away from that cannibal. You made your way into the living room only to find the same guy napping on your couch, with blood still splattered over his chest as your eyes widened and your face paled and you let out a shrill screech of bloody murder. "Damn it woman...can't even let me nap after I saved you...'' grumbled the guy as he looked at you and his eyes narrowed slightly. He enjoyed watching you squirm and fidget nervously, he could see you were torn between trying to be a good host and thanking him for saving you yesterday to contemplating passing out again. "You know...I expect some sort of thanks from you little girl'' he said as he got up from your couch and strode over to you, his massive frame towering over your body as you gulped nervously

"I-I could give you money if you want...please don't kill me'' you whimpered. "Silly naive girl, who said I wanted your money...you're interesting...I'm keeping you with me'' he said with a smirk. You tried to make a run for it when he grabbed your hands and pinned your arms above your head and cooed at you condescendingly, "Well now that's just rude isn't it? You should thank your savior properly. Now don't make this hard for both of us...be a good little girl for your savior, would you?" he asked as he patted your cheek a few times and caressed your cheek as he lifted you in his arms yet again and you let out a nervous squeak. "Don't you think you should get to know me or something before you literally kidnap me?" you asked him as he looked at you with an amused smile on his face. "Plenty of time to do all that get to know you crap. I'm Gitae by the way since you're so insistent on introductions and crap and this isn't a kidnapping...I'm taking what's mine'' he said as he carried you out of your house

What he wants, he gets. That's it. He wasn't going to waste a single second without taking you back with him, of course, he could have kidnapped you in the night but the element of surprise was what made things more interesting for him. Your cute little reactions to whatever he did riled him up so much. No way was he going to let you go now. The next thing you knew, you were sitting in a black car with him next to you and a few other people who had tattoos as you couldn't believe what you'd gotten yourself into. You silently let tears stream down your face and you looked out the window. Gitae wrapped a black jacket around you since you were still in your night clothes as he wrapped an arm around you and pulled you closer to him. Don't get fooled by his actions though, he's as unpredictable as the weather

If you thought Samuel or Eugene were messed up psychopaths, allow me to introduce you all to the poster boy of being a RED BANNER. He's obsessive, manipulative and won't hesitate to literally gaslight you. While he won't physically hurt you, the same cannot be said to those around you unfortunately. He wants your attention on him, he wants you to cling to his arm like the helpless little doll that you are and look at him with those wide eyes of yours, being all pliant and dependent on him. Whenever you squirm when he touches you he just finds it so amusing and cute, he can't help but put you on his lap when he has his meetings with the men from his cartel while you have a pink collar around you pretty little neck that has HIS name on it so people will know you belong to him. As if those love bites and hickeys on your neck, thighs and arms aren't a testament of you being his. He likes marking you wherever he can, you're his property, HIS doll. Of course, anyone who looks at you for a moment too long or if their gaze wanders to a certain part of your body that belongs to him, he's just going to gouge their eyes out like knife cutting through a slab of butter. And then he'd kiss you on your soft kissable lips possessively and aggressively like a dying man needing air, running his hands over your body till you're literally gasping for breath, in front of everyone else to show those losers that they won't ever be able to have you as their minds are now ingrained with the dire consequences of laying their eyes on Gitae Kim's girl

Whatever hopes you have of escaping from him, it's best to get it out of your mind before he ends up killing and eating one of your dear loved ones right in front of you. You're his little pet, he won't tolerate any form of disobedience from you and he'll tell you how it's your fault they're dead and it's all because you dared to leave him. Your punishment is getting handcuffed to the bed till you're allowed to walk. It's best to just accept his advances towards you because there is no escaping from this deranged psycho at all...

[ghostbeam]

Oblivi_n.exe | Dabi/Touya Todoroki

Touya Todoroki, known as ‘Dabi’ to the league, quirk class: cremation, mech title: Blue. You’re his new handler. 

As Dabi’s new handler, you’re well aware of his history, how frequently he goes through handlers assigned to him. Not that he ever uses them—it’s more complete resistance. You’re not particularly good at your job. Transferred from the PLF for lack of success in handling any of their pilots, you’ve always been far too gentle. You lack authority. Your pilots never respected you. You don’t think Dabi will be any different. You give it a week. 

Notes: okay wow hiiiii it’s been a long time since I’ve posted an actual fic (nearing almost a year now😬) this is something I’ve been working on for a bit. I have mech brain rot curtesy of @streimiv and @hawnks (both of whom this is dedicated to bc there’s no way I could have written this without yapping to them abt it and also mint helped me come up w the acronym for HERO’s) and we’ve all got our own mech fics in the works atm but anywayssssss this is kind of my baby atm but I hope it makes sense it’s very inspired first and foremost by pacific rim and then also NGE (mostly through consumption of YouTube vids bc I haven’t actually watched it pls don’t hate me) it’s a whole mess of things and Dabi is kind of a bitch and reader is slowly coming into herself and at the end of the day they both wanna be metal fused to one another forever (no matter how hard he denies it) also I’m not a huge computer person idk if this title makes sense so don’t make fun of me pls ok anyways I hope u like it!!!!

Warnings: 18+, minors DNI, pilot!Dabi x handler!reader, there’s no explicit sexual content in this part, not even a kiss sorry guys, mentions of robot gore (exposed wires, insides described as guts), brief descriptions of being trapped inside a small space, descriptions of burning while inside said space, mention of surgery to fashion a metal jaw onto someone, mentions of child abuse (nothing graphic just allusions to the todoroki family and touya’s past), angst, many run on sentences, a small cliff hanger

Words: 7.9k

Pt. 1 | Pt. 2 (coming soon)

You are nothing without your machine.

It’s the first rule, the first thing beaten into his brain by his father. You carry the burden of the mech alone, or you’re weak. You don’t exist. 

U.A. raises the best and brightest pilots, navigators, mechanics, and handlers, each one carefully trained to ensure the most important outcome: winning. It should be protection. It should be defense. But if Touya has learned anything at all, it’s that winning means glory. It means worship. It means HERO’s (Human Engineered Robotic Objects) are saints, and pilots are gods. 

 Touya used to be one of those best and brightest before his accident. 

First son to Enji Todoroki, Touya was supposed to be the golden child, the first Todoroki to pilot without a handler. He was supposed to carry the burden alone, something his father couldn’t do, something only one man has ever actually been capable of. 

But Touya is born weak, bad bones, a brain unable to handle all that the mech needs to unload onto it. One too many accidents results in him being expelled from the pilot program, his HERO discarded and collecting dust in its pod, and Touya is promptly transferred to mechanics. 

It should have been a smooth transition. If one kid can’t handle it, the next will. Because they have to. 

He doesn’t take the news well. It’s a fit of tears, a persistent fight, unable to accept the loss of his machine—of his body. Because Touya loves it. What he lacks in strength, he makes up for in pure passion, and despite being unable to handle the burden, there’s no denying that he’s good. He’s almost perfect. 

But almost is not enough for Enji Todoroki, and no matter how hard Touya tries, he’s made up his mind. 

After months of mechanics, Touya makes a decision. When the next fleet of HERO’s is deployed for the next kaiju battle, Touya sneaks in among the chaos, tucked neatly inside the chest of his machine where he belongs. It doesn’t take long for things to go south, for Touya to get caught in the crossfire, losing control of his mech and burning from the inside out. 

It should be an excruciating death, stuck inside a machine made for war, fire raining from above as a battle continues on outside without him. 

But he survives, because what he lacks in strength, he makes up for in resilience, and his mech is programed with solutions to every situation. He’s stuck inside for months before he’s found.

Tomura Shigaraki rescues him, pries open the chest of his mech and pulls him from inside. His group feeds him, takes him in, fashions a new jaw for him made from the metal of his mech, and allows him the decision to join their cause or go back home. 

And since there’s no home to go back to, Touya finds his footing with the league and becomes one of their top pilots. One who vehemently resists any and all handlers.

…

Touya Todoroki, known as ‘Dabi’ to the league, quirk class: cremation, mech title: Blue. You’re his new handler. 

As Dabi’s new handler, you’re well aware of his history, how frequently he goes through handlers assigned to him. Not that he ever uses them—it’s more complete resistance. You’re not particularly good at your job. Transferred from the PLF for lack of success in handling any of their pilots, you’ve always been far too gentle. You lack authority. Your pilots never respected you. You don’t think Dabi will be any different. You give it a week. 

Following closely behind Tenko, formerly Tomura, he quickly explains to you the in’s and out’s of the pilot/handler relationship, along with a warning about Dabi’s resentment toward the whole idea. You try to keep up, but he talks quickly and uses his hands a lot. Even so, you can tell he’s a natural leader, something he had to grow into after overthrowing the man who raised him. His story is a tragic one, and it resonates with you because Tenko came out the other side stronger. Now, the league is a community with a cause, one you really believe in. Even if you and Dabi aren’t the right fit, you still have a place here. 

You follow Tenko into what he calls the garage, a large floor of the abandoned academy that serves as the league’s base, this part of it full of HERO’s and mechanics all focused on the machines in front of them. It’s completely different from how HERO’s were worked on at UA, where you grew up, and even the PLF didn’t have one dedicated floor to this sort of work. You can feel the energy of the room buzzing on your skin, music blasting from old radios and mechanics tossing tools towards one another in a familiar routine. Tomura leads you to Dabi and his HERO, Blue, though you’re instructed not to call it a HERO around him. With goggles over his eyes and gloved hands, he brings two wires from Blue’s ankle together, sighing at the way they spark each time they connect. 

“Dabi.” Tomura calls over the music coming from the radio hanging off of Dabi’s waist. He drops the wires and his gaze flickers toward the two of you. Pushing his goggles up to his forehead, he gives you a once over. His eyes are the brightest you’ve ever seen—kaiju blood blue—and burn scars litter his body. He’s striking in a way you’ve never seen, almost too beautiful to be human. Giving Dabi your name, Tomura explains that you’re taking over as his handler, seeing as he couldn’t keep the last one for more than a couple of days. “She’s your last handler. If you can’t keep this one, then go ahead and fry your brain. See if I care.”

“You say that every time.” Dabi calls from around sucker as Tomura walks away, leaving you alone with your new pilot. 

You just your hand out in a greeting, “I’m looking forward to working with you.”

Eyeing your hand, Dabi shakes his head and turns his back to you, picking the two wires back up and connecting them again, despite the same spark from before igniting between the two. He looks back up at Blue, touching his fingers to the slim lines starting at the back of her ankle and running all the way up her leg. You peak over his shoulder at the wiring, noticing that he’s connecting two of the wrong ones. 

“It’s the wrong wire.” You tell him, and he spins around to look at you, tearing his goggles from his face as he scoffs. 

“Here we go.” He sighs with a roll of his eyes, pulling the candy from his lips and tossing it onto the tool cart without a care. “Handler know-it-all bullshit. This is my mech.”  

You push passed him and grab the similarly colored wire from beside a red wire and connect it with the one in Dabi’s right hand. Blue lights up cyan through the thin lines that run along each of its limbs and torso, connecting with the two cameras within its head, which seem to blink before the light reaches them. 

In an instant, you’re being pushed up against the hard metal, a strong arm over your chest—pinning you up against the HERO. Dabi, now having discarded his goggles, looks at you full of white, hot rage. 

“Don’t fucking touch her.” He growls. You’re suddenly aware of the close proximity, eyes flickering between the snarl across his lips and his angry gaze. For a beat, you both freeze, the air suddenly charged like you’re waiting for one another to strike. Snapping yourself out of his hypnotic stare, you push against his chest, forcing him to let you go. 

“If I’m going to be you’re handler, you’re going to have to trust me with her.” You remind him. He lets out a harsh laugh, like he can’t believe you would suggest such a ridiculous idea. 

“I don’t trust anything but this machine.” He speaks, turning away from you to seal up the machine’s exposed wires. It’s a challenge you’re willing to accept.

“Well, I’m here to change that.” You tell him, before turning on your heel to leave him alone. 

He thinks he’ll give you a week. 

…

One of the worst parts of being assigned a handler, Touya thinks, is the way that pilot/handler living quarters are set up. He assumes the academy, before it was abandoned and turned into a base for the league, created this sort of set up so that handlers could keep a close eye on their pilots. The handlers Touya has burned through up until now also assumed the same. 

The door that connects both the pilot’s and handler’s dorms doesn’t lock, and all of Touya’s past handlers have taken advantage of this fact. He’s been pulled out of bed far too early, pushed around and commanded and barked at. Most handlers behaved as if pilots belonged to them, which was the sentiment drilled into their brains from being thrown into such a fucked up system at a young age.—unless you were a pilot of status like a Todoroki. While he league dedicates a lot of its time to reversing these ideas, most handlers look at Touya like some kind of challenge, this arrogant pilot begging to be tamed. It never takes long for them to realize how easily he’s able to flip the switch on them. You’ll be no different.

But hours pass and you still haven’t entered. You don’t swing the door open and demand he apologize for his behavior earlier. You don’t try and punish him with training regimes, a command of a set of push ups, a schedule you expect him to follow, an extremely detailed meal plan. The entire evening comes and goes without so much as a sound on the other side of the door so he knows you’re even behind it. 

He falls asleep unnerved by this, waking up late into the night in a cold sweat, expecting you to barge in, rip the covers from his body and demand to train together. When he wakes up (peacefully) the next morning, there’s no sign of you. He rises from his bed, drinks orange juice straight from the carton and eats a candy bar for breakfast. He fiddles with the navigation screen from his mech that stopped working a couple of days ago, tools spread out on the counter in front of him. Once he’s got the thing working again, your knock sounds from the unlocked door between the two of you. He thinks this might be it, the commands he expects to fall from your lips at the ready as he swings the door open, but you stand there, nervous, hands twitching as your eyes finally meet his.

Greeted by a shirtless Touya, hair mused from sleep, cargo pants hung low on his hips, dog tags swinging against his chest, his scars on display, unashamed and proud. The sight of him knocks the breath out of you, and you clear your throat in embarrassment, hoping your state of dreaming comes off as nerves rather than lust. 

“Dabi. Or do you prefer Touya?” You smile. When he doesn’t answer, you continue. “I wanted to see if you wanted to eat breakfast together in the caf. I think we should start over. Yesterday was—”

You’re promptly cut off, “I already ate breakfast.”

With a harsh slam of the door, he leaves you stunned in your room.

You eat alone. 

When you started as a pilot, back when you’d entered UA (a few years about Touya’s accident), you went into it believing you could change the world. The exam had placed you into the position of handler, and you were assigned a pilot who had always seemed a little frightened of you despite your obvious lack of authority. Bringing the fact up to your instructors did nothing. They all assured you that this was the ideal dynamic, that the handler always had the upper hand, but you hated that feeling. You weren’t a team like you expected to be; you were urged to control your pilot. You were there to keep them in line, not to be a pillar of support. The bond was never built on trust, and the soul link was always a looming threat. No matter how many pilots you went through, the link was never held as a gift, but a prison, something you would both be stuck with for the betterment of society, a sacrifice to make. 

You’d been expelled from the handler program after guiding your pilot to help save another in the wreckage of your first battle together, resulting in the damage of your pilot’s HERO. Your pilot was okay, but the other couldn’t be saved, and you were blamed for the damage of both mech’s. 

When you found the league (or when the league found you), you were working with the PLF, but proved to be a weak handler. Every pilot you were assigned to took advantage of your optimistic outlook on the kind of relationship dynamic that pilots had with their handlers. Despite all that you had been through at UA, and with the rest of the pilots you’d been paired with after, you never gave up the hope that handlers and pilots could behave as a team, or, even better, one entity. 

Tenko had taken one look at you and demanded you’d be transferred to the league. There hadn’t been much of a choice in the matter, not that you really cared. You were miserable everywhere else. But when you arrived at the abandoned academy and taken a peak behind the kudzu covered walls where each and every area of the building acted as multiple moving parts in collaboration with one another in order to create one massive system, you realized that this was the future you imagined for yourself—and for the world you lived in.

Tenko saw something in you that day, something you aren’t sure you even see in yourself. And so Dabi was your first task, one that’s proving to be very difficult. But he doesn’t treat you like all the other pilots before had. He doesn’t use you. In fact, it seems like he wants nothing to do with you. And while that’s a problem, it’s still one you can work with. 

You’re broken from your thoughts by the sound of a voice through an overhead intercom asking for everyone to meet on the first floor of the academy at their earliest convenience. Judging by the quick movements of those around you, you figure you’d better head downstairs as soon as possible. 

The meeting on the first floor makes you very aware of just how small the league really is. While it’s definitely not a tiny organization, it’s still much smaller than both UA and the PLF. With everyone piled up like this in one group, you realize it feels more like a community, and the hum of conversation that surrounds you comforts you in a way you’ve never felt within the walls of any other academy before. 

There’s discussion about the upcoming mission, one which may be the league’s most ambitious yet; the plan to hijack a mech and kidnap a pilot may be a little unorthodox compared to the league’s past missions, but the jaded pilot they’re targeting has a high chance of joining the cause. Or that’s what they have assumed. As the bodies move and speak around you, it strikes you how different this meeting is from any other meeting you’ve ever been a part of. Tenko is less a dictator and more a wrangler for the disembodied voices of your peers. 

You don’t know much about his story, save for the vague details you’ve heard, but Tenko’s status as a lone handler is something you find yourself curious about. If he’s able to work without a pilot, why can’t you? It’s an idea you keep in your back pocket, one you think you can fall back on if things with Touya don’t work out. But you want them to work out. So badly. 

You aren’t sure what it is about him, but he’s reignited that spark inside of you. You know he’d rather you give up, and maybe the you from a couple of months ago would have, but something about him—and this place—won’t let you leave. 

As you observe the meeting, you take the time to look around the room, taking in your peers and their attentive faces as they listen to Tenko intently. You turn to your right, your eyes meeting a pair of blue ones, impossible to miss. Dabi holds your stare for what feels like ages, and when your colleagues erupt in a fit of many simultaneous discussions, you tear your eyes from his to observe the commotion. When you glance back in his direction, he’s gone. 

You don’t seem him again after that. You train with other handlers, get to know your peers a little better. Everyone else seems to be welcoming, and most offer you sympathy when they find out you’re Touya’s new handler. From what you can gather, he’s had his fair share of them, all of which have quit or left in hysterics due to his harsh nature. When you ask around about where he could be, you’re told that he’s most likely in the garage, a place you assume he’s in more often than not.

You don’t know if you’ll ever get used to the garage. A place so completely different, so against the ideas and beliefs of any other academy you’ve been a part of, the chaos and community within is so foreign to you. You find Touya with Blue, working inside of her chest, where the cockpit is. 

“Touya!” You call up to him and watch as he peaks his head over the edge of her metal plating. Annoyance falling across his face, he jumps down from where he stands, landing hard on his feet in front of you. 

“What are you doing here?” He questions, his figure so tall and imposing above you. He’s not particularly muscular, not even all that tall compared to Tenko, but he makes you feel small regardless, in more ways than one. Rolling your shoulders back, you stare straight into his eyes, unwilling to back down. 

“I figured you wanted your space today.” You explain, as Touya moves around you to get to his rolling cart of tools, forcing you to turn toward him and follow him if you want him to hear you. “I know adjusting to a new handler is rough, and I never want to make you uncomfortable. But I was thinking we could try some of those pilot/handler bonding exercises. It might be good to start training like some of the others do.”

He drops the wrench in his hand onto his cart with a loud thud, turning around toward you with a look of disbelief on his face. “Pilot/handler bonding exercises? They really brainwashed the shit out of you at UA, huh?”

At the mention of your past academy, your eyes widen in surprise. You had no idea he knew about that. Clearing your throat in order to compose yourself, you speak again, “I left UA for a reason. I have no attachment to their methods, but you guys do the same stuff here, so what’s the issue?”

“The issue is that I never asked for a fucking handler in the first place, especially not one as eager as you.” He spits, “Sure, you’re understanding now, all that bullshit about ‘giving me space,’ but the moment you get a lick of power over me, you’ll change. You’re not different.”

“I don’t want power over you. This is an equal exchange. Pilot’s and handlers are meant to be a team—” You try and argue, but he doesn’t let you finish. 

“That’s what they told you, right? We’re a team, and as teammates, you make sacrifices. And it doesn’t matter if one of you turns into the other’s braindead dog because that’s your place.” His words hit you hard, the exact thought process you went through when leaving UA, completely disillusioned with their idea of “teamwork.” He’s right, and you know it, but since coming here, you thought that wasn’t how it had to be.

“Look, trust me, I get—” You’re cut off again.

“You went to UA! There’s no trusting you.” He scoffs, “It’s not like you’ll last here, anyway.”

“You are such a hypocrite! You’re from UA!” You retort, throwing your arms up in desperation. “You can hate me all you want. You can resist and resist and fry your brain ‘till there’s nothing left, but I believe in this shit. And you don’t get to tell me that I don’t, or tell me I’ll turn into something I worked so hard to get away from.”

Touya stands there, surprised by your outburst, completely unaware that you were capable of all of that. He doesn’t say anything back, and you roll your eyes. “So fuck you, and, by the way, her angel port is smoking.”

At your words, he turns in a rush, seeing the smoke billowing from Blue’s chest as he climbs his way up her form. Once inside his machine, he extinguishes the port and allows himself to relax. There are two things on his mind in this moment: how you could have possibly known it was the angel port without being inside of Blue’s chest and how, for the first time in a long time, he feels bad for his handler.

But for you, it’s the first time you’ve ever held your own against a pilot before, and that feels good.

…

Something feels weird.

Off, unsettling, strange.

He realizes, much to his dismay, that it’s your absence. Despite only having you around for such a short time, Touya has realized that your lack of presence now feels wrong. He hates it. He hates you. 

He can’t find you. You haven’t knocked on his door. You’re not in the caf, not the garage, not the sparring floor, not in your room. And he did check—without knocking. 

He’s not even sure how he can feel an absence. You aren’t a regular part of his life, and he never wanted you to be. But he feels all fucked up.

During training, Touya jams Blue’s halo core and she leaks vibrant neon from between her ribs. It takes him half an hour to get her reboot her system and rips one of the cables attached to the back of his suit in the process. He spends the afternoon cleaning HERO fluid off the sparring floor. 

During repairs, he shocks himself over and over while trying to fix her core, fingers burning from the sparks each time he arranges the wires inside. The cameras in her eyes won’t work from the reboot, and Blue won’t let him unlock the lens panel to fix it. It’s almost like she’s mad at him too.

He’s a complete mess. It’s your fault. He has no choice but to go looking for you. Again.

He searches every wing of the academy before concluding that you’re in your room. He barges through the joint door, spotting you at the counter in your tiny kitchen. You’re surprised by the intrusion, a frightened gasp falling from your lips as you jump in your seat. You turn toward him, prepared with angry words on your tongue, but Touya speaks first.

“You’re not getting an apology out of me, so don’t expect it.” He begins, moving to stand in front of your swiveling kitchen stool as he looks down at you. “But I’m willing to be civil with you, so we don’t have to do this shit anymore.”

You’re not exactly sure what “this shit” is, but Touya looks a little worse for wear at the moment, so you don’t question it. He places a tray from the caf down in front of you that you hadn’t noticed in his hands upon arrival, says nothing else, and turns to leave the room. After shutting your joint door, you look down at the tray of food, noticing one of his suckers placed onto a vacant compartment of the tray. 

You’re greeted the next morning with a knock on your door, Touya dressed in his pilot’s suit on the other side as you swing the door open. “C’mon. You’re gonna watch me train today.”

You watch him turn around to leave, expecting you to follow. You rush to pull on your combat boots and grip your dog tags in your fist as you rush to catch up to him. He doesn’t spare you a glance as you fall into step beside him, taking a look around his dorm before he leads you through the exit door. 

“You need to get a feel for my fighting style.” He explains as you walk down the corridor. “I’m not saying I’ll listen to you when it comes down to it, but it’s important for you to know.”

You nod, agreeing that you should definitely observe him inside of his HERO. By understanding his moves, you’ll be able to understand the way he thinks, and you’ll be able to help him in actual combat if needed. He’s already said he won’t listen to you, but it won’t stop you from trying. He stops abruptly, turning to look at you, and you stop with him. 

“If we’re gonna do this, it’ll be on my terms. I’m not your dog.” He tells you, seriously. He eye’s you up and down, taking in your expression as you nod at his words. “If anything, you’re mine.”

He begins walking again, leaving you in your spot, irritation filling your chest as you watch him, smug. “Asshole.” You curse under your breath.

“What’d you say?” He barks, turning to look at you abruptly.

“You’re an asshole.” You speak louder. He walks back toward you, making sure to tower over you intimidatingly as he looks down at you in annoyance. His eyes flicker down to the tags around your neck before hooking a finger on the chain and pulling you closer. 

“Watch it.” He drops the chain and walks away again. 

You follow him to the sparring floor, and he shows you where to go to watch. Stood behind a large window that looks over the sparring area, other members of the base watch the HERO’s engage in combat below. You spot Tenko and he motions for you to stand beside him. 

“I knew he’d warm up to you.” He comments. The last of the previous battle finishes and you watch the two enormous machines retreat to the sides of the area, their pilots emerging from their chests with their handlers rushing to the bottom of the mech’s in support. 

“He hasn’t. He’s not.” You shake your head. You aren’t sure why you deny it, if it’s some way to keep your expectations low or if there’s some kind of embarrassment aspect to the whole thing. Whatever is happening between you and Touya feels intimate and private, something that the two of you need to figure out for yourselves, not something meant for the eyes of others.

“Hm. Okay.” Tenko shrugs. “Guess not.”

You hadn’t noticed Touya enter his mech at all. You see the swing of one giant mechanic arm, too close to the window you stand behind, and you’ve shifted your full attention to the scene at hand. 

The enormity of the room surprises you, despite the fact that you had seen it just moments before. But when you’re truly looking at it, watching these huge machines go at each other, the way the ground shakes, the leaves outside shake, the deep forrest clear in view from the wall that opens out to the greenery (the lack of a wall is likely from the academy’s abandoned state, but it’s a good feature to have on the sparring floor when giant robots are toppled over onto various surfaces).

The way Blue moves is electric, mechanic movements almost feel fluid with the way that Touya pilots her, easily dodging attacks from their opponent and moving around them in the most graceful way a giant machine can. It’s beautiful, unlike any fighting style you’ve ever seen in a HERO before. 

“He’s showing off for you.” Tenko observes from beside you. You don’t argue with him, only because you can’t dispute it. This is your first time seeing him in action. It makes your heart beat out of your chest. There’s this ache like you should be inside with him, cables connected to both of you, tucked neatly inside of Blue together. 

It doesn’t take him long to get his opponent on their back, the heavy thump against the floor jostling the ant-like figures on the ground below, handlers waiting for their pilots to finish. It goes on like this for a while, his training, using different methods of combat and winning each time. He’s amazing, and you can tell why his reputation is the way it is, second only to Tenko, who you have yet to see in action. 

When he finishes his last session, you watch Blue walk to the edge of the room, and Touya emerges from her chest, jumping the long way down her body without any issue. You watch as he looks toward the window you’re behind. He waves at you, an acknowledgment of your presence, and you wave back, though you aren’t sure he can actually see you.

It’s the beginning of everything for the two of you. You think Tenko was right.

He lets you stay with him afterwards while he does maintenance on Blue. He helps you climb up the path to her chest, hauling you over the edge to sit inside with him. He turns around abruptly, holding a hand up before allowing you to walk any further.

“Do not touch anything.” He warns, completely serious, before letting his hand fall and allowing you further into the cockpit. You take in your surroundings, the guts of his machine, analyzing the different control panels and screens that line the interior. You can tell he takes good care of her, and he spends a lot of time in here. It looks lived in, stickers stuck to metal plating and pieces of him all over. He’s made a second home in between the ribs of his mech. You feel a little jealous, though you aren’t sure of what. 

The two of you sit against the left side of Blue’s interior, waiting for her updates to finish, the loading screen on each of her monitors display a fire graphic that grows with the increasing percentage on screen. Between you and Touya sits an opened bag of sour gummies, which Touya picks out the lemon flavor and drops the candy in your palm with each new handful he gathers. 

“How do you know all this stuff?” He questions around a mouthful of sour cherry, “Like, the real names for things, where stuff goes, how to fix them. That day with the wires…”

“I spent a lot of time around mechanics at UA, and then also at the PLF.” You explain, picking the yellow colored candy from his open palm as you speak. “I couldn’t connect with other handlers. I didn’t like how they thought, or how they viewed the pilot/handler relationship. Mechanics were mostly neutral, and they loved these machines like nothing else. They reminded me of why I joined UA in the first place.”

“Hm.” He nods, thinking about your past. “Well, I guess if you spent so much time around actual professionals…I could maybe use your help sometimes in the garage.”

“Really?” You question excitedly, a spark lighting up your eyes as you swerve your head toward him. He feels something tight in his chest at the sight.

“Yes, but only on the outside. I don’t want you messing with her insides, yet.” He establishes. “And never alone. I have to be there at all times.”

“Of course, yes, oh my god. Touya!” You smile, gripping his shoulder firmly, a gesture of thanks, communication of how much his trust means to you. “I’ll be so careful with her, I promise.”

“Yeah, well, you have no other choice.” He shrugs, throwing another pile of candy in his mouth. “I’ll kill you if anything happens to her.”

You take the threat seriously, but his heart isn’t in it. He’s realized that you’ve wormed your way into his life and he hadn’t even noticed just how entangled you were now. 

As the weeks go by, you spend a lot more time together. You work on blue together, and you rest inside of her chest, sometimes allowing yourself to drift off against his shoulder on especially tiring days. He sits beside you in the caf, and while he doesn’t always say much, the feeling of his arm against yours is comforting. You can tell people are starting to notice, and they’re starting to talk. You’re being dubbed someone who’s tamed him, but you know how far from the truth that is. 

Despite your differences and the petty arguments that come up when Touya feels like you’re intruding on his independence, you’re growing attached. You wonder if he is, too.

…

Spending time together in the garage becomes the new normal for the two of you. Being in each other’s dorms feels far too intimate, so you always meet in the garage. This way, one of you is always busy doing something with your hands. There’s no room for any strange feelings in the pit of your stomach to seep in. 

You sit in the crook of Blue’s neck, watching Touya as he repairs the lenses in her “eyes.” Blue has three pairs of eyes; in her head, her chest, and down near her hips, which all footage is projected onto monitors inside the cockpit so that Touya has a full view of what’s in front of him. 

He’s so peaceful while he works, you’ve noticed, almost like he goes somewhere else completely. It’s a part of him you don’t think many people get to see, a piece of him just for you, and you want to be selfish with it.

“Can I ask you something?” You question, leaning your head back against the metal. “But you can’t get mad.”

He looks up at you, still fiddling with a lens, a mocking look on his face. “I’m not making any promises.”

You take a deep breath, preparing yourself for the possible fallout of the question you’re about to ask, “What do you think about the soul link?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “I’d never do it.”

You nod your head in understanding, “yeah, I get it. It’s weird, right? The idea that someone else would be inside your brain.”

“It’s fucking invasive.” He says.

“You know, at UA it always felt like a threat, you know. Like, it was a way for a handler to control their pilot, not a tool or a bond like it should be.” You begin, thinking back to how you viewed the soul link back then. You didn’t like how the bond was presented as this power that a handler holds over their pilot, a threat to keep their pilot in line. But, you could understand how the link could be used for good. “But since coming here, I can tell it’s not all bad. People trust each other here. I mean, there’s obviously some people who abuse it, but, for the most part, everyone seems to understand what it really means to be a pilot and a handler.”

You’re mostly just thinking out loud, but Touya doesn’t say anything to your ramblings. He continues to work on the lenses, and you can gather that he doesn’t want to talk about the subject anymore. But you can’t let it go, yet. There’s something you’ve been worried about since you met him.

“And what about…your brain? They say when a handler and a pilot don’t complete the soul link, the pilot will eventually fry their brain.” You can’t help it. You think about it all the time, what will happen when he can’t take it anymore. The closer you get to him, the realer it feels. “Are you ever worried about that?”

He looks at you, an expression you can’t quite make out fall across his face as he stares. It’s almost soft, the way he looks at you in this moment. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

The truth is, this is a reality Touya has accepted. He’s not afraid to die, and he never has been. He’ll probably die inside of Blue, and he has no problem with that fact. He doesn’t need to be around for long, just enough to show his dad what he’s capable of.

“C’mon.” You stare. “That’s not fair.”

“Shit. I left some of the screws for this in my dorm.” He curses. He looks where you lounge, tucked into Blue’s shoulder. “Keep an eye on her, okay?”

You watch him jump down, much higher than his usual height at her chest, but he lands anyway. He doesn’t turn to look back at you as he jogs away. You climb up the side of Blue, and look at the lenses in her head. They’re already repaired, and you know Touya used the excuse of missing screw just so he wouldn’t have to talk about the soul link.

But it’s the first time he’s ever left you alone with Blue before. 

…

As the mission draws closer, Touya throws himself into training. You’re on the training floor with him most days, standing behind that big glass panel as you watch him spar with his peers. He still doesn’t let you down on the floor with him until he’s full out of Blue and close enough to the edge of the sparring floor to get to you. You’re not allowed in the actual training area, and even though he says he doesn’t want you clinging to him, it’s really because he wants to keep you safe. Seeing your human body near the giant machines that are HERO’s makes him want to grab you and keep you inside of Blue’s chest forever. 

You can tell all the training is taking a toll on him. With an excess of headaches and the occasional nosebleed, you continuously get into arguments about him cutting back on training inside of Blue. There are other ways for him to prepare that don’t involve his fragile brain being hooked up to an entity that takes so much. He doesn’t listen.

Later and later into the night, as your fellow pilots and handlers disperse and return to their rooms to sleep, Touya stays inside of Blue, testing her movements and sparring against test dummies and obstacles. Once you and Touya are the only two left on the sparring floor, you speak into the intercom attached to your head.

“Touya, I think you should take a break.” You tell him, “It’s late. Get some rest and then we can pick it back up in the morning.”

There’s a pause, then, “I’m gonna stay for another hour. Get some sleep. I’ll be done soon.”

“No, Touya. You’ve been at it for hours. You barely took a break for dinner. C’mon.” 

“You know, you sound awfully like a handler trying to tell their pilot what to do.” He teases, but you can hear the irritation in his voice.

“You are insufferable. I’m worried about you.” You groan.

“I’m fine. Go sleep.” He insists.

“If I find out you aren’t out of here in an hour—” Your line is promptly cut off, leaving behind static in your ear. You sigh and throw your com to the side. You hope he’s telling the truth.

With one last look at Blue, you make your way out of the training floor and find your way back to your dorm. 

Touya doesn’t answer the door when you knock the next morning. With a frustrated groan, you leave your dorm and head to the training floor, assuming he woke up early to get some extra hours in. The closer you get the the floor, you notice other members of the base rushing in front of you. Feeling panicked, you pick up the pace, jogging toward the training room to make sure something isn’t wrong. You collide with a body in front of you, nearly falling to the floor as you steady yourself. Toga stands in front of you, her cheeks red and eyes glossy as she explains something your mind can’t catch up to understand. The only thing you recognize is his name, and you’re running toward the training floor in an instant. 

You watch as Blue stomps around the area, her arms swinging in all directions, losing her footing as she moves. Knowing you can’t do anything on the floor, you make your way up to the overlook, finding Tenko yelling into your intercom. 

“What’s going on? What’s happening?” You ask him, pulling the headset off of his head and placing it on yours instead. 

“He’s out of fucking control. He won’t answer. I don’t even think he’s conscious in there.” He tells you, running a hand through his hair, pulling at the roots in anxiety. “You’re not linked yet, are you?”

You shake your head, closing your eyes in frustration as you try to think. You know it’s the only way. You have to take some of the burden off of him, make him share it with you. It’s the only way he’ll survive right now. “Do you think you can get into Decay right now and knock him down somehow?”

He hesitates, “I can get inside. I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to touch him at all.”

“You have to.” You plead, desperately. “I just need him down for ten seconds, tops. As long as I can get inside of her, I can save him.”

He looks at you like you’re insane, and maybe you are. But you know you can’t live with yourself if you don’t try something. Tenko nods.

“I can do it.” He tells you. You rush passed him, following the stairs down to the training area. You feel Tenk grab your wrist firmly. “You bring him back, okay?”

“I will.” You nod. 

He dodges Blue’s movements, weaving between her legs as he finally makes it to Decay. It takes a few moments for him to connect, but he goes straight for Blue. You watch the giant machines fight one another, but it’s clear that Blue’s lack of control hinders much of her ability. She needs Touya just as much as he needs her. It’s tough for Decay to dodge her swinging arms, but Tenko manages to knock her down quickly.

The fall shakes the room, but you waste no time running for Blue. Climbing over the side of her, you manage to touch your thumb to the pad on the outside to open her chest up. She begins to stand up, and you slip down, grabbing onto a bar beneath her ribcage. You let out a frustrated groan as you try to pull yourself up over the edge of the cockpit. Finally making it over, you see Touya sitting there, still connected to his pilot’s chair, eyes glazed over and blood gushing from his nose. You push the button that closes the panel in Blue’s chest, and you’re suddenly alone with him. 

Touya’s body is being jerked around by the movement of the mech, and you hang onto the walls of her chest in order to make your way to him. You situate yourself in his lap, taking his head in your hands as you look at him with tears in your eyes.

“You fucking asshole! I told you to take a break.” You sob, resting your head against his as you try and think of what to do next. “Touya, please. Please, baby, I need to you come back. Just fucking come back so I don’t have to do this without your permission, please.”

With no response from him, you wipe your tears, coming to terms with the fact that you have to complete the soul link now, or he’ll die. “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, Touya. Please forgive me.”

The soul link isn’t exactly an action so much as it is a feeling, an experience. There’s no trigger for it, no way to make it happen. It just begins. 

It’s Touya, aged thirteen, wild, chubby-cheeked and happy, in the pilot’s seat of his father’s HERO. It’s his drive, his determination, his anger, his hurt. It’s the day he snuck into battle, the day he couldn’t get out, flesh burning and fusing to the metal walls of his mech, the feeling now deep in your skin. It’s you, aged fifteen, hopeful, alive, shaking hands with your first pilot. It’s your heart, much too big and much too open for your line of work, it’s your passion, your fire, every piece of you that was broken down again and again until there was nothing left. It’s Touya and it’s you, and every single bit of your souls now tied together in one big knot. 

There’s nothing but darkness. And then there’s screaming. And then you can hear everything. Every thought running through Touya’s brain right now echoes in your head as you slowly come back to yourself. He can hear the same of yours.

It’s overwhelming at first, to have two sets of thoughts in your head at the same time, but you manage to focus. You can feel an anger inside of you like you’ve never felt. It’s almost like it’s your own. You need to come back. You’ve lost control of Blue.

In an instant, you feel yourself come back to your body, now straddling Touya like before, you feel his arms shoot around you and he tucks his chin over your shoulder to pilot Blue like he’s used to doing. He pays no mind as he presses up against you, but you feel your heart rate increase at the closeness. 

He’s so close.

I have to be. You’re in my lap.

Shit. I didn’t think—

Clearly.

I can’t fucking believe you. I told you we weren’t going to do this.

You were dying!

Then you fucking let me!

You’re jostled around in his lap for a moment as he stops Blue from destroying any more of the training floor, and Touya wraps an arm around your waist, holding you steady.

He gains control of her quickly, moving her toward the edge of the room. You tuck your face into his neck, not wanting to distract him and keeping your thoughts at bay so you don’t overwhelm him. He powers Blue down, severing the neural connection between the two of you, and shoves you from his lap and into the pilot’s chair like you’ve burned him. He storms out of the cockpit, climbing out of his machine and leaving you inside. You think about the argument you had within each other’s head, how Touya would have rather died than be linked to you like he is now. 

You slump against the seat, comforted by the metal cage you’ve been left inside of. 

[mariahcarreyyy]

love tropes with max?

# send me a driver and I’ll tell you which love tropes i associate them with ! suggestive themes 18+ below

mariahcarreyyy's 2k celebration announcement post

Look, I was going to say 'enemies to lovers' because, well, have you seen Max? But let's talk about Max and a nanny/caretaker!reader.

He and Kelly broke it off a while ago, but Max couldn't handle saying goodbye to Penelope, so they settled for split parenting. Sometimes, though, Max would have to leave for short periods of time—media duties, race weekends, etc.—and that's where you came in.

A friend had recommended you to him, and after signing multiple contracts and NDC's, you were officially caring for P on all days of the week except Tuesdays (you suspect it's because Max is always home on Tuesdays). Anyway, at the same time that you had grown incredibly fond of his daughter, she had too.

It was not hard, Max thought; you were undebateably beautiful.

He tries to dismiss his heart soaring whenever you'd laugh at his poorly made jokes. He tries to ignore the urge to touch you if he were in the same room as you—hands gripping your waist to slide past a tight hallway, back pressed against yours to help you reach P's cartoon cup on the top shelf of the kitchen—all not so platonic or discreet.

Max would insist you stay for dinner most nights, despite you not having any real reason to. You'd never agreed to something more enthusiastically in your life. His blue eyes soften as he watches you wipe some of the pasta sauce off the corner of P's lips.

It awoke something primal in him.

He wants to have you here, sitting and giggling before him, forever. For as long as you'll have him. If you even want him. After his daughter had been successfully tucked in bed without a refuting sound, he'd come back to a clean dinner table. Glancing through the kitchen aisle window, he could see your figure wiping the dirty dishes in the kitchen.

Grinning cheekily, Max tiptoes behind you, cockiness fading into adoration when he hears you humming some Dutch songs he'd play around the apartment. He shakes his head, his eye on the prize. Just as you'd been placing a plate on the dishrack, Max grips your shoulder blades, whispering a hushed 'boo'.

Your heart nearly fell out of your ass. A loud yelp escaped your lips, your fingers loosening around the plate. Max's eyes widen, and he holds the plate before it shatters onto the ground in all his driver reflex glory.

Turning to face him, both your cheeks tint pink when you register how close Max is from reaching for the plate behind you; chest grazing against your nipples, a shared minty breath shared between you, identical flushes on your faces.

Like magnets, the two of you push past the tension in the air, and your lips meet halfway. His massive hands burn through your clothes, one on the swell of your ass and another cupping the side of your neck, deepening the kiss and squeezing lightly.

You gasp at the momentary constriction, a pathetic moan escaping your mouth. Max swallows it, takes it as an opportunity to slip his tongue past your lips, and smiles against them when you pull him flush against you.

"Max," you whimper, lips close enough to brush against his.

"I know, I know, liefje," he coos, tucking his hands underneath your thighs and hauling you onto the kitchen counter, snickering at your loud gasp when he pulls you to sit on the edge.

[eveningepiphany]

welcome to the final show | H.S oneshot

my masterlist!

summary: you take a beautiful sign to the final show and have the sweetest interaction with harry. then somehow bump into him in italy 2 days later.

warnings: nothing but fluff, and a few little mentions of how he saved your life!

a/n: i am so fucking proud of h. i want to give him a hug more than anything. this is for all my lovelies who love hslot so fckn much it makes them ill.

also this is such an unrealistic oneshot but like that’s just the way for it ig

———

There’s a certain type of atmosphere that comes around once and a while. It’s rare.

It’s one that no matter how many photos or videos you take, you can’t capture it. One that no word has enough emotional range behind it to convey the feeling it opens up in you.

That is the only way to get close to even describe standing where you are.

You can’t lie, you had waited hours upon hours in the Italian sun just to feel the warm metal of the barricade underneath your palms.

You’d waited years just to get here in general.

When you turn your head to look behind you, you see tens of thousands of people there. Going from visible, overwhelmingly happy faces to a sea of tiny dots.

But you’re here. At the front.

You smile because you made it. This has, albeit dramatic, been a home to you over the past 2 years.

A creature comfort. One you followed every step of the way. And somehow you can’t believe you made it here, and neither would the girl back 18 months ago watching a pixelated Instagram livestream.

Standing in your outift, which took more rhinestones and glitter than you could ever have kept track of.

But you shined under the sun like a mirrorball, so it all felt worth it. Even though you swear there’s still glue stuck under your nails.

Your friends around you shared water, staying hydrated as the show starting neared. Wetleg had already preformed their final set. And tears had been randomly springing on you all day.

You heard the power in the crowd as they sung the prelude songs, goosebumps dotting over your body as you realise he’s probably able to hear it now.

Soon enough he’ll be looking at it. In all of its 100,000 people glory.

“You okay lovely?” Sofia, an Italian girl you’d met in the line checked in on you.

You nodded with a heartfelt smile. The whole experience was so bittersweet. Full of lasts.

“I’m okay. Just so so proud.” You nodded and she softly chuckles.

Her outfit was an electric blue that contrasted her tan skin, “I have some granola bars in my bag if you’re hungry? You should eat, we’ve been standing in the heat all day.”

Your best friend from your other side peered over, drawn back into conversation after being lost in the magic of the crowd surrounding her.

“On cry number— let me guess— 24 of the day?” She said it teasingly.

“Saying that as if you don’t already have mascara stains half down your face.” You grumble back jokingly, leaning your head back to look at the pastel blue sky.

You turned back to Sofia, “We’ll save them for after, maybe lay down on the ground and eat them or something.”

You only said no because you felt like you could probably be sick right now.

“Amore sciocco, troppo testardo il tuo bene, mio dio.” She mutters under her breath with a laugh, shaking her head at you disapprovingly.

“Trash talking her again in Spanish. God I wish I knew how to speak it.” You elbow your best friend at her quip.

You could stay in this moment forever.

As Bohemian Rhapsody begins playing you watch the sun go down, and in this very moment, It is your forever.

You live and breathe every second of it. All the way into peace piece, and as you’re gripping the girls around you for dear life as the lights start to dim along with the setting sun.

Harry coming has the arena screaming so loud it would have been heard for miles. He looks beautiful.

Like a shiny star up on stage. Blowing kisses and sending thank you’s to as many areas of the crowd be possibly could.

Mouthing words in Italian, causing Sofia to almost pass out beside you she screeched that hard the first time he did it.

And him counting in Golden with their language, speaking proudly into the mic— “Uno, due— uno, due, tres!”

“HES— WHAT THE FUCK!!” You’re laughing, holding her hand as she shouts frantically.

Songs bleed into one after another, going on your part from embarrassing screaming and dancing onto equally embarrassing crying.

The overwhelming feeling of seeing him so close— so damn close you can see each individual sequin on his silver outfit when his on the main stage at his mic stand in the centre.

You don’t even realise he’s doing a sign reading interlude until Sofia hands you yours from where it leant on the bottom of the barricade at your feet.

You were enamoured by him.

Taking the sign, your hands shook a little as he was on the main stage. Right in front of you.

His eyes are scanning the crowd, glancing over some signs and smiling.

“We have a choice tonight,” he begins, voice echoing through the speakers.

“we can either move quickly through signs, in which case, we’ll be able to give you some more songs!” An array of screams come from everyone, and you feel sick just at the prospect he was suggesting. The fact he could pull out any song.

He chuckles, walking further towards the area of the pit where you are, “Just an idea, just an idea!”

You’re pretty sure the girls are yelling something about him walking over, but you’re stunned at what’s happening overall, and you can’t even process what they’re saying.

But contradictory to what he’d just said. He stops a moment.

From his perspective, he saw a handful of very bright colours in the front of the crowd. One holding up an equally eye catching sign.

But he takes a moment to blink, focus in on the person holding it.

This girl has her eyes locked dead onto him, like as if he moves an inch— something could implode at any moment. Yet it somehow comes across in a flattering way.

And then he reads the sign.

‘you saved me. i cant thank you enough for that. BTW…’

His heart immediately pangs. Already too emotional at this whole event to be reading a sign like that.

You are in shock. Because he certainly just made eye contact with you and he’s been staring at your sign for a few good seconds.

“Can— wait can you turn that for me, love?” His voice falters a little.

As if Harry Styles just asked you to do something, you move with a haste you never had.

However you misinterpreted his question, turning the sign clockwise like as if it was upside down. Feeling a little embarrassed in yourself that it was around the wrong way.

He chuckles into the mic, causing a small uproar at the softness of it.

“Wrong way, it has B-T-W on it so I’m assuming there’s more on the back.”

“Oh, god— sorry!” You shout out to him, it sounding a little shaky, and you can’t lie that tears were threatening to spill from your eyes.

You had waited so fucking long to have a chance to tell him that he genuinely saved your life. And you’re finally doing it.

Also spinning the sign so the back of it is facing him, and his eyes flit gently over it too.

‘you have by far the prettiest smile ever.’ It reads, with a few large red hearts around it, decorated with glitter and rhinestones.

A dimple pops out on his cheek and he covers his mouth with a hand, flattered as ever.

“Why thank you.” He does a little bow as well, and you’re laughing out of shock. You’re interacting with him right now.

He straightens up, “I’m flattered as ever.” Prodding one of his dimples as he shows off just how pretty his smile is.

“And thank you for coming, it means everything to me.” He flushes a little, laughing at himself and your still starstruck reaction.

“You are stronger than you probably think. What’s your name?”

A tear breaks past your waterline, and you call out, “Y/N!”

Both girls at your side are clutching you like no tomorrow, and Harry takes his in-ear out to hear you better.

You call it out again, he makes only one off guess before he gets it. And your name rolling off his accent tongue makes your stomach flip.

“Y/N? That’s right— well that was a pretty good record for name guessing—“ he laughs, walking over as close as he can to the edge of the stage.

He holds the mic up to his mouth, “make some noise for Y/N everyone!”

You are in complete shock as you hear the whole arena cheer and holler for you, and Harry has this wholesome feeling of adoration wash over him as he sees your reaction.

The tears slipping down your pink cheeks. If he could, he honestly would go down there and wipe them off.

Not something he often find himself thinking. Yet here he is.

“Thank you for coming Y/N. What do you say we do some more songs?” He asks, smiling at the shocked raise of your brows.

“Yes, please.” You enthusiastically reply.

“Alright, you heard her. More songs it is!”

And so the show continues on. The second he breaks eye contact and moves away, a sob tears out of you.

You can’t believe that just happened. And the fact the rest of the show— unless you’re delusional, and making this up in your head— he lingers anytime he’s going past where you are. Catching your eyes, and smiling a little wider.

And you’re absolutely a wreck at the speech he makes, even though Sofia has to translate every word that leaves his mouth.

But if that nearly killed you, the piano ballad was honestly your final straw.

You cried so hard you couldn’t see the fucking stage at one point. And you wish you could say you were embarrassed for him to see you as he did one last round of goodbyes. But you couldn’t.

It was all your love and appreciation for him, poured out of you through the tears streaming down your face.

To your disbelief, he stops in front of you again, blowing a kiss to your friends and then one to you.

Bending down a little further to look at you, lips starting to move— from what your could hardly hear, and mostly got from reading his lips, he said ‘thank you, I love you.”

You blow a kiss back.

And before you know it, the show has ended. And there’s this full, yet hollow feeling inside of you.

Like you’re not sure how to feel. You miss him already, but that was by far the most amazing experience of your life.

You’re overwhelmed, with love and gratitude. And you, Sofia and your best friend end up doing what you’d proposed earlier before the show.

Eating chocolate granola bars with your back up against the barricade, tears still falling from your eyes.

———

Post love on tour depression is a real thing.

There is no normal explanation for having to force yourself to get up to have an amazing brunch in Italy of all places.

But 2 days after the show day, you’re doing just that. Dressing in a nice summer outfit at the very least, and taking your LOT bag with you.

The streets aren’t too busy considering it’s midday, and you make your way through them peacefully. Stoping to peak into stores, or take photos of little things you like every now and again.

And all your adventuring leads you to a beautiful little corner-cafe. One that the second you step foot into, you are comforted by its cozy feel & strong aroma of coffee.

The building itself had all its historic bones, but had been modernised. Fitted with sleek wooden floors and new furniture. Walls painted a crisp white to brighten up the already light filled room.

You find the menu hanging above where the counter is, on large pretty chalkboards.

You’re mulling over what to get when you hear a voice from beside you.

It causes you to jump a little at it’s unexpectedness, “I like your bag.”

It’s said with the tone that you can tell someone is smiling. And you turn to greet the person who had just spoken to you.

That’s when you’re met with a sight that knocks the wind from you.

Beside you— standing tall, with his tousled brown curls and rolled up linen long-sleeve is quite literally the man you saw on stage 2 nights ago.

“Oh my god—“ you jump a little at the realisation, it hitting you like a train within seconds. But you’re trying to keep you voice down, as to not cause some kind of scene.

He laughs at your stunned reaction, the way your ringed hand goes over your mouth. It’s a reaction he’s accustomed to. But the way your pretty features portray the expression has him all the more intrigued.

He does his classic introduction, “Hi, love. I’m harry.” Sticking his hand out, smiling. Like as if you didn’t know.

“I— well I did notice that.” You rush out in a nervous laugh. Glancing around looking for some kind of film camera, gauging if this is a set up and not a coincidence.

You’re left realising it’s just the two of you, and some older guy with a newspaper a few metres away at a window seat.

But no one with a camera or phone out filming this interaction.

You shake his hand after a moment of hesitation, telling yourself mentally you’re not going to cry as your relish the feeling of his calloused fingertips against the base of your wrist.

“Hi…” You flush profusely.

“What are you ordering?” He smiles at you, and your eyes are so obviously darting over his every feature.

Which you feel like you couldn’t stop from happening when he’s this close, and you’re able to fully see the plains of his beautiful face.

The structure of his jawline— that’s dotted with a light stubble—his cupids bow lips, the definition in his cheekbones. And fuck his eyes.

That are very intensely locked onto yours…

“Oh. I’m sorry. I…” you fumble for words a little, “probably like a tea. That’s usually my go to.”

He nods, “let me get it for you, please. How do you have it?”

“No, no. It’s okay, you don’t need to do that.” You insist immediately, because even though the gestures small, it feels like too much.

“Y/N.” He tuts gently.

“Weird that you remember that.” You think aloud, unable to filter the shock at the fact he just said your name. Even though the show was only 2 days ago, when he learnt it.

“Of course I do. You had quite the sign. I won’t lie, it made me tear up a bit.” He laughs, pushing a stray lock of hair out of his eyes.

“Well, It was true. Not to be cheesy or anything, but your music genuinely means everything to me.” You say carefully. Not wanting to come across as weird.

“And love on tour was one of the best experiences of my life. So… thank you for that.”

“Thank you.” He smiled at your shyness. And you recall the fact you told him he had a pretty smile.

Prettiest smile. The fact he knows you think that?

You wonder if he’s thought the same thing at all in the last 5 minutes.

“Your support means as much to me. Wouldn’t be able t’do what I do if it weren’t for people like you.”

“Now, how you have your tea?” He reiterates, asking for an answer, not for another polite declination.

“I— okay. Since it’s clear you’re not going to take no for an answer.” You sigh. Corners of your mouth upturning anyway at his stubborn ways.

You rattle off how you have it, and he nods, mentally noting it down like this is going to be a regular occurrence.

He walks over to the counter and you shuffle over to the side that you’ll pick up the order from. Watching carefully as he goes up, you take in his much more causal appearance to the usual extravagance of the outfits he adorns on stage.

Hes got a pair of denim shorts on—strong legs on display— paired with a white longsleeve that’s rolled up his fore arms.

You avert your gaze to the older Italian man at the register, clueless to who he is serving.

Until a younger girl, say 15, walks from the back room and does the biggest double take youve ever witnessed.

Harry has to be used to it, because there was no way anyone could miss that.

You’re feeling like you’re in a parallel universe. Because Harry is just casually strolling back over to you, like you’ve known each other for more than a total of two, 5 minute interactions.

You take a breath, reminding yourself simply that he is a human. Just like you are. He wakes up in the morning, has bad days and good days, has habits and routines he follows— just like anyone else.

You keep this in consideration as you open your mouth to speak, “Thank you for doing that. How have you been?”

He smiles at your shy tone, a tiny wholesome feeling bubbling up at your question.

“I’m good, honestly. It’s been a big start to the year. I’m excited to take some time off even though wrapping it up the other night was really hard.” He nods, eyes casually trailing the man who was making the drinks.

“If it makes any difference, I was sobbing like a baby at pretty much every point of the show.” You laughed.

“I did see your very tear stained cheeks.” He shocks himself little with his continuation,

“Would’ve jumped down and given you a hug if I had the bloody time.” And he smiles with gratification as you mask your shocked reaction as much as possible. However, tiny little micro-movements in your face were still popping through. “I went a little overtime with the speech.”

Just human to human. You drew a tiny breath through your nose, “Which was great by the way. I mean my friend had to translate the whole thing, but was also another tear jerker.”

He goes to say something else, interrupted by the call of his name from the counter.

In which he collects the drinks from the lovely man, smiling at him with a warm thank you before turning to come back to you.

“Here you go, darling.” He hands over yours, and his green eyes look bright as ever.

The darling makes your stomach flip. He’s British, they use pet names like this in passing conversation often. But fuck if you didn’t know any better you’d think there was a chance he was flirting with you.

“Thank you. You really didn’t have to, but I appreciate it.” You repeat.

“You have a different accent, you’re not from Italy no?” He interjects and you’re a little confused at the sudden change of topic.

“No I’m not from here…?” you laugh.

“So you’ve travelled all this way to come see me I’m assuming, the least I can do is buy you a tea. Think of it as a thank you.”

He tests the waters a little further, “i don’t usually stay in cafes for overly long but, if you have time to sit for a bit…”

“You continue to amaze me.” You chuckle, slowly following behind him as he pulls up a chair, back to the window.

“You also made me a very flattering sign. So im just being courteous, as a way to return the favour.” He smirks almost. And you’re honestly not strong enough to endure this.

“And that little piano thing you did? Is this compensation for my mental health?” You hold the cup up and he lets out a surprised laugh at your gentle quip.

“Yes, I’ve heard word that it came across as emotional as I’d intended.”

“You could hear a pin drop in the whole arena.” You nodded, taking a sip of the tea he’d bought you.

“I was so worried I was gonna fuck it up somehow.” He shakes his head, hand running through his hair as though he was anxious just at the thought.

“It sounded amazing, Harry. Made me feel a lot how fine line did when I first listened to it.”

He looks sincere with gratitude as you talk. And it stays that way as he continues on conversation with you.

You know heaps about him— you’re a fangirl that’s practically your job— yet he doesn’t know anything about you. Leaving him curious about many aspects of your life, and also with plenty of questions. Ones he really can’t believe he is even asking given you’re a fan, and he’s never actually done this before.

Whatever this is, because it felt a lot like a first date. With the way he asked where you were from, who you came to Italy with, where you grew up.

The whole lot. Your drinks both long since finished, but the questions still flowing between you two. Like there was never enough information to be learned.

He was interrupted by a call, and it almost popped this little bubble you’d made around yourselves.

Which possibly wasn’t a bad thing for him. But it served as a reality check for you.

You’re still just a fan at the end of the day. Even though your not sure how that term stands after he knows about your favourite foods, or childhood stories from your younger years. Because you feel like now that he knows that, the dynamic feels different to you.

But most of all you dreaded the fact you had to say goodbye again. But now you have to say it knowing that he walks away from this knowing things personal to you.

You realise he’s on the phone to his mum as he talks, “Yea, tell Gem to grab them anyway… I’ll be back soonish.”

He glances up at your after a moment of brief silence, “I’m just out with a friend of mine I… bumped into. So I’ll see you soon, okay?”

A friend of his?

“Alright, bye, I love you.”

And just like that the phone hung up.

“I’m feeling very special at my label. A friend of yours.” You laugh, but not lying whatsoever.

“Was m’mum. We’re having a late lunch at her BNB.” He explained, and the fact he didn’t object his choice of wording meant even more to you than anything.

You stare at him a moment, both mutually realising that this moment was seemingly going to have to end at some point.

“I don’t often do things like this.” He shrugs, watching your eyes train on random objects around the room as you get lost in thought.

“What do you mean?” You ask.

“Never sat down with a fan and just had a drink. It was lovely, thank you for being so polite.” He smiles again at you.

It surprised him just how far he went with it. But you had this gentle aura about you. He knew of all people, you were safe to share this private slice of himself with.

“Thank you for buying my drink… to have spent this time talking, it— well it meant a lot to me.”

“I would give you my number if my manager wouldn’t kill me.”

As stated, he continues to surprise himself just how far he’s going.

Your brain stalls at his comment.

“You could just have mine? Buy a burner phone and text me off it.” You make the first suggestion that comes to mind and he barks out a laugh.

“Could just reaffirm that you weren’t going to sell my number off to fans on Twitter?”

“Ah, that could also work too.” You nod, raising your brows.

He pulls his phone from his pocket, and your heart genuinely palpitates. Because how the fuck had you managed this.

“Gimmie yours, if you’d like?” He slides it over, and you feel like you’re picking up something with more value than just a phone. I mean it’s Harry Styles’ phone of all things.

You begin to type it in, glancing up as his gaze is trained on you, “how many numbers of fans do you have banked up in here?”

He rolls his eyes at your tease, still smiling, “I’ll have you know you’ll be the first. If my mums counts though, then only two.”

“I just…” he pauses, pursing his lips as he looks for the right words, “knew I’d regret it if I didn’t have a way to get in touch with you. I’d say we’ve got a lot in common and it’s always nice to meet new people. And I don’t want to be thinking later ‘wow, she was lovely, wish I could have kept in touch’. Y’know?”

You send yourself a text, just a simple ‘:)’ so it saves in his recent messages. “Well, I suppose I’d be a little sad too. Probably start sending emails to your manager trying to find a way to get in touch again.”

He laughs at this, standing up from his chair and pocketing his phone in his shorts once you hand it back to him.

You also rise from the table, watching his movements keenly.

“Makes this part less sad.” He says, in reference to the impending goodbye, “I’m not leaving Italy for a little bit though, and if you’re sticking around as well, maybe I can buy your more cups of tea— to make you feel even more guilty about it, of course.”

You let out a soft chuckle, “Yea, I’m not leaving for a little while…”

He walks to your side of the table, not hesitating to pull you into a hug that leaves you winded.

You freeze a millisecond before jumping to embrace it. Enjoying the gentle yet strong feeling of his body holding yours. And the way his hands are ever-so-slightly caressing your lower back.

“Thanks for hanging out, alright? Don’t be shy to message me.” He murmurs into your hair.

“I— okay. I won’t. Thank you, Harry.” You smile into the crook of his neck.

He gives a final squeeze before pulling back. Fighting the internal urge to press a little kiss to your temple.

“I’ll see you around, hopefully. Bye Y/N.” He gives you a final smile before waving goodbye, and heading out the cafe.

Your head is reeling as he exits. Unsure if you just imagined that whole thing. You needed someone to pinch you, because as far as your concerned that whole interaction was something you dreamed up.

You check your phone to see the time.

1:53pm

1 new notification

Unknown Number | :)

So that actually did just happen.

———

To reaffirm that you weren’t the only person in the world to witness what happened today, you see a tweet reposted on an update account that reads,

so, i just saw harry styles in the cafe i work at, and he sat down and drank a tea with someone he talked to at a show. not naming the interaction for privacy but like… what the fuck?

And secretly you smile. Maybe this is something you’ll keep to yourself for a bit. Like he’s a new secret friend of yours.

———

part two!!