#That was when he still RESPECTED the man!

[kiwriteswords]

could you write a hotch x reader story where reader is literally a knockout bombshell and the team meets her for the first time and both are humbled and shocked tht Hotch could pull that. Also maybe she works in different department of the FBI, but not BAU and derek and others have always talked about how hot reader is but happy id they cnt have reaader that hotch can!

The Beauty and The Boss

Masterlist || Ao3

AN: Thanks so much for the request! Sorry, it took me so long to get it written :)

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Female Reader

Word Count: 4.5k

Tags/Warnings: Mild language, fade-to-black smut scene, reader wears makeup, workplace flirting, commentary about reader's appearance by BAU, jealous!Hotch, mention of a Holiday party, mentions of a bar scene.

Sypnosis: Aaron Hotchner’s professionalism hides a secret: he’s been in a relationship with you, the stunning agent who turns every head at Quantico. While his team spends months admiring and teasing about you—unaware of the truth—Hotch quietly enjoys keeping the relationship private. But when the BAU holiday party reveals the truth, the team is left shocked, realizing the woman they’ve been swooning over is already spoken for by the man they least expected.

The Quantico breakroom buzzed with life as Derek Morgan leaned back in his chair, a grin stretching across his face. “I’m telling you, there’s not a person in this building who doesn’t turn their head when she walks by.”

Emily Prentiss smirked, crossing her arms as she perched on the edge of the counter. “Understatement of the year, Morgan. She’s practically stopped traffic in the hallways more than once.”

Penelope Garcia, seated with her tablet, chimed in. “More like a goddess descended from Mount Olympus, wielding a to-do list and a killer power suit. The woman is unreal.”

You had no idea you were the current topic of conversation as you breezed through Quantico’s corridors. Your heels clicked against the tiled floor with the kind of authority only a seasoned professional carried. Your fitted blazer hugged your form just right, the kind of attire that screamed competence but still left a trail of stunned admirers in your wake. You were a boss, and you knew it—not in an arrogant way, but in the way a woman who worked twice as hard to get half as far in a male-dominated field knew her worth.

Little did they know that, as much as they admired you from afar, you had a certain someone who saw all those layers they missed—someone who knew how you carried the weight of your team, your projects, and your life with equal parts grace and grit.

That someone was Aaron Hotchner.

Unbeknownst to the BAU, the stoic Unit Chief had been keeping a significant secret. You and Aaron had been together for over a year. Though you both worked under the same massive roof, your respective departments didn’t often overlap—an intentional boundary to keep things professional and out of sight from prying eyes.

Aaron entered the room just as Morgan’s laughter rang out. “No, but seriously, Hotch, you’ve seen her, right? You can’t tell me someone that fine doesn’t have half the men here wrapped around her finger.”

Aaron’s sharp gaze flicked to Morgan, his jaw tightening subtly. “Morgan, shouldn’t you be focusing on case files rather than office gossip?”

Morgan raised his hands in mock surrender. “I’m just saying, man, beauty like that deserves to be appreciated.”

Emily grinned. “Don’t let Strauss hear you. She’d have you running sensitivity training for a month.”

Garcia waggled her eyebrows. “Maybe Hotch is just annoyed because she’s his type. Dark hair, smart, confident—maybe there’s some unspoken pining we don’t know about.”

Aaron’s lips pressed into a firm line as he reached for a file, “Let’s keep the speculation to yourselves. We have enough on our plates without playing matchmaker.” His tone was calm but carried enough weight to signal the end of the conversation.

He didn’t let his composure falter, but inwardly, he found himself caught in a tug-of-war between amusement and annoyance. You were undeniably stunning, and he couldn’t blame his team for noticing, but their casual banter skirted dangerously close to the truth.

Later that afternoon, the sun streamed through the tall windows of the BAU bullpen, casting golden streaks across the room as you entered. Your heels echoed confidently against the polished floor, their rhythmic click commanding attention as you moved with purpose. A fitted pencil skirt emphasized the natural sway of your hips, and your blazer was tailored perfectly, hinting at the strength and grace beneath. Loose curls framed your face, falling just so, and your makeup—subtle but flawless—added to the aura of a woman who meant business.

Conversations quieted as you passed by the desks. Agents glanced up from their work, some stealing longer looks than they should have, while others leaned toward their neighbors to murmur something under their breath. You didn’t acknowledge the attention. You were used to it. Your focus remained locked ahead as you carried the neatly bound folder in your hands, its weight a mere fraction of the responsibility you carried daily.

You reached the door to Aaron Hotchner’s office just as it opened. He stepped out, his posture as straight and commanding as ever, but his sharp eyes softened for the briefest moment when they landed on you. The shift was imperceptible to anyone else, but you caught it—it was the kind of look he reserved only for you.

“Agent Y/L/N,” he greeted evenly, his voice steady but low enough that it felt personal.

“Agent Hotchner,” you replied with a nod, the professionalism in your tone betrayed by the faint twitch of a smile at the corner of your lips.

Behind you, Morgan's voice rose in a stage whisper. “And there she is…”

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes, keeping your expression neutral as you extended the folder to Aaron. “I just need your signature on these budgetary adjustments. It’s time-sensitive.”

Aaron’s brow furrowed slightly as he accepted the folder, his long fingers brushing against yours briefly. “Of course,” he said, already flipping it open to skim through the pages. “Give me a moment.”

As he turned and walked back into his office, you followed without hesitation, pushing the door closed behind you. The muted sound of the latch clicking shut seemed to signal a shift in the atmosphere. The second the door was closed, your composed expression melted into something softer, teasing.

“I heard Morgan,” you said in a low voice, a mischievous glint dancing in your eyes. You set a hand on your hip, leaning slightly as you watched him work.

Aaron’s lips curved into a subtle smirk as he scribbled his signature onto the documents. “They talk about you often,” he replied, not looking up right away. “Morgan more than most.”

You tilted your head, your brow arching playfully. “Jealous?”

Finally, he looked up, setting the pen down and stepping closer. “Observant,” he corrected, his tone dry but his gaze warm. He handed the folder back to you, and as his fingers brushed yours again, the slightest spark of electricity passed between you. “You look stunning today, by the way.”

“Today?” you teased, your voice dropping slightly as you tilted your chin. “What about yesterday?”

Aaron’s smirk deepened, the rare expression enough to make your stomach flip. “Every day,” he replied smoothly, his voice dipping into that low, velvety tone that sent a thrill through you. He stepped just close enough that you caught the faint scent of his cologne—subtle and clean, just like him.

For a moment, the space between you felt charged, but you straightened, breaking the tension with a soft laugh. “Careful, Agent Hotchner,” you said, lowering your voice conspiratorially. “Someone might notice.”

He chuckled softly, the sound rare but rich. “Let them speculate.”

The corner of your mouth twitched in amusement, but you turned on your heel, your exit as purposeful as your arrival. Behind you, Aaron watched, his expression softening again as the door clicked shut. The office suddenly felt emptier without you in it, and the faintest hint of a smile lingered on his lips.

Moments after, when you stepped out of Aaron’s office, the door closing softly behind you, you nearly collided with David Rossi. The veteran profiler stepped back gracefully, offering you a warm smile as his eyes flicked to the folder in your hands.

“Agent Y/L/N,” he greeted smoothly, the corner of his mouth quirking upward. “You’re lucky Hotch doesn’t have a ‘No Stunning Women’ policy in his office. Makes the rest of us forget what we’re working on.”

You gave a polite laugh, your smile measured but warm. “Always a pleasure, Agent Rossi. Don’t let me distract you too much.” With a nod, you stepped past him and continued down the hall, your heels clicking confidently on the polished floor.

Rossi watched you leave, shaking his head slightly before stepping into Hotch’s office, and shutting the door behind him. “You didn’t tell me your office doubled as a runway, Aaron,” Rossi quipped as he took a seat across from Hotch’s desk, still grinning.

Hotch didn’t look up from the report in front of him. “Rossi.”

“I’m just saying,” Rossi continued, leaning back in his chair. “Agent Y/L/N is quite the… presence. Can’t imagine you get much work done when she’s around.”

Hotch finally glanced up, his sharp eyes locking on Rossi with a calm but pointed look. “She’s one of the most competent agents in this building.”

Rossi raised his hands in mock surrender, the grin still on his face. “No offense, Aaron. I’m just appreciating fine talent when I see it. Professionally, of course.”

Hotch’s expression didn’t shift as he returned to his paperwork. “Make sure it stays professional, Dave.”

Rossi chuckled, standing up and adjusting his suit jacket. “Noted. I’ll leave you to your work, but for the record… you’ve got good taste.”

Hotch’s eyes flicked up for a brief moment, narrowing slightly as Rossi turned to leave. Once the door closed behind him, Aaron exhaled, his jaw relaxing as the corners of his mouth twitched faintly. You had that effect on people. Rossi wasn’t wrong about that, but Aaron wasn’t about to let anyone reduce you to just that. Not on his watch.

It wasn’t much later in the week when the low hum of conversation and clinking glasses filled the dimly lit bar as the BAU team finally unwound after wrapping a grueling case. At their usual table near the back, JJ, Penelope, and Emily leaned close together, conspiring with mischievous smiles. Derek Morgan leaned back in his chair, his beer in hand, as he glanced across the room toward you.

You were with your own team, sitting at the far end of the bar. The laughter coming from your group was infectious, and more than a few heads in the bar had turned to admire the sharp, confident woman at the center of it all. You were a vision, dressed in a fitted, dark emerald blouse that complemented your glowing skin, your hair falling perfectly into place despite the long week.

Emily nudged Derek, her grin widening. “Now’s your chance, Morgan. She’s right there, and she’s smiling. That’s basically an invitation.”

Penelope nodded eagerly, swirling her cocktail. “Seriously, Derek. You’re Mr. Smooth—to make one of your famous sweet moves. She’s gorgeous, brilliant, and, let’s face it, probably way out of your league, but you’ve got charm. Use it!”

JJ smirked, sipping her drink. “They’re not wrong. She’s definitely the type to keep you on your toes.”

Derek chuckled, shaking his head, though his gaze lingered on you for a moment. “You ladies make a good point. Pretty boy over here has been staring so hard, I think he forgot how to blink.”

Reid’s head snapped up, a faint blush spreading across his cheeks. “I haven’t been staring—I was observing!”

Penelope laughed, reaching out to pat his arm. “Sure, sweetie. Keep telling yourself that.”

Meanwhile, Aaron Hotchner sat quietly at the edge of the table, nursing his drink and doing his best to keep his expression neutral. He caught Rossi’s amused glance and ignored it, his attention drifting toward you. Across the room, your eyes flicked to his, and in that instant, the noise of the bar seemed to fade. Your lips curved into a soft, knowing smile, and Hotch’s lips twitched in response, his gaze steady but warm.

“Alright,” Derek announced, standing up and brushing imaginary dust off his shirt. “Time to show you all how it’s done.”

As he sauntered toward you, the rest of the team watched with poorly concealed anticipation. Hotch leaned back slightly, a faint smirk playing at his lips as he took another sip of his drink, clearly amused.

At the bar, Derek slid into the seat beside you, his trademark charm on full display. “Well, well, Agent Y/L/N,” he began, flashing you a dazzling smile. “A woman like you at a place like this—it’s like a shooting star landing in a parking lot. Rare. Unexpected. Stunning.”

You turned toward him, your smile warm but professional. “Agent Morgan,” you greeted. “What can I do for you?”

“Oh, I’m just wondering if I can buy you a drink. You look like someone who deserves only the finest.”

You chuckled softly, tilting your head. “That’s kind of you, but I’m good for now. Thank you, though.”

Derek raised an eyebrow, undeterred. “You sure? A woman like you turning down a Morgan Original? That doesn’t happen often.”

You smiled, leaning in slightly, your voice light but firm. “I’m flattered, Derek, really. But no, thank you.”

Derek blinked, clearly surprised but respectful, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. Can’t blame a guy for trying. You have a good night, Agent Y/L/N.”

As he returned to the table, Rossi leaned back in his chair, his grin widening. “I think I know why she turned you down.”

Derek arched a brow. “Oh, yeah? Enlighten us, wise old man.”

Rossi swirled his drink lazily. “She’s already seeing someone.”

That caught the team’s attention. JJ frowned thoughtfully. “She doesn’t wear a ring.”

Emily shrugged. “Doesn’t mean anything. Rossi’s probably right—someone like her? Definitely taken.”

Penelope gasped. “She’s got to be dating some rich CEO type. Like a Christian Grey situation—minus the creepy stuff. You know, private jets, expensive suits, maybe even his own island.”

Reid tilted his head. “Statistically, high-powered women often prefer partners who are equally accomplished, so it’s not unreasonable to assume…”

Hotch, listening quietly, couldn’t help but chuckle softly under his breath. It was rare for him to indulge in such amusement, but their wild guesses about your personal life were too far from the truth to resist.

“Something funny, Hotch?” Derek asked, narrowing his eyes playfully.

Hotch met his gaze evenly, his lips twitching. “Just enjoying the show, Morgan.”

From across the room, you glanced at him again, your eyes meeting his with a spark of shared amusement. You knew, just as he did that the truth was far more satisfying than any of their guesses.

That night, the familiar warmth of your shared apartment enveloped you as you stepped out of the bathroom, your hair still damp from the shower. The soft glow of the bedside lamp lit the room in hues of gold, casting a gentle light over Aaron as he stood at the dresser, folding his tie with precision. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, revealing strong forearms, and his expression was calm, though you could tell from the faint tension in his jaw that something was on his mind.

There was something mesmerizing about the way he moved—calm, methodical, and yet there was an intimacy in the gesture that always left your heart fluttering.

You crossed the room, barefoot, wearing one of his old FBI academy T-shirts that hung just above your thighs. It was soft and familiar, smelling faintly of him, and you loved how it made you feel wrapped in his presence.

As you climbed into bed, you leaned back against the headboard, watching him with a small smile. “You’re quiet tonight,” you teased, running a hand through your damp hair. “That’s usually my thing.”

Aaron glanced at you, his lips quirking slightly before he shook his head and continued folding. “I’m just thinking.”

“About?”

He sighed, placing the tie in the drawer before turning to face you, his arms crossing over his chest. “My team.”

You raised a brow, leaning forward slightly. “Oh? What did the BAU do this time?”

Aaron smirked faintly, shaking his head as he sat on the edge of the bed to remove his watch. “It’s not what they’ve done. It’s what they keep saying.”

You tilted your head, your curiosity piqued. “Do tell.”

He exhaled, his voice even but carrying a hint of frustration. “They don’t stop talking about you. Derek, Emily, Penelope… even Reid, apparently. It’s constant.” He turned to look at you, his dark eyes warm but serious. “I’ve been patient. I’ve let it slide because they don’t know. But I think I’ve hit my limit.”

A slow smile spread across your face as you scooted closer, resting your chin on his shoulder. “You’re jealous,” you teased, your voice light and laced with amusement. “Aaron Hotchner, stoic leader of the BAU, is jealous.”

“I’m not jealous,” he replied firmly, though the slight twitch of his lips betrayed him. “I just don’t appreciate them… ogling you.”

You chuckled softly, wrapping your arms around his waist and resting your chin against his shoulder. “You know I think it’s kind of hot when you’re jealous, right?”

He turned his head slightly to look at you, his expression softening. “I’m serious.”

“So am I,” you said with a grin, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “It’s sweet that you care so much. But you don’t have to worry, Aaron. I’m yours. Completely.”

He turned fully now, his hands coming up to rest on your knees as he looked at you with a rare softness in his eyes. “You have no idea how much I appreciate hearing that.”

You smiled, leaning in to brush your lips against his. “Good. Because it’s true.”

He kissed you back gently, one hand sliding up to cradle your cheek. When you pulled away, you saw the faintest hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

Aaron lingered close for a moment, his thumb brushing your cheek in a rare display of vulnerability before he exhaled softly and pulled back. Standing, he moved toward the dresser with the same calm, deliberate manner that always captivated you.

His hands went to the buttons of his shirt, working them loose one by one. The sound of each button sliding free seemed amplified in the quiet of your shared space. You couldn’t help but admire the way the soft light played over his features—his strong jaw, the tension in his shoulders, and the faint lines around his eyes that only made him more striking.

Aaron shrugged off his shirt, revealing the toned muscles of his chest and the scar along his side that you knew he sometimes still tried to hide. He folded the shirt with the same precision as his tie, setting it neatly aside before slipping out of his slacks and into the lounge pants he favored at night.

“Don’t stop on my account,” you teased, your voice warm and playful as your eyes lingered on him.

He glanced back at you with a small, knowing smile. “Enjoying the show?”

You grinned. “Always.”

Aaron shook his head slightly, his smirk growing as he crossed the room and slid into bed beside you. The mattress dipped under his weight, and the familiar warmth of his body radiated toward you as he leaned back against the pillows, one arm sliding around your waist to pull you close.

“You really don’t have to worry about what your team says,” you murmured, your fingers tracing absent patterns on his chest. “I only have eyes for you.”

His hand came up to cup your cheek, gently tilting your face toward his. “You’re sure about that?” he asked softly, though the faint glimmer of amusement in his eyes betrayed the question’s seriousness.

“I’m sure,” you whispered, leaning in to brush your lips against his. “You’re the only one who gets this version of me. The rest of them don’t even come close.”

Aaron deepened the kiss, his lips moving against yours with a tenderness that still sent your heart racing. His hand slid down to your hip, pulling you closer as your fingers tangled in his hair, and for a moment, the world outside your shared room ceased to exist.

The soft rustle of sheets and the low hum of your shared laughter filled the space as your words became unspoken reassurances, translated into the way he touched you, the way he held you, the way he kissed you as though you were his lifeline.

In the darkness, as the lamp flicked off and the night stretched on, you made it perfectly clear—he was yours, and you were his, completely. Always.

The annual Bureau holiday party arrived soon after and was in full swing, the large event hall buzzing with laughter and conversation as agents and staff mingled under the soft glow of festive string lights. Tables lined with food and drinks flanked the room, and a DJ played a mix of holiday classics and upbeat pop songs. The BAU team had claimed a table near the center, already deep into their drinks and holiday banter.

Derek leaned back in his chair, scanning the room with an easy grin. “Alright, I’m calling it now. This year’s party MVP? Gotta be me. I’ve got the charm, the moves, and the mistletoe strategy ready to go.”

Emily rolled her eyes, sipping her drink. “Your confidence is astounding. Let’s see how it plays out when someone turns you down again.”

Penelope chuckled, adjusting the festive reindeer antlers perched on her head. “Maybe don’t aim for anyone who’s already out of your league, like a certain Agent Y/L/N.”

“They’re never letting that one down,” Reid laughed. 

Derek smirked. “She’s not here yet, but hey, holiday parties are all about surprises. Maybe she’ll get a look and change her mind?”

JJ raised a brow. “Speaking of surprises… does anyone else feel like Hotch is acting weird lately? He’s been way too quiet during our usual teasing.” Will was at her side, with an arm wrapped over her shoulders. 

Rossi, swirling his glass of whiskey, gave a knowing smirk but said nothing.

The conversation halted abruptly as the door to the hall opened, and heads turned to see Aaron Hotchner entering with you at his side.

The two of you stepped into the room, hand in hand, your fingers loosely intertwined as Aaron scanned the crowd with his usual composed demeanor. You looked radiant in a fitted emerald dress, its sleek design effortlessly elegant, while Aaron’s sharp black suit was understated yet commanding.

The BAU table fell silent, their jaws collectively dropping.

“Is that…?” Penelope started, blinking rapidly.

“Hotch,” JJ finished, her voice barely above a whisper. Will let out a breathy laugh. 

“And Agent Y/L/N,” Emily added, looking between the two of you as if she’d seen a ghost.

Morgan leaned forward, his grin faltering. “No way.”

Hotch’s lips twitched into the faintest smile as he caught their stunned expressions. He led you toward the table with a calm confidence, his hand still firmly in yours.

“Evening, everyone,” he greeted, his tone as steady as ever.

You smiled warmly, giving a little wave with your free hand. “Hi, guys. Hope we’re not late.”

The team exchanged glances, still struggling to process what they were seeing.

Derek was the first to recover, though his grin was more sheepish than his usual swagger. “Well, damn. Hotch, you really know how to keep a secret.”

Hotch arched a brow, his hand resting protectively on your back as he pulled out a chair for you. “It’s never been a secret. Some things are worth keeping private.”

Emily leaned closer to Penelope, muttering, “Okay, I officially feel bad for every single comment I’ve ever made about her in front of him.”

Penelope nodded vigorously. “Same. Oh my gosh, same.”

JJ shook her head, laughing softly. “And Derek, all the flirting?”

Morgan held up his hands in surrender. “Hey, I didn’t know! But I’ll admit when I’m beat. Respect, Hotch. You’re a lucky man.”

Hotch’s expression softened slightly as he glanced at you. “I know.”

Rossi, still sipping his drink, chuckled. “For the record, I knew when to quit. The first time I made a comment about her, the look Hotch gave me said everything I needed to know.”

You raised a brow, your lips curving into a playful smile. “Oh? And what look was that?”

Rossi smirked. “The one that says, ‘Say one more word, and you’re not making it to retirement.’”

“Back into retirement,” Hotch corrected with an amused look. The table erupted into laughter.

Emily leaned forward, her curiosity winning out. “Alright, spill. How long has this been going on?”

You exchanged a glance with Aaron, his hand still resting lightly on your back.

“A little over a year,” you admitted, and Hotch nodded. 

“A year?” Penelope gasped. “And you managed to keep it quiet this long? I’m impressed.”

Hotch’s gaze swept over his team, his voice calm but with a subtle warmth. “We wanted to keep things professional. But we both agreed it was time.” A mischievous glint flashed in his eyes as he added, “Especially before one of you asked her out on a date next.”

The team erupted into laughter, though Derek groaned, throwing his head back. “Aw, come on, Hotch! You’re never letting me live that down, are you?”

Emily smirked, leaning back in her chair. “You really did shoot your shot, Morgan. Respect for the boldness, but hindsight? Not your best moment.”

Penelope covered her mouth with her hand, barely containing her giggles. “I’m never going to stop picturing Hotch sitting back in his office, watching that go down and just... waiting.”

JJ joined in, shaking her head with a grin. “Honestly, Derek, if looks could kill…”

Derek held up his hands in surrender, chuckling despite himself. “Alright, alright! I didn’t know, okay? And for the record, I was nothing but a gentleman.”

You leaned forward, resting your chin on your hand as you smiled at him. “You were, Derek. I thought it was sweet.”

“Sweet?” Hotch interjected, his tone laced with playful sarcasm as he glanced at you. “I’d call it… bold.”

You nudged his arm with your elbow, your smile widening. “Aaron.”

His lips twitched into a faint smirk as he looked back at the table. “But in all seriousness, I can’t blame anyone for noticing how incredible she is. I just happen to be the lucky one.”

The table quieted for a moment, the sincerity in his tone catching everyone off guard. Emily was the first to break the silence, raising her glass with a grin. “Well, here’s to the two of you. A BAU power couple if I’ve ever seen one.”

“Cheers to that,” Penelope chimed in, her eyes sparkling.

As the team raised their glasses once more, you glanced at Aaron, your fingers brushing his under the table. His quiet smile and the gentle squeeze of your hand told you everything you needed to know. You were his, and he was yours, and no amount of teasing or surprise from his team could change that.

Tag List:

@zaddyhotch

@estragos

@todorokishoe24

@looking1016

@khxna

@rousethemouse

@averyhotchner

@reidfile

@bernelflo

@lover-of-books-and-tea

@frickin-bats

@sleepysongbirdsings

@justyourusualash

[lovebugism]

✶ ┄ HOLY GRAIL !

summary: in ancient rome, where survival is determined by the whims of a mad ruler, the empire's beloved general gives you – his first and only love – to the crazed emperor to ensure your safety. (6k)

pairing: marcus acacius / fem!reader, emperor geta / fem!reader

contents: established relationship, strangers to lovers, angst, hurt/comfort cw for mentions of war and violence, mentions of sex work, swearing, smut 18+ (dubcon, m receiving oral, unprotected sex, cuckholding, exhibitionism) (this is a pretty dark fic so pls heed the warnings!!!)

Marcus Acacius was the name on the lips of a thousand fallen empires. His ledger ran a deep scarlet color, which dripped like proof from his sword. The war had destroyed the General over the years — had turned the man into an empty thing filled only by untamable ghosts. The relentless battle had wrung his boyhood from his body like a slow, merciless death. Any remaining innocence has since been replaced with violence.

Rome made a legacy of his grotesque evils, turned him into a saint. Marcus Acacius did not want to be a saint. He did not want to be angry; he did not want to be cruel. He only wanted to love and to be left alone with his tenderness. His mouth filled with blood instead.

You loved him like all doomed, grotesque things are meant to be loved. In the dark. In the shadows of war. In the depths of the soul.

“This is me,” he confesses, the great General Acacius, returning to you like a ghost to its haunt. “This is who I am.”

His golden armor is sullied from a victorious battle, tainted now with blotches of soil and dried blood that’s not his own. His dirtied, unholy fists tremble at his sides as he fights the urge to cross the threshold of your quarters to meet you. Marcus knows he doesn’t deserve to be held by you now. Not when he still wreaks of death.

He can still feel the breath of a fist on his bruised cheek, but the way his sword felt plunging through the beating heart of an enemy soldier plagues him most of all. 

“Love turned on me long ago— It is not a burden I compel you to carry.”

So, please, do not love me, he doesn’t say. I only know how to destroy you.

You smile at him, eyes soft with sympathy, and cross the threshold of longing with an admirable effortlessness. You cradle his weathered, war-torn face in your palms, willingly staining your delicate hands with the blood stained there.

“I love you despite. So I imagine I’ll carry it anyway,” you coo to him, gentle eyes locked firmly with his heavy ones. “And I’m certain you love me in return, regardless of what you think the siege has made of you.”

“There is naught I can do about it,” Marcus admits, words heavy with choked-back emotion. He melts into your touch but continues to deny himself the want to hold you back. “Not while I still oversee this campaign. Not while there is a war to be won—”

“We love each other, don’t we?” you interject, pleading eyes searching for emotion behind his dark, stoic gaze. Marcus swallows hard. His scruffy chin scrapes your palm as he nods once in response. You grin and say the unforgiving truth out loud. “So fuck the war.”

You pull him down by his face to press a kiss to his unclean lips. Marcus rests his shaking hands over your waist and lets you build cathedrals in his mouth with your tongue. The blood in his teeth turns to holy water. 

Marcus long understood that bringing you to the city would be his last act of love.

Keeping you in the heart of Rome was the only way he could ensure your safety, with the surrounding towns still under merciless siege. The people there were docile, and loyal most of all to the General who had won them a thousand wars. They would not hurt you because it was not in their kind too, and because they feared General Acacius’ wrath as much as they respected his mercy.

This was known to everyone in Rome except its Emperors.

Geta and Caracalla ruled together following their father’s untimely demise but shared not a brain between them. They were boys, after all, the oldest being hardly two-and-twenty –– it was in their nature to talk more than they listened, and to pretend as if they knew the world despite never leaving the city walls. 

They were as cruel and as stupid as anyone who wished to rule an empire would be.

But the two of them relied heavily on their General to keep the restless public at ease. It made it easier for Marcus to bring you with him, knowing he had the trust of the most powerful men in Rome. He knew Geta kept meticulous care of his most precious gifts — all Marcus had to do was get you there, really, and the Emperors would do the rest for him. 

It was simple, but it was not easy; though he imagines no war ever has been or would be. Both of you had survived, yes, but neither of you had been spared. Bringing you here was a testament to that, which you seemingly could not comprehend. You were as soft and green as the countryside he plucked you from, too naive for politics.

Marcus tells himself that this was the merciful decision, anyway, as he gives you a tour of Caracalla’s labyrinthine gardens — the place farthest from the feasting hall where the noblemen dined. Hidden behind climbing leaves, free from prying eyes.

“I can’t imagine why you would be so apprehensive in bringing me here. It’s beautiful,” you marvel aloud as you walk ahead of the man guiding you. 

Your sandals pad faintly along the cobbled trail as you skim your palm over the bed of blooming roses. The petals feel like silk against your skin. You pluck one from the soil, careful to avoid its thorns, and hold it up to your nose. You turn to face Marcus with the crimson flower resting on your cupid’s bow.

“And it smells better, too,” you quip softly, tilting your head to your shoulder as you smirk behind the budding rose.

Marcus just barely manages to bite back his own grin until you reach out for him, tapping the delicate flower against the bridge of his strong nose. He exhales hard through his nostrils in place of a laugh.

Your giggling comes carried on the breath of a warm summer breeze — a symphony of salty ocean, dainty florals, and the pretty oils you’d bathed in. The wind billows through your thin, white gown and creates music with rustling leaves. You squint one eye when the setting sun peeks through the swishing tree limbs, bathing you in a golden-hour aura. 

You’re as beautiful as sin. Sweeter than death. Smiling at him like this is the beginning of something that died the moment you entered the city walls.

Marcus clears throat and gently guides your hand away. His cautious eyes flit around the vacant garden. He’s constantly looking over his shoulder, you find, despite being the strongest man in all of Rome. You feel safest at his side, so you don’t know why he always looks so frightened.

“I know you are drunk on youth and immortality, petal, but we cannot get ahead of ourselves,” he advises, all stiff and stern, though the term of endearment spills effortlessly from his mouth. “We’re in the city now. So we must play the part. Like we discussed.”

He speaks to you with an unintentional sort of vagueness that makes you bow your head like a scolded child. Your arm falls limp at your side. A scarlet petal slips from its stem and hits the unforgiving stone.

“I know,” you murmur with a poorly hidden frown that conveys otherwise. Your sheepish gaze flits from the ground to Marcus’ unwavering stare and to the ground again. “I just thought— whenever we were alone, that we might—”

“We aren’t alone. We must behave as though the city is full of eyes. Understand?”

“I can’t,” you confess, peering up at the General from beneath your lashes. 

Marcus’ chest stings, like the fiery sun blazing his newly-fashioned armor. “What do you mean you can’t?” he bites emotionlessly.

He looks like a corrupt sort of angel in this light, unnaturally handsome and hopelessly wartorn. He was as hard as the earth below your feet — a statue made of clay, iron, and marble — cold to the touch and melting only for you. 

His heavy eyes were so brown they looked almost black, and they shone with a perpetual sort of gloom. His gaze swam with the prophetic darkness of a man who’s seen too much, though you often felt like you could drown in its void. For a man so adept at killing, he looked at you with a remarkable softness.

It wasn’t as shallow as physical desire. It was something far more cruel. You wanted Marcus Acacius the same way flesh wanted to knit itself together over a healing wound. It was simply in your nature to love him. 

“I mean, it’s impossible,” you ramble with a concerned furrow to your brow. Your grip on the flower’s papery stem tightens until the bulb rattles with the force. “How am I to be here with you but not touch you? That’s like asking the seasons not to change— It’s unnatural, and it’s cruel—”

Marcus swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. His hands begin to ache with the urge to touch you. He balls them into fists instead.

“It’s the only way I know to keep you safe!” he confesses, words sounding heavy in his mouth. His eyes flit across the garden in a paranoid search of something that isn’t there. “Emperor Geta will take care of you. I know he will. And his brother is a half-wit, but he is kind when he wishes. He’ll take a liking to you, I’m sure of it—”

You interject his anxious rambling with a stubborn shake of your head.

“I can’t be someone else’s,” you murmur, voice as wet as the tears glittering in your wide-eyed gaze. “I don’t know how.”

“You will learn,” Marcus tells you with an emotionless stare. Not because he’s sure you will, but because he knows you have to. “For me.”

Your pretty features swirl with anguish. “Marcus…” you whisper his name in a feeble whimper caught in your throat.

He does not soften at your emotion like you’re used to. He’s practiced apathy for so long that it comes naturally to him now. He bites his tongue to keep from kissing you and lets the blood stain his teeth all over again.

“If not for your own sake, then for mine. The Emperors would have my head if they understood the pretenses I brought you under.”

You flinch at his words, perhaps finally understanding the weight of the unforgiving world in which you live. The surest example of such cruelty stands before you now, in the only man you ever loved now using your purest devotion as a means to keep you pliant. But your anger for the merciless arrangement is long eclipsed by your yearning.

“Then I will,” you tell him, rigid with a glacial disposition Marcus hasn’t seen before now.

The choices here were few. Either you were slaughtered outside the city walls by soldiers and pillagers, or you were slaughtered within them — in the metaphorical sense that burns physically in your chest now. 

Being without Marcus feels like a fate worse than death, but you want him so desperately to live. So much so that you’ll fall on the sword of your longing and bleed out at his feet. Knowing that you’re under the same sky would have to be enough for you. 

You can’t tell which it is — sacrifice or self-slaughter — but Marcus knows it isn’t as poetic as all that. 

Death is death.

Emperor Geta staggers drunkenly down the spiral stone steps of the west wing of his castle. The path to his chambers is illuminated by several dwindling torches hung along the brick walls. The subtle squeaking of his leather sandals sounds much louder in the quiet — filled only by crackling flames, a distant dripping noise, and the song he slurs under his breath. 

The latter ceases suddenly when he stumbles to a stop at the sight of General Acacius. The man stands like a statue outside his bedroom door — arms crossed behind his back, old spine perfectly straight — like the obedient guard dog he is. 

The thought makes the Emperor’s lips curl into a crooked smile. “What are you doing here, dog?” he calls to the General as he approaches him, voice echoing down the soulless corridor.

“Your nameday present, your majesty—” Marcus answers and tries not to make a face when the Emperor stands before him. The bittersweet scent of wine stains his breath, overwhelmingly so. Geta was never one to practice temperance. “—I was told to see that you got it.”

The younger man hesitates. “From my uncle?” he wonders aloud.

Marcus nods wordlessly in response.

Geta pauses for a moment. His wide, glassy eyes flit over the General’s shoulder to the arched doorway behind him. His stomach swirls at the thought of what may lie inside. The last nameday present his uncle sent from overseas was a monkey his younger brother has grown much too attached to.

“Well… What is it?”

Marcus swallows hard and steps aside. “Look inside, your majesty.”

Geta takes a deep breath in and swings the creaking door open. His bedroom is lush with crimson silk and golden candlelight, familiarly fragranced with cinnamon and sweet myrrh. It’s accompanied by something foreignly floral, a feminine rosy-lavender that catches his attention before his eyes ever find you.

He steps through the threshold and finds a strange girl standing by the window, before a platter of fruit and wine — bathed half in the silver beams of a full moon, and half in flickering orange flames. 

White silk adorns your frame, so delicate it’s nearly see-through. One of your shoulders is mouthwateringly bare, and there’s a slit in the fabric that rises to your hip. You look as pure as a dove, though you’re so obviously built for sin.

The ground sways beneath Geta’s unsteady feet.

You crunch audibly into an apple before you realize anyone’s there. The juice runs down your chin before you swipe it away with the back of your hand. Only then do your eyes lock with the Emperor’s, who seems equally stunned to see you there. You tense and say nothing as you hide the bitten fruit behind your back.

“It’s a woman,” Geta observes to no one in particular, though his dark eyes have not yet wavered from yours.

Marcus stands behind him and nods — hands still clasped behind his back, heart still pounding against his ribcage. “Yes, your majesty. In plain terms.”

“Well,” the Emperor glances over his shoulder. “What does she do?”

“Whatever you want,” the General answers, though the words taste like vinegar on his tongue. He swallows the bitterness down like bile and leers at you, looking upon his lover as though she were a stranger. “You need only ask.”

Geta, satisfied by his answer, turns back to you. His initial surprise has ebbed into something more pleased, diabolically so. His pink lips curl into a sneer as he walks slowly towards you, eyeing you up and down with curious eyes — a predator stalking its prey.

“Is that true?” he asks you, voice ringing through the quiet room. “Or is he confusing you for a dutiful hound?”

“A dutiful whore, your majesty,” you correct with an acquiescent smile, following the story as Marcus intended. 

The half-truth comes easily to you. Not a lie exactly, but not the whole tale either. You’d spent many of your years working in a brothel on the outskirts of Rome. You were a young woman, unmarried, without family or viable prospects — whoring seemed the most obvious decision then, though it feels so long ago now. 

You’d waited your whole life for something, for Marcus, though you hadn’t expected it to kill you when you found it. You won’t die a saint if the crazed Emperor decides to take your head, but perhaps you could be a martyr. Perhaps that’ll be enough.

Fear beats through your body like a second heart, but your eyes never waver from the Emperor’s. It’s easiest to meet his gaze. He feels more like a human that way. 

There are flecks of gold in his dark eyes, and dark strands in his gold hair. He’s got stubble on his long neck, spots on his broad nose, and wrinkles on his forehead. Not quite as perfect as the pristine white-gold armor would let on.

His eyes flit down your form once more. Something sparks in the deep brown of them, a flicker of silent realization. He spins suddenly on the heel of his sandal to flash Marcus an accusatory glare.

“Is she your whore, General?” he lilts into the heavy silence. His brows raise when he receives no answer from the man across the room. “The question was not rhetorical, Acacius.”

“No, your majesty. She is not mine,” Marcus answers, then clears his throat when the words get stuck there. It’s like he’s plunging a knife through his own heart. He can feel the cold sting of the sharpened blade and the burn of the blood on his skin. “Though, I don’t believe whores belong to anyone.”

A boyish chuckle spills from the Emperor’s mouth. “No. They don’t,” he says with an airy giddiness. “Not before now, anyway—”

Geta spins back again, pleated skirt fanning around his pale thighs. His smile fades with an eerie swiftness. “What are you waiting for? Undress,” he commands with a wave of his ringed hand.

Your wide eyes flit instinctively past him to Marcus, who still idles in the doorway. Only then does he realize how long he’s been staring at you. He forces himself to glance off in another direction, but his gaze keeps finding yours — like a magnet, or a planet with its own gravitational pull.

Your eyes lock, and the only thing you hear is each other, though neither of you has spoken a word. This is the only way, you hear his voice in your head as clearly as your own. This is the only way to stay together. The only way to survive.

Geta mistakes your fear.

“Don’t worry about him, little dove,” he coos, and taps the bottom of your chin with his fingers — as soft and petaled as your own. He smiles when your attention turns to him again, speaking loud enough for the General to hear. “He’s only the guard dog. And good boys get scraps, don’t they, Acacius?”

Marcus’ face screws like he’s tasted something sour. He’s grateful the Emperor isn’t looking at him to see it. “They do, your majesty,” he monotones.

“So you will watch. And report to my uncle how his lovely present fared,” he calls to the older man, though his eyes remain locked with yours. You tense when his pale hand reaches suddenly for your face. He holds your cheeks in his fingers until your lips jut in a soft pout. “Let’s hope I don’t have to send him back your head, little dove.”

He says it with an absentminded effortlessness, as though it’s something he’s done before. 

Still, you manage a small smile and blink up at him with innocent eyes. “What good is a dead whore, your majesty?” you quip.

Geta’s grin widens.  “Precisely. Now undress.”

You reach for the singular sleeve of your slip with trembling fingers. Your right hand sweeps across your left shoulder, skin blazing with fear and anticipation. The fabric trails down down down your arm before falling to your feet in a puddle of milky white silk. Your bare body glows silver and gold between moonlight and flame. 

Goosebumps pebble over your skin despite the humid summer night as Geta circles you like prey. His eyes trail slowly down your form in time with his rhythmic steps. The sound of his sandals scrapping the stone floor, crackling candlelight, and subdued breathing are the only sounds in the quiet room for several long moments.

The Emperor disappears behind you, and you forget how to breathe. Your wide, wet eyes find Marcus once more — pleading, though for what, you cannot say. His face reveals nothing but wrath burns in his gaze.

Geta reappears at your right side. You smell grape wine on his breath when he nears you, breathing heavily through his mouth as he reaches out to touch you. His ringed hands smooth over your collarbone. Your breath catches in your throat. He smiles as though your fright pleases him.

“You’re skittish for a whore,” he muses, playful in a way that makes your stomach wrench. “Are you sure the General didn’t bring me a virgin?”

You swallow hard as his hand trails down your body. Over the swell of your breast, skimming his thumb over your taut nipple, before tracing the expanse of your ribs. His fingers run down your stomach and past the thatch of hair between your legs. They dip finally between your thighs. 

Geta hums a faint moan at the velvet feeling of your pussy. The way your lips part for his fingers, silky skin warm and wet to the touch. 

“I’m whatever you want me to be, your majesty,” you answer, breathing hard through your nose when he pulls his hand away — a warmth you find yourself begrudgingly grieving.

“I need only ask…” the Emperor coos, running his middle and pointer finger over your bottom lip. They shine with the honey you leak despite yourself. Your mouth parts, and he rests the pads of them on your tongue. “…Do I not?”

You nod wordlessly through the salty fingers in your mouth, trying to imagine their Marcus’.

Geta smiles when he parts from you. “Undress me,” he demands. 

You work at his tricky armor with nervous hands and bated breath. 

You unclasp his cape first. The white fabric, now free from its chain, falls heavily to the floor behind him. Your fingers have gone noticeably clammy as they struggle with the sleeves of his tunic. It takes you a beat too long to loosen the laces at his shoulders. The cloth falls finally and puddles around his feet, leaving his lean body on display before you.

His torso is lean and mostly hairless, save for splotches of chestnut on his sternum and stomach. His skin is smooth and flushed from the alcohol. His stomach is slim but noticeably full. The Emperor is well-taken care of, though his subjects outside the keep suffer from the consequences of war.

Your trembling fingers curl around the hem of his loincloth. His pale skin is warm to the touch, boiling with desire while you freeze over with fear. You crouch before him as you drag the garment down his scruffy thighs. You hear Geta sigh above you when his half-hard cock meets the cool summer night air. 

He’s paler there compared to the rest of his golden body, though the mushroom tip glows a faint strawberry-red color. A vein trails in jagged lines to the base of his heavy cock, fading as it reaches the thatch of dark blonde hair at his pubic bone. He’s not nearly as thick as Marcus, though not many people could hope to be — but he is long and thin and soft like velvet.

“How do I look?” Geta wonders as he steps out of his loincloth. He tilts his chin to his chest to peer down at you, on your knees to untie the intricate laces of his sandals. You blink up at him with wide, uncertain eyes. “Without my armor,” he adds, then repeats. “How do I look?”

You realize, then, that he wants your praise. Though you’re unsure why, you’re not in any position to deny him of it. “You’re a— a very handsome man, your majesty,” you respond cautiously, with a wavering smile.

You hear his breath catch at the compliment. The corner of his mouth flickers upward, and his nostril flares as he takes a deep breath in. 

“Well, go on, then,” he insists suddenly, nodding his head to egg you onward. “Good whores don’t keep their masters waiting, do they? You don’t want to see me impatient, little dove.”

You wrap his stiff cock in a tentative fist, averting your gaze as you give an experimental kitten lick to the bulbous, strawberry tip. Your tongue swipes away the pearlescent pre-cum beading there. The salty tang is foreign on your tongue, sweeter and thicker than you’re used to.

You imagine your lover when you take the Emperor’s cock in your mouth. A practiced form of dissociation that comes naturally to you now. 

You focus on the way the stone floor digs into your knees as you cup his balls in your hand — a desperate attempt to finish him quickly. Geta shudders when you swallow him whole, burying your nose in the coarse thatch of hair at the base of his cock. His head tips back as he groans at the ceiling.

“You are a proper whore…” the Emperor moans with a delirious smile. He tilts his flushed cheek to his freckled shoulder to sneer at Marcus, then frowns when his eyes meet the back of him. “Are you distracted, General?”

The man keeps his back turned and his eyes trained on the wall, counting the bricks there to distract his racing mind. His mouth snarls at the Emperor’s words. His hands ball into fists as he fights to keep his composure.

“Just giving you your privacy, your majesty.”

“Nonsense!” Geta laughs, loud. “You should watch! You should observe— so you know what to tell my uncle.”

Marcus can hear the mischievous lilt in the younger boy’s voice. Like it’s all just a game to him. Like you’re just a whore to be played with, and like Marcus’ only hope of companionship is warfare. Both might’ve been true once, but not since you find each other.

The general smacks his lips against his teeth. “As you wish,” he deadpans and spins on the heel of his sandal.

He’s strangely grateful to find the Emperor’s body obscuring your own. Geta’s lean, pale form towers over your kneeling one — back muscles flexing, hips thrusting, fingers knitting in your hair.

But Marcus can still hear the sounds of your mouth on the other man’s cock. The room fills with heavy breathing, wet noises, and the Emperor’s unabashed whines. Embers of envy burn in the General’s empty chest. A wildfire of want and wrath rages behind his ribcage.

You swallow with Geta’s cock in your throat and squeeze softly at his balls. You hear his breath hitch just before a lengthy moan spills from his parted mouth. Several loads of salty cum spit down your throat a second later. The man shows you little mercy as he holds you by your hair, keeping your nose pressed to his pubic bone. You take shallow breaths through your nose and try not to choke.

You pull off of him when he lets you go. A string of saliva threatens to keep you connected. You take a deep breath in and swipe at your swollen mouth with the back of your hand, staying on your knees while the Emperor tilts his head back. He exhales a breathy laugh of relief at the ceiling. You peer up at him with wide, wet eyes, still so uncertain of your fate.

“Proper whore, indeed,” Geta muses, almost to himself, as he drops his heavy head once more. 

His flushed chest sparkles with a foreign feeling at the sight of you beneath him — eyes teary and fearful, lips swollen and rosy, features flushed with sweat and sex. His cock jerks, still sensitive but threatening to harden again. He grips himself with a loose fist.

“On the bed,” he instructs suddenly, then grins madly at your shock. “You didn’t think I was done with you, surely. Not until I mount you like a mare, anyway— Treat you like the bitch in heat you are…”

Geta cups your warm cheek in his free hand. His touch is strangely gentle as he cradles you there, right before he smacks gently at your jaw to urge you upward. 

Your bare feet pad towards the bed, then. Geta swats your ass as you go and laughs when you squeak in response. You fight the urge to look at Marcus, lest you see the rage burning in his eyes — lest he see the heartbreak swimming in yours. 

Marcus watches you crawl over the silken sheets, both of you sporting similar far-off gazes. He feels a bit like a ghost now. An empty, invisible thing, doomed to watch the rest of the world go on without ever being able to live in it. It’s dreadfully symbolic of how he’s lived most of his life, and how he’s spent the years loving you. Because even if a ghost is full of love, the only thing it knows to do is haunt.

The silk pillow feels cool under your burning cheek. The mattress dips under the Emperor’s weight when he kneels behind you. His ringed fingers smooth over your ass and down the arch of your back. He treats you with an uncharacteristic sort of tenderness, as though he were molding you out of clay.

“You are a pretty thing, aren’t you?” he whispers under his breath. “And timid, too… I like that…” 

Your pussy clenches at his words despite yourself. Geta’s chest swells with pride accordingly. “You don’t have to be scared, little dove. I’m going to take such good care of you.”

Despite his words, he does not bother to ready you for his cock when he positions himself at your pulsing entrance. You hadn’t expected him to, of course — not many men were as kind as Marcus in that way, who often treated your pleasure as if it were his own. But the slick sticking to your thighs has made your pussy more than pliant. Your velvet walls swallow Geta’s cock with a pulsing vigor.

The Emperor groans as he fucks into you, savoring every inch as he buries himself to the hilt. His ringed fingers dig into the plush of your waist, as though you were a toy he didn’t want getting snatched away.

“Look at the hound!” Geta giggles boyishly to himself. “He’s itching for a feel of you— I just know it.”

Marcus remains as still and stoic as the battalion trained him to be. He reveals nothing on his face, though his skin prickles with flames of envy beneath his armor. 

Marcus Acacius was not a jealous man. His love for you was a testament to that. He visited the brothel you boarded in and spared the same coins as every man in the establishment did. But it was different now. Because the Emperor does not deserve you, and he forces Marcus to watch as if he knows it, too.

Something within him seethes, like a feral animal trapped behind his ribcage, desperately clawing its way out.

“Look at him,” Geta snaps when he sees you staring at the wall, eyes glassy and glazed over. He’s grinning all over again when your gaze snaps to Marcus’. 

The soldier’s weathered eyes burn with tears then. General Acacius has faced death a thousand times over, but it wasn’t quite as heartwrenching as this. His wrath simmers to a boil. He swallows it down like fire.

This is her salvation, he tells himself. This is how she survives.

Your features twist with the anguish of being seen as the Emperor lays himself over your back. His slick chest sits flush with your spine, pinning you to the mattress. “I bet he can taste you now. Smell you,” he murmurs in your ear, chapped mouth brushing the shell of it. “His mouth is salivating at the thought of putting his tongue on you— Isn’t it, dog?”

Marcus swallows through the emotion threatening to strangle him. He blinks away stinging tears and feigns an air of nonchalance. “It would be… impolite to talk so brashly about something that doesn’t belong to me, your majesty,” the General responds. Obedient. Loyal like a hound.

Geta grins wide. “Good answer, Acacius.”

When the Emperor finally fucks into you, it’s with a sloppy sort of precision. There is no rhythm or care to his thrusts. He is led only by his blinding pleasure, like a man who has only ever fucked playthings and his own fist. He props himself on one forearm and curls the other beneath you, holding your breast in his ringed hand.

Geta’s flushed cheek presses against your own while he slides in and out and into you again. You hear his groaning as you feel it rumbling in his chest, still laid against your back. You stare at a framed portrait on the wall across the room and wait for it to be over, even as your body refuses to dismiss its simmering orgasm.

Your swollen clit ruts against the silk sheets with each of the Emperor’s sloppy thrusts. You can feel a wet spot forming beneath you, and your stomach twists at the thought of seeing proof of your own pleasure. 

His balls smack your leaking cunt, creating a symphony of lewd noises — moaning, whimpering, clapping, smacking. Marcus thinks the sounds of war were more merciful than this.

“Do you understand what that means, little dove?” Geta croons into your ear, words choppy through his labored breaths and irregular thrusts. “You belong— to me now… So whatever you used to be— whoever’s you used to be— no longer matters.”

He thrusts once, hard, and shudders above you with a choked-back groan. You grit your teeth to swallow down your own noises of pleasure. The assault on your clit, though unintentional, is still yet relentless. You feel the distant white-hot burning feeling begin to swell in the pit of your stomach. A coil about to snap.

“Fucking me— Making me feel good—” the Emperor pants, punctuated by his hips against your ass. “—Is your only duty now. Understand?”

You nod, cheek running over the silk cushion as you grip it in your fists. “Yes, your majesty,” you gasp.

Geta presses his smile to the apple of your cheek. He can feel you leaking around him. You’re enjoying this just as much as he is, to be sure. A proper whore, indeed.

“Now… Take my spend like a good bitch, and thank me for it—”

He fucks you harder, and your face twists with a pleasure you’re too weak to fight away. 

Your gaze falls instinctively to Marcus as your orgasm threatens to swallow you whole. Your eyes squeeze shut in a feeble attempt to hide. Your mouth parts with a silent moan as you cum around the Emperor’s cock.

“Thank you, your majesty,” you whimper obediently into the pillow as you tremble beneath him. “Thank you.”

Geta buries a whine in your neck when he cums again. He gives you only two pitiful, warm loads but still possesses more stamina than your Marcus. He stills, then shudders, then rests his unforgiving bodyweight on top of you when pleasure makes a puddle of him. And of you, you assume, as a mixture of your spend leaks out of your cunt and onto the sheets.

“Write to my uncle, Acacius—” Geta slurs into your skin, heavy through labored pants. “—A thank you for my nameday present.”

Marcus forgets, until then, that he can still be seen. He felt more akin to a corpse hidden in the walls, forced to spend his afterlife in a merciless purgatory. His heart has stopped beating, frozen over, and now sits dead in his chest. He will never be as gentle as he was with you. He will be bloodied knuckles and pulsing wounds. Rough and cruel and angry.

“Yes, your majesty,” the General nods, thankful that it’s over now.

Geta rolls off of your body and onto the empty spot beside you — not shy about his nude form or yours. The sudden lack of warmth makes you shiver. 

“And tell him to send another— To keep the General’s bed warm, too,” he says, patting your ass with his palm before smoothing tenderly over the skin. “One whore’s as good as any other, I’m sure.”

Marcus flinches at the thought of being with anyone other than you. He couldn’t hide the look of disgust if he tried. It makes the Emperor laugh loudly in response.

“Oh, did you— Did you want to try this one?” Geta muses knowingly, pointing to your limp body, still trembling beside him with the aftershocks of your orgasm.

“No. No, no, no— See, this one’s mine,” he corrects the General as if he were a child. “And it would be impolite to touch something that belongs to me, would it not? It would be treasonous, even.”

“Yes, your majesty,” Marcus nods, lip flickering in a mere hint of a smirk as his plan finally comes to fruition. “It would be.”

The Emperor sees you now as his property, and no one hurts what belongs to him without meeting a certain death. Marcus is comforted only by the thought that nothing can touch you now. Not even him. But perhaps that’s the price he pays for love. Perhaps, in the end, love is grief.

“So best tread lightly, Acacius,” Geta warns with a crooked smile, petting you like a dog. “I’d hate for someone to get hurt.”

[machveil]

I’ve been cursed by visions of König so I'll write them for you🎀✨

CW: fleshlight (it’s not specifically said in the fic, but you know the ones that are, like, basically a torso and the upper thighs? that’s the vision), masturbation, heavy pinning, size difference, fingering and oral (toy!receiving), overstimulation, nasty man /affectionate

König presents himself as someone who demands respect, a Colonel, a man who gets his hands dirty and towers over others. it’s his job, his height and build doing nothing to ease fellow soldiers - intimidating, he could snap someone in half like a toothpick if he really wanted to. cold, pale eyes that strike fear into others. maybe that’s why you make him freeze up, unperturbed by his stature and rank. you wave when you see him, smile when you talk to him. he knows you respect him, but outwardly you treat him like an old friend. Horangi’s no better, but he doesn’t fully relax around König til they’re off duty, unlike you

it eats at him, he doesn’t look into ‘why’ for months, how you freely touch him absentmindedly, how you make his chest tighten up. he doesn’t understand why his heart sinks when you talk to others, he doesn’t understand why his stomach twists when you talk to him. you’re a teammate, a colleague he trusts, it’s natural for his mind to wander to you. he thinks about Horangi when he passes bars, thinks about how he’d wage bets on whatever game is playing on the dingy screen tucked between liquor shelves. he thinks about Nikto when a stray cat dips into an alley, scruffy and tough like his friend. he thinks about you while thrusting into a stupid fleshlight, gripping it a little too hard as a mixture of his pre and lube drools out of the toy

legs jerking a little when he sinks his cock fully into it, stilling as he breathes heavily. it’s comically small in his hands, eyes glued to where it envelopes him. would you look small like this? he knows you’d be better, bites his lip as he rolls his hips. you’d be warm, searing him from the inside out, comfortable in his hold. eyes fluttering shut, he can barely keep himself together, embarrassment creeping up his throat when he cums after a couple thrusts. he barely has to imagine you before spilling into the toy, moaning through the overestimation as he keeps bucking his hips. he barely got to make you feel good, so he tries again, a lewd mixture of thick white slick making a ring around his cock. he wouldn’t want to leave you unsatisfied, he knows he can do it

the whine that escapes him when he slips out the toy is pitiful, a sob leaving him as he slips two fingers into the fleshlight. he can do it, he promises he can make you cum— brain turning to mush as pumps them, quick movements that coat his hand. you’d make pretty nosies for him, for now he’ll settle for the squelching of lube and cum, frantically working the little hole. would you squeeze around him? he wishes this damn thing could, mind hazy as he sobs out a choked groan. would his fingers not be enough? the thought makes him anxious, suddenly pulling his fingers out. he can eat you out, readjusting himself to lay down, one hand working himself to another orgasm while his other holds the toy. he doesn’t care about his chin and nose getting wet, dumbly mouthing at the fleshlight

he doesn’t mind the mix of lube, cum, and spit, he figures it wouldn’t be different than how he’d treat you. soft murmured praise leaving him for being so good, crooked nose bumping against the toy. you’d tug at his hair, wouldn’t you? watch him lick and suck and worship your body? he can imagine it, feel the phantom touch of your legs over his shoulders, hand sloppily jacking himself off. would you keep up with him? let him manhandle you in bed, toy with you and make you cry out? suddenly he’s tensing up, hips jerking helplessly as he ruins his bedsheets, feet digging into the mattress as he gasps against his toy— against you. it’s normal to think about you, isn’t it? how he imagines you shushing him, petting his hair as buries his face between your thighs, soft little breaths leaving him

he was good, wasn’t he?

[connorsjorts]

Okay yeah I’ve officially decided this is Mallverse Connor drunk at the Christmas Market

“See this man? This is my boyfriend, his name is Santa, and he FUCKS. You think he’s gonna give you a platinum mine when you won’t even let him plow your driveway? Show him some RESPECT”

Hank, gently taking the Tinsel Twinquila out of Connor’s hands, “I think we’ve had enough of this”

“You want those Canucks tix? Send him your DICK PICS”

Placing a hand on Connor’s back to urge him away from the poor bewildered singer, “Alright, security’s coming, time to go”

“Fuck a Rolex, mine bought me a 🎶RIIIIIIIIIIING🎶”

Thumbing the engagement ring still in his pocket, “How did he know that?”

Meanwhile North is in the background eating kettle corn like, “this is the funniest day of my life”

[ir-abelas-vhenan]

Don't mind me, just revisiting the plot (again) and dying over this line (again). (These screenshots are going to be abysmal, but you'll get the point).

"To stop now would dishonor those I have wronged to come this far."

Yeah he's talking about Mythal (earned or not) and Felassan and Lavellan and Varric...but the way it applies to HIM, too, is what absolutely guts me.

Long post ahead...

Solas realizing that Lavellan doesn't care about how others see him or want to use him under the inquisiton, that HIS motivations as he has shared them are enough for her and worth defending against those who would tell him he's something he isn't. Solas, for the first time, being confronted with the realization that one these new elves he does not see himself in will still go to bat for him.

"You came here to help, Solas, I won't let them use that against you."

(Is he duplicitous? Yes. But intent on working against Corypheus? Undoubtedly).

“How would you stop them?”

“However I had to.”

“...thank you.”

Solas grappling with the fact that it wasn't just a one off, that this Dalish woman being faced with "hypotheticals" he's desperately been trying to get her people to entertain is jumping in head first, pushing back and disagreeing with him but never treating him worse for their differences and always admitting when he's helped shape a changing perspective. Solas daring to ask for help and marveling at the fact that he receives it, that the same woman who asked if it might some day be possible to live alongside spirits, who did not immediately shoot down his critique of THE CHANTRY REFUSING TO ACKNOWLEDGE SPIRITS AS LEGITIMATE BEINGS (GAH), who did not laugh at him for saying he preferred their company most days, this woman, is going to drop time and resources during war time preparations to personally help his friend.

And then, when he is too late and has once again failed someone he considers a friend, he disappears within himself, where he has always gone to exact punishment for the weight of the lives he believes he's betrayed. It almost works, too.

Psych. Lavellan doesn't want him to grieve alone, to stare at the place in the Fade where his friend used to be and think of all he should have done differently.

“The next time you have to mourn, you don’t need to be alone.”

“It’s been so long since I could trust someone.”

“I know.”

“I’ll work on it. And thank you.”

And still she unbalances him, accepts him, wants more. Solas is sharing a personality that brings him the closest he has ever been to his spirit form, and it is ENOUGH for her. Existing as he has always dreamt of is all takes to earn her loyalty, respect, and eventually love.

But does she stop there? No. She doesn't chafe at this random apostate who speaks with certainty and unapologetically delves into a past he believes worth preserving, even at the cost of questioning her culture as it currently stands.

The very woman he once thought of as a mistake that HE unleashed upon the world is asking to be a part of his, not because of what he can bring to the table, not because she needs a right hand man, and certainly not because she thinks he has some well of power and intelligence critical to winning over enemies she’s willing to join for "supervisory" purposes (cough cough hi Mythal). She bears the weight of choices that can and will lead to death, to pain, and when it wears on her she relies on him, not for solutions but so that at the end of it all she might smile with someone who knows her heart and the good she tried to do amidst a sea of terrible options. She wants to be known, no inch of her unturned, and worse, she thinks she knows him. But how could she? This is no longer who he is, it is merely the remnants of what he destroyed to make a world at Mythal's whim.

“You’re an admirable man. Not many people know who they are the way you do.”

“Thank you. Both for saying that and…for seeing that. Few in this world can see me instead of just seeing a pair of pointed ears”

She. Sees. Him. Every part he slowly is realizing he wants to be known for and even a few he thought he could hide. And then he gives it all up. Because he woke to a new world where spirits and elves and mages were so far removed from the role they played in Arlathan that it can only be yet another mistake he caused and must fix, never mind the fact that the dwarves have forgotten why they fled underground millennia ago in the first place.

The friend who tore him from the world he loved, urged him to take physical form? She is dead, too, never mind the fact that she ignored his urging for a different path, nevermind that he killed and tore and hurt in her name because otherwise what was losing the part of himself he loved for?

"A spirit becomes a demon when denied its original purpose.”

“It hurts. It always does, but I will survive.”

“You bound it to obedience, then commanded it to kill. That is when it turned.”

He may no longer recognize where the Dread Wolf ends and where Solas begins, but if he gives up now and permits himself the chance to remember, the pain he caused himself and others means nothing, because he did it all for Mythal and in his final discussion with her, regardless of what Veilguard tries to convey, she does not release him from his position as her agent.

And maybe that's part of why I'm so angry, because EVEN BEFORE TRESPASSER, the fragment of Mythal that ends up in Morrigan could have freed him, but she does not.

"I am sorry." He whispers.

"The failure was mine," he tells her, voice trembling. "I should pay the price."

Silence.

And do we get that "what we did, we did together" psuedo-fake ass-absolution, the one that, if given enough time and safety to put himself first he may have realised he doesn't truly need to pursue the things he deserves, that make him feel finally like himself again? No the fuck we don't.

"As am I, old friend." She murmurs.

Looking through the lens of Veilguard, this isn't an apology, it's a condemnation. It's Mythal tormenting him one more time, twisting the knife deeper, agreeing that it is Solas alone who has brought them to this point, who deserves to be punished. And then she reminds him what they are to each other, what he is supposed to be to her. What he must become again.

"It isn't abuse if I ask," Cole says in his personal quest.

"Not always true," Solas shoots back.

So he recommits to the friend he gave up his nature for, he refuses to let himself remember that Lavellan learned the full truth of his identity and still begged him not to mourn alone. Even so, he still cannot quite forget.

Var lath vir suledin. Our love will persevere.

I wish it could, vhenan.

And so he pushes onwards, spending almost a decade denying himself his true nature and regretting that he ever gave it a chance to come through because now he KNOWS that this world is different and a little broken, but it's a world he could be a part of because of the woman and the friends that made a place for him. It is a world that doesn't necessarily need to be restored as much as it might need renovation, but that is not the world Mythal demanded of him when she let him kill a remaining piece of her. And any solution but that means the hurt of taking a body, of hurting the titans, of time and time again being called on by one evanuris to fix a problem they all caused, was for nothing.

And a Pride of that magnitude, that sinister an origin, has a long, long way to fall.

And then that same uppity little shit has the audacity to tell him it's not too late, that he can turn back.

He kills again. He kills again. He kills again.

He kills a friend.

He fails to prevent the Evanuris from wreaking havoc a second time, wrenches another innocent into his war, and when they ask him about the woman he calls vhenan, he feels the mask stifling him begin to suffocate. But he never lets it fall, because to surrender now is to place her broken heart atop the pile of regrets he's been holding up like Atlas crumbling beneath the weight of the world itself. Because he still thinks it selfish to want the things that make him feel like himself again, so they need to be taken off the board entirely.

"To stop now would dishonor those I have wronged to come this far."

If he gives up now, his entire corporeal life has been a betrayal of many, but worst of all, he will have ruined himself for nothing.

But then she's there. A little older, a little sadder, and still looking at him like she did the night he almost broke and instead carefully removed any suggestion that she had ever belonged to anyone but herself.

"Didn't you hear me?" Her every action screams as she kneels to meet his gaze like he did the day he took her arm (another failure, another sacrifice he cannot let be for nothing).

The tombstone in the fade is his greatest fear, but it is not his fate. Why? She will not let it be. It cannot be his din'anshiral if she is not beside him.

Lavellan may not have understood the depth of exactly WHEN Solas first came somewhere foreign and uncertain to help, but she never once failed to keep her promise. She refuses to let his initial desire to do good be held against him any longer. And when she sees him accept that not-quite-absolution-definitely-more-of-a-power-play from the god that saw what he was capable of and molded him into a weapon, she finds her in to make sure he doesn't walk off alone to mourn again, never again will she lose him to the expectations others have of him. No doubt she wants to find a way to sink the fingers of her good hand into that spectral visage and tear it away like he wishes to do to the veil. But she is not here for Mythal. She is here for her heart, and for the man who has been carrying it since the moment her lips met his in the fade ten years ago.

“No orders to kill, no conflict with its nature, no demon.”

She forces him to see that the only remaining betrayal is to lock himself away one more irreversible time. All that's left to lose is the piece of himself he cherishes more than his greatest victories: all that he has to gain comes from making sure the love that was given to him at Skyhold, in the moment where Varric saw all he was capable of and still tried to bring him back home, was not given in vain.

"There is no fate but the love we share." She tells him as soon as Mythal's too-little-too-late platitudes send shudders through his body.

Banal nadas ar lath'ma vhenan.

It will not be so terrible a place, so unforgivable a betrayal if he can finally dare to put himself first. If, unlike that night in Crestwood, he finally gives in not to break, but to make himself whole.

There's a codex entry in Inquisiton about a spirit of wisdom who is summoned by researchers and only after a very pleasant conversation do they realize they made a mistake and never successfully bound the spirit in the first place, that it chose to speak with them of its own accord.

"I am not certain the spirit would have talked so freely had it been shackled at the time," writes the author of the entry.

I keep thinking about this alongside the datamined line of Morrigan saying, "And so, the Dread Wolf is stopped by, of all things love."

But that isn't quite right, is it?

Because in the end, of course the Dread Wolf could only ever freed by, over everything, love.

[greengoblinswifey]

Betrayed By Blood—Nicholas Chavez x Fiancée!Reader

summary— you think you’re getting married to the love of your life but it all comes crashing down when you discover at your engagement party that nicholas has been cheating on you with your older sister. based on this request.

warnings— angst, cheating, heartbreak, betrayal.

a/n— i am such a slut for angst, keep it comin!

︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿

You had always been the kind of person who believed in love wholeheartedly. When Nicholas entered your life three years ago, you couldn’t believe your luck. He was everything you’d ever wanted, kind, successful acting career, charming, and so ridiculously in love with you that it almost felt unreal. You were the envy of your friends, your family—hell, even your own self at times. He made you feel like you could do anything, be anyone. He was your best friend, your lover, your everything.

But what made it even more special was how seamlessly he fit into your world. The way he would light up when your family talked about their traditions, his willingness to learn about your culture, how your older sister, despite the years of distance between you two—had begun to bond with him. It was all so perfect. Nicholas had even made a point of getting close to your older sister, knowing how much she meant to you, even if it made you feel a twinge of discomfort sometimes. You were still getting used to the closeness between them, but it didn’t bother you much. She was just looking out for you, making sure the man you were about to marry was really the one.

Your sister was always a bit more distant from you. You’d never had the kind of bond that some people shared with their siblings—she was a few years older, more independent, and you’d always felt that divide. But when Nicholas came into the picture, something shifted. She started coming around more. She started asking about your relationship, checking in on how things were going. You even started enjoying the time she spent with him, seeing how happy he made you. Nicholas always appreciated your family and their cultural traditions, always joking around with your uncles about how they would “teach him the ropes” on making your culture’s food. They’d all gathered around him, with your uncles and cousins giving him their best cooking tips, even asking him to come to every cookout. It made you laugh how easily he fit in. It was exactly what you had always dreamed of—a man who loved you and respected your family’s values.

The engagement had come a little earlier than expected, but when he proposed to you, you couldn’t say no. You had been telling Nicholas for months that you didn’t want to wait forever. You wanted a future, you wanted a family, and most importantly, you wanted him. He had been apprehensive at first about rushing into things, but soon, he was on board. Your family was thrilled, your uncles teased him, and your mom cried with joy. Your sister, though not exactly the most emotionally expressive person, seemed genuinely happy for you both.

The engagement party was the culmination of everything, a massive celebration of your love. It was your moment, your chance to show everyone what Nicholas meant to you. And you couldn’t wait.

The night started off perfectly. Nicholas, looking dashing in his black suit, was by your side, his hand in yours as you made your rounds. Your sister, radiant as always, stood nearby, laughing with your family, as everyone celebrated the two of you. You danced with Nicholas, his lips brushing your neck as he whispered sweet things into your ear. You felt safe in his arms, protected. His smile was everything, and in that moment, you truly believed your life was everything you had ever wanted.

Your uncles, rowdy as usual, crowded around Nicholas, teasing him about being a part of their “cookout crew” now. They joked about his need to learn how to make your cultural dishes, like he’d be joining them for the next family cookout. You loved it. It felt like the piece of the puzzle you’d been waiting for your whole life, a family who accepted him, and him, genuinely embracing them.

But then, as the night progressed, you began to notice things. Little things. The way your sister kept laughing a little too loudly at Nicholas’ jokes. The way her hand lingered on his chest a bit too long when she made a joke, just a touch too intimate for your liking. You tried to shake it off, blaming it on the alcohol, on the festive mood. Your sister had always been affectionate with the people she liked, but something about the way she looked at him made your stomach turn.

It wasn’t even the physical closeness. It was the way she looked at him, like she was seeing him in a way you hadn’t seen before. You shrugged it off at first. He was your fiancé, after all. You shouldn’t be feeling jealous. She was your sister, and you wanted her to like him, to approve of him. This was nothing. Just a moment of insecurity.

But when Nicholas disappeared to the bathroom, you couldn’t shake the feeling. Half an hour had passed, and he still hadn’t come back. Your sister had gone missing too. They were both nowhere to be found, and a quiet alarm began to ring in the back of your mind.

You finally decided to check on them. You climbed the stairs, heels clicking against the floor. The music from downstairs muffled everything around you, and as you walked down the hallway, your heart beat faster with every step.

You remembered he’d said he was going to the bathroom. The upstairs bathroom door was slightly ajar, a thin line of light spilling out. You pushed the door open and peeked inside.

What you saw made your blood run cold.

Nicholas, your fiancé, was kissing your older sister with a passion that made your stomach drop. His hands were tangled in her curls, gripping it as if he couldn’t get enough of her. Her hands were all over his chest, moving to grip his bulge, and the way they kissed each other was everything you hadn’t seen from him in your three years together. There was nothing tender about it, nothing sweet. Just raw, ferocious hunger. He had her pressed against the counter, and they were so caught up in each other that they didn’t even hear you.

You froze, every ounce of warmth drained from your body. You couldn’t breathe. Your mind refused to accept what your eyes were seeing.

And then, your sister’s voice, breathless, echoed in the room.

“Take me right here,” she purred.

Nicholas smirked against her lips. “Later tonight,” he murmured, voice thick with desire. “Tonight, I’ll give you this dick and everything you want.”

Your sister laughed, a sound you would never forget. “She’s so stupid,” she said, hands trailing down his chest. “Thinking you actually chose her.”

And Nicholas, your fiancé, laughed. He laughed.

The sound was like a knife to your heart.

You couldn’t watch anymore. You turned and stumbled away from the door, the world around you spinning. Your legs felt weak, your heart pounding in your ears. You had to get away. You had to get out of there.

You made your way back down the stairs, your brown skin feeling somehow drained of color, your chest tight with the weight of everything crashing down.

You sat on the couch, numb, staring into the distance as the laughter and chatter of the party continued around you. Everyone was so oblivious. How could they be so blind?

You didn’t know how long you sat there, staring at the empty glass in your hand, feeling the bile of betrayal and heartbreak rise in your throat. But the truth was clear now. The person you had trusted most in this world, the man you thought would be yours forever, had betrayed you. And your sister, the one person who was supposed to have your back, had been the one to help him destroy everything.

Everything was fucking over.

The world felt like it was closing in on you. You stood in the corner of your sister's yard, away from the noise and the chaos of the party, trying to breathe in the cool night air, but it didn’t help. It was all too much. Your thoughts raced as your mom, drunk on Hennessy, slipped out the door to check on you.

“Are you okay, baby? You don’t look so good,” she slurred, her words barely hanging together.

“Yeah, I’m fine, Mom. Just a little too much to drink,” you said quickly, offering her a smile, though it felt like your face was frozen. You didn’t want her to see the turmoil churning inside you. You didn’t want anyone to see the cracks in the perfect picture you had spent so long trying to paint.

She frowned slightly, swaying on her feet as she stared at you with unsteady eyes. “You sure? You seem so off. Maybe lay off the Henny, huh?”

You laughed weakly, swallowing the bitter taste of your own anger. “Yeah, Mom, I’m good but maybe you should too, Just need some air. I’ll be fine, I promise.”

She nodded, barely convincing herself, before she staggered back inside. You could still hear her slurring through the door. “You’ve got such a good man, don’t forget that,” she called over her shoulder, her voice drifting on the warm night breeze.

“I know, I thought so too,” you said under your breath.

But now, everything had shattered. You stood in the cold, looking out at the darkened street, your thoughts spiraling into a whirlwind of doubt. Maybe she’s right, you thought. Maybe I was stupid. So stupid for not seeing it earlier.

The signs had always been there, hadn’t they? The way Nicholas and your sister would hang out without you, their bodies too close, the long hugs that lasted a bit too long. The way his hands would graze her shoulder or her back, like it was something casual—like it didn’t mean anything. But you had been so blinded by wanting to prove to yourself, to your family, that Nicholas was the one. That he loved you. And that your sister, the one person who you thought would always have your back, would approve.

You had wanted her approval so badly.

The signs were obvious, though. The way he would always find a reason to make her laugh, to make her feel special. He’d tell her jokes only she seemed to find funny, or the way he’d always help her with things around the house when he was at your family gatherings. The way he would stare at her ass when she’d walk away from the table, thinking you didn’t see it. The small, subtle touches, how he always found a reason to touch her arm or her back. It had been happening all along, and yet, you had made excuses. They’re just close, they’re family.

But it wasn’t just that. It was the way they’d look at each other. It was the way they had always made quick excuses to disappear for a few moments, always sneaking off together, but you had never thought much of it. Just friends, you had told yourself. But now, standing in the dark, it hit you like a ton of bricks.

They had been sneaking around behind your back for so long, and you had been too blind to see it. How could you have been so stupid?

You suddenly felt dizzy, as if the weight of it all had just crashed down on you all at once. You knew you couldn’t stay out there much longer. You had to get away, had to leave. You couldn’t stand to see their faces, couldn’t stand to pretend that everything was okay.

Before you could even collect your thoughts, you felt a presence behind you.

“What are you doing out here, mama?” Nicholas’ voice cut through the silence. It was warm, too warm, and it made your skin crawl. You didn’t turn to face him. You didn’t want to.

“I just needed some air,” you lied, trying to sound casual. You didn’t trust your voice. “The alcohol’s got me feeling all weird.”

He stepped closer, as if concerned, his hand coming up to touch your arm. “Well, let’s get you back inside. What’s wrong?”

You winced, flinching instinctively as he tried to kiss your cheek. You jerked away from him. “I’m not feeling too great, honestly,” you muttered, your voice breaking just enough to make him pause.

Nicholas laughed lightly. “It’s just the booze, babe. You know how it gets you all—worked up. Hope you’re not getting cold feet now,” he added, his tone teasing, but his eyes scanning your face too closely. “You know I love you, right?”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. You fought the urge to lash out, to scream at him, a bitter laugh. You love me? Sure, you do.

You managed a tight smile, one that didn’t quite reach your eyes, and you nodded, playing the part. “I know, Nicholas. I know,” you said through gritted teeth.

You’re full of shit.

You both made your way back inside, where the party was still in full swing. Your mom was laughing with your uncles, and your sister, who seemed to have too much to drink. She was swaying a little too much, her lipstick smudged, her hair a little messier than usual.

You couldn’t help but stare at her. How could she? How could she betray you like this? The woman who had held you as a baby, the woman who was supposed to protect you, be your big sister—your own flesh and blood.

She walked up to you with that sickly sweet smile, her hand on your arm, as if nothing was wrong. “You guys should stay over tonight. You're both too drunk to drive,” she said, her voice syrupy, but you could hear the underlying smugness.

You forced a smile, but it was more of a sneer. You didn’t want to look at her, didn’t want to be in the same room. “Thanks, but I think we’re going to head out,” you said, your voice cold and distant.

“Are you sure? Also, you look beautiful tonight,” she said, a little too loud, her eyes flicking to Nicholas. “You’re so lucky to have him.” She smiled at him, that smile that made you want to throw up.

You could barely stand it. “Yeah, I’m lucky,” you muttered. “But we should get going.”

Your sister didn’t argue. Instead, she waved it off, telling Nicholas that he should clean up with her, but you cut her off sharply. “No, she said she’d clean up, so Nicholas just come to bed since she wants us to stay so bad,” you said to him, your voice firm. He didn’t question it, but you could see the brief flash of surprise in his eyes.

They both paused. Shocked that you’re not letting them play their little game anymore.

He nodded reluctantly, muttering something under his breath, and followed you upstairs.

Once in the room, you started to get ready for bed. Nicholas sat on the edge of the bed, telling you how much he loved your family and how he couldn’t wait to be a part of it all. You wanted to scream at him, tell him that he was already part of it—in the worst way possible.

As you climbed into bed, you turned to face away from him, feeling the warmth of his body beside you, knowing how wrong it all was. He pressed kisses along your back, but you flinched with every touch, every word he whispered. You knew exactly what he was doing. He was trying to lull you to sleep so he could slip away.

You pretended to fall asleep, lying still as he shifted beside you. He waited a few minutes before slowly nudging you off of him, making sure you were still “asleep” before getting out of bed. You kept your eyes closed, though your heart was pounding in your chest. You heard the sound of him leaving the room.

The tears started to come then. One single tear fell from your eye, and that was it. He was really going to do it. He was going to go fuck your sister, and you knew it wasn’t the first time.

The tears didn’t stop as you cried yourself to sleep. You didn’t know when he came back to bed, but by then, you didn’t care.

The next morning, the air was thick with tension. Nicholas, ever the actor, was trying to act like nothing was wrong, all smiles and charm, but you couldn’t look at him. Not after everything.

“You okay?” he asked, trying to make conversation on the car ride home. His hand rested on your thigh, cold, stiff. Not warm like it used to be.

You didn’t answer. You just stared out the window, trying to keep yourself together.

When you got home, you walked straight to the bedroom without a word. He followed behind, still trying to act normal, trying to act like he hadn’t just betrayed you in the worst way possible.

You turned to him, your voice hard, cold. “How long?”

He looked at you, confused. “How long what?”

“How long have you been fucking my sister?” you spat. His face went white.

He started rambling, trying to justify it, trying to come up with excuses, but you stopped him cold. You looked him dead in the eyes, your voice low but sharp enough to pierce through his fumbling excuses. “Cut the bullshit, Nicholas. How long have you been fucking my sister?”

His face drained of color, and for a split second, you saw panic flicker in his eyes. But then he straightened up, his mouth opening and closing, struggling to form words. He tried to spin some story, but it was all nonsense, just meaningless rambling that you couldn’t stomach.

“I— I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he stammered. “I’m sorry, baby, I—”

You cut him off, disgust twisting your insides. “Fuck you. You’re not sorry. You’re only sorry you got caught.”

His face fell. He opened his mouth again, but you weren’t listening anymore. You pulled the ring from your finger and tossed it at him with all the force you could muster. The diamond caught the light before it clattered to the floor, a symbol of everything that had ended between the two of you.

“Don’t. Don’t even try to fix this,” you spat, your voice cold, firm. “I’m done. Get the fuck out. I don’t want to see your face again.”

He took a step back, his eyes wide with panic, a mix of guilt and anger on his face. He pleaded with you, but you didn’t hear him. You didn’t want to hear him. You could barely look at him.

“I can’t believe you did this,” you whispered, the betrayal so thick in your chest it was suffocating. “I trusted you. And I trusted her.” You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. “I never want to see either of you again.”

Nicholas looked like he was going to say something more, but he didn’t. His face was a mess of guilt, frustration, and desperation as he turned on his heel, heading for the door.

When the door slammed behind him, it felt like the last thing holding you together had fallen apart. The silence that followed felt deafening, and as soon as you heard the sound of his car pull away from the driveway, the floodgates opened.

You had never felt so broken in your life.

You didn’t wait for long before pulling out your phone and dialing your sister’s number. It rang a few times before she picked up, her voice so sweet, like everything was fine. Like nothing had changed.

“Hey sis! What’s up?” she said, her tone light.

You didn't waste time with pleasantries. “Fuck you bitch,” you snapped, your voice filled with venom. “Two-faced whore. I never want to see you again.”

There was silence on the other end. You could almost hear her gasp, her breath catching as she processed the words. But you didn’t give her a chance to respond.

“Stay the hell out of my life. I never want to hear from you again. Ever,” you added, your voice colder than ice.

You didn’t even wait for her to respond before you hung up. You couldn’t bring yourself to hear her lies. The texts and calls came flooding in immediately, frantic apologies, explanations that you knew were all just bullshit. You didn’t care.

You blocked her number without a second thought.

The betrayal was suffocating, and you couldn’t stop shaking. You wanted to scream. You wanted to burn it all down. But instead, you curled into yourself on the bed, every part of you hollow. You couldn’t even bring yourself to cry at first. The tears wouldn’t come, not until the numbness wore off, and then they came in a flood, unstoppable, overwhelming.

Your heart felt like it was ripped in two. Betrayed. By the man who had promised to love you forever. By the sister who had held you when you were small, the one person who had always been your protector. Now she was just another person who had turned her back on you.

You lay there, letting the tears fall until there were no more to shed. And when it was over, there was nothing left but silence and a cold, gnawing emptiness.

The next few days passed in a haze. You didn’t leave your room, didn’t talk to anyone. You didn’t want to. You couldn’t.

When you finally found the strength to move, to get out of bed and go through the motions, everything felt like a shadow of what it used to be. Your heart was still broken, but the anger was sharper now. You were angry at them both. Angry at yourself for not seeing it sooner. Angry at your family for not being who you thought they were.

But most of all, you were angry because you knew deep down that you would never trust anyone the same way again. How could you?

The world felt different now—like it had shifted, and you were no longer sure where you stood.

But in that anger, there was clarity. You were done with Nicholas. You were done with her. You didn’t need them. You would be okay. Maybe not right now, maybe not in the next few months, but eventually, you would find peace.

And you’d never let anyone—anyone, take that away from you again.

The betrayal was deep, but so was your strength.

You weren’t going to let them destroy you.

[theetherealbloom]

IF THERE'S NOTHING LEFT - CH.1

Chapter One: Be The Light, When All The Lights Go Out

Summary: You, a skilled healer, are brought to Rome by Senator Gracchus under the pretense of treating gladiators and Roman elites. You work with General Marcus Acacius to fight against the cruel reign of the twin emperors. Through danger and shared hope, your connection becomes a source of strength as you both dream of freeing Rome.

Paring: General Marcus Acacius x F!Reader

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI, ANGST, Fluff, SMUT, Age-Gap(ish), Ancient Rome, Canon-Typical Violence, Gladiators, Blood, Gore, War, Romance, Politics, Alternate Universe, Eventual SMUT, Slavery, Sexism, Misogyny, Guilt, PTSD, Rebellion, Empires, (Very Light) Strangers-to-Enemies-to-Friends-to-Lovers, Crowds, Shouting, Animals, Duels, Loose Historical Fiction,

Word Count: 5.8k

A/N: I COULDN’T HELP MYSELF… I NEEDED TO START THIS FIC. RRRAAAAAHHHH. Also, Marcus and Lucilla are NOT married in this fic/AU lmao. I might get some terms wrong since I can’t find the complete script yet (pls help) so I'll be editing this as time passes. And I’m like… not a historian so lol. 

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

Song: If There's Nothing Left by NIKI

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A DAY BEFORE THE RANSACKING OF NUMIDIA

ROME, 200 A.D. — DAY

The air in your clinic was heavy with the metallic tang of blood and the acrid stench of sweat. Shouts and groans from the injured filled the space, their voices blending into a cacophony of pain that would have broken a lesser person. But not you.  

You moved with the precision of a master sculptor, your hands steady as you sutured the gaping wound on a gladiator’s shoulder. Blood seeped into the linen bandages you’d prepared, but you didn’t flinch. Your focus was unshakable, the outside world forgotten as you worked to save the life in front of you.

General Marcus Acacius stood in the shadows of the doorway, his imposing frame unnoticed amidst the chaos. His dark eyes were fixed on you, the healer who had garnered whispers throughout Rome. He had heard of your work, of course—how you treated anyone who came through your doors, from nobles to slaves, without regard for their station. It was rare to see such defiance of societal norms, rarer still to see it done with such quiet grace.  

He watched as you leaned closer to the wounded man, murmuring words of reassurance.  

“Stay still, brave one,” you said softly, your voice low and soothing, cutting through his pain like a balm. “The worst of it is over. You’ll be back in the arena soon enough, though I’d rather you didn’t return at all.”  

The gladiator managed a weak chuckle, wincing as you tied off the last stitch. “You speak as if I have a choice.”  

Your lips curved into a wry smile, though sadness lingered in your eyes. “Perhaps one day you will.”  

Marcus found himself captivated—not just by your skill, but by the quiet authority you wielded in the room. It was rare for him to see someone move with such purpose, commanding respect without ever raising their voice.  

“You risk much, treating slaves and gladiators,” Marcus said, his voice deep and cutting through the din like a blade. 

You didn’t look up, finishing your work before addressing him. “And you risk much, General, entering a place like this.”  

There was no fear in your tone, only a calm defiance that piqued his curiosity. Marcus stepped closer, his boots echoing on the stone floor.

“I’ve seen many healers,” he said, his gaze unwavering. “None with hands as steady as yours. Nor one who speaks so freely.”  

You glanced up at him then, your eyes meeting his with an intensity that momentarily silenced the chaos around you. He was a striking figure, his presence commanding and his face marked by years of war. But it was his eyes that caught you—the deep well of pain and weariness they carried, hidden beneath a veneer of stoicism.  

“Perhaps that’s because most healers know when to hold their tongue,” you replied, arching a brow. “But I’ve found that truth tends to have a healing quality of its own.”  

The corner of his mouth twitched, the ghost of a smile. “And yet, truth has also been known to end lives, particularly in Rome.”  

You returned your attention to the gladiator, checking the bandages one last time. “Then it seems we both walk a fine line, General.”  

Something about the way you said his title felt less like deference and more like acknowledgment. It wasn’t fear or awe that guided your words, but a quiet understanding of who he was and the power he held.  

Marcus watched as you moved to the next patient, a young boy with a deep gash on his leg. Despite the blood staining your hands and the weariness etched into your features, you treated the boy with the same care and kindness you had shown the gladiator.

“Why do you do it?” Marcus asked suddenly, his voice softer now. “Why risk your safety for those Rome has deemed unworthy?”

You paused, glancing at him over your shoulder. For a moment, the question hung in the air between you, heavy with unspoken meaning.

“Because someone has to,” you said simply. “If I don’t, who will?”

The honesty of your answer struck something deep within Marcus. He had spent years justifying his actions as a soldier, telling himself that the violence he carried out was for the good of Rome. Yet here you were, defying the very structure that upheld his world, all for the sake of compassion.

As Marcus continued to watch you, he couldn’t help but wonder if he was witnessing something rare—something that Rome, in all its grandeur, could not crush. For the first time in a long while, he felt a spark of hope.

You broke the silence first, turning to face him fully. “Shouldn’t you be with your army—overseeing the ships and preparing to ransack Numidia, yet another city, all for the so-called ‘Glory of Rome’?” You arched a brow at him, shifting your weight onto one hip with a subtle air of defiance.

The corner of Marcus’s mouth twitched, almost imperceptibly. “Perhaps,” he replied, his voice low, “but I find myself drawn elsewhere.”

“Elsewhere?” You tilted your head, your tone edged with skepticism. “Surely the great General Marcus Acacius has more pressing matters than standing in a healer’s clinic.”

“Perhaps,” he repeated, stepping closer. “But standing here, I begin to wonder if those pressing matters might pale in comparison to what I’ve found.” 

Your breath hitched, but you recovered quickly, letting out a soft laugh. “Flattery from a general. I never thought I’d see the day.”

“It’s not flattery,” he said, his eyes locking with yours. “It’s truth.”

You couldn’t help but laugh softly, shaking your head. “Careful, General. If you keep talking like that, people might start to think you have a heart.”

“Perhaps I do,” he said, his tone quiet, thoughtful. “And perhaps it’s found something worth fighting for, beyond Rome.”

Your breath caught at his words, your heart pounding in a way you hadn’t felt in years. But before you could respond, Marcus turned and walked toward the door, his heavy boots echoing in the quiet.

“I’ll return,” he said without looking back. “There’s still much I need to learn from you.”

And as he disappeared into the sunlight, leaving you alone in the quiet of your clinic, you couldn’t help but feel that your world had shifted—just a little, but enough to make you wonder what might come next.

ROME, 200 A.D. — AFTERNOON

The light of the afternoon sun streamed through the tall, arched windows of Senator Gracchus’s residence, casting golden patterns across the polished marble floors. You moved with practiced ease through the grand room, gathering fresh bandages and jars of ointment from your bag while keeping an ear to the Senator’s usual musings. Today, however, your mind was elsewhere.

“Did you send him to me?” you asked, your tone casual but your curiosity evident. You didn’t look up as you sorted through your supplies, your hands deftly organizing the salves and herbs.

“Send who?” Senator Gracchus replied, reclining on his plush lectus, the deep crimson cushions making him look more regal than his age might suggest. His tone was light, but there was a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. He was far too clever to play coy without reason.

“The General. General Acacius.” You paused, glancing at him from the corner of your eye before returning to your work.

The Senator’s lips curled into a knowing smile as he raised his chalice of wine. “Ah, Marcus. I may have mentioned your name in passing conversation.”

You froze for a moment, your brow furrowing. “In passing conversation?” 

“Of course.” He swirled the wine lazily in his cup. “I simply spoke of a brilliant healer who mends not just bodies but spirits. It seems the good general decided to see for himself if the rumors were true.”

You let out a soft huff, shaking your head as you resumed unpacking your things. “Well, he approached me today.”

“And how was he?” Gracchus asked, leaning forward slightly, his expression both intrigued and amused.

“He seemed…” You hesitated, your hands stilling as you searched for the right words. Memories of the encounter flickered in your mind—his commanding presence, the intensity in his eyes, the way his words seemed to linger long after he’d spoken them. “Alright, I suppose,” you said finally, shrugging your shoulders in an attempt at nonchalance. 

Gracchus chuckled softly, setting his chalice down on a nearby table. “Alright, you suppose? My dear, you’re a terrible liar.”

You turned to face him, crossing your arms over your chest. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” the Senator began, his tone teasing, “that you’ve just met one of the most formidable men in Rome, and yet here you are pretending he didn’t make an impression.”

Your cheeks warmed slightly, though you refused to let it show. “Impression or not, I don’t see how it’s relevant. I’m here to heal people, not… whatever it is you’re insinuating.”

“Oh, I’m not insinuating anything,” Gracchus said with a sly grin. “But let me give you a piece of advice, my dear. Men like Marcus Acacius don’t walk into someone’s life without a reason.”

“Perhaps he was just curious,” you said, turning away to mask the flutter of nerves that crept up your spine. “Or bored.”

“Curiosity doesn’t often bring him to clinics,” the Senator mused, leaning back once more. “Boredom even less so. Whatever the reason, I’d wager it has little to do with medicine.”

You rolled your eyes, though a small smile tugged at the corner of your lips. “If this is your way of playing matchmaker, Senator, I’d prefer you didn’t.”

“And here I thought you’d appreciate a distraction,” Gracchus said, raising his chalice once more. “But very well. Consider the matter dropped.”

For now, you thought, knowing full well that Gracchus wasn’t one to let things go so easily. As you busied yourself with preparing his treatment, you couldn’t help but replay the moment you’d locked eyes with Marcus Acacius, his gaze heavy with something you couldn’t quite name. 

Alright, you supposed. But deep down, you knew it was far more than that.

A FEW WEEKS LATER…

OSTIA, PORT OF ROME — DAY  

The sun blazed high over the port, casting a golden glow over the triumphant scene unfolding below. The air was alive with the sound of celebration—the roar of the crowd, the rhythmic chanting of his name.  

“Acacius! Acacius! Acacius!”  

You stood at a distance, hidden in the shadows of a towering marble column, your gaze fixed on the man at the center of the spectacle. Marcus Acacius, the war hero of Rome, returned victorious. His white chariot, pulled by majestic horses, moved with deliberate grace through the throng of citizens who waved laurel branches and tossed flowers into the air.  

The general himself was a vision of Roman splendor, adorned in white and gold, a flowing cape billowing behind him like the wings of an avenging angel. He waved politely to the people, his expression calm and composed, though you suspected a storm brewed beneath that veneer.  

As the chariot came to a halt at the steps of the grand Temple of Mars Ultor, young girls dressed in flowing white tunics and crowned with fresh flowers scattered rose petals in his path. He ascended the steps with measured strides, the marble beneath his feet gleaming in the sunlight.  

You stood among the other servants, the weight of a velvet pillow in your hands anchoring you to the moment. Atop the pillow rested a crown of golden laurels, shimmering with the promise of empty glory. Senator Gracchus had arranged for you to present it, an honor you neither wanted nor could refuse. Your palms were damp with nerves, but it wasn’t fear of the crowd or ceremony that unsettled you. It was the cruel spectacle of it all—the emperors reveling in their power while Rome decayed beneath their feet.  

Marcus reached the top of the steps, standing before the twin emperors. Geta, younger and deceptively charming, gestured to the approaching general. Caracalla, brooding and sharp-featured, watched with an intensity that made the scene feel like a predator sizing up prey.  

Marcus placed a fist over his heart in the Roman salutatio, nodding first to one and then the other. “Emperor Geta,” he began, his voice steady. He turned his gaze to the other. “Emperor Caracalla.”  

“General Acacius,” Geta replied with a wide, practiced smile.  

Marcus straightened, his tone humble yet firm. “I have taken Numidia in your names. Your dominion may yet eclipse that of every emperor who came before you.”  

Caracalla smirked, gesturing lazily to you with a flick of his hand. “Crown him with laurels, brother.”  

Your heart leapt as all eyes turned to you. You stepped forward, forcing yourself to keep your movements measured. Bowing your head slightly, you presented the pillow to Geta. He took the crown, sparing you no more than a dismissive glance, and you retreated quickly, blending back into the shadows as the ceremony continued.  

Geta placed the golden laurels atop Marcus’s salt-and-pepper curls, his smile widening as the crowd erupted in cheers. The senators clapped politely, their faces masks of approval, though you wondered how many of them truly celebrated the general's return.  

The procession moved inside the temple, where the grandeur of marble columns and gilded statues loomed over the gathering. You lingered near the edges of the hall, half-hidden among other attendants. Your eyes were drawn to Marcus, who stood surrounded by Rome’s elite yet seemed entirely apart from them.  

Geta approached Marcus with two chalices of wine, his gait almost casual. “In honor of your conquest, there will be games in the Colosseum,” he said, handing one to the general.  

Marcus accepted it with a polite nod, though his expression remained neutral. “I require no games in my honor. Serving the senate and the people of Rome is honor enough for me.”  

He raised the chalice to toast, but Geta pulled his cup back with a sharp laugh. “You are too modest, Acacius. It does not suit a general as accomplished as yourself.” He clinked their glasses together before Marcus could respond, his tone dripping with mockery.  

“The glory is yours, not mine,” Marcus replied, his words measured. “I only ask for respite from war. To spend time with…” His voice trailed off as his gaze flickered briefly—so briefly—toward you.  

Your breath hitched, the moment so fleeting that you questioned whether it had happened at all.  

Caracalla, lounging nearby, smirked. “Time for what, general? Gardens and poetry? Or something sweeter?”  

Geta ignored his brother, moving to a table where a long ceremonial sword rested. He lifted it, examining the blade with a predatory gleam in his eyes. “There are victories yet to come, Acacius.”  

He turned back toward the general, raising the sword as if to knight him. Lightly, he tapped Marcus’s shoulders, then paused, the blade hovering near his neck.  

“Persia. India. Both must be conquered.”  

With a slow, deliberate motion, Geta pressed the edge of the blade against Marcus’s neck, the sharp metal breaking skin just enough to draw a thin line of blood.  

Marcus didn’t flinch, though his expression darkened. His voice was low, steady, and cold. “Rome has so many subjects. She must feed them.”  

He swatted the blade away from his neck, a flicker of defiance passing between him and the emperor.  

Caracalla’s laugh rang out, sharp and cruel. “They can eat war!”  

Geta let the sword clatter to the floor, the sound echoing across the hall. “Your triumphs will be celebrated, General Acacius,” he said, his tone pointed. “As a tribute to the greatness of the Roman people.”  

He extended his hand, adorned with gaudy rings, and Marcus had no choice but to bow and kiss it. You saw the flicker of disdain in his eyes even as his lips brushed the emperor’s hand.  

From your shadowed corner, your heart ached for him. For the man who bore the weight of Rome’s sins with a quiet dignity that deserved so much more than the cruelty of its rulers.  

VILLA DI DOMITIA LUCILLA — NIGHT  

The villa perched on the outskirts of Rome exuded a quiet elegance, its columns and arches glowing under the pale light of the moon. The night was thick with fog, curling like tendrils of smoke through the cypress trees that lined the estate. A gentle breeze carried the scent of rosemary and lavender from the gardens, mingling with the faint hum of nocturnal life.  

Inside, the villa was equally serene. Lucilla, ever gracious, had agreed to host you at the request of Senator Gracchus. The senator had claimed it was “more appropriate” for you to stay under her care, given the delicate balance of Roman customs and the constant scrutiny of the twin emperors. In truth, you suspected it was also for your safety. Lucilla’s influence, though quietly wielded, was a shield few dared to challenge.  

The villa was warm and inviting, a haven amidst the chaos of Rome. Yet, even as you settled into your temporary quarters, a restlessness stirred within you. You missed the simplicity of your small home, the steady rhythm of your work. Here, despite Lucilla’s kindness, you felt like a guest in gilded captivity.  

Meanwhile, Marcus Acacius found himself battling his own restlessness. When he learned you were staying with Lucilla, the knowledge sparked an idea he could hardly ignore. Though he was no stranger to the villa—it was a place he visited often as a long-time confidant of Lucilla—tonight, his reasons for coming were far from casual.  

He rode through the foggy night, his steed's hooves echoing against the stone-paved road. The air was cold, biting against his cheeks, but he barely noticed. Two of his guards flanked him, silent and watchful as shadows.  

When he reached the gates of the villa, a sentry stepped forward, his spear raised in a show of duty. “Halt! Who goes there?”  

The torchlight illuminated Marcus’s face, and recognition dawned on the guard. His stance shifted immediately. Placing a fist over his heart, he bowed. “General.”  

“Open the gates,” Marcus commanded, his voice steady but not unkind.  

The heavy iron gates creaked open, and Marcus dismounted his steed with practiced ease. A stable boy rushed forward to take the reins, bowing quickly before leading the horse away. Marcus adjusted his cloak, brushing off the dampness of the night, and stepped into the villa’s grounds.  

Inside, Lucilla greeted him in the atrium, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders and her sharp eyes glinting with curiosity. “Marcus,” she said warmly, though there was a knowing lilt to her tone. “I wasn’t expecting you tonight.”  

“I hope I’m not intruding,” Marcus replied, his lips curving into a polite smile. “I was nearby and thought it prudent to pay a visit.”  

“Nearby?” Lucilla arched an elegant brow. “Unless the general has taken to wandering the countryside aimlessly at night, I suspect there’s more to this visit than proximity.”  

Marcus didn’t answer immediately, his eyes scanning the villa’s hall. It was quieter than usual, the stillness broken only by the faint crackle of torches and the murmur of distant voices.  

Lucilla stepped closer, her expression softening. “She’s in the east wing,” she said, her voice dropping slightly.  

Marcus turned to her, his gaze sharp. “Who?”  

Lucilla smirked, crossing her arms. “You didn’t ride through the night for me, Marcus. Don’t insult my intelligence.”  

He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You always see through me, Lucilla.”  

“It’s a gift,” she quipped, then gestured toward the hallway. “Go. But don’t wake the entire villa with your heavy boots.”  

Marcus inclined his head in thanks before making his way toward the east wing. The soft glow of oil lamps guided his path, casting flickering shadows on the walls. As he approached your quarters, his steps slowed.  

You were seated by the window, a soft blanket draped over your shoulders, gazing out at the misty garden. The stillness of the night felt fragile, like it might shatter at the slightest sound. The dim light of the oil lamp beside you softened your features, though weariness lingered in your eyes.  

A soft clearing of a throat broke the silence, low but deliberate.  

You turned quickly, your heart skipping at the unexpected intrusion. “General Acacius?”  

He leaned against the doorway, his armor traded for a plain, white tunic and dark cloak that suited the quiet of the night. His lips curled into a faint smirk. “My lady.”  

“I am no lady, General,” you corrected, your brow arching slightly.  

“Marcus,” he said, stepping into the room with a deliberate grace. “And I didn’t mean to disturb you.”  

“You didn’t,” you replied, though the confusion in your voice was evident. “What brings you here at this hour?”  

For a moment, he hesitated, as if weighing his words. Then, with a slight shrug, he said, “I wanted to ensure you were settling in comfortably. Lucilla’s hospitality can be... unique.”  

A faint smile tugged at your lips. “It’s generous, though I can’t help but feel a bit out of place.”  

Marcus nodded, his expression thoughtful. “This villa has always felt like a sanctuary. But I know it can be difficult to find peace in unfamiliar surroundings.”  

For a while, silence stretched between you. The weight of the world outside the villa—Rome’s cruelty, the constant tension—seemed to press lightly against the walls, but here, in this moment, the quiet was soothing.  

“Did you really ride all this way just to check on me?” you asked, a teasing note in your voice that broke through the stillness.  

His lips twitched, the beginnings of a smile warming his face. “Would you believe me if I said yes?”  

You tilted your head, studying him carefully, your gaze soft but sharp. “I might.”  

He stepped closer, the flickering light of the lamp catching the faintest glimmer in his dark eyes. His expression, though tempered by years of military discipline, held a warmth that made your heart skip.  

“Good,” he murmured, his voice low and steady.  

The room seemed smaller suddenly, the air charged with something unspoken. You cleared your throat, shifting slightly, your hands clutching at the fabric of your skirts as if to anchor yourself.  

“I thank the gods that brought you back home safe,” you said, your voice quieter now, tinged with something deeper.  

Marcus’s gaze didn’t falter. “Thank the army,” he replied humbly. “They protected me.”  

You nodded, acknowledging his words. “You must be hungry, then?”  

He raised a brow, clearly amused by the shift in the conversation, but he didn’t resist. “It has been a long ride.”  

Turning, you glanced toward the servant standing silently near the doorway. You offered her an apologetic smile, and she nodded in understanding before quietly leaving the room to fetch food and drink.  

As the door closed behind her, you turned back to Marcus. “It’s the least I can offer after you came all this way.”  

His lips twitched again, his faint smile now fully formed. “You’ve already offered more than you know.”  

You blinked, tilting your head in quiet curiosity. “What do you mean?”  

“Your kindness,” he said simply, stepping closer still. “It’s rare in Rome. Even rarer in my world.”  

Your cheeks warmed under his steady gaze, and you quickly turned your attention back to the window, hoping the dim light would hide your reaction. “I only do what anyone should.”  

“Perhaps,” he said softly, “but not everyone does.”  

The sincerity in his voice sent a flutter through your chest. When you finally looked back at him, he was closer now, his presence commanding but not overwhelming.  

“You’re too generous with your praise, Marcus,” you said, though the words felt light, almost teasing.  

“And you’re far too modest,” he countered, the smirk returning to his lips.  

The sound of footsteps approaching signaled the servant’s return, breaking the charged silence between you. She entered with a tray of fruit, bread, and wine, placing it on the small table by the window before bowing and retreating once more.  

You gestured toward the table, a soft smile gracing your lips. “Please, sit. You’ve had a long day.”  

Marcus inclined his head, his expression grateful as he took the seat opposite you. The light from the lamp flickered between you, casting long shadows on the walls.  

As you poured wine into two cups, the flickering lamplight caught the soft curve of your profile, drawing his gaze. Marcus watched you, his expression thoughtful, warm, and just a little too intense.  

“You should know,” he began, his voice low and deliberate, “this isn’t just about ensuring you’re comfortable.”  

Your hands hesitated for the briefest moment before continuing their task, but the air in the room seemed to thicken. You glanced up at him, your brow arching as you placed one of the cups in front of him. “Have you finally come to your senses and decided to arrest me? For treating those the Senate deems unworthy of saving?”  

The corner of his mouth twitched, a wry, fleeting almost-smile. “No.”  

You leaned back slightly, folding your arms across your chest, your head tilting in mock suspicion. “Then perhaps you’ve come to lecture me? To remind me how dangerous it is to meddle in things beyond my station?”  

His gaze softened, the warmth in it almost unsettling. “Do you think so little of me?”  

The teasing edge in your posture faltered for just a moment before you quickly recovered, glancing down into your own cup. “You’re a General, Marcus. You’re loyal to Rome. To the Senate. My work…” You shrugged, trying to sound casual despite the weight in your voice. “It doesn’t exactly align with the ideals of your empire.”  

Marcus reached for his cup, his hand brushing briefly, almost imperceptibly, against the edge of yours. “You’re right,” he said finally, his tone unreadable.  

Your gaze snapped to his, surprised. “I am?”  

“You don’t align with the empire,” he continued, taking a slow sip of the wine. “You stand above it. You see its flaws and still choose to fight for what’s right, even when it’s dangerous. Even when it puts you at risk.”  

The words struck something deep within you, leaving you momentarily at a loss. You hadn’t expected that—his understanding, his admiration.  

“And you don’t find that... infuriating?” you asked, trying to mask the tremor in your voice with a wry smile.  

“Infuriating?” he echoed, setting the cup down. “No.” His gaze held yours, steady and unyielding. “It’s extraordinary.”  

A sudden heat rushed to your cheeks, and you turned your attention to the fire crackling softly in the hearth. “You’re far too kind, General.”  

“Marcus,” he corrected gently, leaning forward.  

“Marcus,” you repeated, the name tasting unfamiliar on your tongue, though not unpleasant.  

He smiled faintly, as if satisfied. “And I’m not being kind—I’m being honest. Too few in this city have the courage to act as you do. Even fewer have the heart.”  

You looked back at him, searching his face for any trace of insincerity and finding none. The man before you wasn’t the untouchable war hero paraded through Rome’s streets. He was something quieter, something deeper.  

“And what about you?” you asked softly. “Aren’t you tired of all this? The battles, the politics, the endless expectations?”  

His expression shifted, a shadow passing over his features. “More than you could ever know.”  

The quiet confession hung between you, delicate and heavy all at once.  

“Then why not walk away?” you pressed, your voice barely above a whisper.  

He gave a low, humorless laugh, running a hand through his curly hair. “And go where? Rome would never let me go, even if I wanted to. And…” He hesitated, his gaze flicking briefly to you before settling on the fire. “There are reasons to stay.”  

Your breath caught at the implication, but you forced yourself to keep your tone light. “Duty, I suppose?”  

His eyes met yours again, darker now, more intense. “Something like that.”  

The weight of his words pressed against your chest, and you found yourself wondering if he could hear the sudden quickening of your heart.  

“I’m not sure I understand you, Marcus,” you said quietly, the teasing edge gone from your voice.  

“Good,” he replied, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I’d hate to be predictable.”  

You couldn’t help but smile at that, shaking your head as you finally took a sip of your wine. “You’re certainly not that.”  

The room fell into a companionable silence, the crackling of the fire and the distant chirping of crickets filling the space. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the weight of the world seemed to lift, if only slightly.  

“Thank you,” you said after a while, your voice soft but sincere.  

He tilted his head, his brow furrowing slightly. “For what?”  

“For coming,” you replied, meeting his gaze. “For… for seeing me. Not just tonight, but—” You hesitated, searching for the right words. “For seeing me as more than what Rome would make me.”  

His expression softened, and for a moment, the guardedness in his eyes melted away, replaced by something unspoken but undeniable. “It’s impossible not to.”  

The words wrapped around your heart, and for a fleeting moment, you allowed yourself to believe them.  

“At times, I wish you would abandon all of this,” you said softly, your voice trembling with honesty. “The wars. The blood. The service to men who deserve none of it.”  

Marcus’s jaw tightened, the muscle there twitching before he answered. “I’ve made my choice,” he said, his tone resolute, but there was a flicker of weariness in his eyes. “I can live with it. But my patience with them is at an end.”  

You glanced toward the far corner of the room, where Leta, the ever-watchful servant, lingered. Offering her a kind smile, you said, “Leta, you may go to your quarters now. We’ll need nothing more this evening.”  

Leta hesitated, her gaze flickering between the two of you, but at your gentle nod, she smiled and curtsied, before slipping out, leaving the room steeped in a quiet intimacy.  

Marcus exhaled deeply, as if the act of speaking had been weighing on him. He set his cup down on the nearby table across from you, his broad shoulders hunched slightly as though bearing the weight of Rome itself. “To hear wives and mothers mourning their dead on that beach of Numidia…” His voice was low, rough with emotion. He scoffed bitterly and ran a hand through his hair. “No more. I will not waste another generation of young men for their vanity. If I fight another campaign…” His gaze hardened, a fire igniting in his eyes. “It must be to depose them.”

Your breath hitched at the words. “You’re telling me this… why?” you asked carefully. “We’ve met only briefly. Why would you trust me with something so dangerous?”  

He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his intense gaze locking onto yours. “Am I wrong to assume that Senator Gracchus and Lucilla have been whispering thoughts not unlike my own? That Rome deserves better than two tyrants playing at being gods?”  

You hesitated, your lips quirking slightly to the side as you considered your answer. Finally, you gave him a small nod. “You’re not wrong. The whispers grow louder with each passing day.”  

For a moment, the room was silent save for the crackle of the fire in the hearth. You licked your lips nervously and took a steadying breath. Meeting his eyes, you asked, “When will your troops arrive?”  

“They’ll land in Ostia in ten days,” he replied, his voice low and firm.  

You nodded, your mind already calculating the implications. “How many will be loyal to you? To you alone?”  

“All of them,” he said without hesitation. “Many of them owe their lives to you, as I’ve heard it. Your words of wisdom, your care in the camps—they remember. Soldiers don’t forget kindness, especially in a world so devoid of it.”  

Your cheeks flushed at his words, but you pressed on. “The emperors have lost the people’s support,” you said, your voice heavy with conviction. “The citizens are weary of their madness, their tyranny. What is the dream of Rome if our people are not free?”  

Marcus let out a long sigh, the weight of the truth settling over him. “A dream deferred,” he murmured. “But not lost. Not yet.”  

The silence that followed was charged, the enormity of what lay ahead pressing upon both of you. You searched his face, seeing the resolute determination of a soldier but also the quiet yearning of a man who had seen too much, endured too much.  

“And what of you?” he asked, his voice softer now. “If the tide turns, if the gods will it… what would your dream of Rome be?”  

You hesitated, the question catching you off guard. “A Rome where compassion isn’t a weakness. Where the people, not the emperors, hold the power. A Rome where no child grows up in fear of a tyrant’s whim.”  

His gaze softened, and for a moment, the hardened lines of his face eased. “That’s a dream worth fighting for,” he said quietly.  

You gave him a small, tentative smile. “And worth surviving for.”  

The words lingered in the air between you, a shared understanding forming in the flickering light. Neither of you dared to say it outright, but the unspoken promise was clear: whatever lay ahead, you would not face it alone.  

[despair2me]

He’s so me.

Also I loved this show so much when I watched it last year because it doesn’t blame the religion for Malthus’ suffering, but the people around him and their selfish nature. Malthus wasn’t called for priesthood but was forced into it, and wasn’t taught the way things should be. That was the reason why he felt he had to perform a miracle and was betraying God when he couldn’t. His mother and Father Nelson dubbed him a saint and sealed his faith as a child, just for their own selfish reasons of wanting to “raise a saint” and protecting him from evil (which is just genuine love in this case). Even after he left, he still kept his faith in Christ. I respect the show so much for that. People often confuse this show’s plot as being “Faith vs Love” but it’s not that at all. It’s about a man who was raised to believe he couldn’t love another person more than a spiritual level, and if he did it meant failing the people around him and God. He was so scared of love :((

Save me Brazilian catholic guilt

[lovemomhatepolice]

(my) world champion - max verstappen

navigation taglist requests

pairing: max verstappen x fem! reader

warnings: established relationship, cursing, p in v, pet names, English is my second language!

type: smut!with small plot

word count: 2k

belonging: NO NUT NOVEMBER, las vegas gp

summary: it's time to deal respectively with the winner of the fourth championship

more content: formula 1 masterlist, max verstappen masterlist

a/n: I encourage you to give requests in the Christmas marathon! click here :) and my first thousand celebration

Las Vegas was noisier than ever before. Bright lights and colorful neon signs lit up the paddock. Noise caused by people who were celebrating. The night was amazing - and although Russell, Hamilton and Sainz stood on the podium, the eyes of most were on Max Verstappen. Vegas was not in his favor, but what it gave him was a fourth championship title.

Fireworks burst in the distance, showering the sky in golden sparkles. Cameras flashed, champagne sprayed, and his Red Bull team surrounded him with hugs and cheers. But through the chaos, Max’s eyes searched for only one person.

And then he saw you.

You stood on the side, waiting for Max to finish celebrating with his team. You were as happy as ever, wearing a jacket with his name on it, which you proudly displayed. This was your second time to stand by Max's side, celebrating with him this greatest of all possible victories. This year it was even more exciting - after all, there were as many as seven race winners, while the year before, besides your boyfriend, only two managed to break through.

Max walked away from his team, making his way through the reporters who insisted on getting his attention at least for a moment. When he reached you, the noise around you faded into the background. You smiled at each other, simply standing and looking into each other's eyes. It didn't take much to realize how close and important you are to each other.

“You made it,” you said quietly, and your voice trembled with emotion as you reached out to touch his face. “Four times, Max. You're amazing.”

He smiled, and adrenaline was still bubbling inside him as he drew you into his arms. “We did it,” he corrected, his voice muffled by your hair. “I couldn't have done it without you. All this time you've shown me that I'm more than just a man driving around the track”

“Oh stop, or my makeup will run off,” you laughed lightly, pulling away from him just enough to look into his eyes. Max focused all his attention on you. He didn't give a damn that there were people around who he should be interviewing. He didn't give a damn that there was even more formal business ahead of him. The moment he had you in his arms, he thought of nothing else. “And to me you'll still be the most beautiful,” he muttered, smiling at you. His hands moved to your cheeks and without a rush, he drew you even closer to him. Your lips joined in a sweet kiss. Your hands wandered over his collar from the suit he was still wearing. In the background you could hear cheers and photographers taking pictures of you, but this time it didn't bother you, you were already used to it. As soon as you felt his smile against your lips, you moved slightly away from him, but your foreheads were still connected.

"I love you the most, Max"

~~~

Inside the luxurious suite, Max reclined on the plush sofa, sliding his head onto the backrest. The faint clink of the champagne glass in your hand caught his eye and elicited a small smile as he looked in your direction.

“You did it again,” you muttered, and your voice was filled with admiration. “Four times. You make it look so easy.”

Max couldn't take his eyes off you. And even though you were already without makeup and your hair was already slightly curled, he thought you were the most beautiful thing that evening. You were wearing his shirt from the celebration, which was too big for you, but that was the whole charm. Surrounded by the lights of the city, you headed toward him.

“Easy?” he laughed, crossing his gaze with yours. “Certainly not with you distracting me from the side.”

You giggled quietly, setting your glass down on the table, then sat on his lap. Your fingers traced the line of his jaw, combing through the faint stubble. “You love it,” you purred close to his lips until they met in the process.

“I love you,” Max replied, and his hands found their way to your hips, quickly finding a rhythm together.

Max's hands explored your body, memorizing every curve, just as he memorizes every turn of the track. Each kiss was unhurried, each touch purposeful, as if you had all the time you needed for each other.

Max's fingers entwined in your hair, tugging gently as your lips clung to his. The faint taste of champagne lingered between you, reminding you of the celebration just hours ago. This time the kiss was deeper, hungrier, as if you were pouring all the emotions bubbling inside you into it. His hands slid lower, grasping your buttocks and pulling you closer until there was no more space between you.

You didn't even notice when you found yourself in the middle of the bed in your hotel bedroom. It was even darker here, with only the golden lights from the street illuminating the room.

“You are mine tonight,” he said, his voice firm but laced with tenderness as he laid you gently on the large bed, his body pressing against yours.

“I've always been yours, Max,” you replied, and your voice trembled with both love and anticipation. “And I always will be.”

Max's eyes softened, and his intense gaze stopped on you as his hands roamed your body, each touch igniting the fire between you. He took his time, savoring every moment, every reaction - your sharp breath, the way your back arched under his touch, the way your hands gripped his as if you couldn't bear to let go.

You didn't wait any longer. In a heated kiss, your hands reached the faucets of his shirt, exposing his trained chest. You stopped your gaze on him for a moment, looking hungrily at your boyfriend.

Max smiled at your reaction, his confidence rising as he leaned closer, his lips brushing your collarbone. “Do you like what you see?" he teased you in a low and hoarse voice, causing you to shudder.

“Mhm,” you muttered, rising slightly from the bed.

Now the two of you were in one straight line, looking into each other's eyes. The room was filled with your uneven breathing, which grew louder with each passing moment. You could see that the way you were moving at the same time forcing Max to lie down on the bed by himself, as you had moments before, was bringing him out of the control he had just built up for himself. Rarely did Max lose control, and she relished the power she had over him at that moment.

You moved your hands down his torso, and your fingers followed the hard lines of his abdomen, tracing the contours with a slow, deliberate touch that made him breathe rapidly.

Your hands quickly found their way to the buckle of his pants, unbuttoning them as quickly as you removed his shirt. Along with his pants went his boxers, too, freeing him all over. His excitement was already evident, and the way your eyes lit up with mischief made his chest tighten. He propped himself up on his elbows to get a perfect view of you.

“You're too good for me,” muttered Max, his voice strained as you wrapped your hand around him. Your touch was light and teasing, too much for him.

“You deserve it,” you replied, then leaned in to place a kiss on the tip of him, and your tongue slid out to taste him.

Max's head fell back against the pillows behind him, and a low moan escaped his lips as you took him into your mouth. Your movements were slow and deliberate at first, and your tongue swirled around him as you explored every inch of him.

“God, you're perfect,” muttered Max, entwining his hands in your hair as you took him deeper.

You set a steady rhythm, your hand working at pace with your lips, looking at him through your lashes. The sight of you in such a state, so eager to please him, made his stomach clench with desire.

“That's right,” he groaned, and his voice was filled with pleasure.

Encouraged by his reaction, you increased your pace, your movements becoming more confident as you puffed out your cheeks and let him slide deeper into your throat. Max's hips moved involuntarily, and his body was overwhelmed by the sensations as he muttered curses under his breath. You licked slowly along his length, and your eyes never left his face.

You felt him approaching the edge, so you slowed down and your lips slowly moved away from his. Max hissed under his breath, looking at you with a mischievous smile, in which displeasure also prevailed.

“Don't be like that,” he muttered, looking at your lips next to his craving red member.

You giggled quietly before taking it back into your mouth, your tongue working expertly as you brought it closer to the edge. Max's breaths became faster, and his grip on your hair tightened as his muscles tensed. Max's moans soon gave their vent, his body trembled, and your mouth flooded with his cum. You swallowed it all, and your hands continued to work around him, helping him come down through the aftershocks.

Max was quickly over you, leaving you no longer in any clothes. His movements were quick and decisive, but gentle on you. It was as if he had the greatest prize in front of him, and yet it wasn't long before he won something else.

There was a warm smile on his lips and his body tensed from restrained desire. His weight pressing you against the plush mattress was grounding, but every touch made you float. His hands gripped your thighs, his fingers digging into your skin with just enough pressure to leave a memory, drawing you closer until there was no space left between you.

His movements were slow at first. He tried to pick the perfect pace for you, but he didn't speed anything up, gently teasing you, seeing as you were impatiently pushing your own hips out to meet him. You arched your back, and his body instinctively pressed you against him. Max kissed you tenderly, but at the same time it was very intense, even making you dizzy - the best of your life. His hands moved over your body, tracing the curves of your hips and waist, trying to memorize every little part of your body, even though he already knew it so perfectly. Like a favorite circut he was never wrong on.

“God, [Y.N.],” he breathed, his voice strained as he tried to maintain control.

Max shifted slightly, adjusting your position to push in deeper, hitting a spot that made you moan into the hollow of his neck, and your fingers quickly went to his neck, pressing him harder against you.

“Let me,” he muttered, looking into your eyes. “I've got you.”

His hand wandered between the two of you, circling around your swollen clit, which was begging for attention. Because of the feelings you were experiencing, you practically screamed into his neck, crying from the pleasure. His words were your undoing.

The orgasm gripped you so hard that your body trembled under his heavier muscular body, which continued to smell of champagne. You clung to him, and your breathing picked up speed, turning into desperate gasps. Max came a moment after you, spilling inside you and creating quite a mess on the mattress beneath you.

You were both panting loudly, trying to catch your breath, but all you were able to do was laugh quietly. Max placed gentle kisses all over your face, ending with your lips. In his eyes flashed those beautiful skylights you hadn't seen in a long time through the pursuit of mastery.

“I've got you champion,” you purred, kissing him once again on the lips and smiling at the same time.

You could finally have a break from all the hype for a while, until the next season, where everything was going to start all over again, as it had for the past few years.

“For you I would even be able to give up the title,” he muttered, looking into your eyes.

And even though you didn't want to believe it, let alone for it to be true - you knew he was sincere.

A/N: God, I won't even hide how much I already want to end the season of smut. i have so many cool fluff stories that i want to publish!!! but it's my first time writing for max - i hope it went well

although I kept my fingers firmly crossed for Lando in this battle for the title of champion - congratulations to Max, he deserved it! May the next season bring us as much excitement as this one

I encourage you to give requests in the Christmas marathon! click here :) and in my celebration to the first thousand!

please do not copy and translate my works! in case of any issues related to this - I invite you to discuss privately :)

[bugboi01]

Little Bird

touch starved! reader x yandere batfam (Bruce focused)

(A/N, thank you all so much for the support! Feel free to drop a request or ask me to tag you whenever I post something new!)

TW: Mentioned depression/neglect, manipulation, kidnapping

It took you a while to get used to the Waynes. At first, you were resistant. Anyone would be after being kidnapped by some random rich family, but you eventually began to lower your guard. While the circumstances weren't... ideal, the Waynes had been nothing but respectful since you were kidnapped.

Three months had passed before anyone touched you. You were half asleep in your bed, the chill of the room making you want to stay bundled up for as long as possible. There was a gentle knock at your door, and in walked Bruce with a gentle smile.

"Good morning, birdie," he cooed, sitting down on your bed and caressing your cheek. He found it adorable how you buried yourself under the blankets but made a note to get a heater for your room. You couldn't help but lean into the warm touch, craving the affection and heat. Bruce's smile widened at the sight.

"M-morning..." you murmured, still unsure how to address the man who had taken you away from everything you had known. Bruce had made it clear he wanted you to call him Dad or at least think of him as a father figure. Not that you had much experience with those. Both your mother and father had worked constantly in order to pay rent, which wasn't their fault, but it still left you feeling lonely.

This whole thing was making your emotions all weird. Sometimes, you would hate them. Other times, you would crave their reassurance. They all just made it so easy to talk to them. And now Bruce was giving you affection like you were one of his kids. If it was wrong, why did it feel so nice? You couldn't help the little whine you let out when Bruce tried to pull his hand away, face flushing with embarrassment at his chuckle.

"Shhh, birdie. I'm not going anywhere," Bruce whispered sweetly, carefully pulling you into his lap along with a blanket so you don't get cold. He held you close, gently rocking you like a baby until your eyes began to flutter closed once more. You fall back asleep to the sound of his gentle humming.

[bella-goths-wife]

Kiss the barrel of my gun softly: chapter five

Chapter warnings: violence, prostitution, misogyny, men being men, arguing, angst, protective Sevika, mentions of sexual acts, mentions of non-con, cruelty

After the rough few weeks that Sevika had experienced, she decided it was high time to drown herself in her usual vices of drinking, smoking and gambling. So she took the night off from doing Silco’s paperwork and took herself to the bar in The Last Drop and hoped for a peaceful night.

She had hoped that every swig of her whisky would dull the feelings of guilt in her chest, had prayed that if she polluted her lungs with the smoke from her cigarillo she’d eventually be able to swallow the lump of remorse in her throat, begged for the winnings in her pocket to weigh more that the weight of her regretful, shrivelled up heart.

She had told Silco of the decision she had made and he expressed pride at her ability to weaken you, and the actions had been put into  immediate action. Silco had warned all chembarons to not associate with your brothel until his say so, and he wouldn’t lift the ban until you attended the meeting with him that he demanded.

The effects had been immediate from what Sevika had seen from her walks home and past the brothel the past few weeks, the lack of customers and incoming gold had been evident from the lowered prices the girls were offering. She can’t say that the pathetic state of your prized business that Madame Emerald had left for you hadn’t left her with a heavy heart.

But a part of her hoped this would lead you to see sense and to finally accept a partnership with Silco, and hopefully that would lead to you coming back to her and forgiving her-

“You need to see this” young Peter scrambles to her table and to the rest of her crew with a poster in hand which he slams down on the table they were currently playing poker on.

“What the hell” Sevika exclaims with a furious look, anger at her lost winning streak very visible on her face.

“Sorry boss” young peter coughs out sheepishly before pointing excitedly at the poster he’d laid out on the table “but this is just too good”

“What is it?” Sevika asks with a roll of her eyes, assuming it was another pointless fighting event that the younger members of her crew seemed to enjoy so much.

However, she stilled when she read the contents of the poster and her blood ran cold.

‘The Gemstone brothel presents once in a lifetime opportunity: A night with the Madame’ the poster read in large, bold print ‘gold offers will be accepted at brothel, highest bidder wins’

A night with the Madame was always a last resort for brothels, the Madame being the title that requires the utmost respect and one that gains you many enemies. By participating in the night with the Madame you are opening yourself to losing all the respect you had gained and being forced to do the most dehumanising acts all for the entertainment of the highest bidder.

You were prepared to at best have to sleep with a random for money and at worst risk having to perform dehumanising acts to protect your brothel from going into debt over attending a simple meeting with Silco? She knew your hatred could range on for miles but she didn’t think you were this reckless.

“I don’t get the excitement” Buff Wade’s voice breaks Sevika out of her shock as she watches the muscular man shrug and for once she feels something akin to pride for the idiotic man at his lack of reaction.

“Its a night with the Madame” young Peter exclaims in shock “you can pay to fuck her”

“Why pay for what I’ve already had” Buff Wade states smugly with a shrug and a smirk

Sevika loses all the previous hope she held for the moron as her eyes narrowed into a harsh glare.

“You and the Madame fucked?” young Peter shouts out in shock 

“Yep, before she became Madame Obsidian” Buff Wade confirmed with a smarmy smirk “back when she was still old Emeralds lackey and actually had to work for a living instead of sitting there and looking pretty”

“The madame never did brothel work” Sevika grunts out with a challenging glare, not wanting to listen to another one of this fools lies about you.

“Any of the girls living in that brothel will do brothel work if you offer them a gold coin or two” Buff Wade laughs out mockingly “I was just lucky to get the Madame for a night before she got that stick up her ass about us going in that shithole of hers”

“I don’t do brothel work” your voice echoes through Sevika’s mind

Sevika internally has to calm the waves of anger inside of her, she couldn't go making a scene and risking both your reputations over some stupid assholes lies and insults.

“Y’know the offer doesn’t say anything about multiple people spending the night with the Madame” young Peter howls out through laughs with a smarmy grin “Maybe we could finally teach that bitch to respect us”

“What’ve you got in mind?” Buff Wade asks curiously as he and the rest of the crew lean in with interested eyes 

“We can pool our money together and make an offer, we’d be a shoe in combined” young Peter looks almost sinister as the cruel words stumble off his tongue “we can make that prudish bitch do whatever we want and finally get some respect out of her”

The entire table erupts into rounds of laughter as they all list off things they could make you do, each request more grotesque than the last. Sevika can only sit and watch on in silence as her fists clench and she attempts to calm herself.

“Maybe I could go looking for that stick up her ass” Buff Wade laughs out before crudely wiggling his eyebrows “or make her shove something else up there-”

That was the straw that broke the camel's back as Sevika felt herself stand up, the entire table turning silent and looking up at her with curious eyes. She can’t stop herself as her hand snakes out and smashes Buff Wade’s head against the wooden table, her first hit on what would be a very long and violent massacre.

Sevika can’t help but think of you during this bloodbath, of how desperate and scared you must be right now to make this offer, of how much you must need her right now.

Of how stupid you were for not coming to her for help first.

———————————past——————————

Sevika paused in her steps when she saw you and Madame Emerald stood in front of Silco’s office, The madame staring down at you adoringly and patting your head gently before leaving you standing alone.

You hadn’t accompanied the Madame to any meeting for the last month and Sevika hadn’t been able to spot you around the markets like she usually has, its like you’d dropped off the face of the planet until this moment.

That's why Sevika can’t help but just stare at you for a few moments, enjoying seeing your pretty face after so long and all but forgetting your unpleasant ending to your last encounter. Your head turns to her direction after you briefly hear her shoes and Sevika knows she's been caught in her gawking.

“Oh” you say quietly “it’s you”

Sevika nods and wordlessly comes to lean against the wall to your side, almost routinely at this point.

“Didn’t think you’d be here” Sevika comments gruffly, almost wanting to yank you about and question you about your sudden disappearance from her life.

“Madame and Silco are having another meeting” you inform quietly “She needed me here”

“How long are they gonna be?” Sevika asks through a grunt, wondering how much time with you she has.

“Not long, it's unlikely they’ll make a deal” you speak quietly as you throw her own words back in her face.

There’s a beat of awkward silence between the two of you as Sevika looks at your neutral face and fights the urge to hold it in her hands.

“Where have you been?” Sevika asks quietly, breaking the silence between the two of you

“I thought it was best for us to have some distance” you admit through a sigh, your eyes looking down to avoid her narrowed gaze.

“Why would we need distance?” Sevika asks confused through a scoff, why would she need distance from you when all her body craves is to be near yours?

“Because I think we want different things” you say quietly as your voice wavers in hesitation on whether or not to have this conversation now.

“Like what?” Sevika grunts out with a slight sneer.

“I think you want sex” you state with a sigh “and i think you want to have it discreetly so that Silco and Madame never find out”

Your words shock Sevika as her eyes widen and practically bulge out at your forwardness.

“And what do you want?” she asks in an almost defensive tone

“I want love” you admit with a pleading tone “and I can feel it coming and I don’t want you to hurt me”

“You want love?” Sevika scoffs out

“It’s not impossible to want” you exclaim defensively 

“Just impossible to get” Sevika fires back mockingly but regrets it immediately once she sees your hurt expression.

Your hurt eyes look at the ground to avoid showing her your weakness before you let out an exhausted sigh.

“Sevika” your eyes snap up to look at her once again “what do you want from me?”

“What do I want from you?” Sevika repeats in confusion

“You’ve pursued me for a year now, we’ve kissed and you feel jealousy and possessive over me but whenever an opportunity for us to have something appears, you turn it down” you rant off with frustration clear on your face “so i'm asking you directly, what do you want from me because any of the directions you want to go in only lead to trouble”

Sevika lets out a huff of frustration as she listens to you talk.

“What do I…..” Sevika speaks quietly as she attempts to put her feelings into words, something she’s always struggled with “i want you, i want you for myself and you won’t give me what I want”

“Because I don’t want to sneak around behind our bosses backs and be accused of betraying them” your words come out quickly and in a pleading tone “because I don’t want to be your secret”

“Maybe I don’t like the idea of us having to be public for you to want to be with me” Sevika attempts to mask her true feelings with whatever excuse she can find, but you see right through her.

“That’s bullshit and you know it” you raise your voice in frustration at her shitty excuses “I want to be private but not secret, going behind our bosses backs will only end in tears”

“I can’t let my personal life get in the way of business” Sevika scoffs dismissively, not understanding the hurt her words could bring “bringing this to Silco would just be a waste of time”

You visibly stiffen at her words as your face becomes a mixture of hurt and anger, your eyes staring up at her becoming increasingly wet with the need to cry.

“So you see us as a waste of time?” you ask quietly with a hurt tone.

“No, that’s not what I meant-” Sevika quickly tries to backtrack but you cut her off.

“Good to know” you scoff out as you storm away from her and out of her line of sight.

Sevika wants to go after you and apologise, beg on her hands and knees for your forgiveness but she can’t when she sees two of her men approach her. She has to stay in her place, put on her usual stoic expression and pretend like nothing happened.

Pretend like she isn’t yearning to chase you down and beg for forgiveness for her stupid words.

—————————-present——————————

You pace around the room in an anxious panic.

Everything looked perfect, you’d arranged the candles and the decorations in the client room to make a romantic and relaxing atmosphere, you’d dressed yourself in the finest silk lingerie, you’d applied your makeup methodically and made sure to bathe and shave every part of your body to perfection.

But no matter how pretty you make the surroundings, it wouldn’t change the situation.

Tonight would be the night you would have to service a client or clients for the first time in your life for the first time in your life, and it scared you shitless.

The women around you had offered you many tips on how to make certain acts hurt less and reassured you that Ginger and a few others would be outside the entire time in case something went wrong but that did little to calm your raging nerves.

The client wanted to stay anonymous but the extremely generous offer they’d bid was enough gold to fund the brothel and feed its workers for the entire month, buying you enough time to figure out what to do next. You needed to suck up the fear you were feeling, you needed to do this for your girls.

You continued to pace the floor of the bedroom, fussing over small details to distract yourself from your undeniable terror. 

The door slamming open shocked you as you quickly whipped your head around to find Sevika standing there. She was covered with blood and was panting as if she’d just ran from piltover to the undercity just to see you, a bag of gold coins clutched tightly in her hands.

“Oh” you say in shock and disbelief with wide eyes “it’s you”

[theonceandfuturequeenoftarts]

Gonna shamelessly piggyback on the gorgeous art~

Vampire Voldemort/Tom ficlet under the cut.

Vampirism would never be Voldemort’s preferred form of existence, but needs must.

It’s unfortunate that the Ministry seized his body for examination instead of burying him – or even putting his corpse on display, he merits at least that much. But alas, when his back-up plan finally kicks in (well, the horcruxes were his initial back-up plan, but hardly the only one. One can never be too careful when it comes to ensuring one’s continued survival), he’s on an examination table surrounded by Aurors and Unspeakables. Not ideal for making his escape, especially when he’s weak and disoriented.

He manages to latch onto the nearest mage and drink enough of their blood to mount a defence and get to the exit, but being a vampire is different enough that he’s taken down before he makes it more than two steps through the door. How humiliating.

So now, here he is, tucked somewhere in the bowels of the Ministry with guards posted just out of sight, interrogated frequently on such matters as who his Death Eaters are, the extent of his crimes, what he knows (far more than these dunderheads can comprehend), and on and on. He gives them nothing, unless it doesn’t matter anymore and will just frustrate them to know. Then he provides more detail than they would ever want. Their methods of information extraction are laughable, anyway.

They only try to starve him to death once. After he rips through the wards and bars containing him and drains one of his guards dry, they don’t try it again. Now, they bring him some kind of blood in pouches once every few days. It sustains him, but that’s about all that can be said for it. He doesn’t feel hungry, per se, but too long without blood makes a headache pound behind his eyes and worsens his already irascible nature.

He’s certain he could escape this cell if he wanted to, but it’s taking him far longer to adapt to being a vampire than he had expected. His magic functions differently, his senses are heightened and inconsistent, and he’s unsure what his reaction to sunlight will be. (Or even regular indoor lighting – it’s kept quite dim in this corridor.) He’s willing to be patient and make his move when the time is right.

(㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ)

It’s during one of the Minister’s occasional visits – as though he has any respect for the position and will give up his secrets more easily – that he appreciates his intensified sense of smell for the first time.

(His guards could stand to brush up on their cleaning charms. They don’t appreciate it when he shares this knowledge with them.)

It’s enticing, the fragrance, and strong enough that it almost feels visible, wafting down the corridor from the open door. He feels himself drawn to the scent, only stopping when he hits the bars. It takes a fair bit of self-control to resist pulling them apart and pursuing the delicious smell. “Who walked by just now?”

“That isn’t of any concern to you,” Shacklebolt says flatly.

One of the Aurors snaps, “We’re asking the que–”

“Bring them here,” Voldemort commands. “Or we’ll find out exactly how well these new wards will hold up against me.”

His ability to enthral the Aurors guarding him might be limited by the amulets they wear, but the fact that it still affects them at all seems to terrify them more. One looks to the Minister, hands shaking; he races off once he gets the nod.

Shacklebolt attempts to stare him down, which would be more impressive if he’d been able to do it before Voldemort had his metaphorical wings clipped. Once he realises Voldemort has no intention of engaging in a childish staring contest, the other man chats quietly with the remaining guards.

The Auror returns, looking pale and pinched. “Er, Minister Shacklebolt…”

“Who is it?”

The Auror slides his eyes over to Voldemort before returning to meet the Minister’s gaze and shaking his head.

The look is telling. He makes an educated guess and calls out, “Harry Potter.”

After a brief pause, the tense, angry silence is shattered by the thud of footsteps rapidly approaching before the boy skids to a stop before Voldemort’s cell, panting for breath and looking horrified and enraged by what he finds.

“What the hell is he doing here–”

“Harry, wait–”

“He’s alive?!”

“Let’s go talk about this–”

“Hello again, Harry Potter,” Voldemort cuts in. “So kind of you to finally visit me.”

“How in Merlin’s name did you survive?” Potter shouts, sounding a touch hysterical.

“Come closer and I’ll tell you.” A rather transparent ploy, but the scent of the boy’s blood has his head reeling. And, well, Potter has never needed a sophisticated touch to lure him in.

Shacklebolt snarls at him and quickly raises the silencing barrier that prevents him from being heard beyond the walls of his cell. What a pity.

He says, “I’ll see you soon,” ensuring his mouth moves deliberately enough for the message to get through even if it can’t be heard. Potter’s brows furrow at him, eyes aflame, before he follows the Minister down the corridor, irately demanding to know everything.

No matter. If Shacklebolt thinks Potter won’t find a way back here, he doesn’t know the boy at all.

(㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ)

It takes four days before Potter skulks out of the shadows around Voldemort’s cell. 

Voldemort knows from the moment he enters the corridor, even if he can’t see the boy getting closer. Wild, black hair and a lumpy jumper emerge from under an invisibility cloak directly in front of his cell, just inside the sound barrier. Clever boy.

“Come now, you’re not afraid of me, are you?” he taunts. “I’m no danger to you from in here. You can step closer.”

A vampire’s power of suggestion works just as well as the Imperius does against Potter. He’d expected it, but the boy’s mental resilience remains irritating.

“Did you seriously think that would work?” Potter says incredulously.

“I have so little entertainment, I’m not in a position to be picky,” he mockingly laments. “In any case, congratulations. You’ve exceeded my admittedly low expectations of you.”

“Tosser,” the boy mutters, before demanding, “What are you doing here?”

He raises a judgemental, nonexistent eyebrow. “Well, when the Ministry offered me room and board in perpetuity for the low cost of my freedom and privacy, how could I refuse?”

If looks could kill, Potter might actually have a chance at putting him in the ground permanently. “You know that’s not what I was asking,” he snaps. “How are you here, alive?”

Voldemort observes the boy for a moment. Deep bruises under his eyes, still too skinny – no one at home to notice if he goes missing.

“I propose a trade,” he says, moving ever so slowly closer towards the bars. “I have something you want, and you have something I want. Surely we can come to a mutually satisfying agreement.”

“What could I possibly want from you?” Potter grits. 

“Isn’t it obvious? Your curiosity, Harry Potter, would put the proverbial cat to shame. You have questions.” Voldemort reaches out and wraps a hand around one of the bars. “And I have answers, if you’re willing to barter for them.”

Potter considers this, looking torn. Voldemort is confident the boy's need to know will win out. And he's correct.

“What do you want?”

“Something that I am certain will answer at least one of your questions. Come closer and you’ll find out.”

That nets him an unimpressed look. “I’m not stupid, you know,” Potter says. 

“No, you aren’t, but you are rather gullible at times,” he replies with a grin. 

“You are such a prick,” the boy says, almost wonderingly. “Fine. How are you alive? I saw you die. I checked your pulse, even.”

“You want to know how I am alive,” he says mysteriously. “How do you know that I am?”

Potter gives him a flat look. “Well, the whole walking and talking thing kind of gave it away.”

“Animate and alive are two different things,” he corrects.

“You pedantic–” the boy begins cursing, before pausing and considering the words more closely. Voldemort smiles and ensures his fangs are visible. “You’re a vampire,” Potter concludes quietly. 

“Thirty points to Gryffindor,” Voldemort mocks.

Potter is still staring at him, and he can almost see the dots connecting in the other’s mind. “What you want is the answer… You want my blood?!”

“Oh, well done, Harry Potter. We’ll make a scholar of you yet.”

“Absolutely not,” Potter says firmly. “You really must think I’m stupid, if you think I’d let you bite me.”

“Where’s your sense of fairness? I’ve answered some of your questions, but you won’t keep up your end of the bargain?”

“You want to kill me!”

“Not anymore,” he maybe-lies. He’s fairly certain the prophecy lost its relevance once he died at Hogwarts. If so, he’s not particularly fussed about what happens to the boy now.

Potter shouts, indignantly, “Like I’d believe that!”

And, well, he can’t blame Potter for his scepticism. He has spent the better part of eighteen years repeatedly attempting to kill the boy. But that’s neither here nor there.

“You made a trade with me,” he reminds the boy. “It’s hardly my fault that you failed to clarify the terms of the deal beforehand.”

“Fucking…” Potter tugs on his hair, looking frustrated. “Fine. But you’re not allowed to kill me.”

Voldemort gives him an indulgent look. “I swear.”

“I can’t believe this…” the boy mutters. “How…?”

“Give me your hand.” He’s close; he’s so close…

Looking like he’d rather be anywhere else and giving Voldemort a warning look, Potter slowly slides his left hand between the bars. Voldemort pulls the boy’s wrist towards his mouth, ignoring the wary glare boring into the side of his head, and bites down.

Finally.

He feels like he’s been starving for years – a feeling made all the more intolerable by the complete lack of hunger he’s felt since his bodily resurrection. Slaking his thirst for the first time is revelatory – if he’ll experience this transcendent feeling each time he drinks, he finally understands why vampires accept the troublesome aspects of their nature.

He drinks deep, revelling in the euphoria coursing through his veins. On the periphery of his awareness, he can hear the boy making noise, but the wards will prevent the sounds from escaping. He feels Potter’s other hand pushing at his shoulder, his face, and wonders whether he should kill the boy here and now.

But he’s not so lost in bloodlust that he forgets how disappointing the Auror was when he’d drank from her. The taste of her blood was barely different from the blood bags they give him. Perhaps, much like the scent of his blood is rare, the intoxicating taste of Potter’s blood is equally uncommon. He can survive with the blood of others, but…

Existence is so much more enjoyable with little luxuries to break up the monotony.

So he stops before the boy’s blood levels fall dangerously low. Potter will even be able to walk out of here, if a little unsteadily. If this becomes a regular thing (and he hopes it will, until he makes his escape and can steal the boy away to feed on as he pleases), he’ll have to recommend Potter bring blood replenishers.

He floats back down to earth slowly, enjoying the warm, effervescent feeling filling his body and mind. When he opens his eyes again, he sees he’s not the only one affected.

Potter is leaning heavily against the bars, left arm limply hanging from Voldemort’s grasp, and panting like he can’t catch his breath. His face is flushed – though the unflushed sections of skin are decidedly paler than usual – and his body keeps twitching. Perhaps he’d taken too much blood. Or the boy is having an adverse reaction.

Voldemort licks the bite wound to help speed the healing – can’t have his portable meal bleeding out, after all. As his tongue slides across the boy’s wrist, Potter whimpers. Needily.

Hmm.

That recontextualizes the boy’s other physical cues.

“Why Harry, did you enjoy that?” he asks, exhaling an unnecessary breath over the damp flesh of Potter’s wrist. A low, soft moan and a glassy-eyed glare are his only response.

This could be entertaining.

He passes Potter’s hand back through the bars and watches the boy straighten up on wobbly legs. 

“May I offer some assistance–”

“No!” Potter gasps, pushing away from the bars, though his hand remains firmly gripped around one to hold himself up.

“Very well. I appear to have taken more than was fair for the questions you asked, and you’re in no state to ask any more at the moment,” Voldemort says smugly. “I’ll be sure to answer a few extra queries for you next time in exchange.”

“Next time,” Potter says, a slight rasp to his voice. From the frown on his face he means it to come out angrily, but the breathiness makes it sound more like a promise.

Voldemort reaches through the bars to take the boy’s invisibility cloak from his pocket and fasten it around his neck, pulling the hood up as he says, “Yes, next time. Until then, Harry Potter.”

Potter lingers outside his cell for a minute, likely gathering himself for the walk back, before Voldemort hears his slightly unsteady steps moving away.

He starts to think of all the avenues this opens to him – and all the fun he can have while he waits for the opportune moment to leave here.

After all, Potter will be back.

[blueberrypancakesworld]

Hiii! Could you write a one shot with both Caracalla and Geta? The idea is that the reader is their favorite concubine (or legit their wife idk if that's how it works lmfaooo) but she's a witch? Like she's an oracle or something, they keep her around because she brings them luck and what not (they also kinda love her but they're both insane so...)

No worries if you don't want to write this!

The oracle of the emperors

Geta/Caracalla x witch!reader

warning : hurt/comfort, power inequality, kissing, mention of smut (light smutish), family issues

Summary : In times of war, one had to resort to everything, be it rationing, ambushes, burning or fetching the walking omniscient shadow from the alleys of Rome. An oracle surrounded the two emperors and was so much more to them than just a surrogate for the gods.

info : I love the idea, almost an au in Gladiator (maybe more someday) thanks for the request and have fun reading :)

masterlist

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

Rome was a world city, an empire for decades no for centuries, it would outlast all time. Everything would fall to make way for the glorious holy roman empire and no one would stop it, no country, no army, you just had to keep conquering and conquering.

An idea, a thought, a dream that had burned itself into the minds of the two emperors - they wanted more, had to and needed more. The reign of Geta and Caracalla was to be glorious, but the body cannot bear what the mind dreams of, especially not when its own warlord threatens to withdraw.

You can't keep a man from dying for a lifetime without risking his downfall, a fact that the two also saw...but if the fighting force failed, what could be done to win more easily and quickly?

Gods, oracles and witches, the supernatural, that which could see more than only man could see.

Since the conquests, the oracles had only predicted victories, but why did more and more bases go under, why did the harvests come to an end and why did the emperor's gold seem to dwindle?

Wrong answers were punished with death and the temples remained mostly empty, the only thing that was known to help was the shadow of Rome, the woman who was found before she was even looked for.

Her figure emerged from the streets wrapped in the dark fabric, the rustling of the small bones in her pouch accompanying her as the people looked at her in awe, as much as she was feared she was revered, ,,The sound of water will bring you a poet, just as these bones of death brought me to you...my honorable emperors” she greeted them as she came up the stairs to the palace and saw the golden gods in human form.

Of one she had dreamed his gold would cover the Senate like blood that would not stop flowing and the other she had seen an agonizing spirit that would perish along with all of Rome.

,,You will be placed in our service, no harm shall come to you as long as your words are of use to us,” Geta assured her as he showed her a bedchamber larger than anything she had ever had and still needed some work, for as much as she saw and heard them all, she knew how to interpret the looks in their eyes.

And the looks of the brothers were full of desire.

After a very short time she was surrounded only by the two of them, hardly any other servants or concubines, the campaign was victorious as she had predicted, but her warning also came true.

It only took a full moon for the “poet” to arrive inside the palace and she saw the amused look on Caracalla's face as he grabbed her hand, ,,You predicted it!” he said, and his brother looked at her, a look she took as respect.

When they were with the brothers during the day, she was with Geta, his hand at her side, the human god who wanted to be closer to Olympus through her, ,,You belong to me, here, in the Senate and out there,” he reminded her whenever they took up political matters.

Dark eyes with make-up looked at her whenever she moved the figures on the map, whenever she whispered her proposal to him in the senate and when he drew her to his bedchamber.

Why should she say no? Even a fool would have slept with the most powerful man whose voice was almost as intoxicating as his body, his kiss intense he wanted this power she had, his gold soon adorning her too, gifts in the hope that she would stay with him, touches of lust, he desired her power and beauty until the day she asked the question.

The fire turned bluish and she heard the cry of a monkey asking him, ,,You speak of belonging but this mine, is it none of your brother the Emperor Caracalla's concern?" a question that drove him from her, his face became incredulous and she saw the disbelief in his eyes.

He felt betrayed.

A betrayal she thought he would spear away, but her last prediction that this mine would mean his end must have frightened him, frightened and almost more God-given.

The gifts of gem and gold he made sure she wore, as much as he tried to hold it back she belonged to one god and not two at the same time.

Geta would spend hours in the temples, making people feel at ease and being addressed as a god. it was during these days and weeks that the monkey Dundus would often run up to her and she would see the uncertain look on Caracalla's face.

As much as he was fascinated, he was also afraid of her, ,,Witches are a bad omen...but you helped us,” the younger one said as he ventured into her room and watched, curious about what she was doing there.

Instead of luring him with physical devotion like his brother, she put a motherly smile on her lips, ,,Look even I can make fruit dance” she lured him and he sat down on her chair while she instructed him to close his eyes, she mixed a few simple tinctures and dripped them on the grapes.

A simple reaction of plants, but for Caracalla, who clapped his hands in delight, it was worth almost as much as the whole of Rome, ,,You see, I can't be angry at all, my sweet king,” she murmured to him and hugged him carefully, an embrace he wanted more and more from then on. during the day she belonged to Geta, who soon ignored her warning.

Why listen to a witch when he was a god? The jewelry covered her body, his love visible on her body and at night she took care of the younger one, so much pain and suffering as she held him like a child who would soon take advantage of her when his madness took over, ,,His gold, his jewelry but you're mine, aren't you? I need you alone, not shared,” he ordered, fingers clutching hers helplessly.

A question she answered with a kiss and the game between the two emperors continued to grow daily. The bones in her bowl became more and more when she made new predictions and she went from a god to a delusional one whenever one of them needed her.

Gold and make-up adorned her body and whenever Geta and Caracalla met it seemed as if Rome was on the verge of collapse.

In the midst of this they stood, the most influential authority taking on the two emperors while Rome changed around them, brothers not seeing that the shadow had closed in around them when the first thought had fallen upon them.

She felt at home in the madness of the two and the threads that held everything together, because no one could separate such a love. Yet to everyone else outside the palace she was nothing more than the concubine of the brothers Emperor Geta and Caracalla.

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

[sage-nebula]

The more I've thought about it over the past several days, the more disappointed I am with Mel's arc in season 2 of Arcane. Aside from how she was sidelined for most of the season (given that she spent most of it imprisoned), I feel like her magical abilities are actually a step down for her in terms of power -- that they're flashy and bright and meant to impress, meant to say "look, she can hold her own in battle now!" but that they exist at the expense of taking away the strength and power that Mel did have previously.

In season one, Mel's establishing character moment is when she's looking over a selection of items, and ends up choosing one that she is told is nothing more than a children's toy. In her next scene, she presents it to a fellow councilor as a birthday gift, and he is delighted, thinking that it is an intricate and complex puzzle that only the most brilliant minds can solve. This is such, such a strong characterization moment for Mel; it shows us that she is not only intelligent, but clever, able to work the people around her to her advantage without them noticing it.

And while the fandom has been nasty to her ever since season one aired, I don't think Mel being manipulative in this vein is at all a negative character trait. I think it is a strength. It shows how competent she is in her field, which is politics. And what's more, it's necessary for someone like her, who is a.) a foreigner, given that she only came to Piltover after being exiled from Noxus, and b.) quite young by political standards, given that she's only in her early 20s in act 1 of season 1.

We see this strength of Mel's continuously in season one, though not in the way her most ardent haters (and Jayce in act 3 of season 2, because of bad writing) believe. No, she did not pull the wool over Jayce's eyes and force him to make any decisions. He was a grown man who made choices all on his own, and choices that Mel supported him in making, at that. But she was able to see the potential in hextech, and help both Jayce and Viktor navigate and clear road blocks that would have otherwise impeded their progress. Jayce comes to her complaining that Heimerdinger is blocking progress of their research using the power of the council, and so she gets him on the council, for instance. And this was a feat; Jayce was seen as the "man of progress," but being a scientific innovator does not a politician make. But Mel was able to put him there, in a place where he (of his own volition!) called for the vote and made the speech that got Heimerdinger ousted from the council. Not that Mel was going for that -- she is clearly shocked in the scene and only raises her hand after Jayce nods at her for her support -- but still, it goes to show how Mel was able to influence situations around her, and navigate a political field that, by many measures, was set against her.

(Because while Mel was obviously not sent to Piltover with nothing, and therefore was undoubtedly housed in the luxury part of Piltover even in the early days of her exile, let's not make any mistake: she was still a foreigner to Piltover, and a child at that, when she arrived. Though her wealth gave her a leg up, she still had to work to get to where she was, and work hard; she had to shed whatever childhood innocence she still had in order to be able to navigate the political landscape of Piltover to get herself onto the council. No doubt Piltovan natives on the council wouldn't have wanted a foreigner sat among them, but she still managed it. And she managed it due to her own intelligence and inner strength.)

So in season one, we see that Mel is a powerful character in the narrative. She may not be participating in combat, but that is far from the only type of strength. Mel affects how things in the narrative go; she has agency in her own decisions, and she can move the narrative along due to the choices she makes and the actions she takes. She's one of the strongest pieces on the board in this respect.

Season two . . . takes that away from her.

Before her kidnapping, she's still in a position of power, albeit one that is slipping due to Ambessa partnering up with Salo in order to fight against Mel on the council. It doesn't help that a good chunk of the council is dead, and Piltover is shaking after Jinx's attack on the council building. Mel's position, of still wanting peace between Piltover and Zaun, is precarious. But she is still holding it. She holds against sending hextech weaponry against Zaunites (in order to protect Jayce's dream, of which he himself betrays not too long after). She stands against her mother and Salo. She's doing the best she can in the position she has and is still, however diminished her position may be from people (including her own boyfriend!) undermining her, affecting change.

But this changes after she gets kidnapped. Not only is she completely removed from the Piltover and Zaun plot for at least half the season (if not more), after she finally gets free and returns to Piltover in season three, it's as if all of her political savvy and sway has been stripped from her. We don't see her making any meaningful decisions regarding the future of Piltover. We don't see any indication that she has anything to do with Piltover's reconstruction and reformation of the council following the big battle. In said battle, she does fight (and kill) her mother using her shiny new magical abilities -- but that makes her just like any other combat-ready character on the show, able to kick ass in the physical arena. Yes, her abilities themselves are different, but the effect? Particularly when the abilities themselves strip Mel of not only the life she built for herself, but her home since her childhood, I can't be happy about them.

Because that's the crux of it. Yes, Noxus is where she was born, and where she spent early childhood. Yes, it's where her family is from. But your home is not necessarily where you were born. Mel was exiled to Piltover as a child, and she built a life there. She had her home, she had friends, she had a boyfriend. And while Elora, Jayce, and Viktor all died, I find it hard to believe that Mel had no other friends, even if we didn't see them. At the very least, she was friends with Caitlyn. At the very least, I believe she would have been an ally to Sevika on the council, given that she knows how it is to be a foreigner on that stage (Zaun is treated as foreign -- look at the way the other councilors glared at Sevika when she took her seat). And hell, her work on that council was dedicated into making Piltover a better place to live. It isn't as if she was just passively living in Piltover as her home; she was actively working to make it better.

But that is taken away from her at the end of the season, because she got these shiny magical powers that allowed her to kill her mother, and that means she has to return to Noxus. She has to return to a country that is as foreign to her now as Piltover was when she was exiled, completely alone, expected to lead a military when that isn't where her strength was. Her strength was in politics, not military command. But none of that matters now, because Mel was completely ousted from the position where she held her strength and power, with the show claiming it's okay because look, she can fight now!

(Also, side note, but I hate that fucking body suit she's in after she unlocks her mage powers. It feels grossly sexualized. Anyone who knows me knows that I fawn over Mel's beauty, because I am a lesbian and she is drop dead gorgeous, not to mention I love color contrasts and that gold with her dark skin and hair? OHKO on me. But although Mel was always designed to be gorgeous, I never felt she was designed in a sexualized way until that body suit. Something about the way that the implication is that it's just grafted onto her skin after she awakens her mage powers (because she wasn't wearing it before, but now she's wearing something so skin tight it looks painted on) makes it feel like she would be naked if the TV-14 rating would allow it. The way it exposes parts of her breast and her back don't help this. It feels like a, yeah, Mel has these incredibly strong new magic powers, but she also looks like more of a sexual object to take gratification in. Like they're "powering her up," but also powering her down at the same time. It feels very video game character design of them, compared to how beautiful and empowering all of her previous outfits were. Maybe I'm the only one to feel this way, but I just really hate it.)

This isn't a formal essay and so I'm sure my thoughts are all over the place, but ultimately, I just can't be satisfied with Mel's arc. I can't be satisfied that she was removed from the plot and allowed to affect so little of it after that was her greatest strength (and made her a truly standout character!) in season one. I can't be happy that she loses the life and home she built for herself in Piltover, to be sent back to a country she didn't want to return to alone. I can't be happy that the excuse for removing her from the plot was to give her magic powers so She Can Fight Now, when plenty of other characters already fight and so it doesn't make her stand out. I can't be happy that Jayce was made to spew anti-Mel talking points that the fandom had been putting out for years, none of which were true. And I really can't be happy that they put her in that ugly fucking body suit, which feels really demeaning for reasons I don't think I explained properly.

Mel deserved better. Point of fact, she deserved better. I'm happy she didn't die, but god, she was still done dirty.

[pedropascallme]

Set My Mind Free

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x f!Reader

Summary: “'Just wanted to…' You rolled your eyes, trying to explain yourself, 'After our conversation last week—you and me—I thought it was only fair. I mean, he waited by me, right? So what kind of Sergeant would I be if I didn’t look out for him? Just repaying his...kindness.'”

Warnings: SMUT (18+ MINORS DNI!!!!) oral (f receiving), p in v sex, intercrural sex, dirty talk, praise, very mild degradation, canon typical violence, detailed descriptions of wounds, allusions to PTSD, reader experiences a very detailed panic attack, discussion of panic attacks/anxiety, discussion of drug use and addiction (not reader), implied age gap (ages not mentioned), enemies to frenemies to lovers, hurt/comfort, I know little to nothing about how the military works, if I missed anything please let me know!!

AN: Part 1 here!!

By 4:00 AM, you’d stopped crying and told yourself that you would go to sleep.

But by 5:00 AM you were still awake, staring up at the ceiling and listening to the faint rhythm of your heart.

There was nothing you could do.

There was one thing you could do—but it required a sense of decency, and a level of respect that you worried wouldn’t translate properly from your brain to your mouth.

You didn’t know what you would say, if there was anything to say at all, and yet you still felt the urge to find Simon.

But he was probably asleep, just like everybody else on base, and likely in no mood to see you if he was up.

And you were worried how you’d act, seeing him at his lowest.

After several minutes of going back and forth between your limited options, you slipped out of bed, donning a sweatshirt and making sure you remembered shoes this time around. You grabbed the shirt—maybe he’d take it back now that he knew what it was like.

You puttered inside your room for a moment longer, hesitating, before you found the nerve to open your door and walk down the hall to the infirmary.

It was dark out, but the floods outside forced streaks of light into the barracks. You could hear nothing but your own footsteps, and the fact that nobody else was awake to see you like this; hair stuck to your temples from the tears you’d shed, carrying a blood-soaked shirt to a man who probably didn’t want to see anybody—least of all you—was reassuring.

You braced yourself for the grating sound of the infirmary doors against the floor, pushing them open slowly to keep the unnecessary racket at bay.

He was asleep in the same cot you had been in, and he managed to make it look even more cramped than it had felt when you’d been in it: lying on his back, he’d propped his head up with the single pillow he’d been offered, clearly trying to keep his feet from dangling off the end of the mattress.

It didn’t work, and he still had to bend at the knee to fit in the cot properly.

He’d been stripped from the waist up, and the left side of his abdomen was covered in gauze and bandages that likely concealed stitches over an ugly wound. But he still looked beautiful, and you kicked yourself for even daring to allow the thought to run through your head.

He still had his mask on. Of course he did.

You situated yourself in the same seat Gaz had been sitting in when you’d woken up, setting the shirt to the side and just looking at him.

That’s all you could do. Look.

You wouldn’t wake him up. You had nothing to say. And even if you did wake him, it was unlikely he’d be able to say anything of substance with all the morphine they probably had him on

So you sat quietly, staring at him; his mask, his bandages. Your wounds were in the same place, which meant nothing, but it still filled you with a profound sense of awe, a subtle yanking in your abdomen.

“Figured you’d come by.” Ghost’s voice broke through the silence of the infirmary, and you flinched.

“Fucking—Christ, Simon,” you sighed, gripping your thighs as you collected yourself, “How long have you been awake?”

He stared up at you, ignoring your question. “Pick a new name yet?” When you looked at him quizzically, he elaborated, “Not Berserker anymore?”

“Oh—no,” you had forgotten about wanting to change your callsign—too many things had been plaguing your mind, pushing your concern about a name to the back. “Still Berserker. For now.”

The conversation fizzled out, but you didn’t want it to end. You blurted the first thing that came to mind.

“I never thanked you.”

“For?” He seemed oddly relaxed for a man who’d just been shot.

“For?” You mocked him, almost playfully; what else would you possibly have to thank him for? “Saving me from, y’know…bleeding out.”

“My job.” Simon shifted, trying to stretch in the tight confines of the cot.

“No, but…it isn’t, is it?” You found yourself questioning his words aloud, “Your job is…lead, call the shots…”

There may have been nuances in his title that made it his responsibility to show compassion, but there was definitely nothing that said he had to kneel beside you while you bled; use his clothing in place of a bandage; care for you after you had done something so stupid and avoidable.

You bit your tongue, remembering how you’d screamed at him so intensely about how he didn’t do anything that wasn’t in the job description.

“Whatever, I’m…” you sighed, furrowing your brows and giving yourself another moment to back out of saying the next words. “I’m glad it’s you I call Lieutenant. Anybody else probably would’ve seen me as a lost cause—back there, and in…in a lot of the situations we end up in.” You couldn’t stop yourself from praising him, not after the events of the night and your self-reflection. “You’re a good Lieutenant.”

He didn’t respond. You were too uncomfortable to deal with any more silence, so you continued.

“You’re a good person, Simon.”

“Why me?” You’d hardly finished saying his name when he bombarded you with the question.

“What?” You didn’t understand what he was asking.

“Gaz is your mate, yeah?” In the low light of the room, you could see his eyes scanning your face, “‘Nd Soap. Both of 'em would’a helped.” He tilted his head back, and you realized what he was talking about.

You tried to push down the way your heart screamed for him.

“I trust you.” You answered with your brain instead.

“You trust them.” It was amazing to you that a man in his condition still had the energy to argue about such superfluous things.

“Yeah,” you shrugged, “But it’s…different. I think.” You didn’t care to explain.

Slowly, he nodded, as if trying to deconstruct the meaning of your words.

“And, you know…” You finally found your confidence, “Figured if I was gonna die, I could at least find out what it was like to have your hands on me first.”

You didn’t know why that was the direction you went in, taking a lighthearted approach and praying that it would come off as a joke.

“Could’a jus’ asked,” Simon sighed, and to your relief, he sounded amused. “Always wanted you to give me the go 'head.”

You felt your heart stutter, but you rationalized that all the drugs he was on were probably making him loopy.

“Would’a been nicer wi'out all the blood—better story for the grandkids.” He closed his eyes.

You just hummed, smiling. He must have been drugged to the nines.

He went silent again, and you stayed seated beside him, listening to the way his breathing leveled out as he drifted off to sleep.

If what Gaz said was true, and if Simon really had kept vigil over you while you were out cold, then it was the least you could do now for him. It was funny, in a melodramatic sort of way, thinking about how the two of you had switched places.

When you were certain he was asleep, you dropped your voice to a whisper.

“I brought you your shirt back,” you picked it up from the spot you’d left it when you had first come in, crumpled on the chair next to you. “I know you don’t want it…but…I don’t think I do, either.” You smiled, adding, “Maybe a clean one.”

You paused, half expecting him to respond. When he didn’t, sound asleep, you continued.

“I’ve seen all the shirts you own. Not a lot on rotation.”

You stewed in your thoughts, realizing that having him trapped as an unconscious audience gave you the perfect opportunity to tell him the truth—at least to a degree.

“I just don’t want to have this reminder of my own fuck up. And of what you had to do to…”

To keep me from dying, you didn’t say—couldn’t say, despite the fact that he wouldn’t hear you.

“But if I give it to you now, as a—if we treat it like a gag, like it’s something funnier than it is…” You pulled at the fabric, “At least…let me care, Simon. Even if it’s just this once. Pretend you’re ok with being cared for.”

Let me show you how deeply I care.

You folded the shirt in your lap, putting it on the small table next to the bed and rising from your seat.

You let your gaze rake over him, once again taking note of how oversized he was in the cot. In a way, though, as he lay, contorted and bandaged, he looked so, so small. Like a child that couldn’t bear to separate from their first bed; desperate for comfort that he couldn’t find and wouldn’t admit to craving.

How the mighty fall.

But he’d be out of here in a day. He wouldn’t let himself waste away in the infirmary—he wouldn’t be like you.

You couldn’t help the way you reached out to graze your fingers over the hem of his balaclava. For how often you grumbled about wanting to tear it off his face, you had no intention of doing so now.

You knew better. You just wanted to feel that part of him.

It was soft. You smiled.

Of course it was.

You brushed your thumb over the fabric that covered his cheek, smiling softly. Maybe the emotions you’d experienced over the course of the night were still running high, but you felt like you might tear up.

And you felt like maybe you’d be ok showing him this kind of affection even if he was awake.

You did your best to remain unwavering in the face of yearning.

“I’m sorry I yelled at you, LT,” you pulled your hand back from his face, “Won’t do it again.” 

~~~

The sun was coming up when you left the infirmary, and the hall glowed with an eerie pre-dawn atmosphere that comforted you in the strangest of ways.

You had time; he would see another sunrise.

You found yourself knocking on Gaz’s door, eager to apologize for snapping at him hours prior during your rampage.

He opened the door, already dressed, and the smile on his face helped you remember that no matter what you did, he understood.

Kyle always understood.

“Up early.” He noted, taking in your disheveled appearance.

“So are you,” you pointed out, and he smirked. “I wanted to say sorry.”

“For what?” He swung the door open wider, walking back into his room and silently beckoning you inside.

“Screaming at you last night—this morning,” you kind of laughed, feeling awkward for the storm of feelings you’d lashed him with. “I don’t want you to…I’m not mad at you. Or anything. And I don’t want you to be mad at me. I shouldn’t have snapped like that.”

You walked into his room, closing the door behind you, and he laughed.

“I’m not mad,” he sat at his desk, “Why would I be mad?”

“Because I cursed you out after you saw our Lieutenant get bodied,” you sighed, trying to make the situation seem lighter with your phrasing. “Shitty of me to do.”

“You were upset.” Gaz looked at you in a way that made you feel more at ease; he could see through you, but you didn’t really mind it right now.

“Yeah,” you nodded, “I was.”

“You still upset?”

“N—no…” You measured your feelings; you still felt a strange buzzing throughout your body, but you chalked it up to lack of sleep and the rush of adrenaline you'd been dealt. “I’m alright.”

You hesitated, looking around Gaz’s room to avoid having to meet his eyes.

“I went to see him.”

“Uh-huh.” Gaz raised an eyebrow at you.

“Just wanted to…” You rolled your eyes, trying to explain yourself, “After our conversation last week—you and me—I thought it was only fair. I mean, he waited by me, right? So what kind of Sergeant would I be if I didn’t look out for him? Just repaying his...kindness.”

Gaz didn’t say anything, but his lips morphed into a poorly concealed smirk.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he shook his head, “Just happy to see you two getting along.”

“Yeah, well—now that we’ve both been brought back from the brink in the span of less than a month, it’s a little easier to empathize with him.”

“Is'at it?” Gaz looked up at you knowingly, and you rolled your eyes again.

“It is.” You lied.

“Right,” he nodded, trying not to come off too pleased. “Good.”

“I’m happy that you’re not mad.” You muttered.

“And I’m happy that you’re feeling better,” he replied, voice tender. “You sleep at all?”

You shrugged, shaking your head.

“Try.” Was all he said.

“I know,” you nodded, heaving a sigh, “I will.”

He stood, patting you on the back and leading you out of his room.

“I’m serious, by the way,” he shook your shoulder playfully, “Happy that you and him have found common ground.”

“Yeah,” you smiled softly, turning to face him when you’d stepped over the threshold, “Me too.”

~~~

A full day had passed before there was a knock on your door. When you opened it, you weren’t as surprised as you thought you’d be to see Ghost standing opposite you.

“You’re up.” You stated, rather dumbly. He looked as though he had never been in the infirmary at all, clad in all black, gloves and balaclava on.

“Nothin' to do in ‘ere.” He grumbled, and you smiled.

“I think that’s the point, Simon.”

His eyes darted to the side before his gaze settled back on you, as if he was making only a halfhearted attempt at rolling them.

“Thought I told you to keep this.” Ghost held his hand out, and you recognized the shirt.

You sighed. “I kinda just figured—I dunno. Thought it would be…funny? You were so drugged up. You looked…” You tried to think of an excuse, coming up dry. You shrugged, “Thought you might finally want it back.”

“Wasn’t drugged.” His eyes narrowed a tad, having ignored everything you said to him after you mentioned him being drugged.

“What?” You furrowed your brow.

“Wasn’t drugged,” he huffed, “Don’t like 'at shit.”

“It’s morphine.” You smiled, amused by his discontent at the notion of taking painkillers.

Your delight at his distrust of anesthetics almost drowned out the loud thought at the front of your mind as you remembered the words he said to you as he lay in the medical cot.

Always wanted you to give me the go ahead.

You shook it off; you had been joking, and he had been joking back.

“They don’t give it to me. Don’t let ‘em.” His voice became a bit smaller, and you tried to reason with him.

“But it makes you feel better—great, even.” You offered an amused sigh, tilting your head.

“Brother was a druggy.” He stared daggers at you, and you were taken aback.

“Oh—I—”

“Don’t,” he shook his head before you could come up with an appropriate response. “'Eard it all before. Dead, either way.”

You nodded, resigned. Your gaze fell to the floor.

You knew a lot about Simon, but there were certain things he kept closer to his chest. He dropped lore at random moments—usually in an effort to shut people down, but this felt sincere. Vulnerable, even.

“Do you wanna come in?”

You could see his brow furrow, the familiar crease between his eyes appearing.

“Into your room?” He looked at you curiously before just barely nodding, “Sure.”

You stepped to the side, raising an arm to invite him in.

He walked slowly, taking in the look of the space; it was plain, barely decorated—like most of the rooms on base—but there were still pieces of you that lingered.

A blue hairbrush on your nightstand, pens with gnawed-on caps scattered about, half-finished reports on your desk.

He pulled the chair from your desk and sat. You couldn’t tear your eyes from him, as hard as you tried.

He was clearly still uncomfortable, tilting slightly to one side, but you couldn’t help but feel as though he looked right in your room.

You settled on the edge of your bed, pulling your legs up to your chest.

“You doin’ a'right?” He cleared his throat, worried that he’d made the situation uncomfortable by mentioning his brother.

“Yeah,” you nodded, looking back up at him. “Better.”

“Look, uh…tired.” He was slow to say it.

“Thanks, Simon,” you laughed sardonically, but tried to show him you were only kidding. “Always know what to say.”

“Meant—'ave you not been sleeping?” He tried to save face.

“Not well.” You chewed the inside of your cheek.

He nodded, eyes flickering over your form before trailing back to your face.

“Something keepin' you up?”

“Wish it was that simple,” you swallowed, tightening your grip around your legs where they pressed against your chest. “I’m, um…the thought of sleeping is pretty…daunting? Lately.”

“You scared?”

“Putting it lightly.”

There was a long pause, during which he seemed to study you. You didn’t squirm under his gaze like you normally would—something about this was more comfortable.

“'Ad a panic attack my first night in the barracks.” Simon spoke suddenly, but maintained a casual tone.

“What?”

He nodded, rolling his shoulders back slightly.

“Thought I’d made a mistake. Thought I’d…” And here it was, more bits of his lore—but again being shared in a manner that made you feel like it was more than just Ghost offering insight into his brutality.

This was Simon offering insight into his ability to feel.

“Early two-thousands, lots of, uh…propaganda, 'at I fell for, y’know, jus’ like everybody else,” he spread his legs, resting his elbows on his thighs as he recounted his experience.

You searched his eyes, though he didn't bother to look at you. He'd been a soldier for nearly as long as you’d been alive; you wondered what it was like.

“Didn’t know if I’d see the next morning. Didn’t know if I’d made the wrong choice, or what.” He took a deep breath.

For a moment, even in the mask and in his brooding, you saw Simon clearer than ever, without so much as a hint of Ghost.

“It was like 'at for a long time.”

“I’m no rookie, Lieutenant,” you scoffed, but it lacked any real bite. “I know how it is.”

He looked at you, almost pleadingly, for a moment, before his gaze settled.

“Point is…” he hesitated, “Don’t know if I 'ave a point, really.” He tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling before meeting your gaze once more. “Thought I was…valiant for pushin’ it down.” He looked at you pointedly, “I wasn’t.”

You nodded solemnly. He was right.

He wasn’t telling you directly that he thought you were burning yourself out; that he noticed you struggling; that he saw the way you were trying to ignore the mental toll, but he was right. And you both knew it.

“Sure you’ve 'eard it before from people you’d…” he shook his head, his sentence trailing off before he finished the thought. “But, if you need anything…”

“Yeah,” you swallowed, suddenly wishing you could reach out and pull him closer; allow yourself the comfort of falling into him and finding safety curled against his form. But you didn’t act on the urge, responding instead with a curt nod and a weak smile. “Thanks.”

He nodded, eyes still focused on your face. He shifted in the seat he’d taken, standing up slowly—too slowly.

“Take an Advil, Simon.” You tried not to make your voice sound too pleading.

He waved you off. “Yeah.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know,” he turned to look down at you. “I know.”

“Won’t kill you.”

“Don’t push it.”

You remained on your bed, hugging your knees to your chest, as he walked himself out of your room.

He paused, hand hovering over the knob.

“I like your callsign,” he finally opened the door, throwing his final words back at you as an afterthought, “Glad you 'aven't changed it. Suits you.”

You didn't ask him to explain, didn’t have the energy to call after him. You were too focused on the fact that he'd left the shirt on your desk; once again leaving you with a piece of him that you didn't know how to handle.

~~~

You didn’t want to check the time, fully aware that it was an early hour nobody else would be awake to see.

Your heart was beating too fast, and it traveled to your ears to create an obnoxious, suspenseful thump.

Were you dying? Or did it just feel like you were?

You could feel the sweat on your body, dampening your sheets; making them cling to you in unruly patterns that would surely press into your skin, leaving faint lines to show for your lack of sleep. But even soaked in your own sweat, cold to the touch, you felt like you were burning—like you had been stuck to some kind of pyre and set alight.

You were back in that hazy state. Underwater and out of control.

Every time you slept, you would dream; every dream you had became a nightmare.

In every nightmare, you were back on the ground.

Your breathing had been labored when you woke up, and though you were still panting, the nausea that had lurched within you now subsided into an inconsistent waver that occasionally rolled over your stomach.

You sat up, shoving your head between your knees and counting your breaths.

Five in; hold for five; eight out; hold for two.

Your legs were shaking, and your skin was numb, but you could still feel the press of your knees to your temples as you sat there, counting.

And then as soon as it had begun, it was over.

Maybe not over entirely, but you’d overcome the peak and were now on a steady decline.

You felt tears pricking the corners of your eyes, and it made you feel weak; a special ops soldier who panicked and cried could hardly be called a soldier at all.

The conversation you’d had with Simon came back to you, remembering his random divulgence of the fear he’d faced when he first joined the military. But you weren’t a rookie, you weren’t new to this—the only part you were unfamiliar with was the genuine fear.

He’d said that trying to get over it on one’s own wasn’t the heroic option he’d thought it was.

And he’d implied that he’d be happy to help.

On shaky legs, feeling practically boneless, you walked to his room, tiptoeing as you tried to keep yourself small.

It wasn’t hard—you already felt meek, crushed by your nerves.

You lifted a hand to his door hesitantly, unsure if he’d even be awake; unsure of what exactly you wanted from him.

But you did knock, and he opened the door, looking at you expectantly.

You swallowed. “Can I come in?”

He didn’t say anything, moving to the side and gesturing vaguely into his room. You hurried in, and Simon closed the door, walking forward to stand in front of you as you puttered around his room.

“What—” He began, but you cut him off.

“I have been pushing it down.”

“Mm?” You saw his eyes contort in confusion.

“The other day. You said you thought you had been valiant to push it down—said I could come to you if I needed anything.” Your words were rushed, and maybe louder than they should’ve been.

“Said ‘if you need anything,’ and then—"

“Simon.”

He held up a hand in concession.

“I’ve been trying to ignore it, and it isn’t working. I’m—” You felt a sudden onset of emotion, voice breaking. You tried to swallow the lump that formed in your throat to no avail. “I’m scared.”

“Of what?” He asked, and his voice came out low, quiet—almost as if he was attempting to sound softer.

“I don’t know.” You admitted.

He nodded, still standing at a distance. His eyes stayed trained on your face.

“I can’t sleep, I can’t—I feel like, I dunno, maybe it’s just because of how…unexpected…it was. But lying out there, on the fucking ground, on the dirt, bleeding, I felt peace, LT,” you had given up on holding back the tears, and they flowed freely down your cheeks. “I could accept what was coming. And now I’m back, I’m here, I’m alive, and I—I’m sore. Like, in my—in my soul, I’m sore, and I’m so, so fucking tired.” You took a shuddered breath. “And I’m scared.”

Ghost was quiet, but he finally moved, situating himself on the edge of his bed and motioning for you to join him.

“Sit.”

You obliged, wiping your tears with the back of your hand as you sat next to him.

He sighed, staring at the wall. “Not something you jus' move on from.”

“But I want to get better.” You argued, swallowing another sob.

“Y’will. In time.”

“When?”

“Can’t tell you.”

“Need to know basis?” You rolled your eyes, still sour about being left out of the last mission.

“Yeah,” he turned his head to look at you, and for the first time, you recognized the exhaustion in his eyes. “But you’re the one who’ll know." He moved to rest his hand on your knee. "S'not an answer anybody else can give you.”

Ghost didn't do physical affection the way Soap and Gaz did, and a gesture as forward as placing a hand on your leg felt deeply intimate coming from him.

You liked it. Partnered with his words, the weight of his touch made you feel better.

“Some help you are…” You smiled softly, glancing at him in your peripheral as you sniffled.

“Talkin’ about it, aren’t you?” You could see the movement of his brow as he raised it beneath the balaclava.

You sighed, nodding an affirmative.

“Talked to Gaz about it?”

“No…not—not like this,” you turned to face him.

His hand slipped off your leg in a manner that seemed almost reluctant. Immediately, you missed the warmth of his palm.

When he looked down at you in his trademarked silence, you continued.

“I trust you.”

You thought his eyes might’ve creased, giving away a smile under the balaclava, but you didn’t dwell on it.

“Can I ask you something?” The question popped into your head, and you figured now was as good a time as any.

“Wha’s’at?” He shifted on the bed, giving himself more space to look at you without having to crane his neck.

“You weren’t drugged the other day.”

“S'not a question,” he pointed out. “No. I wasn't. Told you ‘at.”

“So, you were just…joking? When you made the, uh…that remark about…grandkids.” You chewed the inside of your cheek, "About me giving you the go ahead?"

This time, you were certain he was smiling.

“D’you think I was joking?”

“I—maybe…” You chewed the inside of your cheek.

He shrugged, leaning back on his hands.

“You’re tired, Simon.” Unable to get a straight answer from him, you changed the subject.

“Projecting a bit?” He straightened back up, folding his arms, and you frowned at him.

“Why haven’t you been sleeping?”

“Rarely do.”

“Are you scared?”

“Not th’first time I’ve been shot at, love.” He was deflecting.

“Are you still hurting?”

He hesitated. With a huff, he answered.

“…I guess. Li'l bit, yeah.”

“Can I please just give you something for it?” You weren’t trying to beg, but it certainly came off as if you were, "Just some Advil?"

His gaze shifted around the room, and then back to you.

“Will it make y’feel better?” He tilted his head at you.

“It’ll make you feel better.” You countered.

He heaved a sigh, and you saw his shoulders sag a bit in defeat.

“A'right,” he nodded, “Yeah. Fine.”

You grinned at him through the tears that had dried on your face, rising from his bed and speeding down the hall to your own room. You grabbed the bottle of ibuprofen on your nightstand, then moved just as quickly back to his room.

“Take two.” You fished the pills from the bottle when you situated yourself on the bed again, holding them out to him.

“One.”

“Two.”

“Half of one.”

“Jesus Christ. Simon—”

“Fuckin' with you.” He took the pills from your hand.

You watched a bit too keenly when he pulled the balaclava up over his jaw to place the pills on his tongue. You could see the tip of the scar that brushed over his top lip.

He swallowed the pills dry, tugging his mask back down.

“Happy?”

“Thrilled.” You smiled, and it was genuine.

“Y’smiling at me, sweetheart,” he sighed, “Gone mental from exhaustion?”

“Maybe,” you rolled your eyes playfully, “Maybe I’m just…”

He stared at you, waiting for you to finish your thought.

“I’m glad you’re alive…” You sighed, staring at his chest rather than his eyes.

“I’m glad you’re alive.” He echoed your words, a bit more decisively.

You could tell he meant it.

There was a silence in the room, one that allowed the tension to really resonate. But it wasn’t uncomfortable—if anything, maybe it was necessary.

“Think you’d rather stay ‘ere tonight?”

“Here?” Your brows furrowed, unsure if you’d heard him correctly.

“Yeah,” he nodded, “Could both benefit from some company.” He added, “Up to you.”

You absorbed the question, nodding slowly.

“Yeah. That would…that’d be nice.”

"Go on." He shifted on the mattress, motioning to the head of the bed.

Simon watched you maneuver yourself up the bed, kicking your legs under the covers and pulling them up to your chin. When you'd settled, he worked his way to a more comfortable spot. He lay next to you above the blankets; mask on, arms folded over his chest.

It wasn’t the way you’d imagined getting into bed with him—and you often felt ashamed for thinking about getting into bed with him at all—but it was comforting all the same.

“Let me ask you something.” He looked over at you when you’d made yourself comfortable.

“Okay.”

“You serious? ‘Bout wantin’ t’feel my hands on you?” His voice was low but carried a playful tone, as if he were baiting you into a confession.

“What?” You laughed.

“In the infirmary, ‘fore I said that stuff about givin’ me—”

“Simon?”

“Mm?”

“Do you think I was serious?”

You rolled over onto your side, pleased with yourself. If he wouldn’t give you a straight answer, you wouldn’t give him one, either.

~~~

Simon was still in the same position he’d gone to sleep in when you woke up; lying on his back with his mask on, arms folded over his chest.

You had managed to position yourself against him, face pushed into his bicep. You found yourself wishing he had moved; tried to get closer to you, given some indication that he had noticed your shift and embraced it.

But no matter.

You snuck out of Ghost’s room as the sun came up, eager to avoid any prying eyes—if only to save yourself from the embarrassment of having to explain that nothing had actually happened at all.

But it had been a sounder sleep than you’d anticipated; he was warm, solid next to you, and that alone made you feel more at ease than you had in a while.

You found yourself in front of his door for a second night in a row.

“You a'right?” He opened the door on your second knock.

“I—yeah…” you answered, “It’s…I don’t…”

“Don’t want to be alone?” He finished the sentence for you, and you nodded.

He stepped aside, wordlessly, giving you space to walk through the door.

You had been truthful—you didn’t want to be alone. You couldn’t handle the idea of being trapped with your thoughts again in the dark of your room when you knew what was looming just behind your eyelids.

But the whole truth was that you wanted to be with him.

He tugged haphazardly at the blankets in an attempt to make the bed more appealing. Not that he really had to; you were tired, and it didn’t matter whether the bed you crawled into was made or not, as long as he was in it with you.

When he’d made the bed to his liking, you undid his hard work in a split second as you got comfortable under the covers.

You looked up at him. He stood by the edge of the bed, looking back at you.

“Left without sayin' anything this morning.”

“You were asleep,” you pointed out. “Why? Were you gonna make me breakfast?”

“Not with ‘at attitude.” He scoffed, and you laughed quietly.

He situated himself next to you, once again lying above the covers.

“I won’t make this a habit,” you muttered, “I promise.”

“S’a’right,” he shook his head, “Not really a problem, far as I see it.”

“Oh?”

“You ‘eard me.” He tilted his head back, closing his eyes.

He seemed so much more at ease in his own space, which begged the question:

“How come you wear the mask to sleep?” You couldn’t help yourself. “I mean—it’s your room, Simon. Nobody’s gonna see you.”

“You might.” His eyes reopened, and he tilted his head to the side to look at you.

“But I know what you look like,” you smirked, “I know who you are. And you’re not Ghost.”

“S’not true.” He mumbled.

“It is,” you doubled down, “Outside of this room, sure, but in here—in bed, at the very least—you’re all Simon.”

He was quiet for a minute.

“So ‘ow come you don’t wanna be Berserker?”

“Told you—just doesn’t feel like me.”

“But I’m still Ghost.”

“Yeah.”

“But I’m also…not.”

You hesitated. “Well, when you make it sound so…complicated…”

“I like your callsign.”

“Why?” You were genuinely curious to know what he thought.

“Thought I said,” he sighed, “Suits you.”

“You never said why.” You pressed him for more.

“You flip on a dime,” he explained with a sigh, “Go into this, uh, wild state. Pretty thing, goin’ completely berserk on the field—always liked it.” He exhaled a quiet, one-breath laugh, “And you’re damn near impossible to kill.”

You digested his words, but only one point stuck with you, and it made your heart flutter.

“You think I’m pretty?” You spoke coyly, covering your excitement with a playful tone.

He tensed his shoulders before letting them drop with a sigh of faux exasperation.

“Yeah,” he nodded, “I think you’re pretty.”

You smiled, staring up at him from your spot on the bed—his bed.

“‘Nd you think I am, too—beggin’ me to take my mask off.” There was a smirk in his voice.

“Simon,” you rolled your eyes, turning away from him, “You ruined it.”

~~~

After spending several nights in Simon’s bed, you’d become used to the process of falling asleep to banter that bordered flirtation; of sleeping soundly and without distress; of waking up earlier than you’d like to, and creeping out of his room.

On the morning of the fourth day, you had woken up with his arm draped over your side, his hand pressed lightly against your stomach. He had positioned himself so that his arm perched over your hips rather than your waist to avoid brushing the scar that lingered even after your stitches had dissolved.

Maybe it had been an accident, just a subconscious pull to the heat of your body as you lay next to him, but it felt too precise to be coincidental—and that made you feel a sort of smug adoration.

You had stayed a little longer that morning.

You weren’t keeping it a secret, per se, but it felt wrong to put this newfound arrangement on display. Even if it was only something between coworkers—friends?—that benefitted your sleep schedule and made you feel less jumpy, you didn’t like the notion that people in the barracks would suspect it was something more.

Maybe you didn’t care about what other people thought.

Maybe it was more about what Simon thought; what his intentions were; whether or not you’d be overstepping by making it known that you’d been sleeping—and only sleeping—with him.

You strolled into the mess hall feeling well rested and hungry. Your appetite had finally returned, and you were happy to sate it.

“You look better,” Gaz addressed you from across the table, “Sleeping?”

“Yeah,” you nodded, “Been managing to go the whole night.”

“Good,” he sipped his coffee through a smile, “That’s good.”

You hadn’t told him it was because you’d been finding comfort in the Lieutenant’s bed.

Ghost and Soap approached the table, taking their respective seats.

Soap threw his tray down next to Gaz, grumbling as he sat.

“What’s wrong with you?” Gaz nudged Johnny with his shoulder.

“Slept nae a fuckin’ wink last night.” Soap mumbled into his coffee.

“Why?” You questioned.

Soap sighed, shrugging in defeat.

“Bet you could get something from the infirmary,” you suggested, “Something to knock you on your ass. If you keep getting no sleep, I mean.”

“That what you’ve been doing?” Gaz asked you, and your mind went blank.

“Hoping it doesn’t come t’that.” Johnny inadvertently saved you from having to answer Gaz’s question by responding to your initial prompt.

“Tried countin’ sheep, Johnny?” Simon finally piped up from his seat next to you.

“Bile yer heid,” Soap shot a deadpan look at him.

“English.” Ghost huffed.

“Fuck yerself—y’keep it up, I’ll crawl into bed with you, LT.” Soap turned to look at you, smiling as he quirked a brow “If there’s any room.”

“What?” You tried not to let the sudden wave of panic show on your face.

There’s no way he could know.

Was there?

“What?” Johnny laughed, brow furrowed, “Look’t ‘im—be a shock if he alone could fit into one o’the beds.”

You faked a quick laugh, looking over at Simon, who hadn’t reacted at all to Soap’s taunt. He remained completely unfazed, watching his coffee steam; seemingly unaware of your knee-jerk response.

It was like he had not a care in the world.

Suddenly, your appetite was gone.

“I have reports to finish.”

“Still?” Gaz looked at you incredulously.

“Yeah,” you nodded, “Been putting them off too long.”

Picking up your tray, you wandered out of the mess hall and towards your room.

~~~

You forced yourself to stay in your own bed that night, and the night after that.

And it felt torturous, and not because of the nightmares or the creeping sense of dread—though that certainly didn’t help your quest to find independence. This discomfort was more about your lack of understanding.

You didn’t know why you were so concerned about other people on the base seeing you with him—nervous at the notion of your own friends knowing about this arrangement.

You didn’t understand why Ghost had become so attuned to your needs or what he meant by not seeing you in his bed as a problem.

He thought you were pretty. At least you knew that much.

Not that it did anything to help quell your doubts.

You had started sleeping in the same shirt that had caused you so much grief; after doing your best to lift the stains, you’d managed to make it seem like the shirt hadn’t been through hell and back.

Now if only you could make yourself feel the same.

You weren’t avoiding Simon on purpose—that’s what you told yourself, anyway. You just couldn’t come to terms with the fact that maybe he was being kind out of pity; that he saw how miserable and tired you were, and was simply relenting.

You didn’t want to get your hopes up, get riled up over the nothing that was sharing a bed with him.

Johnny’s offhand remark had, for some reason, made you feel odd. It was the way you’d reacted that made you feel bad, though, and Simon’s lack of reaction that made you feel worse.

His lack of an outward response made you upset. It dredged up the resentment you’d projected onto him. His clear obsession with appearing so stoic and uncaring in front of everybody made you feel unwanted; the fact that he could never, ever, seem to give you a reaction, no matter what you did, made you feel pitiful.

Meanwhile, your immediate panic at the thought of Soap knowing what was going on made you feel pathetic, and served to put into perspective just how deep your feelings actually ran.

The juxtaposition in reactions from yourself and him made you feel dirty.

You stared at the ceiling, trying to find solace in your bed after a day of forcing yourself to finish reports. You hadn’t been lying when you’d walked out of breakfast the other day—they had been piling up, and you had really needed to get them sorted.

You were tired. It wasn’t your best work, but at least they were finally done.

Someone knocked on your door.

“What?” You called out, prepared to hear Gaz on the other side.

“Open the door, sweetheart.”

Simon.

You opened your door a crack, just to peek at him, before finding the courage to open it completely.

“A'right?” He didn’t seem to notice your hesitation—that, or he was just ignoring it.

He was so good at ignoring things.

“Yes.” You lied, immediately turning bitter towards him.

“'Aven’t been comin' to see me.” He wasn’t asking, just stating the obvious, and it made you even more upset.

“Two nights,” you turned your back on him, walking further into your room. “Three tonight.”

You hadn’t really meant your movement as an invitation for him to come in, but Simon took it as one anyway. He followed you inside, shutting the door behind himself.

“D’you want to—”

“Do I want to sleep in your room?” Your words came out snippy as you cut him off, and indignation dripped from your voice.

He stayed quiet for a moment.

“Do you?”

“Did you tell Soap?” You began interrogating him.

“Mm?”

“Did you,” you took a step closer to him, “Tell Soap? About—about this? About…whatever this is. Me sleeping in your bed.”

“No,” Simon tilted his head to the side, “Did y’want me to?”

“Did I—what? What, so you can make a show of how you finally got me to behave for you?” You snapped, “Make sure everybody knows how easy it was to soften me up and get me where you want me?”

His eyes went wide for a moment before he collected himself with a huff.

“What?”

“I said what I said. Is this about you getting a little power trip?”

You felt lightheaded. You’d spent so long building walls around yourself to avoid your want for him, and he’d managed to tear them down in a matter of weeks. And he didn’t even care; he was seemingly ignorant to all of your emotional turmoil, to all the what ifs, and the sinking feeling you always carried of never being good enough for him.

“Making sure everybody knows that you’ve gotten another thing that you deserve?” You continued, irate.

He stared at you, resigned to your verbal onslaught.

“You don’t care what they think.” He spoke as if it was only just dawning on him.

“But I care what you think!” You broke, slumping over yourself slightly. You didn’t know if you wanted to laugh or cry, finding a happy medium in giggling so hysterically that your eyes began to water. “I care way too much about what you think, Simon! And I have no idea what you’re thinking, ever! You wanna know why I’ve been so fucking—I don’t know, upset? With you? For god knows how long? Why I'm so confused by this random fucking attentiveness?”

You stormed over to your desk, hastily grabbing the reports and walking back over to Simon to slam them against his chest.

“Be fucking certain they’re in order this time, sweetheart!” You mocked his accent, angry enough that you considered mimicry fair game.

He let the papers drop to the ground by his feet.

“You went from so easy to so, so difficult in the span of twenty-four hours, and I have never for the life of me been able to figure out what set you off!” You wondered if he even remembered the series of events you were talking about, if it stuck out to him the way it did to you. “You’re so complicated! You’re so fucking—and now you’re mad that I’m not running off to bed with you? So—so that you can keep me safe from myself and prove to me that you’re some fucking superhero? Wanna be my personal savior? Make me eat my words about your arrogance?” You scoffed, “Jesus fuck, Simon!”

You swallowed every emotion besides ire. Still, you felt a pang of remorse when you remembered what you’d said to him as he lay sleeping in the infirmary.

Sorry I yelled at you; it won’t happen again.

Now you were making a liar out of yourself, and it wasn’t even his fault—this was you still trying to push it all down, even after everything. The fear of rejection tried to overpower your desire for help from him; comfort from him.

The terseness of your words hung between the two of you, and you remained frozen in place, standing across from him, panting.

“Wasn’t mad.” You could hear the irritation in his voice, finally getting a reaction.

“What?” You huffed.

“I wasn’t mad. Never been mad at you.”

“Then what—”

“You needed a push.”

“And that’s how you thought to do it?”

“'Ow else would I have done it?” He sounded like he did on missions, blunt and loud, and the severity of his tone made you flinch.

“Any other way! You—you refuse to acknowledge the work I put into all of this! Then, now, you’ve always acted like I’m not good enough to be here!”

“I push you because I respect you,” he was practically yelling now as he matched your urgency, raising a hand to point at you for emphasis. “You respond better to assertiveness. You thrive on clarity, always 'ave. Thought I was fuckin' ‘elpin' you.” With narrowed eyes, he searched your face. "And maybe I was rough on you, but ‘ow the fuck was I s'posed to react—you think I knew what to do? When you were showing me such bloody—this gentle fuckin' devotion since day one?"

You thought you'd like getting him to snap, but you didn't. You could feel your cheeks heating up, sinuses stinging slightly as your body readied tears.

You felt stupid, the situation lamentable. It had always been a misunderstanding; a lapse in communication between two people who understood each other but refused to relate. Someone who wanted to adore, and someone who had no idea how to be adored.

He had always been attuned to your needs. He was just godawful at showing it.

You shrunk into yourself a bit, biting your lip to keep the tears at bay. You avoided his gaze as you chose your words.

“Are you proud of me?”

“What?” He looked down at you in disbelief.

You doubled down, trying to keep your voice even, “Are you proud of me, Simon?”

He took a long breath, debating his next move, before tugging his mask over his jaw.

In one swift motion, he pulled you into him, not bothering to weave his arms under your own and instead wrapping himself around you with your arms still slack at your sides.

“Fuck are you talking about?” He growled, one hand coming up to cup your face.

And then he was kissing you, passionately, but in an oddly chaste manner.

You gasped, shocked by how forward the action was and by how much you responded to it. You wiggled your arms out of his grasp, one hand finding purchase on his chest while the other flew to the nape of his neck.

He pulled away from you, and you found yourself chasing the slow movement of his lips against yours, already missing the vague taste of him you’d gotten from the gentle kiss.

“You’re fuckin' stubborn,” Simon spoke just above a whisper, deep voice ragged as he caught his breath, “You’re one of the most competent people I’ve ever worked with. You call me on shit people three ranks above you wouldn’t, and you’re right. You stepped on a landmine, and you lived.” His thumb brushed over your cheek as his hand kept up the responsibility of holding your face up, ensuring that your eyes met his. “Who cares ‘f I’m proud of you.”

It wasn’t a question, more of a statement, but you answered anyway.

“I do.” You breathed, and you finally felt as though the whole truth had been told.

“Well, I…” He swallowed, “I am.” There was a pause as he collected his thoughts, staring at you with a tender look of hesitation. “I am. And ’m sorry.”

“For what?” You wanted to hear it.

“Everything,” he seemed assured, “Not being—not being the right kind of support, not being clear about…”

When he trailed off, you wanted to push him forward into his feelings; make him say it, clarify how he hadn’t been clear about his true intentions or the nature of his emotions; make him put into perspective what Gaz had been trying to tell you in your room as you smoked through your skepticism.

But that would just make you feel cruel, and if he wasn’t ready to share that sort of vulnerability with you, then so be it.

Instead, you began a new line of questioning.

“Why’d you make that crack about us having grandkids?” You leaned against his palm where it rested on your face.

“Felt right. In th’moment,” he sighed, “Thought it was funny.”

“You were serious.”

“‘F you think I—”

“You were.” You delivered your claim with certainty.

He smiled, and you were thrilled to be able to see the rare presentation on his partially unmasked face.

“I was.”

“I’m not a problem.” You tried not to get distracted by how pretty his lips looked, curled so obviously at the edges.

“Not the way I see it.” He answered in a manner so typically Ghost, but it still served to prove your point.

“And you think I’m pretty.”

You watched his smile turn into something more akin to a smirk.

“'At's right. I do.”

“Gaz said…said you stayed with me. In the infirmary.”

“I did.”

“How come?” You wanted more extensive answers, unsatisfied by his brief responses.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Simon countered your question with another.

“You were pissed that I woke up when you weren’t there.” You continued to run through the series of events that had irritated you so greatly.

“Can y’blame me?”

“Yeah.”

He closed his eyes for a moment upon hearing your reply, perhaps recognizing his own shortcomings in how he was dealing with this conversation; or recognizing that he had, in fact, been in the wrong to get so aggressive while you were still healing up.

He didn’t say anything, so you took it upon yourself to continue, trying to prompt him.

“You were mad.”

“I was upset.” He clarified with a hiss, not out of spite but frustration at his inability to express himself.

“Why?” You urged him on.

“Because—” He heaved a sigh, “Wanted you to know I...cared. Wanted it t’be something 'at registered…”

He was clearly struggling to describe his thought process, and you couldn’t blame him—he was a complicated man in every sense of the word, and you could only imagine what it was like inside his head.

But he was trying.

“'En you woke up while I was gone, 'nd I felt stupid, so I just…took it out on you, and everybody else,” he breathed, “And I shouldn’t ‘ave. And I’m sorry.”

You wondered if you were the first person to ever hear the words I’m sorry come out of his mouth, and you tried not to relish in the notion.

You tugged subconsciously at his shirt collar, and realizing that you both still hand your hands wound around one another made you blush.

“Why did you listen to me?”

“When?” He furrowed his brow enough that you could see his eyes crease.

“You let me lead—you treated me when I asked you to.” You explained.

“Think I’d jus’ let you bleed out?” His lips curled into a subtle smile again.

“Answer the question.” You tugged a bit more harshly on his shirt.

“I respect you,” he muttered, “You’re a good soldier.”

“That doesn’t answer my—”

“It does.” He cut you off, eyes boring holes into your own as if in an effort to telepathically send you the meaning of his words.

And you understood.

“So why did you use your shirt?” You swallowed, smiling softly.

“Y'ask a lot of fuckin’ questions, know 'at?” He huffed playfully.

“Yeah,” you shot back, not bending to his teasing, “Why’d you use your shirt.”

“No bandages.”

“So your first instinct was to just—strip down, middle of a warzone, wrap me up?”

“I need you,” he paused then, perhaps intentionally, as he tightened his grip around your waist, hauling you even closer against him, “Safe.”

Your breath caught in your throat, and you parted your lips, but no words came out.

“I need you alive. And I’m glad I did it,” he was trying not to mumble, unsure of how his words would be received despite how you were clinging to him like some sort of life preserver. “I’m glad you’re alive.”

You swallowed the lump that had formed in your throat, touched by his sincerity and wanting to grip his face, pull him down into another kiss that you could deepen even further.

“Could’ve used a sock…” You opted instead to poke fun at him, hoping it might lighten the mood and ease the tension. You didn’t want to run the risk of kissing him with tears trailing down your face.

“Fuck off.” He chuckled, and you felt instantly soothed.

Simon tilted his face down ever so slightly, eyes leaving your face to take in the way his shirt framed your body.

“Looks good on you.” He seemed pleased.

“Cleaned the blood.”

“I noticed.” He nodded, eyes still scanning the fabric that adorned you. “Suits you.”

“You keep saying that, and I don’t know what you mean.” You tilted your head at him, your bodies close enough that you could hear his heartbeat syncing with yours.

You belonged here.

“'Ow much clearer could I be, sweetheart?” He scoffed in jest.

“Simon.”

“Mm?” He looked back at you.

“Shut up,” you shook your head, amused, “I’m giving you the go ahead.”

You pulled him down by the nape of his neck where your hand still sat, reconnecting your lips to his.

This time, it was different—his movements were hungry, and there was little time wasted as he worked to deepen the kiss. You parted your lips, beckoning him in and whimpering softly when he began to lick into you. The room was silent with the exception of the soft sound of his mouth exploring yours and the quiet hiss of breath.

He finally moved his arm, wrapping it properly around your waist, and you could feel his fingers pressing against your skin as if in an attempt to map you out, to bruise you with his fingerprints and mark you as identifiably his own. His other palm rested heavy on your cheek, sliding back to allow his fingers to brush through your hair leisurely.

Your own hands had also begun to wander, stroking up his chest and his back, grabbing at his shoulders and his arms in a desperate attempt to feel the warmth of him seep into your palm anywhere you could get it through his shirt. You felt delirious with want—every emotion besides lust fizzled out, and you were left with the knowledge that this was all you’d ever really wanted.

And now that you had it, you couldn’t get enough.

You tugged on his shirt. He took the hint, allowing you to walk with him in an awkward dance of intwined limbs until the back of your knees hit the bed.

You finally separated, though he kept his hands on your sides. You stared up at him as you caught your breath.

“Take it off.” Your words came out whined.

“Take what off?” He heaved a breath.

He knew what you were talking about, but he prompted you all the same in an effort to encourage you to take what you wanted.

You reached up hesitantly. With one one hand, you cupped his jaw, while your other hand gripped the fabric that he’d tugged over his mouth, peeling it off of him until his face was fully exposed.

It had only been a month or two since you’d seen his face unobstructed, but he was prettier than you remembered, if that was possible.

The scars that crisscrossed over his left cheek were a flushed pink, rosy against his pale skin; his eyes seemed sharper, keener as you analyzed his features.

His hair had grown longer on top, despite the fact that he had clearly maintained the close cropping on the sides.

Seeing him like this always made him seem human, and the circumstances in which you were seeing him now made it innately more intimate.

You kept your hand on his face, absentmindedly trailing your thumb down his cheek as you considered what you could say in this moment.

“Hair’s not regulation…” You mumbled, swallowing.

“Gonna tell on me?” When he spoke, the faint stubble that dotted his jawline scraped gently against your palm.

“No…” You couldn’t think of anything witty to say, “I like it like this.”

He didn’t respond, but his eyes grew softer as he stared down at you. His hands, still on your waist, dipped beneath your shirt and the feeling of his calloused palms running so gently up your bare skin made you suck in a breath.

“Simon…” You suddenly felt that you couldn’t make eye contact with him, lest you embarrass yourself by begging him to fuck you where you stood.

He looked at you expectantly for a moment before his gaze flicked down to where his hands stroked up your body.

“I want—” You tried to find the words that would make you sound the least pathetic, but realized that you didn’t really care as you settled on your phrasing. “Fuck me.”

“Yeah?” His voice gave away his eagerness.

“Please.” You added.

That was all it took to get him to grab you by the hips and tug you into him, turning the both of you around so that he could sit on the bed. You scrambled to straddle his lap.

He snaked his hands back under your shirt—his shirt—helping you out of it with one hand while the other traced patterns down your spine. When you tossed it to the side, you gazed at him expectantly, searching his face for a reaction.

“Fuckin’ hell,” you got one quickly. “Wanna…”

He never finished his sentence, and you didn’t have time to prompt him; his hands traveled up to your shoulder blades, face dipping down to bury himself in the cavern between your breasts and trail open mouthed kisses over your skin.

You couldn’t help the giggle that slipped from your lips, a response to the action itself and the way he felt against you; hot, wet tongue smoothing over the spots his stubble scratched at.

When he moved to take one of your nipples between his lips, you rolled your hips, arching your back. The action earned you a growl from him, and the small vibrations from his mouth made goosebumps erupt over your skin.

“Christ, don’t—” He grunted against the supple flesh of your breast, clearly struggling to hold back from reciprocating your movements as he bucked his hips gently up into you. “Fuck, c’mere.”

He grabbed your thighs before he stood, flipping you onto your back. Your legs dangled off the edge of the bed, and he knelt between your thighs.

“Should we take these off?” His fingers just barely dipped beneath the waistband of your sleep shorts, and you whined.

“Yes—yeah,” you raised your hips from the bed, “Go for it.”

Simon smirked, tugging your shorts down your legs and leaving you completely exposed to him. He trailed kisses up the inside of your leg, sucking hard on the skin of your thigh as he inched closer to your core.

“Knew you’d be a tease.” You huffed a laugh when he reached the top of your thigh only to move back and trail kisses up your other leg.

“Thought about it a lot?” He smiled against your skin, “Night’s young, sweetheart.”

You rolled your eyes, but gasped softly when he reached the top of your thigh again and slowly began to leave kisses over your pubic mound, taking his time, dipping lower until he reached your clit.

You let out a shaky breath. How long had it been since someone touched you like this; since you’d exposed yourself to a hand that wasn’t yours, a mouth that knew how to put in the effort?

How long had you been aching to feel Simon this way?

Your hand flew to his head, fully appreciating the way his hair had grown out to offer you the proper length to pull on.

Simon moaned softly, pressing chaste kisses to your clit, but when you tugged harder, desperate for more, he let out a quiet growl and stared up at you as he finally pressed his tongue to your folds.

You knew he had good aim—snipers tended to—but the way he so expertly circled his tongue over your entrance, pressing into you and lapping up your slick made your back arch. You raised your legs to rest them over his shoulders, aching for him.

You could feel his breath coming out in warm huffs against your slick. He ate you like a man starved, and you bucked your hips into his face when he licked a broad stripe over your slit that culminated in him teasing your clit with the tip of the muscle.

“Greedy thing,” he teased, nipping at your inner thigh, “Taste even better 'an I thought.”

“Thought—thought about it a lot?” You threw his words back at him with a shaky voice, nearing the edge, and he laughed.

“All the time,” he wrapped his arms around your legs, forcing you to still as he pressed another kiss to your dripping cunt. “Hand wrapped 'round my cock, thinking 'bout buryin' my face in you,” he teased your clit, licking another stripe over you before continuing his rambling. “How fuckin' pretty you’d look, starin’ down at me.”

His words made you feel feral, and the knowledge that he had touched himself to thoughts of you, just as you had to thoughts of him, forced a whimper from your throat. You looked down at him with parted lips and lust blown eyes.

“Yeah, ’at’s it,” he nodded, staring back at you from between your thighs, face coated in your slick, “Jus' like 'at, sweetheart. Watch me.”

He dropped his face again, hands moving up your legs to grip the flesh of your ass and pull you firm against him as he sucked on your clit mercilessly.

You found yourself writhing beneath his ministrations, pulling his hair harder as you reached the precipice. You didn’t know if you wanted him to stop, to go easier on you; or if you wanted him to stay there, lapping at your cunt and overwhelming your senses forever.

Your thighs squeezed around his head, trembling, as your muscles tensed. Your vision went blurry from the pleasure.

“Cum.” He said it like it was an order, licking into you before quickly returning his attention to your clit, sucking down hard around the bud.

What was likely meant to be a scream came out a choked cry as you came, gasping his name and trying to curl into yourself as the stimulation became all too much for you to handle.

With a final kiss to your cunt, Simon removed his mouth from you, stroking his thumb over your hip and watching you shake.

“Good?” He whispered into your thigh, planting soft kisses over your skin as you whimpered through the aftershocks of your orgasm.

“Yeah—fuck, Simon, yeah. Good,” you panted, “Better than good...Christ.”

He hummed, satisfied by your answer.

You stayed sprawled out with him between your legs for a while longer, appreciating the soft touches of the man who projected such a harsh persona; reminding yourself how to breathe properly.

"Come." You stretched your arms out, staring at him as you encouraged him to crawl into bed with you.

He obliged, standing, and you bit your tongue to keep from taunting him about how easy it was now to get him to follow orders. He pulled you into him, and you pressed your hands to his chest, nuzzling beneath his chin.

“You gonna keep all your clothes on?” You mumbled, teasing.

Simon sat up, supporting himself on his elbow. He tilted his head down as he brought a hand to your chin, forcing you to look up at him.

“Ask me again.”

“Simon—”

“Nah, c’mon,” he practically cooed, voice saccharine as he teased you. “Say it, sweetheart.”

“You want me to beg for you?” You matched his tone.

“Bet you’d be good at it.” He quirked a brow, smirking.

You sighed, fully willing to give him what he wanted even if it was in jest. Grabbing his collar and pulling him down so that your nose brushed his, you spoke in a whisper.

“Will you please fuck me, Simon?”

He smiled, but the glint in his eyes read almost predatory.

“Good girl.”

He sat up, pulling off his shirt and exposing his chest to you. It wasn’t anything new; you'd seen him in states of undress like this, but when his lips were still wet with your cum, it felt different in the most magnificent of ways.

You watched him stand, sitting up to get a better view; his stitches had already dissolved, but a scar still marred his left side, joining the dozens of other marks he'd collected during his time in combat.

With a smirk, he looked down at you and unzipped his fly, bending down to take his pants off, and you laughed at the showmanship he displayed.

Cocky motherfucker.

But you rubbed your thighs together when he took off his boxers, all the previous teasing production value gone as he straightened up and kicked them to the side with a huff.

You’d long wondered—rather immaturely—whether his size and stature translated to all of him. You felt your cheeks flush when you saw that you had been correct in suspecting that his cock lived up to the rest of him; thick and long, it tilted slightly to the right, and one solid vein trailed up the underside. His tip was pink and leaking, already smeared with precum, and when you realized that it was likely because he had found pleasure in going down on you, you swallowed a moan.

He rolled his shoulders back, and you thought you might be drooling.

He stood at the edge of the bed, looming over you as he always did, but now with a level of hesitation. He bent down to brush his lips against yours, and you eagerly accepted the kiss.

“Tell me what you want.” His breath was hot against your mouth.

“Told you…” You whispered, bringing a hand up to trace the tattoos on his arm.

He shook his head. “Tell me how you want it.”

You were thrown off guard by his prompting; you had been excited to let him do whatever it was he wanted.

And so that’s what you voiced.

“Any…however,” you swallowed, “Just want it to be you.”

His eyes softened for a moment, but you couldn’t admire him for long as he quickly embraced you in another kiss, pushing you onto your back again and moving clumsily to kneel on the bed beside you.

Simon’s hands ran down the length of your body, thumbs hooking between your thighs to admire the soaking mess at your core. He situated himself between your legs, encouraging you to hook your knees over his hips.

You couldn’t help but stare up at him in awe, the once callous Lieutenant who you swallowed your feelings for, now touching you with such care and admiration—and he looked good doing it.

He moved one hand from your hip to your face, cupping your cheek and staring down at you. The iciness in his eyes was back, but it was in a sense of concern rather than ire.

“You tell me if it 'urts.” He traced your cheekbone with his thumb.

“Knew you could be arrogant, but Jesus, Simon,” you barked a laugh, “That’s just—”

“Meant your ribs, love,” he smirked down at you, and you grinned back at him. “But I 'preciate the vote o'confidence.”

“Freudian slip…” You mumbled, not even embarrassed at your mistake, finding the humor in it and relishing that he, too, was comfortable enough to laugh about it with you.

“Right.” He nodded, smug. He maneuvered himself so that his cock could rest against your stomach.

You tilted your head, looking down to admire the image. He was justified in his pride, despite the way he came off so pompous; seeing his cock against you like this made your breath hitch, the comparison it drew to your size versus his was unavoidable and absolutely delicious.

“You gonna fuck me, or just show off?” You wiggled your hips.

“Nice to know you’re still mouthy even on your back.” Simon huffed, amused, as he pulled back to line himself up with you.

When he notched his tip to your entrance, you bucked your hips gently, unable to conceal your excitement. He pressed a hand to your stomach.

“Uh-uh, sweetheart,” he grunted, “Patient.”

You whined, frustrated and needy, but you didn’t have to put up too much of a fuss before he sunk into you. He watched intently as your cunt swallowed him inch by inch, lowering himself to hover over you on his forearms, pressing his hips to yours.

You squeaked a moan, filled to the brim, and grazed your nails down his back, feeling the occasional indentation of a scar beneath your fingers. Simon pressed his forehead to yours, eyes closed and breath coming out broken.

It was the most unshielded you had ever seen him, and you felt a sense of pride in the fact that it was you who had caused such a response.

“Fuckin’ tight,” he groaned, pulling his hips back an inch only to thrust shallowly back into you. You whimpered at the feeling, the way he had your walls stretched so taut around him. “Oh, fu—ckin’ hell…”

“Fuck me,” you whined, grabbing him by the shoulder blades. You pressed sloppy kisses to his mouth and chin, “Fuck me, fuck me—” It was a chant, a desperate repetition of your needs.

Maybe he captured you in another kiss to shut you up, but you didn’t mind. When his tongue parted your lips just as he began to rock forward, you nearly bit down on it, letting out a broken cry that he swallowed happily.

“Don’t want everybody 'earin’ you.” He shushed you, smirking into the kiss.

“Don’t—don’t care,” and you didn’t; if this was how everybody in the barracks discovered your situation with Ghost, you’d be proud. “Feels—you’re so deep.”

“I know,” he was typically smug, but you could tell he was enjoying himself just as much as you were. “Lift your hips, sweetheart.”  

You did as he said, lifting your hips enough so that he had room to reach beneath your body and grope your ass, tugging you into every stroke.

“Yeah, ‘at’s it—fuckin’ take it,” the pace of his thrusts increased. With his hands beneath your body, he straightened up, allowing himself to fuck into you deeper, rougher. “Fuckin’—fuck, take it, take it, sweetheart.” His head fell back as he moved, and you felt hypnotized by the way his chest heaved.

“Jesus fucking—Simon, please—” You bit your lip, really and truly attempting to keep the volume of your cries for him down, but he wasn’t making it easy. “So good—feel so good, please, just like that.”

His jaw was clenched but his lips were parted, and he looked over you with an intense focus, training himself to identify every little bodily response from you, and every little thing he could do to earn those reactions.

“Christ, look't you, love—” His lips curled into a fucked-out smirk, “Droolin’ jus' like your cunt.”

Dazed, you watched as he brought his hand down to your face, swiping the drool you hadn’t even realized you’d produced from the side of your mouth with his thumb. He pressed the digit against your lips, and you opened, eagerly sucking his thumb while he continued his bruising pace.

He watched on as you moaned around him, filling you at both ends.

His words spilled out of him, the vulgar vice grip your cunt had on his cock working him to peak vulnerability.

“You know ‘ow long I wanted this?” He bent down, slowing his pace to offer long, deep strokes that were just as overwhelming as the previous, faster pace. “‘Ow long I wanted t’see you droolin’ f'my cock? Would’a fucked you every night you slept with me—f’you said that’s what you wanted, would’a fucked you with ‘at bullet in my ribs.”

You could feel his cock punching against your cervix, the sharp, brief pain in your abdomen immediately fading to make room for the pleasure. And even so, with him encroaching on you like this, forcing you to take him as deep as you physically could, you still wanted more.

You moaned, irrepressibly needy as your hands wandered over his body above you.

Straightening up again, Simon pulled his thumb from your mouth. He took it between his own lips, tasting your spit and saturating the digit further before lowering it to your clit and rubbing circles over you.

“So fuckin’ stubborn—you’re a brat, ‘nd even when you make me pull my fuckin’ 'air out, I’d still let you do anythin' you want,” he couldn’t stop talking, and you were fine with it. His rambling on about his desire for you, paired with the motion of his hips, had you hurtling towards your second high. “Fuck, you feel good—fuck.”  

You thought maybe when he tilted his head down, eyes closing as he dropped his chin to his chest, that he was done talking. For a moment, it seemed that way, his attention refocusing completely on your body, as he collected himself and moved lower to hover over you again; nipping at the skin of your chest and licking stripes over your tits, moving his hand from your clit and kneading the pillowy flesh of your breasts.

But he moved to look down at you directly, nose brushing your own, and there was a flash of something in his eyes—soft and completely exposed.

“I love you.” He said it like a secret, the quietest cadence you’d ever heard him take on.

For a moment you thought maybe you were dreaming again—the nightmares morphing into something more akin to psychological warfare that you would wake up from and miss as if it were a nostalgic memory.

But then he said your name.

“I—fuck—I love you.” His breath hitched, and he was clearly attempting to distract himself from your silence by burying his cock into you deeper.

It made you moan wantonly—both his actions and his words hitting you somewhere deep, and you let out a gasp, reaching up to cup his cheek and letting your thumb trace one of the longer scars.

“I love you.” You echoed, meaning it more sincerely than anything you’d ever said to him, and though his brow furrowed slightly, he smiled.

“Again,” he panted above you, “Shit, say it again.”

“I love you,” you repeated, hand trailing behind his head and fingers combing through his hair, “I love you, Simon. I love you.” It was the second time in the span of a few hours that you’d found yourself chanting for him, and you were quite pleased.

“Fuckin’—” he sped up again, thrusting into you enough that the bedframe knocked against the wall. You almost felt sorry for whichever poor soul bunked next door. “’At’s it, sweetheart, let me ’ear you.”

He was delirious with lust, overwhelmed by his affection for you. And while it wasn’t something he was used to in any respect, he was certainly enjoying it.

“You fuckin’ tell me—you cum on my cock and you fuckin’ tell me ‘ow much you love it.”

He brought his hand back down to your clit, and your back arched off the mattress when he pressed down onto the bud, massaging over it in time with his thrusts.

“Let me see my pretty girl cum again.” He cooed over you.

His phrasing made you moan. His pretty girl; it rattled around in your brain and you let out a breathy sigh of approval.

“Your pretty girl…”

“’At’s what I said, sweetheart,” he nodded, and he would've been smiling if his focus wasn't entirely taken up on warding off his high. “One more, love. C’mon and gimme what I want.” He growled his words, briefly removing his fingers from your clit to pull your ankles over his shoulders so that he could wrap an arm around your thighs and hold you against him. “Fu—uck, tight little cunt…”

He kissed your ankle, replacing his fingers on your clit once more and watching your face contort in pleasure.

“Simon, fuck—don’t stop, don’t stop,” you stuttered through your whimpers, feeling the familiar heat build in your abdomen, “I’m gonna cum—please—like that, I’m gonna cum.”

He groaned, applying more pressure to your clit as he massaged it to the rhythm of his thrusts.

“Go on, sweetheart, gimme another one. Be a good girl, let me see your pretty face while you cum on my cock.”

You let yourself go completely.

“I—I love you,” you mustered the strength to follow his previous orders as the tug that built somewhere in your stomach finally culminated in a pleasant heat coating your skin. Your muscles tensed, your eyes rolling back enough that you could see colors distantly behind your eyelids.

“Yeah, yeah you fuckin’ do. You fuckin’ love it. You love me, sweetheart.” Simon groaned, “’Ere you go—squeeze me tight like ‘at,” his hips stuttered as he fucked you through your high. “Fuckin’ soak me. Good fuckin’ girl.”

His fingers dug into the skin of your thigh, trying to stave off his climax, if only for a moment longer, so that he could continue to enjoy the warm squeeze of your cunt.

When your moans became weaker, battling exhaustion to prolong the delicious overstimulation he offered you, Simon slid out of you with a grunt. He kept your legs up, keeping your thighs pressed together so that he could slip his cock between them and chase his own release.

“Fuck—” you yelped when the underside of his cock swiped over your clit, craning your neck to watch him fuck himself with your thighs.

You could see his abs tighten, desperate moans falling from his lips, and he looked so utterly beautiful as he struggled to control himself against the pleasure.

“Gonna fuckin’ stain you with my cum,” he heaved, rocking against you fervently, “Wanna smell it on you. Mark you up nice, let everybody know who you belong to—show ‘em 'ow good you are to your Lieutenant.”

“Please,” you mumbled your plea, pressing your palm to the back of his hand where it rested on your thigh, “Please…”

With his mouth agape, Simon’s brow furrowed, pushing his hips flush against the back of your thighs; he came with a low groan, bucking against you as he painted your stomach with his spend.

He panted, closing his mouth to swallow and staring down at you in a haze. He tilted his head back, heaving a satisfied sigh, before finding the motivation to move from the bed.

You felt a tug of melancholy, a sudden discomfort in being parted from him, but you watched on as he found what he was looking for and returned to your side.

He wiped you clean with the same goddamn shirt that, as far as you were concerned, started all this.

You fell into a fit of laughter, the adrenaline morphing from physical pleasure to pure amusement.

Simon stared at you like you had two heads.

“After everything that poor fucking shirt has been through, you’re gonna use it as a cum rag?” You tried to explain, and you watched his lips curl into a smile.

“Better a cum towel ‘an a tourniquet.�� He quipped, quirking a brow at you.

“Just got the blood out…” You grumbled playfully, and he tossed the shirt off to the side somewhere.

“You’ll live.” He sighed, pressing his palm into your now clean, if not a bit sticky, stomach and appreciating your warmth.

After he had taken a moment to admire you where you lay on your back, he stood, walking around the bed to situate himself next to you. When he’d made himself comfortable, he wrapped an arm around your hips, pushing you onto your right side before tugging you into him.

“Never thought I’d be spooning with Simon Riley.” You sighed, placing your hand over his where it rested on your stomach.

“Consider y’self lucky.” He chuckled.

You fell into a peaceful lull, wrapped up in each other and silent.

“You love me.” You weren’t asking, more so reassuring yourself with a quick statement to ensure that what he’d said in the heat of the moment was true.

“I do,” he nosed your neck, kissing you softly. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” You whispered it, bringing his hand up from your stomach to kiss his knuckles.

He hummed quietly, and you continued to plant soft kisses over his hand until you were satisfied.

“You still mad at me?” He questioned, and you laughed.

“You really have to ask?”

“Good to be certain.” He sighed, and you shook your head, grinning.

“I don’t want to sleep in your room tonight.” You muttered.

“Don’t ‘ave to,” he responded in a similarly soft tone, “Won’t make you. Say the word, I’ll leave. You can get some sleep.”

“No,” you smiled at his lack of awareness, “Don’t want to sleep in your room—want you to sleep here.”

He was quiet for a moment. You looked over your shoulder, uncertain, and he was already looking back at you with a smug grin.

“’At’s what you want?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. S’what I want, too.”

You rolled your eyes, pressing your back to his chest.

“Gonna sleep without your mask on?” You teased, eyeing the balaclava where it lay on the floor amongst the rest of your discarded clothes.

“Might as well,” he huffed a laugh, “Cock’s out—nobody’ll notice my face if they come in.”

“I will.”

“I want you to.” He sighed, pressing himself against you so that your head rested beneath his chin.

“Good,” you yawned, “That’s what I want, too.”

Simon chuckled softly, leaning back to reach for the lamp on the nightstand and clicking it off. There was another stretch of comfortable silence, and you felt the soft edges of sleep begin to take hold.

“I’m glad you’re alive.” Simon whispered into the darkness of your room.

“I know,” you were just awake enough to respond, “I love you, too, Simon.”

You fell asleep with his arm draped over you, perched over your hips rather than your waist, his hand pressed lightly against your stomach. But this time, you were both under the covers.

☆Like my work? Buy me a ko-fi :)☆

[monamipencil]

i have never heard of self respect or feminism or women's rights. like wym??? i dont know them. i only know this man. anna, this was so fucking hot??? grrrrr. im losing my mind here

annotations;

The only communication between you two is texts asking the other to come over. To fulfill each other's desires through a quick and hard fuck.

fuck, that's so toxic but so hot

But with Joshua, he doesn’t even begin till he’s made you cum. The gratification he gives you doesn’t start with his cock inside you. It begins with his mouth on your cunt, his fingers inside your wet hole. The chivalry he displays while he fucks you in your bed is unfortunately the only way you are able to witness it.

😌 im just a girl <3

Outside of your late nights with him, he doesn’t contact you, or even try to have a conversation with you. And yet you still fell for him.

grrrrrr, this is hitting home

He doesn’t care that he’s promised that this would be the last time, he doesn’t care that you want to better your self.

feminism and self-respect, who? ain't never heard of them

Before you can even register whats happening, you feel him fully sheath himself inside you.

oh fuck, im a whore for dubcon

Joshua’s hands come down to slap your ass harshly, leaving large red hand prints against your supple skin.

🥴🥴 grrr, rough josh can get me

“Joshua please, don’t cum inside me,” you beg him, but he just chuckles at your pleas. “Be a good girl for me and just take what I give you,”

fuck???? omg

His other hands is pushing your face into the pillow with so much force that you genuinely don’t believe that you are able to move from where you lay.

yes. im tweaking here,

“I’ll text you the next time I want to come over,” Joshua says when he’s fully dressed, pulling you into a deep kiss before leaving.

ok fuck. does that hurt? yes. do i still want it? fuck yes

It doens’t matter how many times you tell him that “this is the last time”, Joshua always get what he wants.

RAHHHHHHHHHHH 🦅🦅🦅

Come Thru

" you make me wanna come thru quarter after two just to put it down on you"

✧ pairing: joshua hong x female!reader ✧ wordcount: 1.7k ✧ genre: toxic fwb situation, slight angst, smut (mdni 18+)

✧ reblogs, likes and comments are always appreciated ♡! tumblr is based on reblogs not likes, and they help writers like me to get better reach. thank you!

✧ summary: your fwb joshua, comes over despite your half-assed protests. you arrangment is over, but one last time won't hurt, right? ✧ tags: non-idol!au, fwb! joshua, toxic!joshua, afab!reader, few smau texts, joshua is an asshole and reader lets him. ✧ warning/smut tags: DUBCON, coercion, unprotected p in v sex, degradation, slapping, groping, fingering, creampie. ✧ note: i recommend you don't take the dubcon and coercion warning lightly, if this isn't your cup of tea do not read. minors plz do not even try, i am watching. joshua is written to be an asshole in this fic. i also want to preface that i don't view joshua in this way irl, this is purely fiction. don't be like reader irl, this is made up plz. thank u to @junkissed and @okiedokrie for beta-reading ♡. also i had to ai generate an expanded version of this pic for the header, fyi. -> i have been in a joshua brain rot for the past 3 months, so this is the cause for this fic :p. lmk if u like darker themed fics! see u soonest - anna !

A part of you is reluctant to open the door, whilst the other part is begging you to give him one more chance. One more chance to kiss him, to feel him against your skin, to hear him say your name. 

There hasn’t been a time where you’ve denied Joshua’s need, allowing him to use your body in the ways he sees fit. But it’s different now, and that difference is the fact that you and Joshua don’t see eye to eye on the current status of your “relationship”. 

But you let him in anyway, you allow him to feel you completely, even when you know it's wrong. You know it’s wrong to do these things when you’re desperately in love with him and you know he doesn’t reciprocate those feelings. The only communication between you two is texts asking the other to come over. To fulfill each other's desires through a quick and hard fuck. 

“Fuck, it's cold,” Joshua mutters, rubbing his arms to create some type of warmth as you open the door, “what took you so long?” 

“Then go home,” you roll your eyes, moving over to let him pass through the door despite the fact you told him to go home. 

“I don't wanna, I've missed you,” Joshua smiles at you, not with affection but just because he’s pleased at the fact that you allowed him to come over. 

“Why are you here, Shua?” you ask him, your arms crossing in front of your chest as you feign annoyance. 

“You know why,” he says, eyes piercing yours as his expression turns serious. 

“We can’t keep doing this,” you sigh, but your feet move towards you bedroom anyways while Joshua follows suit. 

Despite your verbal protest, you can’t help but fall into his trap. Blaming it on how handsome he is, how soft his voice gets when hes with you, and especially because he knows how to fuck you right. 

In your past relationships, sex never felt good, it was mostly just you going through the motions. Your partners finishing and leaving you to lie there sticky and displeased. But with Joshua, he doesn’t even begin till he’s made you cum. The gratification he gives you doesn’t start with his cock inside you. It begins with his mouth on your cunt, his fingers inside your wet hole. The chivalry he displays while he fucks you in your bed is unfortunately the only way you are able to witness it. 

Outside of your late nights with him, he doesn’t contact you, or even try to have a conversation with you. And yet you still fell for him. 

You feel his arms snake around your waist as the two of you head to your bedroom. There’s a feeling in your stomach that you can’t pinpoint. A feeling of guilt mixed with a bit of excitement. 

His lips move down your neck and you can’t help but lean back against his chest as he shuts the door. Strong arms pulling your waist in tighter as he leaves small bruises along your skin. 

Your body feels hot. All rational thoughts have left your head the moment he touched you. His hands start to move, groping at your chest, the flimsy material of your sleep wear allowing him to feel you despite the barrier. Your nipples hardening against his fingertips and he moves your head to the side, pulling you into a deep kiss. 

His dominant hand moves down from your chest, across your stomach and into your sleep shorts. 

“Why aren't you wearing underneath?” he mumbles against your lips. 

“It's too hot,” you respond before kissing him again. 

Finding your clit, he rubs circles against your sensitive bud. Rubbing and playing with you until your legs start to shake. The makeout ceases as your too overwhelmed by pleasure, your mouth open yet still against his lips as you moan out his name. 

“Fuck, you’re such a slut for me aren’t you, baby,” He curses, placing a finger inside your dripping cunt. 

He continues to play with you, his finger moving in and out of your tight pussy. Your walls are pulsing as he begins to add a second and then a third. The coil in your stomach starts to tighten as Joshua speeds up his ministrations. 

“I'm close,” you whimper, your eyebrows furrowing as you concentrate on reaching your orgasm. 

“Still so fucking tight,” Joshua whisper in your ear, feeling the way you clench around his fingers, "no matter how many times I put my cock into you."

It all comes to an abrupt stop and you whine at the loss of his touch. His pupils are dilated, eyelids lowered with lust. He doesn’t allow you to whine for him any further, carrying your body towards the bed before dropping you. Your body hits the mattress and it bounces underneath your weight. 

“Fuck me, please,” you beg him, your eyes watching the way he removes his clothes. 

You follow his actions, removing your soiled sleep shorts and thin tank top. Your tits bouncing as you throw your shirt onto the floor, not caring where it lands. The only thing on your mind is Joshua’s cock and the feeling of him being inside you. 

His eyes wash over your frame, his adam’s apple bobbing as he takes your figure in. He thinks your so sexy, with the way you stare at him so needily, your legs already spread for him. He doesn’t care that he’s promised that this would be the last time, he doesn’t care that you want to better your self. To stop this arraignment. He’s addicted to the feeling of your tight pussy, how it milks his cum and leaves him wanting another round. 

Hovering over top of you he aligns his dick with your entrance, rubbing the fat tip of his cock against your wet slit. The sounds coming from his actions are unholy, but to him the feeling is like heaven on earth. 

“You're soaking,” he groans, applying pressure to your clit with the tip of his length. 

Your eyes roll back, your walls pulsating around nothing, all you want is for him to be inside you. But you stop him for a moment, wondering why he hasn’t put on a condom. 

“Do you have a condom?” you place your hand against his chest, pushing him back slightly. 

“No, it's fine, we’ve done it without one before,” he shrugs. 

You sit up a little and roll your eyes at him. Sure you’ve done it without a condom before, but now that this arrangment has lost it’s exclusivity, you don’t trust Joshua’s words. You know that he’s probably seeing other people. 

“Joshua, fuck, are you trying to get me pregnant?” you sigh, and he does the same. 

“But it feels better without it,” he whispers in your ear before pushing you down onto the bed again. 

Before you can even register whats happening, you feel him fully sheath himself inside you. A moan escapes your lips in surprise and also pleasure. You don’t want him to fuck you like this, but the pleasure is too hard to ignore. The feeling of his naked cock inside you causes you to squeeze around him tighter. 

“I told you, it feels better without one,” he mutters, pushing your legs into your chest, folding you in half. His upper body against you, your legs essentially locked in place. 

“Joshua please,” your eyelids droop with pleasure. Your hands moving to grip his biceps as you allow him to fuck you raw. 

Joshua groans from above you, his hips snapping against your cunt, balls slapping against the skin of your ass. You can see the clear outline of his cock poking out from your lower stomach. 

“Your pussy's so good, fuck,” he continues to groan out of pleasure, his tip kissing your cervix with each thrust, "taking my cock so well, baby."

He moves slightly to let go of one of your legs as he sits up, flipping your body and arranges you till your ass is in the air, your back arched. As he re-enters you, a salacious moan leaves your lips, savouring the feeling of his balls hitting your clit. 

“No one is going to fuck you like I do, you hear me?” He says, his thrusts becoming more powerful to emphasize his words. 

“I said, do you hear me?” he reiterates himself, and you answer him obediently. 

"Mhm, fuck, feels so good," you whine.

Joshua’s hands come down to slap your ass harshly, leaving large red hand prints against your supple skin. The burn feels goods and your whimper with every slap he gives you. 

“Joshua please, don’t cum inside me,” you beg him, but he just chuckles at your pleas. 

You can feel your self getting closer to your orgasm, your walls tighenting against his cock with every move he makes. 

“Be a good girl for me and just take what I give you,” is all Joshua says, his hands moving over to your clit, rubbing it in circles to get you closer to completion. 

His other hands is pushing your face into the pillow with so much force that you genuinely don’t believe that you are able to move from where you lay. You can feel his member twitch inside you, his thrust beginning to get sloppy. The headboard is banging against the wall as he moves in and out of you.

Then you feel it, his hips still, his length fully inside you, tip right against your cervix before he releases his load. 

“Shua!”

You moan at the way his hot white cum fill your needy cunt, your eyes rolling back as your releases follows right after his. All you can hear is his laboured breathing as he removes himself from you.

Letting go of his hold on you, your body flops agains the mattress. You can hear shuffling behind you and you turn around to see Joshua already putting on his clothes. 

“I’ll text you the next time I want to come over,” Joshua says when he’s fully dressed, pulling you into a deep kiss before leaving. 

You sigh into your pillow, the relization of what just happened hitting you right away. The feeling of his cum dripping out of your now swollen cunt makes you feel sick, but you can’t get over how good he makes you feel. It doens’t matter how many times you tell him that “this is the last time”, Joshua always get what he wants.

✧ note: thank you for reading, i hoped you liked it! leave a comment or an ask if u wanna see more of this.

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