#JOSEPH QUINN

[kassy-djomunson]

i’m in love

[joequinncraves]

joseph quinn x port magazine

[kassy-djomunson]

canon ship

Still super jealous, by the way. Great.

[vexnusss]

would love to have him as my co-worker 😭

[sophiewritesworld]

Chained - E.M.

Eddie Munson x Plus size female Reader Warning: MDNI 18+, porn with a tiny plot Summary: Eddie and you finally get to try the handcuffs after he joked about them and you just gave him the green light.

The air in Eddie's trailer hums with the low crackle of a Metallica cassette spinning in his ancient stereo, the kind of background noise that makes everything feel a little more electric. You're sprawled on his bed, the patchwork quilt soft under your curves, your oversized Iron Maiden tee riding up just enough to show a sliver of your plush hips.. Eddie's across the room, rummaging through a drawer with that chaotic energy he never quite shakes, his dark curls bouncing as he mutters to himself.

"Swear I put 'em in here," he says, tossing a couple of D&D manuals onto the floor. "Not like I'm cuffing people every day, y'know?"

You laugh, propping yourself on your elbows, the motion making your body shift in a way that catches his eye. He pauses, ringed fingers frozen mid-search, and gives you that lopsided grin that still sends your heart into a tailspin. "What?" you ask, arching a brow.

"Nothin'," he drawls, but his gaze lingers on the way your shirt clings to your chest, your softness a contrast to the sharp edges of his world. "Just... you look good on my bed. Real good."

Heat creeps up your neck, but you play it cool, kicking a leg out to nudge his thigh as he finally pulls a par of silver handcuffs from a drawer. They dangle from his finger, glinting in the dim light of the lava lamp on his nightstand. "Found 'em," he announces, like he's just unearthed treasure. "You still wanna try this, sweetheart?"

You nod, your stomach fluttering with a mix of nerves and excitement. You and Eddie have been together long enough to explore each other’s bodies with confidence—his calloused hands worshipping every curve, every roll, every inch of you—but this is new. The idea came up a week ago, half-joking over pizza, when he’d teased about “locking you up” for stealing his last slice. The heat in his eyes when you’d said, “Maybe I’d let you,” had planted the seed.

Now, here you are, watching him twirl the cuffs like they’re an extension of his stage persona—confident, a little cocky, but with that undercurrent of care that makes you trust him completely. He kneels on the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, and crawls toward you, his ripped jeans scraping against the quilt. “Ground rules,” he says, voice dropping to that low, gravelly tone that does things to you. “You say stop, we stop. You say slow, we slow. You say ‘Eddie, you’re a genius,’ I’ll probably agree.”

You snort, but your pulse quickens as he straddles your thighs, careful not to press too hard. His hands find your wrists, thumbs brushing over your pulse points. “You’re sure?” he asks again, softer now, his brown eyes searching yours.

“I trust you,” you murmur, and it’s the truth. Eddie’s never made you feel anything less than adored, his affection a steady anchor in a world that hasn’t always been kind to your body. He leans down, kissing you slow and deep, his tongue teasing yours until you’re breathless, your fingers curling into his hair.

When he pulls back, he’s got that mischievous glint in his eye. “Arms up, princess,” he says, and you obey, stretching your arms toward the headboard. The metal of the cuffs is cool against your skin as he clicks one around your wrist, then loops the chain through a slat in the headboard before securing the other. The click echoes in the quiet, and you tug lightly, testing the restraint. It’s firm but not tight, leaving you just enough give to squirm.

Eddie sits back on his heels, admiring his work. “Well, damn,” he says, voice thick. “Look at you.” His hands skim down your sides, fingers tracing the curve of your waist, the swell of your hips. “All mine, huh?”

Your breath hitches as he leans in, lips brushing your ear. “Gonna take my time with you,” he whispers, and the promise in his voice sends a shiver down your spine.

Eddie’s hands are everywhere but where you want them, and it’s driving you wild. He’s still straddling you, his weight a comforting pressure, but he’s taking his sweet time, savoring the way you’re laid out beneath him, wrists bound and body open. The handcuffs rattle softly as you shift, the sensation of being restrained amplifying every touch, every glance.

He starts at your neck, lips grazing the sensitive spot just below your ear, his breath warm and teasing. “You smell so good,” he murmurs, nipping lightly at your skin. His hands slide under your shirt, pushing it up to expose your stomach, and he pauses, eyes darkening with that reverent look he gets when he sees you bare. “God, you’re gorgeous,” he says, and it’s not just a line—Eddie means it, every word a balm to any lingering insecurities.

His fingers trace patterns over your belly, dipping into the soft give of your flesh, and you squirm, the cuffs clinking as you tug against them. “Eddie,” you whine, half-laughing, half-desperate. “You’re teasing.”

“Am I?” he asks, all mock innocence, but the smirk on his face gives him away. He leans down, kissing a slow path across your collarbone, then lower, his curls tickling your skin as he nuzzles the tops of your breasts. Your bra is still on, a lacy number you picked just for tonight, and he groans softly as he cups you through it, thumbs brushing over the fabric. “This is torture for me too, y’know,” he says, voice rough. “Wanna touch every inch of you at once.”

“Then do it,” you challenge, arching your back to press yourself closer. He chuckles, low and wicked, and finally tugs your bra down, exposing you to the cool air and his hungry gaze. His mouth is on you in seconds, kissing, licking, worshipping, and the sensation is overwhelming, your hands straining against the cuffs as you try to touch him.

“Can’t,” you gasp, the metal biting gently into your wrists. “Eddie, I wanna—”

“Shh,” he soothes, looking up at you with those big, soulful eyes. “Let me take care of you.” His hands roam lower, skimming the waistband of your leggings, and he hooks his fingers into them, tugging slowly. “Lift your hips for me, sweetheart,” he says, and you do, letting him peel the fabric down, leaving you in just your panties.

He pauses again, sitting back to take you in, and the way he looks at you—like you’re a work of art, like you’re everything—makes your chest ache. “You’re perfect,” he says, almost to himself, and then he’s moving again, hands gliding up your thighs, squeezing the softness there. He spreads your legs gently, settling between them, and your breath catches as he kisses the inside of your thigh, slow and deliberate.

“Eddie,” you whisper, your voice trembling with need. He looks up, grinning, and there’s something almost feral in his expression, tempered by the tenderness in his touch.

“Patience,” he says, but his own voice is strained, like he’s barely holding himself together. He kisses higher, closer, and you’re trembling, the cuffs a constant reminder that you’re at his mercy—and loving every second of it. His hands gripping your hips, fingers digging into your softness as he kisses you through your panties, the thin fabric a maddening barrier. You’re panting now, your body arching toward him, the handcuffs rattling as you pull against them, desperate to touch him, to pull him closer.

"Eddie, please," you beg, and the sound of your voice- needy, raw- sees to snap something in him. He growls softly, a sound that vibrates through you, and hooks his fingers into your panties, tugging them down in one swift motion. The cool air hits you, and you gasp, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of his mouth as he finally, finally gives you what you want.

He’s relentless, his tongue and lips working you with a skill that makes your head spin, each movement precise yet hungry. Your thighs tremble, and he holds them steady, his rings cool against your skin. The cuffs keep your hands pinned, and the helplessness only heightens the sensation, every nerve ending alight as he pushes you closer to the edge.

“Fuck, you taste so good,” he murmurs against you, the words muffled but fervent, and the vibration sends a jolt through your body. You’re moaning now, loud and unashamed, and he loves it, you can tell—his eyes flick up to meet yours, dark and wild, and the connection is electric.

You’re close, so close, and he knows it, slowing just enough to draw it out, to make you feel every second. “Eddie,” you whimper, and he hums in response, the sound pushing you right to the brink. When you finally shatter, it’s like a wave crashing over you, your body shaking, the cuffs clanking as you writhe against them. He doesn’t stop, not until you’re gasping, oversensitive and boneless beneath him.

He crawls up your body, kissing every inch he can reach, and when he reaches your face, he’s grinning, his lips glistening. “You okay, sweetheart?” he asks, brushing his nose against yours.

You nod, still catching your breath, and he kisses you, deep and slow, letting you taste yourself on him. It’s intimate, overwhelming, and you tug at the cuffs again, wanting to wrap your arms around him. “Let me out,” you murmur against his lips. “Wanna touch you.”

“Not yet,” he says, smirking. “I’m not done with you.” He shifts, pulling off his shirt, and you drink in the sight of him—lean muscle, scattered tattoos, the faint scars from his past. He’s beautiful, and he’s yours. His jeans are next, and when he’s down to his boxers, he settles over you, the weight of him grounding you even as your heart races.

He kisses you again, hands roaming, and you feel him, hard and ready against your thigh. “You want this?” he asks, voice low, and you nod, desperate for him. He reaches for the nightstand, grabbing a condom, and you watch as he rolls it on, his movements quick but careful.

When he pushes into you, it’s slow, deliberate, and you both groan at the sensation. He fills you perfectly, and the cuffs make it all the more intense, your body completely open to him. He moves, steady at first, then faster, his lips never far from yours, whispering praise and filth in equal measure.

Eddie’s pace is relentless now, each thrust driving you higher, your body arching to meet him despite the cuffs holding you in place. The headboard creaks, the handcuffs rattle, and the trailer is filled with the sounds of you—moans, gasps, his name spilling from your lips like a prayer. His hands grip your hips, lifting you slightly to hit just the right angle, and you cry out, the pleasure almost too much. “Look at you,” he pants, his voice rough with need. “So fucking beautiful.” His curls are damp with sweat, sticking to his forehead, and his eyes are locked on yours, intense and adoring. You feel worshipped, cherished, and the way he moves, the way he fills you, makes you feel like the only thing that matters in his world.

You’re climbing again, the coil in your belly tightening, and he senses it, leaning down to kiss you, his tongue mirroring the rhythm of his hips. “Come for me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, and it’s a command wrapped in a plea. You do, your body seizing as the orgasm rips through you, stronger than the first, your vision blurring as you clench around him.

He groans, his rhythm faltering, and you know he’s close. “Fuck, you feel so good,” he gasps, and with a few more thrusts, he follows you over the edge, his body shuddering as he buries himself deep. For a moment, you’re both still, breathing hard, connected in every way that matters.

He collapses onto you, careful not to crush you, and kisses your forehead, your cheeks, your lips. “You’re incredible,” he says, voice soft now, and you smile, still dazed. He reaches up, fumbling with the cuffs, and finally frees your wrists, rubbing them gently where the metal left faint marks.

“You okay?” he asks, inspecting your skin, and you nod, pulling him down for a kiss. Your arms are sore but you don’t care, wrapping them around him, fingers tangling in his hair.

“Better than okay,” you say, and he grins, rolling to the side and pulling you against his chest.

The Metallica tape has long since stopped, leaving just the hum of the trailer and the sound of your breathing. Eddie’s hands trace lazy patterns on your back, and you feel safe, loved, utterly content. “So,” he says after a while, his voice playful again. “Handcuffs. Yay or nay?”

You laugh, swatting his chest. “Yay. But next time, you’re wearing them.”

His eyes light up, that mischievous spark back in full force. “Oh, sweetheart,” he says, pulling you closer. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

[ekkkkey]

vestal (chapter V)

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

chapter I chapter II chapter III chapter IV

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

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

Geta

He’d never imagined he would one day fear his own brother, never thought he’d sit trembling in his chambers, waiting for his twin to descend upon him like the wrath of the gods.

And yet here he was: barefoot, disheveled, on edge. He tossed back another cup of wine, tasting nothing, then hurled it against the wall in a burst of rage, making the already-shaking slave flinch.

When had it all begun? Childhood? Their youth? No… it started the moment Antoninus laid eyes on that dark-haired, quiet, defenseless senator’s wife. And he, Geta, had given his blessing to his brother’s twisted games.

If only he had stopped him then, planted a thought in his clouded mind that this was wrong, would it have changed anything? Would he still have mattered to his brother? Would he have remained the one in control, the driving force behind their alliance?

He would never know now. That girl was dead, and Caracalla had spiraled even deeper into madness.

Yet, Geta understood, Antoninus couldn’t help but notice her, the one who so strikingly resembled their mother. The only woman he had ever truly loved. The only one who had ever loved him back. Oh, Geta knew how twisted that feeling was, but he allowed his brother to nurture that madness, and in time, he too became a prisoner of the same kind of obsession.

They were alike. Cassandra and Livia resembled each other so closely, it felt as though they—not the emperors—were the twins. But while he couldn’t care less about Cassandra, the Vestal… she reminded him of their mother too.

And if in Antoninus’ memory, their mother had been gentle, kind, and affectionate, Geta remembered her differently: stern, tight-lipped, with a sharp temper. That was how he saw Livia the first time. No one had looked at him like that in a very long time… Like he was a guilty little boy again, aching for his mother’s love. And she, like the long-dead Julia Domna, refused to give him that love, and it maddened him, enraged the grown man he had become.

And now he was alone. No brother. No Livia, who had laid him bare on the altar before his bloodthirsty twin.

Geta rakes his hair back, burying his face in his hands, wanting to sob in silence, but then he suddenly flinches, wiping his eyes as he hears the heavy doors to his chambers swing open.

It’s him. Of course, it’s Antoninus, only he can enter his chambers so brazenly, without even asking. After all, everything is shared between them, right? That thought Geta himself has drilled into his brother’s mind year after year. And even in that, he was deceitful, always seeing himself as the elder, the better, the wiser one, the one who had taken on the parental role over his "equal" brother.

There he is, his brother, standing and staring at him with wide, glassy eyes, and for once, there is no usual smirk on his face. He looks strangely composed. Serious.

Geta is taller, stronger, so why does he feel as though he’s on trial? Guiltily, he folds his hands in his lap and looks up at his brother, still sitting on the bench.

"You lied to me," Antoninus says, waving the slaves away, unwilling to let them interfere.

"I did everything required of me, including for you!" Geta bristles, springing to his feet and towering over his brother. "Someone had to, since you couldn’t!"

Pressing him with sharp reminders of his decaying mind had become a habit, and usually, Antoninus would yield, stung, though not without a scene. But not this time.

Antoninus stares pensively through his brother, and Geta instinctively turns, as if expecting to see someone behind him. But there’s nothing. Caracalla blinks, as if breaking free from some spell, pours himself wine, drinks it slowly, and then, smiling at him with a terrifying, crooked smile, utterly out of place on his gentle face, says:

"Do you remember mother gave me a toy? A little horse with a golden mane?" He draws the words out slowly, spinning the empty goblet in his hands.

Geta mirrors him, nervously twisting the ring on his finger. A toy? Is his brother slipping into another episode?

"You’re rambling," Geta spits, clearly irritated.

"…a beautiful little thing, carved so finely." Caracalla grins wider, continuing, "And then… it disappeared."

"Enough of this nonsense, brother!" Geta’s voice rises, but the words don’t stop the story. Furious, he sweeps everything off the table, yanks the goblet from his brother’s hands, and then grabs a fistful of his tunic, pulling him close.

"I loved that toy so much, but it vanished!" Caracalla spreads his hands. "Oh, I was inconsolable. Mother promised me a new one, and they blamed a slave for stealing it. Cut off his hands…" Antoninus stares straight into his eyes, not resisting his grip at all. "And then I found it. In your chambers." His voice is quiet, and a chill runs down Geta’s spine. He shoves his brother away, turns, and wearily rubs his temples.

"It was years ago, we were children…"

"And now you’ve done the same thing, Geta. You wanted what was mine," Caracalla’s voice trembles, his tone is childish, petulant, as if they’ve truly become children again.

Geta turns to his brother and, to his surprise, feels a pang of shame. Antoninus watches him, eyes narrowed, lips pressed tight, nostrils flaring—angry, hurt.

Let the golden laurel crown his wild hair, let the palace tremble at his name, let him be called emperor, for Geta, he will always, first and foremost, be his brother. And his madness is his curse.

"I didn’t care about the girl, I was thinking about you, Antoninus!" He raises his voice once again. "You’ve toyed with the Senate’s patience! Yes, she was the wife of a traitor, a conspirator, but she was the daughter of no ordinary man, and you…!" He waves his hands in frustration. "I’ve always protected you, always wanted what’s best. Don’t let childhood grudges cloud your mind, we’re brothers!"

He looks directly into those icy blue eyes, and for a moment, it seems like Antoninus believes him. His pupils narrow, his breathing slows, becomes steady.

Geta’s lips curve into a satisfied smile. Just like always. He’s listened to him—only him. All that worry, all that anxiety—for nothing. He could always soothe him.

Still distracted, Caracalla sinks onto the bench, lost in his thoughts. Geta can celebrate, he will always be the one to steady his brother, the one who understands. He humphs smugly, steps over to the table and pours wine into one of the few surviving goblets. The chamber is in chaos, but it doesn’t bother him.

"Try to understand, it would’ve only brought us trouble," he says, gripping his goblet as he moves toward his brother and places his hand on the top of his curly head. "We’ve already angered enough people, both the nobles and the plebs, you know that. And a pregnant widow of a rebel senator wouldn’t have done us any fa—"

He cuts off. Freezes.

"What did you just say?" Geta flinches as Caracalla lifts his head.

Oh he knew that look. The same look Caracalla wore when he sentenced men to die, when he saw them disfigured, or nailed to the cross. It was the same look he’d had when senators betrayed them, when they were dragged through the palace to their doom, or when arrows tore through General Acacius’ chest. This wasn’t his Antoninus anymore, but a bloodthirsty entity sent by Pluto himself.

Caracalla is fast, agile. He crashes into Geta, seizes the collar of his simple tunic, forcing him to clumsily brace himself against the table. Geta clutches his brother’s forearm, struggling to keep from being choked. He’s short, delicate, so why can’t he shake him off?!

"What did you just say, brother?"

Geta knows exactly what he means. He curses himself for letting it slip, but there’s nothing he can do now, he only bares his teeth in a grin, still struggling to push his brother off.

"You heard me. That little whore of yours was pregnant."

He knows it would enrage him even more, knows he should bite his tongue, but no. That old rivalry, the one that was supposed to have faded with the years, had never truly left them. And now, Geta honestly doesn’t understand why he should have to justify himself.

Both of them are breathing heavily. Geta nervously licks his parched lips, staring into his brother’s feverishly bright eyes. He notices fresh little wounds from the illness and, absurdly, finds himself wondering just how long Antoninus has left to live…And then, suddenly, Caracalla relaxes. His lips curve into a smile, and he releases him, but doesn’t step back.

Geta eyes him warily, sensing a trap. Antoninus had always been tricky, never one to play by the rules.

Then Caracalla steps in—close, nearly chest to chest… And only a heartbeat later does Geta realize why. With one swift motion, Antoninus snatches a knife from the table and presses the blade to his brother’s throat. He’s cheerful, joyful even.

"Think you’re better than me, huh?" The blade digs in deeper, though Geta still holds his brother’s wrist. "Well, it’ll be such a shame when I destroy your little priestess. She really caught your fancy, didn’t she, brother?" His voice is light, almost playful, with no venom, no hatred—just amusement and cold certainty. He will do it.

"But I’ll start with you."

Geta shuts his eyes. Feels blood trickling down his neck. Hot. Painful. At last, he admits to himself:

He always knew who would end his life.

Livia

The Vestals stood in a neat line along the temple wall, their gazes fixed on the Great Virgin, who stared directly at the sacred fire.

For a while, silence filled the temple; the flames at the goddess’s altar danced on the faces of the priestesses, their reflections flickering in their eyes.

Finally, the High Priestess raised her arms and began the prayer, and the others quietly listened to her words.

"…hear my prayer, O goddess, hear my call,

In this hour of trembling hope and humbled heart.

O great Vesta, keeper of the sacred hearth,

Receive my words—receive my soul."

Livia whispered, her heart full of hope that she would be heard.

The sisters beside her murmured the words in unison with their leader. Oh, how she longed to pray for the same things as they—prayers for the greatness of Rome, for mercy, for glory! But no, she prayed for forgiveness, for atonement.

On that fateful day, when she uttered that longed-for "yes," agreeing to the emperor’s murder, not a day had passed without her drowning in regret.

She longed for vengeance with all her soul, hated him, but at the same time, fear had seized her heart. The agonizing wait for terrible news tormented her. Every messenger, every guest in their house, every visitor to the temple threw her into terror.

Any moment now—they’ll come, they’ll accuse me…! But no, the days passed, one after the other, and nothing happened. And still, she cursed herself. So many times she had dreamed of vengeance—not even for her sister, but for herself. Dreamed of the emperors struck down by the wrath of the goddess! And now, with the agreement made, Livia prayed that no one would learn of it, prayed that her wicked tongue wouldn’t play a cruel trick on her.

No, she still hated him, Emperor Geta, but how could she curse the father of Rome? How could she pray for the sacred city’s peace and prosperity… while wishing death upon its emperor?

The prayer ended, and the fire still flickered before her, but Livia, left alone in the temple, was unable to move.

The statue of Vesta, as beautiful as ever, eternally young, eternally pure, now seems sorrowful… judging. The priestess bit her lower lip with all her might, struggling to hold back shameful tears. All she had ever wanted was to serve the goddess! It was forbidden to shed blood in the temple, but she could taste the saltiness in her mouth, and even this reminded her of the emperor’s horrific actions.

Silently, someone wrapped their arms around her from behind, intertwining cold hands with her own. She knew it was Caesonia. Her sister had always been there for her.

"Is it customary to grieve like this before the goddess?" her friend whispered, and Livia felt a sense of calm wash over her. She hadn’t told her about the conversation with the emperor, not wanting to put her in danger, but Caesonia remembered her other words.

"I only wanted the goddess’s love, not that love the plebeians sing of in the streets," Livia whispered, pressing her lips together.

"Love? More like obsession!" Caesonia spun her around to face her, taking her by the forearms, looking into her eyes. "When you love, truly and sincerely, you don’t want to break it, you don’t want to cause pain. And if that love is unrequited…" her lips quivered, "…then you simply admire from a distance. That’s what love really is."

Livia paused, lost in thought. Why had she thought that? Why did it even cross her mind? Passion, desire, obsession, the urge to possess, to break… Oh, those were the very things the emperors craved.

Again, she recalled Emperor Caracalla’s words: "You look just like her, don’t you?" He had spoken of his late mother, but then why had he touched her like that, looked at her like that? The memory made her nauseous. She turned to leave the temple, and Caesonia followed, her expression strangely sorrowful.

Her carpentum was already waiting—a covered carriage draped in white linen, the symbol of her sacred rank. Normally, Vestals traveled in closed litters, but the journey was long, and there was no time to waste. That morning, she had received a message telling her that her sister Claudia was about to give birth. No matter how upset Livia was, she couldn’t abandon her sister. Besides, Claudia was at the villa of Appius’ family, so there should be no unpleasant surprises.

She wore white robes, a wide white shawl with a golden border wrapped around her, her hair neatly bound, thin golden bracelets jingling on her wrists. She stepped into the carriage, and the slave promptly shut the door behind her. Livia quickly drew the curtains, not wishing for prying eyes. A tiny gap was enough for her to see the road.

In her hands, she fiddled with a tiny gold amulet—a gift for the newborn.

The crowd that had gathered from all corners of the Eternal City buzzed around the square like a swarm of bees, a massive, colorful mass circling her carriage. Livia found herself again thinking that she didn’t understand this worldly hustle, and that thought, prim and proper, echoed in her heart with a strange joy. She was still herself.

Craftsmen, merchants, curious onlookers, and other members of the common plebs moved in an endless stream along the street. Livia leaned back, continuing to watch, boredly twisting the amulet in her hands. From time to time, the crowd parted, giving way to the richly adorned litters and carriages. If they kept moving like this, they would reach the villa sooner than she had expected.

Fortune, as if hearing her presumptuous thoughts, turned away from her. The carriage stopped.

Livia impatiently drummed her fingers on the seat, waiting for them to move again, but they remained still. Frustrated, she glanced out at the street, but the crowd offers no answers, only bowing in servitude along the road.

Still fidgeting, Livia was about to open the tiny window to see what was happening outside, but before she could, the door swung open—and she glared indignantly at the person who dared to intrude upon her.

No one would have dared behave this way. No one would have sat across from her so arrogantly, so lazily, so smugly.

No one but him.

Suddenly, he gave the order to move, and Livia noticed the emperor’s carriage following closely behind hers, adorned with purple banners.

But the emperor was right here, sitting silently before her, a smile playing on his lips. The space was cramped, and she felt his knee brush against hers. She shifted her legs aside but didn’t dare break the silence.

"Glory to the emperors! Ave!" the citizens shouted.

Caracalla squinted with satisfaction. The recent riots and their suppression had clearly taught the people how to behave.

"Glory to the emperor?" he tilted his head, waiting for her answer.

"Glory," she whispered, her lips pale.

Emperor Caracalla was here—did that mean Geta rode in the other chariot? Or… She clutched her amulet tighter.

"You know," he said thoughtfully, pulling back the curtain to glance at the street—and her anxiety spiked. The last thing she wanted was for anyone to see her with him. "My brother is ill."

Livia swallowed hard, her brow furrowing as she tried to discern where this was leading. She searched his mood—angry, furious?—but failed.

Caracalla looked… pleased.

He lounged back casually, tapping his ringed fingers on the edge of the bench. His clothes, like his banners, gleamed in rich purple and gold, and a massive golden wreath tilted on his forehead, its leaves nearly brushing his pale brows. He kept lifting his chin to keep it from falling. His usual earring was missing, but thick golden bracelets wrapped around his white arms, both at his wrists and forearms. She couldn’t help but notice his rings—one displayed the image of a woman. She could easily guess who it was.

"I express my sorrow, Caesar, and wish Emperor Geta a swift recovery," she said, wondering what he wanted from her if his brother was still alive.

Caracalla studied her face intently, and she met his gaze. The emperor didn’t respond right away, shifting to settle more comfortably, spreading his legs wider and brushing her knee again. She forced herself to endure it, her ears beginning to burn, betraying her discomfort.

"Sorrow? More like congratulations!" Caracalla said playfully, wagging a finger at her. "I’m alone," he added, his painted lips pursing mischievously. "The sole ruler of Rome!" he declared proudly, tilting his chin up before rubbing it in feigned thoughtfulness. "Although, perhaps we should consider whether it was your prayers that made my brother fall ill, or…"

Her heart pounded in her chest. She shouldn’t have had that conversation with him. She shouldn’t have trusted that charming smile.

Behind the curtain, life continued, the chariot moved—but for Livia, the world stood still.

"…or perhaps it was the throat I slit. What do you think?"

A quiet gasp escaped her lips, and the emperor leaned forward, resting on his own knee.

What had he done? She had renounced her sisters, her home, and found new sisters among the Vestals, but she still loved them. And this… his own brother, his flesh and blood…!

"I didn’t…" she choked, panic rising. "I’m not guilty, Caesar…"

"Not guilty, priestess?" A smirk never left his lips, and his eyes watched her closely—unblinking, cold and limpid like the glass eyes placed in the statues of Jupiter in his temple. "Then who is guilty? Me?"

The question seemed absurd, for only moments ago, he had claimed it himself, yet Livia couldn’t summon the courage to remind him.

"You asked me, my dear, didn’t you? Didn’t you want me to send you my brother’s hands?" He giggled. "To be honest, it’d more likely be his head, but alas." He spread his hands theatrically.

"I don’t need that," she said, her lips tightly pressed, hoping the chariot would stop and the emperor’s unwelcome company would vanish.

"Don’t need it?" He leaned even closer, closing the distance between them. His knee was now right between hers. He did it deliberately, trying to unsettle her—and he succeeded. "So I did this for nothing?" His voice dropped dangerously low.

She shook her head. What did he want? What should she say to please him and make him leave?

"You, priestess, wanted your emperor dead. That’s a serious crime," he said, looking down, his lips pressed in false sorrow, brows drawn as if he genuinely cared about her fate…

And then his hand covers her knee. Even through the thick fabric, it feels like it burns her.

She wants to pull away, insulted by how easily he allows himself to touch her again and again. He has committed a monstrous crime, yet he blames her?

Kitchen wench. That’s what he had called her.

It becomes harder to breathe, the closer he gets, the more that sweet, heavy scent of oils wraps around her—clinging to her hair, her robes. It’s as though he means to consume her, to leave a trace even after he is gone.

Livia jerks her leg, but he holds her firmly, his fingers digging into her flesh.

"Let go," she whispers.

"Let go?" The surprise on his face seems almost genuine. His hand is hot, as if the sun itself has touched her. But instead of letting her go, it slides upward, forcing her knees apart, making space for him between them. He doesn’t touch her skin, but it feels like she’s exposed.

Her cheeks burn. Her mouth parts. Her breath quickens.

Caracalla smiles, as he always does, mesmerized by her reaction. His fingers almost tenderly stroke the inside of her thigh, just above the knee, still through the fabric, but even this is too much for her.

"You should be executed for even thinking such a thing, priestess," he murmurs, his hand creeping higher, still caressing. "Have that delicate little neck of yours snapped… or perhaps tied to a stake in the arena, wrapped in ivy and ropes, beautiful and bare?" Her breath catches. "And watch the beasts tear into that pale skin…" he finishes with a breathy sigh.

Livia squeezes her eyes shut, trying to think of anything—anything—but the heat of his hand. With all her strength, she clutches the amulet in her fist and recites the prayer silently in her mind:

"O Vesta, grant me forgiveness,

If I have sinned against myself or those I hold dear.

Cleanse this soul of its burdened sorrow,

And fill me with the warmth of your eternal fla—"

He doesn’t let her finish. He cuts through her prayer with a low purr, forcing her to open her eyes:

"I must punish you for my brother, for he is my blood. Sacred blood!" He clicks his tongue and leans in, as if sharing a secret. His next words freeze her in place:

"But what kind of son would I be, if I put my brother above my own mother, hmm?"

The last words he speaks right against her lips, and before she can react, he kisses her, leaving her knee and pressing his palm to her cheek, not allowing her to pull away.

She is burning—hot, flushed, ashamed. Livia feels the heat of his mouth, his hands, the heaviness of his breath, the way he smiles into the kiss. And she can’t do anything. A few agonizing moments pass before he finally pulls away.

The paint on his lips is smudged, and she is certain some has transferred to hers.

Caracalla orders the carriage to stop.

"Pray for my brother’s health, priestess. Pray properly—so that at least this your goddess might actually hear," he says with a chuckle. "If he dies, it’ll be your fault."

He turns to leave, but his gaze catches her hand, clutching the amulet with trembling fingers. The emperor snatches it from her and swiftly steps out, giving a wink as he leaves.

It was a gift.

Unable to move, she finishes her prayer aloud:

"Deliver me from darkness and despair,

Shield me beneath your sacred veil in times of strife.

Trust in me, O radiant Vesta

I reach ever for the light, the good.

Guard my dwelling with your flame,

And grant me strength to endure the path ahead."

The carriage moves on.

[nnicknnelsonn]

what is cosmo’s full name?

joe quinn, kit connor, and a bunch of other 5 year olds

source: @devyn on YouTube (X)

[rowinablx]

Johnny, Bob and Joaquin in Doomsday leaked

[megalony]

What A Healer Can't Fix

This is anew Emperor Geta imagine, based on a lovely anon request. I hope you will all like it, please let me know what you think.

Taglist: @justagirlthatlovedtoread @musicistheway @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @luula @missdreamofendless @bradleybeachbabe @woderfulkawaii @amberpanda99 @daggersquadphantom @marvel-and-chicago-fan @angryknightstatesmantrash @minjix @lyje @kmc1989 @itsmytimetoodream @noonenuts @hiireadstuff @ashie-babie @jayyeahthatsme @sp1ritssz @dumb-fawkin-bitch @oliverstarksbae @gimatida @heart-35 @supernaturalstilinski @kyky9103 @gay4hotmilfs @itshamleth @chaoticnosleepinfluencer @gs29 @wh0reforsmutstuff @mel-vaz @natashamea18 @chrisevansdaughter @alexandra848484 @deena-beena-weena @targaryenluvs @kpoplover-19 @marvelmenarebeautiful @gillybear17

@zoeybennett @mrspeacem1nusone @zephyrmonkey @estella-novella @eleventhdoctorsangel @kniselle @senjoritanana @shauna-carsley @dottierose @cfdhouse51 @darkfemme1 @rainechase45 @lolalolsstuff @jupiter1700 @ashdoctor @an-aliens-ghost @lunaroserites @houseoftwistedspirits @callsignwidow @winterreader-nowwriter @reneinii @bellsbomb @western-pyro @itsgigikay @harry-satellite @midsummereve1993 @babyqueen17 @buckyyyismahhlife @sammiejane22 @mrsyixingunicorn10 @op-81-lvr-reblogs @talicat713 @niamhmbt @strawberry-canyon @bieberhoodforever @911fangirlie @hollandxxmix @jasmineee05 @creat1venat1onn @devilslittlehelper @darlingcharling-blog @bear8585 @nickie-amore @elliott-calls @person-005 @mbioooo0000 @amara-mars @shypy92 @nikfigueiredo

Joseph Quinn Masterlist

Summary: (Y/n) is the Empress, it's her role to provide Geta with an heir. But that seems to be the one thing she can't achieve, and she wonders if she is cursed.

(Mentions/ description of miscarriages)

Enjoy.

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

Geta's foot began to tap incessantly against the floor and the calm, composed expression on his face was slowly beginning to waver and fade into something tiresome and irritated.

He had been more than kind, more than considerate in listening to the Senates constant quibbles and demands and pointless babbling. He was sure he had been stood on this very spot for longer than half an hour with these two men who couldn't seem to see his rising temper. Did they expect him to stand around and wait until the sun dipped behind the sea and the stars lit up the sky? Did they expect to reel off every scripture to him and have him stand here and listen to it all?

None of their problems were worth Geta's time and he had been kind enough by agreeing to their first two demands of him. What they were babbling about now had washed over his head. He hadn't been listening intently any more and he thought that would have been abundantly clear.

His ringed fingers were starting to twitch and curl into fists at his sides and he began spinning the golden ring around his index finger, an old habit to try and keep himself composed.

During lessons that he and Caracalla frequently missed and ignored, Geta would mess with his jewellery to try and sustain his attention and stop his mind from drifting away. It helped him to concentrate but right now he was focusing more on controlling his temper and his attitude than sustaining whatever information they were trying to droll off to him.

He couldn't help the sigh that tumbled past his lips and his head angled to the right as his brow rose and his lips formed into a thin line with a slight crinkle to his upper lip. A look which clearly told the Senates how unsatisfied he was about being deadlocked in this conversation with them, but it didn't seem to put them off at all.

"… and I'm sure you can see this would be an inconvenience, Sire."

Whatever inconvenience Senator Caus was talking about couldn't have been much worse than the one Geta was currently enduring.

"And what is it you'd have me do?" There was a snappy tone to Geta's voice that added with the tapping of his golden sandal against the marbled floor. What was he supposed to do about this? What were they hoping for? He would agree to almost anything at this point if it would stop them from bothering him so much.

Every other day they would steer him in another direction after a meeting and talk his ear off about their problems. Most of the Senates seemed to think that because Geta tried to do a good job and not make enemies with them, that he was therefore agreeable to anything and he would give them what they wanted. They all acted like his most entrusted confidant and tried to worm around him for what they needed.

It was as annoying as it was unsettling that they thought he would be so swayed and so easily moulded to their ideals.

Geta was not naïve. He wasn't stupid and he wasn't ignorant or a silly little boy who needed guidance on the throne. He was ruling for both himself and his brother who was more incapable these days than he was lucid in his mind. Geta wouldn't have people walk all over him or try to sway Caracalla when he wasn't in his right mind.

"If you would sign our agreement to show your support, we could-"

"You expect me to sign without reading it first? Do you think me so naive?" His abrupt response caused both men to pause and stare at him with wide, panicked eyes.

Of course they did. They wanted him to sign so they would be truimphant against the Senate they had been having quabbles with. Well Geta wouldn't sign even if it would prevent headaches like these.

He watched them both struggle for a response, but something caught his eye and Geta found himself leaning to the right to look behind them.

A light in the darkness. A saving grace had appeared just behind them and Geta could feel his system calming down already and he internally sighed.

(Y/n).

His wife was standing at the far end of the hall, looking like a Goddess that had come down to Earth. The white dress she wore shone in the sunlight that streamed through the open windows, but it was the seams of gold woven into the fabric that caught the light in the perfect way to reflect sparkles and streaks around the walls. Almost as if she were a fallen piece of the sun giving off her own light for everyone in the palace.

Even from a distance, Geta was sure that he could see a flower or two woven into her intricately braided hair. And he could see the bangles and bracelets shimmering and bouncing on her wrists.

She never used to wear much jewellery until she married Geta. He had a love of pretty things and he liked to gift them to her, especially ones made out of gold. Gold was the symbol of Royalty, and coupled with the fact that both Emperors had golden hair and were always dripping with golden clothes, it seemed to embellish the fact that they were supposed to rule. They were here to govern and guide Rome to glory.

Geta seemed to wear more jewellery than his wife, but he liked that she wore the pieces he gave to her. The many bracelets, the three rings she wore, and one long necklace that reached her cleavage and was carved into the image of the sun. Those were all she wore each day, and they were enough to make her the image of an Empress that the people of Rome loved and admired.

She was just the excuse Geta needed to get him out of this dreary confrontation.

"Find me the papers in the morning and I'll read them." It was clear by Geta's tone that he was dismissing the subject and he wasn't going to stand and talk about this any longer.

Geta unclenched his hands and flexed his fingers and with a slight dip of his head, he walked past both men and left their irritating conversation behind him. His sights were set on his wife, she was the only person he wished to be around now.

He could see by the way (Y/n) was stood that she wanted to speak with him. She was stood to one side, hands clasped in front of her and that beautiful smile on her lips that always entranced Geta whenever he was in her presence. If they weren't already married he would be under her spell and begging to have her hand in marriage.

She wasn't trying to weave past any of the passing Senates since their meeting had come to an end, and she wasn't making her way towards the gardens or wandering the palace. She was waiting for Geta, and that thought alone had his heart soaring in his chest.

(Y/n) could feel her smile brightening when Geta approached her and her arms were reaching out for him as soon as he was within reach.

Her hands clasped down on his shoulders and her fingers itched and glided along the pale cream silks of the cape attached to his shoulders. He was in pale colours today, much like she was but of course the jewellery hanging off of him was golden. He had to wear something gold at almost all times, an internal tradition.

"You look tired," (Y/n) glided one one hand up from his shoulder to caress the side of his face. Her fingers traced along his pale cheek and soft skin, brushing along his jaw until he was leaning his head into her touch and almost melting in front of her.

The look in his eyes was a mixture of exhaustion and aggravation and he looked drained. Meetings were always boring to both the Emperors, they could barely keep their attention on what was happening. And people expected more of Geta than they did Caracalla. People knew Caracalla was prone to outbursts and a loss of attention, which meant that Geta had to do the thinking and concentrating for the both of them.

"Hm, your timing is divine or I might have been tempted to get rid of a few of the council men." The way Geta's head ticked to the left to subtly hint to the men behind him made (Y/n) smile.

She pushed up on her toes to press a kiss to his blushing lips that stood out against the rest of his pale features, and she felt the way he sighed and almost crumbled against her. His hands reached out for her hips, pulling her closer until there was no air of space between them, just the way he liked it.

"The meeting went well I take it?" The air of sarcasm in (Y/n)'s voice caused Geta to smile. The meeting hadn't been awful, just draining.

He didn't respond, but he didn't have to when his smile said it all. He tilted his head forward until his temple was softly pressed against (Y/n)'s and he allowed himself to close his eyes, basking in their closeness. His fingers squeezed into her hips and his chest inclined further against hers.

The display of affection was rather surprising. Geta was all for wrapping himself around (Y/n) or having her attached to his arm, but he didn't always cling to her where others could see.

In Geta's mind, if people saw how much (Y/n) meant to him it would put her at risk. The Senates and Council could be so vindictive and if anyone in Rome turned against him, (Y/n) would be the first person they turned to and hurt her to get to him. But right now, Geta wasn't bothered by the passing councilmen who could see how he took refuge in his wife.

"Do you have a moment to talk?" (Y/n) kept caressing her hand along Geta's cheek as she spoke, seeing how the action was clearly soothing and she wondered if he might fall asleep standing up.

His eyes finally opened when her words registered in his ears and a certain look crossed his eyes which narrowed on her for a moment before he nodded. The way she smiled and looked up at him so endearingly told Geta that she wasn't worried or needed an urgent conversation, which was relieving. But there was still something about her expression that had him wondering.

"I have all the time in the world for you."

His hands lingered for a few moments before they finally left her waist and he reached out to entwine their fingers together instead. Geta felt relieved and invigorated at the same time when (Y/n) stood at his side and her free hand curled around his arm like she was binding them together.

He turned to the side and began guiding them down the hall, if she wanted to take he gathered that standing in the hall wasn't exactly what she had in mind. They would go and talk in the sun room, one of (Y/n)'s preferred places because Geta knew she loved to see the sun shining through the large open windows and glistening on the pond that lay outside the room in the garden.

(Y/n) let her head rest on Geta's shoulder and she leaned into him just a little as they took a steady walk down the next hall which was vacant of any other soul. Leaving them both secluded and content as Geta aimed for the sun room and opened the heavy wooden door.

Once they headed into the room, Geta aimed for the sofa in front of the window and gently pulled on (Y/n)'s hand until she took a seat beside him.

It felt like the first time he had truly relaxed all day, possibly all week and it was calming to finally be alone without dozens of people asking things of him and wanting his attention or wanting to get something from him.

When she took her seat beside him (Y/n) kept their entwined hands resting on her lap and she began to glide her other hand up and down Geta's arm like she was stroking and drawing patterns into his skin. He seemed to find the touch entrancing and relaxing as he watched her for a good minute or so before he finally broke the comfortable silence that had enveloped around them.

"You wanted to talk? Is everything okay?"

(Y/n) managed a smile and nodded her head, keeping her eyes on his milky white skin for a little bit longer before she found the will to look up at his concerned features. Despite the smile on his face, Geta looked slightly worried. He was always on edge, expecting things to go wrong or problems to arise, and when it came to (Y/n), she was the main person he constantly worried and fretted about.

Leaning a little closer, she perched her chin on his shoulder which caused Geta to turn his head to the right to look down at her. They were close enough that he was able to press his lips to her temple while he waited for her to explain.

"I saw the healer this morning, I've missed my cycles…" The implication in her words was clear, but (Y/n) had to keep holding her breath to steady her raging nerves and find the will to say it outloud. "I'm pregnant."

She couldn't open her eyes once the words left her lips. She kept leaning into his touch where his lips were glued to her temple and she waited, soaking in his touch until Geta finally leaned back and moved his free hand to cup her cheek. He tilted her head back, waiting for her to open those pretty eyes so he could examine her expression and read the emotions that were always so clear within her eyes.

It was hard for (Y/n) to open her eyes because she didn't want to get lost in the happiness she knew she would see on her husband's face.

Opening her eyes caused her breath to get caught within her lungs again, and she was relieved to see a content grin on his face which morphed when he leaned in to steal a kiss from her lips.

She allowed herself to bask in his touch and nuzzle her cheek into his palm that was cradling her face while adrenaline surged throughout her stomach and up to her chest.

Geta found himself murmuring "Truly?" against her lips, as if the most skilled healer in all of Rome might be wrong in his assumptions. But the nod of (Y/n)'s head was enough to have pride swelling in Geta's chest and a brighter smile beaming across his face.

The healer wasn't wrong and (Y/n) knew this was right, she knew the signs and the symptoms she was experiencing. And she knew that this was news her husband was desperate to hear, and that the Senates would be eager to announce and chime in with their opinions.

Leaning forwards, (Y/n) let go of Geta's hand in favour of looping both her arms around his neck and she tucked her face into his neck. It was comforting to feel his arms binding around her waist, but feeling one of his hands begin to skim across her so far unchanged stomach made tears build up in (Y/n)'s eyes.

"We must tell the council-"

"No."

Geta froze in place at the terror he could hear entwined within his wife's voice. It made his stomach tighten and his chest ache and he found himself pressing a few dozen kisses against her temple before he tried to part her head from his neck so they were looking at one another again.

"Not yet, please. Not- not until we know for sure that they are okay." A single tear traced down (Y/n)'s cheek and her eyes snapped closed when she felt Geta's hand graze along her stomach again.

She couldn't bear to tell the council or make an announcement to all of Rome, not at this early stage. It would break her heart completely and make her feel like a failure if they announced the pregnancy, only for (Y/n) to lose the child.

She couldn't lose another.

"Alright," Geta hummed against her temple in a quiet attempt to calm her down. He didn't want to upset her, not when this was news worth celebrating, not worrying over. "Once you begin to show, then we will make the announcement."

That seemed fair, that seemed amicable that they could announce it with some sense of certainty that they were going to have an heir this time with no bad fortunes attached. It would be a good sign once (Y/n)'s shape began to change and her stomach started to swell, then they would see that this was a fortunate sign and that their child would be okay and thriving.

(Y/n) managed to nod her head and whisper a croaky "Thank you," which showed just how badly she was trying to keep her tears at bay.

She rested her cheek back on Geta's shoulder and kept her arms bound around his neck to keep herself as close to him as possible.

Her eyes closed as she pressed herself as close to Geta's side as she possibly could, inhaling his scent that worked in calming down her wrecked nerves. And the feeling of Geta's hand gliding up and down her back and roaming around her hips was soothing.

She so wished that this time, things would turn out differently.

They had been in this position three times already, and none of those times had ever produced an heir to secure Geta on the throne and prevent a possible future uprising.

(Y/n) hadn't known she had been pregnant the first time. It hadn't been long since she and Geta got married and the maids had to fetch the healer when (Y/n) succumbed to terrible cramps and sickness. She'd lost a tiny child she had no idea she was carrying.

The second time they had known and told the Senates, who had all been pleasantly surprised and eager for a male heir to the throne. They congratulated (Y/n) like she was doing such a good job as being Empress, a position she hadn't had for too long. But she barely started to show before she lost that child too, and it almost destroyed her.

She took to fasting, to praying and going on pilgrimage outside of Rome to pray to Juno. She prayed to be given the chance to have a healthy baby, to give Geta the heir he needed and desperately wanted, to see him with a child in his arms. She wanted a baby, and she begged to all the Gods to let her prove herself to Rome and to have a family of her own.

Geta had started to panic for her until she got pregnant a third time. He saw the way (Y/n) went from frantic to relieved. He watched her try and do everything right, to take things easy, rest, eat only what the healers told her would be best. She did everything she could, but it had been no use.

She miscarried a boy, and it was as if all of Rome had been disappointed in her.

Everyone except for Geta.

He was the only one who didn't shake his head or tut and sigh or say that she would have to try better next time, that she needed to do better to produce an heir. Geta had been the most understanding out of everyone and he had been adamant that no one talk about the losses.

He didn't want anyone trying to belittle his wife or make her feel broken when she was clearly struggling and grieving. He wouldn't have anyone upset her or say a bad word about her because he knew it wasn't her fault, it was the Gods who he was angry with for putting her through this.

Geta tried to get as many healers as he could to make sure (Y/n) recovered, that she was alright and he wouldn't think or have anyone talk about another heir. He wouldn't keep pushing and forcing (Y/n) into this situation if it was going to cause her such agony. That was why pregnancy was such a surprise, as it wasn't planned or as desperately prayed for like the others.

It wasn't as if (Y/n) was infertile, she had known women get married and send themselves into grief and insanity by not being able to get pregnant even once. (Y/n) could get pregnant rather easily, it was keeping and bearing the babies that she struggled to accomplish.

"I want to have a baby." (Y/n) wasn't sure whether she was talking to Geta or just whispering her heart's desire, but she knew he heard her when his arms tightened around her.

"I know, my love. We might have a chance now, hm?" He spoke into her hair while his hand continued to smooth up and down her back.

He would pray to every God he had to in order to beg for this pregnancy to work out. They wanted this child.

Was this finally going to work out?

***

Rubbing her reddened sore eyes with the back of her hand, (Y/n) tipped her head back like she was trying to tip all of the tears into the back of her head to stop them from falling. She felt like she had shed far too many tears already, but they kept on coming until there was bound to be no water left in her body. The shaking hadn't seem to stop yet and (Y/n) wondered whether her system would finally settle or whether she would simply pass out and end her misery that way.

The bleeding hadn’t stopped yet, neither had the cramps. And her body was starting to produce enough heat to rival the sun Geta was always comparing her to. Despite the flimsy evening gown she wore which was thin and loose enough to feel like a scrap of paper covering her than proper material. Maybe passing out would be a blessing in disguise.

What was she going to do?

Another flurry of tears rushed down her face and she tipped her head back against the stone wall as gasping breaths left her blushing lips.

"I- I'm sorry…"

She didn't quite know who she was talking to; herself, Geta who had crossed her mind every second for what felt like hours. Or the life she had just lost.

She had done it again. She had failed Geta, she had lost something so precious to them both, something that had given him hope and had made him so happy for the few short weeks that they had basked in this news. And Geta had been hoping to tell the Council in the upcoming weeks. He had wanted to tell them soon as (Y/n) was just starting to change shape.

Not anymore. Her body had betrayed her, just like it always did and evicted the babies she was so desperate to carry.

Why could all other women in Rome carry children, but not (Y/n)? Why was she not allowed to have an heir, yet there were concubines and women on the street angry that they had to bear more children?

One child. That was all (Y/n) was asking for, just one baby, one heir for her and Geta and for the peace of Rome.

Why did (Y/n) have to be broken like this? Why did she have to be cursed? The Gods disliked her, they bore such a grudge against her that they wouldn't give her the curtesy of being barren. They made her fertile only to lose each child she tried to carry. They were cruel, and (Y/n) hated each and every one of them.

"Why me?"

A broken wail left her lips and her bloodied hands slammed down against her thighs, wishing she could cause more damage to herself. She wanted to look as broken on the outside as she clearly was on the inside. She wanted to curl up and disappear, she wanted to fade from the world so she wouldn't have to bear the consequences of her body's actions.

How was she going to explain her failure to Geta?

The thought of having to tell him- tell the servants and explain to the Council when they eventually found out- made (Y/n) shiver and she twisted to the right just in time to throw up into the bowl resting beside her on the chamber floor.

She didn't want to tell him, but what choice did she have? (Y/n) had done the damage by confiding in Geta what the healer had told her. She had told him far too soon that she had been pregnant, but she did the previous two times as well. She told him because she needed to, she had to confide in him, show him that she was trying and to make him happy. But each time she had stolen that happiness away from him, and now she had to do it again.

She shouldn't have told anyone, she should have waited and maybe this wouldn't have happened. Or maybe she could have hid this quietly and tried again to have a baby without anyone needing to know just how many times she had failed her beloved Emperor and all of Rome.

She didn't want to tell Geta and see the torment in his eyes and the agony on his face. She didn't want his or anyone else's sympathy which she didn't deserve. And (Y/n) didn't want the Senates to show their obvious disappointment in her.

They would say she was infertile, they would try and persuade Geta to have their marriage annulled and get him to marry someone more suitable. Someone who wasn't irrevokably damaged like (Y/n). And they would be right. She was no use to such an Emperor if she couldn't give him the children he needed to carry on his bloodline.

It was clear that she couldn't hide in here forever, Geta was bound to come back to their shared quarters soon, once his business was finished and he had checked on Caracalla. Something he did more frequently now with his brother's raging moods.

She couldn't hide this from him or lock herself in here forever and hope that no one found her or knew anything was wrong.

(Y/n)’s aching heart wanted Geta and the comfort he would give, but her mind was desperate to keep him away.

With a shaky breath, (Y/n) pushed herself up from leaning against the wall and moved onto her knees instead. She couldn't stop the cry from bubbling past her lips when she tried to move her hands but they weren't under her control from how badly she was trembling.

She pushed the bloodied cloths into the corner of the room. She needed to tidy up the mess she had caused, but there was no energy left within her to do so. (Y/n) didn't want to do anything anymore; the one thing she wanted was something she clearly couldn't do. What else was she here for?

(Y/n) let all the energy dwindle away from her body and with little effort, she flopped onto the frozen stone floor on her side. Her knees coiled up to her aching stomach, her arms bound around her chest and her face pressed against the floor.

She didn't care how cold the floor felt against her burning skin or the light chill in the evening air creeping through from the bed chamber. She welcomed the darkness that enveloped her with open arms and wished that it would keep her in its sanctuary forever.

***

Tiredness washed over Geta as he closed the chamber door behind him and stepped out into the darkened hallway lit only by a string of candles spread far along the walls.

His head rolled from side to side trying to straighten the crick in his neck and his shoulders flexed before he looked across at the maid huddled at the side of the door. She looked much like a mouse, head down, arms bound to her chest and feet nervously twitching against the floor as she tried to make herself as small and insignificant as possible.

She only looked up when she felt Geta's inpertinent stare boring through into her soul.

"Keep an eye on him, if his mood changes then fetch me. Understand?" Most of the staff knew that if Caracalla went into one of his rages or sour moods, they were to find Geta. He was the only one able to get any sense out of the Emperor and calm him down.

The maid nodded and when Geta stepped to the side, she slid past him and crept into the room. She needed to refill the wine and keep an eye on the Emperor to make sure he was alright throughout the evening.

With a sigh, Geta moved his hand to cup the bridge of his nose and he tried to ward off the headache rolling in behind his eyes. He needed to get some rest. Being up since the beginning of the sun rising in the sky and still being on the move long after it had set behind the sea was wearing Geta down.

He began his slow descent down the hall towards his own chambers, but his brows furrowed and his head ticked to one side when he recognised a familiar face. It was one of the maids who usually tended to him and (Y/n).

Geta didn't remember most of the names of the servants in the palace, he had a hard enough time remembering the Senates and the few regular guards he interacted with. He had no time calling each member of staff by their name when it was irrelevant to him. But (Y/n) knew. She could talk to each of them and know their names and their favourite drink or some little intricate detail about them.

It was one of the reasons (Y/n) was so favoured as the Empress of Rome. She would know this maid's name, considering this elder maid was someone who (Y/n) always seemed to be chatting and smiling with.

She looked panicked right now. Her skin was pale, verging on grey and her features were contorted into an unsettling grimace that made Geta's own nose crinkle in apprehension and distaste.

"Sire…" She sounded breathless as if she had been running all the streets in Rome and Geta found himself leaning back and getting ready to step away from her as if she were contagious.

"Yes?" He waited, somewhat impatiently for her to speak. Unsure whether she had stopped because she had seen him or whether she had been searching for him specifically.

"The Empress, she- she seems distressed, I don't know what to do."

"What's wrong with her?" A horrible sense of dread began to swell and bubble up in Geta's stomach as apprehension flooded his chest. Why would she say that? What was wrong with (Y/n)? Why say she 'seemed' distressed, she either was or she wasn't.

"She won't let me in the room, sire." The maid seemed to glance around the corridor as if she thought the walls had ears before she leaned in closer to whisper to him. "She's locked the door."

That was frightening.

Mira thought she had a good repour with the Empress, she seemed to be trusted with the Empress's wishes and private thoughts and she was thought of highly. She had always managed to get (Y/n) to eat when she was ill or persuade her to move around after her bad spells and broken moods after her miscarriages. And she knew she was favoured by Geta, when (Y/n) wasn't well Geta asked for her specifically rather than the other servants.

So it was worrying when she tried to enter the Empress's bedchambers to turn down the bed and refill the wine, and found the door locked. That had never happened before. The door was never locked or barricaded and the Empress had never called out for the staff to leave. She had shouted for Mira to go away and there was something in her voice that made Mira sure that (Y/n) wasn't well in herself.

The only thing she could do was find Geta because if any of the servants tried to enter the room and Geta found out, he would dismiss them immediately. They had no right to barge into the room even if they thought something was wrong with the Empress. It was his position to go to her aid so Mira had ran to find him.

Geta's feet were moving before he could comprehend what he was doing and his heart pounded in his chest as he sprinted down the hall with Mira hot on his heels.

By the time he reached his chambers, it felt like his heart was about to claw its way out of his chest and try to burst through the door itself.

Part of him wished that the maid was simply mistaken in her panicked state and that when his hand curled around the brass handle, he would find the door open as usual. The door was locked, just like the maid had said.

He leaned close to the door and waited, listening for any sounds, whether it be (Y/n) crying, coughing, screaming or even muttering to herself. He just wanted to hear something that gave him an indication of what was going on behind that door, but he heard nothing.

He tried to jiggle the handle, desperate for it to open on its own but he couldn't get it to budge. The lock had been pulled across the door.

"(Y/n)? It's me, can you open the door?"

There was a quiet sound on the other side of the door that Geta couldn't decipher what it was. He leaned so close that his ear was almost pressed against the wood. There was a muffled sound, (Y/n) had said something but it was too quiet and distant for Geta to try and work it out. He couldn't hear her moving, all he heard was (Y/n) mutter something before the room went quiet again.

"(Y/n) open the door."

Geta looked at the maid who was stood to one side with her hands clasped in front of her and a panicked expression cemented on her face. This door was going to open one way or another, he would make sure of it. He had to get in that room and see what was happening to his Empress. If (Y/n) was ill, Geta had to be in there with her.

His hand curled up into a fist and before he could stop himself, he thrashed his knuckles on the door, loud enough for (Y/n) to hear wherever she was in their chambers.

She was crying.

He wasn't waiting any longer for her to come and open the door, she was either incapacitated or she didn't want anyone to see her. And Geta didn't care either way because he was getting in there to find out what was happening.

His head snapped from left to right until his wild eyes locked onto a guard a few paces down the hall who was watching the scene curiously. Clearly not wanting to come over and get involved if he wasn't needed. But the moment Geta waved his hand towards the guard, he sped down the hall towards them.

"Open this door."

Perplexion flooded the guard's face; he knew that was the Emperor's own room so to find that he couldn't enter his own chambers was rather worrisome and confusing. But the guard made no attempt to question his Emperor.

He nodded and when Geta stepped back, he hunkered down and began to ram his padded shoulder into the wood. A few strikes and the lock snapped, allowing the door to swing wide open. But as the door opened and the guard tried to walk in, he found the Emperor's hand tight around his arm to stop him.

Geta asked him to open the door, but he didn't ask him to go in and look around. He would find and look after his wife, no one else needed to be involved.

The guard stepped back and stood outside the doorway, clearly wanting to be nearby in case there was a situation that he needed to help with.

Geta stormed into the room, taking caution to look around and see what was happening as he looked for his wife. He could feel the maid following behind but she stood near the doorway, she didn't want to face Geta's wrath in case he told her to get out.

The room looked askew. The sheets on the bed were strewn out of proportion, half hanging on the end of the bed and half tangled in a mess on the floor. The pillows were scrunched and draped in odd positions on the bed like (Y/n) had been moving about and flailing in a hurry. But when Geta got closer to the empty bed, he found his blood running cold and draining down to his toes.

Droplets of blood were stained into the sheets.

"Fetch the healer. Now!"

The maid's already stricken expression paled once again and she nodded, twisting and hurrying from the doorway to find the healer who remained in the palace for such emergencies as this.

With (Y/n) not being in the bed or on the sofa or even at the desk near the balcony, there was only one other place in their chambers where she could be. The privy chamber.

He almost didn't want to look. He didn't want to walk into that room and find out what was happening and what he would be faced with.

It didn't take him long to find her when he walked in.

She was curled up in an awkward shape on the floor, trembling and gasping. But the moment she looked up and realised Geta was there, it was as if the world was starting to crumble and burn around her.

The look of despair in her eyes made Geta's stomach churn and his expression dropped into a gaping look of sorrow when she cried upon seeing him. Why would she look so mortified and harrowing at seeing him? He was by far the only person she allowed and was comfortable with seeing her when she was unwell. Why was this any different?

His robes scrunched around his knees as he crouched down beside her ad gingerly reached his hands out for her. He tried to be delicate and careful when he cupped her face in his hands. He brushed her fallen hair out of her eyes and gently tilted her head up so she was looking up at him. Tears were stained all down her face and her lower lip was speckled with blood from how badly she had bitten her lip. He could feel the way she was shaking, her tremors were vibrating into his bones but it was the fever she seemed to be burning that sent Geta's heart soaring.

(Y/n) lifted a shaking hand up to cup Geta's wrist but all she could do was choke on stuttered breaths and lean into his touch that she had been aching for but too afraid to get him.

"What happened?"

Another floodwave of tears poured down (Y/n)'s face and she shuddered, leaning into Geta's touch despite how badly she wanted to flee from him and his comfort that she didn't deserve.

What was she supposed to say? How was she supposed to explain her failure to him and expect him to understand and be rational when he had every right to be angry and disappointed with her?

"I can't… I- I lost them." Each word came out trembling and hoarse and (Y/n) couldn't look up at her beloved husband as she spoke.

Her hand let go of Geta's wrist to point across the room but she still wouldn't look at him. Her head angled to the left and her cheek pressed into her shoulder as she kept her face angled towards the wall and tightly shut her eyes to try and block out Geta and the world.

Geta could feel his heartbeat pulsing so loudly in his ears that his head swayed and he felt like he was drowning.

All the blood. The scrunched up cloths across the floor. The blood smeared into (Y/n)'s thighs and down her legs and smeared into her palms. The shaking and fever in her system. The way she wouldn't look at him or the blood stains that led across the room.

She'd lost the baby.

Geta's throat suddenly went dry and a wave of heat flooded his system as he looked back at his wife. His Empress. The light of his life. The person who made him who he was and made all of Rome love her and their Emperors with little effort.

His hands were reaching out for her and he hated how she writhed and tried to pull away from him, but she didn't have the ability or the effort. When his hands curled around her arms and he eased her forward into his hold until her face was meshed into his shoulder and he could bind his arms around her waist.

He slid one hand up to curl his hand into (Y/n)'s hair and his lips meshed against the top of her head.

He felt her hands scrunch up in his robes and a deep sob left her lips that started to break his heart all over again.

This is what Geta had been afraid of. This is what he worried about when he thought about this pregnancy. Three times they had been in this position and the first had been the easiest because at least they didn't have any knowledge or expectations and no one else knew. No one would look at (Y/n) or look in disappointment that first time.

But this was the fourth time that (Y/n) had been in this position, losing a life she was so desperate to nurture and carry. Each time it chipped a bit of her away and Geta didn't know what to do to piece her back together and help her through this.

All she wanted was to be able to have a child, and the Gods weren't letting it happen.

"Let's get you in bed for the healer."

The rapid shaking of (Y/n)'s head made Geta frown into her hair and she began tugging and yanking on his robes as she started to shake.

"I'm broken, a h-healer can't fix me." There was nothing a healer could do to fix what was damaged inside of (Y/n). There was something twisted inside her, something not normal. Something inadequate for bearing even one child that Geta yearned for and needed.

She was no Empress, she had no right to hold such a high esteem position or be worthy of Geta's love. How could he love someone infertile and cursed? How could be continue this marriage and continue to love her despite her inadequacy?

A strangled gasp left (Y/n)'s lips when she felt Geta's hands cupping her face and tilting her head back so they were once again looking at each other. And his fingertips pressed deeply into her skin until her eyes finally lifted to lock with him.

"There is nothing to be fixed about you. I want the healer to care for you because I will not lose you or have you become ill. Do you hear me?" His nose pressed against hers and their temples merged as if Geta wished to project each thought in his mind into her head.

He wasn't asking for the healer to fix whatever (Y/n) presumed was wrong within her. That wasn't what he was doing. geta wanted the healer to look after his wife and make sure that she wasn't going to succumb to illness or infection from this. Geta wouldn't lose her.

He would kill himself on the steps of Juno's temple if he lost his wife or if he had to in order to exchange his life for hers. Geta wouldn't live without her.

"I can't carry our child," (Y/n)'s trembling hands cupped Geta's wrists once again as an inner turmoil broke out within her.

She wanted his comfort, she wanted his arms around her and his heartbeat to settle her own. She wanted to feel like she wasn't such a failure that everyone in Rome was going to perceive her as once they learned this news. (Y/n) wanted to cling to Geta until the world turned itself the right way round again and came back to normal. She wanted Geta's love to heal what felt broken and unfixable within her.

But he couldn't fix what was wrong with her, and he didn't deserve a wife who couldn't bear him one child. A wife who had lost four of his children despite how she had prayed, pilgrimaged, fasted and listened to all the advice the healer and midwives would give her. She couldn't do anything right.

"I'm no good-"

"You are everything to me!" Geta's voice rose loud enough that (Y/n) shuddered at the volume and the haste in his words. "My world, my Empress, my life. I'm not putting you through this torture anymore, if we don't have an heir I won't lose any sleep over it. Not as long as I have you."

It didn't matter to Geta if they didn't have a child. His yearn for a child would fade and in comparison to potentially losing his wife to illness from losing a life or insanity from not having a child, being childless was something Geta wouldn't lose sleep over. He would happily spend the rest of his life devoting himself to his wife and doting on her, as long as she was healthy and well he didn't care.

But he wouldn't see her go through this again. Each attempt had left her tortured and suffering in agony both mentally and physically when she lost a life. She couldn't go through this again, Geta would see to it that they didn't pose the risk of another pregnancy only to see it end in torment.

His lips glued to her temple and his arms bound tighter around her as he cocooned her to his chest to keep them both secured to one another. He wanted to keep her safe and tucked up against his heart.

His hold was comforting and relieving and (Y/n) could feel herself starting to simmer down, but the ache in her heart felt like her organ was beating with a stab wound right in the centre.

Why couldn't she bear a child? Why had she lost each of them so soon and suddenly?

What had she done wrong?

[kassy-djomunson]

i need these four to become besties or i’ll sue

[joequinncraves]

joseph quinn characters lockscreens

original size: x | x | x | x | x | x

[joesquinns]

so soft pt. 182

[mylittlepimp]

This part will just forever live rent free in my head

Joseph showed off his new "call on me" tattoo

[medievalharlot]

Tag, You're It 彡 Michael x f!reader

Find my masterlist here!

Pairing: Michael x f!reader

Synopsis: Your annoying roommate turns out to not be as annoying as you expected once you warm up to him, a game of tag leaving the two of you sweaty and panting.

Wordcount: 2,6k

Tags: Smut 18+ minors dni, slight age gap (reader is around 21), bisexual reader because I said so, manhandling, p in v sex, Michael is a bit of a perv, sexual tension, unprotected sex, a bit of dry humping, creampie

A/N: I am so down bad for Michael that it was just a matter of time before I posted sm about him. We are so back! Keep in mind I am not British, tried as best as I could to put some slang in there but if it doesn't make any sense please don't come for me. Enjoy!

It was your brother that had begged you to let Michael stay at your place for a little while. His girlfriend, who you later found out was pregnant, had broken up with him and he needed a place to stay. You knew Michael, he came over every once in a while when you lived at home, you knew he was a typical macho guy. It made you a bit unsure about letting him stay. Did you want somebody, let alone a man in his late twenties, in your private space? But your brother kept begging and begging, even offering money. You could use the extra income, being in your last year at university meant that every bit of extra money helped you pay the rent, and you had a free sofa bed so with slight hesitance you accepted. It would only be for a few weeks and you wouldn't be home most of the time anyway. It would be fine.

That same day Michael moved in. He only had two bags and a few shoes in a garbage bag with him. He looked a little out of place in your livingroom. You liked decorating your rooms with little trinkets and color and Michael, well Michael seemed like the kind of person to have just a table, a chair and a sofa in his livingroom. You prayed that you made the right choice by letting him stay. You had made his bed, made space in your bathroom for his stuff and finally tidied up the place. In a whirl wind you had cleaned your appartement to make sure you didn't come off as messy. Between your job and school you barely had any time to clean, it would be a mess in a few days again.

You were strict with him at first. This was your house, your home, so that meant your rules. No smoking inside, he had to help around the house, no drunken behaviour, help pay the bills, no leaving the toilet seat up, no dirty laundry on the floor and especially no sex in your apartment. The idea of him getting his juices or somebody else's juices on your couch made you wince in disgust. When you told Michael he laughed at first. Like he’ll let you decide that. He said it was unfair, you got to have your girlfriend over so he should get to have a ‘lady friend’ over every now and then too.

Ah yes, your girlfriend. Sera. You two met at university and fell head over heels in a matter of months. She was even more hesitant about you having a man in your house. The times she came to visit she side-eyed Michael the entire time, a distrustful look in her eyes. Often she would tell you to kick him out, he would mess up soon anyway.

Something inside of you told you, don't give up on him just yet. Give him a chance. That didn't mean you didn't get irritated at every single thing he did. Due to his job he had to get up early, usually the other bin men were already waiting for him, and he never failed to wake you up. When it was your turn to get up, it was the dirty teacup he left on the kitchen counter. He always told you he left it there for when he came back so he could have a second cup. Somehow, the cup was always still there when you went to cook dinner.

Other days it was the mess he left in your bathroom. Or the fact that he forgot to seperate the black clothing from the colored clothing. It were little things, but over time you could tell he really tried. One time he attempted to cook dinner when you ran late. He fixed your creaky door and painted your windowsill the color you had always wanted it to be. Those moments made you mind his company a little less.

You tolerated his presence at most, until one night you came stumbling home clearly upset. To your surprised Michael was home early on the couch with a beer, watching tv. That was the last thing you wanted, to have to explain why you were upset. You tried to dash past him to your room to silently cry it out.

“Oi.” He had stood up and grabbed you by your arm. Something was off, you never quietly passed him. There was always something you complained about. Michael didn’t mind tho. Even if you complained, you still helped him with his laundry, cooked him dinner and most importantly put a roof over his head. Besides, he thought it was cute in a way.

“What’s happened.” He asked you, his eyes filled with empathy. You bit your lip, trying to hold in your tears. Michael was the last person you wanted to tell Sera broke up with you, but those big brown eyes made it hard not to walk into his strong arms and feel the warmth of his broad chess.

“None of your business.” You bit back, pulling your arm out of his grip.

“It is if I have to hear you bawl all night.” With a swift move he stood infront of you, blocking your path to your room.

You ran a hand over your face as you flopped down on the couch. He looked at you, his hand in his sides, waiting for you to talk. “We broke up.” You eventually said.

He said down next to you, looking at you. “You and that judgy twat?” Quickly, you shot him a glare. He was right tho. It was one of the reason you broke up tho. Repeatedly having to defend Michael got on your nerves and Sera claimed you picked him over her. “Why?”

“She said I was always taking your side whenever we talked about you.” Michael perked up, you talked about him? “I just couldn’t stand it that she called you a useless, nuts-for-brains, idiot when she doesn’t even know you. And well, apparently she cheated too.” You looked away as you bit back more tears. “Claimed we were fucking as well, so she should be allowed to fuck someone else too.”

Michael looked at you with a slight shock, was he really that important to in your life that you broke up with someone because of him? “Well she’s a proper bitch anyway.” He said while leaning back.

“Michael, be nice.”

“What! She basically called you a slag and a cheater and broke up with you. I’d say that’s proper twat behaviour.” He laughed and shot his hands up in defeat. “If she doesn’t see that you’re an amazing girl to have than that’s her problem.”

You could feel your cheeks heat up at the compliment. He meant it, genuinely, and you could tell he did. Michael wasn’t the person to be dishonest.

“Atleast it’s better than my situation. My ex is pregnant with my baby and broke up with me.” Michael confessed, it wasn’t the full story but you didn’t need to know about that.

“Really, that’s fucked up.” You looked up at him. “You got a cig?”

“Since when do you smoke?” Michael laughed and got up to go outside with you. You pulled him down by his shirt.

“It’s freezing out.” You spoke as he sat down again. He shook his head, reaching for his cigarettes.

“Making me break your very strict rules, lost your mind Y/N?”

That night the two of you shared stories over a few beers and a few cigarettes, somehow you ended up with your head against his shoulder and his arm around you. Something had changed after that, you could almost say you had become the best of budies. You could feel yourself feeling less irritated around him, his stupid cup of tea was filled after Michael got back from his job. He noticed that you started baking for him, every week you shoved a new pastry into his mouth. His guess was that it was your way of showing you cared.

You tried ignoring how he made you feel. It was just innocent butterflies at first. The subtle wink he gave you as he made a joke whenever your brother came over to check in or when he tried folding your towels but ended up just leaving them a mess. They made your cheeks heat up and your stomach do somersaults.

Then, the butterflies turned into desperation and desire. He turned you on like nobody had ever before. You never thought a bin man with a messy love life could make you have the hots that bad, you always assumed you went for people that were smart, with a stable factor to them. Yet you couldn’t help stare as he licked a paper to roll his cigarette, wishing it were you instead. Or when he placed his hand on the small of your back when he passed you in your small kitchen. The way you could feel basically every curve of his dick against your ass when he did made your cunt clench around nothing.

Little did you know he felt the exact same way even before you broke up with your girlfriend. It would be a lie if he said he hasn’t wanked off to the polaroids on your walls. After nearly every shower he went in to sniff your towel, the smell of your soap stirring his cock. Oh how badly he wanted to knead at your thighs, softly sucking your tit while fucking into you, it was like a timebomb ticking to explode any moment..

You had just gotten back home, it was still freezing outside. Michael had already heared you come in, not that he bothered to get up. He leaned his head slightly back so he could see you in the tiny hallway. “How was uni?” He asked.

“It was fine, some freshers decided to interrupt Johnson’s class so we had to stay a little longer. Stupid brats.” You mumbled as you took of your coat and shoes. Michael watched you walk into the apartment. A smirk appeared on your face. The two of you started to play tag somewhere a few weeks ago and the game was still going. You happened to be ‘it’ and seeing Michael sit around made you think he would never expect to be tagged now.

You innocently walked behind the sofa, softly tapping his shoulder. “Tag, you’re it.” Before you even finished your words you took a little sprint across the room. Michael, being in a playfull mood, got up and started chasing after you. To your frustration you had driven yourself into a corner and were now being picked up and thrown over his shoulder by him.

This wasn’t the first time Michael manhandled you. He was a strong lad, he could throw you into to the air and move you around like you weighed nothing. Something about him manhandling you was hot, so you didn’t actually mind all that much, even if you pretended to hate it. You slammed your fist against his back, laughing. “Let me go you big ol’ bully!” A squeal left your lips as he threw you onto your bed.

He stood at the foot of the bed as you laid there, you watched him from inbetween your legs. It dawned on the both of you how sexual this looked. Michael didn’t intend that, but damn it made his dick rockhard seeing you there infront of him. His hands found your thigh, watching you intently to see if you were okay with this.

Your eyes followed his hand as he softly gave your flesh a squeeze. His hands were hot, calloused, rough. You wanted them to never leave your body. With a small wiggle you moved down on the bed, your hips almost met now. His eyes met yours, they were basically begging for permission. With your small nod he moved his hips forward, making them connect with yours.

A small whimper left your lips as you felt his boner against your clothed core. Michael leaned forward, his lips finding your neck as he softly sucked on the skin while writhing his dick against you. “Need this.” He mumbled between butterfly kisses and nips, hands were playing with the waistband of your panties. “These gotta come off love.”

For a moment he stood up straight again, his hands on your knees as he watched you once more. You took the moment to sneak off your jeans, your panties weren’t anything special. Sera was your first partner and she didn’t care much for fancy lace. To Michael it was endearing to see your striped knickers and he couldn’t wait to tear them off.

His hand softly brushed against your belly, lifting your sweater to see your breasts. Lucky him, you had decided not to wear a bra that day. Your nipples hardened at the cool air touching your skin.

“Such a beauty.” Michael whispers softly with a smirk as he looked down at you. Without waiting another moment he took off his shirt and unzipped his jeans so it hung slightly below his hips. Michael was quite buff, the daily hustling of the bins leaving him slightly toned. Yet you liked that he was just a tad chubby, it gave him a nice ass.

“I want you Michael.” You looked at him with pleading eyes. How could he deny you? He pulled his boxers down, his dick springing free. He had quite some length to him, but it was mostly the girth that surprised you.

“You know, staring is rude.” He broke your daze as he spit in his hand to give himself some lubricant. Not that you needed much, you were slicker than a seal from just seeing that. Michael took hold of your thigh again, pulling you just a bit closer. You could feel the head of his cock leaking against your slit. “You on the pill?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.” With a thrust of his hips and a deep groan he slit himself inside of you. Michael leaned forward with his hands planted besides your head, a lose curl falling from his slicked back hair. God, you were tight and warm. “Jesus. Love, you’re gonna kill me.” It was a bit of a painful adjustment for you, but he waited for you to be comfortable.

As soon as you told him you were fine he started moving his hips. With each trust you tried to bite back your moans, didn’t want the neighbours to hear what you and your roommate were up to. His pace was slow, he didn’t like the idea of pounding into you. He wanted to take his sweet ass time fucking you.

Slowly, his calloused thumb rubbed circles on your clit as he fucked into you. He was coaching those moans and whimpers out of you. “You like that?” He teased you as he moved his thumb, receiving a whine in return. “I think you do..”

“Gonna cum..” You managed to mewl a little louder than you wanted. While gripping his forearms you felt your climax wash over you.

“Just a little longer.” Michael told you. With the way you clenched around him he was gonna cum any minute now. He needed a few more thrust before he burst inside of you, your sensetive pussy now filled with his seed.

When he finally pulled out, he looked down at your cunt. It was slightly leaking, both your juices mixed together. “Now that is a lovely view.” He chuckled, slapping the side of your thigh before looking at you with a smirk.

“Guess I broke your most important rule hmm?”

[samslvrgirl]

dating johnny storm in the futuristic 50s

request?: no

masterlist

requests <- leave a message in the ask box or comment!