#Slow moving Senate

[thebearer]

nothing in the world belongs to me |carmen berzatto x reader|

prompt: still new in your relationship, you show up to the bear for dinner unexpectedly, surprising carmen and the others.

based off this prompt from the other day :)

contains: fluff lol. really, it's just fluff. established-ish relationship (the others don't know). carmen being a little nervous and possessive but mainly cute <3 language.

“Alright, listen up,” Richie stood next to Sydney, flicking through the piles of tickets that were ringing through by the second. It was normal now, an expected task in their routine. “We need to walk the focaccia to table seven, please.” 

“Yes, Chef!” A chorus of nearly robotic voices rose from the sizzling hiss of the lamb searing in Carmen’s pan, lifting the spatula to tip the meat over, before giving it back to the chef on the line. 

“And for table nine, we’ve got a shellfish allergy, alright? So let’s triple check the cross contamination on that. T, can you handle that one?” Richie moved from his leather bound book of notes back to the ticket. 

“Yes, Chef!” Tina chimed, pulling a freshly washed pan, filling it with the veal stock. 

“Table nine, is that- that’s the senator?” Carmen turned to Richie, tasting the roux bubbling on Victoria’s station, giving her a curt nod of approval. 

“No, that’s table eleven.” Richie hummed, looking back at his notebook. “Nine, is… a birthday. Booked online.” Carmen had already begun to drone him out, mind racing with a million other things as Richie listed the guests name. Until he got to one. 

The name Carmen was sure he was hallucinating. The name no one knew- How would they know? How could they possibly know your name? 

You and Carmen had been seeing each other for a little while. A few weeks that were slowly turning into months. A casual thing that was slowly turning more serious. Dates and meetups are becoming more frequent. You’d even invited him over to your place a few times, he’d spent the night last week. 

Still, Carmen hadn’t managed to tell anyone. Selfishly, he liked that you were all his for now. Privacy was not guaranteed in the Berzatto house, in Carmen’s life still. He knew they meant well, they always did- he knew it wasn’t purposeful, the intrusion that almost always led to a demise. Carmen wasn’t ready for it, not yet, he still wanted you all to himself. 

“Carmen?” Sydney’s voice pulled him out of his panicked trance. “Chef, are you- are you good?” Her voice lilted with that familiar suspicious quip, the one always accompanied with her lifted brows. 

“What?” Carmen blinked, hands buzzing, heart thumping. He could see the window, Richie’s frame blocking most of it. “Sorry, yeah- yeah, I’m good, Chef.” 

Sydney watched him carefully, a slow nod before she continued calling out orders. Carmen could feel Richie’s eyes on him, narrowed with curiosity. Carmen tried to be nonchalant, crossing the kitchen back towards Tina, his eyes cutting carefully, looking out the window. 

There you were. 

Sitting pretty at the middle table, surrounded by friends, some Carmen recognized from your Instagram. He’d actually logged in to the app, looked you up after the first date, consumed every photo of yours in the dark of his room. Cheeks burning with excited heat, stomach fluttering in a way he hadn’t felt since junior high. 

“Alright, walk five salads to nine.” Sydney called out. “Where’s our runners? God, Richie, can you run-” 

“-I got it.” Carmen called, the urgency in his tone making Tina jump behind him. Carmen took the tray before Gary could, his hands shaking as he lifted it. 

“Cousin, I can get it.” Richie frowned. 

“No, I-I got it.” Carmen nodded, swallowing down his fluttering nerves. His eyes cut to your table through the window, heart skipping when he saw you. “I got it. I’ll be- I’ll just be a second.” 

“I don’t- I can’t even handle that one right now.” Sydney sighed in exasperation. “Alright, Chefs. Let’s get back on track.” She announced, shaking her head. Richie frowned, pulling out his phone. 

Sugar’s cell buzzed against the hostess stand, excusing herself to check it. 

From: Richie 

‘Look at table nine.’ 

Sugar huffed. 

To: Richie 

‘Why? Is there something wrong?’ 

She stepped back, casually turning to scan the room, eyes landing on the table. A small group of girls, younger, and amongst them- Carmen? 

To: Richie 

‘Is something wrong with the food? Do I need to comp it?’ 

From: Richie 

‘No. Cousin wanted to go out there.’ 

Sugar frowned, angling her body behind the large plant near the front as casually as she could. She watched through the leaves as Carmen passed out the salads, each girl grinning widely, but their eyes always cut to one on the end. 

Carmen saved your salad for last, hoping the lowlights of the restaurant would hide his boyish blush, setting the bowl in front of you carefully. “Hey,” 

“Hi,” You smiled sheepishly, looking to meet his gaze. “Everything looks so good.” 

“Yeah? Thanks.” Carmen nodded. “I-I didn’t know you were comin’ tonight.” 

“I’m sorry.” You cringed softly, embarrassed heat flooding through your veins. You knew better, knew you shouldn’t have done this- showed up at his restaurant unannounced. 

“I, uh, it’s my friend’s birthday.” You nodded towards Alicia at the end of the table. “And I was telling them about that pasta you made me, and they really wanted to come try it.” Your nerves bubbled, rambling in nervous peals that seemed to pour out before you could stop them.  

“Yeah, no, that’s really nice. Thank you.” Carmen nodded, giving a half smile to your friends, hoping they didn’t see the way he wiped his clammy hands on his apron. “Why didn’t- Why didn’t you just call me? Tell me you were comin’ in.” 

“I didn’t want to bother you.” You muttered softly. “I honestly didn’t think you’d even see us here, I swear. I didn’t mean to bother you or anything-” 

“-You’re not bothering me.” Carmen’s voice dropped to a coo, accompanied with a soft smile that had your head spinning. “Never a bother, but, uh, next time? Bother me, ok? Wanna make sure you get the best seat in the house.” 

Your cheeks flushed with heat, your friends excited giggles only intensifying the rushing heat blanketing over your body. Carmen’s own cheeks heated, tongue rolling on the inside of his cheek to hide his grin. 

“Alright?” Carmen added, and in a complete act of shocking boldness, his hand squeezed your shoulder affectionately. A small gesture on the outside, but for Carmen, it was huge. 

“Alright.” You grinned, leaning into his touch, your hands sliding over his. 

“How’s everything so far?” Carmen turned to the table, nodding at the excited gushes of compliments, not missing the way your friends cut their eyes to you with animated glee. 

“Just let me know if you need anything, ok?” Carmen turned to you.

“I will.” You nodded, starry eyed with love sick affection. 

“Good. I’ll see you before you leave, alright?” Carmen muttered, ducking down towards you. His lips brushed over your cheek, your perfume clouding his senses. “You’re not botherin’ me. ‘M glad you’re here.” 

Your cheek pressed to his, a gentle, affectionate rub before Carmen parted. Both of your features painted with shy delight. 

Carmen could feel everyone’s eyes, through flickering gazes and lifted brows. Sydney’s gaze lingering over him skeptically, still counting tickets. Fak’s wide grin from the corner, loading trays to take out. 

“Hey, uh, Marcus.” Carmen ignored Richie’s raised brows, a teasing, questioning remark on the tip of his tongue. 

“Yes, Chef?” Marcus muttered, looking up from the cannolis he was garnishing. 

“Table nine has a birthday. I was thinkin’ maybe the chocolate ganache, punch it with the little circle to make it look like a cake. Add a candle?” Carmen muttered, hand rubbing across his face. 

“Yeah, Chef, I can do that.” Marcus nodded. 

“Thank you.” Carmen nodded. “And Chef? Let me know when it’s ready before you walk it.” 

Marcus frowned. “No, it’s not- I just wanna walk it, ok?” Carmen shook his head. 

“Alright.” Marcus nodded slowly. “Heard, Chef.” 

Richie smirked, leaning against the stainless steel table. “So,” Richie hummed. “There a complaint or somethin’? Need me to go talk to ‘em-” 

“-No,” Carmen snapped, the possessiveness in his tone startling the both of them. “Sorry, it’s- No, I-I don’t need you to do that, Chef. Everything’s good.” 

Richie nodded slowly, passing the dishes to Gary with a nod. “You gonna tell me what that was about?” 

“No, Chef.” Carmen clipped, an edge to his tone that was teetering on annoyed. “But, uh, there’s not gonna be a check on table nine.” 

“What?” Richie frowned. “Did you mess somethin’ up? Seriously, Cousin, if something's wrong it’s my job to know-” 

“-No, it’s not-.” Carmen huffed, eyes pinching closed, running a hand over his face in frustration. “Look, that’s… The girl on the end? I-I’ve been kinda seein’ her, ya know?” He muttered. 

Richie gawked, blinking in disbelief. “No shit.” He grinned. “No shit? You-You’re serious?” He turned to look out the window. 

“Don’t fuckin’ look.” Carmen hissed. “Look, it-it’s not a big deal, alright? Just don’t-don’t say anything o-or do anything.” 

Richie swallowed back a teasing remark, a reactive reaction from years of being with Mikey. How the two of them used to tease Carmen endlessly, until they were fighting on the front lawn, Mikey howling with laughter while Carmen was red faced with mortified anger. 

This time, Richie held back. He wasn’t sure why, call it divine intervention, a gut feeling maybe, but it felt different this time. 

“Alright.” Richie nodded slowly. “No ticket for nine. Heard.” 

Carmen’s foot tapped anxiously. “I mean, right? Th-That’s what I should do right?” Carmen looked over his shoulder out the window. “That would be shitty to give her a check? Be a complete jagoff move to charge her?” 

“Yeah,” Richie scoffed lightly. “Jagoff of the fuckin’ year. Makin’ your girl pay to come to your place.” 

Carmen’s heart swelled at the term- your girl. His girl. You were his girl. 

“Walk four Pappardelle to nine. Walk one Pappardelle vegetarian style to nine.” Sydney called. 

Carmen dipped the spoon in the glaze, garnishing the plate before sliding it towards Sydney. “So, you gonna take these out?” He muttered. 

“No,” Carmen huffed. “Gonna wait until the cake.” 

“Yeah, good idea, Cousin.” Richie nodded with a proud smile. “That when you’re gonna tell them no check tonight?” 

“No,” Carmen shook his head. “I don’t- It would feel weird comin’ from me.” He looked up at Richie. “I was gonna let you do it.” 

“Yeah, I can handle that.” Richie smirked. “And I won’t say anything, Cousin.” He stopped Carmen before he could say it. “I got you, Cousin. I won’t fuck it up, alright?” 

Carmen nodded slowly, a strangled thank you on the tip of his tongue. The door swung open behind Richie, and for a second, Carmen caught a glimpse of you. Smiling and laughing, leaned in over the table, no doubt giggling with your friends about him. Carmen’s heart squeezed, but this time, without fear. No, there was no dooming fear that you were mocking him, making fun of him. This time, he felt the content rush of adrenaline filled love. A change in his routine, yes. Unexpected, sure, but he was glad for it. Glad that you were there- here, with him.

[padmespetal]

kiss me — anakin skywalker

synopsis: Behind closed doors, love defies duty—soft whispers, stolen touches, and a longing the galaxy can never know.

word count: 962

warnings: none <3

note: just a cute small piece I wrote hope you enjoy 🤍

“Senator.”

Anakin’s voice was soft but laced with mischief, his presence a warm, forbidden secret in the dimly lit sanctuary of your quarters.

You barely had time to process the moment before the door clicked shut behind him, sealing the two of you away from the world outside—the Senate halls buzzing with political tension, the looming obligations that pulled you apart more often than they brought you together.

“Anakin, you shouldn’t be here,” you scolded in a whisper, hands pressing lightly against his chest as if to push him away, though you both knew you wouldn’t. It was impossible.

He only smiled, that boyish smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “I know,” he admitted, utterly unrepentant. “I just couldn’t help myself.”

His words curled around your heart, warm and intoxicating. You wanted to be angry—truly, you did—but how could you when he was standing there, looking at you as though you were the entire galaxy wrapped in silk and moonlight?

“Our visit to Alderaan was postponed, so the Council gave us the afternoon off.” He explained it so casually, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to slip away from duty just to see you. “So, I decided to come see you.”

His voice dropped to something softer, something intimate, as he took a careful step forward. It was always like this—stolen time, fleeting moments, a love that existed in the spaces where duty dared not tread.

Your heart ached with longing, a feeling that had settled deep in your bones after too many days apart, too many nights spent pretending not to search for his face in a crowded Senate hall.

You sighed, pretending to be exasperated, but the way you leaned into his touch betrayed you. His hands found your face, fingertips ghosting over your skin with all the tenderness in the universe.

“Oh, Ani,” you whispered, voice trembling with the weight of unspoken emotions.

His breath was warm against your lips, his forehead resting against yours as if he needed to feel you close just to remind himself this was real.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his robes, desperate to hold onto something solid as the room around you blurred into insignificance. The galaxy could crumble and burn, and it wouldn’t matter—not here, not now, not with him.

“I’ve missed you,” he confessed, and you knew—without a doubt, without hesitation—that every word he spoke was the truest thing in the world.

“Kiss me.”

The words left you in a whisper, almost a plea, as your gaze flickered between his lips and his eyes. You saw it—the shift in his expression, the darkening of his pupils, the way his jaw tensed ever so slightly as his restraint wavered. His thumb traced the shape of your lips, slow and deliberate, sending shivers down your spine.

“Please,” you added, breathless.

That was all it took. His hand tangled into your hair, pulling you forward as his lips crashed into yours. It wasn’t just a kiss—it was everything you had been missing, everything you had been forced to suppress in the name of duty.

Love, longing, desperation—they poured into the way his lips moved against yours, how his hands traced the curves of your waist as if committing you to memory.

Anakin pulled you closer, as close as humanly possible, as if he could mold you into him, as if proximity alone could fuse your souls together.

Your heart hammered against your ribs, mirroring his own, and when the need for air became unbearable, you broke apart just enough to breathe.

But Anakin wasn’t finished. He pressed soft, fleeting kisses along your cheek, down to your jaw, along the column of your throat. Each one sent a spark of warmth through your veins, and you giggled, the sound light and breathless.

“Anakin, stop,” you teased, though you made no real effort to move away.

He grinned against your skin, his lips lingering just below your ear. “You torture me by denying me,” he murmured, his voice laced with faux dramatics, though the truth of it burned beneath his words.

You were about to respond—something playful, something light—but a sudden knock at the door shattered the moment into pieces.

“Senator Y/L/N, your presence will soon be needed,” a voice called from the other side.

The atmosphere shifted instantly. Anakin’s shoulders tensed, the playful spark in his eyes dimming as reality reared its ugly head.

You let out a quiet sigh, smoothing down the wrinkles in your robes as you prepared to face the world beyond this room.

“I’m sorry, Ani…” you whispered, reaching for his hand. Your fingers laced together effortlessly, grounding you, anchoring you.

“It’s not your fault,” he reassured you, but his voice was quieter now, touched with something somber.

You squeezed his hand one last time before pulling away. “I’ll see you tonight?”

His nod was small, but the longing in his gaze spoke volumes. “Tonight.”

You took a deep breath and stepped toward the door, but just as your fingers grazed the handle, his voice stopped you in your tracks.

“I love you.”

You froze, the three words sinking deep into your heart, filling the spaces left hollow by distance and duty. Slowly, you turned back, meeting his eyes, and for a moment, time stilled.

A smile—soft, genuine, filled with every unspoken promise—curved your lips. “I love you too,” you whispered, voice steady, unwavering. “Always.”

And with that, you stepped beyond the door, back into the world that would never truly understand what existed behind it. But as long as Anakin was waiting for you on the other side, none of it mattered.

© padmespetal 2025 - I DO NOT APPROVE OF MY WORKS TO BE TRANSLATED OR COPIED ANYWHERE WITHOUT PERMISSION

tags:

[radawaycunt]

Imperator

Also on AO3

Pairing: Lucius Verus Aurelius x Fem!Reader

WC: 6.7k words

Summary: Once, you only had the memory of the curious barbarian poet, entertaining guests at a party with both violence and verse. But it's not until you see him again, now as emperor, that you get to know the man underneath the titles.

Warnings: Minors DNI this fic is 18+, power imbalance (emperor/servant to freedwoman), mutual pining, slow-ish burn, sort of forbidden love?, lots and lots of fluff good lord, some jealousy, some angst, lovey dovey smut, unprotected p in v, oral (f receiving), maybe some historical inaccuracies lol (I care a lot okay), and iii think that's it but lmk if anything else!

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

"Love will enter cloaked in friendship's name."

– Ovid.

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“The gates of hell are open night and day. Smooth the descent, and easy is the way. But to return, and view the cheerful skies, In this the task and mighty labor lies.”

That was the first time you had ever heard him speak, the deep timbre of his voice riddled with contempt. Moments before, he had killed another gladiator, his blood spattered on him like a gruesome adornment. But there was no savagery in his fierce eyes, no mere bloodthirst in the sneer directed at Emperor Geta, your Dominus. His glare was even, like a cold, blue flame that promised not just violence, but retribution as well.

You’d recognized the poem immediately, just as taken aback as everyone else. Nobody moved, the room’s collective breath held in anticipation of the inevitable repercussions of such an offense. Emperor Geta made the slightest move to raise his sword and you gripped the decanter of wine tighter, but your face remained impassive.

“Virgil,” supplied Macrinus, trying to placate him with a broad smile. “He was taught poetry just to amuse you, Imperators.”

There was another momentary pause in which neither twin was sure if they should believe him. But then, Caracalla snorted, standing up to clap the taller man’s shoulder.

“A poet,” He said, laughing. “That’s genius, Macrinus.”

“Yes, certainly very amusing,” Geta said begrudgingly, his jaw clenched. 

He and the gladiator had not stopped staring at each other for one moment, like two vipers poised to strike. 

“Good, I thought you’d like that,” Macrinus said, approaching his fighter to grasp his shoulder, perhaps in warning. “We live to serve you both.”

“Well, I look forward to seeing your poet at the upcoming games in the Colosseum,” he spits out, throwing the sword aside with a loud clatter. “Let’s see how his verses work for him then.”

Macrinus nodded at his steward to take the gladiator away. He was smiling, seemingly amused, as the steward approached him. As he was being shoved back to the atrium, his eyes took one last baleful look around the room. For the briefest second, you thought his eyes met yours, striking you like a piercing arrow, but then he was gone. 

You had no time to dwell on it though, as Emperor Geta returned to his seat and raised his glass to be refilled. But that didn’t mean you would forget so easily, even if your paths might never cross again. All you could do was offer a prayer to the Gods for him. 

—--------------------------

The next time you saw him, he was no longer a barbarian gladiator hailed from a distant land, but the new – and rightful – Emperor of Rome. His name was not Hanno, but Lucius Verus Aurelius, and he was the son of the recently passed Queen Lucilla, whom Rome still mourned. 

He was not cruel like the twins had been, rarely raising his voice, much less his hand. His demeanor was usually calm, but sometimes he stalked the halls restlessly, as if unsure what he should be doing. He still rose with the sun and trained for a couple of hours in the morning, already used to the routine he’d had as a gladiator, but after that, it was all politics. Endless scrolls of parchment to pore over, meetings to hold with the senate, and lending a patient ear to the populace’s needs. The weight of an empire was on his shoulders, and yet he didn’t bow under it. 

During the day, you served his wine and silently hovered around for anything else he might need. At night, you drew his baths, kept his torches lit, and prepared his bed. You would have helped him disrobe too, already used to it from your days of serving Geta, but he chose to do so himself. He was not quite used to his every need being attended to, self-sufficiency deeply ingrained in his being. Mostly, he waved away other servants, leaving you instead to care for him personally. 

There were times when you caught him looking at you as if you seemed vaguely familiar, a furrow in his brow when he couldn’t place you. You couldn’t fault him for not remembering you from Senator Thraex’s party, but there was a certain thrill at having piqued his curiosity regardless. Still, you kept your head down and offered no hints, as was your place. 

Until one night, while he watched you add aromatic oils and test the bath’s temperature, he finally asked the question that had been on his mind for days.

“What is your name?”

You were startled at first, not having expected him to address you at all. You told him your given Roman name, Domicia, and bowed your head respectfully. He pushed himself off the doorway and stepped into the bathroom, humming thoughtfully.

“Of the home,” he said, referring to the name’s meaning. “Are you Roman? Is that your real name?”

You shook your head in answer to both questions. “I have been in Rome for many years now, though.”

“I have not,” he said, a note of melancholy in his voice. “Yet I grew up here, in these very halls…”

He trailed off, looking around absently, lost in his memories. You could not begin to imagine what he had been through, what he had seen. You had heard of his being sent away as a child, with absolutely no choice in the matter, and could empathize with him. 

All you had ever known was a humble life in your native country, until you were stripped of your freedom and brought to the capital of Rome. Neither place felt like home, just the past and the present, and perhaps he was viewing things the same way. You could imagine, even understand, the bittersweetness of returning to a place one thought they might never see again. 

“We are honored and grateful to have you back, Dominus,” you said. “I hope things have been to your satisfaction.”

“I have no complaints,” he said, yet he sighed. “Though becoming accustomed to being here, in my current position, is going to take some more time.”

“If there is anything I can do to make it easier for you, please let me know.”

He inclined his head gratefully, your eyes meeting for a moment. “Thank you, Domicia.”

He had the barest of smiles on his handsome face, but you could tell it was genuine. You felt one corner of your lips tugging upwards, but you looked away out of propriety. Even if you were in the same room, you were leagues apart, and it would do you no good to try to imagine otherwise.

You stood up, grabbing the decanter from a nearby table to have it refilled. “Your bath is ready now. Would you like refreshments other than wine?”

He nodded and you bowed, making your way out. By the time you returned with more wine and a platter of olives, bread, and cheese, he was already in the bathtub, leaning back with his eyes closed. Your feet padded softly on the mosaic floor to avoid  disturbing him, and you left his refreshments on the table near the tub.

You settled at one side of the room just in case he might need anything, staring off into the middle distance and letting your mind drift. He glanced at you sidelong, his curiosity having only grown after your brief conversation. He still had that nagging feeling that he had seen you somewhere before, but he didn’t want to ask outright.

You felt his gaze on you but pretended not to, keeping your eyes averted. You thought again of the poem he’d recited, how different his demeanor had been then. You wondered what other verses he’d been taught, and if you might ever hear him recite anything again. He had a voice for poetry, somehow turning the words into a sort of enchantment, keeping one entranced.

“Doesn’t it feel… strange sometimes?” he said suddenly, staring up at the ceiling. “When things settle and you realize how far you have come? How much you’ve had to sacrifice for it?”

You hummed in agreement, waiting for him to say more. 

“Sometimes, I even wonder if it was all worth it.”

Still lost in a haze of verses, you spoke before you could even think it through.

“Fortunate is he whose mind has the power to probe the causes of things and trample underfoot all terrors and inexorable fate.”

He sat up, surprised. “You know Virgil.” Recognition finally dawned on him. “You were at that party, weren’t you?”

You nodded. “Your words then were just as sharp as your blade.”

He huffed, leaning against the edge of the tub as he remembered his barely contained hatred. “Were you taught poetry to amuse, as well?”

“No, I used to read it with my mother when I was younger.”

“Who else have you read?”

“Ovid, Sappho, Horace…” You became a little flustered as he raised his eyebrows. “My mother was a bit of a romantic.”

“And you?”

It was your turn to huff with amusement, looking down at your hands. “I don’t believe I inherited that trait, no.”

The truth was that in a place such as Rome, love was quite hard to come by. You didn’t actively search for it, its ephemeral nature making you less inclined to, but you were no complete stranger to it. You’d never let it take root, though, for it was not something you could afford to have. 

“What about you, Dominus?”

“Me?” he said. “I suppose… I’m not entirely sure anymore. I used to be, at one point.”

His haunted expression told you not to press him for details, so you just nodded sympathetically. The two of you lapsed into silence, the weight of tragedy hanging between you. You’d had a lot more time to become numb to your circumstances, but it was clear the pain he was experiencing was still fresh. 

“I will be forced to remarry eventually.” He sighed heavily. “Produce heirs to carry out the lineage, show Rome a unified front.”

“Well, whoever you marry shall be the most fortunate woman in the empire.”

He couldn’t help but chuckle, looking over at you. “You really believe so? You’re not just flattering me?”

“Of course,” you said, giving him a cryptic smile that made him laugh again. “I’m perfectly serious.”

“Oh, I am sure you are.”

After some time, he rose with a small splash, prompting you to immediately approach with an outstretched towel. His nudity barely registered in your mind, having already glimpsed him a few times. You wouldn’t dare to look at him directly, even if you were more than a little curious. You tensed as his fingers barely brushed yours in the exchange, but you quickly stepped back to give him more room.

He wrapped the towel around his waist, water dripping down his sculpted arms and chest. You went to start tidying up, studiously keeping your eyes on your task. He watched as you picked up the refreshments to take to the main chamber, a part of him wishing you would look at him instead. 

“One more thing,” he said and you immediately turned around. “Please, I want you to call me Lucius.”

Your face heated up at the mere thought of it. “I could never be so bold…”

“I insist,” he said, holding up a hand as you began to stammer again. “Perhaps only when it is just the two of us, if you’d prefer.”

“I will certainly try my best,” you said with an awkward grin, trying to keep your composure.

He chuckled. “Good enough for me.”

—-----------------

Weeks passed, and while Lucius still hadn’t managed to get you to call him by name, he had certainly gotten you to open up more. In the evenings, the two of you swapped more poetry, often sharing your own interpretations of the verses. At some point, he even had scrolls fetched from the library for you to read to him. He enjoyed the mellifluous sound of your voice, so at odds with your serious expression when you were concentrating. To have him as your sole audience was already titillating,  but the fact that he paid close attention was even more of a rush.

During the day, you anxiously looked forward to those handful of hours in which everything else disappeared. No speak of Rome, politics, or bitter memories, content with being each other’s brief escape. You still held yourself at a certain distance, though, always aware of the chasm between you. Yet he never made you feel inferior, often encouraging you to share your thoughts and opinions with him despite your reticence. You would even dare to say he cared, or at least that’s what you wanted to believe.

You wouldn’t necessarily say you were getting attached, for that would be too unrealistic of a fantasy, but you could not deny the butterflies in your stomach that often appeared while around him. His easy, handsome smile, the kindness in his eyes, his patient indulgence when listening to you, and the effort he put into making you laugh…

But the spell was abruptly broken the day he received a visit from his friend Ravi, who had brought someone for him to meet – a respectable Roman lady. A widow, as it happened, just like Lucius. Her hair was perfectly styled, falling in ringlets that framed her lovely face. She wore a lavender-colored dress with a matching veil, much fancier than anything you’d ever owned, and was adorned with golden jewelry. More importantly, she was freeborn, and thus a perfectly good candidate for marriage.

You swallowed hard, otherwise keeping your expression neutral. You hadn’t thought he would start meeting potential brides so soon, and you certainly hadn’t expected how it would make you feel. At least, Lucius also seemed surprised, not expecting his friend to try to set him up without consulting him first. Still, he assumed the role of gracious host and welcomed them warmly, leading them out to the gardens. He glanced over his shoulder at you as you silently trailed behind them, but you didn’t meet his gaze.

The three of them reclined on the couches of the outdoor dining area, shaded by a wooden pergola. It was a beautiful sunny day, the birds singing accompanied by the gurgle of the large fountain at the center of the garden. A gentle breeze stirred the foliage, carrying the faint, sweet smell of a dozen different flowers. 

You served them wine and hovered close by as another servant brought them food to snack on. Lucius had deliberately sat across from where you stood just so he could keep an eye on you. You’d withdrawn into yourself, trying your hardest to remain indifferent instead of worrying about whether the meeting went well or not. If it did, then you had to be happy for him, but if it didn’t… Well, at least that would buy you a little more time, if nothing else.

“Such a lovely garden,” the lady, Ilaria, said as she looked around. “One could never tire of such a view.”

Lucius nodded absently but said nothing, as if he hadn’t heard her.

“I could see you fitting in perfectly with all the other flowers here,” Ravi cut in, smiling with as much charm as he could muster to make up for it.

Ilaria inclined her head, modestly waving off the compliment. “Oh, you flatter me, Ravi.”

He gave Lucius a subtle, pointed look to encourage him to follow his lead. Lucius sat up and cleared his throat, only just focusing on the conversation. He had been trying to get your attention as subtly as possible, but he hadn’t been successful. 

“Er, yes, it’s always a treat to spend time out here. Certainly helps to clear the mind.”

Ravi shook his head a little and tried not to snort with amusement, thinking he was a lost case. Ilaria smiled, unbothered, taking a handful of grapes from a platter and popping one into her mouth. 

“I’d wager there is much on your plate, Imperator,” she said. “And having to manage the household staff on top of everything else… Must be a little overwhelming for you, no?”

“Well, I am a very busy man, yes, but it hasn’t been all that bad,” Lucius said. “I’ve certainly had a great deal of support to see me through.”

His words managed to reach you, softening you up infinitesimally. This time, when he glanced at you, you finally looked back. The ghost of a smile was on your face, but you quickly looked away before it could actually manifest.

“I see. Well, I’m very glad to hear that,” Ilaria said, sharing a curious glance with Ravi, who looked slightly apologetic. “Though perhaps you have considered that having someone run the house for you would take a big burden off your shoulders. I would be more than happy to lend a hand if you’d consider it.”

His eyebrows raised slightly at her boldness, not missing the eagerness in her gaze, poorly concealed behind her innocently helpful demeanor. He certainly did not want to get her hopes up, but he smiled graciously to soften the blow.

“Ah, perhaps in the future, when I have more time to worry about such things,” he said, politely noncommittal. “But I appreciate the offer.”

Her smile wavered and then froze, not wanting to seem too disappointed. “Of course, Imperator.”

For the remainder of their visit, Lucius let them do most of the talking, any remarks he made were studiously polite and yet still a little aloof. Finally, after a few hours, he excused himself, needing to return to his duties. Ravi seemed hesitant, like he wanted to stay behind and speak to him privately, but he would have to wait for another day. He escorted them both out, thanking them for visiting, but he did not exactly invite Ilaria to return to the palace. Her disappointment was more palpable then, but she hid it with as much grace as she could muster.

When they were gone, he turned to you with a shake of his head and a sigh, grinning with bewilderment.

“I do not enjoy being ambushed,” he said as if he felt the need to explain himself. “Decent enough as she seemed.”

You bowed your head in agreement, more relieved than you would like to admit. You had no real reason to have been upset earlier, given that there was nothing between you except for a certain kinship. Even so, it was clear he had not wanted you to be hurt, and you were very thankful for that. You offered him a small smile and some tension seemed to leave his shoulders.

He inclined his head towards the eastern hallway leading to his study. “Come, I would like you to read some documents to me. I can get work done faster that way.”

The tablinum was spacious but cozy, with a door to one side that led to a smaller patio. Before, the twin emperors had never used the room, but now it seemed well lived in. There was a mess of scrolls and wax tablets all over his desk that he still hadn’t let you organize. On the wall behind, there was a recently completed fresco of a gladiator riding a chariot pulled by two horses. For another wall, he had commissioned a portrait of Vesta, goddess of the home and the hearth, but it was still a work in progress. He was particularly proud of that one, an unspoken gift for you, his muse.

You lit the oil lamps in their alcoves, bathing the room in warm light. Lucius sat at his desk with a heavy exhale and scanned his notes to remember where he had left off the previous day. You sat on a stool beside him, unfurling the scroll he handed you and resting it on your knees. The texts you read didn’t always make sense to you, but you understood their importance. The fact that he was entrusting you with such work was an honor you did not take for granted.

“Start in that middle section. There is some stuff I would like to revisit,” he said, taking up his stylus. 

You nodded, finding what he was referring to and starting right away. You read to him for the next couple of hours, only stopping if he needed you to repeat something or in case he needed more time to make his notes. A few times during the latter, you glanced up to take in the focused furrow of his brow, a muscle in his jaw ticking as he pondered. You wondered what he might be thinking about, wishing he would impart some more knowledge on you. 

Outside, the sun was beginning to set, shadows deepening in the corners of the room. Another servant brought him dinner, but he didn’t seem too hungry yet. He handed you his cup of water when he heard you clear your throat a few times, insisting when you were reluctant to take it. 

When he was done for the day, he stretched his arms over his head with a groan and slumped in his seat. You neatly rolled the parchment back up and stood so you could stretch your legs. 

“I hope I haven’t tired you too much,” he said, folding his hands behind his head and leaning back. “You can take the rest of the evening off from reading if you’d like, but I would still appreciate some company.”

“Well, I still need to draw your bath and…”

“Somebody else can take care of it,” he cut in with a shrug, not preoccupied.

You hesitated. “What would you have me do instead, then?”

“Just sit back down, relax for a moment,” he said, getting up. “Here, you can have my chair. Much more comfortable.”

You were about to protest, but he gave you a look that said it was not up for discussion. You pursed your lips, uncomfortable at the idea of being idle, especially while taking up his seat. Still, you obeyed and sat down, hands folded on your lap. Feeling a little bold, you looked at him as if to say ‘satisfied?’ and he huffed in amusement.

“Wait, stay still,” he murmured suddenly, leaning down.

You froze as his face hovered mere inches away from yours, his breath fanning over your cupid’s bow. Delicately, he removed a stray eyelash that had been resting on your cheekbone, and he pulled back a little so you could see it on the pad of his finger.

“Make a wish,” he said.

All you could do was stare at him for another breathless moment that seemed to stretch on infinitely. You licked your lips nervously, drawing his eyes there before they returned to hold your gaze. Your heart was like a nervous bird fluttering wildly in your ribcage. Your mind was mostly blank, but the one thought that popped up was ‘I wish he would close the distance right now.’

You gently blew the eyelash away, your wish scattering into the air alongside it. The Gods must have decided to grant it immediately, for he did not pull away, instead slowly leaning in. His lips brushed yours tentatively and you closed your eyes, rejoicing for the barest second before you forced your face to turn away.

“We shouldn’t…” you murmured, the words hard to utter when a desperate want clung to your throat like honey.

“Why not?” He whispered.

“It’s not– I’m not…” You vaguely gestured towards yourself, unsure of what the right words were. 

He pulled back to look at you better. “Was I too presumptuous?”

You shook your head. “Not at all.”

“Then what is it?” He pressed.

“Dominus, please.”

“Lucius,” he pleaded, loathing the title. “Say it, please.”

“Lucius,” you said finally, though your eyes still spelled defiance when you glanced at him. “Is it not obvious? We both know it’s impossible.” Your lower lip trembled slightly. “I have a heart, too, you know? I don’t want it to be broken.”

“I know that, of course I know that!” He said, placing his hands on your shoulders and crouching in front of you. “I have no intention of breaking your heart.”

“Surely you understand where I am coming from, though.” You sniffed, keeping tears at bay. “I am not wife material, like the lady Ilaria. I have nothing to offer, no dowry, no family name, or even an inkling of Patrician blood. ”

“I do not care for such things. I would never demand them of you. Even if we cannot marry, I will not marry anyone else that isn’t you,” he said with a firm, determined shake of his head. “But I can still give you my name, along with your freedom. That’s all that matters to me.”

You gasped, the shock of his words akin to a bucket of ice water being dumped over you. Now you let the tears spill over, like a dam had finally burst. He kissed them away, his hands cupping your face gently.

“I have been thinking of nothing else since I met you. I’ve already made the arrangements… I suppose I just didn’t want to ruin the surprise.”

“You honor me,” you said, smiling despite the tears. “You always have.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” He asked. “You have given me more than you think. You brought me the peace I have been so desperately seeking for a long time.”

“I-I don’t even know how to thank you.” You placed a hand over his. “If you desire to give me your name, then I shall give you mine in return.”

You told him your name, the real one, which you had been hiding ever since your Roman name was given to you. He had never asked you for it, knowing that one’s name was the only thing one could truly own in this world. And now for you to give it freely… He repeated it, testing its shape on his tongue, and smiled radiantly.

“Pairs rather well with Lucia Veria, if I do say so myself,” he said with a proud chuckle, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “If you’ll have it, that is.”

You knew by the disarming earnestness in his eyes he wasn’t just offering the name, but himself, as well. His whole heart in the palm of your hand, should you choose to care for it. You felt as if you had already made that choice a while ago, when you first recited Virgil back to him.

“I will,” you said with an elated chuckle. “Of course I will.”

He took your hands in his, kissing both of them. “Then first thing tomorrow, we will make it official.”

More tears flowed as a result of an overwhelming rush of both gratitude and love. You had tried to ignore your feelings, not uprooting them but instead silently letting them grow unacknowledged. For once, it had seemed worth the risk of heartbreak. After all, the love hadn’t stemmed from something as fleeting as lust, but a mutual understanding and respect. It was more than you could ever ask for, and yet everything you desired.

You leaned your forehead against his, your noses brushing as he tilted his head back. This time, it was you who brought your lips to his with a tentative sort of tenderness, propriety still at the back of your mind. He responded in kind, letting you set the pace so as not to scare you off. If you weren’t shaking so much, you might have noticed he was shaking, too. 

In that kiss, there was the promise of mutual devotion, sweet and sincere. You were still holding each other’s hands, as if afraid you might drift apart if you let go. You understood then why odes were written about this feeling, as all-consuming as the churning waves of the sea. All those verses had never resonated with you more. 

Perhaps you had inherited the romanticism, after all. 

—------------------

The air smelled of night-blooming jasmine, the fresh sweetness of it bringing you a sense of tranquility. You leaned against the windowsill, looking up at the stars and trying to piece together constellations. The world seemed drastically different now that you had your freedom, so vivid, so open, so alive. You even noticed it in your posture and the lightness with which you walked, as if you were floating. Lucius had said you were radiant with it.

He’d insisted on taking care of you the same way you’d cared for him, eager to show you his gratitude. You had been hesitant at first, but at his unwavering conviction, you relented, curious how it might feel to be spoiled. All that day, he had served you reverently, taking time off from his duties to focus solely on you.

You couldn’t help getting flustered at all the attention, his ardent gaze like a caress every time it met yours. His touch had so far been entirely chaste, but even the smallest, most innocuous contact was heightened with anticipation. The brush of his fingers over yours when he handed you something, a guiding hand on your lower back, even a touch on your shoulder to make you aware of his presence.

There were a few sneaked kisses in both the garden and the tablinum, each one of them leaving an undercurrent of warmth under your skin that promised more. It was like a slow, drawn-out game of chase, neither of you in a rush to reach its conclusion. If anything, it only made you want each other more. 

After the sun had set, when the two of you drifted along as if in a drunken stupor, Lucius went to prepare a bath for you in his chambers. You were nervous and exhilarated, every moment spent waiting for him to be done an exquisite agony. Until finally, he poked his head around the bathroom door.

“It’s ready now,” he said, beckoning you with a smile.

You followed him into the bathroom, hands wringing anxiously. Flower petals were scattered on the mosaic floor, leading towards the steaming tub. Flickering candles bathed the room in a warm glow, making your shadows dance on the wall. You looked at each other, both knowing what the next step was but hesitant to initiate it. He averted his gaze first, gesturing towards the door.

“Would you like me to give you some privacy?”

You shook your head, desire making you a little more brave. “I… I would love some help undressing, though.”

His spine straightened, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. “With pleasure.”

He crouched to slowly pull the hem of your long tunic upwards, rising with it. You lifted your arms so he could get it over your head, the fabric falling to the floor unceremoniously. Your eyes were fixed on his face, drinking in his expression as he took a step back to get a better look at you. The bare expanse of your skin robbed him of breath, his eyes roaming over every curve and plane of your figure. He wanted to sink to his knees again and lay his forehead at your feet in worship, but he stood still, his fingers twitching at his sides.

“The evening star is the most beautiful of all stars,”  he said in a low voice, quoting Sappho.

Warmth spread from your chest to your face, and you smiled coyly as another verse came to mind. “Come to me once more, and abate my torment…”

You offered him your hand, which he took, and he led you to the tub. You daintily stepped in, sighing contentedly as you sank into the water’s enveloping warmth. He knelt next to the tub, leaning against it with one arm propped on the edge. 

“Have I told you enough times that you are beautiful?” He said. “I don’t think it has been enough.”

You huffed with amusement, looking down as you fought a geeky grin. “Well, about a hundred times with just your eyes. A few times out loud, though.”

He chuckled. “I suppose I’ll have to show you in other ways, too… If I may.”

You nodded, silently granting him permission. He leaned forward and planted a soft kiss on your lips before standing up. He took it upon himself to bathe you, starting out by scrubbing your scalp. You leaned into his touch, eyes closing in bliss. He smiled at your soft, pleasured hum, and vowed to elicit as many more as he could. 

Things took on an almost ritualistic quality, with him focused entirely on his task. You were loose limbed, letting him move you about as he used a cloth to scrub your skin. He didn’t try anything that might be deemed unsavory, though you let his tender, reverential touch reach places no one had touched in a very, very long time. But he didn’t linger, to your slight frustration, not wanting to jump into things too quickly. The flames of your desire were stoked slowly, warmth running through you like sweet wine. 

When he was done, he helped you step out of the tub and immediately got to drying you off with a towel. You caught his eye for a moment, his pupils blown wide with equally fervent desire. You stopped yourself from clutching his arm, wanting to anchor yourself to him, but he could still tell you were growing restless. He kissed your shoulder, tapping the tip of your nose playfully with his finger.

“Not done quite yet,” he murmured, not missing the way you involuntarily pressed your thighs together. “You’ve always been very patient.”

“For the first time, I fear it might be running thin…” you said, to which he smiled. 

He grabbed a small glass bottle of rose oil and lathered some in his hands. He anointed your body with it, the heady scent of one of Venus’s favorite flowers permeating the air. As he reached your chest, you took hold of his wrist and brought his palm to rest over your heart. He felt it beating rapidly, your chest rising and falling with each panting breath.

His eyes fell to your lips, slightly parted with want. He grasped your chin with his free hand, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip.

“I have been thinking about this for a long time,” he said, leaning in to brush his nose against yours. “But I hadn’t wanted to touch you until now, when you actually felt like you had a choice in the matter.”

You clutched his wrist tighter, his thoughtfulness only making you want him more. All those hours he must have spent yearning, unaware that you were stuck thinking of him too. As emperor, he had the right to take whatever he wanted, but having previously been a gladiator, he understood the monumental importance of bodily autonomy. Very few people in Rome had such a privilege and he couldn’t bear the thought of being the one to rob you of it. 

You kissed him in response, much fiercer, hungrier, than all the other kisses you had shared so far. A desperate sound escaped his throat and he clasped you against him tightly. Swiftly, he scooped you up into his strong arms and carried you out to the bedchamber as he would a bride.

Gently, he set you down on the bed and pulled away to remove his tunic. This time, you were not meek about his nakedness. You brazenly stared at him, eyes mapping out the lines of his muscles, the pink, raised skin of his scars, and the soft trail of hair on his abdomen that seemed to suggestively point downwards. 

His shoulders were squared with pride at your ogling, a sly smile on his face. He’d had an inkling before of your attraction, but to see it on full display was narcotic, and he felt himself pulse with an aching need.

“Come closer,” you said softly.

He did, climbing over you, his warmth immediately enveloping you. You hid your face on the junction between his neck and shoulder, embarrassed at all the thoughts rushing through your mind.

“What is it?” He asked, raising an eyebrow with amusement.

“Nothing,” you said, voice muffled against his skin. “I just… I do not think you realize how badly I wanted this, too. I-I don’t want to ever stop.”

He chuckled indulgently, nudging your head so you’d look at him. “Neither do I.”

He kissed you again, and again, and again. You were so close to him that the lines of your bodies became indivisible, but it still didn’t seem like enough. Your knees hiked up to his hips in a silent plea, but he did not give in quite yet, wanting to prolong things for as long as he could.

Still, unable to resist a little bit of mutual torment, he slid upwards until his hips were aligned with yours. You gasped as you felt the velvety underside of his erection against your slick folds, each small movement making you tremble. Your brows furrowed and your lips parted in a wanton expression, your eyes shiny and half lidded as you looked at him.

“Lucius,” you whimpered. 

“I know,” he murmured soothingly, kissing your neck. “I know.”

Neither of you were willing to break apart from your embrace, so there wasn’t actually much of a preamble. Feverish, he sank into you slowly, your nails digging into his biceps as he stretched you open. That first round was frantic, almost animalistic, all the pent up longing finally being released. His body rolled over yours with the power of the sea’s waves, leaving you awash in ecstasy.

Neither of you lasted very long, but it didn’t matter, as you were nowhere near spent. Lucius, still in the afterglow of his orgasm, lazily began to kiss you all over, wanting to discover every mole and freckle, every tender spot that made you squirm, and every other little detail that made you you. 

He settled between your thighs, his hot breath fanning over your sensitive bundle of nerves. You tried to prop yourself up on your elbows to look at him, but he wrapped his arms around your thighs and pulled you closer. 

“What are you– Oh,” you gasped at the first flick of his tongue, the entirely new sensation disarming you. 

He tasted his essence mixed with yours, a groan rumbling in his chest. You tightly grasped the sheets under you, arching against his face. You bit your lip to stop yourself from making the most undignified sounds, but it was hard to focus, especially as his fingers were added into the mix. Your body burned brighter than any brazier, his arms pinning you down as he conquered you with his mouth. You shattered once more, crying out as he helped you ride it all the way through. 

After, you lied side by side, facing each other. You’d still not had your fill of him, but you needed to gather your strength for the long night ahead. You shared a breathy chuckle, as if still in disbelief it had finally happened, and he kissed your sweat-slick forehead.

“Now that was poetry,” you said jokingly, making him laugh again. 

“You put every verse to shame, my love,” he said, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

You kissed his palm, adoring, and tangled your legs with his. A swell of emotion unlike anything you had ever felt rose within you. It was as if he had awakened a new part of you that you hadn’t known was dormant, bringing you back from an existence that consisted solely of drifting through days that blended into one another.

He was just as grateful to have found you, his peace, his solace, the woman who would always guard his heart. He murmured your name reverently, a reminder that you were his, and he was yours. You drew closer to him, like a moth to flame, and pushed him onto his back, straddling him. His hands came to rest on your hips and your eyes were full of mirth as you held his gaze.

“As it happens, I find myself compelled to compose some more with you.” You grinned playfully, hands sliding up his chest. 

He mirrored your grin, not minding the idea one bit. “Relentless, just like the great muse Calliope.”

“Well, when inspiration strikes… It can’t be helped, can it?”

“No,” he said. “Not when it comes to you.”

------

[medievalharlot]

A gift for the princess 彡 Geta x princess f!reader x Caracalla

Pairing: Geta x princess f!reader x Caracalla

Synopsis: The empire comes to your aid and you are reunited with your childhood friends, they end up having a gift you cannot turn down

Wordcount: 3,1k

Request: ‘I’ve been thinking of this plot for a while, but I’m not a writer and could never write it myself. But what if both of the twins x reader, who was their childhood best friend, she came from a very wealthy family (for some reason I like to think she was royalty in a neighboring country or smth, anyway, she was forced to move away, and the twins and here were devestated (cause they like LIKED each other) years go by, and they are now emperors, they have to go to a place for business, with other royals (like where the reader lives) and they meet again, and like, fall in loveeee’ by anon

Tags: Childhood friends to lovers, reader is a princess, some light groping but no full on smut, period accurate misogyny, implied violence, implied abuse.

A/N: Phew this one is a little longer than I intended it to be. Maybe a little less historically accurate than my last one but I tried sticking to historical facts. I always thought of Caracalla as a shy child that turned mad and Geta being the brave one. This will be the last full on fic I post before I go to Paris, enjoy!

It would be a short seige, your castle walls were never strong enough to withstand the Parthian army. Yet your father, having spiraled into madness, insisted to keep fighting. For years your small kingdom had been an ally to the empire. Even if it was small, it had a strategic and important port. Under Marcus Aurelius it had it added to the list of allies and it had been loyal up. Your father suddenly decided to start a war against Parthia. Voices plagued his mind, advisors gone corrupt filled his mind with delusions. You had been supportive of your father, trying to see the good in his actions as a way to cope. Giving up on the man that had raised you felt like betrayel. Your mother was a noble lady and after giving birth to you ander your brother she moved back to her own home. Their marriage was arranged and quite an unpleasant one. You were his only daughter, his sweet delight. Your brother was aiding the empire in the conquest of Numidia by order of the emperor, leaving you to watch over your father. Every day he slipped further into madness, and everyday it became more painful to watch.

At a certain point his advisors convinced him to go to war. Once you got wind of the idea you had the advisors sent away, unleashing your fury upon him. But your father had already sent out the command. You had prayed to Pax, Fortuna and Minerva for the war to end well and for the Romans to send aid. Emperor Severus had been a good friend to your father. You weren’t aware that he had passed and his sons, Geta and Caracalla, were terrorizing the empire. News travelled slow in the empire and before you knew it there was an entire army knocking on your door with no aid in sight. You had witnissed the Pathian generals slaughter the people on the outskirts of the city being killed. Their screams haunting your mind as you hid.

Once, you knew the twins. It was a long time ago, before your father had become king. He took you and your brother to Rome quite often, in hindsight you understood it was probably to find a suitable match amongst the sons of the senators. Due to the friendship your father and the emperor shared you were often on the Forum. You remember meeting the twins for the first time.

Caracalla was a shy boy, hiding behind his brother. Geta was a bit cocky but curious about you. They were a few years older than you were. You were clinging to your fathers toga, you never played with boys. At home you were either being taught by master or you were playing with the daughters of your fathers advisors. Boys sucked. And yet here you were, alone with these boys in a room.

“Do you wanna play soldiers?” Geta had asked eventually. “You can be the helpless girl and we-” He had shoved his brother from behind him. “We will save you.” There was a proud smirk on his face.

Soldiers? Why would you want to play that, why would you be the helpless girl. “I don’t want to play that.” You reached for the wooden sword. Geta tried to grasp for it.

“You can’t play with that, that isn’t for girls.” He sneered as you pulled away. Caracalla still hadn’t spoken a word.

“Stop it!” You frowned, you weren’t one to let somebody to tell you what to do.

Soon, chaos ensued. Somehow you ended up in a brawl with him, and to your surprise you were winning. All that commotion had alarmed the servants, who had fetched your fathers. Emperor Severus was pissed. He had dragged Geta off you, shouting stuff like ‘this is not how you treat guests’ and ‘you let that little girl beat you up’. Caracalla chased after them while sobbing as the emperor dragged Geta by his collar out of the room.

The banging on the door only got louder, together with the other women of this court you were hiding in the cellar. Soft prayers were whispered, hopes that the devine above might save them. You didn’t pray, you knew there was no stopping an army, your kingdom was way too small to beat Parthia. Your father didn’t have the men, nor did he have much expierence. It would be over soon and all you could hope for is that they wouldn’t slaughter and take every single woman in this room.

Over the years you luckily grew to appreciate each other’s company. Visits to Rome became more frequent. Your father enjoyed the wine, food, feasts and whores in the capital better. Geta was still as boisterous as before as he often liked to remind you of how he would become emperor someday. Caracalla had grown out of his shyness, but he got reckless and often faced his father’s wrath.

You were sitting on Caracalla’s bed, soflty dapping your handkerchief against his busted lip. Geta was leaning agaisnt a pillar as he watched you tend to his brother. “What happened.” You had asked Geta, Caracalla was still visibly upset. He was rambling some words you couldn’t understand, making himself small and leaning out of his touch. Sometimes it felt like you were talking to a child.

“Drank too much wine last night and was found in the horse stables.” Geta replied, keeping it short. You could tell his fathers violence got to him.

“You’re a fool sometimes Caracalla.” You spoke to him, lifting his chin to get a better look.

“He just needs to die then I will be emperor.” He had spouted a bit angrily in return.

You sighed softly and stood up. “We will fetch a doctor.” You spoke, nodding your head to Geta to signal him to come along. Something was up with Caracalla, he was reckless but he had become more unpredictable and forgetful over the last few months. It was eating away at you, you saw them as your closest friends.

“Something is wrong with him, Geta.” You spoke as soon as the two of you turned a corner. “Did the doctors say anything last time?”

“They say his peverse nature has infected his mind.” Geta spoke as he walked with you. “They’re trying to treat him but father says he is fine.”

“He’s not.”

“I know.”

Then the screams came. The walls had been breached. Younger girls started sobbing, with a stern look you tried to make them shut up. You couldn’t blame them, the worse thing that could happen to you is that they would make you a concubine. Soldiers knew better than harming a princess that could be used for blackmail. But those girls, they would have to endure the worst. You held your breath as you could hear them getting closer, your heart beating in your chest. The doors opened, but to your surprise it weren't Parthian soldiers. Their shields carried the Roman chrest. It were Roman Soldiers. Had they come to your aid? You got up, your dress was dirty and your messy. The seige lasted a few hours and you had been stuck in this stuffy room.

“Princess Y/N, you have summoned by imperial decree.” One of the generals entered, you did not recognize him. He looked older, his black hair slowly graying. They took you, dragging you out of the room despite your protests. The didn’t take commands from a woman, they took direct orders from the emperors and the emperors alone.

It was a particularly hot summer that year. This time you had went ahead of your father to Rome, he had some business to take care of back home. It was uncommon for girls your age to travel alone, you had long passed the age to be wed, but you were of age. It was the only reason your father let you go alone. Something had changed this year tho, you weren’t sure about what. The three of you always went swimming in their private pool, it had been a tradition for you of some sort. You never thought of it as strange. Yet, this year you could feel your cheeks heating up as you watched them swim around.

“Are you just going to lay there?” Geta spoke up. You were still laying in the shade and still dressed.

“Don't feel like swimming.” You spoke as you grinned softly.

“Is the princess afraid of getting wet?” He laughed loudly as he swam to the side of the pool.

“I am not!” You got up defensively. In the midst of your conversation you had not noticed Caracalla lurked behind you. With a giggle he flung you into the water.

“There we go.” Geta laughed, watching you struggle to swim in the flowly stola you were wearing. You would have bothered to undress first if you knew they were gonna force you in.

The echoes of Caracalla's laughter rung around the pool. It had gotten worse, you knew that. Both of them got worse in their own way. From what you heard they were drunks with concubines from all over the empire and a lust for blood. It made you sad.

“You should come to the Colosseum soon.” Geta swam closer to you, looking slightly down on you. The water was up to your shoulders but you could still stand. The way he looked at you made your head do summersaults. He lifted your chin. “I think you would enjoy what we have prepared for you.” He got closer, eye contact still remaining as your lips almost touched.

“I am not sure if-” He cut you off with a kiss. Caracalla was behind you now, his hands roamed your hips and his lips were on your neck. He softly bit down on the skin as he whimpered while rutting against you. You were sandwhiched between them. One of Geta's hands was on your breast, the other holding your chin in place.

It was so perfect, until it wasn't. Your father had barged in and saw the scene. He, too, had heard of the twins endeavours. And upon seeing you sandwiched between them he got furious. He ordered you out of the pool and he scolded the both of them. Surely, they would never hear the end of it from their own father. It made you anxious for what would happen when the emperor got word of what had happened here. That didn't matter tho, you would be there to patch up their bruises.

Atleast, that is what you thought. Your father had send you home right away and you never saw the two of them again. The first year was hard but you learned to live with the heartache. With your father illness you had more pressing matters than Rome.

They had dragged you back all the way to Rome. It was early in the morning when you finally arrived, your head ached and your feet were sore. On the way you were informed your father was killed, only worsening your pain. The soldiers had given you a minimum of food and water and kept you dressed in simple rags. You felt like a prisoner and you still weren’t none the wiser about why you were summoned. Atleast you didn’t have to walk all the way.

You arrived in Rome filthy, dehydrated, hungry and confused. At once, you were taken to the throne room. It was nearly the same as you remembered, only there were two thrones. Maybe he put it there as a way to honor his deceased wife. Taking in the surroundings you heard the emperor and the guards come in.

“I hope there is a good reason for my treatment on this journey, your imperial highness.” You turned around, but instead of seeing emperor Severus, you stood eye to eye with them. Geta and Caracalla. Your heart dropped. It been years since you had seen them. They were the emperors now?

“We apologise for your treatment, my lady.” Geta spoke first as he offered his hand. You stood frozen, taking in the both of them. You couldn’t lie, it was good to see them. It was like a weight falling of your shoulders. But something felt off. Geta had a cold look in his eyes and Caralla looked almost insane. His eyes reminded you of your father. Both of them were dressed in gold armour with a gold laurel crown on their heads. They radiated divinity. It didn’t feel the same as it once did.

With a trembling lip you stumbled over to them, falling on your knees infront of them. You had grasped ahold of Geta’s robe. Caracalla grinned as he crouched down to look at you. “We saved your kingdom. You must thank us, your brother will be king now.”

You looked up at him with fat tears rolling down your face as you were reminded of your father’s death. Geta grabbed your face in his hand. “What my brother means to say is that we are very sorry about your father. He may have acted like a fool but no ally of Rome should suffer like you have.” He gave you a hand, you took it and stood. “There will be games in his honour tonight. You will be attending.” It wasn’t a question, it was a demand.

Softly, you nodded. You tried to process what was going on. “Yes, games.”

“Real games, with bloodshed. No mercy.” Caracalla spoke to you as if he tried to comfort you. “We got you a dress.”

“Yes, Cassia will help you get dressed. You must get some rest now.” Geta turned to a young girl, she looked foreign but she had a Roman. She was probably a concubine that they liked so much she got promoded to a handmaid. “Cassia, get her cleaned up.” He snided at the girl.

Cassia led you out of the throne room to the baths. The hot water felt nice against your sore skin, you felt clean atlast. An essence of mint and citrus hanging in the air.

After the bath, Cassia had dressed you in your gown. It was purple with gold trimmings, it must’ve cost a fortune. The fabric felt expensive. Your hair was done in an elaborate hairstyle. Even if you were a princess, the luxeries in Rome was something your father could not afford. You looked like an empress, the empress. “The emperors wish to see you before you leave for the Colosseum.” She eventually spoke after she finished doing your hair.

With heavy feet you made your way to the throne room. It did feel better to be dolled up again, but under these circumstances you doubt you could feel anything at all. You were alone in a city full of people that would probably want you dead, you had no moment of peace as two guards followed you at all costs. They pushed the door open to the throne room, Geta and Caracalla were already waiting for you.

They had changed into new clothes too. Caracalla wore a black gown, Geta opted for a rich red. The twins turned to look at you.

“You look splendid, my lady.” Geta spoke first before Caracalla interrupted him.

“My brother and I have a proposal to make.” He sat in his throne like a giddy child. You carefully watched them.

“Your father has passed, leaving you unmarried and under nobody’s protection.” Geta started, you weren’t sure what he was getting at. “Your brother is too busy being king, so..”

“What is it you want from me.” You cautiously narrowed your eyes.

Caracalla rose to his feet and walked towards you, grabbing your hands. “Marry us. You loved us when we were children, you love us now right?” There was a hint of desperation in his eyes. “Right?” He repeated, now sounding a little more angry.

You were left speechless. If they had asked you this question a few years ago you would’ve agreed without a second thought, but after all these years and all that happened you just couldn’t process what they asked of you.

“Nothing would happen to your kingdom once you are empress.” Geta was suddenly behind you, whispering in your ears. “We will make the man that murdered your father die a painfull death, my lady.” He stroked a ringed finger against your arm, the metal felt cold against your skin.

Geta took a step back. “We will give you some time to think, we have a surprise for you during the games first.” You heard Caracalla giggling, what had they planned?

In the Colosseum you were seated in between them. The two of them clearly enjoyed the bloodshed. Geta watched with a calm gaze and a smile on his face, Caracalla on the other hand was clapping and laughing as soon as blood was spilled. They had plenty of servants filling their cups, while they drank and enjoyed the finest food. You watched silently with your hands folded in your lap. The screams of agony from whoever was being slaughtered only reminded you of home. When you closed your eyes you could see the families being slain, the face of the Parthian general clear as day. You couldn’t have protected them even if you wanted, it made you feel helpless.

“And now! For the main event, our undefeated champion!” The master of ceremonies announced. Geta gave you a shove, making you look up at what was actually going on in the arena. “The Tigris of Gaul!” The crowd roared when he entered. He rode in on a rhino, the heavy beast trotting in.

Caracalla was basically jumping of his chair now, he took your hand and led you to the edge of the balcony. His grin was like a cheshire cat. “This will be our gift to you.” He spoke.

Geta got up as well, gracefully walking to place a hand on your back.

“Our champion will be taking it up against the Parthian Mithridates!” A beat up and confused man entered the ring, you recognized his face immediatly. It was the general that had killed your citizens. You remained silently as you coldheartedly watched the man taking it up against the Tigris of Gaul.

It didn’t take long for the gladiator to have the general on his back, he had only been given a dull sword. He had no chance of winning. The Tigris held his blade against the general’s neck, looking up to the emperor’s balcony for approval to kill him.

Geta had been smiling this entire time, gauging your reaction. “Well? What do you say? What judgement will the gods render.”

“Kill him.” Caracalla almost spat in your ear, his behaviour getting more erratic. “Kill him!”

Your thoughts ran a hundred miles an hour. That was the man that killed your people, he might even have killed your father. He caused so much suffering, so much death. You had him in your clutches now, you were the one deciding his faith. You looked down at him, the tears had fallen down your cheek a while ago. Were you able to say word, have this man killed? You had always been a sweet girl, your father sang praises of your gentle nature whenever he could. But something had changed, something had stirred.

They had given you this chance. This could mean war with Parthia and yet they still did it. They did it because they could, and they wanted you to have revenge. If being of empress of Rome ment you could reign terror down on the ones that hurt your people you had made your decision.

You looked at Geta, giving him a small nod. His grin grew even wider as he grabbed your hand. He lifted it slightly, he held his other fist up. “The gods have rendered their judgement!” The crowd went silent. They all watched the downturned thumb and they cheered once more. It was true what they said about the games, show them blood or else they will want yours.

You watched coolly as general Mithridates got his throat slid, only flinching slightly as the blade his neck and the blood spurted out. Before you could see the rest you had turned around to leave the emperors box.

“Where are you going. You are missing the best part.” Caracalla frowned as he watched you leave.

“There is a wedding to be planned.” You replied calmly. The twins looked at each other, their gift had worked. Rome would have a new empress soon, and she would show no mercy to her enemies.

[velaenam]

𝐝𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐚 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐭

                                                                         ◦ ♡

𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐫!𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐛 𝐱 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐫!𝐬𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬 — non!mc. a princess from a powerful merchant kingdom is thrust into a political marriage with rome’s most feared military emperor—only to catch the eye of a rival sovereign who believes her freedom is worth starting a war. 𝐬𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 — set during the early imperial period of rome, the story unfolds at the height of political intrigue and military dominance, where empires clash, alliances shift. story will take place between 1st century bce – 2nd century ce, give or take. 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 — swearing, nsfw language, political manipulation, power imbalance, emotional manipulation, toxic relationships, war and violence, sexual themes, misogyny/patriarchal culture, classism and elitism, culture tensions, xenophobia, racism, non consensual stuff at times.. uhh.. romantic love triangle, slow burn, angst, fluff, smut 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 — please note that this is a civilization thousands and thousands of years ago, so they probably aren't as socially accepting.. you are also of arabian and hellenistic heritage. normally i am ambiguous of how i describe the protagonist of my stories, but i'll be a bit more focused on my details in this story. I CANNOT STRESS THIS ENOUGH, IF YOU HAVE ANY OF THESE TRIGGERS PLEASE BE MINDFUL. i will also put a DISCLAIMER of any non consensual stuff or any triggering events that may end up happening PRIOR to the actual scene. (obviously it will not be frequent thing) — reblogs comments & likes are appreciated. let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist! 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 — PROLOGUE | next chapter

this will be a bit short. its the prologue— so its going to just go over a little tid bit of how everyone is going to be and you can see how the atmosphere is.

the morning is soft with silence.

sunlight filters through the sheer drapes like it’s hesitant to enter, golden dust suspended in the hush. your room smells faintly of rose oil and crushed figs, of silk warmed by the sun. servants move quietly around you—gentle hands braiding your hair, smoothing the folds of your linen dress, adjusting the golden clasp at your shoulder. you don’t speak. neither do they. it’s an old, practiced ritual. the preparation of a daughter for something unspoken.

you watch yourself in the polished bronze mirror. not a girl anymore, not quite a queen. something in between. something uncertain. how were you feeling? you felt dreadful. to be a pawn was never a good thing. a knock at the door. soft, like you can hear misery through a pounding. then a murmur. “his majesty is waiting.”

your sandals smack softly against the stone as you walk, heart quiet but heavy. the hallway stretch long, filled with mosaics that tell stories of your ancestors—men who conquered, the women who waited. you walk past them like a ghost. your father is standing near the open colonnade, among the atrium, staring out at the city below. his toga catch in the breeze like banners. he does not turn when you enter.

“you sent for me,” you say above a whisper, as the chamber echoed your voice. he nods once. his voice is as it always is— stoic. weathered by experience.

“rome has made an offer. emperor caleb xia would like your hand in marriage”

you say nothing. the wind picks up. it carries the scent of figs and pomegranates— your favorites. you stand, stiffened. is this from the emperor himself, or his senate? 

“you’ve always understood the weight of your position,” he continues, still not looking at you. “this isn’t punishment. it’s legacy.” you wonder if he’s speaking to himself.

“and the emperor?” you ask softly. “do you trust him?” he couldn’t even lie if he tried. your father turns, finally, eyes sharp and tired all at once. “no. but alliances are not built on trust. they are built on necessity.” he steps closer, and for a moment, he is not a king, but your father. his hand rests on your shoulder, not heavy, but firm. “you will do what must be done,” he says. “as we all have.” you nod. because what else is there to say? no? what the hells would even happen if you said that? with an even heavier heart, and a tight lip, you bow slightly, before turning heels and walking back to your chamber. 

later, when you return to your chambers, you unpin your hair with trembling fingers and stare at the mirror again, and when you look up to the mirror, your tears fall. you realize this may be the very last time you could have your peace to yourself— at least for a while. you weren’t a woman basking in the sunlight anymore. laying near the ravine with your closest friends. you were a pawn. 

the air inside the tent tastes of iron and dust.

outside, the murmurs of the camp never sleep—shields being oiled, blades checked again and again, men speaking low in the hush of an almost-won war. the sky beyond the canvas is the color of smoke, the kind that clings to your skin long after the fires are gone.

caleb stands alone over the war table, eyes fixed on the parchment map that bears the scars of too many campaigns. lines drawn and redrawn. cities conquered. rivers crossed. this battle will end tomorrow, and with it, resistance in the east.

he doesn’t smile. he never does. victory is expected of him. and expectations are chains dressed as crowns. a soldier enters, bows low. news of the enemy’s retreat. talk of surrender. a whisper, almost offhanded, like it doesn’t matter:

“a formal alliance is being discussed in the senate—nabira’s hand in marriage. her daughter.”

caleb says nothing at first. he does not lift his head. just another treaty. just another crown to bind with rome. how many women were given to him for this reason? he couldn’t count the amount of attempted alliance and leverage thrown at him. a mere woman’s soul is the price of not being taken and pulled apart? no. no, this would be different.  

“what’s her name?” he asks, not because he cares.. just to know what name history will one day try to stitch beside his.  the soldier hesitates. then: “they don’t speak it aloud, not yet. only that she is.. magical…shadowed... her father guards her like a secret.”

caleb’s gaze lingers on the edge of the map, where nabira is inked in faint gold. a kingdom on the edge of empires. he says nothing else, and neither does the soldier, and after a couple beats skip, the soldier leaves.

caleb stays there a while longer, the quiet pressing in as he glides his fingers across the map, calculating to himself. he knows better than to believe in fate. but still—he wonders what kind of woman is hidden behind a crown, guarded like a blade, spoken of only in quiet corners of powerful rooms. was she formidable? he wonders. his heart races at the slightest at the thought of you. 

and he wonders what kind of man he will need to be to win your loyalty. surely not with war? with silken drapes, and golden gifts. will he need to throw lavish expenses to win such an even more lavish heart? he was thinking too hard— he doesn’t even know a god damn thing, and this was distracting him. 

shahanshah - king of kings / emperor (persian. pronounced sha-han-sha)

the night air in parthia was cool, the scent of myrrh drifting through the royal palace gardens. shahanshah  sylus stood alone beneath the towering date palms, his thoughts far from the usual state matters. the sky stretched dark above him, the stars twinkling like scattered diamonds, but there was little peace in his mind tonight. the soft footsteps of an approaching figure broke the silence. the emissary bowed deeply as he came closer, careful not to disrupt the stillness. “shahanshah,” the emissary spoke, voice low and respectful. “we’ve received word from the princess' brother. the decision has been made.” sylus didn’t turn right away, his gaze fixed on the horizon. his voice, when it came, was quiet but sharp.

“what decision?”

“the marriage… it’s been arranged. the princess of nabira will marry emperor caleb of rome.”

sylus paused, his fingers tightening on the edge of the stone column beside him. he hadn’t expected this development, not so soon. but your father had always been pragmatic, and in these times of shifting alliances, a marriage to rome made sense—at least politically. still, the news stung.  

“and the princess?” sylus asked, his voice colder than it had been moments before. “was she consulted?” it was a quick quiet, the emissary hesitated. “she… was informed. the decision was her father’s. from what i understand, she did not take it well. there were tears, and anger.”

sylus absorbed the information quietly, his gaze never leaving the view before him. he knew this was coming. the union of rome and nabira had been hinted at for months, but hearing it was another matter entirely. he didn’t think that your father really had the balls to actually pull through. 

“her brother– the diplomat, he must have known this was coming,” sylus said, a small frown pulling at his lips. “why send the message to me now?”

the emissary nodded. “her brother… he has long worked with you, shahanshah. he is a trusted ally in trade, and he wanted to ensure you heard it from him directly. he also believes this marriage could open doors for more favorable dealings between parthia and nabira.”

sylus turned now, finally facing the emissary. his red eyes were hard, calculating. unreadable. the emissary shifted his posture.

“so this marriage is as much about trade as it is about politics?” sylus asked, voice laced with an edge. “but what of the princess? does she have no say in the matter?”

“her father has made the decision. the princess is caught in the web of diplomacy. her brother… i believe he tried to shield her from the worst of it, but ultimately, the decision rests with the king.”

sylus’ jaw clenched, and his mind raced. the political situation was delicate, but this… this felt different. he feels as if he’s seeing a life slip from its freedom.

“what does her brother say?” sylus pressed. “is he pleased with this marriage?”

the emissary hesitated again. “he does what is best for nabira. but it is clear he does not want to see her in the hands of rome. he worries for her.”

sylus’ lips tightened in thought. he had always known your brother had his eyes set on securing an advantageous position for nabira, but this marriage would change everything. the alliance with rome would tilt the scales of power in ways that were difficult to predict. an insurmountable amount of money would be handed over to the most powerful empire in the world. the silk road would bloom into something more. 

he straightened, his voice firm as he turned back toward the emissary, “tell her brother that i expect an update—soon. and i will not forget what this means for parthia. if rome wants nabira so badly, they will have to deal with us.”

the emissary nodded and bowed deeply before taking his leave. as sylus watched him depart, his thoughts lingered on you. you were bound by duty, but he knew that the chains of politics could break, and alliances could shift.

“she may not have a say now,” sylus murmured to himself, staring into the night. “but nothing is final until i decide it is. and i will make sure that, in the end, she has her freedom.”

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ! - @rcvcgers

[multific]

The Sweet Empress

Emperor Geta x Reader

Summary: The Emperor known for his ruthless and dark heart so in love with his sweet, gentle wife.

The palace was grand, its marble floors gleaming beneath the golden light of the torches. 

Servants moved quickly, their heads bowed as they passed by the Emperor’s private chambers. 

Inside, you sat by the large window, enjoying the soft glow of the setting sun.

You hummed a quiet tune as you arranged fresh flowers into a vase. The scent of jasmine and roses filled the air.

Geta entered the room with his usual commanding presence, his steps strong, his robes flowing behind him like the waves of the sea. He was fierce to the world, a ruler with fire in his veins, yet the moment he stepped into your presence, something inside him softened. 

His expression relaxed, and the weight of the empire that rested on his shoulders seemed, if only for a moment, lighter.

“My Love,” he greeted, his voice low and warm.

You turned with a bright smile, setting down the delicate blooms. “You’re back early.”

His lips twitched, almost a smirk. “Should I have stayed longer and let the Senators bore me to death?”

You giggled, moving to him, reaching for his hand. He took yours without hesitation, his fingers warm against your soft skin. 

“You work too hard,” you murmured, brushing your thumb along his knuckles.

“For Rome.” He kissed the back of your hand, his eyes never leaving yours. “But you are the only reason I endure it.”

You knew the burdens he carried.

The enemies who lurked in the shadows, the politics that clawed at him from every side and his brother. You saw the exhaustion he tried to hide from the world, and you wished, more than anything, to protect him from it.

“Come,” you whispered, tugging him gently toward the cushioned seat by the window. “Rest with me for a while.”

He hesitated only for a moment before allowing himself this moment of peace. 

He settled beside you, one arm draped around your waist, pulling you close. You leaned into him, your head resting against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

“You are too kind,” he mused, pressing a kiss to your hair. “Too sweet for this world.”

You smiled, fingers tracing absent patterns on his arm. “And yet, I am yours.”

His grip tightened. “And I would not trade you for any woman in the empire.”

You lifted your head, eyes searching his face. “Not even for one of noble blood?” you teased.

A scoff left his lips, though his gaze darkened with something deeper, something possessive. “Never. I would sooner burn the Senate to the ground than let another take your place.”

Your breath caught at the intensity of his words. He was not a man of empty promises; every syllable was laced with truth. You reached up, cradling his face in your hands. “I am yours, Geta, always.”

A rare, genuine smile graced his lips before he leaned in, capturing your lips in a slow, tender kiss. 

A promise, a vow, sealed not in gold or politics, but in love.

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[ekkkkey]

there will be games! (chapter V)

A short chapter I wanted to post pretty much right after ch.4, but sadly real life got in the way *sigh*

summary: Cassandra, a quiet and loyal wife to the much older Senator Tiberius, accidentally attracts the unsettling attention of Emperor Caracalla at a lavish feast hosted by Senator Thraex...

warnings: 18+ minors dni, this is dark, noncon, violence, blood, possession, degradation, caracalla is a deranged little freak, geta is mean too

word count: ~1k

chapter I chapter II chapter III chapter IV

«No woman could feel safe if her beauty or name aroused the emperor's curiosity.»

-Suetonius, The Twelve Caesars (Caligula, Chapter 36)

⋆ ☼ ⋆

She waits for someone to summon her. Waits as if for death—though even that would be kinder. There is no life in her, no flicker of the hope she once held. Her husband is most likely dead. She is disgraced.

In a final desperate gesture, Cassandra clasps her cold, trembling hands together in prayer, pleading with the gods. Let them show mercy. Let them grant her freedom, release. Let them protect her family. She forces herself not to think of her father and sisters—dwelling on them would only push her deeper into despair.

But the Gods do not hear her. No. Not this time. Not ever.

The Praetorians seize her by the arms, leading her through the dark, empty halls of the palace. A flicker of shameful relief stirs in her chest—at least, for now, there is no one to witness her disgrace. But she quickly scolds herself. Her trial will be public. The doors will be thrown open for all to see. Anyone who wishes may come and witness the spectacle.

And of one thing, she is certain—Emperor Caracalla will make sure it’s a grand one.

"Caesar," a Praetorian reports curtly, shoving her forward before stepping away.

She knows where she is. These are the emperor’s private quarters—only they could have halls like these. Gold gleams from every surface. Silk, fine fabrics, statues, endless bowls and vases clutter the space. Once, she might have been awed. Now, it means nothing.

Yet, she is slightly surprised when she sees not Caracalla but his brother. He is still dressed only in a robe, barefoot, disheveled. Thoughtfully, even theatrically, he looks out onto the balcony leading to the garden. She remembers, it was from there that Geta witnessed her shame.

"Expected my brother?"

His dark eyes gleam with cruel amusement as he turns to face her, studying the way she trembles before him. His gaze lingers on her tangled hair. Oh, he sees it all. The tear-streaked cheeks. The bruises blooming on her wrists where the Praetorians had held her too tightly.

He leans forward, fingers steepled, his voice dripping with false concern.

"My dear, you’ve found yourself in quite the predicament, haven’t you? Your husband, that foolish man, wanted us killed. And yet, here you are. And he…"

Geta paused meaningfully.

"…and he is dead, little bird."

A hand—someone else’s—lands just below her throat, burning and possessive. It slides up, slow and deliberate, past her neck, wrenching her chin back. Her breath catches. Her eyes lock with his.

So little blue in his gaze. Just black. Endless, hungry black.

Caracalla had crept up silently, unseen, and now held her firmly, not letting her turn away. His hand was hot—hotter than usual.

Then she felt the moisture.

Her eyes flicked downward without moving her head.

And then she screamed.

His hands, pale, soft hands, usually adorned with rings, had chosen a different ornament this time.

Red.

Blood covered his delicate hand up to the wrist, staining her face, her neck, branding her skin with crimson streaks. The scent of iron fills her nostrils, thick and suffocating. Her stomach churns.

"Shh, shh," he whispers. "No one will interrupt us anymore. You’re a widow now—congratulations."

His lips pressed against her neck, right where the blood stains her skin.

"I promise, this night won’t count in court," he adds with a foolish giggle, clearly delighted by her stunned reaction.

She doesn’t want to think about whose blood it is, but deep down, she knows.

"And oh, that’s not all!"

He releases her, and yet she remains still.

"A gift!"

He claps his hands, and a carved chest is brought into the room. She doesn’t want to know what’s inside.

But Caracalla, his face alight with childish joy, flings it open, proudly displaying its contents. The emperor smiles, but his eyes remain cold, watching her eagerly, waiting for her reaction.

In horror, she recoils, her scream tearing through the hall. Her legs give way, and she collapses to the floor, gasping for breath.

Caracalla is pleased.

Without a flicker of disgust, he reaches into the chest, grabs its contents, and tosses them toward her as if they were nothing more than a mere trinket. But it’s not.

A pale, lifeless hand, severed at the wrist, lands on the marble floor before her.

She recognizes it instantly by the ring on its finger. Her husband’s hand.

To seal the horror on her face, Caracalla lifts the severed hand and waves it at her, grinning.

"I wanted to bring the head, but Geta stopped me," he chuckles. "You should thank him."

"Take it away," Geta grimaces, ordering the slaves to remove the chest and the hand.

As a final touch, Caracalla slides the ring off the dead hand and slips it onto his own thumb. His hands are small, nothing like her husband’s—the ring wouldn’t fit any other finger.

Since their time in the throne room, the young emperor has tidied himself up, trading his sheet for a silk golden robe. His hair remains wild and unkempt, but a small gold earring glints in his ear.

How charming that for this meeting, full of horror, fear, and humiliation, he had dressed up for her.

She couldn’t take her eyes off his hands, still staring at the ring—her husband’s ring—the one she placed on his finger on their wedding day. She never imagined it would end like this.

Unconsciously, she reaches for her own ring—the one her husband had given her—only to remember. It is gone.

Geta took it.

Caracalla’s gaze flicks to her fingers, immediately recognizing his brother’s ring.

"Where did you get that?" His smile fades, his eyes darting to the other emperor, noting her golden ring on Geta’s hand.

"I won," Geta drawls smugly. "Won our little bet." He’s clearly pleased with himself, his lips curling into something like a smirk—but his eyes remain narrowed, watching, waiting. He’s wary of his brother’s reaction, she realizes.

In the short time Cassandra has known them, she’s learned that despite his innocent appearance, Caracalla is the one to fear. Geta knows this too—though he holds far more privileges, he doesn’t dare to gloat too openly.

A shiver runs down her spine.

A bet? They were betting? On her?

Caracalla’s expression darkens.

"You’re always like this! You must have cheated, didn’t you?" he snaps, frustration clear in his tone as he shoots a suspicious glance at his brother. But he doesn’t approach Geta. Instead, he moves toward her, still sitting on the floor.

"And you… One disappointment after another. Did you really want to upset me? Have you forgotten who you belong to?"

"Yours…" she whispers, her eyes glued to the ground.

"No, this time you won’t get away so easily." His fingers tighten in her hair, yanking her to her feet. "You’ll remember. You might cheat on that fool of a husband, but not me. Never me!"

"I didn’t…" she begins, her voice breaking, but no one is listening.

He drags her toward the massive bed, shoving her onto the silks and furs. Again? Will he force himself on her again?

Geta watches with interest, tilting his head—just like that time on the balcony. But this time, the emperor stands very close.

Caracalla steps back for a moment, only to return, looming over her, his breath hot against her skin. She trembles so violently that at first, she doesn’t even notice the cold steel pressing against her collarbone.

"Don’t kill her," Geta warns, sitting on the edge of the bed, making no move to intervene. "She has a trial to face, remember?"

"I don’t need your reminders," Caracalla snaps, glaring at his brother before turning his focus back to her, a lazy smile curling on his lips. "You forgot your place, didn’t you? Who do you think you are? You think you can play with my brother?"

The dagger in his hand makes her breath hitch. With a quick, sharp motion, he bares her chest, ripping her clothes apart—but it isn’t lust driving him. Or at least, not only that.

What did her body matter when terror shone so clearly in her eyes?

Her fear excites him far more. She can see it. She can feel it, his hardness pressing against her. The blade slides lightly between her collarbones, and she flinches, trying to twist away.

"Hold her."

And Geta does.

Obediently, he grabs her wrists and pins them above her head against the bed. His grip is so tight it makes her want to cry.

Cassandra meets his gaze, searching, pleading—

But the emperor is indifferent. Amused. Cold. He will allow his brother anything.

Mockingly, he brushes his thumb against her cheek, wiping away her tears. Then, just like that, he hands her over to Caracalla's mercy.

Caracalla is pleased, exhilarated. This time, the blade pressed harder, and she felt the sharp sting of pain.

When he moved lower, just above her right breast, she screamed, and his left hand covered her mouth. Geta still held her wrists as Caracalla began to carve intricate symbols into her pale skin with the tip of the dagger.

"I’ll reward you, brand you with your emperor’s name," he whispered, breathing heavily, biting his lower lip. "Now you won’t forget."

She whimpered into his hand, crying, her skin blazing like fire, shame and embarrassment consumed by the burn.

He carves with care, a craftsman at his art, then pulls back, licking his lips, admiring his work. She catches him touching himself beneath the robe, cheeks flushed with feverish red.

"Up—now," he commanded, and Geta yanked her by her numb arms, giving her no time to think, dragging her off the bed and forcing her to her knees.

The spot below her collarbone throbbed, as did her stiff arms, but none of that mattered now. Caracalla was marking her, asserting his claim. No one would save her; she was completely at his mercy. With a low, guttural moan, he reached his peak, using only his hand, never once touching her body. His seed desecrated her face as he gripped her hair tightly. Oh, the young emperor had always been inventive, and this time, he’d found yet another way to break her.

Tear-streaked and branded with his bleeding name, his seed staining her face, she was completely shattered. Geta looked on with disdain, Caracalla with lazy boredom. Yet, he didn’t look away, showing no intention of discarding her like he usually did.

"When’s the trial?" The tip of his tongue traced his red lips, his eyes burning with feverish anticipation.

"Tomorrow morning," his brother replied hoarsely, sounding almost intrigued, a quiet observer of her humiliation.

"Then we have time," Caracalla said, playfully picking up the dagger and running his thumb along its sharp edge. His hands were already stained with her husband’s blood. "The trial tomorrow is for those foolish senators. But yours… yours starts now."

There was no mercy in his voice, no remorse. The gods had already passed their judgment. Cassandra shut her eyes.

⋆ ☼ ⋆

Hey friends, we’re almost at the finish line—the next chapter’s gonna be the last one, and it’s kinda massive! Thanks so much for all your support, I really appreciate it! 🙂‍↕️

[sowerpatch]

terms of play [chapter 1 - the expansion play]

Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd

Summary: Azzi Fudd built the Golden Valkyries on a dare, but drafting Paige Bueckers was all strategy. Fresh off an NCAA title, Paige is everything the team needs—and everything Azzi shouldn’t want.

Officially, it’s all business. Unofficially, it’s glances that linger too long and touches that mean too much.

Author's note: this is an AU where Azzi owns the Golden State Valkyries and drafts Paige. Azzi's family are all original characters. Also, Azzi is three years older than Paige.

*CHAPTER LIST HERE*

Chapter Summary: After a challenge at a family dinner, billionaire real estate property developer Azzi Fudd decides to start a WNBA expansion team. With a sharp team behind her and a clear vision, she builds the Golden State Valkyries in San Francisco. As the 2025 draft approaches, all signs point to one player—UConn’s Paige Bueckers. While Paige dominates the court, Azzi quietly prepares a franchise that’s not just ready to win—but built with her in mind.

Fudd Private Estate, Northern California. August 2023. 

Dinner was almost done, the last of the grilled sea bass cleared, the conversation slipping into its usual rhythm of real estate forecasts and international zoning headaches. Out on the terrace, string lights blinked above marble columns, glowing like fireflies. Inside, the table gleamed—mahogany polished to a perfect shine, linen napkins folded into neat triangles. 

Azzi sat between her mother and her older brother, Trey. Legs crossed, watching the slow swirl of wine in her glass. She had been quiet most of the evening, letting her brothers talk over each other the way they always did when the market was up and their egos were sharper than usual. 

“You closed the Charleston deal?” she asked finally, cutting through Trey’s retelling of a boardroom clash. 

Her eldest brother, James, nodded as he dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “We came in two-point-eight billion over the projections. Construction begins in six months.” 

Their father gave a grunt of approval. Their mother hummed and reached for her water. 

Azzi glanced across the table. “And what are you doing with all that extra goodwill, Jimmy?” 

He smirked. “Redeveloping a dying downtown district and renaming the park after myself.” 

Trey laughed. “Philanthropy at its finest.” 

“Speaking of,” James added, turning toward her, “You’ve been busy handing out grants again. New initiative for girls’ sports, right?” 

Azzi nodded. “Three new training facilities. One in Detroit, two in Phoenix. Fully operational by spring.” 

Trey raised his glass in mock toast. “Saving the world, one blueprint at a time.” 

She gave him a sidelong look. “Is there a point coming?” 

“There is,” he said, grinning. “You’re always writing checks. But I’m wondering when you’ll stop funding things and actually build something that isn’t a foundation.” 

“I build all the time.” 

James leaned in, elbows on the table. “We mean something that moves. Something alive. You’ve got the money, the backing, the public image.” 

“Start a team,” Trey said, a little too casually. “Something new. From the ground up. You want to talk about real change in women’s sports? That’s where it happens.” 

Azzi blinked slowly, caught by the shift in tone. “You want me to build a team.” 

Trey shrugged. “Why not?” 

James added, “It’s not like you’re risk-averse. You took on a $600 million flood zone in Miami. A team is a child’s play.” 

“It’s also far outside my scope,” she replied, voice calm. “I don’t follow leagues. I don’t know the system.” 

“You didn’t know how to navigate renewable infrastructure either,” Trey said. “Now you’re advising senators.” 

She exhaled, quiet but thoughtful. Her wine glass hung between her fingers as she stared toward the edge of the terrace, where the hills disappeared into shadows. 

“A team in what league?” 

Trey didn’t hesitate. “WNBA.” 

The name lingered in the air. 

Azzi gave a short laugh. “You’re joking.” 

“We’re not,” James said. “It’s still expanding. They’re opening the door for new franchises. You’d be one of the few female owners, if not the youngest. And your last name doesn’t hurt.” 

Trey grinned. “Besides, you’re the only one of us who’d actually do it well.” 

There was a long pause. Azzi’s eyes stayed fixed on the dark horizon, her thoughts already moving faster than her brothers could see. 

Without looking back, she lifted her glass and took a slow sip, the stem steady between her fingers. 

Trey watched her closely. “So?” 

Azzi didn’t answer right away. Her eyes lingered on the hills beyond the terrace, where the last light was slipping beneath the edge of the vineyard. 

“I never asked for a challenge,” she said, voice low. “But I don’t walk away from one either.” 

James smirked. “That’s not a yes.” 

She gave a faint smile, one that didn’t reach her eyes. “Isn’t it?” 

Their mother let out a quiet sigh, already sensing the shift in air. 

But Azzi was somewhere else entirely. Her mind moved fast and silent, calculating what a new venture would demand. She didn’t know the system, hadn’t followed the structure or rhythm of this world. It would take work, leverage, timing, instinct. 

And still, the idea pulled at her. 

Not because she cared about the game. But because something about it was unclaimed. 

She let the silence stretch, the glass poised just below her lips. 

Then, without another word, she stood and slipped out onto the terrace. 

Inside, her brothers watched her go, unsure if they’d won or simply opened a door she had already planned to walk through. 

- 

Fudd Holdings, New York. September 2023. 

The skyline beyond Azzi’s glass walls was cold steel and soft morning light. The city stirred beneath her, a quiet hum barely reaching the forty-second floor. From here, everything felt still—like the world was waiting for her next move. 

She stood in silence, coffee cooling in her hand, gaze fixed beyond the horizon. Her calendar buzzed every eight minutes, but none of it mattered right now. Not the Zurich call. Not the Dallas rezoning conflict. Not the gala prep in New York. 

The only thing on her desk was a sealed manila folder. Franchise proposal templates. Expansion forecasts. A league dossier annotated in someone else’s hand. 

She hadn’t opened it. 

But she hadn’t thrown it away either. 

Behind her, the door opened without a knock. Only one person in the building had that kind of clearance. 

“You’re either planning to buy a spaceship,” said Nika Mühl, walking in without slowing, “or you’re finally giving in and building that team.” 

Azzi didn’t turn. “Is that what people think?” 

“Well, your brothers certainly do. And you’ve been moody ever since that dinner. I don’t like when you get quiet. You make headlines after.” 

Azzi gave the smallest of smiles, still looking out the window. “You’re dramatic.” 

“I’m Croatian,” Nika replied. “We don’t do subtle.” 

She crossed the room with practiced ease, tablet tucked under one arm, white sneakers a sharp contrast against the black stone floor. Chief Operating Officer of Fudd Holdings by title, but she'd been Azzi's best friend since their freshman year at Harvard. Back when Azzi was the one skipping finance lectures and Nika was the one dragging her back with coffee and tactical guilt. 

Now, Nika handled billion-dollar contracts, kept Azzi’s empire standing, and had a habit of knowing exactly when to walk in without knocking. 

She stopped beside her. “So. Team?” 

Azzi said nothing. 

Nika clicked her tongue. “You do realize it’s not like ordering room service, right? You don’t just build a team. You build a front office. A scouting system. A market presence. A brand. A culture.” 

“That’s why I have you.” 

“Wrong,” Nika said, folding her arms. “You have me because I’m good at telling you when something’s a horrible idea.” 

Azzi finally turned to face her, leaning a shoulder against the window. Her voice was low, almost amused. “And is this one?” 

“I don’t know yet. But I know you. If you’re thinking about it this much, you’re already in. You just haven’t said it.” 

Azzi didn’t reply. 

Nika’s tone shifted. “You’d be the first. The youngest owner. A woman. A woman of color. It’ll rattle every boardroom on both the West and East Coasts. Your face will also land a cover in Time Magazine’s Most Influential People of2023.” 

“Good,” Azzi said softly. 

Nika smirked. “I should’ve known. You’ve already started.” 

Azzi walked to her desk, ignoring the tablet Nika had placed beside the folder. She picked up a plain notepad instead. Paper clean and waiting. 

She wrote one word. 

Then paused. 

There were no names yet. No colors. No city she was ready to claim. Just the shape of something she hadn’t fully spoken aloud. 

She stared at the page for a long moment. 

Nika leaned against the desk. “You know if you do this, you’re going to have to live in the same headlines you usually avoid. Press. Interviews. Every move picked apart.” 

“I don’t mind being watched,” Azzi said, pen still in hand. 

“What about being underestimated?” 

Azzi glanced up at her. “That’s never been my problem.” 

Outside, the clouds had begun to thin. A shaft of light cut through the skyline and landed across the desk. 

Azzi closed the notebook and slid it into the drawer. 

“Can you tell Ines to clear my afternoon?” 

“For what?” Nika asked, already pulling out her phone. 

Azzi didn’t answer. She just turned back toward the window, her expression unreadable. 

From this height, the world looked like something she could bend in her hands. And maybe, if she wanted, she would. 

- 

WNBA League Headquarters, Manhattan. November 2023. 

The room smelled faintly of polish and ego. Neutral walls, thick glass table, the kind of chairs designed to keep meetings short. Still, Azzi looked comfortable. Unbothered in black. Her tailored coat hung off the back of her seat, and she hadn’t touched the espresso served when she arrived. 

Across from her sat four executives, each with a pen, a notepad, and a carefully curated expression. 

“This isn’t a typical ownership proposal,” one of them finally said, glancing at the file open in front of him. “You’re young. Unaffiliated. No prior league ties. And no prior team experience.” 

Azzi didn’t blink. “And?” 

The man cleared his throat. “And we’re aware of your success. Real estate. Development. Media. But this is a different ecosystem. A community. It’s built on history. Legacy.” 

“I’m not interested in legacy,” she said, flatly. “I’m interested in evolution.” 

The woman beside him leaned forward slightly. “You’re asking for an expansion license. That’s no small request for a young businesswoman. Why now?” 

Azzi met her eyes without hesitation. “Because you’re leaving value on the table. The interest is there. The numbers are climbing. Your audiences skew younger, more global, more invested than ever. But you’re still thinking like it’s 2003.” 

A beat of silence passed. Someone coughed. 

“I’m not here to collect a trophy franchise,” Azzi continued. “I’m here to build a flagship.” 

The tension in the room shifted. Not relaxed, exactly. But focused. 

They weren’t used to her. She knew that. 

She was the wrong type of billionaire. The kind who didn’t golf. The kind who read quarterly reports at midnight and refused to pretend she cared about playing nice. 

After a pause, the youngest executive spoke. “Your location request. Northern California. That market’s saturated.” 

“Not for women’s sports,” Azzi replied. “And not with the way I’ll brand it.” 

More notes were scribbled. Pages flipped. 

“You understand you’ll be responsible for hiring your own staff. GM. Coaching. Scouting. Facilities.” 

She nodded once. 

“And you’ll have full authority over your roster, should the board approve your inaugural draft position.” 

This time, Azzi didn’t reply. She just tilted her head slightly. Under the table, her phone buzzed once. A message from Nika. 

Top prospect in 2025. Bueckers. UConn. Championship run. Wings circling already. 

She locked the screen without reacting. 

One of the executives leaned back. “This is an aggressive timeline.” 

“I don’t need time,” Azzi said calmly. “I need a green light.” 

They all looked at each other. 

- 

Storrs, Connecticut. January 2024. 

The music hit like a pulse—loud, sticky, layered with bass. Bodies moved in waves around the living room, red cups lifted high, sweat clinging to necklines and the collarbones of people who hadn’t felt the October cold in hours. 

Paige was in the middle of it. 

Couch corner, backward cap, half-finished drink. Her legs draped casually over the side, one arm hooked behind the girl pressed close to her. Brown skin, bright eyes, a messy braid slipping down her shoulder. She laughed at something Paige murmured, then leaned in again. 

Paige smiled—half-cocky, half-distracted. She liked the ones who laughed easily. They didn’t ask for much. 

She didn’t remember this girl’s name. She wasn’t sure she ever got it. 

“You always this smooth?” the girl asked, fingers tracing lazy circles on Paige’s arm. 

“I like to keep my stats up,” Paige replied, letting the line sit between them like smoke. 

The girl grinned and tilted her head. “You’re bad.” 

Paige just raised her cup, took a slow sip, eyes never leaving hers. She didn’t need to try. People came to her like gravity. She played the role well—UConn’s golden girl, the smirk, the ease, the streak of charm that made teammates roll their eyes and strangers ask for photos. 

Across the room, KK Arnold pushed through the crowd like she had somewhere to be—shoulders squared, mouth moving before she even reached the couch. 

“Yo!” she shouted. “Turn that down—hold up, Paige—have you seen this?” 

The girl beside Paige pulled back slightly, frowning. Paige didn’t move. Just raised her eyebrows lazily. 

“I’m kinda busy, KK.” 

“No,” KK insisted, phone shoved halfway into Paige’s face. “You’re gonna want to see this.” 

Paige blinked. “This better be more important than whatever this is,” she said, gesturing vaguely at her lap. 

KK smirked. “It is.” 

She pressed play. 

A talking head. ESPN. Something about the league. Something about movement. Paige barely tuned in until she heard the word: 

“—expansion.” 

That snapped her straight. 

She reached for the phone now, sat up slightly. The girl she’d been entertaining gave a small noise of protest and slipped away, sensing the shift in energy. 

KK kept talking. “It’s not confirmed, but people are saying it’s happening. West Coast maybe. A new team. Just one.” 

“And?” Paige said, watching the loop replay, the headline scroll beneath the anchors. 

“And if it happens,” KK’s eyes were shining with excitement, “whoever they are, they’ll get the first pick in 2025.” 

Paige leaned back, silent now, eyes on the screen but brain already moving. 

She knew what first pick meant. 

She knew what she meant. 

A slow grin spread across her face, lazy and full of something dangerous. 

“Well,” she said, voice smooth, almost a drawl, “guess they better build something worth playing for.” 

KK laughed. “You’re ridiculous.” 

Paige tossed her cup aside, suddenly alive again. “Nah. I’m just real hard to impress.” 

She didn’t know yet who was building that team. Didn’t know where they were, or what they were planning. 

But she knew how expansion worked. 

If they were new, they were going to get first pick. 

And if she kept playing like this, there wasn’t going to be much of a debate. 

Paige let the thought settle as she sank back onto the couch, the music pulsing again through the floorboards. The party moved around her. Someone passed her a refill. Someone else grabbed her hand to pull her into a photo. 

She smiled, easy and practiced. 

Whatever came next, she’d be ready for it. 

She always was. 

- 

Azzi’s condo, San Francisco. February 2024. 

The city never fully slept, but her condo above it felt like it did. Clean lines, quiet corners, light reflecting off glass and steel. The only sound was the low buzz of her laptop fan and the occasional shift of the wind against the windows. Azzi had tuned the rest out. 

She sat barefoot at her desk, blazer thrown over the back of the chair, sleeves rolled past her elbows. A second espresso sat forgotten beside her—still warm, untouched. The hours had slipped without warning, and she hadn’t moved. 

Everything had started simple. 

Staff. Infrastructure. Nika had sent over a thick shortlist—coaching leads, analytics experts, trainers, logistics. All color-coded, with bullet-point histories and compensation expectations. Azzi had flagged a few. Deleted one with a note. Started typing thoughts into a shared doc that Nika would read by morning. 

That should’ve been the end of her night. 

But she had opened another folder. This one labeled Prospects. It wasn’t official. The draft was a year out. Still, Nika had her ear to the ground, and the expected names were already surfacing. 

There were plenty of talents. 

But only one name was bolded in red. 

Paige Bueckers. 

Azzi clicked into the file. Then into the links. And suddenly, she wasn’t reviewing a prospect. She was watching. 

Highlights first. Just a few. Crisp cuts, quick angles. UConn’s number five coming off a screen and launching a shot so fluid it made time pause. Behind-the-back passes. A stepback three that broke ankles. That same face again and again in the freeze-frames—focused, fierce, almost glowing. 

Then came the interviews. 

Paige under lights. Paige in locker rooms. Paige on late-night segments, quick with a grin, comfortable in her own skin. Her voice had a cadence Azzi didn’t expect. Confident, but easy. Flirty when she wanted to be, always a little amused with the attention she commanded. 

It was sometime after 2 a.m. when Azzi realized she hadn’t blinked in a while. 

The tabs were everywhere now—articles, game tape, UConn’s media guide, a podcast, a couple of poorly edited fan videos. One browser was open to Paige’s Instagram. There were more selfies than Azzi expected. More snapshots in hoodies, celebrations, dances, teammates wrapping arms around her shoulders. Her smile was wide in nearly all of them. 

There was one video—twenty seconds long—where Paige sat on a locker room bench after a win. Her hair was still damp, socks mismatched. She pointed at the camera, grinning like she knew exactly who was watching. 

“Y’all saw that pass, right?” she said. “I’m just saying MVP energy, don’t lie.” 

Azzi tilted her head at the screen. Then hit replay. 

She didn’t bother counting how many times she watched it. 

The city outside had turned ghost-quiet. Her espresso had gone cold. The time in the corner of her screen read 3:42 a.m. 

Azzi leaned back, the glow of the screen still lingering behind her eyes. The silence of the condo pressed in, heavy with everything left undone. 

This wasn’t about choosing a player. That decision had been obvious. 

Now came the hard part. 

She had to build something that deserved her. 

Not a placeholder roster. Not a name stitched on a jersey. Something real. Cohesive. Ruthless in its intention and sharp enough to match the edge that girl played with. 

Paige Bueckers wouldn’t say it out loud, but Azzi had seen it in every clip, every interview, every still image that refused to soften her. Paige would not play just to exist. She would need to win. To lead. To belong without shrinking.    Not to mention the insane number of her following and fanbase. Paige also influenced people in a way.  

Azzi stood and crossed the room, the city lights curling against the glass. Her reflection was sharp, watching. 

She had money. Influence. Time. 

What she needed now was vision. 

Something Paige would walk into and never want to leave. 

And Azzi would build it. Quietly. Precisely. 

-    Fudd Holdings, New York. March 2024. 

The room was quiet, the kind of quiet that followed focus. Sunlight spilled across the long table, where a half-dozen staff from operations and marketing sat poised, eyes forward. At the head stood Azzi, composed in tailored black, with Nika seated beside her. Ines, her ever-efficient assistant, flanked the opposite side. Amari DeBerry, recently appointed head of marketing, sat near the screen, hands clasped, alert. 

Azzi’s voice carried with clarity and purpose. 

“We’re establishing the franchise in San Francisco,” she said simply. “We’ve secured a long-term venue partnership, and I’ve approved residential development near the arena for housing and accessibility.” 

Murmurs of approval passed around the table. Amari nodded once, already scribbling in a notepad. 

Azzi tapped the remote and the screen behind her lit up. 

“The team name is set. Golden State Valkyries.” 

Another murmur. Nika let out a soft, impressed whistle. 

“Color palette is royal purple, white, black, and gold.” 

That got Nika’s attention. She didn’t speak, not yet, but her brow lifted slightly. Azzi didn’t look at her. 

“The branding team will have mockups by Friday,” Azzi continued. “Uniform concepts by next week. I want a balance of power and elegance. Iconography that’s timeless, not trendy.” 

The presentation slide shifted, revealing clean logo designs, jersey prototypes, and mock courts painted with deep violet and cold metallics. Strong, elegant. Sharp. 

Azzi continued, her gaze unwavering. “The direction is not simply aesthetic. The identity needs to match the face of the franchise.” 

She let the silence stretch, let the weight of her next words land with precision. 

“We’re drafting Paige Bueckers in 2025. And everything we build starts there.” 

The others nodded in agreement, energized, the tension turning to motion. 

“She’s a generational player,” Azzi said. “But more than that, she’s marketable. Composed. Smart. Charismatic. We’re not just acquiring talent. We’re setting the tone for who we are.”    Azzi answered a few questions here and there as she promised to send a copy of the presentation to each and everyone of them.    “We’re moving to the main office in San Francisco by the end of this month. All costs involving the transfer will be compensated and you will all receive an email from Finance and H&R.” Azzi’s tone was firm and final. Then Azzi looked at her Marketing Director. “Amari, I need you to start working on marketing strategies before this year’s WNBA draft. We want to launch the brand and team after the 2024 draft.”    Amari gave her a thumbs up before going back to her notepad. 

The presentation ended, clean and final. Staff offered quiet acknowledgments before rising and filing out.     Nika remained seated. She tilted her head toward the dark screen now dimming in sleep mode. 

“Purple?” she said, tone neutral, almost amused. 

Azzi didn’t look up. “It photographs well.” 

Nika lifted a brow. “So does navy. Or gray.” 

Azzi slid her tablet into her bag. “This feels distinct.” 

Nika leaned forward just slightly, eyes sharp. “It’s her favorite color.” 

Azzi's hand stilled over the zipper. “Is it?” 

“So you’re saying...” Nika 's voice was edged with mischief, “it’s just a branding strategy?” 

Azzi straightened, cool as ever. “It’s a strong visual.” 

Nika gave a soft, knowing smile. “Sure.” 

She didn’t press, but she didn’t need to. The implication hung between them—unspoken, but understood. 

- 

Somewhere in Florida. April 2024. 

The room smelled like last night—cheap beer, perfume, someone else's cigarettes. Paige sat on the edge of the bed, one sock on, shirt in her lap, scrolling through her phone without much urgency. Her head pounded faintly. She didn’t remember the girl's name. She didn’t try. 

The first thing that caught her attention wasn’t a text or a missed call. 

It was a headline. 

Breaking: WNBA Announces New Expansion Team — Golden State Valkyries 

She stilled. 

Logos, teaser clips, renderings of jerseys, arena mock-ups—her feed was full of it. Posts from ESPN, WNBA, Bleacher Report. Everyone had something to say. Some called it ambitious. Some called it overdue. Everyone agreed it was big. 

The name caught her. So did the sharp lines of the branding. There was something bold about it. Fast. Designed to be remembered. 

She kept scrolling, half-dressed, only stopping when KK’s name lit up on her screen. 

She answered. “What.” 

“Girly pop, tell me you’ve seen the news,” KK said, buzzing with energy. 

“I’m looking at it now, bruh.” 

“That’s it. That’s the team. You’re going there.” 

Paige tossed her shirt over her shoulder and reached for her shoes. “That's reach.” 

“Come on,” KK said. “They will draft you for sure! You’re the first pick next year. That team’s yours whether you like it or not.” 

Paige didn’t say anything for a beat. A few more posts flashed past—video edits already throwing her name into fake Valkyrie graphics. Speculation disguised as fact. 

She grabbed her keys off the nightstand and headed for the door. The other girl mumbled something into the pillow. Paige didn’t turn around. 

She stepped out into the morning. The season was already over but the future had a shape now.  

And it had her full attention. 

[astrids-blog333]

Before the Fall

Emperor!Lucius Verus Aurelius x Fiancé!Reader

Fandom: Gladiator II

Summary: In the weeks leading up to your wedding, Lucius swears you’re his. But when a plot to kill you unfolds his protective instincts go into overdrive, and his need for revenge becomes a force that can't be stopped.

Warnings: obsessive love, betrayal, poison, dark romance, hurt/comfort, angst, death themes, violence, mention of needles/medical tools, nudity (no smut)

A/N: This is based off a request from the lovely @londonalozzy, hope its what you imagined. I really enjoyed writing this :)

MASTERLIST - REQUESTS (OPEN)

WC: 3.5k

The city lies below you, gilded in dusk. It's a sprawl of rooftops and marble, with lanterns flickering to life one by one. You can hear laughter from the palace gardens far beneath, and the distant hush of fountains, the clink of goblets and soft strains of music carried by the wind.

But here, above it all, it’s quiet.

You lean on the balcony rail, the cool stone pressing into your hands. Behind you, the doors to your shared chambers stand open, silk curtains dancing in the breeze. The faint and heady scent of night-blooming flowers drifts on the air.

Lucius stands in the doorway, watching you.

He hasn’t said a word since he came in. Just shed his armour, piece by piece. First pauldrons, then chestplate, the belt goes, until all that remains is the linen shirt clinging to his frame.

You don’t need him to speak. You can feel him in your skin.

“You’re brooding,” you murmur without turning.

He doesn’t answer at first. Then the floor creaks under his bare feet as he moves closer. “I’m thinking,” he says, low and rough.

You smile faintly. “Dangerous habit.”

His arms come around you from behind, slow and sure. One hand flattens against your stomach, the other wraps across your chest, holding you flush against his powerful body.

“I can’t help it,” he says, and it isn’t a jest.

You tilt your head to the side as he brushes his mouth against your neck, a kiss that lingers without deepening.

“I saw the way that senator looked at you today,” he says quietly.

You sigh, resting your hands over his.

You twist slightly to meet his gaze. “I’m not a prize to be guarded, Lucius.”

His jaw ticks, eyes burning dark. “You are to me.”

There’s no apology in his voice. No shame in the way he holds you tighter, like he’s half a breath away from shielding you with his entire body.

You reach up and brush your fingers through his hair. It’s unbound now, wind-swept and silvering in the moonlight. “You’re too intense for this world.”

He huffs a soft sound that might be a laugh, or at least something close to it. “You’re too beautiful for this world.”

“You’re biased.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you fully, fingers curling around your wrist. “Utterly.”

The moment stretches, a welcome pause in the chaos of court and crowns. Then, wordlessly, he reaches for the clasp at your shoulder.

You don’t stop him.

His hand is steady, but his eyes search yours, still always asking. Even now when you’re to be his wife in days, even when your lives are tangled like roots in soil.

The fabric slips with a whisper, your gown loosening, sliding down one arm. Lucius watches it fall like it’s a sacred thing.

He helps you turn, facing him. The city is behind you now, but you can still feel it glowing on your skin. His gaze follows the light, tracing the place where your collarbone catches it, the hollow of your throat, the edge of your shoulder.

His hands come up to the other clasp, and you let him undo it, and the silk shudders as it slides down your body.

You should feel exposed. But all you feel is his eyes.

He touches your waist. Then your arms. A finger down your spine. Not lust, not hunger, something deeper.

You raise your hand and press it against his chest. His heart thuds beneath your palm, a steady drumbeat. When you look up, his expression is thunderous—stormy, hungry, aching.

“Say something,” you whisper.

He shakes his head slowly, lips parted. “I can’t. You make words useless.”

“You’re thinking again,” you murmur.

His hands still. His voice is hoarse. “I don’t want anything to take this from me.”

You step closer, bare and unflinching. “Nothing will.”

But he doesn’t look reassured. He looks like a man staring at the edge of a cliff.

His thumb brushes your cheek. “I’ve known war. I’ve known loss. But this-”

You reach up, pressing your mouth to his before he can finish. It’s a soft kiss, one that asks instead of takes. He answers with a sigh, a sound that shudders through him.

You feel his restraint like a coiled spring.

When you break apart, your voice is soft. “Do you still want to marry me, Lucius?”

His eyes flash. “I want to chain the gods if it keeps you safe. I want to carve your name into time next to mine so we can never be parted. I want to wake beside you for every breath I’m given.”

You laugh, almost tearfully. “So that’s a yes?”

He kisses your temple. “Yes. And so much more.”

You stand there like that for a while, bare beneath his cloak, wrapped in arms that have held swords and shields and empires, and now only hold you.

He doesn’t take you to bed, not yet.

Instead, he carries you inside and wraps you in soft linen, his rings cool against your skin. He brushes your hair back and watches you fall asleep like you are something holy.

Like you're far, far too fragile for this world.

The feast sprawls across the garden in a blur of gold and wine and silks. Lanterns are bobbing in the warm evening air, casting lights over noblemen and generals, over perfumed women and simpering lords. Somewhere, a lyre sings.

But Lucius hasn’t left your side. He watches you like he still has his hand on your spine. Like you might vanish between one breath and the next.

You keep your smile polite, easy, soft. You let a duke’s wife compliment your gown. You lift your goblet when a toast is made. You play the part, but there’s a weight to your awareness now. His gaze presses into your shoulder blades.

“Try to enjoy yourself,” you murmur beneath your breath, turning just enough for Lucius to hear.

“I am,” he replies, voice low and unhurried. “You’re here.”

You reach for your wine again, only for Lucius to stop you, two fingers resting lightly against the stem of your goblet. Not forceful, not commanding. But final. Then he lifts the glass himself, sniffs it, and hands it to a nearby guard without a word.

“Too warm,” he says when you frown. “I’ll have another brought.”

You almost laugh. You don’t. Something in his eyes won’t let you.

Across the courtyard, past the music and marble statues and glistening tables, someone is watching you.

A young noble, tall, broad-shouldered, with golden hair and a face carved for vanity. Lord Severan. You’ve seen him in passing, heard his name wrapped around gossip. His family fought beside yours long before your birth.

He doesn’t look away when your eyes catch his. He simply inclines his head, as though he has every right to look at you for as long as he pleases.

He doesn’t see Lucius.

Lucius sees him.

Your future husband doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. But the space around him sharpens. You feel his fury the way you feel the storm season rolling in over the mountains, a distant thunder, the scent of earth before rain.

When you glance up, Lucius is already watching Severan.

The younger man falters. It’s slight, almost nothing, a stutter in his stance, a flicker of something uncertain in his expression. But you see it. And so does Lucius. Severan turns away a moment later, voice rising as he joins another conversation, too loud, too bright.

Lucius exhales.

You want to ask, what was that? But you don’t, because part of you already knows.

The garden has always been your secret. A place carved from stone and vines, hidden past the west wing. Lucius insisted the entrance be sealed to all others after you found it together, calling it your little kingdom.

“You should let me build you a new one,” he says tonight, low in your ear. “With statues of you in every corner.”

You hum without turning, leaning back into his chest. “Tempting. But then where would we hide when the Senate bores us to death?”

His arms fold around your waist from behind. “I could banish them for that.”

You laugh. “You say that like you haven’t already threatened half the council.”

He kisses your shoulder, grinning. “Only the slow-witted ones.”

You’re barefoot, perched on the stone bench where he’s draped a throw for you, one slipper forgotten in the grass. The vines above sway gently, scenting the air with jasmine.

Lucius pulls back just enough to press a goblet into your hand. “To your patience, beloved. And your saint-like tolerance of me.”

“Oh, that ran out weeks ago.”

He chuckles, watching you take the first sip. “And yet here you are.”

“Because you’re pretty.”

He arches a brow. “Pretty?”

“Devastatingly. Like a sculpture. One of those marble heroes. But significantly moodier.”

“Moodier?” He feigns offence.

You glance at him sidelong, smirking. “Broodier?”

“I prefer commanding.”

“Mm. You’d still look very commanding as a statue. Naked, obviously.”

He leans in, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “If you wanted me naked, love, you only had to ask.”

You swat at him half-heartedly, laughter slipping past your teeth, and he grins like a man completely, stupidly in love.

You drink. A sip, no more. The wine is sweeter than before. Thicker.

The silence stretches, but something shifts.

It happens slowly. A throb behind your eyes. A warmth in your chest that doesn’t spread, just tightens. Like a band drawn too tight.

You blink once. Twice. The moonlight blurs at the edges. Your breath catches.

Lucius’s head snaps toward you.

You try to speak, but the words catch. Your chest rises too fast, then too slow. The goblet slips from your hand and crashes to the stone.

Lucius is on his feet. Hands on your arms, your face. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

You don’t answer, you can’t. The garden sways around you, your vision warping. You grip his tunic for balance and feel your body sag against him.

Lucius roars for the guards.

There’s no mask of Emperor now. No calm authority. He lifts you into his arms like you weigh nothing and turns toward the palace, already shouting orders. The corridors blur around you, columns and frescoes and startled faces. Lucius is yelling for Ravi, voice like thunder crashing through marble.

You hear your name. Over and over again.

“Stay with me. Stay with me.”

Then darkness.

A few hours later, Ravi works in near-silence.

His hands are stained with herbs and tinctures, sleeves rolled back to his elbows. A bowl of tainted wine stands on a side table, half-emptied for testing. A copper basin is dark with water and blood.

Lucius has not moved from your side.

You lie on his bed, pale and still, your lips parted as though caught mid-breath. Your skin gleams with sweat. There is a mark on your arm where Ravi injected the antidote, a desperate gamble on what he believes is poison from the south, rare, expensive, slow to kill but brutal.

“She’ll live,” Ravi says at last, voice hoarse. “It was close. It still is close. But I think we caught it in time.”

Lucius doesn’t respond. He only nods. His hand wraps around yours, cold, trembling slightly. His thumb strokes your knuckles like a litany.

Behind him, the guards wait, silent. Tense.

“Find out who brought the wine,” Lucius says quietly.

Ravi looks up.

Lucius doesn’t look away from you. “Every hand that touched it. Every link in the chain. I want names.”

The guards bow and vanish like shadows.

Lucius leans closer, his breath stirring your hair. He brushes it back from your brow and presses his forehead to yours.

“I swear to the gods,” he whispers, “I will find them. I will tear the world apart if I have to.”

The palace is hushed.

Not in reverence, not in mourning. In fear.

Lucius walks the halls like a spectre, draped in crimson. His jaw is locked, his stride steady. The guards who follow don’t dare speak. The scent of iron follows him. His hand is still stained red from the last interrogation.

He reaches the chamber at the end of the east wing.

They'd dragged Lord Severan here after Ravi confirmed it—the poison traced to the noble's house, hidden in a shipment of rare wine, sealed with his signet.

Fool.

Lucius opens the door himself.

Severan turns at the sound. He stands in the centre of the room, straight-backed, still dressed like a man of title. His tunic bears a pale smear of dust, but his eyes are sharp, unreadable. He does not kneel. He does not beg.

Of course he doesn’t.

“Your Majesty,” he says, voice even. “I trust this is a misunderstanding.”

Lucius says nothing.

He steps inside, and the door shuts behind him with a soft click. No guards. No audience. Just the two of them.

Severan lifts his chin. “I’ve served the Empire faithfully all my life. My family-”

“Thought I wouldn’t notice,” Lucius says, low. “Or care.”

A pause.

Then Severan’s face twitches, just slightly. “I’ve no idea what you’re implying.”

Lucius is across the room before Severan can blink, one hand slamming into his chest, shoving him back into the stone wall. The crack of it echoes like a gunshot. Severan grunts, breath knocked from his lungs.

“You poisoned her,” Lucius snarls. “You put your filthy hands on something that wasn’t yours.”

“She was never yours to begin with.” The words spill out before he can stop them, bitter and sharp. “Your engagement is recent. Our families have been allied for years. I expected-”

“You expected?” Lucius’s voice is low, dangerous. “You expected her to fall into your lap like land and cattle? Like shes property?”

“I would have treated her with dignity. She would have been safe with me.”

Lucius punches him. It’s fast, brutal. Bone cracks beneath his fist. Severan chokes on his own blood.

“She was safe with me. The only reason she is not anymore, is you.”

“She nearly died,” Lucius growls, fist curled tight. “She still might. Do you know what it feels like to watch someone you truly love suffocate in your arms?”

Severan coughs, lips wet with red. “She would never have been yours if she had a choice.”

Lucius stills.

Then he smiles. A thin, terrible smile.

He steps back. “On your knees,” Lucius says.

Severan doesn’t move.

Lucius draws his dagger. “On your knees.” This time, Severan obeys. Slowly. Jaw clenched.

“You think you’re the first man to covet her?” Lucius circles him. “You think you’re the only one to look at her and wish she belonged to you? Well you're not.”

His voice darkens. “But you’re the only one foolish enough to try to take her from me.”

The blade gleams in the torchlight. Severan’s breath comes in short, ragged bursts.

“I’m the Emperor,” Lucius says, voice almost soft. “I could have stripped your title, dragged your name through the dirt. But that’s not what you deserve.”

He kneels beside him, dagger at Severan’s throat.

“You deserve to bleed.”

“Wait-” Severan tries, voice hoarse. “Please-”

“No.”

Lucius cuts.

The blade slides across Severan’s throat with surgical precision. No hesitation.

Blood spills fast, warm and thick, soaking into the marble.

Lucius watches him fall. Watches him die.

His face is blank, empty, but his hands are shaking. He stays there a moment longer, crouched over the body.

Then he stands.

Ravi is waiting outside the door, eyes wide, breath held. He nods. “She’s breathing. Still weak, but stable. She’s asking for you.”

Lucius exhales once, sharp and unsteady.

Then he walks. Not like an emperor or a man victorious.

He walks like someone who nearly lost the only thing that ever made him feel human.

And left death in his wake.

You wake to the sound of breathing. Slow and steady. Not your own.

Everything aches. Your bones feel waterlogged, your skin too tight, your lungs not quite yours. The world is heavy and blurred, but not empty anymore.

There’s a hand in yours.

Warm, large, calloused. Gripping so tightly it’s almost painful, as if letting go might kill him.

Lucius.

You don’t say it aloud. You try, but it comes out as a whisper of breath, just enough. A ghost of his name.

His head jerks up.

He’s slumped in a chair beside you, his hair mussed, eyes bloodshot, his tunic stained with something darker than dust. There are bruises along his knuckles, dried blood in the grooves of his rings. But none of that matters.

Because the moment your eyes meet his, it’s like the whole world crashes into place.

“Lucius,” you rasp, barely a sound.

He’s already moving.

He doesn’t shout, doesn’t call for servants. He just presses forward, sinking to his knees beside the bed, wrapping both hands around yours like he’s trying to feel your pulse with his whole body.

“You came back to me,” he breathes. His voice is hoarse, wrecked. “You- fuck sweetheart, I thought I lost you.”

You manage a faint smile. “You’re the one who looks like death.”

He huffs a sound that’s almost a laugh. But his eyes are wet, his shoulders trembling as he bows his head against your arm.

Your fingers twitch, reaching, despite the fire in your muscles. You reach for him, your hand dragging against his jaw. He lifts his head instantly, eyes wild.

“You shouldn’t move-”

“I need to touch you,” you whisper.

Lucius leans into it, closes his eyes as your fingers brush the side of his face. His stubble scrapes your skin. He’s so warm. Solid. Alive.

“Ravi said it was close,” you murmur. “I remember his voice.”

Lucius nods slowly. “You stopped breathing. Twice.”

He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t have to. You can see it in him, in the smudged shadows beneath his eyes, the twitch in his jaw.

“How long?” you ask.

“Three days.”

You blink. “You haven’t slept.”

“No,” he says, without shame.

Silence falls.

Then, quietly, “You don’t get to die before I marry you.”

You smile, weak but real.

You glance at him properly now. The blood on his sleeves. The state of him. “You found out who it was.”

His jaw clenches.

“I didn’t just find him,” Lucius says softly. “I made him confess. I made him beg.”

You don’t ask for details. You don’t need to.

But he gives them to you anyway. “Severan thought you were promised to him. His family assumed your hand would be theirs by alliance. No contract. No vow. Just... pure entitlement.”

You close your eyes.

There’s a pause. You open your eyes to find him watching you, ruthless, wrecked, and so full of love it almost hurts.

“I didn’t kill him quickly,” he says. “I wanted him to understand. I wanted him to feel what it means to steal what’s mine.”

You swallow. “Lucius-”

“No. Don’t ask me to regret it.” He brushes your hair back, gentle as a prayer. “If I hadn’t been holding your hand when you woke, I’d still be out there, finding the rest of them.”

“You think there are more?”

“There are always more.”

You study his face. The darkness in it. The desperate, burning edge that hasn’t softened.

He’s not the same man who teased you on the balcony. Not quite.

But he’s still yours.

“Come here,” you say softly.

Lucius hesitates, just for a second.

He climbs onto the bed carefully, lying beside you atop the covers, his arm beneath your neck, drawing you gently into his chest. You can feel the tension still thrumming through him, like a wild animal only half-caged.

You press your face into his throat. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He holds you tighter. “You’d better not.”

“I’ll marry you,” you whisper, half-dreaming. “Even if you look like a ghost.”

He chuckles into your hair. “Then we’ll make it soon.”

“I want the dress with the pearls.”

“You’ll have it,” he murmurs, lips at your temple. “You’ll have everything.”

For a moment, there’s only the sound of his heartbeat, steady against your cheek. The warmth of him. The safety in it.

And the sense, finally, that the worst is over.

But even now, as you drift, his grip doesn’t loosen. He’s still watching the door. Still ready to kill.

Still yours.

I had a lot of fun writing this, please comment/like/reblog is you enjoy, and as always requests are open <3

[idkwhylou]

𝐈. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬

Summary : Torn from your coastal homeland to seal an imperial alliance, in a wedding crafted for power, not love, you vow to fulfill your duty and perhaps find something more. But on your wedding night, you discover a colder truth: Marcus’s body is yours, but his heart is somewhere else. Still, you are determined to prove your worth, to decode his silence, and to uncover the man behind the armor.

Marcus Acacius x f!reader

Warnings : arranged marriage, mentions of politics, smut, cold behavior, age gap ? (not really mentioned or important), infidelity (towards reader), secret relationship, no y/n

Words : 5,8K

A/N : alright first part of the request ! Thanks again @negrita2345 for your excellent idea, hope you'll like it. Kind of anxious bcs I hope it’s good, I mean in the way you imagined it. Anyway if you have a better title, I'll take it lol. Anyway not much of angst but we need to start slow and setting the context

masterlist | next chapter

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

The olive groves whispered like priests in prayers, swaying beneath the salt-heavy breeze that rose from the sea. From your terrace, the horizon gleamed, a stretch of molten silver where sky met water, endless and unreachable. White sails drifted across it like wandering souls: merchants, imperial messengers, galleys bearing soldiers with polished helmets and unseen orders. 

But today, the wind carried no peace. It was too quiet. Something had shifted, you could feel it long before anyone spoke it aloud. 

The household moved with unnatural quiet, servants murmured behind closed doors and hurried theirs steps as though silence might shield them from whatever was coming. Your father had not touched his breakfast. And you mother—your serene and inscrutable mother—sat rigid at the head of the table, her fingers endlessly smoothing the same fold in her silk robe, over and over, as of the repetition might erase the tremble in her hands. 

When a servant found you in the gardens and bowed deeply, announcing with careful reverence that your presence was requested in the atrium, your feet already knew where to carry you. The click of your sandals echoed off sun-warmed stone as you passed under the colonnade. It smelled faintly of crushed herbs and old parchment, your father’s scent, the scent of duty and legacy. 

Then you saw them, your father stood as though carved from granite: arms behind his back, posture impeccable, chin lifted with imperial resolve. His face was unreadable, but not empty, no. There was something behind his eyes, calculation, or maybe regret. Your mother was seated beside him, her back stiff but her gaze soft, resting not on you, but the floor. 

Two imperial envoys flanked the far pillars. Strangers in gleaming bronze, with helms tucked beneath their arms and scroll slung at their side. Their armor shone like mirrors, catching shards of sunlight that danced across the walls. One of the scrolls had a seal on, a red wax pressed with the mark of an eagle glinted like fresh blood. 

Your heart stuttered once in your chest. Not fear, not quite. Just the cold certainty that your life was about to be unmade. You stepped forward, voice calm and practiced. The same voice you would use at your father’s side while translating foreign decrees and entertaining Roman governors at the harvest feasts. 

“You summoned me, Father ?”

He did not look at you right away, instead, he dismissed the nearby servants with a flick of his fingers. Only when the last one bowed out the room, did he extend one hand toward the envoy. The scroll was handed over in a heavy silence, consuming a part of your soul.

You watched the wax break under your father’s thumb, a clean sound, like a lock opening. He read aloud, his voice loud and clear, “By order of the Roman Emperor, and with the blessing of the Senate, a marriage is hereby decreed…” He continued, but the words grew distant. Your ears filled with the sound of your own blood. 

A marriage ? 

You felt the floor tilt slightly under your feet, your stomach tightening as though braced for an all and your head spinning. Your breath snagged in your chest as you looked around for something—your mother’s eyes, the sea, anything steady—but the stone walls began to feel too close.

Still, you did not speak. You took a breath, deep like diving into cold water, and moved to your mother’s side. Her hand reached instinctively for yours, but you remained still. 

Your father’s voice dropped in tone, “You have been chosen.”

You had always known this day would eventually come. But you never imagined it would happen like this…. Not so early.

Your knees bent beneath you, and you let yourself fall beside your mother. You looked straight ahead, heart beating heavily, like a drum echoing down a long and empty corridor. You let the silence stretch until you had the strength to speak.

“To whom ?” you dared to ask because not asking would have felt like a surrender. 

Your father eyes finally met yours, “General Marcus Acacius,” he read, “a man held in highest favor by the Emperor himself.”

Each word struck with brutal precision. Marcus Acacius. A name carved into the bones of the Empire. You had heard it before, whispered with reverence by soldiers passing through your father’s court. Stories of battlefield valor, of loyalty, of a man more iron than flesh. You had never seen his face, but now his name felt heavier than gold. 

Your throat tightened. Rome. You were being sent to Rome. Your lips parted, but no sound emerged. You pressed them together again, holding in the cry that threatened to escape, just a crack in something old and unspoken. 

Your mother stood then, as if stirred by some silent storm. “Aretas,” she said, her voice urgent. “The General-”

“-is a man of honor”, your father interrupted sharply, giving her a warning look. “And this is not a request.”

“Aretas,” your mother hissed, stepping toward him, voice sharp with fear and something dangerously close to rage “You would send your own daughter like a sacrifice ? Offering her like some- some tribute to the Gods of war ?!” 

Your father turned his head slowly, his jaw clenched tight. “Mind your words.”

“She is too young !” your mother snapped, the tremble in her voice now pushed aside by fury. “She still walks barefoot in the garden. Still sleeps with the shutters open to hear the sea. You promised she would have a say, that there would be time-”

“-I promised,” your father cut in, louder now, “that she would be protected. That she would have a future.”

“She is not livestock to be bargained for land and influence !”

“She is the daughter of this house !” Aretas barked, the echo of his voice crashing against the walls, as one of the envoys shifted uncomfortably, “She bears my name and my blood. And that blood will mean something in Rome. Do you think I have not considered what this will cost her ?” he turned away as if the sight of you was too much. “what it will cost me ?!”

Your mother pressed her fingers to her temple, massaging them as she tries to steady herself. Then she looked at him again, her voice aching. “She was meant to be more than this…” she whispered as a cried escape her throat, “meant to choose who she loved.”

“She was born into a world where we do not get to choose,” your father replied calmer now, but his voice sounded like a man bearing the weight of a boulder no one else could see. “Not you. Not I. And not her.”

Your mother’s voice cracked, “You would give her to a man she has never met.”

“I would give her to a man who commands the loyalty of Rome. A man the Emperor trusts himself.” He glanced at you finally, “A man who will keep her alive and safe.”

“And what of her heart ?! What of her joy ?”

“Mother-” you tried to calm her down.

Your father looked away. “She will learn without it.”

She turned back to you and grasped your hand tightly, and this time, you let her. Her fingers trembled. “You do not have to accept this,” she whispered. “You are not a piece on the board.”

But you were. You had always been. And you knew it.

You rose slowly, gently letting go of her hand, and walked to the terrace again. The sea stretched before you, wide and glittering and full of vanished sails, the scent of salt stung your nose. A warm wind lifted the hem of your gown. You remembered running through those olive trees, chasing shadows between the rows. You remembered laughing, barefoot and free, before anyone asked anything of you.

You closed your eyes and then you nodded. “I will go,” you simply said.

Your mother gasped loudly, like something inside her had crumpled. She turned away, pressing her fingers to her lips.

You stood still, facing the horizon. “I will do my duty,” you whispered.

That was the beginning. The moment the Empire reached across the water and placed its claim upon your life.

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

The marriage was held beneath a sky as blue as tempered steel, Rome’s finest stage set for politics disguised as ceremony. Marble gods stared down from their pedestals, unmoved by the day’s union. Senators stood in rings of gold-threaded togas, murmuring among themselves like old crows. Red petals were scattered over the flagstones, crushed underfoot like drops of blood. Every detail had been carved and calculated with purpose. 

Not for love, but for the Empire.

The Forum itself had been cleared, roped off by imperial guard. Lictors lined the periphery, their fasces polished, gleaming in the sun. A choir of flutes and lyres played from the steps of the temple, slow and solemn, not joyful but dignified, like the funeral of your freedom.

And yet, when you looked down the aisle, past the priests and the marble gods, you saw only him. He stood like he had been carved into place by fate, a figure of stoic poise and discipline. He wore the ceremonial breastplate of a General; gold and leather laced over his chest like armor made for myth. A dark crimson cloak draped over one shoulder, clasped with the mark of the Emperor’s seal.

He was taller than you had imagined, broader too. There was a steadiness to him that unnerved you. Not exactly stillness but what seems to be contained power. His face was carved from shadow and sunlight, jaw squared, and eyes the cold color of rain-smoothed stone. A thin scar curved along the left side of his jaw, not disfiguring, but sharp, like a signature. And those eyes, when they finally found yours, held no flicker of joy, no welcome. They were grounded, unreadable—everything but empty.

You had expected indifference, arrogance, perhaps. But what you found was something far more dangerous. Intrigue. He inclined his head in a silent greeting, a soldier’s nod; respectful and impossibly formal. Not a smile, not a spark. But not disdain either. Your breath caught when he looked at you, like a man preparing for a siege. And yet, something in you shifted. Not in fear, not even in disappointment, maybe… fascination ?

Your gown swept the marble behind you; white silk, embroidered with silver and copper threads in the style of your homeland, a small rebellion your mother had insisted on preserving. The veil shimmered behind you like mist, long and soft. At your side, your father walked stiffly, his expressions carved into diplomacy. He held your arm like he held his blade, firmly, not quite gently. Then, he had to leave you, let go of your arm and give you to the stranger you were about to marry. The man that would now take care of you.

The altar was lined with fresh-cut laurel and pomegranate. The priest chanted the sacred rites. Your name, and his, spoken aloud and you did not even know the sound of his voice. Yet, your fingers touched when the rings were passed, and that single brush of skin sent a whisper of something electric up your spine. 

His palm was cold. Yours trembled once. He did not look at you, not directly. But you saw his jaw tighten, like he had felt it too, and did not know what to do with all that knowledge. You wondered, absurdly, if he was nervous. The rings were slipped on, and the oaths exchanged, a scribe to the side of the altar wrote everything down on a parchment. 

And then, it was done. The General slowly bowed his head to you, like a man offering deference. As if you were a queen or at least something close enough to one. You barely breathed and then, without ceremony he stepped closer and pressed a kiss to the corner of your lips. It was not a kiss of a lover, nor even a husband. It was warm, brief, controlled, a brush of lips against your mouth—soft as breath and gone before your body could register it fully. It felt more like a vow than anything spoken aloud, enough to give the impression of a real kiss to anyone in the room. A promise, you told yourself, or at least, the possibility of one.

When he pulled back, his face remained unreadable, but his eyes lingered just a second longer than necessary. Your pulse caught and something in your chest uncoiled, just slightly.

He offered you his arm and you took it, not because you had to, but because in that moment you wanted to. The applause rose behind you, Rome roaring her approval. The marriage had ended not in intimacy but in spectacle. Trumpets blared, laurel wreaths were raised, a sea of dignitaries, senators, Generals and foreign envoys surged toward the newlyweds like waves crashing. Rome really knew how to honor herself with grandeur. 

You followed the General—now your husband—through the ceremony’s afterbirth, your arm still looped lightly around his. His pace faltered, but he did not speak, not a word since the vow. He only nodded to those who saluted him, eyes scanning the crowd like a commander in unfamiliar terrain; polite, present but unreachable. 

He escorted you up the steps of the banquet hall, a domed, opulent chamber overflowing with gold-threaded cushions and garlands of flame-colored flowers. Long tables were set with silver bowls of figs and honey-glazed. Musicians played a slow, elegant melody that failed to cover the growing thrum of conversation and political hunger. You were sat beside him on the raised dais. He poured your wine without being asked, a gesture so rehearsed it barely felt real. 

“Is everything alright ?” he asked at last. His voice was low and measured, like someone asking after a guest, not their wife.

You looked at him, studying the face everyone in Rome revered; hard lines, eyes like winter stone, no warmth and no cruelty. He had done nothing wrong, but he also had done nothing at all. 

“I am fine.”

He gave you a short nod, then returned to scanning the room. You sat in silence for another few minutes, listening to the rustle of silk, the laughter of people who knew how to perform joy. Rome was a chorus of masks, and you had not yet found your own. Suddenly you could not breathe under the weight of it all, the crowd, the wine, the stifling future curling around your throat like incense. 

“I need a moment.” You murmured.

The General turned slightly, “Do you want me to come with you ?”

You hesitated when you thought you saw a hint of concern in his eyes, until you realized it was more impatience. As if he was waiting for you to leave in a hurry and that you will not ask him to follow you. His question, actually, was not a question, just an illusion of goodwill. “No. I will manage alone.”

You slipped away down one of the side corridors, grateful no one stopped you. The quiet found you quickly, pressed between the walls and the cool hush of shadow. You exhaled as your footsteps slowed. And then, you saw her. She stood beside a bronze basin, one hand lightly skimming the water’s surface, she had the posture of someone who belonged to every palace she ever entered. The low torchlight painted her in gold and shadow. The gown she wore was violet—not just beautiful, but deliberate. Imperial.

You had never seen her face before, even not during the ceremony, or at least you thought so. There were so many people today, that, you had not even been able to talk to your own mother since the ring around your finger sealed your future. The woman was older than you and impossibly poised, the kind of woman whose presence made others instinctively stand straighter. A circlet of hammered gold rested in her hair. 

“Oh,” she said, her lips curling into the beginnings of a smile, a kind expression on her face as she turned to see you. “You needed a moment too ?”

You paused, just outside the doorway, unsure if you were intruding. “Yes,” you said. “The hall is... a storm.”

She gave a quiet laugh. “That is a generous word for it.”

Her voice was soft but assured—a voice trained in courtrooms, or perhaps something even older. She stepped slightly away from the basin and folded her hands loosely before her. “I watched you, during the ceremony,” she continued gently. “You carried yourself well. I remember my own wedding…my knees would not stop shaking.” She adds with a chuckle. There was no bitterness in her tone. Only memory.

“Thank you,” you said, your voice more honest than you had expected. “I had no training in how to marry a stranger.”

She tilted her head. “No one has. Not really.”

There was a quiet, companionable moment. And in it, something settled. Her gaze on you, curious, thoughtful, without a hint of superiority. Just as you began to ask something—anything, out of instinct more than strategy—footsteps clicked at the far end of the corridor. A servant appeared in a rush, breath shallow, eyes darting between you both.

“Domina—” the girl began, before catching herself. “Mar— the banquet awaits your return.”

You turned your head, but not before seeing her expression falter, just for a flicker. Not shame, just the lightning-fast reflex of someone used to secrecy. 

Her smile then returned effortlessly. “Of course,” she said, with a nod. “Thank you.”

The servant bowed and backed away quickly. The still unknown woman looked at you again, her voice calm. “It is never truly your night, is it ? Not in Rome. Every moment belongs to someone else.”

You did not know what to say. Her eyes searched yours, not intrusively, but with a strange gentleness. “I hope,” she said softly, “that he will be kind to you.”

And then she turned, leaving you in silence, the scent of myrrh and rose trailing after her like a veil. You stood alone for a long minute, your breath lodged somewhere between your ribs. 

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

The villa was quiet now, the revelers long since departed. Torchlight flickered along the walls of your new chambers. Servants had come and gone, laying out fruit, wine, flowers. Silk robed folded neatly, oils on the table and perfumed water in basins in which you had bathed and dried your hair with trembling fingers.

The door closed behind him without a sound. You had been sitting by the window—watching the night spill over the city like ink. The moon hung heavy and indifferent as its rays reflected off your skin, a strange shade of blue—the silk robe clinging to your skin still damp from the bath, the scent of rose oil ghosting over your collarbones. You did not look up at first, you had imagined this moment so many ways that the real thing felt too fragile to meet head-on.

But when you turned, you saw him.

He stood there in the glow of the fire, freshly changed into a dark linen tunic. His formal armor was gone, replaced by something quieter, more intimate, though the presence he carried made the room feel no less like a battlefield. He was… handsome, yes—striking, even. The sculpted kind of man you only ever saw carved into stone. His brows furrowed as if in thought, or perhaps weariness, and his eyes watched you like a soldier scanning a map before a march. 

Still, you could not help the way your heart stuttered when he finally stepped closer. “My lord,” you said, quieter than you meant to.

At that, he tilted his head slightly. A single dark brow lifted, not unkindly, more like curiosity. “You may call me Marcus,” he said, his voice low and even. “We are husband and wife now. No need for titles in private.”

There was a careful courtesy in the way he said it. Not warm. Not cold. Like a gate held half open, daring you to enter but offering no welcome.

You nodded once, unsure it that was kindness or obligation. “Marcus,” you repeated, tasting the name. 

He crossed the room with military precision as you rose to your feet slowly, smoothing the folds of your robe with shaking hands. And for a long moment, silence stretched between you like a blade unsheathed but not yet used. He wasted no time in catching your eye and slipped into the sheets of the—your sharing bed.

“You are not what I expected,” you murmured before you could stop yourself, moving unconsciously in his direction.

That made him pause. “No ?”

You shook your head. “You are… quieter.”

A breath of something like amusement crossed his face, not quite a smile, but the ghost of it. “Most Generals are quieter after the wedding than before it,” he said dryly.

That startled a soft laugh from you; small, nervous. He turned his face then, as if your reaction had caught him off guard. He looked at the wall, then the floor, anywhere but at you.

You studied him.

There was something about the way he carried himself. The way his fingers flexed once at his sides and then stilled again, that felt like he could control fire. And it drew you. Even now, even as you knew this was not a love story, maybe not yet, or maybe never—but you were drawn to him.

After this evening at his side, you had expected nothing from a man like him. Still, as you sat across from him at the imperial banquet—smiling politely, answering questions from governors and senators who barely remembered your name—you could not help glancing at him in those small, unguarded moments. 

Marcus Acacius was every inch the legend you had heard of: carved from silence, shaped by discipline. His posture never faltered, even when seated, and his replies were devoid of warmth. But what struck you most was the restraint in his gaze, like there was something caged behind those irises. And yet, when his eyes landed on you, even briefly, something changed. 

A flicker, gone before it could fully become a thought. A hesitation, as if there was a war behind those eyes that had nothing to do with you. You did not flatter yourself into thinking he was pleased by the match. No one truly was. This was not a marriage woven of love or even desire. It was strategy, diplomacy, obedience. A bargain between Empires, in which you were the treaty dressed in white. 

But you were determined to be more than that. You had promised yourself—there, on the terrace of your homeland, when the sails of your old life disappeared behind you—that you would not enter this marriage meekly. You would do your duty, yes. But more than that: you would try to love. You would give this cold stone the warmth of yours hands, even if it never warmed in return. 

He had barely spoken to you since the ceremony. A bow. A glance. He had offered his arm but not his voice. You watched him, not as an infatuated girl—you were not that foolish—but as a woman determined to understand the man she had been given to. 

There was something in him, you were sure of it. A kind of tension, as if every movement was measured to avoid some fault. And it made you wonder what lay buried under all that discipline ? Even the greatest Generals were made of flesh, even marble could cracked under pressure. 

You wanted—needed—to know who he was when the armor came off. And tonight, in the hush that followed the ceremony… you would begin to try.

“I will not force you,” he said suddenly, voice tight. “If you would prefer to wait, I-”

“I do not want to wait,” you said, before you could give yourself time to retreat. “This is our wedding night. I would rather… not be alone.”

He looked at you then. “Very well,” he said simply.

You sat on the edge of the bed, near his feet, leaving just enough space between you to preserve modesty, and just enough closeness to feel the tension like a thread drawn taut between your bodies. The room was dim, lit only by candles flickering near the carved columns. Somewhere beyond the walls, musicians still played for the last drunk guests, but their music had thinned, like it was too hesitating.

For a moment he grimaces, a faint tightening around his eyes, as if settling into something that did not quite fit. You turned your face fully toward him now, unsure whether to speak, unsure whether silence would offend or comfort. When he adjusted his posture and leaned back a little, his gaze slid toward you again, and then, down. 

Your robe clung faintly to your skin in places that left much to the imagination, thin and delicate, the firelight made suggestions of the shape beneath it. You had not meant it to be seductive, but you had not stopped it either. His eyes lingered, no longer guarded. After all he was a General, not a monk. 

A muscle in his jaw tightened, his hand curled, crumpling the sheet at his side. You bit your lower lip, almost without realizing it, heart thudding. You had imagined wanting from him, but it was just a thought. Maybe something you could use to reach him. 

Just for a breath, he looked at you not as duty, but as a woman. 

And something flickered across is expression, as if torn between distance and desire—no, worse; as if he had fought the feeling and already lost.

You took a breath that trembled in your chest and let the courage carry you forward. Slowly—almost reverently—you crawled across the sheets, each movement delicate. The soft rustle of fabric beneath your knees was the only sound as you were now on all fours, looking at him directly in the eye. You kept your hungry eyes fixed on him, searching his face for any kind of reaction. He was statuesque in the low light, his expression unreadable once again, though his body seemed to betray him as you could feel his already hard cock beneath the sheets, which made you smirk.

A flush of warmth spread through your chest as you did not know how to begin. You straddled him gently, your thighs sliding over his, your breath hitching as your bodies aligned. His eyes flickered open, and for a moment, just a moment, there was something there—not desire, not affection, but… permission. And, you could work with that.

You stood over him with your arms embedded in the mattress, you leaned down and placed a soft kiss on the corner of his mouth—a quiet echo of the one he had given you at the altar, but his lips did not move, they did not even flinched. 

Undeterred, you continued. A kiss on his cheek, then another along the edge of his jaw, yet another just below his ear, a trail down the column of his throat. You felt him shift beneath you, a ripple of muscle and restraint. A sound escaped him, almost a sigh, but muted. His hands came hesitantly to your hips, trying to push you away carefully. But, you rocked your hips once, lightly—testing, and his grip tightened—more by instinct, like a simple reflex but—pressed your body a little closer to his. 

You smiled faintly and rose, looking only at him with a burning desire, slowly peeling back the sheet between you. His eyes snapped open with surprise, maybe a quiet resistance ? His hands slid over your thighs and he closed once again his eyes, taking a deep breath. You did not pause anyway. Your hands moved with a confidence you did not quite feel, lifting the hem of your robe and slipping it over your head. Revealing your warm and naked body to him, as the air kissed your bare nipples. You saw his gaze moving over you, and for a breathless heartbeat, you felt seen. 

But then, suddenly, it was gone. His eyes drifted to the side, unfocused and his jaw clenched. You tried not to falter. 

He leaned back against the headboard as you settled atop him again, you took advantage of this moment to lift yourself gently and removed the covers that had separated your bodies until then. He looked at you with intrigue, certainly not expecting such gesture and ardor from you. Then, lifting the edge of his tunic to free him, you licked your lips impatiently. His cock was rock hard—thick and ready—but he barely reacted to your touch. No smirk, no words, no heat in his eyes. 

Still, you guided his fat cock to your entrance, offering a last glance—a silent plea to meet you there, even if it is just for a moment. You sank down, gasping at the stretch, your body trembling as he filled you completely. Slowly you took him inch by inch, your breath breaking into gasps as your body stretched to accommodate him. Just too much at once, a new world splitting open inside you and your moan broke the silence like a confession.

He grunted softly beneath you, but you moved anyway, riding slowly. As he spread your walls, you let out a loud moan, scrunching up your face from the slight pain. Your hands braced on his broad shoulders and your breath mingled with the scent of his skin. You bit your lip, letting soft sounds escape, trying to give yourself fully. He was so deep inside you, you could feel his cock in your stomach, and the sensation was just delicious, you could not stop yourself anymore.

He let out a few careless whimpers, as your hands found support on his broad shoulders, allowing you to keep your balance and find a rhythm that suited your desires. You bit your lower lip and moaned once more, his hands shyly roaming your body as you surrendered yourself completely to him, leaving no room for hesitation. Suddenly he frowned and sighed through his nostrils, then look at you—properly—just once, a long and unreadable gaze. 

Your hands clenched at his shoulders, as he made no move to guide you through it. So you set another rhythm, slower—rolling your hips to feel every inch of him inside you. Your hands found his chest to steady yourself, and your thighs trembled with the effort. His hands left your body and found the sheets beside him. You let go and tried to make him want you again, but it was as if he had barricaded himself in, letting you use his body as you pleased. You leaned in, trying to draw him back, but he moved his head slightly, preventing you from kissing him or even making contact with his skin.

The warmth between your legs grew and you began to ride him with growing confidence, chasing something unspoken between you. You tried to catch his eyes, but he was not looking at you anymore. His head tilted back; eyes closed, lips parted slightly in some imagined reverie. Your fingers traced along his collarbone, but he did not stir. It was as if he was unable to face the sight of your body on his. 

Still straddling him, your movements reduced to a fragile rhythm. Not for pleasure anymore, but for your dignity. To convince yourself there was still something happening between your bodies. But he was limp beneath your touch, his body remains inside yours, but something in him was… gone. You looked down at him, pleading, and saw the furrow between his brows, the ways his lips seemed to mouth something you could not decipher. 

You slow to a stop and stay still atop him, your breathing uneven and shallow from the thrum of something colder uncoiling inside you. The rise and fall of his chest beneath you were distant, absent. His hands no longer held you, his eyes had closed again, retreating into some private place far from where your skin met his. 

And then, the question tumbled from your lips before you could bury it. “Am I…” you paused, voice tight, “not doing it right ?”

The words hung in the air between you like a mist that refused to lift. He opened his eyes and looked directly at you. Not at your body, your mouth or your hands, even less the place where you were joined. But at your eyes, like a man stepping into a memory he had not meant to find. 

There was no irritation in his expression, no hunger. Just softness, and what seems like pity. And that, somehow, was worse. His voice was almost careful when he responded, “No. You are alright.”

But he did not say what it was. Your fingers, unsure, rested on his chest where his heartbeat barely stirred beneath your palm. You leaned forward slightly, a whisper of movement, your voice fragile now. “I can try something else, if you want.” A thread of hope knotted tight in your chest. “If you tell me what pleases you, I-I can try…”

For a moment, silence. Then a quiet breath and a small shake of his head. “I am just tired,” he murmured. “That is all.”

Just tired. 

That simple. 

That final. 

You stayed there, frozen in that moment, as if stillness might hold something together—whatever this was supposed to be. But the thread between you had already slackened. A tender, desperate intimacy folded into something formal. As though your body had become just another offering to be endured. 

He shifted, gently—not urgently—adjusting the blanket, reaching for the edge of the sheet. You took the silent cue, sliding off him with grace you barely possessed in that moment, pulling the cover over yourself in one practiced motion. You turned away so he would not see your face, because you were not sure what expression you wore.

Marcus settled back into the mattress with the weary composure of a soldier finished with duty. His arm fell across his chest and his eyes shut again, for good this time. You lay beside him a long while, watching the gold-leafed ceiling flicker with candlelight. Somewhere beyond the walls, music still played. 

You slipped from the bed, eventually, quiet as the dying flame of the candle next to you, and walked barefoot to the far end of the room. You wrapped yourself in the nearest robe, not for modesty, but for armor. You settled back into bed beside him, leaving as much distance as possible before closing your eyes. And just as you felt yourself drift off into a deep sleep, a solitary tear escaped your eye.

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

masterlist | next chapter

[isabelckl]

texting loser!ellie that you have nipple piercing in class 5

nerdy loser!ellie x popular mean fem!reader

bored in english, you reply to a girl named E you’ve been talking to on an anonymous gay dating app—without knowing it’s that lesbian nerd girl, ellie williams.

texting loser!ellie that you have nipple piercing in class 4

“Bitch, you better be joking,” you muttered under your breath, still gripping the steering wheel as you stared wide-eyed at the massive colonial house in front of you.

Ellie raised an eyebrow, already halfway out of the car. “What?”

“You live here?” you blinked at her, completely dumbfounded. “I pass by this house every day. I thought some retired judge or old money CEO lived here. You’re telling me you live here?”

Ellie shut the car door behind her, slinging her backpack over one shoulder. “My grandparents own it,” she said, casual as ever, like the pillars on the porch and the ivy-draped brick weren’t screaming generational wealth.

You followed her up the path, still half in disbelief. “So like… you’re rich-rich?”

Ellie threw a look over her shoulder, half-smirking. “You said that like you’re not.”

“That’s not the point,” you shot back, stepping into the house like you were stepping into a dream. The air smelled like pinewood floors and something faintly floral—clean, expensive, and lived-in. “I loved this house. I’ve loved this house since I was, like, ten. I used to imagine living here.”

Ellie laughed, locking the door behind you. “Yeah? Guess you manifested this group project then.”

You spun slowly where you stood in the foyer, taking everything in. “Shut up. This is insane. I genuinely thought this place belonged to, like, a state senator.”

She shrugged. “Close enough. My grandma’s mean enough to be one.”

Ellie led the way upstairs, the steps solid beneath your feet, the bannister polished to a shine. You trailed behind her, eyes scanning every framed painting and antique light fixture like you were walking through a museum.

She pushed open a door near the end of the hallway and stepped aside. “Uh… make yourself at home, I guess,” she muttered, scratching the back of her neck.

You stepped inside and looked around, slow and curious. It was like walking into Ellie’s brain—quiet, thoughtful, full of little obsessions. The walls were painted a soft sage green that warmed in the late afternoon sun spilling through two wide windows, their white curtains swaying gently in the breeze from a cracked-open pane.

The room was spacious and organized but clearly lived in. A plush, cream-colored sofa sat beneath one of the windows, half-draped with a knitted throw. Nearby was a sleek study desk—minimal but well-used—covered with neat stacks of notebooks, a digital tablet, and a mechanical keyboard that softly glowed. A small but powerful PC setup occupied the far end of the desk, dual monitors angled just right, wallpaper rotating slowly through constellations and galaxies.

You turned slowly, letting your gaze settle on a tall glass cabinet against the far wall. Inside, dozens of small figurines stood in tidy rows—dinosaurs in different colors and sizes, some realistic, some clearly stylized. A few of them had tiny chips on their edges, signs of years of care and collecting rather than neglect. One had a bent tail that made you smile.

“I didn’t know you were this much of a dinosaur girl,” you said.

Ellie was at her closet, kicking off her sneakers. “I was obsessed for a while,” she mumbled.

You moved closer to a nearby shelf, lined with hardcovers—space encyclopedias, sci-fi novels, and what looked like Ellie’s old astronomy notebooks stacked in a row. A small solar system model sat at the end, its planets perfectly aligned. You gently tapped the base and watched them rotate, slow and precise.

“You’re, like… a full-blown space nerd.”

Ellie shrugged, half-smiling. “I like stars. And planets. And stuff.”

In the corner rested a black acoustic guitar on a mahogany stand, a patterned strap loosely draped over it. Next to it, under the windowsill, sat a low wooden crate filled with vinyl records, their covers carefully arranged. A small speaker setup stood nearby, connected to a vintage-looking turntable.

You smiled as you traced your finger along the edge of a record sleeve. “I didn’t expect this.”

Ellie raised a brow. “What’d you expect?”

You looked around again. “I don’t know.”

That made her smile, just a little. “You saying you’re impressed?”

You shrugged. “Maybe.”

You let your eyes roam one more time—across the sunlight on the hardwood floors, the cabinet of dinosaurs, the calm glow of her screen-saver, the way everything felt exactly like her—and then turned to her.

Still smiling, but with a slight shift in your tone. “Will you marry me someday, Ellie?”

Ellie blinked. A beat passed. Her brows pulled together in that way she had when she was trying to tell if you were serious.

“No.” She frowned softly.

You scoffed, placing a hand over your chest. “Ouch.”

Ellie cracked a smile, dropped her bag beside the bed, and flopped down onto the mattress like she was trying not to look at you. “You just want the house.”

“Obviously.” You sat at the edge of her bed, fingers brushing lightly over one of the velvet pillows. “I’d treat her so well.”

“She’s not a person.”

“She’ll be everything to me.”

Ellie glanced at you, shaking her head with a barely-there grin.

Working with Ellie for the past week had actually been… easy. Surprisingly easy, if you were being honest.

She’d disagree with your ideas sometimes—always with that slight squint of her eyes, arms crossed like she was mentally sorting through what she was about to say. But she always heard you out first. Every time. Even when she clearly thought your suggestion was insane. Especially when it was insane.

Except that one time you suggested writing the entire novel in second person, with multiple timelines and unreliable narrators. She didn’t even entertain that one. Just stared at you for a full three seconds before muttering, “God help me,” and going back to outlining the plot like she hadn’t heard you at all.

Aside from that, though, she was surprisingly agreeable. Focused. Quiet, unless she was explaining something or making a snarky comment. And incredibly easy to pick on.

You’d learned that by day two.

There was something about the way she always lined up her pens or re-highlighted things that were already highlighted—little habits that made it way too tempting to mess with her. Like when you started moving her bookmarks just an inch to the left every time she wasn’t looking.

She noticed. She always noticed.

“The hell is wrong with you?” she whispered once in the middle of class, narrowing her eyes as she fixed it for the third time that day.

You had just smiled sweetly. “Just keeping you on your toes.”

“You’re insufferable,” she muttered, and didn’t speak to you for the entire English class that followed, even though you sat directly beside her.

It kind of became your thing after that—poking just enough to get a reaction, then spending the rest of the day slowly earning her tolerance back.

Not that she ever seemed really mad. She’d roll her eyes, tell you to shut up, shove her sleeve over her mouth like she was hiding a smile. And by the time your next meeting rolled around, she’d be exactly the same again—pen in hand, posture stiff, pretending not to look at you first.

Ellie had barely set her laptop down before saying she was going to grab snacks.

“Be right back,” she mumbled, tugging her hoodie sleeves over her hands as she left the room.

You nodded, watching her disappear down the hallway.

The door clicked shut behind her, and the silence felt sudden. The occasional creak from the hallway. Afternoon light painting golden lines across the floorboards.

You pulled your phone from your pocket and tapped it awake.

Still nothing.

You opened your last conversation with E, thumb hovering over the screen.

you:

i kinda don’t want to have lunch today.. but i also haven’t had breakfast whatever

That was hours ago. And E hadn’t even left you on read—just nothing at all.

Your eyes scanned the rest of the thread—long, tired little chains of conversation that started somehow and never really ended. Late-night check-ins. Stupid memes in the morning. A “good luck” before class. Each photo you sent—whether it was your face half-buried in a hoodie, a thigh pic under your desk in class, or a cropped mirror shot angled just right to show your waist, the subtle curve of skin beneath your shirt—always got something back.

Sometimes even the ones where your top had slipped lower, nipples visible, the tiny glint of silver from your piercings catching in the light.

But it was the fics that really did it.

The smutty ones. The dog-eared AO3 screenshots, annotated with unhinged commentary, sent half-laughing, half-serious. “ok but imagine this is us?”

And she would bite. Every time.

“You’re sick for this.”

“You know exactly what you’re doing.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“I’m gonna dream about this tonight.”

She made it easy to keep wanting her. Easy to overshare. Easy to feel like you were wanted right back.

Talking to E had really become your favorite part of the day. A kind of warmth that reached into quiet parts of you no one else did. And it wasn’t even about what she said, always—it was just her. The feeling of being known by someone who didn’t ask for the clean version of you.

But sometimes, you notice the pattern.

The way she disappeared. Went quiet. Left just enough space between replies to make you feel like maybe you were doing too much.

Or not enough.

Something in her tone that made you reread it three times and still not be sure if she was pulling away or just tired.

You didn’t want to be the kind of person who obsessed over gray bubbles and silence. But here you were.

Thumb hovering again.

Typing. Deleting.

You locked the screen.

Ellie’s door opened a second later, followed by the rustle of a grocery bag and her voice—low, casual.

“Okay. I didn’t know what you wanted so I grabbed, like… every snack we had. And also a root beer I will probably not share.”

You turned in your seat, slipping your phone face-down onto the desk.

“That’s fair,” you said, smiling like nothing was stuck behind your teeth.

Ellie kicked the door shut behind her and dropped the snacks on the bed. “Also, if you eat all the cheddar popcorn, we’re done. That’s, like, the one boundary I have.”

You snorted. “Good to know you’re finally opening up.”

She raised a brow. “One time. One time I tell you I liked dinosaurs and you’re never letting it go.”

You grinned. “Never.”

You set your laptop on your lap, fingers hovering over the keys as you waited for it to wake. She’d claimed the sofa across from you, legs folded under her, root beer cracked open with a soft sound.

You glanced up for a second—just long enough to watch her sip it, the can tipped lazily to her lips, her focus already buried in the screen.

Your eyes flicked back to your phone, opening your conversation with E last night.

E:

i feel like you wear perfume just to ruin lives

you:

maybe i do. maybe i want your life ruined a little

E:

ok relax dark temptress

you:

say that again. slower

E:

shut up

you:

ur blushing

E:

i literally am

you:

i win

E:

i’m blocking you

you:

you always say that u never do it though ur obsessed

E:

it’s disgusting how right you are

A grin tugged at your lips before you could stop it.

Ellie glanced up briefly from her screen, root beer still in hand. “What.”

You shook your head quickly, too quick. “Nothing.”

She gave you a suspicious look. “You’re smiling like a creep.”

You tucked your phone under your thigh and lifted your laptop slightly. “No I’m not.”

“You are,” she said, dry. “If you start giggling and kicking your feet I’m unplugging the router.”

You snorted. “Let a girl have her delusions.”

Ellie rolled her eyes, but there was the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth. She turned back to her laptop and tapped a few keys, half-muttering, “Insufferable.”

You didn’t respond.

Instead, you unlocked your phone again and snapped a quick pic of you, laptop on your legs, lips curved in the softest almost-smile. The light was warm and flattering. Your hair is a little messy.

you:

im at my classmate’s house rn 😗 working on a thing

You hit send and waited, thumb hovering over the screen just a little longer than necessary. Nothing yet.

Across from you, Ellie’s brows flicked up—so quick you almost missed it. She's looking at her laptop like she’d just gotten a notification. But she didn’t say anything. Didn’t look up. Just shifted slightly in her seat, set her root beer down, and kept typing.

So you went back to work too.

Or tried to.

You clicked into the doc, reread the last paragraph you wrote twice, pretended to focus. But your eyes kept drifting—screen, phone, screen again. The silence started to feel heavier.

You opened the chat again.

you:

i miss u :( wife

You didn’t mean to stare at it that long. But you did. You just… sat there, screen dimming, thumb tracing over the side of the phone.

You didn’t really notice you were zoning out until you sighed—long, quiet, maybe just loud enough for Ellie to hear. She didn’t say anything. But a few seconds later, she stood.

“I’m gonna go get something,” she said.

You looked up. “Okay,” you said, voice soft and low.

She grabbed her phone from the table before walking out.

You sat there for a moment, blinking. Feeling the quiet settle again, too deep this time. Hating the way the room suddenly felt too big.

Then—

A buzz.

You scrambled for your phone.

E:

i miss u too :( sorry just a bit busy with school stuff

The smile hit you before you could stop it.

you:

oh no don’t be sorry i totally understand hehe but don’t overwork yourself too much, okay? save some energy for me 🫶

You didn’t even look up when Ellie walked back in.

But if you had, you would’ve caught her pausing at the door—glancing over at you, then down at her screen, before moving again.

Like she wasn’t sure which part of her day she was more interested in.

You tried to focus on working again. Really, you did. Fingers moved over the keyboard, screen glowing softly, but your eyes kept drifting—just slightly—to your phone resting on the table. Still nothing new. Still sitting there, like it wasn’t driving you quietly insane.

Across from you, Ellie had settled further into the sofa, her posture loose now. Laptop resting on her legs, hoodie sleeves bunched around her wrists. Her fingers clicked quietly against the keyboard, jaw soft with focus, root beer can now abandoned beside her.

You glanced at her once—just once—before biting your bottom lip and reaching for your phone again.

you:

do u wanna see me again?

You stared at the message for a second longer than you should’ve. Felt the weight of it in your chest—hopeful and maybe a little reckless.

And then, without waiting for a reply, something tugged at your lips. An idea. The kind you didn’t bother talking yourself out of.

You stood, placing your laptop gently on the table.

“I’m gonna go use the bathroom,” you said, casual.

Ellie looked up, blinking like she hadn’t realized you’d moved. “Uh, sure—it’s just in the corner.” Her chin tilted toward the far end of the room, gesturing toward a white-painted door.

“Thanks.” You smiled, trying to keep it innocent, even as something smug curled under your words. You turned, walking off toward the door, heartbeat a little quicker now.

And behind you, you didn’t notice the way Ellie’s eyes followed you, lips caught gently between her teeth, wondering what exactly you were about to do.

You stepped into the bathroom and closed the door behind you, the soft click of the latch sounding louder in the stillness. The mirror greeted you with your own reflection—flushed cheeks, slightly messy hair, eyes too full of something unspoken.

You set your phone on the sink and stared at yourself for a moment, lips twitching at the corners. Then you started posing—hands on your waist, a little tilt of your head, a soft pout. You ran your fingers through your hair, gave the mirror a wink, then laughed under your breath.

Off came the blouse—baby pink, loose and soft—leaving you in a delicate lace bra that matched your skirt a little too well. You leaned on the sink, bit your lip, snapped a few mirror shots. Nothing too posed. Just enough.

A short clip followed—hair tousled, your hand brushing it back while you grinned at your own reflection. Just a second of warmth and soft vanity.

You selected your favorites and sent them.

you:

here’s for ur hard work today ;) hope u like it

Before heading out of the bathroom, you typed out one last message:

you:

i’m gonna go focus now on our work my partner’s gonna kill me for being on my phone too much talk to u later 💋💋

You slipped your phone into your pocket, still grinning. When you opened the door, the smile softened—for a moment you just frowned, noticing the room was empty.

Ellie wasn’t there. Her laptop sat open on the coffee table, casting a faint glow over the sofa cushions.

You crossed the room, then straightened, deciding to find her.

“Ellie?” you called, voice low. The hallway answered with silence. Sock-footed, you drifted past closed doors, the house somehow too quiet.

Downstairs, you hesitated at the landing, then turned toward the kitchen.

Ellie stood at the sink, hoodie tossed onto the nearby table. She was in a black tank top now, shoulders taut, biceps flexed slightly as she braced both hands on the edge of the basin. A glass of water rested beside her. She bowed her head, then lifted it toward the wide window, as though trying to breathe.

“Ellie?” you tried again, softer.

She startled, fingers closing around the glass—only for it to slip from her grip and crash to the tile, water splashing everywhere.

“Shit,” she hissed, crouching.

“Don’t—” You hurried forward. “Let me. You’ll cut yourself.”

She froze, still crouched, hands hovering above the shards before pulling back. She didn’t look at you—more like she couldn’t.

You grabbed a cloth, knelt, and gathered the larger pieces. Ellie straightened, leaning into the counter, gaze fixed on a spot far ahead.

Glass disposed of, puddle mopped up, you rose and turned toward her. Her cheeks were tinged pink, jaw tight.

“Sorry you had to do that,” she murmured, finally glancing your way.

“It’s fine,” you said, giving a small nod.

You lingered there a second longer, eyes drifting. Ellie still wasn’t looking at you—not really—but you couldn’t help but look at her. The way she was leaning into the counter, arms behind her, her black tank top clinging to the curve of her shoulders. Her arms were more toned than you expected. Defined in a way that caught the light when she shifted, muscles flexing under skin.

You didn’t raise your brows, didn’t let your face say anything, but the thought crept in anyway.

She’s kind of… hot.

You cleared your throat softly.

“You okay?” you asked gently. “If you’re not feeling well, we can stop for today.”

She exhaled shakily, finally looking at you again—really looking this time.

Her gaze lingered. And then her lips parted, like she was going to say something else. Instead, she bit down gently on her bottom lip, shook her head, and pushed off the counter to walk past you.

“I’m going crazy,” she muttered under her breath as she brushed by.

You frowned as you followed her.

“You’re so weird, dude,” you muttered.

Ellie didn’t respond. Still in her black tank top and grey sweatpants, she headed upstairs, shoulders tense. She plopped down on the sofa and pulled her laptop back onto her lap.

You followed her in and sat across from her again, settling your own laptop on your legs. But your eyes didn’t move to the screen just yet. They were on her.

She felt it.

After a few seconds, she finally asked—without looking up, voice too casual.

“What?”

You squinted slightly. “Nothing.”

Why was she suddenly being so weird?

You sighed and slid your laptop toward her, tilting the screen. “Read this.”

Ellie didn’t look at you. She just took it and started reading, her brows knitting together in concentration.

Her eyes scanned the text. Her lashes flicked. Her messy hair fell into her face again—she didn’t bother pushing it back. The scar above her eyebrow tugged faintly when she focused, and the line of freckles across her nose caught the light from the window beside her.

You stared a second too long.

And then looked away—too fast—like something in your chest stirred and you weren’t ready to name it.

You nodded toward the window, trying to ignore the flutter in your stomach.

“You ever use that to sneak out?”

“No,” Ellie said, still reading.

“Really? So you don’t sneak out at all?”

“Why would I sneak out?” she replied flatly.

You rolled your eyes. “Right.”

That got her to finally glance up. Brows raised.

You pulled your laptop back and placed it on your lap again. She shifted, eyes dropping back to her own screen.

“What?” she asked. “You’re suddenly interested in my social life now?”

You shrugged. “Just curious.”

You tried to go back to work. Tried. But your cursor blinked beneath a sentence that ended in the word kiss, and your mind trailed off again.

You glanced sideways at her.

“How about dating life?”

Ellie sighed, long and reluctant.

“Oh, come on,” you groaned. “I’m just making conversation. It’s awkward as hell in here.”

Still not looking at you, Ellie leaned back against the sofa, laptop balanced on her knees. “If you’re asking if I’m dating anyone, I’m not.”

You raised your brows. “Really?”

Then, after a beat—leaning in just slightly, eyes glinting—

“What’s your type, then?” you asked, tone casual, but your eyes didn’t leave her.

Ellie scoffed, still focused on her screen. “I hate it when you ask questions like that. It’s creepy.”

You rolled your eyes. “I asked what your type is, not if you believe in ghosts.”

She sighed like you were exhausting her, dragging her fingers across the trackpad. “I don’t know... but it’s definitely someone who isn’t as annoying as you.”

Your mouth fell open. “Fuck you. I’m not annoying. People literally beg to be around me.”

That earned a quiet scoff—like she remembered something, lips twitching faintly, her gaze still fixed on the screen. “Yeah, no. You’re a bitch.”

You raised your eyebrows. “Wow,” you muttered, like you were offended—but only a little. You stared at her for a second, then gave a small nod. “Fair.” You looked back down at your screen, typing a few lines just to give your hands something to do.

Then you turned back to her. Your voice was calm but edged with something else.

“If I’m that annoying, would you rather have someone else as your project partner?”

Ellie looked up, finally meeting your eyes, a flicker of amusement breaking through her guarded expression.

“Yes.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “Rude.”

You shrugged, settling back in your seat.

“It’s fine. I just know no one else has both an imaginative mind and looks like me. So, your loss, really.”

Ellie hummed, nodding slowly, like she was pretending to be thoughtful.

“Imaginative mind, yeah,” she muttered, eyes still on her screen—but her jaw shifted a little like she was biting back something else. Her mind clearly somewhere else.

You narrowed your eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” she said, a little too quickly.

She didn’t look at you. She didn’t have to.

But she could still hear you in her head—your voice in those texts, the unhinged little messages from your secret account, the pictures burned somewhere behind her eyelids. And now you were just… here. Saying things like that. Still teasing. Still smiling. Still somehow not knowing.

She cleared her throat.

You smirked. “Weird.”

Ellie shot you a look. “You’re the weird one.”

You raised a brow, clearly not believing that. But you dropped it for now and just rolled your eyes.

The silence stretched again. Just the quiet sound of keys tapping, the occasional shift of weight on the cushions.

Then Ellie spoke—low, almost too casual.

“How about you?”

You blinked, glancing up. “What?”

Ellie didn’t look away from her screen.

“Your type,” she said. “What is it?”

Your brain stuttered. For a moment, you felt your whole internal system freeze and reboot.

“Oh,” you said, voice a little too light. “I mean…”

You leaned back slightly, trying to play it cool, your fingers toying with the corner of your laptop.

“I guess I like someone smart. Like… nerdy, maybe.” You swallowed. “Not, like, pocket protector-nerdy, just… brainy. Sarcastic. Kinda mean.”

It was stupidly obvious who you were thinking about. E. You were literally just describing her.

Ellie’s eyes flicked up at that. Just for a second. Then back to her screen.

You didn’t miss it.

You looked down quickly, suddenly shy, not even sure why. Saying it out loud had felt bolder than you meant for it to. Too revealing. Too… real.

Wait.

Your fingers stilled on your trackpad.

Did I just describe—?

You glanced sideways.

Ellie was quiet, still working, her jaw resting lightly on the back of her hand as she scrolled through the doc. Focused, casual, totally unreadable.

But—

She was definitely a nerd. That much was obvious.

And sarcastic? Always.

Kind of mean? Especially when you teased her. Or suggested something vaguely unhinged to add to the project.

Your eyes drifted to her hands. Sometimes you saw silver rings on her fingers, glinting when she reached for something or tapped her screen. But today, they were bare. Still, you recognized the way her knuckles tensed when she got too focused.

You glanced around the room again—the constellations on her wallpaper, the dinosaur display, the well-loved sci-fi books. Her hoodie still tossed on the table downstairs, abandoned after she came to the kitchen like something had knocked the breath out of her.

Could it be?

You felt your chest tighten at the thought.

No. You shut it down immediately.

It’s impossible.

You bit the inside of your cheek, turning back to your screen like it had all the answers.

Ellie wasn’t like that.

She wasn’t that type.

She wouldn’t be the kind to—

You shook your head, jaw tight.

Stop.

You weren’t going there.

You slumped deeper into the sofa, already getting your phone on the table

Maybe you were just bored. Or spiraling. Or looking for something you weren’t ready to find.

You opened E’s thread again. Still nothing since earlier. No “💋,” no typing bubble. No read receipt.

You chewed your bottom lip and typed anyway, nervous.

You:

wyd rn

Sent.

Your eyes lifted. Straight to Ellie.

Still perched on the couch, posture relaxed, laptop on her thighs. No shift in her expression. No glance your way. Just her fingers moving across the keyboard like she hadn’t even noticed your presence, let alone a text.

You swallowed. Something in your chest tugged—tightly. Not hope. Not exactly. Just dread.

Then your phone buzzed.

E:

ran out for a sec need to walk off this headache lol

You blinked. Looked up again.

Ellie didn’t move. Still typing. Still locked into whatever she was working on.

Then another buzz.

E:

[Image attachment]

It loaded slowly.

A blurry sidewalk. A lamppost. Empty curb. Gray light stretched thin across cracked pavement.

Your stomach twisted.

You glanced back at Ellie. No change. No tells. Still in the same exact spot, brows drawn in quiet focus.

So… not her.

Couldn’t be.

You let your shoulders relax, barely. A breath slipping out of you before you even realized you were holding it.

And yet—

Why did that feel like disappointment?

The thought didn’t even finish before another crashed in.

What if it had been her?

The idea alone sent a wave of heat and panic flooding up your spine. You tried to shove it down, but it lingered—rising anyway.

You thought about the photos you’d sent. The unfiltered, teasing messages. The fics. The way you flirted like it was a game, like it didn’t mean anything.

The idea that this girl across from you—Ellie, with her freckles and sharp tongue and dinosaur figurines—might’ve been on the receiving end of all of that?

Dread curled sharp in your chest. Embarrassment came right after—fast and bright and cloying. But beneath the dread, buried somewhere in the quiet crackle of your nerves, was something else.

Something you couldn’t name yet.

And that scared you most of all.

You unconsciously turned your attention back to your screen—anything to distract from the way your chest still felt tight.

But then your breath caught.

The document was… gone.

One second it was there, the cursor blinking like normal—and the next, just a blank screen. The title still at the top, autosave icon spinning, but no text. Not even a draft in the history.

“Fuck.”

No response.

You said it again, louder. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—”

Ellie looked up from her laptop, brows furrowing. “What happened?”

You angled your laptop slightly toward her, panic bubbling in your voice. “I don’t know—I didn’t touch anything. It just… disappeared.”

She didn’t answer. Just stood wordlessly and walked over.

You barely had time to scoot forward before she was behind you—standing at the back of the sofa, leaning over. One hand braced lightly against the cushion beside your shoulder, the other already sliding across the trackpad.

You froze.

Her face was close. Closer than it had ever been. You could smell her perfume again—clean and soft, with something sharp underneath. Something citrusy and grounding, like cedar and white musk.

You didn’t mean to look at her, but your eyes flicked sideways.

Her focus was locked on the screen, brows drawn, lips parted just slightly in concentration. Her fingers moved with quick, confident precision across the keys. Her head was tilted down, so close to yours you could feel the whisper of her breath against your cheek every now and then.

You didn’t move. Didn’t dare.

Your own mouth parted—just a bit. The warmth between you was suddenly too real. Too loud.

She didn’t seem to notice.

Her right hand stayed pressed behind you on the couch for balance, close enough to feel the heat of her knuckles. You were caught—body still, heart sprinting, stomach twisted in something you couldn’t quite name.

This was fine.

This was just Ellie fixing the doc.

Except…

Except your mind wasn’t on the laptop anymore.

It was on the curve of her shoulder, the quiet sound of her breathing, the way she looked from this close—freckles soft across her cheek, scar curling slightly over her brow, lashes lowering as she focused.

“It’s fixed,” Ellie said simply, tapping a few final keys before standing like she hadn’t just made your heart try to break through your ribcage—and went back to her spot on the opposite sofa, resuming her quiet focus like nothing happened.

You just sat there.

Staring.

Your screen glowed in front of you, but your eyes didn’t register anything. Your heartbeat was still racing—loud, fast, confusing. You pressed your palm lightly to your chest, like you could calm it down through sheer will.

Damn it.

You only felt like this when E texted you something flirty. When she said your name in lowercase followed by a period.

So why the hell were you feeling it now?

You looked over at Ellie again, who was already typing like nothing happened. No trace of what just passed between you. No sign she noticed how close she'd gotten. How soft her voice had been. How her perfume still clung faintly to your nostrils softly.

What is happening to me?

You blinked and looked away.

Just as your heart finally started to settle, Ellie’s voice cut through the silence—calm, a little smug.

“You know, for a one-page document, you really freaked the hell out.”

You turned your head slowly, squinting at her. “It was deleting itself.”

She raised a brow, fingers still tapping away. “Mm-hm.”

You rolled your eyes, shifting your laptop back onto your lap. “Don’t worry. I’ll finish this at home and send it to you immediately, boss.”

Ellie looked up, deadpan. “Yeah, I doubt you’ll actually do that.”

You gasped, mock-offended. “What do you mean? I study at home. Like… all the time.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You don’t have to lie to me.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it.

Because okay, she wasn’t wrong. You did spend most of your time after class texting E. Not exactly studious behavior. But she didn’t know that.

Right?

You rolled your eyes, recovering. “Oh, right. Sorry. I forgot you’d rather have someone else do this project with you anyway.”

Ellie let out a short laugh, shaking her head with a smirk. “Yeah,” Ellie said, dry. “Someone who doesn’t scream bloody murder when their laptop hiccups.”

You glared. “I didn’t scream.”

“You said fuck three times,” she replied, raising an eyebrow.

Something about the way she said it—calm, flat, unbothered—made heat crawl up your neck.

Why the hell did that sound hot?

It was just a word. One you said. But hearing her say it, with that voice, that look—

You blinked hard and looked away.

No. Nope. Absolutely not.

You were losing it.

You sighed as you slipped your laptop into your bag. So many things happened today. Well—not many, technically. You just spent it with Ellie. But still.

Why are you feeling like this?

Why did her fixing your document feel… hot? Why did the way she leaned in nearly knock the air out of your lungs? Why is she the one making your heart feel like it’s skipping steps?

Is it because the thought of her being E crossed your mind?

You glanced over.

Ellie was quietly gathering the snack wrappers, her back turned as she picked up the root beer can and half-eaten popcorn bag to bring them downstairs. The curve of her arm flexed slightly as she lifted the snacks, her black tank top hugging her back just enough to make your thoughts spiral all over again.

Her sweatpants hung low on her hips. Her shoulders were strong. Her posture effortless.

Fuck.

You needed to go home. You needed to get away from her.

I don’t like her.

You repeated that to yourself like it might cancel out whatever was happening in your chest.

When Ellie stepped out of the room, you nearly exhaled in relief.

The second the door clicked shut, the air felt easier to breathe. Like the heat that had been crawling up your neck finally backed off.

You grabbed your bag and headed downstairs. The sun was long gone, sky outside bruised and dark. You weren’t even planning on saying goodbye—just a quick escape.

But as you reached the foyer, she reappeared from the kitchen.

“Uh,” she started. “Can I ride with you? I just need to stop by the store.”

You froze for half a second.

“Uh… yeah,” you said, even though you absolutely did not want to.

“Great,” you muttered under your breath.

You stepped out into the night air, crossing her driveway toward your car as Ellie trailed a few steps behind you.

And even with all this distance, you still felt the press of her in your thoughts.

You drove with one hand on the wheel, eyes straight ahead. Ellie sat beside you, quiet. The car filled with nothing but the hum of the engine and the occasional shuffle when you turned.

On a normal day, you might’ve said something dumb by now. Something teasing or annoying. You’d poke fun at her playlist, or ask if she really believed Pluto shouldn’t be a planet. She’d groan. You’d grin.

But not tonight.

Not after… everything.

The silence settled too comfortably between you both. Heavy. Stifling.

She pointed when you reached the street corner. “There,” she said softly.

You pulled over by the small convenience store, the red glow of its sign washing over the dashboard.

She got out after muttering a simple “thank you,” the car door clicking gently shut. Still in that black tank top. Still completely unaware of what she was doing to your brain.

You watched her walk up the short curb. Then your gaze flicked to the two girls standing outside near the vending machine. One of them nudged the other. Laughed under her breath. Their heads turned.

Staring at Ellie.

Your fingers curled around the steering wheel, knuckles whitening just slightly.

They were checking her out. Of course they were. She looked like that.

You swallowed, jaw tight.

Why does it piss me off that they get to see her like that?

You blinked hard and shifted in your seat, willing yourself to breathe through your nose. Your foot tapped lightly against the gas pedal, like your body was ready to drive away before your mind gave permission.

But you didn’t.

You just sat there, staring out the windshield. Telling yourself not to care. Not to feel anything.

You need to talk to E.

You need to remember who you like.

You need to get a grip.

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[hjpsdiary]

SILK & SMOKE - anakin skywalker x shy!reader

you didn’t speak when you entered the council chamber.

you stood behind your father in layers of soft silk, hands clasped in front of you like they’d trained you to do. head bowed. posture perfect. everything about you so neat, so careful, so quiet.

anakin noticed.

he was leaning back against the wall, half-shadowed in the corner, arms crossed, expression unreadable. but his eyes—gods, his eyes were on you from the second you stepped in. you weren’t like the others. you didn’t try to prove yourself. didn’t fill the silence with fake diplomacy or performative smiles. you didn’t even look up at first.

and that made you interesting. no—irresistible.

your father spoke of treaties. arrangements. the importance of strengthening the republic through unity. through you. “a political bond,” he said. “an obedient daughter.” “she will adapt.”

anakin said nothing.but deep down, something shifted. something possessive. something sharp.he wasn’t supposed to care. wasn’t supposed to want. but he did.

later, he found you alone.

the senators were busy talking. the jedi distracted. you stood by the tall glass windows, staring out at coruscant like it might swallow you whole. “you’re not used to this,” he said softly.

you turned. startled. lips parting. but no words came out. just a breath. just that same quiet that was starting to drive him insane in the best way. “it’s alright,” he added, stepping closer. “i like quiet.”

your gaze flicked up to his, just for a second, and that was all it took.

he smiled. slow. sure. you looked away again.

“people here talk too much,” he said, voice low and steady. “they lie. they twist things. but you—you don’t even speak unless someone asks you to. i like that.”

you didn’t know what to say. no one had ever spoken to you like that before—like your silence meant something. like it was a gift.his hand moved toward yours, deliberate. fingers brushing just barely against your wrist. testing. watching.

you flinched—barely—and his smile grew.

“you’ll learn to trust me,” he whispered. “i’ll teach you how.” you nodded. slowly. not because you understood, but because you didn’t know how not to obey.

and that was the moment he knew.

you might’ve belonged to the republic in name. but you would belong to him in every other way.

[palevcr]

IN THE LAP OF EXCESS

he was sin in a suit. sharp jaw, sharper tongue, and a mouth full of trouble. she was too young, too bold, too curious. and she liked the way he looked at her—like he had no right to want her, but wanted her anyway. tony stark knew better. but that didn’t stop him from pulling her into his penthouse, sliding between her thighs like she was the last bad decision he’d ever make. maybe it should’ve been a mistake. but god, did it feel like power.

pairing:older!Tony Stark x younger!reader

genre: age gap, billionaire x intern, smutty tension, seduction at a party, mentor kink

tw: MDNI 18+, explicit sexual content, age gap (legal I SWEAR), power imbalance, morally gray behavior, filthy dialogue, whiskey-soaked tension, implied infidelity, dominant older man, “you’re fucking someone young enough to be your daughter”, degradation & praise

The same glinting sea of crystal flutes catching light like shattered stars. Tailored suits whispered against one another, threads stitched with old money and silent ambition. Diamond-drenched smiles flashed across the room, sharp enough to draw blood, and the air was perfumed with the unmistakable scent of obscene wealth—aged whiskey, designer leather, foreign cologne that lingered like a dare.

It wasn’t a party. It was a pageant of power. A mating ritual for the elite, where net worth replaced pheromones and laughter was just another form of warfare. Everyone dressed to impress, but more importantly—to intimidate. Sharks in silk. Jackals in Tom Ford.

Tony Stark had seen it all. Hell, he'd built the goddamn ballroom they were dancing in—metaphorically and otherwise.

He wore black Armani like sin, every seam tailored with surgical precision, his presence cutting through the noise like a scalpel. A living contradiction—grit polished to a mirror sheen. Charm and danger woven into flesh and fabric.

He moved through the crowd with lazy magnetism, trailed by whispers and second glances. A nod to a senator’s wife, who giggled like she was half her age. A smirk at a tech CEO who would sell his soul—and maybe already had—for a Stark Industries deal. Tony didn’t do handouts. Especially not to men who begged with champagne breath and damp palms.

The endless drone of shallow conversation eventually scraped against his nerves.

He peeled away, slipping toward the bar where a veteran bartender—one who’d weathered every era of Stark’s destruction and resurrection—poured before he arrived. No questions. Just ritual.

“You know what I like,” Tony muttered, voice low and rough—like gravel soaked in honey. The whiskey was served neat. Deep amber. A drink that tasted like legacy, guilt, and too many ghosts.

He had barely raised it to his lips when something shifted in his periphery.

A girl.

No. A woman—but only barely.

She stood out instantly. Not because she was trying to. Because she wasn’t. No designer logos clinging to her curves, no vulgar display of borrowed wealth. Just soft shadows and quiet confidence. A silhouette framed by the chaos, sipping red wine like she belonged, like she hadn’t just walked into the lion’s den with bare hands and bold eyes.

Tony blinked. Someone bring their daughter? Or worse—an underaged plus-one with daddy issues and a forged invitation.

He leaned casually against the bar, giving her a look that was too slow to be subtle, head tilted with feline curiosity.

Then she turned.

And fuck.

Pretty wasn’t the word. Dangerous was closer. Lipstick the color of blood and bad ideas. Eyes wide enough to get a man in trouble. She looked young. Too young. FBI-knock-on-your-door young. His libido sat up and took notice while his common sense muttered don’t be an idiot, thats a lawsuit waiting to happen.

But then she smiled. Cool. Unshaken.

“Do I have something on my face, or...?” she asked, lips curving like she already knew she did.

Even her voice had edge. Smooth with the tiniest bite. Like silk pulled tight over a blade.

Tony took a long sip, buying himself a second to recalibrate. “No. Just trying to figure out which chapter of the sorority handbook covers sneaking into billion-dollar parties.”

She laughed—honest and unpolished. Then bit her lip, and Tony nearly groaned.

“Sorry to disappoint,” she said. “No cult. No glitter. Just me.”

“Mm. You sure?” he drawled. “Because I’m getting heavy ‘freshman with a fake ID’ energy.”

“I’m twenty-one,” she replied, lifting her glass in mock indignation. “And I’m an intern. Not that I was invited.”

Tony blinked. Then laughed—a rich, unrestrained sound that turned heads.

“You’re seriously telling me—the guy who wrote the guest list—that you snuck in?”

She shrugged, unapologetic. “Figured if I was going to get thrown out, it might as well be by someone interesting.”

For a moment, he just stared. Admiration stirred, quiet and dangerous. She was clever. Sharp. Bold. The kind of girl who could accidentally undo a man—just by looking at him like that.

Jesus. His mind was already slipping. Lipstick smeared. Dress hiked. Those lips wrapped around his cock, sucking and milking him dry.

Focus, Stark. He sipped again, letting the burn snap him back to center.

Still, he leaned closer. Couldn't help it. His breath brushed her ear, his cologne thick in the air—wood, spice, and sin.

“You even old enough to be drinking?” he murmured, pretending it was a joke.

She met his gaze, calm and unblinking. “I told you. Twenty-one.”

“Right. And I’m just Tony,” he said, smoothly interrupting her before ‘Mr. Stark’ could leave her lips. “Call me that again and I’ll start looking around for my father.”

She laughed again, softer this time. It was dangerous. Because it wasn’t flirtation.

It was fun.

“What are you drinking?” he asked, shifting slightly closer, enough to catch the whisper of her perfume—sweet, delicate, but grounded. Not like the powdery clouds most girls drowned themselves in. It smelled like summer and secrets.

She held up her glass. “Not sure. Some old man gave it to me.”

Tony exhaled a sharp laugh, letting his head drop for a second.

“And you just took it?” he asked. “Christ. I don’t know if you’re brave or just stupid.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Why not both?”

He chuckled darkly, his gaze dropping to the neckline of her dress. Low. Elegant. Deceptively innocent.

She caught the look and smiled, slow and knowing. “He seemed pretty set on me taking it. And I hate being rude.”

Flirting like it was just another man—not Tony Stark. And that? That got under his skin in the best possible way.

So he stayed. Talked. Asked her name. Got her to laugh again—light, real, nothing like the false noises echoing around the ballroom. Topped off her glass every time it dipped below full. And eventually, when the conversation got too warm, when the looks got too long, he leaned in close and murmured:

“Follow me upstairs.”

Then he walked away.

No looking back. He didn’t have to.

She came.

Tony sank into the leather of his penthouse armchair, legs sprawled, glass hanging loosely from his fingers. The elevator pinged. He didn’t need to look.

“Took you long enough,” he muttered, voice husky with something heavier than alcohol. She stepped in, eyes wide as they took in the rich, restrained decadence—floor-to-ceiling windows, soft jazz humming from invisible speakers, the city sprawled out below like a conquered kingdom.

“Nice, huh?” he said, lifting his glass in a lazy toast.

She nodded, stepping between his knees.

His hand slid to her hip—warm, steady. He guided her down, slow, deliberate. “Sit,” he murmured.

She did. Settled over him. His hips shifted upward in welcome.

Her breath caught. Shaky. Barely audible. His smirk returned.

He set his glass aside, both hands now on her—roaming over hips, up her sides, beneath the fabric.

No bra.

Sweet. Fucking. Hell.

His palms found her chest, a perfect fit for his hands. He gave a slow, reverent squeeze.

“You’re pretty touchy,” she whispered, voice barely there.

“You want me to stop?” he asked, thumbs brushing across sensitive skin.

“No.”

She breathed it out, soft but certain, her breath ghosting over his lips just before they collided.

The kiss was not sweet. It was messy. Desperate. Teeth clashed, tongues tangled, and Tony groaned against her mouth as his hands roamed freely—palming her tits, thumbs brushing across hardened nipples under that dangerously low-cut dress.

“You playing a dangerous game, sweetheart,” he murmured against her lips, voice gravel and sin. “Coming up here. Sitting on my lap. Kissing me like that.”

“Who said I don’t like danger?” she whispered back, hips rolling subtly, just enough to make him hiss.

Tony’s grip tightened on her waist. “You don’t even know what danger is,” he growled.

She just smirked, lips slick, pupils blown. “Then show me.”

That snapped something loose in him. One big hand slid up to wrap around the back of her neck as he kissed her again, rougher this time, like he was trying to memorize her mouth with his own. His other hand stayed anchored to her hip, guiding her against the hard line of him beneath his trousers.

“You realize,” he muttered between kisses, voice low and dangerous, “you’re fucking someone old enough to be your father.”

She bit his lower lip, not gently. “You’re the one fucking someone young enough to be your daughter.”

That made him laugh—dark and amused. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, leaning back just enough to look at her. “You’ve got a mouth on you.”

“Isn’t that why you brought me up here?” she replied sweetly, rocking her hips again, slow and calculated.

Tony’s eyes darkened as he stared at her. “Careful,” he said, voice like velvet and broken rules. “You’re gonna make me do something reckless.”

“Maybe I want you to.”

That was all it took.

In one swift movement, he stood, hands gripping her thighs as he walked them both over to the massive bed like she weighed nothing. He tossed her down onto the silk sheets, watching her bounce once, hair a halo of temptation around her flushed face.

“Stay there,” he ordered, already undoing the buttons on his dress shirt with practiced efficiency. “Keep your hands to yourself. If you’re good, I’ll let you touch me.”

Her lip curled in challenge, but she didn’t move. Not yet.

Tony shrugged off the jacket and shirt, muscles cut and golden under the low light, his arc reactor casting a soft glow against his chest. He looked like sin wrapped in money and scars—older, yes. But powerful. Hungry. The kind of man who devoured girls like her for breakfast and never looked back. He crawled onto the bed like a fucking panther, slow and deliberate, settling between her legs. Her dress had hiked up high enough to reveal her thighs, smooth and soft and begging to be touched.

“I should feel bad about this,” he muttered, hands sliding under the hem of her dress, dragging it up her body inch by inch. “But I don’t.”

“You really don’t,” she breathed, arching into him as his fingers found the edge of her panties.

Tony grinned. “Nope. Not even a little. You came up here looking for trouble, sweetheart...”

He dipped down, mouth brushing the inside of her thigh, hot and wet.

“...And you fucking found it.”

Tony’s lips trailed fire down the inside of her thigh, teasing the bare skin exposed by that dangerously short dress, and she gasped—half from surprise, half from the sharp heat spreading low in her belly. His hands gripped her thighs like he was marking territory, thumbs stroking slow, deliberate patterns just above the fabric of her panties.

“God, you’re so fucking soft,” he murmured against her skin, voice husky and low. “You don’t even know what you’re doing to me, do you?”

She shivered under his touch, eyes dark and hungry, and Tony was already pulling those panties aside with a cocky smirk—because why waste time?

His tongue flicked out, teasing her folds, licking a wet stripe up her core, making her back arch off the sheets. She grabbed a fistful of his hair, tugging him closer, breath hitching as he sucked a harsh kiss right where she wanted him most.

“Stark...” she gasped, voice raw.

“It’s Tony,” he murmured against her, sliding two fingers inside her with a slow, torturous rhythm. “You’re twenty-one, and you’re already making me this desperate. It’s criminal.”

“Maybe I want you to be desperate,” she whispered, voice thick with want.

Tony chuckled darkly, fingers curling inside her, thumb circling her clit with expert precision. “Oh, sweetheart, you have no idea.”

The age between them? It was electric. Forbidden. Every touch, every kiss, every whispered word was a delicious, wicked violation.

He pulled back just long enough to unzip his pants, his cock springing free—hard, thick, and absolutely made for her. He leaned back in, aligning himself with a slow, deliberate slide that stole her breath away.

“You’re fucking someone old enough to be your father,” he said low, teeth grazing her ear, voice thick with lust and amusement.

“And you’re fucking someone young enough to be your daughter,” she shot back, biting his neck.

He slammed into her then, slow at first, savoring every inch, every gasp, every curve that clung to him. She clenched around him, a mix of shock and ecstasy tightening her muscles.

Tony’s hands roamed, gripping her hips, pulling her flush, hips snapping with a cruel kind of rhythm. “You’re mine tonight.”

Her nails raked down his back, breath ragged and wild. “Make me forget everything but you.”

The room filled with the sound of skin slapping, heavy breaths, whispered curses, and the delicious tension of two bodies out of sync with the world — perfectly, dangerously in tune with each other.

This has BEEEEN sitting in my drafts, and I thought I’d let it out of its shackles while I work on the part two of the Draco story 😆 its exam season too so bare with me💔

[deliciousangelfestival]

The Director's Obsession - Phase 5

Character: Director Orson Krennic x F!ISB Agent

Summary: Director Orson Krennic keeps one ISB agent under his thumb, pulling her from lunches, stealing her sleep, and destroying three dates. The project demands everything. Or maybe his obsession demands more.

Word Count: 9,460

Main Masterlist || If you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee on Ko-fi🙏🏻

Phase 1 , Phase 2 , Phase 3 , Phase 4 , Phase 5 , Phase 6 , Phase 7 , Phase 8 , Phase 9 , Phase 10 , -

A/N: The intimate moment is here!

Phase 5 : His Equal

The speeder glided beneath the towering lights of the Imperial Gala, slipping through the heart of Coruscant’s elite like a ghost in velvet. Outside, camera drones swarmed, flashing like artificial stars. The entrance was a spectacle of power and elegance—senators, admirals, aristocrats, and planetary governors moving like jeweled chess pieces across a grand marble board.

Inside the speeder, your hands rested tensely in your lap, fingers curled against the smooth fabric of your gown. It was the most exquisite thing you had ever worn. Deep obsidian blue, edged with silver threading that caught the light like fractured starlight. It hugged your form without apology, the bodice structured, the neckline sharp and modern. Your shoulders were bare, sculpted and elegant, exposed beneath the delicate sweep of the fabric that gathered at the spine and fell into a long, commanding train. It was more than a dress. It was a declaration. And Krennic had chosen it.

"We're late," you murmured, trying to keep the rising panic from tightening your throat.

Beside you, Director Krennic adjusted his cufflink with calm precision. His white uniform was immaculate, gleaming beneath the subtle interior lighting. Every detail was deliberate: the straight line of his collar, the subtle shine of his boots, the perfect alignment of his rank bar.

He did not look at you when he answered. "I made us late."

You turned toward him, brow furrowing. "You planned this."

At last, he met your eyes. That measured smile played at the corner of his mouth, refined and infuriating.

"Timing is everything," he said, voice silk and steel. "The last to arrive always own the room." His eyes swept over you, deliberate and slow. "And tonight, the room belongs to you."

Before you could reply, the door opened.

Krennic stepped out first, cape flaring with theatrical elegance as it caught the breeze. He turned, extending his hand to you with ceremonial calm. You took it, and the moment your heels touched the steps, a wall of flashes erupted. Camera drones burst into motion. Murmurs swept the grand plaza like a wave.

He guided you up the marble staircase, his arm linked with yours, posture impeccable. His steps were slow, deliberate, forcing every dignitary in the atrium to turn and look.

Inside, the Imperial elite turned like planets toward a gravity they couldn’t resist. Mon Mothma’s expression flickered. Senators whispered into gold-trimmed glasses. Officers stared too long.

"Is that Krennic?"

"Who’s the woman?"

"He never brings anyone."

"She’s the ISB’s propagandist?"

He leaned toward your ear, voice low and cool. "You hear them?"

"They’re all staring," you whispered back, breath shallow.

"Good," he said, barely moving his lips. "Let them. You are mine tonight. Let them see what perfection looks like when I make it."

His touch was refined. His tone was respectable. And yet, everything about him screamed claim. Not affection. Possession.

At the base of the grand staircase, two figures awaited: Governor Tarkin and Mas Amedda. Power incarnate.

Krennic bowed just enough to show protocol. "Governor. Chancellor. I’m honored by your presence."

Tarkin’s pale eyes narrowed as they settled on you. "You’ve brought… company. That’s unusual for you, Director."

Krennic didn’t flinch. His voice remained level, clear. "This is the architect of our public initiative. Her words have unified more systems than our fleets could reach. She is the reason the project finished ahead of schedule."

Mas Amedda turned his gaze to you, intrigued. "What makes your voice so persuasive, Agent?"

You met his eyes without faltering. "Because I’ve seen what chaos creates. Hope is fragile. Comfort is rare. What people crave is order. And order only exists when power is absolute."

Tarkin tilted his head, impressed. "A pragmatic view. I may have use for someone with your instincts."

Krennic’s smile was polite, but thin. "She’s not available."

You nearly sighed aloud. Even in public, his need to keep you close bordered on compulsive.

The orchestra swelled.

Krennic turned to you and extended his gloved hand. "Shall we?"

You placed your hand in his, and together, you stepped onto the floor. The dance was measured, elegant, slow. His hand rested on your waist, the other curled around yours. Every spin placed you at the room’s center. You were no longer his shadow. You were his announcement.

When the music faded, he led you toward the refreshment table. His hand did not leave your back. It moved lower. You allowed it.

A server offered two crystal flutes of Corellian wine. Krennic took both and passed one to you.

"You use me like a trophy," you muttered.

"My most precious trophy," he replied, voice even.

"You enjoy this far too much."

"I did not bring you here for small talk. They need to see who stands beside me. You frighten them more than I ever could."

"You are impossible."

"And yet you are still here."

You sipped your wine, trying to ignore the heat rising under your skin.

He watched you, calculating and calm.

"Enjoy this while you can," he said suddenly.

You raised a brow. "Why?"

"You will be promoted soon. That means…" He tilted his head, feigning neutrality. "You’ll lose a friend. A valuable one."

Before you could answer, a senator waved him down from across the hall.

Krennic gave a slow, courteous nod, his tone dry. "I must return to being congratulated."

His hand brushed your back again, a subtle squeeze—deliberate, firm. Not romantic. Strategic.

"I will return shortly."

And then, just like that, the Director of Imperial Advanced Weapons strolled into the crowd, perfectly poised, leaving behind the storm he had so carefully sculpted.

You stood still, wine in hand, gown gleaming like star-forged silk, with every eye in the room still pinned to you.

Just as he intended.

You finally exhaled, letting your shoulders fall, the weight of the evening temporarily softened—until you saw him.

Marlon.

He moved through the sea of dignitaries like a ripple of shadow, his eyes locked on you with predatory precision. Your stomach clenched. You turned your head, hoping the flicker of recognition had gone unnoticed, but his voice sliced clean through the swell of music and conversation.

"You look breathtaking tonight," he said, low and deliberate, each word dipped in venomous charm.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have the patience.

"Outside. Now."

The command left your mouth like a blade. You didn’t wait for a reply, already walking, weaving through the crowd toward the balcony. He followed. Of course he did.

You reached a shadowed alcove away from the eyes and ears of the Imperial elite. The city lights below flickered like a false constellation. You turned on him the moment you stopped.

"You shouldn’t be here."

"I came for you," he said, his voice still that same worn-out softness he had used when you first met. "You don’t belong with him. Look at yourself. He parades you like an ornament."

You crossed your arms. "Do not start. You knew what this was from the beginning."

"You’re smarter than this." He stepped closer, his tone shifting. "I can give you purpose. Real freedom. The Rebellion needs someone like you."

You scoffed. "And what? Become your tool instead of his? You were never honest with me, Marlon."

"I was honest about one thing," he said, his eyes narrowing. "I want you."

He reached for your arm. His fingers brushed your bare skin, trailing lower toward your waist.

You shoved him with force, but your heel caught on uneven stone. The stumble gave him just enough room to close the distance. He grabbed your wrist, desperation crackling in his voice.

"You’re only afraid because he owns you."

Your voice dropped, cold and unwavering.

"No. He doesn’t own me. He values me. He knows my worth."

There was a beat of silence, then a sharp crack. Marlon’s head snapped sideways as Krennic’s fist collided with his jaw.

Marlon staggered, clutching his face. Krennic stepped between you both, towering, composed, his white uniform pristine, his eyes aflame with cold fire. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

"Leave. While you are still breathing."

Marlon’s breath came heavy, teeth clenched, blood already on his lip. "This isn’t over."

Krennic didn’t even blink. His silence was louder than fury.

Marlon backed away, retreating into the shadows like a coward who had mistaken a diamond for glass.

Krennic stood still for a moment, restraining his breathing, then slowly turned to you. His hand found your waist, steadying you as your balance shifted.

"Enough excitement for one evening," he said quietly. "We’re leaving."

You nodded, but as you took a step, pain shot through your ankle.

"Orson," you gasped.

He halted immediately, eyes snapping to your face. In one smooth motion, he scooped you into his arms as though you weighed nothing, cradling you like something irreplaceable.

"What are you doing?" you whispered, breath catching.

"You’re hurt," he said, his tone gentler than you’d ever heard. "I do not tolerate seeing you in pain."

His grip was firm, protective, like the world might dare try again and he would strike it down.

Inside the speeder, he didn’t let go. Not right away. Not until you had caught your breath.

"You should have told me about that parasite," he said at last.

"I didn’t want to give him power," you murmured.

His voice dropped, dark and razor-edged. "No one should breathe near you without my approval. Let that be the last time someone tries."

Outside, near the walls of the gala plaza, Jung and Heert stood smoking, watching the speeder.

Jung exhaled slowly. "That escalated."

Heert nodded. "I thought ISB was brutal. But that? That was personal."

Across the city, in a dim underground chamber, Marlon slammed his fist against a metal table, his lip split and still bleeding.

"You lost control," Luthen snapped, his face colder than ice.

"I almost had her," Marlon growled.

"Almost got her killed," Luthen corrected. "You’re done. You’ll return to your sector and stay there. She’s not yours. Not your mission. Not anymore."

Marlon’s fists trembled. "This isn’t over."

Luthen didn’t flinch. "For your sake, it better be."

*******

The speeder halted outside your flat, lights dimming as the vehicle powered down. You didn’t move. Not because of pain, but because you were afraid your legs would betray you. Your ankle throbbed. Your head spun. Your chest… still burned from the chaos of the gala.

Krennic didn’t ask permission. He reached for you again and lifted you as though it was his right, not a kindness. His arms, strong and sure, wrapped around your back and beneath your knees, holding you like you weighed nothing at all. You pressed your hands against his chest. It's useless, half-hearted resistance.

"You don’t have to carry me every time," you muttered.

He didn’t answer. But the way he looked at you, the way his eyes lingered on your lips just a second too long, told you he wanted to.

Inside, your door slid open with a hiss. Lights flicked on automatically. The space welcomed you with silence.

Krennic stepped in like he owned it.

He carried you past the threshold, ignoring the furniture until he found the softest part of your couch. He eased you down like something precious, his hands careful, precise. But his gaze… it never let go.

His cape slipped from his shoulders with practiced ease. He draped it across the back of the chair, and then… Stars help you. His gloves.

One by one, the leather peeled from his fingers. The sound made your breath hitch.

He dropped them to the table, loosened the top buttons of his uniform with one slow motion, and knelt in front of you. Your heels were still on, barely clinging after everything. His fingers reached for them.

"Wait…"

He silenced you with just a glance. No words. Just eyes full of unspoken things you weren’t ready to name.

He touched your foot.

You tensed.

He was gentle. The pressure light, careful, reverent. His thumbs pressed slowly along the arch, circling near the sore spot. You bit your lip. Not from pain. From the way it felt—like every inch of you mattered.

"I’m sorry we had to leave the party early," you said softly, trying to focus on anything but the warmth of his hands moving up your calf.

His head tilted. "I’m not."

"You’re not?"

He looked up at you with that smug smile.

"The point was to celebrate my work, and they did. My mission was to show you to them. And I’d say it was executed perfectly."

He continued to work his way up your leg, massaging lightly. His palms were warm against your skin, your dress pushed slightly higher with every touch.

"You’re too calm about all this," you whispered.

He met your gaze. "I got what I wanted."

You swallowed. "Director—"

"Orson."

The name slipped out of his mouth like a confession. Your breath caught.

"Call me Orson. You screamed my name before that," he said again, quieter this time. It was not a command. It was not a suggestion. It hovered somewhere between pride and vulnerability, a plea cloaked in control.

You blushed, the memory still fresh. The panic when he suddenly carried you. You had cried out for him, not as a director, not even as a superior. Just his name.

Orson.

You hadn't realized you'd done it. But he had.

Your cheeks flushed with warmth. You tried to glance away, but his gaze held you fast.

"Orson," you said quietly.

Something shifted in his eyes. They softened, but not weakly. It was the kind of softness that could shatter steel. A quiet intensity filled the space between you.

He slid closer. Your knees parted just slightly. He didn’t touch you. Not yet. He hovered.

His hand rested at your thigh now, his fingers splayed wide. He leaned in. Your faces were so close his breath warmed your lips. Your heart thundered, and your entire body ached—not from the pain this time—but from the tension so thick it smothered you.

You thought he was going to kiss you. You tilted forward just enough to meet him.

But he stopped.

Right there. Inches away. Close enough for your lips to crave his. Far enough to be cruel.

His smirk returned.

"There’s a lot I want to do to you," he murmured. "But not when your ankle is wrapped like a ration pack."

"You're a bastard," you breathed, face flushed, breath shaky.

"And yet you’re still sitting here," he replied, rising to his feet with maddening grace.

He grabbed his cape, his gloves, every layer of armor he had peeled off… and put it all back on.

You stared, stunned, lips still parted from the kiss that didn’t happen.

He reached the door.

"You should ice it," he said, motioning toward your leg. His tone was neutral, like none of what just happened meant anything.

You stood. Barely.

"You came into my home, touched me, undressed me with your eyes, and now you leave?"

He turned at the door, eyes roaming your figure slowly. "You think I didn’t undress you in my head the moment I saw you in that dress? I’ve been patient all night."

Your stomach flipped.

"And I will continue to be patient," he added, smoother now. "Because when it happens…"

You didn’t breathe.

"It won’t be interrupted. Or rushed. And you will beg for it."

He opened the door, then paused. "Rest well, Agent."

And then he was gone.

You stood in your living room alone, heart pounding, face flushed, knees weak. You pressed a hand to your chest.

Damn him.

He left you burning.

And you hated how badly you wanted him to come back.

*******

The ISB Headquarters greeted you with its usual cold efficiency. The moment you stepped through the security doors, you could feel the weight of every gaze on you. The whispers, the sideways glances—everyone watching, calculating, observing.

You kept your chin high, trying to ignore the prickling sensation running down your spine. Inside, you could hear the soft murmur of voices, the familiar hum of the ISB machinery that had once felt like home. But today, it felt different. Out of place. You were different.

Something about last night had shifted.

Your steps echoed as you walked deeper into the halls. You passed your colleagues who watched you a little too closely, some turning their heads quickly, others meeting your eyes with a mixture of curiosity and caution. It didn’t take long for you to notice that a few desks were empty.

Heert, always the one to linger at the periphery, caught your eye. You approached him and Jung, both men standing near a row of screens, seemingly distracted. Your heart sank.

"Where’s Dedra?" You asked, trying to keep your voice even.

Heert glanced at Jung before looking back at you, clearly unsure whether to answer. His lips parted as if to say something but hesitated. The uncertainty was palpable. You were no longer just an agent to them, but a force of something else entirely.

Before he could respond, Paltargaz appeared from the shadows, his footsteps firm and purposeful. You stiffened instinctively. He was a man who carried weight in his voice. A man who made decisions that affected lives.

"Agent," he said, his tone more neutral than expected.

"Major," you responded with a nod.

"I heard someone tried to hurt you last night at the gala," he continued, eyes narrowing ever so slightly, as if he had been following the trail of rumors, and there was something more beneath the surface. Something simmering.

"It’s been taken care of," you replied flatly, refusing to give him more than necessary.

Paltargaz studied you for a moment. His sharp gaze flicked toward an empty chair near the far side of the room, and his lips pressed together in something like displeasure, though it was expertly hidden. "She’s still in interrogation," he said, voice firm, but there was an undercurrent of frustration just beneath the surface. It was clear that whatever had happened to Dedra, Paltargaz wasn’t happy about it. Or perhaps he wasn’t happy about her being so distracted.

The tension in the room rose slightly. You couldn’t help but turn to Heert and Jung, both of whom had looked down at their boots as if the answer lay hidden there. Heert shrugged, his usual calm demeanor momentarily breaking. Jung’s face remained unreadable, but his eyes flickered with uncertainty.

You thought about Krennic’s words from earlier, about the Empire’s endless backstabbing and the high cost of ambition. Dedra had always been someone you could count on, but in the cold world of the ISB, allegiances were fleeting. Trust was fragile. In a way, the words Krennic had said about losing a friend felt like they were carved into your bones now.

There was a pang of something, maybe regret, maybe guilt. Or perhaps fear.

"You make the ISB proud," Paltargaz said, his voice cutting through your thoughts. His eyes locked with yours, and for a moment, they softened, just slightly, as if he recognized the weight you were carrying. "Don’t disappoint us, Agent. I’ve had enough searching for rats."

His words hung in the air. The layers of meaning behind them were impossible to ignore. Searching for rats, he’d said. The ISB was full of rats—traitors, spies, people with their own agendas. People like Dedra? Or people like you, the ones who were starting to see the cracks in the system? You weren’t sure anymore.

“There was a breach. Minor, but targeted. Some idiot tried to access restricted weapon development files. It was contained before anything spread, but it triggered a full protocol audit.”

Your stomach dropped slightly.

“And?”

“Every agent is required to secure their data. Effective immediately. Yours included.” He finally looked at you. “Some of us thought you’d already gone rogue.”

That earned a few glances from nearby officers.

“I’ve been off-world. Under direct orders,” you said steadily.

“I’m sure,” he replied with a clipped tone. “Agent Meero is currently in holding. Her clearance activity flagged anomalies.”

Paltargaz stepped closer. “You're back. Good. Then no excuses. Lock down your console. Triple encrypt everything. I don’t want to hear your name next.”

You nodded once. “Understood.”

He turned away without another word.

You made your way to your station, feeling the weight of every watchful eye. As your hands hovered above the console, you glanced toward Dedra’s empty chair. The tension curled in your chest like smoke.

Backstabbing. Promotions. Interrogations.

Krennic had warned you this would happen. And now the game had already begun.

When you were doing your job, red light flooded the corridors as warning sirens cut through the thick tension already gripping HQ. Officers jumped to their feet. A synthesized voice barked over the loudspeakers: “Security breach detected. Immediate lockdown initiated. All non-essential personnel evacuate the upper floors.”

Paltargaz’s voice followed seconds later. Sharp. Stern. Laced with authority. "All departments, evacuate to Level Four corridors. You know your protocols. Move."

Jung bolted from his console. Heert cursed under his breath, slamming his terminal shut as agents flooded the main hallways. The panic was restrained, but it was real. Everyone assumed it was related to the breach. No one questioned it. Not at first.

And that was the problem.

In the chaos, no one noticed the woman walking down the hall at a controlled pace, flanked by two men in ISB uniforms. The insignia matched. The badges cleared. She looked slightly dazed, maybe in pain. One man supported her arm, the other walked ahead.

Security let them pass.

The troopers were too focused on the potential cyber breach. Everyone believed the alarm was about data. No one imagined a physical extraction was underway. Not here. Not in the heart of Coruscant’s intelligence center.

You tried to speak, but the pressure in your veins made it hard to focus. You felt lightheaded, dizzy. Cold sweat clung to your neck.

The sharp sting at your side—barely noticed at first—had been a syringe.

You stumbled once, but they steadied you, smiling like allies. Your limbs started to fail you. Vision blurred. One of the men whispered something into your ear, something you couldn’t comprehend through the sound of the sirens and your pulse thudding louder than thought.

The last thing you saw before the world went dark was the glint of Marlon’s eyes.

His face hovered above yours, mockingly gentle.

"You should’ve chosen better."

Then there’s nothing.

Not the blaster-ready stormtroopers, not the agents rushing to secure the data vaults, not even Paltargaz himself. None of them realized that in the middle of this breach, something far more valuable than data had been stolen.

You were gone. And by the time they noticed, it would already be too late.

********

You woke slowly. Your head throbbed, your limbs felt heavy, and the low rumble beneath your body told you immediately that you were in a shuttle. Not Imperial. Smaller. Rougher. The scent of old fuel and recycled air scraped against your throat.

Your vision blurred at first, swimming behind a veil of pain, but as your eyes cleared, your stomach twisted.

Marlon sat in the pilot’s seat.

You bolted upright, chains on your wrists clinking harshly. "What the hell—"

He didn’t look back. His voice came over his shoulder, casual. Almost gentle.

"We’re going home."

You stared at him in disbelief. "Home?"

You leaned forward, struggling to push through the lingering fog in your mind. Then, you saw it. Through the viewport, a brown-orange planet loomed ahead.

No.

Your chest seized with sick recognition. You knew those jagged rock ridges, the burnt treelines, the barren plateaus carved by years of war and neglect. The very bones of the Outer Rim were etched in that world’s soil.

Cinderis.

"No," you whispered, horror creeping up your spine. "Turn it around."

Marlon didn’t even blink. "We’re landing."

"I said turn it around!" You lunged forward, but the cuffs dragged you back. Your voice cracked. "Why would you bring me back here?"

He finally turned to face you, the shadow of something long buried in his expression.

"Because I’m from here too."

The silence inside the cockpit roared louder than the engine. Your breath hitched.

"What?"

He didn’t answer. The shuttle jolted as it began its descent.

Dust clouds spiraled in the air as the landing gear struck dirt. You felt your heart racing, your body tense as he stood and moved toward you, unlocking your safety harness but not your cuffs. He offered no explanation as the ramp lowered.

The light outside was harsh and raw, exactly as you remembered. The smell of dry earth and metal filled your lungs. The air was colder than you expected, or maybe that was your memory chilling your blood.

You stepped down beside Marlon, flanked by two armed men in scrappy uniforms. They weren’t dressed like the polished Rebels you’d seen in intelligence briefings. These were local. Underground. Old loyalties. Old grudges.

And then you saw him.

A tall man stood in the center of the landing zone, arms open like a mockery of welcome.

"Welcome home," Joric Stone said with a thin, calculated smile.

The voice hit you like a blaster to the chest.

You froze, every muscle in your body locking.

Joric Stone

The man who ordered the execution of your parents. The man who turned your village into ash.

"Good job bringing her, son," he said, glancing at Marlon.

You turned slowly. "Son?"

Marlon didn’t meet your eyes.

Joric grinned wider. "What an honor to have the Emperor’s favorite propagandist here." He turned to the scattered Rebels around him. "And would you believe it? She’s from Cinderis. One of ours."

Murmurs spread like poison in the crowd. Eyes narrowed. Hands gripped blasters tighter. Their stares burned into your skin: judgment, suspicion, hatred.

You kept your spine straight, jaw tight. Every breath felt like swallowing glass.

"I am not one of yours," you said, voice low. Controlled.

Joric chuckled. "Come. Let’s give our guest a proper seat."

Inside the crumbling command building, you were shoved into a seat. Your wrists still bound. You faced a semi-circle of local leaders—elders, militants, opportunists wrapped in old resistance colors that hadn't meant anything in decades.

Joric paced like a man preparing a speech.

"To think," he mused aloud, "a girl from this dirt-ridden world would rise so far. ISB. Director Krennic’s right hand. Tell me, what do you dream of, now that you're rubbing elbows with the men who build the stars themselves?"

You looked him in the eye, no fear left to spare.

"You don’t know who I am, do you?"

Joric raised a brow. "Should I?"

You leaned forward, voice like ice.

"I’m the daughter of Kessa and Halin Verin. My father refused to give you the safehouse coordinates. So you killed them. And the others with them."

Something shifted in his face.

You pressed further. "You called it strategy. But we called it betrayal. You burned our homes. Took our food. Sacrificed children. That was your rebellion."

Joric scoffed. "Ah. Now I remember. Ingrates, all of you. We gave you shelter. We gave you a purpose."

"You gave us death."

He waved a hand dismissively. "Massacre is a strong word. Your people simply didn’t know how to defend themselves."

You stared, hollow and sharp. "Is that what you told yourself while my mother bled out in the street?"

The room went silent.

Joric’s expression darkened. In one fluid motion, he stepped forward and slapped you across the face. The blow rang through the small chamber like a gunshot.

"You should’ve died with them," he snarled.

You didn’t flinch. You bled from the lip, but your gaze held steady.

"That’s the problem with your cause," you whispered. "Rotten leaders pretending to fight for peace."

"Take her to the holding cell," he growled.

Marlon hesitated.

"Now, boy!"

He moved to your side. But as he pulled you to your feet, you turned your face toward him.

"I hope you’re proud," you murmured, voice trembling from pain, not fear.

And he couldn’t meet your eyes again.

Not this time.

*******

At ISB Headquarters, the mood shifted quickly. Whispers passed between agents. Your absence had gone unnoticed for the first few hours, but as the day wore on, it was impossible to ignore.

"Is she with Director Krennic?" Partagaz asked, voice sharp as ever.

"I don’t think so, sir. No transport requests, no dispatch notices, and no orders came through from Scarif or Coruscant High Command," Heert replied quickly.

"Maybe she's sick," one of the junior agents offered, almost too casually.

"What?" Partagaz narrowed his eyes.

"Last night, during the breach alarm, when we had to gather outside the command floor... I saw her. She looked pale and was leaning against another agent. He was helping her. I thought maybe she fainted or something."

Heert and Jung immediately exchanged a look. Partagaz’s face darkened.

"I have a bad feeling about this."

Heert moved fast. "I’ll check the surveillance records." 

Minutes later, the three of them stood in a control bay, observing holorecordings on glowing Imperial holopanels. Footage flickered. They saw you following evacuation protocols after the data breach. Then in another feed — you being led away discreetly, supported by someone in an ISB uniform.

"Wait," Partagaz narrowed his gaze. "Enhance that visual. That’s not one of ours."

"I’ve seen him before..." Jung said carefully.

Partagaz’s jaw tightened. "So have I. That boy from the fundraising gala. The one who made Director Krennic twitch with jealousy."

Heert leaned in a little closer. "Well, I guess it’s a good thing Director Krennic ruined her date."

Jung shot him a look, clearly not in the mood for jokes.

Partagaz cursed under his breath. "Stars help us... he's going to kill someone when he hears this."

He tapped the holocomm. The signal flickered once, twice, then sharpened into focus—Director Krennic appeared, surrounded by the clean lines and bright light of Scarif Command. His white cape shimmered faintly in the background, and his expression was cool, unreadable.

"Krennic," Partagaz began without ceremony, his voice clipped, "I need a moment of your time."

Krennic didn’t look up from whatever data he was reviewing. "Make it quick. I’m debriefing with the Scarif engineers before the Finance Guild arrives."

"It’s about your propagandist."

That made Krennic glance up, but only mildly. "What about her?"

Partagaz hesitated just slightly. Just enough to be noticed.

Krennic’s brow twitched. "Partagaz?"

"She’s… missing."

The silence that followed was immediate and suffocating. Krennic stood straighter, his face hardening, but his voice stayed measured.

"Missing as in unaccounted for, or missing as in someone took her?"

Partagaz’s jaw flexed. "We have reason to believe she’s been taken. By rebels."

Krennic stared, and for a moment, he said nothing. Then his voice dropped, dangerous and low.

"How long have you known?"

"She didn’t report in today. That alone isn’t irregular. But an agent saw her during last night’s security evacuation. Pale, disoriented, being helped by someone we now believe wasn’t one of ours."

Krennic's face shifted—just slightly—but enough to betray what Partagaz rarely saw from him.

Fear.

"And you’re just telling me this now?"

"We were verifying before—"

"You should’ve called the second she was late." Krennic’s voice cracked like glass under pressure. "You think I wouldn't notice her absence? You think I’d be too distracted by bureaucrats to care?"

Partagaz stood silent. Not out of guilt, but because there was nothing he could say to temper the storm brewing through the comm.

Krennic exhaled sharply, trying to reel it in. His voice dropped to a hiss. "Who."

"The man she was seen with at the fundraiser. We pulled footage. He's not on our personnel list."

Krennic didn’t even blink. "Marlon."

Partagaz nodded grimly.

There was a loud crash—off screen, something metallic hitting the floor. Krennic had thrown something. Then he paced out of frame briefly before returning, his composure beginning to fracture at the edges.

"I left Scarif for two days to deal with financiers and walk imbeciles through the Death Star's metrics. Two days. And this happens."

Partagaz straightened. "We’re already tracing his ship. We’ll have a location soon." Actually they have no lead. But he lied to ease Krennic anger. 

Krennic’s eyes bored through him. "If you don’t find her, I will personally raze the entire ISBy department and bury it to the ground."

"We will find her," Partagaz said flatly. "You have my word."

The line cut. Silence remained.

He turned to Heert and Jung.

"You heard him. Lock every hyperspace corridor from here to the Outer Rim. Track every flight manifest and heat trail. I want Marlon before the sun sets. No excuses."

They nodded sharply and moved in unison.

********

Somewhere in the lower levels of Coruscant, buried beneath the glowing towers and chaos of the upper districts, Jung waited in the shadows of a narrow service corridor. The stale scent of coolant and metal clung to the air, mixing with the faint hum of power lines overhead. His eyes tracked every sound — footsteps, the hiss of hydraulics, distant traffic above — until finally, a figure stepped into view.

Luthen Rael approached with his usual calm, the folds of his dark cloak hiding his arms, but his stance betrayed tension. They were alone — or at least as alone as anyone could be in this city.

Jung stepped forward, his voice low but loaded with accusation. "Is this your plan? Kidnapping an Imperial agent?"

Luthen exhaled sharply, as if he had been holding that breath for hours. "No. That wasn’t supposed to happen." His voice dropped, almost regretful. "I should never have trusted Marlon. He’s reckless. Ambition clouded him. Whatever he’s doing now... he’s doing it alone."

"Then give me something," Jung demanded. "Anything about him. Location. Contact. Ship ID. Anything."

Luthen tilted his head slightly, studying Jung with piercing eyes. "Why do you care so much?"

Jung’s jaw tensed. "You don’t understand what you’ve done. Krennic will burn everything to find her. He’s finished his weapon. And now? Now he has motive."

Those words struck like a bolt to Luthen’s spine. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The faint twitch in his jaw, the flicker of fear behind his eyes, was enough.

"You know what that thing is capable of," Jung added, stepping closer. "And he’s already unleashed it once. Imagine what he’ll do when it’s personal."

For a long moment, the silence between them crackled with unspoken threats and truth. Finally, Luthen reached into his cloak and pulled a datachip. He held it out with reluctance.

"That’s all I have. Coordinates. A drop point from Marlon two days ago. He stopped responding after that."

Jung snatched the chip without hesitation, his fingers cold around it. He gave Luthen one last look, one that said, if this goes further south, none of us are safe.

"You better hope she’s still alive."

*******

The cell was small. The air stank of rusted metal and mildew, a cloying, rotted scent that clung to every breath. The walls were damp and bruised with age, and the faint trickle of water in some unseen corner made the silence worse. The dim light flickered overhead, casting shadows that danced too slowly. You sat on the cold floor, knees pulled close, the metal cuffs biting into your wrists. This wasn’t just a prison — it was a memory. And not one you wanted.

You had grown up in places like this. In corners of the galaxy forgotten by the Senate and ignored by the Empire. Back then, you had to sleep beneath broken roofs and dig through ration crates just to eat. The smell in this cell was the same as the caves you’d hidden in when the fighting got too close. And now here you were again, only this time with nothing but your title, your pain, and a past you’d tried so hard to erase.

Beside you, in the opposite cell, two stormtroopers sat chained together, their armor dirtied and scorched. Even they looked hollow. It was strange seeing them like this — once so imposing, now reduced to quiet breathing, just as trapped as you were.

The cell door groaned open. You didn’t look up.

"Miserable place, isn't it?" Marlon’s voice echoed off the walls, too familiar, too calm. He stepped forward carrying a tray, the weak scent of reheated rations doing nothing to improve the atmosphere.

You still didn’t meet his gaze.

"I brought food," he said simply. "Eat. You'll think clearer with something in your stomach."

You turned your head slightly, eyes sharp. "You think I’m going to change my mind because of scraps and kindness?"

Marlon crouched, placing the tray on the ground just out of your reach. "I think you're tired. I think you're remembering why you came from here. Why it hurts. I'm offering you a way out — a real one. Leave the Empire. Come back to what your parents believed in."

You let out a soft, bitter laugh, shaking your head slowly.

"My soul was already torn to shreds the day my parents died in front of me," you said. "I had to hide. I had to crawl through ash and bone just to survive. There were days I envied worms — at least they could burrow deep underground and disappear. I couldn’t. I had to keep running. Keep breathing."

Marlon's jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing. "And now you betray that sacrifice by siding with the very people who helped tear this planet apart?"

"If my parents were still alive and saw what I have become — they would understand," you replied coolly. "Because I no longer sleep under rubble. I no longer starve. I live with comfort. I live with control. I am not a hunted animal in a hole anymore."

Your words echoed through the cellblock. One of the prisoners nearby gave a loud cheer. Another clapped a chained hand against the wall in support. Even the stormtroopers grunted their amusement.

Marlon rose to his feet with a humorless scoff. "You're clever with words. No wonder the Emperor and Krennic keep you close." His voice sharpened. "I wonder if Krennic even realizes you're gone yet. If he does, I hope he's enjoying the chase — because he won’t find you."

You flinched before you could stop yourself. That flash of dread, sudden and heavy, slammed into your chest.

Marlon noticed. His gaze softened, almost pitying. "Clear your head. No one here wants to hurt you. You're too valuable for that."

Your voice came out low, bitter. “So. The first meeting. The date. It was all for a mission.”

He didn’t answer right away. He stared at the floor, the words pressing into the space between you like a heavy fog. Finally, he admitted it. “It was. I took the assignment because you were from Cinderis. I thought you’d be easy to pull back. One of us.”

He looked at you then, and for the first time, there was no mask. No act. “But you weren’t. You were different. Smarter. Colder. It stopped being a mission after the second time we spoke. And that scared the hell out of me.”

You didn’t reply. You couldn’t. The betrayal settled in your gut like a bruise that would never fade.

He turned and walked toward the door, pausing only briefly before the guard opened it for him. Then he was gone, leaving you in the silence that somehow felt colder than before.

You curled in on yourself, resting your back against the wall. Your thoughts drifted, too fast to stop. Mia’s laugh. The soft giggles of her daughters. The quiet joy of watching the little one hand you a drawing with pride. Your ridiculous director — smug, impossible, infuriating. The way his eyes burned when he looked at you. The unexpected gentleness in his voice that night after the gala. The way he carried you like you mattered. Like you were his.

And now?

Now you were in a place that reeked of ghosts, waiting to see who would find you first. 

******

They made you walk again. This time, escorted by Marlon, his grip firm on your arm as he guided you through the base. The air outside the prison was just as stifling, though now filled with the murmurs and glances of rebel fighters as you passed. Your injured leg ached with every step, but you didn’t let them see it. You kept your spine straight, your face cold.

They brought you into a larger chamber. At the center stood Joric Stone, his presence as smug and arrogant as you remembered — the man whose orders had ended your parents' lives. His expression was all show, arms spread in mock welcome.

“She’s here,” Marlon announced.

Joric stepped forward, hands clasped behind his back, voice low and controlled. “We need your skills, girl. The Empire’s propaganda has flooded too many systems. But we have you now. You’re going to turn the tide.”

You didn’t answer.

“Make a piece. Just one,” Joric said, tone too casual. “Stir up sympathy for our cause. Convince the people the Empire is a machine. Cold, cruel. Empty.”

You stared at him with open contempt. “I won’t.”

He tilted his head slightly, then smiled, slow and venomous. “Mia,” he said.

You blinked. The name hit like a slap.

“She’s from this planet too, right? Your friend? Married well. Living comfortably in Coruscant. Two lovely daughters.”

Your stomach twisted. “What did you say?”

“I know everything,” he said softly. “Where she lives. Where her children play. Who drives them to school. I have people near her. Watching. Waiting.”

Your hands clenched into fists. “Fine,” you hissed.

Joric turned to Marlon with a smirk. “Bring her a pen. Let her do the job.”

Marlon placed a sheet of flimsi and a pen in front of you. You didn’t move.

“I’m still cuffed,” you muttered.

Marlon hesitated, then unlocked the cuffs. “Try anything, and it won’t end well.”

Joric chuckled. “You’re an ISB agent, sure, but they don’t train you for real combat. Just enough to die dramatically.”

You stared at the pen for a heartbeat. Then you smiled. “That’s true.”

In one fluid motion, you grabbed the pen and drove it into Joric’s eye.

He screamed, stumbling backward in agony. “Arrgh!”

You lunged behind him, wrapping your arm around his throat, dragging him upright even as his blood slicked your arm. The room erupted into chaos, blasters raised, voices shouting.

“Drop it!” someone shouted.

You pressed the edge of the broken pen to Joric’s neck. “Do it, and he’ll never speak again,” you growled. “Put. Them. Down.”

Joric whimpered, clutching his eye, pain overcoming his pride. “Stand down. Stand down!”

Blasters lowered.

With her hostage trembling, you used him like a keycard. One room, then another — barked commands, stifled panic. No one dared challenge you, not with Joric bleeding and furious.

Finally, outside. You didn’t have a plan. You just needed to get away.

A parked glider bike waited by the supply platform. Sleek, half-powered, but fast enough. You shoved Joric away, climbed on, ignoring the white-hot stab of pain in your leg.

“Stop her!” Joric roared behind you.

Blaster fire rained across the tarmac as you gunned the accelerator and shot forward. Lights streaked past. Voices blurred. All you knew was the wind and the pain and the desperate need to get out.

The vehicle jerked as a blast clipped the side panel. You lost control. The world spun violently. You hit the dirt hard, tumbling through brush and bramble before slamming into the edge of the forest floor.

Your ears rang. Your ribs burned. You tried to crawl.

Footsteps followed.

Marlon emerged from the trees, face twisted with frustration. He raised the blaster in his hand but didn’t shoot.

“Why,” he said, breathless, “do you have to make everything so difficult?”

You forced yourself upright, swaying. “Because I don’t belong here.”

He laughed — not amused. Bitter. Unhinged. “So you’d rather be dragged around by a man in a white cape? That’s better than this?”

You didn’t flinch. “It’s not about him.”

“It is. You love him,” he spat. “I can see it.”

You said nothing.

“Damn it.” His voice cracked, the blaster trembling slightly in his grip. “You really do.”

Then he laughed again, the sound wild. Something about it made your chest tighten with unease. You took a step back, slowly, the dirt and leaves crunching underfoot.

Marlon stopped laughing. His hand steadied.

He raised the blaster.

You closed your eyes, accepting it. If this was your final moment, at least let it be quick.

And deep down, your only regret was not kissing Krennic that night. 

Suddenly, a sharp crack shattered the air.

Marlon’s scream tore through the clearing, raw and helpless.

You gasped, eyes snapping open just in time to see him stagger backward, his hand clutching his shoulder. Blood bloomed between his fingers. He tripped in the dirt, eyes wide with pain and disbelief.

The wind screamed louder now, a sudden gale rushing through the trees. Dust rose around you in a violent whirl. Above, cutting through the storm clouds like a blade, descended a black shuttle. Its landing thrusters roared as the ramp lowered with a hiss, swallowing the earth in shadow.

He emerged from the storm like a myth made real.

Orson Krennic.

White cape billowing, posture tall and unyielding, he moved down the ramp with measured steps. The fabric snapped in the wind behind him like a war banner. Death Troopers followed, their presence massive and silent, flanking him with the precision of judgment.

Krennic didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

His eyes were locked on Marlon, gaze like a weapon in itself—burning, fixed, merciless. He didn’t so much walk as command the space around him. The wind seemed to part in his wake.

Marlon’s mouth worked soundlessly. He tried to move. A second shot rang out.

He screamed again, this time falling to one knee, his leg torn beneath him.

Still, Krennic did not rush. He advanced with slow, terrifying calm, the kind of deliberate pace that promised no escape. His boots struck the ground like the toll of a war drum.

His eyes flicked to you.

The bruises.

The cuts.

Your trembling form.

His expression barely changed, but his jaw tightened, his breath shifted—enough to show the storm inside him was far more dangerous than the one raging around you.

When he reached you, he did not speak.

He pulled you into his chest without hesitation, one gloved hand cradling your head, the other curling protectively around your back. The moment his arms wrapped around you, something in you collapsed. A sob escaped your throat, muffled against the fabric of his uniform.

"You came," you whispered, your voice hoarse.

He pressed his lips against your temple, his breath shallow and trembling with fury.

"Of course I came, darling. No one touches what I value. No one takes you from me."

Behind you, Marlon whimpered in agony.

Krennic turned his head slightly, eyes narrowing. He raised one hand. The gesture was subtle. Dismissive.

The third blast echoed like judgment.

And then, silence.

Marlon’s cries were gone. So was Marlon.

You didn’t turn to look. You didn’t need to.

"Is it done?" you whispered.

Krennic exhaled slowly, his breath a controlled release of fire. He nodded once.

"It’s done."

His hand found your cheek, brushing gently across the tender bruising. His touch, so soft now, trembled with everything he refused to say. The cold rage that had consumed him moments ago was buried beneath something deeper. He leaned close.

"Let’s go home."

He didn’t let you go, not once, as he led you back toward the waiting shuttle. The storm clouds above had not calmed, but their fury no longer reached you.

You were in his arms.

And nothing dared touch you again.

*******

You didn’t remember fainting.

One moment, you were wrapped in Krennic’s arms, the scent of his uniform clinging to you as your adrenaline finally gave out. The next, everything was light and noise.

You awoke slowly to a sterile hum, the sharp scent of antiseptic stinging your nose. The lighting overhead was clinical and bright, too clean. Your body ached. Cold metal beneath you. Soft beeping echoed faintly from the monitor beside your bed.

You blinked, disoriented.

"You're stable," a voice said.

A physician stepped into your view. Imperial white. Calm. Detached. "Mild concussion. Lacerations. Deep tissue bruising. But nothing permanent. You're lucky."

Your throat was dry, your voice barely audible. "Where am I?"

The physician didn’t answer right away.

Then another voice filled the room, deeper, familiar, and somehow cutting straight to your core.

"The Death Star."

You turned, slowly, already knowing what you’d see.

Krennic stood in the doorway, cape draped behind him, gloves absent, though his posture was still rigid, still dignified, like nothing could rattle the empire forged in his mind.

“You’re safe now,” he said, but his eyes never quite softened. They scanned you like a checklist, finding every bruise, every mark, and filing them away with lethal precision.

He turned to one of the command officers waiting behind him. "Report."

"Sir, we’ve retrieved every Imperial asset from the rebel prison. All accounted for," the officer added. "Including the children."

"Good," Krennic said coldly. "That means only one piece remains."

The officer nodded and stepped aside.

He stepped forward to you, and without another word, he held out a hand.

“Come with me.”

You hesitated, weakly pushing yourself upright.

“I want you to see something,” he said.

And somehow, despite everything, you took his hand.

He led you silently through the sterile corridors of the Death Star, the vastness of the station unfolding around you like a throne carved into space. Stormtroopers stepped aside. Officers stood to attention. No one questioned your presence.

He brought you to an observation room overlooking one of the central detention decks. You immediately recognized the figure kneeling on the floor.

Joric Stone.

He looked different now. Small. Broken. His hands were bound behind his back, his body bruised and bloodied, one eye missing. He didn’t look like a rebel leader anymore.

“You didn’t kill him?” you asked quietly.

Krennic’s voice was low. “Not yet.”

He gestured to one of the guards.

“Bring him.”

The stormtroopers moved quickly. Joric didn’t resist, but he groaned in pain as they hauled him to his feet. You turned away, just slightly. Not out of sympathy. Out of memory.

Krennic led you to another chamber. A circular control room—one that overlooked the vast targeting array. On the central screen, the blue-green surface of Cinderis filled the projection. Cloud banks drifted lazily over its mountains. You knew those forests. You knew the smell of the dirt. The taste of hunger.

Joric was dragged in and forced to his knees before the viewport.

“You wanted her to suffer,” Krennic said, voice quiet. “Now you’ll see what that earns you.”

He moved behind Joric and crouched. Then, with one gloved hand, he gripped the back of the man’s bloodied head and forced his face upward.

"Look."

Joric flinched, trying to pull away, but Krennic tightened his hold.

"You made her bleed. You dragged her back to this place. And now you're going to watch it vanish."

"Don’t—" Joric wheezed, shaking.

Krennic ignored him completely. His eyes were on you.

“You deserve this,” he said. Not to Joric. To you.

Then, to the operator: “Target the rebel stronghold.”

Joric screamed.

"You can't! My soldiers!”

"Collateral," Krennic said simply. "The price of your rebellion."

The targeting system aligned. The weapon charged, humming with power that vibrated through your chest.

Joric sobbed now, his voice ragged. "Please… Please!"

Krennic leaned closer to him. His voice was almost gentle.

“Do you want to know why I brought you here?”

Joric whimpered.

Krennic’s voice dropped, cold as vacuum.

“Because I want this to be the last thing burned into that skull of yours.”

Then he nodded once towards the operator. 

“Fire!"

The chamber went silent as light erupted across the screen. A single beam lanced from the weapon array. Blinding. Absolute.

Cinderis bloomed into a sun.

Joric screamed, convulsed, and fell limp in the guards’ grip.

You watched, unmoving. You didn’t cry. You didn’t speak. The world that had hurt you your entire life was now a smear of smoke in orbit.

Krennic finally released Joric’s head, and the man slumped to the floor in a heap of whimpers and failure.

“Dispose of him,” Krennic said, his voice devoid of weight.

Then he turned to you. The storm in him settled. Not gone. But quiet.

"Are you satisfied?"

You didn’t answer right away.

But a part of you—one you had buried long ago in the forests of Cinderis—whispered yes.

And you followed him to another room to avoid the chaos. There’s only both of you at the moment. 

You turned to him, lips parting with disbelief. "Why did you show me this?" 

Krennic didn’t answer immediately. His eyes were trained on the fading light from the projection, watching the data clear from the screen as if brushing off ash. He didn’t look at you when he finally spoke. "Because I wanted you to see what justice looks like." 

You stared at him, heart hammering against your ribs. 

He turned then, slowly, the edges of his voice softer now, but no less steady. "That place... It stole everything from you. It buried your family. It made you believe there was no power that could ever protect you." 

He stepped closer, his eyes locking with yours, unflinching. "I wanted you to know that I can." The breath caught in your throat. "I didn’t do this for protocol," he continued, voice quieter now, but deeper. “I did this for you. Because you deserve to see it gone. Not hidden. Not buried. Gone.” 

Your vision blurred, but you didn’t look away. 

You couldn’t. "And Joric?" you asked, your voice low. 

Krennic’s lips twitched faintly. No smile. Just grim truth. "He watched his empire burn. Just like you watched yours. The difference is, you built something greater out of the rubble." 

You exhaled shakily, your body trembling from more than injury. You looked out at the screen again, at the now-empty sky. 

No more lies. No more ghosts. No more Cinderis. 

Krennic stepped closer and, without asking, placed his gloved hand over yours. "You asked me once if I saw you as my equal," he said. "This is my answer."

‘My Equal.’

The words echoed between you, low and deliberate, landing like a final strike on everything that once held you apart. The room was quiet now. The only sound was the low hum of the Death Star’s power systems in the walls and the pounding of your own heartbeat.

You stared at him.

No smirk. No smugness. No layers of manipulation. Just Orson. Exhausted. Unflinching. And for once, not trying to win. Just telling the truth.

You hadn’t come looking for this. You hadn’t thought your moment of justice would look like this, feel like this. But in the aftermath of everything of blood, ruin, betrayal, and survival. It made terrifying, perfect sense.

Your body moved before your mind could catch up.

It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t graceful.

You stepped forward and kissed him.

A startled breath left him through his nose, like you’d struck him again. Not with a weapon this time, but with something more dangerous. You felt it the moment his mind caught up to his body, when surprise turned into something hungry, something scorching.

And then, he kissed you back with controlled force, one gloved hand sliding behind your neck, the other bracing against the glass wall beside you. You rose onto your toes, pulling him closer, as if the world around you didn’t matter, and for the first time in so long, it didn’t.

He tasted like heat and metal and thunder. And you wanted more.

When he finally pulled away, just barely, his breath was ragged, his eyes unreadable but burning. He looked at you like a man seeing something sacred. And for once, you didn’t feel like a pawn. Or a weapon. Or a piece of strategy.

"You kissed me," he said quietly, like he needed to hear himself say it to believe it.

You nodded, heart racing. "Yes."

His lips twitched into a ghost of a smile. "It’s about time."

You stared at each other for another beat. The kind of beat that changes everything.

And for once, it was not about power. Not about politics. Not even about revenge.

It was just the two of you. Finally standing in the same place. At the same time. No more waiting.

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[toxicanonymity]

Hii! Appreciate you using your platform to encourage action against the fascist gov in the states. I did 5 calls today to senators about the SAVE act vote, have been participating in protests across NYC monthly at minimum, and protesting at Columbia for Mahmoud Khalil as a member of the uni community there. Anon to protect my identity from Columbia.

My ficlet request is NightWalks Joel and reader smoking, boob workship, and cockwarming :)

- 🌿 fern anon

SAVE Act | 5calls | resistbot | Update - ask senators to vote no on cloture AND bill. Ty for all of your activism and good call protecting your identity. 💚💚🍃

nugs and kisses

Joel x f!reader | 1780 words | Joel masterlist

“Good girl,” he said and got the joint from the nightstand...“Now c’mere,” he added with commanding eyes. You playfully whined at the prospect of moving. He tilted his head...You got on your hands and knees and stretched. He bit his lip and nodded.

SUMMARY: A playful, intimate, and hot wake & bake romp. WARNINGS: I8+ weed, shotgunning, praise, unsafe p in v NOTES: night walks AU (after tired & rested ). can read alone.

You slept like a baby in his embrace. He even managed to resist waking you up for sex. He had said he couldn't promise he'd behave in the morning, but he knew you needed sleep, so he tried. His body was flush against yours, his leg over yours, with his foot resting on the bed, his heel against your ankle. 

He smelled you before fully waking. Your shampoo, or your soap, and your pheromones. Your Scent carried a whole wave of comfort and familiarity, stirring affection in his heart before he knew what or who he smelled. 

As he roused into a half-awake state, he imagined he had broken into your basement again. But after a moment, the thrum of the fan told him this was his bed. A bed where he normally slept alone.

He could get used to this, he mused for a moment, then his face heated as his thoughts became fully conscious. you shifted slightly in your sleep, and your nipple dragged against his forearm. He sharply inhaled and his hips pushed forward in a reflex, pressing his erection harder against you. 

If you weren't wearing anything, it would be a lot more difficult, but your cold nature left you in your pants and camisole whereas he had stripped. 

He took in a slow breath with his nose pressed to the nape of your neck. His hips rocked in a subtle motion he couldn't stop, aching to put it in you. But  he wanted to know how you felt first. You had been upset by the pool before he found you. He wanted to be what you needed and also inside you. 

Wake and bake, he thought to himself and after giving you a little squeeze and a light kiss on the crown of your head, he willed himself himself to roll over to his nightstand where he had some good shit.

You stirred with the loss of your comfy cocoon. You didn't fully wake up, but you turned onto your back and you looked so pretty.

The shape of your lips, the curve of your breasts.  The way your face scrunched slightly. And then it scrunched more. You rolled toward him, and he laid a hand gently on your head. “Mornin’, pumpkin.”  A little smile flashed onto your lips before your eyes  even opened.

“Baby, you've made me believe in beauty sleep. Always wake up gorgeous.” 

You turned your head slightly into the pillow with a shy smile. He asked, “How do i look?” puffing out his chest a bit with an expectant tilt of his head. His muscles looked great but a tent in the sheet was tugging at your peripheral vision. You finally glanced there and the sliver of skin you could see under the sheet made you answer, “naked” with a chuckle. 

He looked down at himself. “It's hot work bein’ your personal heater, ya know. You still cold?” 

“Not really… You did a good job.”

He took a puff of the joint and you reached for it. He held it back playfully and said, “dare ya to get naked.” 

You giggled into the pillow and then your eyes met with playful affection. “You triple dog dare me?” 

“Quadruple dog,” he replied. “Five dog.”

You said okay, and he lowered himself to be at your level and he looked from your eyes to your lips, and brought his lips millimeters away from yours before slowly releasing the smoke.

You sucked in the smoke with your eyes closed. As you held it in your mouth, he couldn't resist pressing his mouth to your upper lip, and then your cheek.

As you exhaled against the side of his face, he palmed your breast, then his thumb tugged at the camisole's strap. 

“Lemme help ya with that,” he said and reached way back to put the joint in an ashtray on his nightstand. You sat up and lifted your arms.

“Attagirl,” he said as he pulled your top off and “Mmm” when your breasts fell free. 

“Ladies,” he greeted them.  

“ladies?” you giggled.

“Hadn't named’em…” 

He tugged at your waistband and you removed the pants.

“Good girl,” He said and got the joint from the nightstand, still holding it away from you. “Now c’mere,” he added with commanding eyes.

You let out a playful whine at the prospect of moving. He tilted his head.

You got up on your hands and knees first, and stretched. 

He bit his lip and nodded. 

Then you made your way into sitting -  you were gonna sit next to him, but once you were up on your knees, you found yourself going straight for his lap. 

You tugged the sheet off his lap, exposing his hard cock and thighs. He raised his eyebrows, and you sucked your bottom lip with a playful glint in your eye as you straddled him. 

“Hell yeah,” he said, “that's my girl.” You hovered and looked down at his thick stiff cock and felt your breath deepen as you lowered yourself.  You descended to just the right spot, so your naked front was pressed right up against his hard-on.

“All yours,” he murmured with a little tilt of his hips as he held the joint up to your mouth.

You took a short puff then pulled your head back and he set it aside. He looked back and forth between your breasts and palmed them with the reverence some men reserve for artwork. His hand pressed against one, framing the nipple in the crook of his thumb. His other arm nudged you into moving up a few inches. He took a deep breath through his nose, then tongued the sensitive skin as his mouth covered it. 

His eyes closed and brow furrowed as he sucked and tongued at your nipple and breast. “Mmm,” he moaned, and you throbbed. His dick twitched against you. Arousal surged through your blood like a drug.

God, you needed him bad. 

He pulled himself away, and your hips rolled, grinding against his hardness as he paid attention to the other one. Then he pulled himself away with a smack and licked his bottom lip. 

“Pumpkin, I know I've said it, and I'll say it again, but from the bottom of my heart… you are so goddamn hot.”

You smiled and replied, “okay… I know you know it, but you're pretty hot yourself,” then bit your lip at the admission. 

His eyes widened with an impressed raise of his brows. “You think I'm hot?” He asked, and you would've rolled your eyes if it was just a compliment, but it was an understatement if anything.

“There's something about you,” you said. 

“She thinks I'm hot,” He gloated, and you playfully gave his muscular chest a little punch.

“Prove it, baby,” he said.  

That was all you needed to rise up on your knees again, giving clearance for his cock. Then you held it at the base and slid it through your ample slick. That was proof. Solid evidence. He took in a chest full of air, looking sexy as hell with his hair disheveled his eyes blown out with lust. Then he watched you notch his cock at your entrance, and his mouth opened as your snug, wet cunt swallowed his tip. You sank down on him, and he moaned in a haze of desire. You didn't bottom out right away on your own. When you lifted up an inch, leaving the smooth skin of his dick shiny and wet, he grabbed your ass. He pulled you down on his cock, fully seating himself all the way in your warmth. 

“Fuck, pumpkin,” he breathed. He cradled your face and pulled it toward his, kissing you deep with an inhale through his nose. Your lips fit together, and his cock twitched inside you as his tongue plunged into your mouth. His hips rocked under you at the rhythm of your kiss. You licked into his mouth, pulling a short moan out of him as he accepted your tongue, caressing it with his. 

Your hips moved, meeting his cadence. A gentle ride, more of a joystick pivot than up and down, to start. His hands possessed you as you made out.

He groped your ass, your breasts. 

He pulled you tighter, wrapped an arm tight around you, and when he broke the kiss with an urgent breath, he lifted you enough to begin fucking you from the bottom, bouncing you on his cock.  He kissed your neck, breathing audibly and moaning into your jaw, grunting against your cheek, as he fucked you, and your hips rocked together.

“God damn, you're fuckin’ perfect,” he breathed. “Th’way you ride this cock.” He thrust up and let you down, with his cock even deeper. “Fuck,” he breathed. “Yeah, lemme see ya ride it. He pulled his head back against the wall, captivated by the way you moved. You planted your hands on him, one on each pec, and rolled your hips. Keeping his cock deep inside, you tilted forward and grinded against his pubic bone, moaning at the synchronized pressure on your cunt and the nudge of his cock in your depths. 

“God damn, that's good,” he marveled. “Yeah, just like that.” 

You felt fuller with each drag of his girth through your soft walls. The fullness made your mouth fall open, then his head came off the wall. His neck began to stretch, then when you moaned again, his core flexed as he came off the wall and wrapped an arm around you. His mouth took yours again, and you gladly surrendered it to him. You kissed and fucked, sliding against each other, pressed together. With your arms around his neck, you breathed against each other's mouths. His cock throbbed, and you whimpered.

Pleasure built in your belly, in your chest, then seized your body with a shaking release that nearly had you choke on a moan. “Baby,” he moaned as your climax hugged his cock so good.  “Feel so–oh, fuck–” His body jerked as his first rope shot into you, with your thighs already trembling from your own release. He kissed you as you finished milking his cock, each warm burst in your core had him moaning a little softer into your mouth. 

When your mouths separated, your foreheads came gently together. You breathed each other's breath, and you only realized your hand was in his hair after you absent mindedly raked your fingernails over his scalp and he hummed, “Mmm.”

He planted a firm kiss on your neck, and held you until you started dozing off and he leaned back against the wall, stroking your back, softening inside you, content for you to stay like that as long as you wanted.

-

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Thank you for reading, and thank you for your activism. please consider sharing this fic if you like it <3

[multific]

A Love Worth Defying an Empire

Emperor Geta x Reader

Summary: As Emperor, Geta rules with a cold heart, trusting no one in a court full of betrayal. But when you are accused of treason, something in him breaks. In between power and love, Geta has to make a decision.

The halls of the imperial palace were cold, carved from marble that shined under the dim light of torches.

The scent of burning incense lingered in the air, mixing with the faint metallic tang of spilt wine and whispered betrayals.

Rome was always alive, but inside the palace walls, the heart of the empire was filled with treachery.

And you were caught in the middle of it.

You stood before the Emperor’s throne, your hands bound together.

The accusation had been whispered into Geta’s ear by men.

Men who lied.

Men who thought could do anything they pleased.

Treason.

A word that could have you executed before the sunset.

The guards gripped your arms, but your eyes remained on him.

Geta sat high above you, dressed in deep crimson, he looked like a true Emperor because he was.

His brother wasn't informed of what was happening. Caracalla was in his room, hidden from all of this.

Geta's expression was unreadable, his jaw tight.

You knew him.

You knew the way his mind worked, the weight pressing upon him.

But did he know you?

Truly know you enough to see through this lie?

“Tell me,” he finally spoke, his voice sharp. “Do you deny it?”

Your heart pounded but you only spoke the truth. “I do.”

“And yet, here you stand, accused by men with no reason to lie.”

“No reason?” You wanted to laugh, you almost did. “They have every reason. They fear how much you trust me.”

The court gasped at your words, but Geta… Geta did not move.

Only a single muscle ticked in his jaw.

“I would not be so foolish as to trust blindly.”

“That’s not what I meant,” you whispered. “They know I have your ear. They know you listen when I speak.”

Perhaps you had more than just his ear. But the court didn't need to know that. You didn't want to confirm any of their suspicions.

A simple servant is all you were. You have been accused many times to be in love with the Emperor. You deny everything. Yet they all know.

But now, this wasn't the man you fell in love with. This was the Emperor.

And then Geta stood up.

Silence.

The room stood still as he walked from his throne, his steps slow and deliberate.

The guards at your side straightened, but he gave them a single look, and they released you.

You exhaled, rubbing your wrists as he came to stand close to you.

“If I have made a mistake in trusting you…” he said quietly, though his voice was sharper than a blade, “I will not hesitate to correct it.”

You held his gaze. “And if you haven’t?”

His fingers twitched as if resisting the urge to reach for you. “Then I will have to kill the men who speak against you.”

You swallowed. “Then you know what must be done.”

His breath was unsteady, just for a moment. And then, without another word, he turned back to the court.

“Leave,” Geta commanded. “All of you.”

The senators, guards, and servants scrambled to obey, whispering amongst themselves as they hurried from the hall.

You remained still, watching Geta, waiting.

When the last man was gone, the doors shut with a heavy echo.

And then, finally, Geta turned back to you, his mask of power falling, shattering.

His hands came up, gripping your face with desperation. “I cannot lose you. I have spent my life surrounded by deceit, by hunger for power, by hands that reach for our throne while I sleep,” he murmured. “You are the only thing that is mine. If they had taken you from me…” He shut his eyes, his grip tightening. “I would have burned this city to the ground. Please tell me it is not true, please tell me every word is a lie.”

Tears filled your eyes. “I never betrayed you, I love you.” you reached out to him, keeping your hands on his. Hoping to ease his pain.

His thumb traced your cheek. “I know. But they will pay.” when his eyes opened, they were filled with determination.

You knew what that meant.

Blood would stain his hands before the night ended.

You should have feared it, but you didn’t.

Because this was his way of showing you love.

Love, in a world where power meant everything and tenderness, was a rare thing.

Love, for which he was ready to murder senators.

A simple servant is all you were. Cared for him through the hardest times, but fell in love with the Emperor.

Love, for which you were ready to die. But not like this, not by his hands due to a lie.

You leaned into his touch. “And what will happen to me?”

His forehead rested against yours. “You stay.”

A promise, an order, a plea.

Your fingers tugged the fabric of his tunic. “Always.”

He let out a shaky breath of relief.

And then he kissed you.

Not in the way an Emperor should, but as a man desperate for the one thing that made him human.

And in that moment, the throne meant nothing.

There was only you.

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

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