#I can't write stuff that graphic | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

thankskenpenders · 22 days ago

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Thoughts on two specific areas of the writing in Sonic X Shadow Generations

The best new 3D Sonic game in over a decade (or even two, depending on who you ask) dropped late last year. And I didn't write anything about it! Sometimes life happens. Well, I've finally sat down to finish Shadow Generations, and by now everyone has already been singing its praises for three months. This is the rare instance where the entire Sonic fandom, and even mainstream reviewers, are in agreement on something. The level design is the best it's been in a long, long time and the cool factor is off the charts, embracing Sonic's peak cringe era in an incredibly confident way. It's great. If you're even reading this post, you probably don't need me to tell you that. So I won't!

No, what I'm really interested in here is the writing. Because this is me we're talking about. But I actually don't want to talk about the main narrative of Shadow Generations, which is really solid little story about Black Doom trying to mold Shadow into his perfect soldier. No, I'd like to zero in on two other aspects of the writing here: the revisions made to Sonic Generations, and Gerald Robotnik's unlockable journal.

The updated Sonic Generations script

The new package mostly presents Sonic Generations how you remember it. There are some tweaks, but it's not a major overhaul. Graphically, I don't think the game has been touched much, if at all. I certainly can't notice any difference without a side-by-side comparison, despite playing it on a PS5. The most notable update is that the game's script has been rewritten by Ian Flynn.

Naturally, this caught my attention. Generations always had a nothingburger story, so with Ian rewriting Pontac and Graff's lame dialogue there was nowhere to go but up. (I don't like to pin the blame for those games' stories entirely on them, as a ton of it was dictated to them by Sonic Team, but, well, I don't think they're very good dialogue writers.) But it's less a complete rewrite and more like Ian was brought on as a script doctor for some minor touch ups here and there. Many lines of dialogue are completely identical to how they were originally written in 2011, and many others only have slight wording changes. Ian was clearly not allowed to request additional scenes or extend the ones that already existed. He has to match the original beat for beat so that they can reuse 99% of the cutscene animations. Don't expect it to be a whole new experience compared to the original.

Still, I think the new script is an improvement, albeit a minor one. Various things have been tweaked to maintain characterization consistency. Cream calls Sonic "Mr. Sonic" instead of just "Sonic." Instead of calling Sonic "buddy," Rouge uses the pet name "Blue," like she tends to do in things like the IDW comics. Espio doesn't have to remind you in the dialogue that he's a ninja, and he no longer has a line making it sound like he has some kind of soul reading power. I also like that Modern Sonic now actually has responses to what his friends say when he rescues them, rather than being silent like Classic Sonic. They won't blow you away, but they make Sonic feel a little more engaged with everything.

In general, the altered dialogue just seems tighter to me, and some of the more childish or trite wording of Pontac and Graff's script has been altered. Here, let's actually make a direct comparison, just because this stuff is interesting to me as a writer. Here's a couple lines from after the Egg Dragoon fight late in the game, in the original script:

Modern Eggman: Ooooh... I can't believe this! I was supposed to beat you this time. Modern Sonic: Aw, I'm sorry! I didn't get that memo. I beat you every time! [Turns to Classic Sonic] No, seriously, we beat this guy every time. It's like it's our job or something!

This is a simple exchange. Eggman is mad that he lost. Sonic is unflappably confident because he always beats Eggman, and he explains this to his younger self. But the wording here isn't particularly good. Eggman's simple and direct wording makes him come off like a little kid who's mad because his older brother beat him at Mario Kart, rather than a mad scientist who just had his plans foiled. It's making light of the situation.

And I've never liked Sonic saying "It's like it's our job or something!" That doesn't feel like a thing Sonic would say, it feels like a thing an outside observer would say about Sonic. This is a frequent problem with so-called "MCU dialogue," where quips meant to echo the commentary of a casual, somewhat disinterested audience are inserted into the story itself so that the writers can be like "See? We get it. We're genre-savvy, too!" It also just reminds me of bad Sonic Boom: Rise of Lyric lines like "Rings! It's like they're made for me!"

And then here's Ian's rewrite:

Modern Eggman: I recalibrated everything! This was supposed to be my time! Modern Sonic: Oh, please, keep dreamin', Egg-head. I beat you every time. [Turns to Classic Sonic] No, seriously, we beat him every time. Our score card's flawless.

Eggman's still mad about his defeat, but the line "I recalibrated everything!" makes it more specific. He put all this work into the engineering side of his latest scheme and got tunnel vision, thinking if he got his creations just right there'd be no way he could lose. "This was supposed to be my time!" also turns it into a time travel pun, which is a bonus. He's still pitching a fit over losing, but it feels more like Eggman pitching a fit, rather than sounding childish.

And then instead of saying that beating Eggman is "like his job or something," Sonic says he's got a flawless score card against Eggman. He doesn't take Eggman seriously as a threat—at least, not to his face. He acts like it's all a game. But he conveys this in a way that feels truer to the character, rather than feeling like the words of a real world observer poking fun at the tropes of the Sonic series.

Is this amazing, A+ dialogue that blows me away? No. Again, it's not a completely different scene from the one we already had. Ian had to fit the beats of what was already there. He couldn't go all out and write an all new story confirming his longstanding headcanon that the Time Eater is a remnant of Solaris or whatever. But the wording here makes the existing story land a little better and feel truer to the characters in subtle ways.

But to me, the main change is that the Sonics and Tailses seem to have a more solid understanding of what's going on with the timeline and the Time Eater, compared to how idiotic they sometimes seemed in the original game. Which is good! No more standing outside Green Hill and wondering why it seems so familiar. Thank god. As part of this, yes, there are a few more references to past games in the dialogue, like Sonic briefly being confused about the fact that they're time traveling without the Time Stones, or South Island and Westside Island being acknowledged as the normal locations of Green Hill and Chemical Plant. Yes, ha ha, insert joke about how Ian loves references here. Look, it's Sonic fucking Generations. It's a game built entirely out of nostalgic references. Just own it! And, again, in this instance Sonic and Tails come off as less stupid when they make it clear that they do, in fact, remember their adventures from presumably less than a year ago in-universe.

Eggman, too, seems to have a better understanding of the powers he's toying with. Where in the original vesion his focus was simply on going back in time to undo his previous defeats and he seemed kind of oblivious to how much the Time Eater was actually fucking up the universe, here Eggman says he wants to use the Time Eater to give himself complete control over the entire timeline. Eggman also makes way fewer references to his own failures and shortcomings. Of course he won't admit that Sonic has defeated him time and time again. To him, he's never truly lost—Sonic just keeps delaying the inevitable total victory for the Eggman Empire.

So, yes. The new Sonic Generations script is better. It won't blow anyone away, but it's better than it was. It's been elevated from "kinda lame" to "fine." No, if you really wanna see Ian flex his ability to breathe new life into old Sonic stories, look no further than...

Gerald Robotnik's Journal

Hoo boy.

The story of what happened aboard the ARK has always been... a bit confusing, to say the least. Fans with encyclopedic knowledge of the script for every route of Shadow '05 may disagree, but it's the truth. We've had all the pieces to understand the story for a long time now, but that info was given to us out of order by a pair of unreliable narrators—Gerald, who became a vengeful lunatic shortly before his death, and Shadow, who was subjected to multiple rounds of amnesia and altered memories. Some of the ambiguity left by Sonic Adventure 2 was cleared up in Shadow '05, but that game also retconned in a bunch of new elements to Shadow's backstory (aliens!) that lead to further confusion. Not to mention the fact that that game had multiple routes and only revealed the truth about Shadow if you sat on the ultimate final boss battle for WAY longer than the fight would normally last. Or the fact that Sonic X made its own tweaks in its telling of the story. Or the fact that none of these things ever had the best English translations. I can't blame anyone who hasn't played those games in two decades for not remembering the truth about these characters and getting some details mixed up.

What we needed was something to piece together all of the info we have into one coherent backstory, told in chronological order. And thanks to Shadow Generations, we have that, in the form of an official journal tying together what we knew from Sonic Adventure 2, Shadow '05, and Sonic Battle into the tragic tale of Gerald's rise and fall.

Ian Flynn was the perfect man for the job here as the guy who started his career by tidying up the mess that was the first 159 issues if Archie Sonic. This is what he excels at: taking disparate bits of weird Sonic lore from multiple different sources, boiling them down to their most interesting elements, and connecting it together in a way that will make the audience see the dramatic potential he's always known was there. Rather than feeling like a cynical exercise in franchise building, going back and explaining things that never needed explaining so that people can add more bullet points to the wiki, he puts a new spin on things that retroactively enriches those past stories. The story here means something to the characters involved and gives us a better understanding of them as people, rather than as plot devices to motivate Shadow.

(And, of course, Ian didn't do this journal alone. He wrote the story, but I also have to give a huge shout out to Evan Stanley, who made the final product. All of her handwritten journal entries, sketches, and "photos" included throughout. The physical damage done to the journal over the course of 50 tumultuous years, passing from Gerald to Eggman to a certain special someone at GUN. The way Gerald's handwriting gets less and less legible as his mental state declines. So much love was put into what could have been a mere text dump in a menu, and it really elevates it to the next level. Congrats on officially getting hired by Sega, Evan, you've sure as hell earned it!)

The main idea the journal conveys is that Gerald was under a lot of pressure from a lot of different parties—GUN, the President, his colleagues aboard the ARK, Black Doom, even his own family—and boy did it get to him. The known incidents aboard the ARK mentioned in previous games are put together here to form a story where everything slowly spirals out of control as Gerald keeps compromising his morals to further his research, thinking he'll eventually find some way out of all this because he's a genius. I won't recap that whole story here (if you haven't already played the game and read the journal entries, I would highly recommend at least reading it on the Sonic wiki), but I'd like to highlight my favorite elements of the story, as Ian tells it here.

1) The Eclipse Cannon

Here's something that never quite made sense in Sonic Adventure 2: why does the ARK have a laser that can blow up the Earth built into it? It was supposed to be a peaceful research colony. Sure, Gerald went crazy and swore revenge on the Earth, but, like... when did he have an opportunity to go back up to the ARK and modify it? Did he have someone else do it? How? The ARK was raided by GUN and shut down! And then they arrested him, held him in prison for an unclear period of time, and executed him by firing squad when he was no longer useful! It doesn't add up. Shadow 'the Hedgehog '05 would give its own answer by introducing the Black Arms and saying that the Eclipse Cannon was always supposed to be a secret trump card against the Black Comet. But, like... we know that's kind of a bullshit answer, right? You don't need enough power to blow up a whole planet just to destroy a comet.

Well, the new journal retains what we already knew, but it paints a much more complete picture.

See, long before Gerald ever made a Faustian bargain with Black Doom, he had already made one with an even greater evil: the military. GUN gave Gerald much of the funding for the ARK, Gerald's personal utopian research station in space, but it didn't take long for GUN to start pressuring him to design them weapons. Gerald tried to get GUN off his back by personally contacting the President of the United Federation, and the President gave him an alternative: how about, instead, you just use your genius brain to figure out the secret to immortality for us, so our soldiers can be immortal? Gerald was initially sickened by the notion and found it completely absurd, like chasing a shadow... but given no other option, the sarcastically named Project Shadow soon began in earnest. (Maria would later put a more positive spin on the name after Shadow's awakening, pointing out that a Shadow can show us the direction of the light, like she says in the game itself.)

Of course, this search for the ultimate life form didn't go very well, and without any results on that front GUN kept hounding him for weapons. Gerald would throw them a bone here and there to get them off his back. His research on Chaos resulted in the Artifical Chaos prototypes, which he worried would be used for warfare but could at least theoretically be used for search and rescue missions in floods, in his mind. But that wasn't enough. So he gave them Chaos Drives to power their mechs. And that still wasn't enough. He's got Emerl. He'll give them Emerl. They're not impressed by Emerl. They'll shut the whole ARK down if Gerald doesn't give them something big.

Fine! GUN wants something big? Gerald builds a huge fucking laser cannon into the ARK. However, as a middle finger to GUN, Gerald makes it so powerful that it would destroy the Earth if it was ever fired at any target on its surface. In other words, GUN now has their ultimate weapon of mass destruction, fulfilling his contract, but they can never actually use it. Oh, the delicious irony. (And also Shadow will blow up the Black Comet with it in 50 years yada yada yada.) Is this perhaps extremely shortsighted and naive of Gerald, to believe that such a weapon would never actually be used just because of the risk? Of course. But hey, that's Gerald for you. And I love this as an answer.

(Also, this, uh, kinda echoes something from real life! Remember the bit in Oppenheimer where he says all nuclear war will become unthinkable, and Edward Teller responds "until somebody builds a bigger bomb"? Yeah, Teller went on to conceptualize a superweapon codenamed Project Sundial that would have been able to kill all life on the planet, as the ultimate deterrent for war. This was never made for obvious reasons, but hey, there's a basis for this sort of thinking outside of heightened sci-fi! There's a whole Kurzgesagt video about this if you're interested.)

2) The Biolizard

The Biolizard is, of course, brought up as the initial failed prototype of the ultimate life form, from before Gerald met Black Doom. We don't really learn all that much about it that we didn't already know, but I just love the way it's framed in the story.

As you can see above, we actually get to see a picture of Maria holding up the cute little salamander that would end up mutating into the Biolizard through Gerald's experiments. (Researchers want to figure out how to replicate salamanders' regenerative abilities for humans in real life, too, so this was a natural starting point for the project.) And then, after it grows to a monstrous size and goes out of control, Gerald has to lock it away in an unused sector of the ARK. He needs to keep the poor thing alive for his research into harnessing Chaos Energy, building life support systems directly into it, but he doesn't have the heart to tell Maria what happened. So it just becomes this first dark secret weighing on his conscience. The Biolizard becomes Gerald's Tell-Tale Heart beating beneath the floorboards of the ARK. I love that.

3) Lost Impact was the breaking point for the ARK

Remember the level Lost Impact in Shadow '05? The flashback level on the hero path where Shadow is running around fighting Artificial Chaos enemies on the ARK 50 years ago? Yeah, that wasn't just a random incident. That was important, as we now know due to its placement on the timeline.

See, Emerl's rampage aboard the ARK that was chronicled in Sonic Battle and Dark Beginnings set off a domino effect. Emerl riled up the Artificial Chaos, causing Gerald to lose control of them. They became violent, and so Shadow had to stop them, as depicted in Lost Impact. The thing is, that incident sent an SOS signal to GUN telling them that shit was going down on the ARK. Gerald didsn't fully understand the trouble he was in and assumed that he'd simply be reprimanded by the higher ups, or maybe face legal action. But, well... the next time he heard from GUN, armed troopers were raiding the ARK.

So Lost Impact was the straw that broke the camel's back. I just really like that detail.

4) Maria

And, of course, there's Maria herself. Maria has often been more of a symbol than a character, this perfect embodiment of everything that's good and pure in this world who gets killed to motivate Shadow and Gerald's revenge plots. But I really like the wrinkles this journal adds to her and Gerald's story, and their relationship. This is the most fleshed out they've ever felt.

For one, the journal leans into the idea of Maria's intellectual potential. The rest of the Robotnik family is all geniuses, after all, and she was proving to be a really bright kid. She excelled in her studies on the ARK, and she even helped design Shadow's jet skates and inhibitor rings. When Maria died, the world didn't just lose a symbolic personification of purity. She genuinely could have been a hugely influential scientist who did so much good for the world. That's what Gerald wanted for her. But we'll never know, because GUN killed her.

Speaking of her family, their presence isn't just mentioned for the sake of fleshing out the Robotnik family tree. It's mentioned that as Gerald struggled to find a cure for Maria's illness through his genetic research, he faced mounting pressure from his family. They didn't want Maria to be up on the ARK forever. They wanted Gerald to hurry up and find a damn cure, or otherwise just send her back home to Earth so she could be with her family again. She'd been up on the ARK for so long that Gerald's coworkers started thinking that she had been born up there. Eventually she gains a baby sister on Earth who she's never met. A rift forms between Gerald's two sons, and he's unable to really deal with it because he's so consumed by his work. There's this sense that the family is falling apart, and that everyone is dreading the possibility that Gerald will never find a cure and that Maria will just spend her final years up in space and die far away from her family, because Gerald just couldn't let go. If that happens, it'll break the whole family. But he can't stop now. So he just keeps working. Curing Maria is the only way to win his family back, in his eyes. It can't all be for nothing.

But my favorite detail regarding Maria is this one paragraph:

Maria is growing into a lovely young woman. It breaks my heart that someone as bright and energetic as her is diminished by disease. There are no visible effects, and I've caught my fellow researchers muttering to each other, doubting her illness. It is infuriating. I find all my reason and restraint vanishes when she's slighted.

This is SUCH a great addition to the story! It's always been true that Maria doesn't really seem all that ill, just looking at her in cutscenes. With this one little comment, Ian flips that issue on its head and turns it into a story about invisible disability. She doesn't act like she's in chronic pain, so she must not be, everyone thinks. And this really, really gets to Gerald, as does the pressure from his family. He's dedicating his whole LIFE to saving her, and they think she's faking it?! It's such a small addition, never referenced elsewhere in the journal, but it adds so much flavor to the story, as does the implied family drama. It grounds Gerald and Maria and makes them feel more like real human beings, rather than being pure archetypes. It's just enough info to let my imagination run wild filling in the blanks.

You also get the feeling that Maria being such a walking ray of sunshine was the only real source of joy Gerald had left in his life before Shadow was awakened, and the only thing keeping him from snapping under pressure sooner. All this stuff just keeps piling on, everything's spiraling out of control, but at least Maria is keeping her chin up, right? It makes so much sense that losing her would make him go off the deep end when it's framed like this.

It's just... man, I never thought I'd care so much about Gerald and Maria. But that's the Ian Flynn touch. After years of less than stellar Sonic writing that seemed to be embarrassed of itself, I'm so happy to have new games coming out that fully embrace the history of the series like this, making its world feel so rich and real instead of just serving as an excuse for a string of platforming levels. I don't even like Shadow '05, but I'll be damned if Ian and the rest of Sonic Team didn't make something amazing by "yes, and"-ing Shadow's cringe past here. Sonic has truly reached levels of "we're so back" never thought possible.

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viinchester · 5 months ago

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Shape Of You

Warnings: Mentions of an injury and that it's being taken care of (nothing too graphic), Depictions of Sexual Content (Minors DNI!), Rough/Intense Sexual Content, could be considered Dubcon by coercion (not really imo, but just to be on the safe side), Themes of Possession and Objectification

Fandom: Dexter (TV Show/Series)

Pairing: Brian Moser/Rudy Cooper x F!Reader

Request: by Anon

Summary: Brian takes care of your injury after you've taken a nasty fall, however you can't help but feel like something's off about the situation. Unaware of his dark thoughts and oblivious to the deeper manipulation at play, you clear your mind by focussing on his comforting presence, and things quickly get heated.

Word Count: 3.271

My Masterlist

A/N: For some reason, I really struggled with this.😬 I rewrote it like 3 or 4 different times entirely, I hope it's not too noticable.😅 I was also unsure when exactly to refer to Brian as "Rudy" so I tried to only do it whenever the writing directly represents the Readers thoughts about him.💕 I still had a ton of fun writing this and I hope I could do the idea that anon had justice and that you guys like it!🙏🏼 I would really appreciate reposts/comments with feedback.👀 Feel free to request stuff, I always enjoy getting some inspiration to keep the writing going.💙

Brian knelt beside you, his touch gentle as he pressed the damp cloth to your leg. The sharp sting of the cut made you wince, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as the embarrassment of how it had happened.

You had tripped, just like you seemed to always do. This time, it had been over something small, a simple crack in the sidewalk, causing you to suddenly lie on the ground, blood welling up and staining your skin.

Heat rose in your cheeks in frustration at yourself and the fact that Brian now had to take care of you, but he was ever calm and didn't seem the least bit bothered.

Not saying much, he offered you a soft smile and then continued tending to your cut, his focus entirely on the injury itself.

He’d always been good at this type of stuff, fixing things while being composed and so in control — qualities you usually greatly admired in him.

But as you sat there in that moment, feeling the warmth of his touch, something didn’t seem right.

You knew you should be glad.

Here was your boyfriend, cleaning up your mess, like he so often did. You were fortunate, really, to have someone like him — patient and ready to swoop in when you inevitably fell again. So though you couldn’t quite shake the feeling that something was off, you did your best to simply brush it aside.

After all, this was Rudy. Sweet, dependable Rudy, who always seemed to know exactly what to do and was there for you whenever you stumbled — literally and figuratively.

And even if his fingers lingered just a little longer than necessary on your skin right now, it likely didn't mean anything. The way in which he inspected your bloodstained leg with a look of concentration reassured you further.

“You really should be more careful,” Brian suddenly said, his voice low and soothing. His gentle words and focused demeanor helped ease your nerves.

You chastised yourself for ever thinking twice about his actions. Your boyfriend was simply trying to watch out for you, that's all. Why were you even doubting him in the first place? Maybe it was just the pain from the cut or the embarrassment of tripping again. Or maybe it was the whole thing with the Ice Truck Killer going on at the moment.

Yes, that had to be it. It had probably made you more paranoid than you'd initially thought.

But you had absolutely nothing to worry about, because the sweet man kneeling in front of you was nothing like that monster.

Forcing yourself to relax a little, you sighed.

"I know," you mumbled, as he expertly bandaged your leg, secretly marveling at how steady his hands were.

It was easy to forget how awkward you felt in moments like this, with him so effortlessly tending to you. You crooked a smile at him then, but Brian didn’t meet your eyes right away. He was too busy inspecting his work, a subtle smirk of his own tugging at the corner of his mouth as he secured the bandage.

To you, he seemed satisfied with his patch job, but inside, something else simmered. He felt an almost childlike joy about the way you sat there, so vulnerable, your leg limp in his hands.

He liked seeing you this way — hurt, but not too hurt. Just enough to need him, to be reliable on him.

It stirred something deep inside of him.

“There,” he said, leaning back a little to admire the bandage. His eyes flickered up to meet yours, and for a split second, something unreadable passed between you, but it was gone almost as quickly as it came. “Does that feel better?”

You looked down at your leg and inspected the professionally wrapped bandage. It was not too tight and not too loose. It was perfect. Just like him.

Tension oozing from your body, you nodded and looked up at your boyfriend again, smiling earnestly. “Yeah, much better. Thank you.”

His smile widened just a fraction, not quite reaching his eyes. “You’re lucky I’m here to patch you up,” he said with a lightness in his voice that made you feel a little better. “I’d never let anything happen to you.”

The way he said it — his voice smooth and promising — made you smile, comforted by his presence.

Rudy really loved you, didn't he? He was always right there when you needed him.

He stood up and offered you his hand, and despite the slight apprehension earlier, you eagerly took it. His grip was firm and steady as he helped you to your feet, making sure that you avoided putting too much weight on your injured leg.

You pushed past any lingering odd emotions and focused on the fact that you were grateful for him. You had nothing to worry about — not with Rudy, not with the man who never made you feel stupid for being clumsy, who was always kind to you, the calm in your storm.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” you said softly, your voice carrying gratitude.

Brian's eyes flicked to yours, a faint twinkle in them. He felt content.

As he held your gaze for a moment longer, he could clearly see the relief and appreciation in you. It had him suppressing a grin, the way you were so easily fooled.

To him, you were perfect in your vulnerability, of course. A doll. Beautiful, delicate, and breakable. He liked you that way — liked the way your clumsiness brought you to him, having to be fixed, to be held together. Every scrape, every fall, was a small gift, an opportunity for him to touch you, to take care of you. To make you his again, piece by fragile piece. You were his creation, something he had molded with care and patience, and he was the only one who could keep you whole.

Or take you further apart, if he chose.

But for now, he was content to play the role you expected — your Rudy, the one who would always keep you safe.

He watched you as your eyes briefly flickered to his mouth and up again, and knew what you were going to do before you had even fully decided on it.

Slowly, you leaned in and brushed your lips against his, wanting to show him just how much you appreciated him.

Letting you take control for a moment, Brian allowed you to believe that you were doing something for him, even though he knew better. You were in his hands, for as long as you lived. The thought thrilled him in a way you could never know, in a way he would never let you see.

Keeping his lips perfectly still, Brian decided to act surprised by your sudden gesture, pausing for a few seconds, until he could just about feel you starting to pull away.

He kissed you back then, using every bit of his self-restraint to start softly, and his hand came up to cradle the back of your neck in a tender movement. Slowly, he deepened the kiss, daring to go further by tightening his grip on you slightly, almost imperceptibly.

After a few moments, you pulled back just enough to catch your breath, your heart beating faster. When you looked up at him, his smile was still there, and he looked as warm as ever to you. As you lost yourself inside his eyes, Brian felt that familiar pulse of satisfaction.

You didn’t know it, but you were already his, caught in the delicate web he had woven around you. He could see how much you trusted him and the unguarded naivety you held had been obvious to him from the very first moment that you two had met.

You were simply too brittle for this world. Too easily shattered by its sharp edges, too flimsy to protect yourself from the falls you constantly took. That’s why you needed him. That’s why you would always need him.

As his thumb stroked the pulse point along your neck, feeling the quickened beat beneath your skin, he smiled at you. It was a soft and loving smile, one he had perfected for you.

“You don’t have to worry about that,” Brian now addressed your last sentence, his voice calm and encouraging, with only a tiny hint of something darker that you didn't seem to notice. “No matter how clumsy you are, I’ll always be there to fix you when you break.”

The words, meant to comfort you, immediately had their desired effect. You happily beamed up at him while blushing furiously.

“I’m really lucky to have you,” you told him and then leaned in again, kissing him softly and embracing the moment.

Wallowing in the comfort and warmth he provided you with, you slid your hands up his chest, deepening the kiss. You didn’t want to think or talk anymore, just enjoy the feeling of being with him.

Brian watched you through half-lidded eyes, noticing your movements growing more desperate with every passing second. He could feel the tension in your body — the way you were almost pleading for his control — and it amused him, in a way.

You didn’t even realize how effortlessly you fell into this role, how naturally you let yourself be pulled into his world.

Moving his hands down to your waist, he squeezed them a little tighter than usual, but you didn’t seem to notice the extra strength in his grip, too absorbed in your need.

When you grasped the hem of his shirt and tugged it up to pull over his head, he lifted his arms and let you, suppressing a smirk.

It was obvious to him that you needed this physical closeness. Your skin pressing against his, fingers now fumbling with his belt in a frenzy — you were letting go of any lingering doubts and focusing solely on him.

Feeling a sense of smugness, he guided you with quick, assertive movements, prying your clothes away with a roughness that seemed to match your urgency. You gasped as he yanked off your shirt and then dug his fingers into your skin, his touch simultaneously gentle and commanding. Leaning further into him, you longed for release already and how he always made everything else seem insignificant when you were together like this.

Brian’s lips determinedly traveled to your throat, kissing you with an insistent fervor now. You shuddered under the ferocity, but didn’t stop him. Didn’t want to stop him. His teeth grazed your skin, causing your head to fall back in an open-mouthed moan, arching your body against him, desperate for more. The heat of his passion overwhelmed you, pushing any thoughts of discomfort aside. Hands roamed your body, his traces both prodding and tranquilizing.

He could feel the way you were giving in to him and letting him take over, allowing him to guide you, and that’s exactly how he liked it. His grip on your waist tightened, his fingers digging in even more, and when you winced, he knew you felt it — though you never pulled away.

You wanted this. You needed him to be in charge.

When he led you into the bedroom, your discarded clothes left in the wake of his deliberate actions, his movements were filled with a raw intensity.

You shortly cringed at the sudden pain shooting through your injured leg when his weight pressed down on you as he pushed you onto the bed, but his lips crashing against yours with hunger made you almost immediately forget about any hurt. Kissing him back just as frantically, you wrapped your arms around his neck to cling onto him. He slipped his tongue between your lips almost forcefully, licking over every hidden crevice in your mouth with purpose. His hands roamed over your body and you moaned into Brian's mouth, his touch both a source of solace and pleasure for you.

Deep down on the inside a part of you noticed a subtle shift — Rudy was not being as gentle and careful as he normally was — but that part was swiftly drowned out by the sensations of everything else going on. All you could truly acknowledge in that moment was the incredible desire for him to make you forget everything but the feeling of him against you.

As if he somehow knew about what you’d felt, Brian interrupted the sloppy kiss and moved once more with intention and a vigor that sent your heart racing. His hands, bruising but controlled, pushed down the last bit of garment left between the two of you and you gasped as fresh air hit your intimate zone. You hadn't even realized how wet you'd gotten and now felt slightly ashamed at the way your body obviously liked the way he handled you and the way he'd been — and still was — pushing you and testing your limits, teetering the edges of breaking them.

He was still Rudy though, still the man who you trusted most in the world, so you didn't give it much more than a passing thought and decided to just roll with it.

Even though it would probably give you pause if you properly questioned it — the fact that he didn't usually act this way and only when you were injured or reliant on him in some way — for more than two seconds. But you didn’t question it for more than two seconds, couldn't, as your body deliciously responded and distracted you instead.

When Brian finally pushed into you, you cried out, your fingernails digging into his shoulders and leaving half-crescent-shaped moon indentions in his skin. He allowed you to adjust to his size for a short while, pushing his forehead against yours with his mouth hanging open in a silent groan as he relished in the feeling of being inside you.

After enough time passed for you to become used to him, you patted his shoulder and nodded ever so slightly, not capable of words.

Brian understood though, and immediately began to move, quickly setting a pace that was fast and demanding.

Pressing your eyes shut, you clung to him, wrapping your legs around him and pulling him impossibly closer — entirely missing the way his eyes were filled with something completely wild and dark. Focussing on the feeling of your boyfriend pushing and pulling inside of you, he soon began to hit that delicious spot deep in you, and you moaned loudly.

Brian leaned down then and you could feel his hot breath against your ear, his voice low and rough.

“You need me, don’t you?” he whispered, the words sending a shiver down your spine. You frantically nodded while gasping for air, unable to answer anything. “Whenever you need me, I am — and will — be there, every. single. time.”

He punctuated each word with a sharper and deeper thrust, angled directly at your sweet spot, leaving you choking for breath with tears in your eyes at one point. His words, though assertive, felt like a promise of security and care to you.

The room was heavy with heat, your breaths mingling, the sound of your bodies crashing together filling the space. Each push sent a jolt through you that made your head spin. You lost yourself in it all, in these repetitive motions, his touch, the feeling of his skin against yours.

One of his hands now moved to your clit and his movements became even more resolved and driven. He was controlling the moment, steering it exactly where he wanted, and your body responded accordingly. You could feel yourself being pulled in by the sensation, as he pushed you towards the edge.

“God, you’re so perfect like this,” Brian grunted, his voice a mix of command and encouragement. “Come on, it's alright. You’re mine, aren’t you? Just let go.”

Tears rose in your eyes as you felt your body react to both his words and actions, the increasing intensity overtaking everything else and throwing you into a rush of pure ecstasy.

Your fingers dug into his back, your breath ragged, and all at once you fell into the waves, pulled underneath by their impact. You couldn't breathe for a moment, until finally, with a twist from Brian's fingers and a sharp cry from you, you reached the surface again.

The release hit you hard, sending rows of pleasure crashing through your body, and all you could do was lie there and take it, face screwed up in the pleasure of it.

Brian followed soon after, his movements rough and forceful as he found his own release, breath hot against your neck as he groaned, low and deep.

For a moment, the world stilled as the both of you tried to calm your breathing, the overwhelming physical connection between the two of you leaving you in a daze. Your heart pounded in your chest, your body trembling beneath the weight of his body on you.

After what felt like ages, but was likely only seconds, Brian lifted himself up and out of you, leaving you feeling strangely empty at the loss of him.

He collapsed beside you then and the room fell into a heavy silence in the aftermath of what you'd done.

As he lay beside you, Brian's mind was a whirlpool of satisfaction and dark pleasure. He reveled in the way you’d clung to him, completely oblivious to the extent of his control. The contrast between your dependence on him and his calculated dominance over you joyed him immensely.

Lifting his head, he turned to you, his hand reaching out to gently brush your hair back from your face, his caress tender again and a stark difference from the intensity of the moments you’d shared just before. His fingers grazed over your skin, his touch so feather-light and soft, it immediately erased any lingering concerns in you.

It was an act, of course. A way to further embed his influence. The compassion was a calculated gesture, a way to reinforce the illusion of care while keeping you bound to him.

“Are you alright?” he asked carefully, his voice carrying a tone of worry that felt comforting, and you nodded, reassured by his touch.

He always knew how to make you feel cherished, and you clung to that sense of security.

He noted the way your body relaxed against his, your breathing steady and calm. The pretense of concern came naturally to him, a mask he wore so well.

His hand now rested on your cheek, his thumb brushing softly as he leaned in closer.

“I love you,” he whispered, the final nail in the coffin, as always, his gaze lingering on you and studying your relaxed and smitten features. To him, you were more than just a partner; you were a project, a creation he had formed. The sweetness in his voice was a facade that masked his true intentions.

He pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, and you felt another wave of affection and safety. Any fleeting worries were overshadowed by his sedative presence. You knew he was there for you, providing the care and support you needed.

“I love you too,” you responded, wrapping your arms around him and drawing him closer, feeling his warmth envelop you.

And as you nestled closer, Brian’s thoughts were filled with a dark fulfillment. The control he wielded was subtle, deeply woven into the fabric of his relationship with you.

And you, in your innocent trust, had made it all too easy.

With the quiet settling in, you allowed yourself to sink into the comfort of his presence and fell asleep.

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krypticcafe · 2 years ago

Note

Can please get fic where young reader almost gets r-word.. like! What happened to ellie on 'the last of us' like make it into that situation, reader kills the rapist and flees away and runs into the 141 team, and their like in this state of like panic, but they calm them down and they explain what happened they are beyond livid so they just reck hell on the people who was with the man who tried to r-word reader.

(this a platonic relationship between reader and the team)

Me and the Devil

rating: mature

pairing(s): platonic 141 x gn!reader

warning(s): no use of y/n, dead dove do not eat, non-explicit attempted r*pe, emotional and physical trauma, sexual physical and mental violence, canon-typical graphic violence, comfort

wordcount: ~3.8k

a/n: i'm not exactly sure what anon meant by young, but for context, reader is probably 20-22, I'm just not comfortable writing this kinda stuff for teen or child reader, I hope you don't mind. also, huge, HUGE emphasis on the warnings. though nothing is explicit and there are no sexual graphic terms, the descriptions and actions alone are still very disturbing and uncomfortable! and the violence is a little uncomfy for those not used to it, too. title is from 'Me and the Devil' - Soap&Skin

synopsis: You can see it. The devil. It laughs, and laughs, and laughs, mocks you for your childish stupidity and naivete. To think the angels would come marching in, that you'd make it out with any semblance of sanity. You can't fight it, you can't even hide from it. All you can do is lie in your grave.

Just hours ago, you were alongside the 141, cleaning up and wiping out an enemy base, a typical Tuesday on a summer afternoon. You should've known things would go downhill with how smoothly it was all going. Even Price commented on it with an air of wariness and suspicion. After all, it was a saying that if the fight starts getting too easy, then it's an ambush. And an ambush it was. You want to tell yourself that it was nothing, easy as pie compared to what you've been through. You wanted to say that it was a success and you turned the tables on your enemies. You wanted to say that it ended within a matter of minutes and that you were on your way back to base with your boys, ready for a night of banter at the pub. You'd join Ghost in watching Soap and Gaz try their hand at poker, taking a shot each time Soap's dogshit luck lost him another couple of euros while Price would pry Roach from having another cocktail and piss himself ('it was one time!' he slurs).

But instead, you're here. Locked in a room, bag over your head, tied to a chair, a stereotypical hostage situation but that didn't make it any less tolerable. Though having a potato sack over your head was nowhere near as embarrassing as the reason why you were captured. You tried your best to hold onto the jeep, honestly, you did. Until some ankle-biter decided to latch onto you and sink his teeth into your flesh, causing your grip to loosen and send you tumbling into the dirt. Your bodies slammed into the ground, kicking up dust and your opponent taking most of the fall damage for you. How thoughtful.

Seething at the audacity he had to chomp on your leg like some feral mutt, you gave him a piece of your mind and made sure he'd never bite another ankle again. His friends caught up the moment you were done. They dragged you back down to the coarse dirt and sand of the earth, making you taste and choke on dust. You looked at the lifeless figure in the sand, briefly wondering if you'd be wishing you were him before a bag was slipped over your head and tied like a collar. It didn't help that the sand on the roof of your mouth combined with your ineffective attempts to ration your breathing made for a burn worse than any hard liquor down your throat. Thrashing and shouting like a madman, you cursed them like some teenager who discovered swearing as they tossed you into the back of a truck, rolling you forth with the heels of their boots. Not your finest moment.

Once you were loaded and the rest of them climbed on, the truck shot forward without slowing down for a second, taking you to your own personal hell for the next few days. Knowing the 141, they were probably at the safehouse, planning their next move to retrieve you. In the time between interrogations and routine attempts to break you, you could imagine Soap and Roach pacing around the room, Ghost brandishing a knife with a dark look in his eyes, and Price looming over a map and pulling up contacts with Gaz at his side. While you hated to burden them with your own mistakes, thinking about them all gnawing their teeth in comical anger at your expense brought you momentary comfort, eliciting a small chuckle.

"Something funny?" Much to your ire, all your thoughts were interrupted by the sound of several people shuffling into the room. You could only expect so much privacy in a place like this. The man who spoke up seemed to carry himself like a leader, considering how he spoke above all others and you could hear him carrying out demands every now and then, checking up on you as if he actually gave a shit. And currently, he was on the top of your "to kill" list, along with every other cunt in this prison.

"What'll it be today, more screaming or more silence? You know, you can only stay quiet for so long." He sighed. Judging by the sound of metal screeching on concrete, he pulled up a front-row seat. With a single yank, you were again temporarily freed of the confines of the bag on your face, glaring at the man with a look of ferocity that seemed as if it were etched on your face permanently. His clothes were disturbingly clean-cut and polished despite the blood he spilled for the past few days. Your blood he spilled. "Come now... you know you'll only make things more difficult. Face it, kid, they're not coming, it's been days."

When you felt gloved fingers touch your jaw you snapped, pulling away like an animal restrained by a leash. Your captor let out a taunting "Oooh", and your skin crawled at how he heckled and laughed like some adolescent boy poking a rabid animal with a stick through its cage. "So it bites."

"Fuck you." You rasped.

"And it talks." The humiliation of their nonchalant attitudes made you seethe, you knew it was a tactic to get under your skin and you just wouldn't have it, turning your head away from the men.

"Uh-uh, eyes on me. How is such a fresh thing like you out fighting wars with men like them?" He hummed, gripping your jaw with a strength that took you by surprise and had you wincing. Even though his hands were gloved, it felt as if he were trying to dig into your skin. With no other choice, you were forced to look into his eyes, the pyres of unimaginable anger burning in yours.

However, it was then that you felt it. Something was off. Something was horribly off about him. The several times he'd come in here to either coax you with gentle words or have his men beat you within an inch of your life, he either had some faux kindness or gleeful malice painted across his face. But this time, his eyes were alight with slimy delight. You hated it, Hated how it made you feel small, cornered, pulling on your leash so that you couldn't be yanked from the one place that made you feel safe. You hated how it didn't feel like he was trying to get under your skin, or sink into your bones but instead your mind as if to violate it. You hated how it seemed like he had something more in mind, something that you couldn't predict like a kick to the ribs or a carefully worded reassurance that you'd be in "good hands". It was the one thing you felt like you had control over, knowing what was next, and now you didn't.

With a wave of his hand, his men all filed out of the room, leaving just him and you alone. One came back with a bowl in their hands and you felt yourself doubt your worries. Were you already beginning to lose it in here? "Hungry?" He smiled, taking the bowl and dismissing the soldier. It looked and smelled like a stew, potatoes, and beef, not scraps of stale bread or lukewarm, half-empty beer cans.

"I asked them to make something special today for you, isn't that nice? I suppose even someone like you has a taste for the finer things in life and wouldn't say yes to leftovers." No answer came but it was to be expected as he mixed the stew with a spoon. Your eyes were trained on his face instead, expecting some kind of strings attached. He entertained that expectation by—to your disgust—spitting into the stew, mixing it more, and bringing up a spoonful to your face. "Consider that the cost of being so picky. Open wide, soldier. Surely you won't make a fuss again, now will you?"

There was a pause, you leaned forward, lips ghosting the tip of the spoon before you roughly shoved his chair away from you with your boot. The bowl fell from his hands onto the ground, pooling between the two of you. He could go to hell with his stupid fucking soup.

He let out a scowl of disapproval, his self-satisfied smirk replaced with disgust and irritation like a parent to their troublemaking child. Fine with you, you didn't need that asshole's approval. He stood, grabbing a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiping his hands and the small splatters on his uniform. "Should've known better that the government's pets would act like such animals. I gave you a chance, I tried to make this easy for you." He snarled, tossing his handkerchief aside and grabbing you by the collar, "But no, you just had to be a fucking brat, huh? Fine, be one. I can work with that. Either way, you'll be put in your place soon enough."

Before you could comprehend what he was implying, he slashed the ropes that binded you to your chair with a combat knife and shoved you to the floor, your head throbbing as it hit concrete, along with the rest of your aching muscles. Vision blurred, you sat up and tried to make out what he was doing, falling back when he roughly grabbed your hair and shoved your head back down into the ground. Like an alarm, every single flight or fight response went off in your body and yet you couldn't figure out what he was trying, you just knew that this was something worse and that you were a fool to let your guard down for a single second.

A twisted smile broke across his lips, "You know, you have a very lovely voice. You sing the loveliest songs."

Your brows furrowed, confusion flashing across your face until you let out a yelp of pain when he pressed into your stomach, already bruised from previous matters. He let out a sigh that made you shudder and you felt bile creep up your throat, moving your face to the side in fear that you'd choke on it.

"Eyes. On. Me." He snapped, his voice sounding so much louder than it actually was, his hand twisting your jaw back to look up at him while his fingers proceeded to dig themselves into whatever spots got you hissing and squirming away. That's all it took for your resolve to break, the blaze in your eyes fizzling out and replace with genuine fear and utter shock as you watched him straddle you and stare with a piercing gaze that trapped you. It forced your attention to stay on him, daring you to look anywhere else but him when that was all you could focus on. Him.

You couldn't even scream, paralyzed when you heard the sound of metal clinking against metal and the brushing of fabric, raw horror setting itself alight in your bones at how he loomed over you. At that moment, you swore you could see the devil itself laughing, cackling, mocking you in his eyes.

It was like you were seven again.

Scared, cornered in your room because you swore, you swore and sobbed and cried that you saw it, a monster in your closet. A dark, shadowy figure that'd taunt you merely with its existence and prayed on your downfall, drinking the fat tears you spilled and listening to your high-pitched cries as if they were music, eyes that you couldn't see but they could see you.

Others tried to convince you that it wasn't real, opened the doors, and closed them again, showing that there was nothing but cleanly folded clothes and hung-up jackets lined neatly along a rack. Every time, you'd feel a little more silly about your fears but anxious that they'd come back for more.

At some point, you nearly forgot about the monster altogether. It ceased to exist in your closet, but never your mind.

"Damn it, what now?!"

Pulled back into the present, you heard muffled speech with loud, obtrusive noises and more screaming and cursing from the man above you. He was faced with the still-closed door, talking to a soldier behind it. Instead of trying to catch up with what happened, your mind raced to its defensive instincts. Finding the spoon dropped from earlier, you reached for it with a strained grunt which caught his attention. Yet with a swift grab and thrust of your hand, you jammed the blunt handle of the spoon into his throat and screamed at him, your vocal cords ripping in deliriously satisfying pain.

Barely giving him a second to let out a final gasp for air, you flipped him over underneath you and yanked the spoon out, blood erupting out of the gash. Fire ignited in your veins and you balled your fists, giving him a taste of the rage of a caged beast with nothing left to lose, just the desperation to survive for more. It was a symphony of grotesque crunches of bone and ligament, and you yelled, screamed, and cursed with each impact at him, at the entire organization, at a godless world for making you live through hell. A pitiful yet gruesomely satisfying attempt to reclaim what sanity and control you lost in that room.

Blood and flesh coated your fingers like warm syrup, and you were sure your knuckles were split. Crimson red was a good look on a sterile uniform, you thought to yourself. The sight of your work made you realize it wasn't the devil in his eyes was laughing at you, but rather its reflection from over your shoulder, still gleefully singing and squealing with delight as it watched you indulge in pure, unadulterated wrath. Its tail wrapped around your neck, strangling you with delirium and bloodthirst, guiding you in your ear as you beat an already dead man to a pulp.

Taking a stand, its whispers remained in your ear, praising you and yet you felt sick looking at what was left of what you had done, of what was left of the man's face. His blood pooled around his shoulders, mixing with the stew into an unholy concoction, evidence that was a testimony to your suffering and to your sin. Using his combat knife, you cut through the ropes around your wrists, skin scratched raw and bleeding. Without a second glance, you took his gun and left the room.

To this day, you tell yourself that you crawled out of hell that day.

"Any signs of the hostage?" Gaz shouted over comms, holding off a room of enemies alongside Price.

The moment they had all seen your fingers slip from the jeep and saw you tumble away that afternoon was the moment they knew they wouldn't be coming back to base for a long time. Roach had watched in despair as he was so damn close to grabbing your hand, swearing that had he'd been a little quicker, you wouldn't be here. Soap had yelled for Price to go back but Gaz and Ghost both knew his hand wasn't going to turn that wheel anytime soon. All of them knew. They couldn't turn back, and you wouldn't have wanted them to either, not unless the entire team and mission were to be jeopardized. However, that didn't stop them from doing whatever it takes to get you back safe again.

"Negative." Ghost answered over the line, standing with Soap in a hallway painted with the blood of the opposition, bodies scattered like lifeless bags of flesh with no greater purpose than to rot.

"I have eyes on them, they escaped from captivity. Currently pursuing them!" Roach responded. He'd seen your figure run down a hall at an alarming speed, and when he followed you, he had a glimpse of the room and the spectacle you left behind, "The leader is terminated, too. Jesus, can someone get over here?! They're gunning it for the west exit and I can barely keep up!"

You were in fact, bolting for the exits, panicking the more you got lost and running so fast that you probably could've broken a record on base. Distant gunfire and blasts snapped at your heels like a pack of dogs, reminding you that if you didn't keep running, you'd be dead, you'd be torn apart and beaten just like their leader and fed to the wolves. Boots trampled the ground behind you like drums of death, the yelling of men ringing in your ears, a requiem to the inevitable. Run, just run, it's all you could do in this frenzied state. If you didn't you'd be helpless, you'd be put down like a rabid fucking animal. Run, even if your bones shook from the pain, even if flames licked at your torn muscles, even if it meant dying of exhaustion because anything was better than dying at the hands of those animals.

At last, you found the light of an exit, finally an escape from this asylum. Your heart felt lighter when sunlight kissed your skin only to be weighed down by getting slammed into, grabbed into a relentless hold. You screeched, shrieked, snapped, and sneered while the voices seemed relieved, almost happy at your capture.

"Don't fucking touch me-!" You screamed with animosity, practically frothing at the mouth, "Don't fucking touch me I'll fucking kill you! I'll fucking—"

"Friendly, friendly!"

Still growling under your breath, confusion flickered over your eyes. Why did it sound like... like...

"Captain?"

"You're safe kid," Price panted, as if he'd been running to chase you. He was chasing you. In all your hysteria, you hadn't realized that the group had been running after you for past minute or so, trying to call for you, get you to slow down. The only thing that worked was to just grab to and hopefully knock some sense into you or knock you out. "It's just us, see?"

Your gaze softened, taking in the features of the man before you. Despite the crossfire and fighting, somehow he still had such a kind look on him, puppy eyes that pitied you and kept you grounded. Turning your head, you saw the rest of the men watching you in concern, all tired but overjoyed nonetheless that you were finally back.

You were safe.

It was like a weight finally lifted off your chest, a pile of restrained misery and relief washing over you, and you wept without a thought to pride. Price whispered your name in a way that felt so comfortingly familiar, tucking your head into his shoulder and letting you muffle your sobs into his uniform. It was painful to hear your wails, the relief and the instability shaking off of you in waves. A part of you expected to be scolded, to be teased for messing up so badly with a simple mistake as letting go of the jeep but they didn't.

"You're in good hands,"

"We've got them covered,"

"They can't hurt you anymore, love."

"Do you have any major injuries?" Gaz asked, but you couldn't say a thing, clinging onto Price's jacket and crying like you were four years old and found by your parents after getting lost. Slowly and gently, Price pulled you from him to examine you, and that's when he saw it. It didn't take long for the others to notice as well. Your clothes were torn and belt undone. While no physical harm was visible, knowing what happened was enough to make Price tick.

"Roach, get them to the car and give them some spares ASAP. Everyone else with me, we're cleaning out the place." Everyone else had the same dark look in their eyes, one that sent shivers down your spine but encouraged you once more you were secure now. While Roach escorted you away, you peeked back to see them disappear back into the building. After you changed in the car, you could hear the distant gunfire and screams, shutting your eyes closed tight, making an effort to drown out the thoughts.

"You okay?" Roach frowned. he had apologized to you a dozen times over on your way to the car and explained all that happened after you were taken, which you appreciated him for and insisted it wasn't his fault. But he was sweet and stubborn, bandaging your wounds and telling you he'd make it up by giving you his dessert for the next month, a gesture that made you smile for once in a while.

"Yeah, yeah just... hope they're safe." You breathed, sinking into your seat with the rest of your thoughts. Though you cried once more, quietly this time and on Roach's shoulder. He was cautious not to initiate too much physical contact, holding your hand only when you asked for it.

The building was silent, not a single soul left to be reaped by the 141. They all regrouped around a body that was beaten beyond belief, to the point where the face was unrecognizable. Regardless, they knew who it was.

Gaz broke the silence, "You think they did this?" They all looked at each other, not wanting to imagine what happened to lead to this point.

Ghost nodded, a confirmation of something they already knew but wanted to mutually agree on. "No one else could've made this much of a bloody mess. HQ's going to have a field day with this. Can't say that he didn't have it coming for him, though."

"And well deserved, too." Soap spat. Price continued to look down on the figure on the floor without any thought to it. Not anger, disappointment, or spite, just disregard. Headquarters would be interested to hear what happened, but he could care less about the report. All that mattered was that loose ends were tied.

Minutes later, the men all piled up in the car again, setting for the road back. You woke from your half-asleep state, rubbing your eyes. You were met with a soft smile from Soap, who ruffled your hair. "You alright there, sleepin' beauty?"

Humming in acknowledgment, you nodded and glanced out the window to see the road whizzing by, the building growing smaller and smaller in the distance. Some dingy warehouse. So that was the hellhole you were stuck in for a near week.

"Dinnae think 'bout it too much," He followed your gaze and nudged your boot with his, "When we said they can't hurt ye anymore, we meant it."

"Yeah," You quietly mumbled, leaning back on Roach, who had fallen asleep and leaned on Gaz for support. "Can smell it on you guys."

That got a rumbling laugh out of Soap and even a little headshake from Ghost who sat in the passenger seat. Looking at the rearview mirror, Price was looking right back at you, eyes flickering to the road occasionally, "Get some rest. It'll be a long ride home."

You nodded like a little kid with a mumbled "yessir" and drifted off once more. For the first time in forever, you feel like you can breathe and ground yourself, no punishment, no torture, nothing to haunt in this rare bit of calm. You didn't feel the pain of your sore muscles, you didn't feel that your body was filthy, you didn't feel small and scared, not anymore. Just surrounded by nothing but a familiar feeling of safety and lulled to sleep by the sound of the engine that took you home.

a/n pt.2: had a tough time writing this one but hey, I think I managed! to be honest, though, I'm not super confident about the ending and proofread this while half-asleep, but I'd love to hear some thoughts about it. shoutout to the people who noticed any reoccurring themes.

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aurorawritestoescape · 7 months ago

Text

IN HIS ARMS || QZ!Joel Miller x f!reader || 5,2k

Summary: You meet a smuggler in the QZ and can't resist your attraction to him.

Tw: 18+ mdni, smut, a bit of fluff, unspecified age gap, Fedra soldier!reader, unprotected piv (wrap it up), creampie, mirror sex, degradation, rough sex, praise kink, size kink, reader really loves Joel’s arms (who doesn’t), manhandling, alcohol consumption, use of a morning after pill, mention of guns, mention of canon-typical violence. Reader has hair. Joel can pick her up. Pics are only for the mood, reader has no other specific physical descriptions.

A/n: this is written for PPCU Body Worship writing challenge, created by talented, sweet and beautiful @joelmillerisapunk 💖 I got ‘Arms’ and immediately thought of meaty, beefy QZ Joel. Smooches to my lovely beta @milla-frenchy 😘 Dividers by @saradika-graphics 💕 Love y’all! Hope you will like the story!❤️

MASTERLIST

“Let’s go.”

“Sure you need me there? It’s your deal, Ronnie. And you know you’re armed, right? Why do I always have to hold your hand?” you complain, while your eyes are scanning the crowd at a public hanging for any sign of disturbance. It’s not your favorite task but Fedra sends enough soldiers here to keep things under control so it usually goes smoothly. That’s probably why your friend Ronnie arranged a deal right in the middle of your shift.

“I’m nervous, ok,” he admits, glancing at you, “The dude’s fucking scary. Never worked with him before. But I’ve heard stuff. You’re just gonna stand there, that’s all. Don’t need to talk.”

You’ve known Ronnie since you were teens in a Fedra camp. Now both officers, you are still inseparable, though at this moment you’d prefer to be as far away from him as you could because in case you two get caught, you both will be a spectacle of the next hanging. Ronnie’s pleading eyes always work on you and the little weasel knows it well so you curse and follow him to the place of the meetup.

As soon as you see the smuggler, standing in a secluded spot far away from the prying eye, your heart starts beating faster. And not because he scares you. Yes, he’s huge and looks very unfriendly, thanks to his furrowed brows and the closed off stance which actually happens to be the culprit of your unexpected reaction. His pose accentuates the beauty of his arms as he’s crossing them in front of his chest. It’s a threatening sight, same as his gaze, but like a moth to a flame, you’re pulled to the man immediately. All thoughts in your head are replaced with only one - he’s fucking hot.

Ronnie slowly comes up to the man, feigning confidence.

“Who the fuck is this?” the smuggler asks, nodding at you with his chin.

“Just a friend. Don’t worry, Joel.”

“I ain’t the one to worry here, kid,” he gruffs, uncrossing his arms as his fists clench in a threatening gesture and you can sense the waves of panic, coming from your friend. “I prefer to do these things one on one. Don’t need an audience. Ya got me?”

“Yeah, ‘k. Next time I’ll be alone.”

“Hope so.”

Joel looks you up and down and you suddenly feel too hot. Standing a step further from him than Ronnie and not saying anything, you’re ogling the man with hungry eyes. Joel seems to relax and the men finally exchange the goods— pills for your friend and ration cards for the smuggler. They’re talking about the product, scheduling the next deal, and you should be on the lookout, should be attentive to the surroundings, like you always are, but your mind, as well as other parts, is fully focused on the stranger.

Joel’s hairy forearms are thick and strong and every little move makes his muscles flex and bulge out of his rolled up sleeves of the denim shirt. His shoulders are broad and the fabric, containing them, is strained to the limit. You’ve never been a biter in bed but suddenly you want to sink your teeth into his arms, lick them all over, glide your hands over the vast expense of his skin, grab them and feel them tighten around your body, encompassing you fully, while his cock stretches…

“Hey!” Ronnie exclaims, interrupting your horny daydreams, pulling on your sleeve and you blink at him, trying to shake away the visions of the man, doing filthy things to you.

“Let’s go!” he says for what appears not the first time, and you smile awkwardly, noticing Joel’s smirk. His arms are crossed again, but now he’s looking at you with a twinkle of curiosity in his piercing eyes, his heavy gaze lightened up.

You take a step away, following your friend, but Joel stops you.

“Sweetheart, wait!”

The pet name hits you right in the pussy and you pause and turn back, confused by why he’s calling you.

“C’mere,” the man motions for you to return to him with a shake of his head, his bear hands shoved in the jeans pockets.

“We’re in a hurry, man,” Ronnie frowns, thinking he’s coming to your rescue, but you turn to him and say,

“It’s ok. Wait for me over there.”

You have no idea what Joel wants from you, but you’re eager to find out. Not hiding his anxiety, your friend takes a few steps away from you and stands at the gate, glancing in your direction from time to time while his hand is resting on his gun.

“Yes? Joel, right?” You ask, coming up to the smuggler and using every last drop of your will not to leer at his mighty arms again.

“Yeah. What’s your name?”

You reply with a little smile and see a smirk tug at his plush lips when he asks, “Like what you see?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve been starin' at me like at a piece of meat. No use denyin' it."

You avert your eyes, chewing on your lip. You probably should be embarrassed to be caught ogling the man, but life in this miserable world taught you to take what you want whenever you can. Especially if it's being handed to you.

"I'm not." You look back at Joel with defiance in your gaze. "I think you're hot."

Joel’s chest expands when he takes a deep breath, the shirt’s buttons hanging for dear life. His piercing eyes turn a shade darker as he asks,

"Wanna do somethin' about it?"

Your heart rate increases and the warmth of arousal between your thighs makes you shift on your feet.

"What are you suggesting?"

"Come over to my place tonight. Around 8. Ask your friend for the address. He knows."

You don't reply for a few seconds, making it seem like you're thinking about your answer, although your pussy has been aching since the moment you saw the smuggler so there's no way you're going to reject his invitation.

"'K", you reply, feigning nonchalance, while excitement is twisting your stomach.

“What?! Are you out of your mind? You're gonna see him?” Ronnie hisses at you, as you two are walking back to the square. “He’s dangerous! Do you realize that? He’s huge! Have you seen his arms?”

“Oh, I’ve seen his arms alright,” you reply with a dreamy smile, sensing butterflies in your belly.

“Fuck, you’re so stupid when you’re horny. If I find you tomorrow dead in a ditch, I’ll tell your lifeless face ‘I told you so!’”

“Jesus, man,” You giggle, playfully punching Ronnie’s shoulder. “I’ll be ok. I promise.”

The night can’t come soon enough. Still wearing your uniform, you rush to meet the man who's been occupying your mind all day. When Joel opens the door to you, you swallow loudly seeing him in the same denim shirt and dark blue jeans. You’ve been dreaming of his huge arms around your body, so your panties are completely soaked, and having had no time to change after your shift, you hope to slide them off as fast as possible.

“Hi,” you greet the man, stepping into his apartment.

“Howdy.”Joel closes the door and stands next to you, while his gaze is sliding up and down your body. You look around the apartment, getting a whiff of his scent— sweat with a subtle trace of whiskey.

“Are you from Texas originally?” You ask, glancing up at him, slightly intoxicated by his closeness.

“Yeah. Want a drink?”

He walks to the living area and you follow before leaving your guns at the door.

“What do you have?”

“Whiskey, vodka…water.”

“Vodka’s fine,” you reply, stepping up to a worn out couch and sitting down.

“Oh, are you a vodka girl?”

“I’m a ‘whatever burns’ girl, but vodka works faster on me,” you smile and Joel smirks, crossing his arms again. You swallow loudly, seeing his sexy tan forearms in the golden light of the setting sun. Fuck, you wanna touch them.

“Why d’ya need it to work fast? Doesn’t seem like you need any liquid courage.”

“Really?”

Joel goes to the kitchen and in a few seconds returns with a half empty Smirnoff bottle and two shot glasses. He plops next to you on the couch with a grunt and pours out the alcohol.

You drink yours in one go and Joel follows. The vodka burns and calms you down a little. Joel clears his throat before he speaks,

“This morning your friend was shaking like a leaf. And you… You were practically undressing me with your eyes, sweetheart.”

You smile and drop your gaze down to your lap.

“Well, Ronnie is a nervous guy and I’m …”

“A needy little slut?”

You shoot your eyes up at him and see a smug smile, tugging at his lips, as he awaits your reaction. You should probably feel offended or angry, but instead your core burns brighter at his degrading comment and your pussy flutters, as if proving him right.

He reads your reaction immediately.

“Oh you like that, huh?”

“What?”

“When I call you a slut.”

“I don’t mind,” you mumble while your mind is shutting down with every dirty word he throws at you.

“Yeah, you looked like a thirsty whore this morning. And I see that nothing’s changed.”

You’re barely breathing at this point, as waves of arousal ripple through your body, making you squirm in your seat.

“I…I just really like your arms.” Your gaze shamelessly slides over his body, so big and powerful.

“My arms?” Joel’s brows shoot up and he turns his head to look at his arm, resting on the back of the couch, as if trying to understand your attraction.

“Yeah,” you nod slowly, ogling the muscles straining his sleeve.

“Wanna touch ‘em, baby?”

“Yes, please”.

“So polite. Wanna call you a good girl but we already know that you prefer ‘a slut’.”

Joel chuckles and narrows his eyes, watching you for a few seconds, while you’re melting under his lustful gaze, sinking in the sticky pit of desire. Through the fog in your head you hear his voice, low but still powerful.

“How about we skip the pleasantries then and get to the thing you came for.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m gonna fuck you. And let you touch my arms.”

Your breath hitches and your body tingles all over. You can’t agree fast enough.

“Yeah, ok.”

“Do you always say ‘yes’ to everything, little slut?” he smirks, playing with you like a cat with a mouse.

You try to come up with a witty response but your mind is clouded with lust so you just shake your head with probably the dumbest look ever.

“Can I use your bathroom?” You mumble and when he points you in its direction, swiftly walk there.

You close the door in the little room and check your face in the mirror. It’s the same as every day except for your glossy eyes. You rinse your face, trying to come to your senses, look a little less horny but it’s all in vain. The desire overtook your body completely so you dry yourself and leave the room.

When you return to Joel, you find him on the couch in the same spot and in the same position. Only now he’s completely naked.

A shiver goes down your spine from a new surge of arousal, tightening your core.

You barely hear him, your mind is fully occupied by the image of this gorgeous, huge man, waiting to fuck you. Everything about him makes your pussy beat with the rhythm of your heart - his soft belly, his long, girthy, slightly curved semi hard cock, resting on his thick thigh, his broad hairy chest and muscular arms. Seeing them without the confines of the clothes completely shuts off your brain and you take a step towards him, mesmerized by his muscles, wishing to feel them already.

“Take your clothes off, baby.”

You hardly hear him, taking in every inch of his body.

“Girl! Undress. Fuckin’ hell,” Joel groans and you shake your head, waking up from a horny trance, and start discarding your clothes hastily, piece by piece while his dark gaze is set on you. You should be more graceful and seductive taking them off, but your aching pussy makes your movements rushed and determined. When you’re completely naked, except for your panties, you hook your thumbs into the waistband of the last piece of clothing, but Joel stops you.

He gets up and walks to you, his big cock in his veiny hand.

“Wanna do it myself,” he mumbles and stands next to you, at your side, so close that you feel his warm breath on your cheek and breasts, his naked chest brushing against your shoulder, his manhood poking your thigh.

“Pretty little thing,” he whispers, taking in your body, while his hand slides down your back, leaving chills in its wake. You raise your big eyes at him, your lips parted. “Pity you get so dumb though,” he chuckles and lightly squeezes your asscheek. His hand stays there while the other one cups your breast and grazes your nipple with his calloused thumb, making it stiff. You moan and he groans.

Joel’s palm on your ass moves lower, and reaches your pussy, covered by the wet panties. He slips his finger between your asscheeks and rubs your drippping hole over the gusset. You softly whimper and he plants a light kiss on your cheek, stroking your folds over the fabric.

“She’s been crying for me all day, huh?” he mumbles, placing his large warm hand on your belly, the other one still caressing your cunt. “Pussy so needy she shut down your whole little brain. Yeah, baby?”

All you can do is nod, your senses fully focused on the way his thick fingers are rubbing your aching cunt over the underwear.

“She must be cold, sweetheart, being in a pair of wet panties all day like that?” He coos at you.

“Yeah”, you reply, barely breathing, already feeling your orgasm build because of his light touches. “Didn’t have time to change. I have a sexy pair at home.”

Joel breathes out a chuckle, “I bet you do, little slut. Would love to see ‘em too one day.”

The only response you can give is a mewl.

He steps in front of you, his hand leaving your pussy, and you whine. Joel tsks at you and pinches your chin with his fingers to lift your face to his.

“Oh, my pretty bimbo, already cock drunk,” he laughs, locking eyes with you.

Joel’s so huge, you should probably be scared, but all you feel is a pathetic need to be completely destroyed by him.

“Lights are on but…fuck, you’re gone,” he mocks you, looking into your hazy blown out eyes.

“Listen to me,” he commands, as his fingers slightly shake your head, getting your attention. “How do you want it? Gentle or rough, sweetheart?”

“Rough,” you croak back without any hesitation.

“Good. Then do what I say and we gonna have a great time, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Good little slut.”

Your breaths are short and fast as you’re blinking, starting at him like a mindless fuck doll. Suddenly, you gasp when he grabs the back of your thighs with his massive hands and lifts you, throwing your legs around his waist. You grab onto his broad shoulders and he carries you away from the couch and to the bedroom.

He drops you on the bed, old and stiff, but you don’t care. You have no time or ability to think about anything, because as soon as you’re on your back, Joel pins you to the lumpy mattress with his heavy torso and kisses you. He’s not asking for a kiss, he’s taking it but you willingly open your mouth, welcoming his hot tongue. A happy moan escapes your mouth, when you finally glide your palms over his huge arms. He slides your panties off and cups your pussy with his huge warm palm.

“Messy whore,” he mumbles against your mouth.

Joel’s assertive, passionate and as horny as you are, and you smile against his lips, enjoying his desire for you.

He begins peppering kisses along your jaw, your neck, leaving hickeys on his way to your breasts.

You whimper when his mouth finds your nipple and gasp when he nips at it. He licks the pain away and starts sucking on it while his hands are roaming your heated body.

You grab onto his shoulders and shift your hips under his arm. Joel’s slurping and growling, caressing your breast with his lips and tongue, but you crave more so you start grinding your wet pulsating pussy against his arm. Your movements immediately send you to the precipice of your climax. His muscles flex as you rub your clit against them, smearing your slick over his tan skin, and Joel parts from your tit for a few seconds to watch you use his arm to get yourself off.

“Look at this sloppy little pussy. Gonna need a shower after this. Or…,” he smirks and gets back to suckling your other breast.

Each motion of his muscles is helping you to come as you’re dragging your pussy up and down his heavy limb. Soon you throw your head back, dipping it into the pillow when a hard climax hits you and your cunt contracts around nothing, as euphoria is coursing through your veins, taking away the last of your clear thinking.

“That’s it— take it, slut— come for me — jus’ like that,” Joel mumbles against your trembling chest but you hardly hear him, so deep in the ocean of desire, all sounds around you are muffled.

The next thing you feel is his hands grabbing your shoulders and lifting you. Joel makes you sit up and wraps his heavy hand around the back of your neck.

“Look what you’ve done, messy girl.”

He nods at his arm, glistening with your cum and slick and then growls, “Lick it clean.”

With a hazy smile you sit on your heels, getting comfortable. Then you take his arm between your hands and reach for it. Your tongue slides over his hot wet skin and you flutter your eyes shut, reveling in the sensations of his firm muscles under your tongue and the earthy taste of your juices.

“Attagirl,” Joel praises you and slightly squeezes the back of your neck to make you move your head lower and lap up all the mess you’ve left on his skin.

When you finish, Joel lifts your head and sees you staring at his throbbing cock with empty but hungry eyes. It’s leaking precum generously and you almost drool looking at it. You should probably be nervous to take his huge length but all you feel is feral lust.

Placing his palm under your jaw, Joel tilts your head up and searches for your eyes.

“Damn, lookin’ so dumb right now. Lucky you remember how to breathe, little whore.”

He laughs at you and grabs your face, as his fingers dig into your cheeks, making your lips pout.

You whine and he pulls you into his chest. You hug him as if afraid to float away and he gives you a few moments of rest while you are panting, snuggling into his embrace after the shuddering orgasm.

Then he lifts your chin and locks eyes with you. Your breath hitches as you’re struck by his handsome face, which leans down and he kisses you again, gently and slowly, wrapping you tighter in his embrace. Then he asks,

“Why do you like my arms so much?”

You blink a few times, trying really hard to understand the question, drunk on his taste and the way he’s holding you, but when the meaning finally reaches your brain, you stumble over your words.

“I… they… jus’ so big. And … fuck, very hot.”

You feel his broad chest shake with a quiet laugh. “Ready for my cock, baby?” You nod your head with a soft mewl.

“Wanna watch my arms when I’m railing you?”

“Yeah, yes, please.”

Joel hums and gets up before manhandling you off the bed and leading you to a wardrobe. He’s holding you under your arms, noticing that your weak legs are barely able to move, still tingling after your orgasm. He places you like a fuck doll in front the wardrobe door with a mirror and stands behind you. He’s so big and broad that you can see his shoulders and arms perfectly in the reflection. Your gaze glides over your own naked body, and you notice a path of hickeys along your neck and breasts and your core ignites again at the sight of his passion. Then you look at Joel, his eyes are obsidian, the expression is carnal and hungry, and you moan, feeling his cock slap your lower back.

His gaze drops down before he pushes your legs aside with his knee, his thick fingers dig into your hips and he pulls your ass, making you stick it out. Trying to steady yourself, you brace your hands on the mirror in front of you, but he grumbles,

“Not the mirror, stupid. You’ll break it, cut yourself.”

You swiftly move your hands further apart onto the wooden surface.

“Sexy but so dumb,” he mumbles as his eyes return to your ass and his cock. You watch his face, serious and concentrated, and sense his tip prod your sopping hole.

“Fuck,” he curses and pushes his cock deeper, slightly bending his knees to insert it into your tight pussy easier.

You push your ass out more for him, already whimpering like a whore, as you feel your walls slowly part to accommodate his stiff cock. It stings but you welcome the sensation of his manhood spreading your pussy until he bottoms out and you both moan at the sensation.

“Ahh— she feels amazing, baby,” he grunts and you smile dumbly at his reflection in the mirror.

“Such a sloppy cunt,” he murmurs, starting to plunge his length in and out of you with a fast rhythm, “oh, yeah — yeah — yeah—.”

His fat cock is massaging your walls deliciously, kissing your cervix with every deep thrust and you mewl with pleasure and scratch the wooden surface of the wardrobe with your nails.

“Naughty kitten. Tess will kill you if you leave marks on her furniture,” Joel chuckles through heavy panting, squeezing your hips and watching your cunt swallow his glistening cock.

“Who’s Tess?” You ask, not really giving a fuck and he doesn’t reply.

Instead he grants you your biggest wish - he pulls you flush to his chest and wraps his arms around your torso from behind. Your hands immediately fly to grab onto his strong limbs. Joel’s right arm is under your breasts, slightly pushing them up. The other one is keeping you in place, pressed to your chest, between your tits, his giant hand on your throat. His thick fingers curl around your neck but he doesn’t squeeze it, just holds you close against his broad torso.

The sensation and the vision of his powerful muscular arms bonding you to him like that, make your pussy contract and Joel growls in your ear, his breath hot and wet,

“Squeezing me already? Fuck, you’re easy.”

You whine and Joel nibbles on your ear lobe and rasps,

“Hold tight, baby, it’s gonna be a wild ride.”

As soon as the words reach your ear, he begins rolling his hips and dragging his cock in and out of your tight pussy, hard and fast.

You grab onto his bulging muscles better, and as he’s increasing the pace, you’re scratching him with your nails, leaving white marks on his golden skin and whimpering.

“Yeah, take it, dumb little whore. Gonna fuck the last of your brain out of your pretty head.”

Your breasts bounce while he’s fucking you and you bite your puffy lips, trying to muffle your moans, but Joel commands against yout ear,

“Want you to be loud, baby. C’mon. Let them all hear how good im fuckin’ ya.”

You would do anything he told you this moment so your lips part and you let your pleasured noises out, as they mix with the sound of skin rhythmically slapping against skin and his animalistic groans.

Reveling in the sensation of Joel, pounding your crying cunt, you let your hands wander all over his forearms and shoulders, squeezing and scratching them slightly, wishing to memorize the feeling of their strength under your hungry touch. Your vision is shaking with every mighty thrust of his hips but you’re watching the reflection of you two closely, drowning in the image of this tall broad man using you like a mindless fuck doll, caging you in his powerful arms and tears well up in your eyes at how amazing it feels. Your mind and body are focused on this pleasure, suffering and worries of the reality are gone and the drops of pure happiness spill and fall on his arms.

Joel notices you crying and stops fucking you, swiftly pulling out and turning you around.

“What is it, baby? Did I hurt ya?”

His dark eyes, a second ago filled with carnal desire now worried and concerned, dart all over your face and body, searching for the reason of your tears.

You grab onto him and shake your head,

“No, no, i’m fine — feels so good - you feel so good, Joel.”

“Fuckin’ hell, sweetheart,” he breathes out, pulling you into his bear hug and rubbing your back with his warm hands.

“Please keep fucking me,” you mumble against his hairy chest and he barks a laugh before throwing you back on the bed, making you squeal with excitement.

Joel lies down and manhandles you to straddle him.

“Sit on my cock, little slut,” he commands, eyes darting between yours, reading your reaction.

“Yes, yes,” you mumble, wrapping your hand around his hot hard cock and lifting your hips, hovering over it. You don’t make him wait and immediately sink down on his weeping manhood, as your mouth falls open and your head tilts back.

Joel’s hands are holding your hips when you start riding him, and then snake up to your breasts to knead them, pinch and twist your pebbled nipples.

You run your fingers over his forearms from the elbows to his wrists and grab his hand, intertwining your fingers. Not pausing your lustful dance on his cock, you gently kiss his palm, his hand, then your lips glide down, leaving open mouth kisses over his wrist, the underside of his forearm and his elbow, darting your tongue out and tasting his salty skin. You lean forward, your nipples brushing his chest, and kiss his biceps, using your tongue, and Joel moans, watching you practically make out with his arm.

“Fuck, you’re hot, baby,” he groans while you’re lapping at his skin with your eyes shut. You’re softly whimpering at the sensation of his body, big and strong under you, his cock caressing your walls, making your pussy flutter around it, pushing you closer and closer to your second climax.

“Shit,” Joel curses, pulls your head off his arm and kisses you, while hugging your torso with his python-like grip. He’s holding you tight and you whine, not being able to move your hips and chase your orgasm. Sensing your impatience, Joel plants his feet on the bed and begins jackhammering his fat cock into your slicked up pussy, giving it to you rough and fast, not sparing your little hole.

You’re moaning against his scruffy cheek, your body shaking with his feral thrusts but Joel’s iron hold is keeping you in place.

“Usin’ you like a fuck doll you’re, yeah? Brainless little slut. Made just to make my cock happy. Perfect for me.”

His filthy words, leaving his mouth through gritted teeth, are barely audible because of the loud slapping of his body against yours and the squeaking of the old bed.

“Joellll…,” you moan, and after a few more thrusts explode on his thumping cock, caged by his strong arms, sobbing with heavenly pleasure flooding every inch of your body.

“Hnggg—shit—can I come inside?” You hear a gruff roar in your ear and with Joel fucking your brains out right this moment, you breathe out, “yeah, oh, yeah.” You crave to be full of him, drip him for days after, getting turned on just from the memory of him. As soon as you agree, Joel starts spurting his hot cum into your pulsating cunt, filling you up, emptying his balls into you.

You’re lying still, nuzzling his neck and taking everything he’s giving you, milking his cock to the last drop with your contracting walls.

Gradually intense ecstasy morphs into a pleasant satisfaction and you both bask in the afterglow of your orgasms. You feel almost high on endorphins, not used to such an amount of happiness in your veins, in your life.

Joel softens his embrace but still holds you, letting you rest and you almost doze off, lulled by his warm chest rocking you up and down like a giant wave.

“Don’t sleep yet, ya need to take a pill,” he gently shakes you, sleep heavy in his own voice.

“Oh, yeah…fuck, you came inside,” you murmur, blinking at him, as your mind fog slowly clears up.

“I have a Plan B, don’t worry.”

He moves you off him and lays you down on the bed, then gets up, making the bed squeak.

You can’t move your limbs even if you tried to so you’re lying there, feeling his warmth between your legs, kisses of the afterglow all over your heated skin and smile lazily when he returns to the bed with a glass of water.

“Look at you, as cock dumb as they get, huh?”

He plops down next to you and hands you the pill.

You sit up with a tired smile, swallow the pill and chase it with a few sips of water.

“Good girl,” Joel takes the glass from you and shakes his head when you murmur that you need to go.

“No way. Sleep here. They'll hang your ass if they catch you out and about at this hour.”

You turn your head to the window, just noticing that it’s completely dark outside, only the street lamps illuminate the room with a yellow light.

“Aww, you care about me, Joel? Don’t fall in love,” you giggle but your heart flutters as you look up at the man, so handsome and huge, looming over you.

“I’ll try,” he deadpans and shakes his hand, motioning you to scooch.

You shift to the other side of the bed and he lies down on his back with a grunt. You’re still sitting up, shamelessly admiring his naked body.

“Quit starin’,” he mumbles with eyes closed and pulls you down onto his chest.

You’re lying on his shoulder for a few moments and then whisper,

“Can you big spoon me?”

“Jesus…,” he sighs but turns on his side, scooping you in his embrace and you smile, closing your eyes as your hands gravitate to his arms, heavy and secure around you. You press your back into his warm chest and fall into a deep and peaceful sleep.

Thank you for reading! Please comment and reblog if you enjoyed the fic!💖🌸

Masterlist

General tag list: @milla-frenchy @harriedandharassed @iamasaddie @nervousmumbling @bbyanarchist @stevie75 @puduvallee @auteurdelabre @mountainsandmayhem @senoratess @flamingochick55 @theoraekenslover @schnarfer @mermaidgirl30 @staywildflowahchild @yesjazzywazzylove-blog @evolnoomym @keylimebeag @joelmillerisapunk @fruityreads

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#pedro pascal #joel miller #joel miller x reader #pedro pascal characters #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #the last of us #joel miller tlou #joel miller smut #joel fanfiction #joel smut #the last of us fic #qz!joel

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stylesispunk · 8 days ago

Text

"The soldier in the armour" | Last part

marcus acacius x f!reader

masterlist | previous chapter

summary: The search for peace of Rome starts with sacrifices and bloody hands and ends where lovers meet again.

wc: 16k (ups)

warnings: extreme angst, age gap, mentions of blood, power imbalance, mentions of death, violence, manipulation.

a/n: as much as I'm sad to end this story, I really needed it to do it. Writing as much as I enjoy and love it, it's also becoming unbearable to the point i can't find myself writing peacefully anymore and I need a break. Still, i'm leaving you with something else 👀 and I will still be here rebbloging stuff. Thank you so much to the sweet anon who requested this in the first place because it gave me the chance to expand a story i loved writing so much and thanks to everyone who commented on this story, the ones who always reblogged and shared their thoughts with me, and showed me real support. I appreciate it so much! ♥️ this was the original ending for this btw. Please, share your thoughts with me 💌

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

The dim torchlight flickered against the damp stone walls, casting long shadows as the guard knelt beside you, pressing a small wooden cup of water into your trembling hands. His voice was gentle, almost hesitant, as if the weight of his next words could cut in half.

"Here. Drink this, my lady."

You took the cup but didn’t bring it to your lips. Your throat was raw, not just from thirst but from the weight of everything crashing down on you. Instead, your mind raced with so many questions about the ones you loved.

"How… how are they?" you whispered, your voice barely audible.

The guard sighed, his expression darkening. "Your mother is alright."

A sharp exhale of relief left your lips, but it didn’t last.

"Hanno?" you asked without wanting to reveal his real identity.

His brow furrowed. "Why do you care about that gladiator this much?"

You shot him a glare. "How is he?"

A beat passed before he muttered, "Good. He is fine too, my lady."

But that wasn’t the name that hung the heaviest on your heart, tearing it apart.

"My husband… how is Acacius?" your voice cracked.

At the sound of his name, the guard’s lips parted, but no words came out at first. His hesitation was enough to send ice through your veins.

"General Acacius… Emperor Geta and Caracalla-"

Your stomach twisted violently. "Is he dead?" You choked out, your fingers tightening around the cup until it nearly cracked in your grasp.

"No," the guard said quickly, shaking his head. "But they have… they are sending him to the arena to fight for his life… as punishment."

Your entire body froze. "And they’re going to make me watch," you whispered, the words hollow and filled with fury. It wasn’t just cruel but calculated, a vicious torment. Geta wanted to break you in every way possible.

The rage that had been simmering inside you boiled over.

"Where is he?" you demanded, your breath coming in uneven bursts.

The guard swallowed hard, glancing toward the entrance of the dungeon as if he feared being caught. "You shouldn’t-"

"Where. Is. He?" you cut him off, your voice sharp like a blade.

For a moment, he looked at you, not as a prisoner, not as the emperor’s pawn, but as the little girl he had known all his life. A woman who had once walked through the gardens of the palace without fear, whose laughter had once filled the halls of Rome. He let out a slow breath, then leaned in closer.

"In the lower cells," he whispered. "They took him there until dawn."

“Could you take me to see him?” You asked him, throwing the cup of water on the ground.

The guard hesitated, his jaw tightening as he glanced nervously toward the entrance of the dungeon. “I can’t. It’s too dangerous. For you and for me.”

Desperation clawed at your throat. “Please,” you pleaded, leaning forward as much as the chains would allow. “I just need to see him. Just for a moment.”

He looked away, running a hand over his face, as if waging an internal war. “If they catch us, they’ll kill us both.”

“Then let me die, I’ll blame myself for it” Your voice wavered, but your resolve did not.

His eyes flickered with something, pity, perhaps even understanding. He owned too much to your family and to Acacius, so muttering a curse under his breath he finally nodded. “Fine. But you must cover up. And it must be fast.”

Relief crashed over you, and you nodded eagerly. “Thank you.”

He stood, moving quickly to retrieve a tattered cloak from a pile of discarded linens in the corner. He draped it over your shoulders, pulling the hood low over your face.

“Keep your head down. Stay close.” His voice was firm but quiet.

You nodded once more, your heart hammering against your ribs as he unlatched the chains from the wall. Your wrists throbbed, the skin raw and bruised, but you didn’t care.

Not long after, the guard led you through the dimly lit corridors of the palace, the torches casting long, flickering shadows on the cold stone walls. Your heart pounded with every step, the weight of the cloak heavier than ever on your shoulders, but nothing compared to the what was pressing against your chest, the thought of seeing Acacius, of what had been done to him.

You kept your head low, your hands trembling as you clutched the fabric close to your body. Every time footsteps echoed nearby, the guard would stop, pressing you into the shadows, his hand firm on your arm as if reminding you to stay silent.

Finally, you reached the holding cells near the arena. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, damp stone, and blood. You could hear the low murmurs of other prisoners, the occasional clank of chains.

The guard glanced around before gesturing for you to follow. He stopped in front of a heavy iron-barred door. “He’s in there,” he whispered. “Be quick.”

You swallowed hard, your hands shaking as you stepped forward. The guard pulled a key from his belt and slid it into the lock, the heavy door groaning as it opened just enough for you to slip inside.

At first, the darkness swallowed everything, and then

“Acacius.” You whispered, calling out his name.

He was slumped against the wall, his wrists bound in iron cuffs, his tunic torn and bloodied. His dark hair was damp, sticking to his forehead, and a fresh cut trailed along his cheekbone. But his eyes, his sharp, brown eyes, snapped open the moment he heard your voice.

“My love?” His voice was hoarse, as if he had been calling for you in his sleep.

You rushed to him, falling to your knees, your hands reaching for his face. He leaned into your touch, closing his eyes for a brief moment as if savoring it.

“I’m here,” you whispered, tears welling in your eyes. “I’m so sorry, Acacius. I tried-”

“Shh.” His forehead pressed against yours, his breath uneven. “You’re safe. That’s all that matters.”

You weren’t safe but it didn’t matter to you anymore, your fingers trembled as they traced over his bruised skin. “They’re sending you to the arena.”

He exhaled sharply. “I know.”

You shook your head, panic surging in your chest. “I can’t let this happen. I won’t.”

His chained hands lifted as much as they could, brushing against your arms, trying to soothe you despite the agony he must have been in. “You have to be strong.” His voice was firm but gentle. “You have to survive this. That’s the promise I made to your mother and that’s the promise I made to myself.”

“Not without you.” You sobbed.

His eyes softened, full of something deeper than love, something treading your two-heart beating faster.

Tears spilled down your cheeks as shook your head, your lips pressing against his in a desperate, lingering kiss. He kissed you back with all the strength he had left, pouring his love and soul into you, as if trying to leave a piece of himself with you, in case this was the last time.

A sudden sound at the door made you break apart. The guard stepped inside, urgency on his face.

“They’re coming. We have to go-now.”

You turned back to Acacius, your hands gripping his face as if you could keep him here with you forever.

“I will find a way.” Your voice was a promise. “I swear it.”

His eyes burned into yours. “Then I will wait for you, my love. In this life or the next.”

The guard pulled you away, and Acacius’ hands fell to his sides as you were torn from him. Your silent sobs echoed in the chamber as the door slammed shut between you.

The guard took you back to your cell, where the reality fell over you. Not enough praying would bring you back to the nights lying next to Acacius and enveloped in his arms, safe and sound.

The moment you stepped back into the cell, the cold iron bit into your wrists once more as the guard fastened the chains, his movements slower this time, almost hesitant. You could still taste Acacius on your lips, still feel the warmth of his hands on your skin. But now, all you had was the damp air of your prison and the weight of despair pressing against your chest.

The guard exhaled, stepping back. His brow was furrowed, his jaw clenched as if wrestling with something deep inside himself.

“You don’t deserve this,” he muttered. “None of it.”

You lifted your tear-streaked face, meeting his gaze. “Then let me go.”

His lips parted as if he wanted to say something, but he only shook his head. “I have my duty.”

You let out a bitter laugh, your voice hoarse from emotion. “Duty? To whom? Geta? Caracalla? Do you think they would do the same for you?”

His face darkened, but he didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. You already knew.

“I serve Rome first,” he said after a long pause, but there was something hollow in the way he spoke. As if he was trying to convince himself.

Your wrists throbbed as you shifted against the cold chains, your anger burning hotter than your grief now. “Then you are just as much a prisoner as I am.”

A flicker of something—shame? Regret?—crossed his face, but it vanished just as quickly. He turned toward the door.

“I hope the gods are kind to you, my lady.”

Then he left. The heavy door slammed shut, sealing you in darkness once more.

A shuddering breath escaped you as you pressed your forehead against the damp stone wall. Your body ached, your heart ached, but your mind was clearer now.

Acacius was running out of time.

And you were done waiting.

The hours dragged on, each second stretching into eternity as you remained chained in the cold, damp cell. The weight of what was coming settled deep in your bones, but you refused to surrender to it. Acacius was there, awaiting his fate, and you would not sit idly by while the love of your life was thrown into the arena like a common criminal.

When the first rays of morning light filtered through the cracks in the stone walls, you finally spoke. "I demand to see the emperors."

The guards exchanged glances; their expressions unreadable. One of them scoffed, but the other hesitated.

"You are in no position to demand anything," one of them sneered.

You lifted your chin, steel in your voice despite the exhaustion creeping into your limbs. "I am still a daughter of Rome, and I will be heard."

A long silence stretched between you and them before the guard who had led you to Acacius the night before stepped forward. His jaw was tight, his eyes flickering with something unspoken. He sighed.

"Very well. But be careful what you ask for.”

The chains were undone, your wrists sore and bruised, but you ignored the pain once again. Two guards flanked you as they led you through the corridors of the palace. The familiar scent of incense and polished marble filled your senses, a stark contrast to the filth of the dungeons.

When the heavy doors to the grand hall were pushed open, your eyes immediately landed on them—Geta and Caracalla, seated on their thrones, draped in the finest silks, adorned in the weight of power they had not earned.

Geta was the first to notice you, his lips curving into a slow, knowing smile.

"Ah, my little rebel." His voice was thick with amusement. "I was wondering when you'd come crawling back to beg."

Caracalla, in contrast, simply watched you with an expression unreadable, his dark eyes cold and calculating.

You stepped forward, ignoring the guards at your sides, ignoring the ache in your body. You met Geta’s gaze without fear, without hesitation.

"I did not come to beg." Your voice was steady. "I came to make a deal."

That caught their attention. Geta's smile faltered, and Caracalla finally leaned forward, intrigued.

"A deal?" Geta mused, amusement returning. "What could you possibly offer that we don’t already have?"

Your hands curled into fists at your sides, your heart hammering in your chest.

"Myself." You let the word settle between you before continuing, voice unwavering. "You release Acacius, my mother and Hanno. Let them leave Rome unharmed. And in return... I will do whatever you wish. I will be yours."

Geta's smile widened into something almost victorious, while Caracalla tilted his head, scrutinizing you.

The room was silent for a moment, the air thick with tension.

Then Geta let out a quiet laugh. “I can’t believe it!”

He stood from his throne, stepping toward you, his gaze dark and triumphant. "But tell me, my love... are you truly willing to sacrifice yourself for a man who may already be dead?"

Your blood turned to ice.

You swallowed hard, keeping your expression unreadable. "You wouldn't have let him die so quickly. Not when you could turn his suffering into a spectacle."

Geta’s smirk deepened. "You know me too well, my princess" he said, caressing your face.

Caracalla exhaled sharply, almost bored. "What makes you think we would honor such a deal?"

You turned your gaze to him, unflinching. "Because you love control. And forcing me into submission would be far more satisfying to you than simply killing them outright."

Another beat of silence.

Then, Geta reached forward, brushing a strand of hair from your face, his touch making your skin crawl. "Oh, my sweet lady... you may have just sealed your fate."

Your heart pounded, but you did not flinch. “I request divorce from General Acacius.” You said, trembling.

A hush fell over the grand hall, the weight of your words pressing against the air like a thundercloud ready to burst. Even Geta, who had been reveling in his triumph, paused for a moment, his smirk faltering ever so slightly before returning with renewed satisfaction.

Caracalla, however, was the first to speak, his dark eyes narrowing. "Divorce?" He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the arms of his throne. "Do you take us for fools?"

You swallowed hard, every nerve in your body screaming at you to run, to fight, to do anything but stand here and willingly destroy the bond that tethered you to Acacius. But you had no choice.

Your voice was barely above a whisper, but it was firm. "I do what is necessary."

Geta let out a slow chuckle, stepping even closer, his breath warm against your skin as he tilted your chin up to face him. "So quick to throw away your little love story," he mused. "Tell me, does he know you would sell him so easily?"

"This isn't about him," you said, your voice cracking, but you forced yourself to remain steady with your lie. "This is about Rome."

Caracalla scoffed. "Rome? Or your own survival?"

You turned to him, your heart hammering so loudly in your chest you feared they could hear it. "A wife cannot be forced into marriage with another man while she belongs to another. If I renounce to him, you have no reason to keep him in Rome. No reason to make him suffer."

Geta hummed in amusement. "And if we refuse? If we simply let him rot in the arena?"

Your hands curled into fists at your sides. "Then you lose any control you hope to have over me. I will fight you at every turn, defy you in ways that will make the Senate and the people question your power. But if you let him go..." You forced yourself to meet Geta’s gaze, hating the victorious gleam in his eyes. "Then I am yours."

Silence stretched between you all, thick and suffocating.

Geta exchanged a look with Caracalla, something unspoken passing between them. Then, he turned back to you, his smirk deepening. "Very well, my love. You will have your divorce."

Your stomach twisted violently.

"And Acacius?" you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Geta grinned. "Let’s not be too hasty, shall we? The games are still to be held. And what is a spectacle without its most anticipated performance?"

Your blood turned to ice. "You swore—"

"I swore nothing," Geta interrupted smoothly, his fingers tracing your jaw. "But if your dear Acacius and that beloved gladiator of yours prove themselves worthy in the arena… perhaps I will reconsider their fate."

Your eyes widened at that. Acacius and Lucius fighting in the arena for a mere mistake of you.

“What is wrong, my love? You thought I wouldn’t find out that gladiator is your presumed to be dead brother?”

Your breath caught in your throat. The world tilted beneath you as Geta’s words sank in like a dagger to your chest.

Lucius.

Your heart pounded wildly, disbelief warring with the sheer horror of the situation. You had spent years grieving him, mourning the brother who had been stolen by fate from you. And now, that you had tried to save him, here he was, forced into bloodsport, pitted against the man you loved, all because of you.

Geta’s smirk widened at your silence. "Ah, there it is. That look of devastation I so adore," he murmured, his fingers still tracing your jaw as if he were savoring every ounce of your suffering. "I must admit, I was rather surprised when I discovered the truth. Your dear Lucius… alive, a mere gladiator, reduced to nothing but entertainment for the masses. I almost pitied him."

Your body trembled with rage, but you refused to break before him. "You sick, wretched-"

He tutted, pressing a finger to your lips to silence you. "Careful now. You wouldn't want to anger your future husband."

You wrenched your face away from his touch, your nails biting into your palms as fury and despair crashed over you in violent waves.

"You planned this," you whispered, horror lacing your voice. "You waited until I had no way to fight back, until I was desperate enough to come crawling to you."

Geta only chuckled. "Of course, my love. Did you truly believe you had a choice in any of this?"

Caracalla, who had remained silent until now, let out an amused sigh. "Enough theatrics. She has her answer." He waved a hand lazily. "Take her back. She’ll have the best seat in the arena for tomorrow’s entertainment. Next to Lucilla."

The guards grabbed your arms, pulling you back toward the door, but your mind was spinning too fast, your heart hammering with only one thought-

You dug your heels into the floor, twisting in the guards' grip. "Geta, please!" you pleaded, hating yourself for it but knowing you had no other choice. "Lucius is my brother—my blood. Spare him, at least. You’ve already won. You have me!"

Geta only smiled, utterly delighted by your desperation. "Oh, my love, I haven’t won yet. Not until I watch your heart shatter in that arena. Besides I wouldn’t allow the grandchild of Marcus Aurelio to live."

Your blood turned to ice.

"Perhaps they’ll kill each other. Or perhaps the people will cheer as the lions tear them apart. Either way, you will watch, and you will understand—" he leaned in, his breath brushing against your ear "—that I own you. In every way that matters. Even when Acacius took you in that way too."

A sob built in your throat, but you swallowed it down.

You would find a way to stop this. Even if it meant destroying Geta himself.

Geta’s cold smile twisted into something darker as he waved his hand dismissively. “Take her to my quarters,” he commanded, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “And make sure she’s cleaned up. I want her looking her best for the games tomorrow.”

The guards tightened their grip on your arms, dragging you away from the grand hall. Your legs felt weak beneath you, each step heavier than the last. As you were pulled through the winding corridors, a hollow numbness settled over you, shielding you from the crushing reality of what was to come.

The guards stopped before a set of ornate doors, shoving them open and pushing you inside. The room was lavishly decorated, with rich fabrics and polished marble, but it felt suffocating, like a gilded cage.

Two servants appeared, their eyes lowered, and began to draw a warm bath in the corner, their movements quick and practiced. One of the guards barked an order at them. “Make sure she’s presentable. And keep an eye on her.”

The door slammed shut behind them, and you were left standing in the center of the room, your breath shaky, your heart pounding. The servants approached you cautiously, gently taking your hands and guiding you toward the bath. You allowed them to remove the dirtied cloak and help you into the steaming water, the warmth seeping into your bruised skin but doing little to ease the chill in your bones.

As they washed away the grime and blood, your mind raced. You had to think. You had to find a way out of this nightmare, a way to save both Acacius and Lucius. But with each passing moment, the walls seemed to close in tighter around you, Geta’s words echoing in your mind.

When the servants finished, they helped you into a simple, elegant gown, white and gold, befitting someone meant to be paraded before the masses. They braided your hair with trembling hands, casting nervous glances toward the guards standing by the door.

Once you were ready, one of the guards stepped forward, his expression blank. “You’ll stay here until you’re summoned.”

Your jaw tightened, but you nodded, watching as they exited the room, the door locking behind them with a resounding click.

Left alone, you paced the room, your hands shaking as you ran through every possible scenario. But each plan seemed more hopeless than the last.

You couldn’t give up. Not when the lives of the people you loved hung in the balance.

You moved to the window, pressing your forehead against the wall, watching the city below begin to stir with the first light of dawn. Acacius was preparing for a fight he shouldn’t have to face, and Lucius… your brother, alive, suffering because of a twisted game of power.

Your fingers brushed against the golden ring your mother had once given you. A knock at the door startled you, and a servant peeked inside, her voice trembling. “My lady, is there anything you need?”

You forced yourself to take a deep breath, steeling your resolve. “Yes,” you replied, turning to face her. “I need my mother.” You said, as tears streamed down your face.

The servant hesitated, glancing nervously toward the guards outside the door. "My lady... Lady Lucilla has been confined to her chambers. The emperors ordered that she couldn’t to see anyone."

Your heart clenched, but you squared your shoulders. "Then find a way," you urged, stepping closer. "Tell her I need her. Tell her it's urgent."

The servant bit her lip but nodded, bowing her head before slipping out of the room.

Left alone, you turned back to the window, gripping the cold stone as your tears fell freely. Your relationship with your mother had been complicated, but now she was your only pilar of strength, the only one who had ever truly understood the weight of your burdens. If anyone could help you, it was her.

Minutes stretched into what felt like hours before the door creaked open again. You spun around, hope flaring in your chest, only for it to vanish just as quickly.

It wasn’t your mother, but Geta.

Your stomach twisted as you straightened, schooling your features into a mask of cold defiance. The servant quickly bowed her head, backing away toward the shadows.

Geta took his time crossing the room, his eyes drinking in the sight of you in the gown his servants had chosen. A slow, satisfied smirk curled his lips.

“Much better,” he murmured, reaching out to trail a finger along your cheek. You forced yourself to stay still, refusing to give him the satisfaction of recoiling.

“Enjoying your newfound authority?” you asked, your voice flat.

He chuckled. “Oh, my sweet, stubborn lady. You can glare at me all you like, but you and I both know how this will end.”

“Do we?” you shot back. “Because I think you forget that caging me only makes me more dangerous.”

Geta laughed at that, full and rich, as if you had just amused him beyond measure. “That fire of yours,” he mused, “it’s what makes this so thrilling. You think you’re still in control, don’t you?”

He leaned in, his lips grazing your ear as he whispered, “We’ll see if you’re still so defiant after you watch your beloved Acacius bleed for my entertainment.”

Your fingers curled into fists at your sides, rage bubbling like molten lava beneath your skin.

“You will regret this,” you swore, voice shaking with fury.

Geta only smiled. “Perhaps. But for now, I will enjoy watching you break.” He said, kissing your shoulder, just above the scar he had done in there a while ago. “But I know you want to see Lucilla, and as your soon to husband I will allow you to see your mother for a minute.”

Your body went rigid at his touch, the ghost of old wounds burning beneath his lips. You forced yourself to stay still, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you recoil.

“You are still not my husband,” you spat, your voice dripping with venom.

Geta only chuckled, stepping back as if your defiance amused him rather than angered him. “Say that all you want, my love. The day will come when you’ll have no choice but to accept it.”

You swallowed down the bile rising in your throat. There was no use in wasting words on a man who thrived on your resistance. Instead, you latched onto the one small mercy he had granted.

“Take me to her,” you demanded.

His smirk deepened, but he gestured to the guards, who immediately stepped forward. “Escort her to the Lucilla’s chambers. She has one minute.”

Two guards flanked you as they led you out of the room and down the dimly lit corridors.

Your heart pounded as you neared your mother’s chambers. You hadn’t seen her since your imprisonment. The thought of what she must have endured in your absence made your chest tighten.

The heavy doors opened, and the moment you stepped inside, you saw her—Lucilla, sitting by the window, her elegant frame draped in a dark silk robe, her usually poised expression now marred by worry.

“Mother,” you whispered, rushing forward.

She turned at the sound of your voice, and in an instant, you were in her arms.

“My darling,” she breathed, clutching you tightly, as if afraid you’d disappear. “What have they done to you?”

Tears welled in your eyes, but you forced them down. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t have much time.”

Lucilla pulled back, searching your face. “Tell me what I need to do.”

You took a shaky breath, gripping her hands. “Acacius and Lucius are to fight in the arena. I have to stop it.”

Her eyes darkened with grief and fury. “Those monsters,” she whispered. “He will never be satisfied until he has crushed you completely.”

Your breath hitched. “I won’t let them kill him.”

“Listen to me carefully,” she said, her voice low. “You cannot afford to be reckless. Do you understand?” She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “You are my daughter. You are of noble blood. But that means nothing to them. To Geta, to Caracalla, you are just another pawn.”

“Then I will stop being their pawn.” Your voice was steel now. “I will fight.”

Her gaze softened, but only slightly. “If you truly mean that, then you need to be smart.”

You swallowed, waiting.

She reached for a golden pin from her belt, a simple yet elegant piece of jewelry. But as she turned it in her hand, the tip gleamed sharp as a dagger.

“This belonged to your grandmother,” she said, placing it in your palm. “Use it as you want to.”

You stared at the pin, feeling the weight of the upcoming consequences weighting heavily on your hands.

“I don’t want you to fight with words,” she continued. “I want you to fight with power. And power, my daughter, is taken. Not given.”

Your fingers curled around the pin, your heart pounding. Before any of you could say something else, the guards stepped forward. “Time’s up.”

Lucilla’s grip tightened, but she nodded, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead. “Be strong, my love.”

As they pulled you away, you met her gaze one last time, silently pleading for her to find a way, to do whatever it took to keep Acacius and Lucius alive.

The guards led you back through the winding corridors of the palace, your mother’s words echoing in your mind.

Power is taken, not given.

You clutched the golden pin in your palm, the sharp tip pressing into your skin, grounding you. It was a weapon, small but deadly. A tool of survival. A symbol of defiance.

The halls were eerily silent, the torches flickering against the cold stone walls. When you reached Geta’s quarters, the guards opened the door and ushered you inside.

He was waiting for you. Reclined on a cushioned chair, a goblet of wine in his hand, his smirk already in place. He studied you as if you were a rare creature he had trapped in a cage.

“Did you enjoy your reunion, my love?” he mused, taking a slow sip of his drink.

You forced your expression to remain impassive. “It was enlightening.”

Geta tilted his head, as if weighing your words. Then, with a wave of his hand, he dismissed the guards. The heavy doors shut behind you, leaving you alone with him.

He stood, closing the distance between you in two slow, deliberate steps. “You’re trembling.” He traced a finger along your jaw, his touch featherlight, mocking. “Are you afraid?”

You met his gaze head-on. “No.”

His smirk widened. “Good. I’d hate for you to become dull.” He stepped behind you, fingers brushing over your shoulders as he leaned in. “I have to admit, I do find this fight rather… exciting. Your beloved general against the brother you once thought dead. Who will win? Who will die? What a spectacle it will be.”

You swallowed back the bile in your throat. He was toying with you, savoring your pain.

“Tell me, my sweet,” he whispered, lips brushing against your ear. “Who do you hope survives?”

Your fingers tightened around the pin hidden in your palm.

This was it.

A moment of hesitation would cost you everything.

Your breath was steady as you turned your head slightly, your lips ghosting near his cheek as if you were surrendering.

Then, with a swift movement, you drove the golden pin into his side.

Geta inhaled sharply, his body jerking as pain registered in his eyes. He staggered back, looking down at the small weapon buried just below his ribs.

His stunned expression turned into something else. Amusement. Then, laughter.

Blood dripped from the wound, staining his tunic, but he didn’t collapse. He didn’t even reach for a weapon.

Instead, he cupped your face roughly, forcing you to look at him, his grip tightening like a vice.

“Oh, my love,” he chuckled, voice dark with pleasure. “You just made this so much more fun.”

His grip on your face tightened, his nails digging into your skin as he tilted your head back, forcing you to meet his gaze. The laughter in his eyes was almost more terrifying than his fury.

“You never fail to surprise me,” he murmured, his breath warm against your cheek. His free hand reached down, wrapping around the golden pin still lodged in his side. With an agonizing slowness, he pulled it out, the wet sound of metal sliding from flesh making your stomach churn.

Blood trickled from the wound, staining his fingers. He studied it with something close to fascination before flicking his gaze back to you.

“Did you think this would kill me?” he asked, voice laced with amusement. “A little pin?”

You remained silent, refusing to give him the satisfaction of fear.

He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “Foolish, but admirable.” He lifted the pin, brushing the bloodied tip against your lips. “Perhaps I should return the favor.”

Before he could act, the doors burst open.

Caracalla.

His expression was unreadable as his gaze flickered between you and Geta. Then, he noticed the wound. His eyes darkened.

“What has she done?”

Geta let out a sharp breath, wiping the blood from his side with an almost lazy motion. “My beloved soon to be wife wanted to kill me” His lips curled into a smirk. “Charming, isn’t it?”

Caracalla’s jaw clenched. He took slow steps toward you, his presence as suffocating as ever. When he reached you, he lifted your chin with two fingers, inspecting you like one would inspect a delicate vase with a crack down the middle.

“Do you want to die?” he asked, voice low, but his gaze didn’t show such fury as Geta’s gaze.

“No,” you answered, steady. “I want to be free.”

Caracalla’s fingers lingered beneath your chin, his grip neither cruel nor kind. His gaze, sharp and assessing, lingered on your face as if weighing something in his mind.

Then, he exhaled, dropping his hand. “Enough, brother.” His voice was quiet but firm.

Geta’s smirk faltered. “Brother—”

“She is to watch them fight tomorrow. That alone is enough.” Caracalla’s tone brooked no argument.

Geta clenched his jaw, displeased, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he scoffed, shaking his head. “Since when you are soft on her?”

Caracalla ignored him, his piercing eyes settling back on you. “You will be there when the sun is highest. You will watch Acacius and Lucius fight for their lives, and you will understand that your defiance comes at a cost.”

Your heart pounded, but you refused to look away.

Geta stepped closer, brushing a bloodied thumb over your cheek. “And if they fail…” He let the words hang between you like a blade above your throat.

You swallowed hard, refusing to react.

Caracalla turned on his heel. “Make sure she is prepared for the event.” He glanced back at you once, his expression unreadable. “She will not be harmed further.”

With that, he strode from the room, leaving you alone with Geta.

Your stomach twisted as Geta chuckled under his breath. “You should thank him, you know.” His fingers gripped your chin, forcing you to look at him. “If it were up to me, my love, you would learn your lesson another way.”

His lips hovered near yours, the taste of blood and power thick in the air between you.

Night had fallen, but sleep refused to come. You lay on the lavish bed, staring at the canopy above, your mind an endless storm of thoughts.

Acacius—alone in a cold, dark cell, preparing for a battle he should never have to fight. Lucius—your brother, alive, but trapped in this nightmare because of you. Your mother—powerless, yet still trying to protect you the only way she could.

You turned onto your side, then onto your back, then your stomach, but no position brought comfort. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw Acacius bleeding in the arena, Lucius collapsing to the sand.

With a frustrated sigh, you sat up, rubbing your face. You needed to think. You needed a way out of this.

Your gaze flickered to the door. Two guards stood outside, always watching, always waiting. But you knew one thing about soldiers: they were predictable.

Slowly, you slid out of bed, smoothing your nightdress before padding toward the door. Taking a deep breath, you knocked lightly.

A moment later, the heavy door creaked open, and one of the guards peered inside, eyes wary. M “What?”

You shifted on your feet, wrapping your arms around yourself. “I need to use the baths.” Your voice was soft, meek. “Please.”

The guards exchanged a look. “It’s the middle of the night.” The first one frowned.

You lowered your gaze. “I know, but… I can’t sleep. I feel filthy, and tomorrow I have to—” You let your voice break just slightly, just enough to make them uncomfortable. “I won’t try anything. I just need a moment to clear my head.”

The second guard sighed. “Let’s just take her. What harm can she do?”

The first hesitated, then nodded. “Fine. But make it quick.”

They pulled the door open fully, and you stepped out, schooling your expression into quiet gratitude. But inside, your heart pounded.

This was your chance.

The corridor was dimly lit by flickering torches, casting long shadows against the stone walls. The guards flanked you on either side as they led you through the halls, their armor clinking softly with every step.

You kept your gaze downcast, your expression carefully schooled into one of exhaustion and resignation. But inside, your mind was racing. Every turn they took, every doorway you passed—you memorized it all. If there was any way to escape, you needed to know the layout of the palace like the back of your hand.

Finally, you arrived at the baths. The steam rose from the water, curling into the air like ghosts. The guards stopped at the entrance, one crossing his arms. “You have ten minutes.”

You nodded, stepping inside. The door remained slightly ajar, just enough for them to watch you.

You moved to the edge of the bath, dipping your fingers into the warm water, pretending to gather your thoughts. In reality, you were searching, searching for something, anything you could use.

A bronze jug sat on the edge of the bath; its handle curved elegantly. Heavy enough to knock someone out? Perhaps.

Your fingers traced the golden pin your mother had given you, still tucked safely in the folds of your dress. A hidden weapon. A last resort.

Your mind worked quickly. The guards were distracted, speaking in low voices. If you acted fast enough, maybe-

A noise.

Your breath caught. It wasn’t from the guards. It was from the far end of the bathhouse.

You turned your head slightly, eyes scanning the shadows. Then, you saw it—a figure, barely visible in the dim light.

Your pulse pounded in your ears as you tried to make out the figure hidden in the shadows. The steam from the bath swirled around them, obscuring their features, but you knew—someone was there. Watching. Waiting.

Slowly, you straightened, keeping your movements controlled, careful not to alert the guards.

“Who’s there?” you whispered, barely audible over the distant dripping of water.

For a moment, there was silence. Then, a figure stepped forward just enough for the torchlight to kiss their face.

Your breath hitched. Lucius. Standing before you in the bathhouse, when he should have been locked in a cell.

His face was gaunt, bruises shadowing his cheekbone, but his eyes, his eyes burned with the same fire you remembered from when you were children.

“How—?” you started, but he lifted a finger to his lips, silencing you.

“No time,” he murmured, voice barely above a breath. “Listen carefully. I don’t know how much longer I have.”

You stepped closer, heart hammering. “Are you hurt?”

He shook his head. “Not as bad as I could be. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is Acacius.”

His name sent a fresh wave of urgency through you. “What about him?”

Lucius’ jaw tightened. “He’s not meant to win tomorrow. It’s already decided. The match is a spectacle, but the outcome? Rigged.”

Ice flooded your veins.

“They plan to kill him?”

Lucius exhaled sharply. “Yes. And I’m supposed to be the one to do it.”

Your stomach twisted. “No. No, you can’t—”

“I know.” His voice was firm. “I won’t. But that doesn’t mean he’ll survive.”

Your thoughts spun wildly. Acacius. Lucius. The fight. The emperors watching with their smug, twisted pleasure. The weight of your mother’s words echoed in your head.

Power is taken, not given.

Your grip tightened around the golden pin.

“Then we have to change the game.”

Lucius studied you for a long moment. “Do you have a plan?”

You exhaled, your mind racing. “Not yet. But I will.”

Footsteps echoed down the corridor outside. The guards.

Lucius reached out, gripping your wrist. “Whatever happens, don’t trust them.” His voice dropped lower, urgent. “And don’t show them fear.”

Before you could respond, he disappeared back into the shadows, slipping away as if he had never been there at all.

The door creaked open.

“Time’s up,” the guard grunted.

You swallowed down the storm inside you and turned, your face a perfect mask of calm. But inside, you were already preparing for war.

Before you could react, a dull thud echoed through the bathhouse. One guard crumpled to the ground, then another.

Your breath hitched.

Lucius stood over them, his chest rising and falling rapidly, a stolen dagger in his grip. The flickering torchlight caught the sheen of sweat on his brow.

"We don’t have time," he said, voice rough but determined. He crouched, stripping one of the guards of his sword before glancing at you. "Can you run?"

You swallowed, your heart hammering. "Yes."

Without another word, he grabbed your wrist and pulled you forward, stepping over the unconscious guards. You barely had time to gather yourself before you were moving, slipping through the darkened corridor, your bare feet light against the cold marble floor.

The palace was eerily quiet, the usual murmur of servants and the distant sound of music replaced by the weight of silence.

"How did you get out?" you whispered.

Lucius didn’t slow. "A friend."

"Who?"

He didn’t answer.

The two of you rounded a corner, and suddenly, footsteps echoed in the distance, too many.

Lucius cursed under his breath, yanking you into the shadows of an alcove. He pressed you against the cool stone, his breath warm against your ear.

"We can’t go through the main halls," he murmured. "They’ll be looking for me by now."

Your mind raced. The only other way out was through the servant tunnels, but even those weren’t safe.

“What about our mother?” you asked him, holding his hand tightly.

Lucius hesitated for a moment, his eyes flashing with something between frustration and worry. "I don’t know," he admitted, his voice low. "She’s probably already been locked down in the lower quarters. Geta won’t want her interfering."

Your heart clenched at the thought of your mother, vulnerable and trapped in the midst of all this madness.

“We can’t leave her here,” you said, your grip tightening around his hand. "We have to get to her, Lucius. She’s the only family we have left."

Lucius exhaled sharply, his eyes darting as he weighed your words. "I know," he muttered. "But going after her means we risk getting caught. If we’re captured..." He trailed off, the implication heavy between you.

You stood there for a moment, heart racing, your mind spinning with all the impossible choices before you. But then, a fire ignited in your chest. You couldn’t leave your mother behind.

"We don’t have to risk it alone," you said, your voice steadier than you felt. "Go to the rooms on the left, she is there. Take her out of here. You both know what you will do.”

Lucius’ expression hardened, eyes narrowing with a sharp edge. "What about you?”

You shook your head, your voice resolute. “I’ll entertain Geta”

Lucius’ gaze hardened as your words sank in. His grip on your hand tightened, his jaw clenched. “Entertain the emperors?” he repeated, voice full of disbelief. “You can’t be serious. You’ll be walking straight into their trap.”

You nodded, “I’m already part of it.” You paused for a second, “You don’t have to worry about me. Just get her to safety.” Your voice was firm, though inside, your heart was pounding, and every fiber of your being screamed at you to take another path, one that would keep you away from the lions' den. But there was no time for hesitation. “I know what I’m doing. This is the only way.”

Lucius hesitated, clearly torn. Then, with a heavy sigh, he let go of your hand and pulled you into a brief, tight hug. “Be careful,” he murmured, voice rough with emotion. “I don’t know what I’d do if—” He stopped, clearly not wanting to finish the thought. He drew away, meeting your gaze one last time before turning sharply to head down the corridor.

You stood in the shadows for a moment, your heart hammering in your chest as the weight of what you were about to do settled upon you. You had made your decisión, now you had to see it through, no matter what.

With a steadying breath, you made your way toward Caracalla’s quarters. He was the more calculating of the two, and you knew he would respond to reason more than Geta ever would. He had his own ambitions, his own desire for power. If you could manipulate that just enough, you might be able to turn the tables.

As you approached his door, you steeled yourself. The guards at the entrance were easy enough to bypass, and soon you found yourself standing before Caracalla. He was lounging in his chair, a goblet of wine in hand, his expression as cold and distant as ever. The moment he saw you, his gaze narrowed.

“You have something to say?” His voice was sharp, but there was a flicker of curiosity in his eyes.

You approached slowly, trying to control the tension that buzzed through your body. “Yes,” you said, your voice steady. “I need to speak with you.” You met his eyes, unflinching. “I know you’ve grown tired of Geta's games. His need to dominate, to manipulate.”

Caracalla raised an eyebrow but said nothing, clearly intrigued but cautious.

You pressed on. “He doesn’t care about strategy. He doesn’t see the bigger picture. But you do. You’ve always understood the importance of timing, of taking control at the right moment.” You took a step closer, lowering your voice. “You know he’s reckless. And reckless men are easily discarded when their use has expired.”

There was a long silence as Caracalla studied you, his eyes calculating, weighing your words. For a moment, you thought he might reject your attempt outright. But then, finally, he spoke.

“And what exactly are you proposing?” His voice was cold, but there was a flicker of interest.

You straightened, letting your gaze shift slightly, as if contemplating your next words. “You’re the best option for ruling this empire. I know how much you crave power. How you want to be the one in control, the one with the final say. Geta, in his arrogance, will only push you to the edge. And when he does, you will have no choice but to take him down.”

Caracalla was silent for a moment, but the tension in the room seemed to build. “And what do you expect in return?” His tone was low, but you could tell he was seriously considering it.

You held his gaze firmly. “In return? I want Acacius free. Geta’s influence gone. I want him out of the way, for good. You can have all the power you want. But you’ll need to move quickly before he gets his hands any deeper into the affairs of this empire.” You leaned in slightly, your voice low and persuasive. “You know I’m right.”

Caracalla’s expression softened for just a moment, his eyes gleaming with a dark, calculating glint. “You’re dangerous, you know that?” His lips curled slightly, and for a brief second, you saw a flicker of respect in his eyes. “I’ve been growing fond of you”

You made your way to Geta’s quarters, each step heavy with the knowledge that this confrontation could be your last. As you entered the room, Geta’s usual smirk was already in place, but when he saw your expression, it faltered, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.

“I see you’ve come to play, princess,” he drawled, leaning back in his chair as if the entire world belonged to him.

You met his gaze, not flinching. “I’ve come to ask for forgiveness, you began, your voice soft and almost apologetic, a contrast to the sharpness of your previous interactions. “I never wanted things to get this far. I never wanted to hurt you.” Your words were quiet, almost vulnerable. You could see the flicker of confusion in his eyes as he leaned forward, intrigued by the sudden shift in your demeanor.

“I know I’ve been... distant,” you continued, taking a tentative step closer. “I thought I could control everything, but I see now that I’ve underestimated you. I’ve made mistakes, and I’m sorry for that.” Your voice was sincere, and you made sure to let it carry a subtle warmth, as though you were finally acknowledging the bond that existed between you.

Geta’s expression shifted slightly, and for a brief moment, you could see the edge of doubt creeping into his eyes. He was a man of power, but even he wasn’t impervious to charm when it was carefully wielded.

“You’ve always been too proud,” you added, your voice lowering, seductive now, as you slowly closed the distance between you. “But I’ve always admired that about you, Geta. You’re strong. You’re confident. You don’t back down.”

His eyes darkened as you moved closer, his usual arrogance replaced by something else. You could feel his pulse quickening as you stood before him, inches apart. Without breaking eye contact, you gently placed your hand on his chest, pressing it lightly against his body.

“I never wanted to be your enemy,” you whispered, your lips so close to his that you could feel his breath on your skin. “But I’ve made a mess of everything. I think… maybe I’ve pushed you too far.”

Geta’s gaze flickered down to your lips for just a moment before he forced himself to meet your eyes again, his expression torn. “You think you can just... undo everything now?” His voice was rough, as if trying to hold onto some semblance of control.

You gave a small, almost shy smile, playing the part. “I think I can show you how sorry I am,” you murmured. Your hand moved from his chest to his neck, your fingers trailing just lightly along his jaw, feeling the tension irradiating from his body. “I think you’ll enjoy seeing how much.”

For a moment, there was a dangerous silence, the tension between you both crackling in the air. Geta seemed to hesitate, his eyes flickering with a mixture of anger, confusion, and something darker, something that made him lean just slightly closer.

“You don’t know what you’re getting into, princess,” he said, his voice low, but the sharp edge had softened.

“Maybe,” you breathed, your voice a near purr. “But maybe I like the danger. Maybe I like what you can give me.”

Your words hung in the air as you leaned closer, your lips brushing against his ear for a moment, your fingers sliding around to the back of his neck, drawing him closer. “You’re a powerful man, Geta. You’ve always been a temptation. But I’ve always kept my distance, haven’t I?” You stepped back slightly, your eyes never leaving his. “Maybe it’s time I stopped fighting what’s inevitable.”

The tension between you both was thick, and you could feel the heat of his body pressing against yours as you stood there, letting the silence linger. His hands twitched as if he wanted to reach for you, but for once, he seemed uncertain, caught between his fury and the allure of your presence.

With a final glance, you smiled softly, almost teasingly. “I think we both know what needs to happen next, don’t we?”

His breath caught, but before he could say anything more, you turned and walked away slowly, knowing that your manipulation had left its mark. You had planted the seeds of doubt in his mind, making him question his own control, and now you could leave with the upper hand.

As you left the room, you could feel the weight of the moment settling into your chest, but you couldn't afford to dwell on it. Every move you made had to be calculated; every word measured. The emperors might think they had you cornered, but you weren’t a mere pawn. You were playing a much deeper game.

The hallways were dim and silent as you made your way toward the courtyard, where Caracalla had instructed you to meet him. You weren’t sure what to expect, whether he would be angry, wary, or intrigued, but you knew you had to keep him on your side, at least for now.

When you finally reached the courtyard, Caracalla was waiting for you. His silhouette was outlined by the moonlight, the sharp features of his face giving little away. You could sense his attention on you the moment you stepped into the light, but he didn’t speak right away.

“You’ve done it,” he said after a long pause, his voice measured but with an edge that suggested both irritation and curiosity. “You’ve made your move. But it’s not enough, is it?”

You stepped closer, trying to read his mood. The air was thick with tension, but you forced yourself to stay calm.

“It’s never enough, Caracalla,” you replied, keeping your voice steady. “But it’s a start.” You paused just in front of him, letting the silence stretch between you. “You need to understand, this isn’t just about power. This is about survival. Mine. And Acacius’s. And Lucius’s.”

His gaze flickered, and for a moment, you could see something resembling hesitation in his eyes. But it quickly vanished, replaced by that impenetrable mask he wore so well.

“And what do you think Geta is going to do with you now?” Caracalla asked, his tone sharp. “Do you really believe you can play both sides like this?”

You didn’t flinch. “I’m not playing both sides,” you said softly. “I’m making sure I’m the one left standing when it’s all over.”

For a moment, he said nothing. But then, he stepped closer to you, his eyes dark with a mix of intrigue and something else—something dangerous. “And you think I’ll let you?”

You didn’t answer right away, letting the question linger. Instead, you took a slow step back, your gaze never leaving his. “You have your ambitions, Caracalla,” you said, voice quiet but filled with a quiet defiance. “And I have mine. But they don’t have to be at odds. Not if we work together.”

His jaw clenched as he took in your words. Then, without warning, he moved forward, closing the distance between you. His presence was suffocating, and for a moment, you wondered if he was going to strike, to remind you of who held the true power.

But instead, he reached out, his fingers brushing against the side of your cheek, his touch oddly gentle, almost tender. “You have a way with words,” he murmured, his voice low. “But words aren’t enough. Not in our world.”

You met his gaze, your breath shallow. “I know,” you whispered. “That’s why I’ll show you what I can do.”

For a long moment, there was nothing but the soft rustling of the leaves in the courtyard and the weight of his gaze on you. Then, slowly, Caracalla pulled away, his expression unreadable once more. “Tomorrow,” he said finally, his voice cold again, as if the moment had never happened. “You’ll see Geta fight. I’ll make sure he knows what happens if he tries to go against me. If you want your little games to continue, you’ll need to prove that you can keep up.”

You nodded, heart pounding in your chest, but you couldn’t let the fear show. “I understand.”

The next day came quickly, its early hours slipping by in a haze of preparations and quiet anticipation. The heat of the coming conflict simmered in the air, thick and oppressive. You knew the game that had been set in motion was dangerous, but you had to play it to the end. Caracalla’s intentions were clear, and though you had manipulated the situation in your favor for now, you couldn’t shake the feeling that nothing was ever truly as it seemed in their world.

Lucius and your mother were safe for the time being, hidden away, far from the reach of the emperors, that was you had been informed by one of the guards. That was one victory, one battle won. But Acacius was another matter entirely. You hadn’t forgotten what he meant to you, what he had come to represent in this fight for survival.

Caracalla had already informed you that Geta would be the one to face Acacius in the games, an outcome you’d been dreading since last night. He would send him to break Acacius, to make a spectacle. The thought of it made your blood boil, but you had no choice but to let the inevitable unfold. You could only make sure Acacius was prepared for whatever lay ahead.

You paced in the confines of your quarters, your mind heavy with the weight of the decisions you had made. There wasn’t much time, but you knew you needed to see Acacius before the games began. You couldn’t afford to let him go into that fight without your last words, your last chance to ensure that the fight was more than just for sport, it had to be for survival, for something more.

You didn’t waste a moment. Moving swiftly, you made your way to Caracalla’s chambers. The guards at the entrance stepped aside with only a glance, a quiet acknowledgment of your position. You’d never liked the power the emperors had over everything and everyone, but today you had the smallest sliver of it. You’d used it to gain access to Caracalla. Now, you had to use that same influence to see Acacius.

Caracalla sat in the large room, speaking with a few of his advisors, but when he saw you enter, his dark eyes locked onto yours. His presence was as commanding as ever, but there was a subtle change in the air, a shift that told you this conversation would be different. He dismissed his advisors with a wave of his hand, allowing you to speak freely.

"You have my permission to see him," Caracalla said, his voice as cold and calculating as it had been last night. "But make it quick. Geta won't wait much longer."

You nodded, hiding your relief behind a mask of composure. "Thank you," you said, though the words felt hollow. "I need to see Acacius before the games. Just for a moment."

Caracalla studied you for a moment longer, his gaze unreadable. He didn’t speak, but he didn’t need to. His eyes were enough. You had been granted your time, but you knew it was temporary.

With a gesture, Caracalla motioned for the guards to allow you through. As you walked toward the door, you couldn’t shake the feeling that every step brought you closer to the edge of something, whether it would be your undoing or the end of your enemies, you couldn’t tell yet.

The path to Acacius’s cell was a familiar one, but today it seemed different. There was a heaviness in the air, a quiet tension that whispered of the inevitable. When you reached the small stone room, you found him there, sitting on the ground, his posture still and composed despite the grim circumstances.

He looked up when he heard your approach, his expression guarded, but when his eyes met yours, something flickered there, a recognition, a flash of something softer than the warrior you knew him to be.

“Acacius,” you whispered, stepping closer, your heart aching at the sight of him in chains.

You stepped closer to the bars, your breath steady despite the pounding of your heart. The weight of your words seemed to hang in the air between you and Acacius, but there was no time to let them settle. The guards were still stationed at the door, eyes narrowed, watchful. The tension in the air felt suffocating, the shadows of the coming battle creeping ever closer.

“I need a moment with him,” you said, your voice firm but quiet, the command beneath it unmistakable. "A private conversation."

The guards exchanged wary glances, clearly hesitant. One of them stepped forward, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, his eyes calculating. "Your Highness," he began, with a slight bow, “we are under strict orders. No one is to enter the cell."

You could feel the weight of Caracalla’s command behind him, but you weren’t going to let that stop you. You stood taller, a quiet authority radiating from you.

“I understand your orders,” you replied coolly. “But these are my orders now. I need to speak to him without interruption. And you’ll release him from those chains.”

The air seemed to freeze for a moment as the guards processed your demand. You could see the resistance flicker in their eyes, but there was something in the tone of your voice—something that made them hesitate. Your words carried more than just the weight of authority; they carried urgency.

Finally, the guard who had spoken stepped aside, signaling to the other two. "We will give you privacy, Your Highness," he said reluctantly. “But be quick."

You nodded in acknowledgment, but your eyes didn’t leave Acacius. As the guards unlocked the cell, your mind raced. There was no turning back now. Each moment was a calculated risk, but it was one you had to take.

The door creaked open, and the chains binding Acacius were undone, each link falling to the ground with a heavy thud. You moved inside, closing the door behind you, feeling the shift in the atmosphere as the last of the guards stepped out. Silence enveloped the two of you, the only sound the faint echo of the chains clinking to the stone floor.

Acacius stood, rubbing at his wrists where the chains had cut into his skin, though his expression was unreadable. You didn’t give him a chance to speak before you stepped closer, close enough that your breath was the only thing between the two of you.

“Your highness?” Acacius asked.

You looked into Acacius’s eyes, steady and unwavering. His words lingered in the air, but you couldn’t afford to hesitate, not now. “Not time for that now. I need you to listen carefully,” you said, your voice low, but urgent. "You will survive today, Acacius. You’re going to fight like you’ve never fought before. And you’re going to win. But you need to trust me—don’t make any moves unless I give you a signal.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, his brows furrowing in confusion, but there was an understanding there as well. He knew this wasn’t just a matter of survival for him, it was a game of strategy. A fight not just against Geta, but against everything that had led him here.

“What do you mean?" Acacius asked, his voice steady despite the uncertainty. He stood tall, but there was a flicker of concern in his eyes as he searched yours for an answer.

You leaned in closer, making sure no one else could hear. "What I mean is that today isn’t just about strength. It’s about timing. You’ve got to let Geta believe he’s winning, that he has you cornered. Don’t resist. Make him think you’re weaker than you are."

His jaw clenched, his muscles tensing at the thought. "So, you want me to let him hurt me?" There was a bitterness in his words, as if the very idea of allowing Geta to have the upper hand was an affront to his honor.

"No," you said quickly, your voice firm, but soothing. "I’m not asking you to let him hurt you. I’m asking you to pretend—to make him think he has control, just long enough for me to get him into position."

He studied you, his expression hard, as if measuring your resolve. "And when you give me the signal?"

"Then you strike, and you strike hard," you replied, your gaze unwavering. "You’ve trained for this, Acacius. You know what to do. I’ll make sure Geta’s off balance, but you have to trust that it will work. We need him to underestimate you, to believe you’re on the edge. And when he does, that’s when we end this. I sent him into this to end his ruling."

A long moment passed, the tension between you both thickening. Finally, Acacius gave a slight nod. “Alright,” he said, his voice low but resolute.

“I love you so much,” you whispered, your voice trembling just slightly as you caressed his face. “I would move the entire empire just to save you, Acacius.”

For a split second, he closed his eyes, as if savoring the words. When he opened them again, the intensity of his gaze made your heart race. His hand moved to cover yours, pressing your palm more firmly against his cheek, his touch gentle but unyielding.

“You’ve already moved it,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “You’ve done more than anyone could ask. You’re willing to risk everything... for me.”

You nodded, the weight of your words hanging heavily between you. “I’m not just doing this for you, Acacius,” you whispered, your eyes locking onto his. “I’m doing this for us. For what we could have if we survive this. For the world that we could build together.”

His expression hardened again, resolve flooding his features. “For the peace.”

You allowed yourself a small, sad smile, and in that moment, it felt as though the rest of the world disappeared. There were no emperors, no politics, no games to be played—just the two of you, suspended in this fragile moment before everything erupted.

Acacius moved toward you, his hand cupping the back of your neck as he leaned in, his lips brushing against yours with a softness that contrasted with the storm building inside both of you. For a heartbeat, the world around you ceased to exist. The only thing that mattered was the warmth of his lips, the pressure of his kiss, and the silent promise it carried.

It was a kiss of longing, of desperation, of hope—for a future that seemed more distant with every passing second. You kissed him back, your heart racing, knowing this might be the last moment you could share like this. The intensity of his touch deepened, his arms pulling you closer, as if holding on to this fleeting time, not wanting to let go.

But the moment was short-lived.

The sound of the guards’ footsteps echoed down the hall, and a voice called through the door, sharp and commanding. "It’s time. You must go."

Reluctantly, you pulled away from him, your forehead resting against his for a fleeting moment, feeling the heat of his breath mingling with yours. The silence that followed was deafening.

“I’ll see you on the other side,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

Acacius gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, his expression hardening once again with the weight of what was to come. “I’ll make it through. I’ll make sure of it.”

The door opened, and the guards stepped in, ushering you out of the cell. You cast one last look at Acacius, his figure standing strong, determined. A part of you wanted to stay, to fight beside him, but you knew you had to leave. He would fight for both of you now.

As the door shut behind you, the cold reality of what was about to unfold settled in. Your heart raced, but there was nothing more you could do but wait—wait for the signal, wait for the moment that would change everything.

+++++++++++++++++++

You sat beside Caracalla in the imperial box, your body tense, but you masked it with an air of calm. The arena below was alive with anticipation, the roar of the crowd echoing against the stone walls. Gladiators in the far corners were preparing, and the bloodlust in the air was palpable.

Caracalla, ever the showman, glanced over at you with a smile, as if to reassure himself of the spectacle unfolding. “Where is my brother?” he asked, his tone casual, almost playful.

You blinked, surprised by his question, your brow furrowing. What did he mean? You tried to mask your confusion but couldn't quite conceal it from your expression.

"Your brother?" you echoed, your voice uncertain.

Caracalla’s smile grew wider, but you noticed a flicker of confusion cross his face, like he didn’t quite understand your puzzlement. Had he forgotten? Did he not realize what he'd done?

Before you could react further, everything clicked into place. The moment you registered the tension building in the crowd below, the realization hit you: Caracalla didn’t know.

It wasn’t until the gate opened, and Acacius was led into the arena, dressed in his war attire, as he walked with his sword. His eyes scanned the crowd, but he didn’t look up to the imperial box. His focus was entirely on the upcoming fight, the fire in his gaze unmistakable.

And then, the announcer’s voice boomed, “And now, Emperor Carcalla!”

A stunned silence fell over the arena for a moment. You barely had time to process it before Caracalla’s face contorted with disbelief. His eyes widened, and his hand instinctively gripped the edge of the box as he turned toward you.

“Why is my brother there?” he demanded, his voice tight with anger, his smile replaced by a furrowed brow of confusion and rage.

You could see his shock, his inability to comprehend the situation, but your mind was racing. He didn’t understand the depths of his own manipulation. He hadn’t realized that Geta, his own brother, had been sent to fight against Acacius in the arena. The confusion in his voice was genuine.

For a moment, your heart ached for the twisted, tangled web of family dynamics that had led to this point. But you quickly masked any emotion behind a cold facade. This was the moment to play your part, to keep Caracalla off balance, to use his lack of awareness against him.

You leaned slightly closer to him, your voice steady but carrying a subtle undercurrent of disdain. "It seems, your brother is a contender today. Perhaps... he believes this fight is what will prove his worth." You kept your gaze focused on him, even as Acacius and Geta moved into position.

Caracalla’s expression darkened, and his fingers drummed anxiously against the stone. He looked away, eyes flicking between Geta and Acacius, but it was clear that the shock still hadn’t worn off.

"What trickery is this?" he muttered, barely audible.

"Maybe you should ask him," you said, your voice soft but dripping with subtle irony. "Perhaps your brother has his own plans for you today."

You knew your words were like sharp daggers aimed at his pride, pricking at the cracks in his confidence, feeding his uncertainty. He was starting to realize the weight of his own decisions, and that would make him falter.

The crowd below erupted in excitement as the fight began, but Caracalla remained still, his gaze locked on the two fighters below. You could almost hear the wheels turning in his mind, but it was too late for him to turn back now.

The clash of steel against steel rang out across the arena as the fight began, the crowd’s roar escalating to a deafening level. Acacius and Geta were face to face, the tension between them thickening with every passing second.

Acacius stood tall, his posture unwavering, his eyes fixed on Geta with an intensity that could pierce stone. Geta, in contrast, paced in a circle, a cocky smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, the same arrogance you had come to expect from him. He moved with the grace of a seasoned fighter, but there was something in his eyes—something in the way he held himself—that told you he was distracted, uncertain. Perhaps, even now, he was wondering how it had come to this.

"Fight!" The command echoed through the arena, and in that instant, Acacius lunged forward, his blade flashing in the sunlight.

Geta parried the attack with a swift movement, his own weapon raised to meet the strike. Their swords clanged with an explosive sound, a shower of sparks flying from the impact. The crowd roared in approval, the excitement building, but the true fight hadn’t even begun yet. This was just the warm-up.

You watched intently, your heart hammering in your chest as you kept a careful eye on Caracalla, who still seemed to be in a daze, his mind reeling with confusion. He kept glancing down at the fighters below, his brow furrowed, but you knew better than to let him gain control of the situation now.

Acacius pushed forward again, pressing Geta against the edge of the arena. With each strike, it became clear that Acacius was holding back, waiting for the right moment, waiting for your signal. Geta, on the other hand, was using his usual tactics—aiming for the kill, striking hard and fast—but the uncertainty in his movements was starting to show. He had expected a much different fight.

Then, as if on cue, Acacius took a step back, creating a brief opening. Geta lunged, taking the bait.

That was the moment.

You stood, your eyes locked with Caracalla’s for a brief second. His gaze was still filled with uncertainty, his mind a tangled mess of thoughts. In that instant, you gave Acacius the smallest of nods—almost imperceptible.

And with that signal, everything shifted.

Acacius moved with the speed of a predator, his blade slicing through the air. In one fluid motion, he disarmed Geta, knocking his sword to the ground with a clean strike. Geta stumbled back, the shock in his eyes unmistakable. Acacius pressed the advantage, stepping forward, the tip of his sword now at Geta’s throat.

The crowd fell silent. Caracalla’s eyes widened in shock, his mouth opening slightly, as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He hadn’t expected Acacius to come out on top, especially not in such a dominating fashion.

You could feel Caracalla’s gaze shift to you, the realization dawning on him. But you couldn’t afford to let him focus on you now. Your heart was racing as you kept your attention fixed on Acacius, whose eyes met yours across the arena. His expression was unreadable, but you could see the fire burning in them. The fight wasn’t just about survival anymore, it was about ending the twisted reign that had kept you all captive of two tyrants for so long.

Geta, panting and defeated, raised his hands in surrender, his arrogance shattered, replaced by a growing sense of fear. “Enough!” he spat, his voice raw with anger and humiliation.

Acacius didn’t hesitate. He kicked Geta’s sword away, keeping his own blade raised. “Not until your brother orders you to stop,” he said, his voice cold, his eyes dark with intent.

The crowd kept roaring with excitement, their anticipation rising with every swing of the sword. But it was clear from the start that the fight was not as one-sided as Caracalla had hoped.

Geta, though skilled, was rattled. His gaze flicked nervously around the arena, and it wasn’t long before Acacius used that to his advantage. He was methodical, his every move calculated, his body a machine of precision. Geta, on the other hand, fought with desperation, his movements growing more erratic as the match wore on.

The crowd cheered, sensing the change in momentum. Acacius pressed forward with relentless force, his sword gleaming under the sun, his eyes fixed on Geta with a cold, calculated determination. He didn’t flinch, didn’t hesitate, and with each strike, Geta’s defenses crumbled.

"Come on, brother” Caracalla muttered under his breath, his hands clenched tightly, his eyes never leaving the battle below. But it was clear now, he was no longer just watching his brother. His gaze had shifted, filled with uncertainty, even fear. The fight was slipping from Geta’s control.

Acacius feinted to the left, and Geta, unable to maintain his focus, took the bait. In an instant, Acacius closed the distance between them. He was fast, too fast. With one swift, brutal strike, Acacius plunged his sword deep into Geta’s side. The blade cut through flesh with a sickening sound, and Geta stumbled back, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

The crowd went quiet. You could hear the sound of Geta’s armor scraping against the stone floor as he tried to regain his balance, but it was clear that the wound was fatal. Blood poured from the gash in his side, staining the sand beneath him a deep crimson.

Geta dropped to his knees, his face pale and stricken with disbelief. He looked up at the sky, his chest rising and falling in desperate, shallow breaths.

Caracalla’s face went pale. He stood frozen, his expression blank, his mind seemingly unable to process what had just happened. The battle was over, but the ramifications were far from clear.

“No!” Caracalla roared, his voice full of disbelief as he reached forward, as if trying to pull Geta back from the brink, but there was nothing he could do. His brother’s fate had already been sealed.

Acacius stood over Geta; his sword raised in a victorious yet solemn pose. His chest heaved with exertion, but his expression was unreadable. He didn’t gloat. He didn’t revel in the moment. He simply waited.

Geta’s eyes flickered for a moment, his last breath trembling in the air. With a final, strained sigh, he slumped forward, lifeless, collapsing onto the blood-stained sand.

The crowd remained silent for a heartbeat, then erupted in both shock and disbelief. Caracalla’s rage began to boil over, his face twisted in fury, his fists clenching. He couldn’t accept it—his brother, gone. He had underestimated Acacius, and now Geta was dead because of it.

You, standing beside Caracalla, watched the scene unfold before you. The roar of the crowd felt distant, as though muffled by the weight of what had just transpired. You knew this was only the beginning. Geta’s death had set the stage for something far greater, something that would shift the power in the empire forever. And now, with Geta gone, there was no turning back.

Acacius gaze found yours from the arena and you could see his relief at seeing you well.

But Caracalla’s eyes flicked to you, his anger now directed at you. “What have you done?” he spat, his voice full of venom.

But you held your ground, a quiet smirk curling on your lips. “I didn’t do anything. Your brother... he was just too weak.” You kept your voice steady, but inside, your heart raced. It was the perfect moment. The empire had just taken its first step into chaos.

Caracalla’s fury was palpable, his hand gripping your arm with a vice-like force. His eyes, wide with disbelief and anger, burned into you as he pulled you closer, his breath ragged and hot against your skin.

“What did you do?” he hissed, his voice low, dripping with venom. His grip tightened, digging into your flesh as if he could squeeze the answer out of you.

You didn’t flinch. You stood firm, despite the storm of emotions swirling around you—fear, anger, and the unrelenting cold that had settled in your chest. You had done what needed to be done.

“I did what you couldn’t,” you said, your voice steady, unwavering. “I set you free from a weak brother who would’ve only held you back.”

Caracalla’s face contorted with rage. His fist tightened around your arm, his eyes flashing with betrayal. “You think you’ve won, don’t you?” He sneered, dragging you towards the imperial box.

His hand left your arm, and in the blink of an eye, he seized a sword from one of the guards. The cold metal gleamed under the harsh sunlight, but it was the look in Caracalla’s eyes that made your blood run cold.

With a swift, practiced motion, he drew the blade, the sharp edge glinting dangerously. “You were always a threat. A thorn on his side.”

Before you could take a breath, before you could utter another word, he swung the sword. It moved with lightning speed, slicing through the air in a deadly arc.

Pain exploded through your chest as the cold steel bit into your skin, your vision blurring as warmth spread through your body. You gasped, the shock of the wound seizing you, and your knees buckled beneath you.

Caracalla’s eyes remained cold, as if he had already made his peace with your death. He stood over you, breathing heavily, watching as you crumpled to the ground. The sword was still in his hand, blood dripping from its blade, but he didn’t care. You had played your part, and now, you were gone.

The crowd fell silent in an instant, the air thick with shock and disbelief. Gasps echoed through the arena, a collective breath held as they watched the scene unfold before their eyes. The sword, gleaming with your blood, still hung in Caracalla’s hand as he stood there, as if unaware of the magnitude of what he had just done.

Acacius, his heart pounding in his chest, stood frozen at the center of the arena. His eyes locked onto you, on the ground beneath Caracalla’s cruel grip, your lifeless form crumpled and bloodied. His body went cold, every instinct within him screaming at him to run, to save you—but it was too late.

He couldn’t breathe, couldn't think as his legs propelled him forward, his body moving with a speed driven by a desperation he had never known. The guards tried to stop him, to grab hold of him as he surged forward, but Acacius was a force of nature, pushing them aside with a strength born from pure rage and sorrow.

He reached the imperial box in moments, his breath ragged, his eyes fixed on you. His heart shattered as he saw the blood pooling beneath you, the gash in your chest widening with each breath you hadn’t taken.

"No," Acacius whispered, voice breaking, as he knelt beside you, his hands shaking as he reached out to you. His fingers gently brushed your face, his touch tentative, as if he was afraid that if he touched you too hard, you would vanish entirely.

He didn’t notice the guards closing in on Caracalla, nor the soldiers who were grabbing hold of the emperor, taking him into custody. All that mattered in that moment was you. He had failed you, and now he couldn’t even protect your body from the cruelty of the world.

“No, no, no...” he muttered over and over, his hands trembling as they cupped your face, his thumb brushing over your still warm skin. His heart screamed for you to wake up, for the impossible to happen, for you to rise from the blood-soaked ground and tell him everything would be okay.

Acacius’ heart skipped a beat when he saw the faint flutter of your eyes. It was barely a movement, a breath, but it was enough. His hands, shaking with a mixture of disbelief and hope, hovered over you. His breath was shallow, as if the very air he needed to breathe was escaping him.

“You’re alive,” he whispered, barely able to speak the words, as if saying it out loud might break the fragile thread that tethered you to life.

Your eyes flickered again, barely open, and Acacius leaned in closer, his voice urgent but tender. “Please, don’t go. I’m here. You’re going to be alright. I won’t let go.”

You tried to speak, but the words caught in your throat, and all you could manage was a weak breath, the pain too overwhelming to let anything more escape.

Acacius’ hand gently cupped your face, his thumb brushing the bloodstained skin. “Don’t speak,” he said, his voice breaking, “I’m here. Stay with me.”

For a moment, there was a silence, as if the world had paused for you both, everything hanging in the balance. He could feel your pulse, faint and fragile under his touch, but it was still there. He couldn’t lose you. Not like this.

"Please," he pleaded softly, "hold on." His own voice cracked, revealing just how much this moment meant to him, how much you meant to him.

But the sounds of chaos in the arena—the shouts of the crowd, the clattering of armor, the commands being shouted in the distance—began to creep into his awareness again. Yet, all of that faded as he focused on you, his entire being centered on you, praying you would survive this, that you would come back from the edge of death.

"Please," he whispered again, his voice hoarse, the weight of everything crashing down on him as he pressed his forehead gently against yours. "I can’t lose you. Not after we had reached the peace”

A weak, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corners of your lips, but it was fleeting. Your hand, trembling with the last of your strength, reached up to touch his face, tracing the lines of his jaw, the warmth of his skin still so vivid beneath your fingertips.

“I’ll find you in another life, my love,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, the words barely escaping your lips as the darkness began to close in once more.

Tears slipped from your eyes, falling silently, tracing paths down your bloodied cheeks as you gazed up at him. The connection between you, the deep, undeniable bond that had been forged in fire, in pain, in love, and in loss, seemed to transcend time itself in that moment.

Acacius’ breath hitched, his chest tightening painfully as your words echoed in his ears. “No,” he rasped, voice breaking, unable to accept what you were saying. His hands held you tighter, though he feared it was already too late. “No… don’t leave me.”

But as your hand slipped from his, your eyes flickering closed, the silence enveloped you both. His world went still as the final breath left your body, the warmth of your skin fading away as he clutched you to him, his tears falling like rain over your still form.

A deep, guttural sound, a mixture of grief and fury, tore from his throat as he collapsed beside you, holding you desperately, unwilling to believe that this was the end. That he could never hear your voice again, never feel the soft touch of your hand, never look into your eyes.

The arena around them seemed distant now, the chaos of the crowd, the voices, the noise, all irrelevant. All that mattered was that you were gone. His heart, his world, his very reason for fighting, slipping away from him like sand through his fingers.

Acacius' voice cracked with the weight of his grief as he spoke, his words coming out barely above a whisper. "There is no more battle to fight for me if you're not here. You were my heart, and I… I would sail to the ends of the world to have—" His voice faltered, his throat tightening as his emotions overwhelmed him. "To have one chance to meet you again, properly, to love you from the very first time."

He pressed his lips to your cold forehead, the gesture full of longing and heartbreak. His tears fell freely, mingling with the blood that stained your skin. The kiss was tender, full of unspoken promises, but it shattered him all the same. The reality of your absence, the knowledge that he would never hear your voice again, felt like a suffocating weight.

"In every life I have, I'll find you," he whispered, his voice raw with emotion, "and I will love you as you deserve. I will give you everything I couldn’t in this one."

He held you tighter, unwilling to let go, his tears slipping from his eyes like a river of sorrow, each one a silent testament to the love that would never be. Time seemed to stand still, the world around him forgotten, as all he could do was hold you in the only way he knew how: with everything he had left in him.

There was no more fight for him now. The greatest battle of his life had already been lost, and all he could do was mourn the one person who had meant everything to him, the one person who had brought him hope in a world that had long since taken it away.

Gods were never kind with lovers like you.

☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️

The familiar scent of lavender surrounded you like a soft embrace, calming the flutter in your chest, even though you couldn’t explain why it stirred something deep inside. It wasn’t the fragrance, but the memories that seemed to follow it. Memories that were not of this life, not of anything you could recall with certainty, but they lingered nonetheless. They whispered to you, pulling you toward something you couldn’t grasp, something you could only feel in the deepest part of your soul. A pair of soft brown eyes. Outlines of a face you could trace with your fingertips in your dreams.

You tried to brush it off, shaking your head slightly as you adjusted the strap of your bag. It was the first day at your new job as a history teacher, and the nerves felt foreign. You had been a teacher for four years, passionate about sharing the stories of ancient civilizations, especially the Roman Empire. This should have been just another day, just another classroom to walk into. But there was something about this place, this school, that felt different.

You didn’t know why, but the air felt thicker here. More intense. As you approached the school gates, the nervousness you had tried to push away returned tenfold. Maybe it was the significance of this particular position, teaching alongside one of the most respected history instructors in the field. Maybe it was because you hadn’t yet had the chance to meet Marcus, though his reputation preceded him. Maybe you just couldn’t shake the feeling that something extraordinary was about to unfold.

As you walked through the doors of the school, the familiar hum of the hallways didn’t bring comfort as it usually did. The sound of students laughing, chatting, running to their classes felt distant. You couldn’t shake the sensation of déjà vu, the feeling that you had been here before. A quiet whisper lingered in the back of your mind, telling you this was no ordinary beginning.

When you finally reached the staff room, you saw him. The history teacher. Standing by the window, lost in thought, his gaze distant as though the present world couldn’t quite hold his attention. His brown eyes were the first thing you noticed, the way they were so soft, yet intense, as if they could peer into the very heart of you. And then it hit you, the lavender. The sweet, calming fragrance that seemed to fill the room. It was unmistakable.

You froze for a moment, unsure if you had walked into a dream, or if the universe had suddenly conspired to bring you face-to-face with something from another life, something that shouldn’t have been possible.

For a moment, everything seemed to slow down around you. The noise from the hallway, the faint murmurs of colleagues gathering elsewhere, all of it faded into the background. The air felt heavier, charged with an energy you couldn’t quite explain. Your heart raced, as though you were on the precipice of something monumental, something that had been building in the quiet spaces of your soul for far too long.

You knew him. You didn’t know how, but you knew him. The pull was undeniable, like an invisible thread connecting the two of you through time and space, tying you to a past that seemed just out of reach. Your pulse quickened as your eyes met his.

His gaze flickered to yours, and it was as if the world came rushing back into focus all at once. He blinked once, then twice, his expression unreadable, but there was something there—an emotion that caught in his chest. Recognition. But also confusion, as though he was just as unsure as you were about why this moment felt so familiar, so intense.

You opened your mouth to speak, but the words caught in your throat. He was already walking toward you, his steps slow, deliberate. His presence was overwhelming, like a force that commanded attention without even trying. As he approached, the lavender scent seemed to grow stronger, and for a moment, it felt like you were standing in the midst of a memory, a memory that was somehow yours, yet not.

“You must be the new teacher,” he said, his voice low but steady, as though he was trying to ground himself in the present moment, as if saying those words could dispel the strange tension that hummed between you. “I’m Marcus. Welcome.”

Your throat tightened, and you had to force the words out. “I’m… yes. I’m the new Roman history teacher.” Your voice sounded foreign to your own ears. How could you have forgotten to introduce yourself first, to speak like a normal person? But the words felt inadequate in the face of what was happening. You were supposed to be teaching history. You were supposed to be starting a new chapter in your life. But standing before him now, none of it mattered.

The silence stretched between you both, filled only with the hum of distant voices in the hallway and the soft rustling of papers on the desks. But it felt like more than that. It felt like the silence before a storm, before everything would change.

For a moment, Marcus didn’t speak, and you couldn’t tell whether he was waiting for you to say something, or if he was lost in the same strange feeling that you were. The air around you seemed thick with something unspoken, a connection you couldn’t quite understand, but it was there, undeniable and present.

“I don’t suppose you’re feeling this,” he said after a moment, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. It was a tentative smile, as if he, too, was struggling with what was unfolding between you.

“I don’t know what this is,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “But I think… I think I’ve met you before.”

His eyes widened slightly, and his expression shifted, though it was brief. The smallest flicker of recognition flashed across his face, but it was gone before you could fully grasp it.

“Maybe,” he said, his voice softer now. “Maybe we have.”

In that moment, the world outside the staff room seemed to fade away. It was just the two of you, standing in the quiet of the room, surrounded by the weight of something far older than either of you. You both stood on the edge of something, and neither of you knew what would happen next.

But you both felt it. The undeniable pull that connected your souls, the inexplicable bond that no words could explain. His eyes softened, a mixture of surprise and something deeper flashing in them. He didn’t say anything more, but in that moment, you knew, you weren’t just colleagues. You weren’t just two people thrown together by fate. There was a bond here. Something ancient. And no matter how many lifetimes had passed, this connection, this feeling, had never truly gone away.

As the rest of the staff filtered into the room, the moment passed, but neither of you could forget it. You went on to introduce yourself, to go over the basics of the course. But all the while, you could feel his presence beside you, like a shadow, a whisper of the past. You weren’t just teaching history anymore. You were living it. And you both knew it would only be a matter of time before everything else fell into place.

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You had met before. And now, you were meant to find each other again in this life.

in this life, Gods would be kind to lovers like you.

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