#doom head x ofc

[slxsherwriter]

Write by the Moon

Fandom: The Gates, 31, A Good Day For It

Pairing: William Colcott x Selina (OC), Doom-Head x OFC, Norman Tyrus x OFC

Word Count: 6,416

Warnings: Demonic rituals, murder, killing

Author's note: This is part one of my reincarnation/soulmate AU fic featuring three Richard Brake characters. Not Beta read as always, so any mistakes are my own. This part will cover William and Selina. As his wife isn't alive in the movie, I decided to treat her as an OC. It is set up to show snippets of their life and the other parts will follow suit. Hope everyone enjoys.

The bar was busy, as it often was on a Saturday evening. Men and women, both reputable and dishonest, mingled about, sharing drink and food. Sheep in a herd, begging to be culled. William Colcott was that wolf in sheep's clothing. Setted at the bar, he was patiently biding his time, looking for the latest victim to satiate that spiraling darkness that resided within. The one that had been cultivated at a young age and had become an ever looming presence throughout his life. Long ago, he had learned that it was far better to give in and indulge in the need. It was what he was good at, even if no one seemed to suspect a thing. After all, the first kill had extinguished the idea of finding his soulmate. Who could be bound to a dark soul like his? Foolish ideas were given up, the mark on his chest ignored for years. 

As he observed the room around him, however, that self-imposed denial came to a rushed end. A slow but steady warmth began to bloom. Deep within and across his skin. The sort that brought about a long forgotten sense of comfort. The sort that had briefly been had when he was a young child, sitting in his mother's lap, listening to her read him stories of King Arthur and the knights of the round table. Was it possible? 

Fingers unconsciously tightened against the handle of his mug, breath stuttering as there was just a moment where he lost himself in the feeling. Indulging in what he had thought he would never be privileged to have. Reality came crashing back after a moment, William gaining his breath back and eyes now almost wildly darting around the room. Desperation never suited any inch of his life but that was what gripped his heart. She couldn't escape and she had to know that he was here. But where? 

A grin, open and free, came to his features unconsciously when his eyes landed on her. Ah, there she was. Far too pretty to be a victim, though such things had hardly proven a matter of concern before that very moment. There didn't seem to be anyone that was accompanying her, leaving an opportunity for him to ensure that she knew right where she belonged. Taking a final pull of the mug, he set it down on the counter before picking his way through the crowd of bodies that now meant absolutely nothing to William. 

"Is this seat taken?" He asked as he leaned down just a little bit, not wanting to shout over the voices of the others. When she looked up at him, he just knew that she felt it too. The way that her eyes dilated, the barely audible gasp that escaped her lips. The warmth only grew now that he was in such a close proximity. There was something else, though, something that he couldn't put his finger on as he looked at the woman. It took her no time to compose herself, though, as if the slip-up had never happened before she smiled at him. 

"I supposed it is now." It was all the invitation that he needed, sliding right into the chair before anyone had the chance to interrupt them. His first thought this close up was that the color of her eyes couldn't quite be deciphered. They seemed to shift subtly each time the light hit them differently. He immediately waved over one of the barmaids to grab her attention. He allowed her to order first before getting himself a second drink. He might as well enjoy himself since this was where he was keeping himself until she was done with the evening. 

To sort out the chaos that was ruling his mind in the moment was impossible. A million thoughts were flooding in all at once, leaving him unsure where to even begin. 

"Perhaps we should start with the easy things before moving onto the elephant in the room." Her voice broke William out of his self-induced haze, and he chuckled softly.  

"Forgive me," he said, "It seems that I am perhaps a little more ill-prepared than anticipated." The light sound of amusement couldn't be missed over the noise that surrounded them, even when it should have been drowned out. Hypervigilant to every reaction, that was what it was. 

"Hardly something that can one can be faulted for. After all, it has turned into a rather unexpected evening, wouldn't you agree?"

"Unexpected but far more pleasant than I had hoped." Briefly, he wondered where her mark was. The thought that instantly followed was that if it was settled in a private location, he didn't want anyone else in the bar seeing it, knowing where it graced her body. That was for him and him alone. All in due time. They hadn't even exchanged names, but the tangible tension would see it's conclusion. There was no doubt in any ounce of his being. Holding out his hand for the woman, he decided that they needed to quickly remedy the first problem at hand. "The name's William." Never before had he desired to meet whatever expectations from an appraisal that another had given, but as her eyes trailed over his face, William wanted nothing more than to meet them for her. 

"It's a pleasure, William," she offered in return, placing her hand in his. Bringing it to his lips before she could retract it, lips brushed over the knuckles. There was a hint of something burnt lingering on her skin. One that he couldn't place but hardly mattered. "Selina." Ah, a fitting name. However, it was not the only thing that he wished to learn about her. 

"A beautiful name for a beautiful woman." Another laugh, and there was a lightness in his chest, as if it was easier to breathe, easier to simply exist by the sound alone. There wasn't any resentment for the way that she was making him feel. William knew that there were things that would have to be sorted out, that complications would arise once that darkness crept back in, but for now, he would embrace the light that she brought. 

"Quite the charmer, aren't you? Drinks, compliments, if I didn't know better, I would say that you were looking to get me alone." Oh, she was almost perfect. He liked a little sass and feistiness in his women. 

"Now, that just wouldn't be very gentlemanly of me, would it? Hardly befitting the situation." 

"Of course, silly me to think such things." He braced his elbows against the table and leaned in. The wood still separated them, but William wanted to close that gap. Needed to in all reality. The compulsion was far too strong to be overcome and ignored. The banter had eased his mind and loosened his tongue. 

"A complaint wouldn't pass my lips if that was how the night were to end." In response, she leaned in. The action wasn't what was anticipated, but he rolled with it, taking it as a positive sign that they were falling onto the same page. "Does it feel the same for you? A pleasant warmth that you could sink into and never let go?" Curiosity got the better of him, and the question slipped. It was far more vulnerable and open than what the man was used to being, though he supposed that was something that would come with the territory of getting to not only know but have this woman as a constant in his life. 

Plenty of people were open about the subject of soulmates. What was felt, what was thought, how their life seemed to switch around in unexpected but not unwelcome manners. William wouldn't give up his life's work or activities just for Selina. But something in his gut told him that he wouldn't have to abandon it all. Something that would be proven true or false with a further exploration. 

"It's a softness," she started and William couldn't tear his attention away. The bar could have been burning around them and it wouldn't have mattered if she still spoke. "A gentle warmth that seems to emanate from my very soul itself. A warmth of comfort and safety." It seemed she had been just as taken if that honest answer was anything to do by and he was thrilled. Safety. That stuck in his mind like a spoke in mud. She would always be safe from him, from the darkness. Nor would anyone dare lay a hand on her. 

****************************************

Selina had impressed the importance of this onto William several times over the last week. He was to be quiet and simply observe. If he spoke anything, he could risk the integrity of the ritual. Among other dangers. He took it seriously since she seemed so invested and dead set on making him understand, both the dangers and what she did.

Having never been a particularly religious man, William had at first thought that her insistence was cute but nothing more than superstition and foolish belief. Still, there was something in her being that drew him in, more than just the fact that they were soulmates. As if there was recognition of a darkness that matched his own. 

What harm would it come to humor her and see what this was all about himself? William had finally agreed to watch a ritual, putting forward effort to understand this part of her life. It was incredibly important to her and a part that she hadn't wanted to keep hidden forever. 

Standing in the corner of the room, he made sure that he was entirely out of the way as she settled a few more things at the table. Some herbs that weren't recognized, a candle that was halfway melted down already, an old copper bowl, and a knife. One that William could appreciate as the dimmed lights in the kitchen of their home caught the edge just right. There was a question that sat burning on the tip of his tongue, but he had sworn that he would remain silent until she gave the signal that it was okay to speak once more. Attention shifted off of the items that had been laid out to the woman herself. That something that he hadn't been able to fully understand hung heavier in the air, as if it was a physical presence in the room. Something besides just the two of them. A silly notion. But not one that he didn't so easily brush aside this time.

A further draw to her very being. Almost like he was seeing Selina for the first time all over again. A sense of awe that was so absent from every other aspect of his life. She settled at the table now that everything was laid out. Silence reigned for several long seconds. Patience was thin at the best of times, but he forced himself to not fidget or speak a word. 

Then, after what felt like hours, Selina was finally moving once more. William watched as she moved with a practiced ease, the same sort that he had when he was out with a victim. It spoke of years going through the same motions, guided by muscles that had long ago memorized just how and when to move. Some of the herbs were placed into the bowl whole, others crushed, others burned. The candle was lit. Movements told him that she was letting the melted wax fall to the table in cruiated patterns before a small amount of wax was poured over the mixture before being placed carefully, deliberately to the left. William had to bite the inside of his cheek as he watched her bring the blade up. She wasn't going to do what he thought she was?

Her palm opened easily, cleanly. The knife was sharp. Yet, she didn't make a sound. His eyes never left the clenched fist as she held it over the bowl, though now, she was muttering something. Words that he either couldn't entirely make out or understand. William wasn't sure which it was at that very moment. 

In seconds, none of that mattered. The temperature of the room dropped significantly and immediately. Hairs stood on the back of his neck, his stomach rolling as bile rose in his throat. A reaction that wasn't expected but uncontrollable. Selina was relaxed as ever in her seat. A smile sat on her lips, one that could barely be seen from the angle that William was at though he could tell it was there. That sense of a physical presence grew. The animalistic primal part of his brain screamed danger, instinct demanding that he slither further back into the shadows. There was nowhere to go, though, his back solidly against the wall behind him. Moving meant disruption, and that was simply not an option. Something was happening here that he didn't understand, but Selina appeared perfectly in control. Ruining that could mean harm to her. An unacceptable consequence of any movement on his end. So, William stayed as stock still as he could, as if he was simply waiting for a victim to pass in front of him.

Then, there was movement. Not from either of them. A shimmer of the shadows, something that caught the very periphery of his vision. It slithered away, vanishing as he blinked. Blood rushed by his ears, the sound near overwhelming as suddenly that darkness seemed to form right in front of Selina. His heart clenched, skipping a single beat as the expectations of violence soared. 

It was with tremendous effort that William remained glued to his spot, the echoes of her voice reminding him that any movement or interference bred more trouble. Selina wasn't cowering or attempting to move away. That subtle smile remained across her face before her head tipped forward in a small greeting. Lips were moving, but he could not hear what words were being exchanged, as if there was some invisible wall between them, blocking out all and any sound. The darkness never took on more of a form than a black, hazy block in the air, at least to him.

So much for not believing in any of this. Before his very eyes was proof that another world existed. One that Selina was intimately familiar with and of which she possessed extensive knowledge. An apology was in due order. Once everything was finished and it was safe once more to speak. 

The entire thing lasted about fifteen minutes. Gradually, warmth seeped back into the room, and light seemed to brighten. Blinking, William was able to break away from the wall, moving to the table where Selina was now cleaning everything up. No words were exchanged right away, not as he sat down and ran a hand over his face. Where was the best place to start? Safety. Not his but hers. That was a priority for him. He had to know that when she did this, she would remain safe. Often enough, it happened when he wasn't around, which was fine with him. What could he really do anyway? Against spirits and demons, his knife was likely useless. She remained silent, allowing him to take that time to gather his thoughts and form a proper sentence.

"I take it as long as you aren't interrupted, then these are rather safe rituals for you?" Her eyes brightened, the smile he was granted as bright as the morning sun. 

"This is one that I have been performing for years and have built a rather comfortable rapport with the being that you saw. Now, I am not foolish enough to believe that I can control him. But I do know that it is far better to have an offer ready and keep him satisfied with respect and sacrifice than anything else. So yes, that one in particular I would say is safe." That left plenty of room for interpretation, William wasn't blind to the way that she had answered but worked around the question at the same time. If she felt confident enough, then he would have to take her word for it. 

"And there are others?" 

"Rituals or beings? Either way, the answer is many." Selina reached out, her hand settling over his and giving a small squeeze. A reassurance in a way and a grounding attempt. "I have a few I tend to stick with. It's just…easier that way." William felt that there was something else that she wanted to add on at the end but opted to leave it be. Remembering something, he reached for the hand that she was keeping close to her being and turned it over. The slice across her palm wasn't deep but it would need to be wrapped to stave off any chance of infection.

"Let's get that wrapped, love." The task was a settling enough motion that he was able to get himself back to a composed state, thinking through everything that he had seen and what its implications meant for their feature. It seemed that he would have some learning to do over the next few weeks. 

*************************************

Looking into the mirror, the unfamiliar jitters of nerves were beginning to become rather annoying. William wasn't sure what the source of such an unusual feeling was, but it didn't seem to want to stop. There was a deep refusal to believe that it was stemming from the fact that today would be the day that he and Selina married. No, it certainly could have nothing to do with that. There was simply nothing for him to be nervous about when it came to the event. Still, as the blue of his eyes stared back out at him from the glass, there was little other reason for it to be present. 

He and Selina were soulmates. A thought that caused his hand to rise unconsciously, fingers lightly pressing over the mark that was over his heart. She wouldn't abandon him now. There would be no cold feet, nothing to stop them from making it official in the eyes of the government. 

The two had been living together for almost a year now, having been together since that fateful night in the bar nearly three years ago. They were tailored for each other, slotting into the routines and patterns of life seamlessly. The sort of actions that many others wished that they could have and held jealousy over. William counted himself lucky for having found her at all but in a way blessed by some sort of being out there that they fit together so perfectly. Not God, no. He had no bearing here. Maybe one of those beings that Selina often spoke to or dealt with indirectly. That was a far more feasible explanation. 

William found himself chuckling and swiping a hand through his hair one last time. It was foolish to waste another second standing in front of the mirror and overthinking things. They had to be at the courthouse on time or risked having the entire thing pushed off to another day. That would leave the woman simmering and scowling for the entire night. A mood that he did not want to have to navigate. 

A simple ceremony had been decided long ago. Neither had family to be concerned with when it came to the union. They were left to decide what they wanted and how they wanted it. The agreement had come easy. He nor Selina had felt all that comfortable with the idea of being married in a church. For a multitude of reasons, with her practices being ranked rather high on the list. Besides, what was the point in having to give money to such an institution when it was just the two of them? It would bring up questions or sympathies that they didn't have the patience or tolerance to handle. Which left getting a civil marriage. The most important part was legal recognition anyway. They had been married in all but name since they had found one another. 

William moved towards the front door, hearing movement upstairs. Selina was still getting ready. It was a good thing that she hadn't been waiting on him. He was only waiting a few minutes before she made her way down the stairs.

"Radiant as ever, my love." The compliment fell naturally from his lips and as always, he was granted that warm smile that lit up her entire face. 

"Forever the charmer, even on the day of your wedding." He chuckled and wrapped an arm around her once she was close enough, using the leverage to draw her body closer yet to his. A gentle kiss was pressed to her forehead. The only one alive, in existence, to experience this side of him. Or, the one that this side only existed for, came alive for was more likely. 

"Cannot go failing my duties now." As she relaxed against him, William ran his fingers lightly over her left shoulder blade, where her mark was hidden beneath the gorgeous blue dress she had chosen. The action was almost instinctual at this point, having been repeated over and over until he could have found it and traced it with his eyes closed. "Come on, we have a carriage waiting." He had to pull away first, a smile saved her and her alone present as one more kiss was dropped to her head. 

The carriage ride was relatively quiet, William keeping an eye on the outside world while stealing glances at the woman across from him. His soulmate and soon to be wife. Her presence always brought that pleasant warmth to his chest, but the thought of calling her his in every way possible just made it all the stronger. The little smile that she couldn't seem to wipe off of her face only added to the atmosphere. A look he had placed there, a sense of pride swelling up at the knowledge. For a brief second, he felt like a boy again, having gotten away with stealing a candy bar and riding the high of having the best thing possible. That was what Selina was. The rest of the world hadn't recognized it, and he had stolen her away before anyone could. Destined to be with him, yes, but bound together on such a deeper level. He had made her his. 

The carriage came to a stilted stop outside of the courthouse. Time for the rest of the world to know what he knew. Stepping out, he was quick to turn around and offer his hand, even when she didn't need the help.

“Ready?”

“More than ever.” Pressing a gentle kiss to her knuckles, William grinned before leading her into the building. 

**********************************

The shivers wracked his frame, uncontrollable spasms that allowed no rest. It had been that way for hours. Days almost. William had lost track of the time in the fever induced haze, mind skipping in and out of consciousness, but never truly resting. In lucid enough moments, he hated the way that he felt weak and felt useless. He couldn't even get himself out of bed to get to the bathroom. In the non-lucid moments, shadows moved and formed figures, horror that his mind couldn't entirely comprehend appeared and threatened him. 

William coughed violently. The rattle in his chest was worrisome, but Selina couldn't do much more. The medicine from the doctor should have cured his symptoms three days ago. The recent illness sweeping through London has been like a second coming of the plague. Bodies were dropping faster than most could keep up with. Thankfully, it wasn't to the point that they were building up in the streets just yet. Her fingers brushed along his clammy forehead, frowning at the heat still radiating. If the fever didn't break soon, there would be bigger things to worry about. 

She hadn't shown any symptoms yet. A small blessing. If she went down beside him, they might as well call an end to it. Pushing up from beside the bed, she moved to make some tea. It would calm her, and if she could get anything down him, help soothe his throat at the very least. 

Standing in their tiny kitchen, the pot for tea boiling, she let out a slow sigh. If William didn't get better…. As soon as the thought came, she was quick to try and banish it. He hadn't succumbed yet. He wouldn't. Her William was strong and as stubborn as they came. He would make it through this and be back to his normal self. And if not? There were other options. Her eyes strayed to a few of the books that she kept close at hand in the kitchen for when rituals needed to be performed. Death could not part them. She just hoped it wouldn't come to that so soon. 

Selina was pulled from the dark path of her thoughts when the kettle whistled. Making up two cups, the action was soothing. A routine that was familiar amongst the days of unfamiliar motions. Moving back to the room, she was pleased to see him with his eyes open, appearing far more lucid than he had in days. Her chest instantly felt lighter. Though, she wasn't foolish enough to believe that they were out of the woods. 

“It's good to see you awake, love.” She spoke gently. Likely, his head was bothering him given how feverish he had been. And still was. She could see the sweat beading along his brow. “I've made some tea. Do you think you could get some down?” Standing beside the bed, she held it out and watched as shaky hands took the warm cup. She winced at the pained look that came from him at the simple act of taking a sip. Still, it was seeing him do something other than lay there and moan in pain. She wouldn't be picky. Selina reached out and brushed her hands along his forehead, pushing back the sweat soaked hair. William's eyes fluttered closed at the touch, leaning into it. 

“You need more rest.” Not an observation as much as an order that fell from her lips. One that he was in no shape to disobey, and they both knew it. All stemmed from worry. Worry that he wouldn't get better. Worry that he would be taken from her. Worry that some force out there wouldn't allow them to be together, no matter what she tried. 

A low, tired hum was the response given. The man took a few more slow sips of the tea, hands less shaky than they had been when he first reached out. Her husband was a strong, stubborn man. Selina took comfort in that knowledge and seeing a visible improvement. Even if it didn't last all that long. 

“Have you slept at all?” His voice was hoarse, rough from the crying out he had done thanks to his fever dreams. That and lack of use. A gentle smile was given.

“Some. You are my greater concern. I'll sleep once I know you will wake up again.” As devoted as he was to her, she was as equally devoted to him. Her fingers continued the soothing actions against his scalp, hoping to ease him back to sleep. His body needed it, even if he had been barely conscious for three days. Proper rest would help heal him. The rattling in his chest with each breath he took shook her. The sounds were far from the powerful man that she knew. Almost made him sound frail, weak. But, she kept a brave face, not letting on those thoughts. If she gave it, they might come to light. 

William eased back once more. It didn't take long for his eyes to close and his muscles to go slack. Sleep took him under, though this state should be far more restful for him. Hopefully, this lucid moment meant that the fever was going to break soon. 

She watched, feeling fiercely protective over the man in the bed. Not the first in her life. No, she had been that protective over family. However, this may have been the first person, not blood related and certainly the first person in her adult life, that those feelings had appeared. It had taken a little time to get used to, understand, and control them. A little longer than she would have liked, admittedly. A dangerous time. Selina knew what and who she had ties to and the inherent risks that came with that. To herself and others around her. The simple fact that he was her soulmate had been well worth it. She had sensed the darkness that lingered within, the predator just underneath the surface. Drawn to it as much as she was him. Both the bond that fate had woven and the beast within. 

Finishing the tea, Selina let out a small sigh. Her eyes ached. The strain of staying awake for so long was starting to set in. Sleep would soon be unavoidable. The wheezing that came from William was enough to leave her unsettled though, which meant no sleep just yet. The mark on her shoulder felt warm. Not the pleasant warmth that came when they were together. No. More like a fevered warmth. A shared suffering. She shook it off the best that she could without getting too comfortable. A little longer was needed before she could allow herself to rest. At least until his breathing settled into something more aligned with normal. He had been conscious but it wasn't enough of an improvement for her to let her guard down entirely. 

*************************

The evening was cold and damp, rain falling as often was the weather these months. With his jacket pulled tightly around himself, the figure marched through the back alleys, listening, waiting. A predator hiding within the shadows. The nightmare that those among the London streets still feared. His name may not have been known, the press hardly getting their hands on the deeds that were carried out. No, he was far too meticulous for that. As much as the hysterics would be enjoyable to watch. Fame hardly mattered, though, to William. It would have complicated too many things. 

The itch had become too much, and William had needed to go out. Just one kill, and he would be back in the comfortable warmth of their home. It gave Selina time to carry out what she needed to as well, without any worry of being interrupted. 

There was less focus on finding the perfect victim that evening. It simply mattered that his blade was stained red. There had been a sense of complacency and comfort that had settled in after the Ripper killings had stopped. A security that allowed his work to become that much easier. Individuals were emboldened to walk alone in the streets once more. Shortcuts were taken where they had been avoiding any alleyways where light couldn't reach. The perfect combinations of elements that brought his prey right to him rather than him having to stalk anyone and drag them into the shadows without notice. Sure, his killings brought about whispers, and the memory of the Ripper still created that nightmare, but it was not enough for anyone to be able to pay proper attention to what was happening around London.

The kill had come with just a small struggle, the sort that helped keep things interesting without being too much of a hassle. A brief slap across his face and a claw mark made to his wrist before the end had come and the body was dumped. A sigh of satisfaction escaped William as he cleaned his blade against the clothes of his latest victim before stepping back into the shadows and leaving the body hidden among the trash, likely not to be found for several days. After the rats and other vermin had gotten their fill. 

Now that the urge had been quieted, he was looking forward to being home. Spending the remainder of the night, holding his wife close, was the perfect end to the night. His steps were light as he moved through the streets, now among the rest of the population and lights that lined the streets. No one would give a second glance, weather aside. Everyone was in an eager state to get home at the late hour. His shoulders relaxed further when his home came into view, chuckling softly to himself as his pace quickened even further. 

William would have known something was amiss, even if it wasn't for the burning cold that spread out from his soulmark; the lights were off, and Selina's absence from the table in the small kitchen was acutely felt. Eyes wandered around the room, looking for whatever might be out of place, anything that would give him the slightest hint as to where his dear wife was and what had happened. A feeling of dread built from deep within his chest, constricting his lungs and robbing him of his ability to breathe. It was all wrong, and his hand reached for the knife that was kept hidden beside the door, on the off chance that someone was foolish enough to enter their domain. Not the same he used for killing, lest anyone connect the two. Plausible deniability if he used something from the home. 

He could smell the burnt herbs that had been recently used. Selina had done some sort of ritual recently. As planned. That did not give William any sense of comfort as it normally would, not when her smiling face wasn't there to greet him at the door, ensuring that he had not harmed himself. A habit that she had developed early on in their relationship, one that had amused him to now end but had become so ingrained in their lives that it's lacking just heightened that sense of dread. 

The thoughts of a ritual gone wrong flashed across his consciousness but was quickly dismissed. No, Selina was far too practiced and versed to have something go so horribly wrong. Her skills were refined and honed from years of study. She had taught him what to look for as a precaution, and there wasn't a feeling lingering in the air or any sign that it had been such an accident. Something else was at play here. 

Creeping through his own home as he would a victim's, William strained his ears and his eyes for any sign of Selina. Nothing downstairs. The fireplace was dead, not even a hint of embers that would have signaled that she lit it for warmth now that the colder winter months were here. Up the stairs he went, knife at the ready. Still, no sound and the cold was only spreading further, practically invading his lungs with ice. 

As much as he longed to call out her name, it would give away his position. That was when he heard sounds coming from the bedroom. A sound that he knew well enough. Gasped, gurgled breath. No longer could he truly control his actions, rushing forward. The door slammed open, smashing into the wall behind it, causing the man that was straddling his wife with filthy hands enclosed around her neck to jump. Red. It was the only thing that covered his vision as he lunged forward, not giving the man a chance to properly react. Blade met flesh, digging deep into muscle, unforgiving and with a practice precision. His subconscious mind already knew that it was too late, allowing his fury to be unleashed on the man before him. It hardly mattered who he was, or what intentions that he had come to the house with. This waste of a human had stolen his soulmate from him. 

"A wife for a wife," the man below him snarled, the last words that he spoke as William sliced the blade across his throat, not deep enough to cause an instant death. Let the bastard feel what he had done. Panting, he dropped the blade and scrambled for Selina. 

"Selina…" His voice soft, there was a shaky note to it that had never been present before in his life. Pain underlying it all as the ache and agony was setting in. "Please, no…" Gently, he slid one hand under her head while pulling her into his lap, his free hand gently stroking her cheek. The stillness to her body was a clear indication that his worst fears had been realized, that she was truly gone. Curling himself over her form, William let out an agonized sound into the emptiness of the room, heard by no one but himself. Gone. She was gone. 

He had allowed himself to grieve, to cry and feel that nearly all consuming sorrow for no longer than a few minutes. The ice from his soulmark kept him grounded in reality, in the knowledge that she was gone. But that didn't mean that she was lost to him forever. The thought nagged the back of his brain and as his breathing began to even out, a new rush of determination came over him. 

William wouldn't allow the world to tear her so easily from him. No, there was still far too much for them to do. 

"I'll fix this, I promise you. We will be together again. Just give me a little time, love." The words spoken so softly held such intent. A vow far more than a promise. He had learned a few things from her over the years when it came to the occult and the dark beings that resided in the world just outside of their senses. A deal could be made. Whatever sacrifice was worth it. His soul was already damned. Living without her was not an acceptable inevitability. 

First thing was first. He had to clean the mess on the floor beside their bed. With a gentle kiss to her lips and then her forehead, William forced himself to pull away from Selina. Throat still constricted, it took just a moment longer for him to be able to look away from her still, lifeless body and turn his attention properly to the lump of flesh on the floor. Shame that he couldn't have made him suffer longer.

So be it. William knew that there were things that could be harvested from the man to be able to aid his quest. The rest? It would be tossed to feed the rats and stray dogs that ran the streets. 

[cheriedivine]

Handcuffed couple challenge (youtuber!Ellie x reader)

♡‧₊˚₊✧ pairing: Ellie Williams x Fem reader (No use of y/n)

♡‧₊˚₊✧ summary: Filming a handcuffed couple challenge with Ellie, what could possibly go wrong?

♡‧₊˚₊✧ CW: Slightly suggestive jokes, Swearing, use of pet names (bae, babe, baby) just Ellie and reader being silly

♡‧₊˚₊✧ Tags: youtuber!Ellie, youtuber!reader, stablished relationship, oneshot, fluff

♡‧₊˚₊✧ WC: 7.4K (lol)

♡‧₊˚₊✧ Author’s note: HEYYY SO IT’S FINALLY HERE, you guys have no idea how much I enjoyed writing this, ofc it’s based on Izzy&Emma’s latest yt video where they do the 24hrs handcuffed, but i gave it my own twist hehe, I hope you guys enjoy it and lmk what you think! also i’m open to requests if y’all want anything in specific. that’s all luv u enjoy <3

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One thing about Ellie Williams is that when something gets into that pretty little head of hers, you are doomed. Especially when it comes to recording a video for your shared youtube channel.

This time was no different.

It was 2am when Ellie, half-asleep and deep in a TikTok scroll spiral, stumbled across a video of a couple doing a ridiculous cooking challenge handcuffed together, laughing and making a complete mess of their kitchen. That was all it took.

The next morning, you woke up in an empty bed. Your girlfriend? Nowhere to be seen. Weird… You thought,

You blinked at the ceiling for a moment, brain foggy with sleep, before shrugging it off. She probably hit the gym early or something, she did that sometimes. Still half-asleep, you sank deeper into the blankets and started your usual doom scrolling, checking socials, reading comments, answering emails. The usual.

An hour passed, and your stomach started to grumble from the lack of food. You glanced at the time, then at the door. “Where the hell is she?” You debated waiting for her to eat, but curiosity won so you pulled up her contact to text her. But you can swear this girl is telepathically connected to you because as soon as you clicked on her contact, a message from her popped up like she was psychic.

“Has your majesty risen yet? I’m bringing breakfast ;)”

You rolled your eyes, already smirking.

“U are such a loser. I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Miss me much?”

You didn’t even have to see her to know she was surely wearing that smug stupid little grin the one that made you want to kiss her and throw a pillow at her face at the same time.

With a dramatic sigh, you finally rolled out of bed, heading to the bathroom for your morning skincare routine. The splash of cold water brought you fully to life. You threw on one of Ellie’s hoodies — for warmth, obviously, not because it still smelled like her, and shuffled into the kitchen to feed your cat.

“Pspspsps, T-Rex. Breakfast is served,” you called, holding the food dish. The little fur ball meowed like he hadn’t eaten in a decade, purring as you scratched the back of his head.

That’s when you heard the front door unlock.

Ellie walked in, balancing a pair of grocery bags and a cardboard drink carrier with two coffee cups. Her hoodie sleeves were pushed up, her tattoo flexing on her forearm and there was a determined (and slightly unhinged) look in her eyes.

You blinked. “Ellie, what the hell? We weren’t supposed to do groceries ‘til Sunday.”

She dropped the bags on the counter and grinned. “Good morning to you too. And yes, I slept great, thanks for asking, babe.” You narrowed your eyes as she handed you a warm breakfast bagel and your favorite coffee.

“…What’s with the groceries and surprise breakfast? What did you do?”

“Can’t I just do something nice for my beautiful girlfriend that I love sooo much?” she said with that shit-eating grin that meant she was absolutely up to something.

“Spill. Now.”

She of course cracked immediately.

“So. I had an idea. Okay? A great one. Picture this: you and me. Handcuffed. In the kitchen.”

You froze. “Woah, woah hold your horses, number 1 why would i want to be handcuffed and number 2 where the fuck are we even supposed to get handcuffs?”

“Jesse” she replied casually.

“GROSS…That’s disgusting.”

“So you’re saying you wouldn’t want to be handcuffed to me?” Ellie gasped, placing both hands dramatically over her chest. “Wow. Okay. You hate me.”

“You are the most dramatic person on this entire planet I swear” you muttered, already regretting your life choices.

“You’re telling me you don’t want to see me try to knead pizza dough with one hand while handcuffed to you?”

You stared at her. She grinned wider.

“I hate you,” you said flatly, taking a long sip of your coffee.

“No, you don’t.”

And unfortunately for you — she was right.

Ellie proceeded to lay out the entire chaotic plan (which, in hindsight, explained the suspiciously full grocery bags). She showed you the TikTok video that had inspired her latest hyperfixation — some couple fumbling through a cooking challenge while handcuffed. “Look at them,” she said, scoffing. “We’d be so much better than this. They didn’t even season their sauce!”

It took a full hour of bargaining, bribery, and Ellie promising to do all the chores for the next two weeks before you finally caved. Truthfully, a small part of you was curious how badly it could go… plus, being handcuffed to Ellie wasn’t exactly the worst fate in the world.

Ellie dragged out the tripod from the closet, the one that had a chipped leg because she refused to buy another one “It works just fine” she said— and began adjusting it like she was some kind of professional cinematographer. Meanwhile, you were getting ready in your room, doing your everyday makeup, some light blush, mascara and setting powder so the light wouldn’t reflect directly on your face, your routine was simple but familiar. You changed Ellie’s hoodie into a plain black shirt that fitted you like a glove, because why not, at the end you still wanted to look good.

Ellie adjusted the tripod one last time, squinting into the tiny screen like she was defusing a bomb. “Okay… I think it’s straight?, the lighting is kinda shit tho” Ellie muttered, twisting the ring light toward your side. “There. Now let’s get this bitch started shall we?” With that Ellie hit the record button, rushed to your side with the handcuffs clinking in her grip, and threw an arm around you.

“Hey losers,” she grinned at the camera. “Welcome back to our channel.” You waved dramatically. “Today, we’re doing something incredibly stupid, which of course was... Ellie’s idea.”

Ellie held up the handcuffs like a trophy. “We’re making a pizza while being handcuffed together,” she said, eyes glinting with mischief. “And before anyone starts—no, these aren’t from last night. These are borrowed. Unfortunately.” You gave the camera a deadpan stare. “Oh my god. Literally everything could go wrong.”

“Okay so who’s gonna be on which side” Ellie raised a brow before putting the handcuffs on, “Wait… are we both right handed?” you questioned, pausing mid-thought. Ellie gave you an offended look. “You should remember if i'm right handed babe” Your girlfriend said teasingly giving you a wink.

“You are such a perv,” you muttered, narrowing your eyes. Then, turning to the camera like you were addressing a live audience: “Well, since I’m the one who actually cooks in this household, I think I deserve to have my right hand free.”

Ellie scoffed. “Um, yeah, but I’ve got more strength in my right hand, so I could knead the dough way better.” To prove her point, she flexed her arm like some kind of gym rat. You stared at her. She was ridiculous.

But you had your ways.

Leaning in close—just enough for your lips to nearly graze her cheek—you whispered, low and deliberate. “If I get to have my right hand free… I’ll let you have a little fun with these later.”

She didn’t even say anything before clasping that handcuff immediately to her right hand. Her freckled face turning fifty different shades of red.

“…Fine. You win.”

You grabbed the other side of the handcuff and clicked it around your left wrist.

“Oh my god, I already hate this,” you groaned, trying to stretch your arm while Ellie moved in the opposite direction like she had no concept of shared space.

“Too late to back out now. LET’S GET THIS SHIT STARTED, BABYYYY!” she screamed in her fake frat-boy voice, throwing both arms in the air and nearly dislocating your shoulder in the process.

You winced. “How about you try not to break my wrist before we even start.”

She grinned like a menace. “Sorry babe. Kinda forgot we were attached for a sec.”

“Did you even look up a recipe before deciding to do this?” you asked, already knowing the answer. She blinked. “Um…nope”

You sighed.

Of course not. That’s why you had been stuck scrolling through your phone for the past ten minutes, trying to find the easiest homemade pizza recipe on the internet—while your hand was getting jerked around like a ragdoll.

“Okay, genius. We need: flour, yeast, olive oil, salt, sugar, and warm water.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “Bet. Let’s get this bread. Literally.”

You started pulling ingredients out of the bags while Ellie, predictably, got in the way at every turn.

“Left!”

“Your left or my left?!”

“We share a left right now!”

Ellie poured the flour onto the counter, way too enthusiastically.

“Bae… slow down, this isn’t a sandbox,” you warned, watching the powdery mountain grow taller and messier by the second.

“No no no—this is the volcano thingy! We’re doing it all fancy,” she said, using her fingers to dig a little well in the center like she'd seen on TikTok. “Now pour the warm water and yeast in here,” she added, nodding toward the crater like she was a Michelin-star chef.

You raised a brow. “You’re acting like you’ve trained in Italy. You watched a 30-second reel.”

“Don’t disrespect my culinary heritage,” she said, her hands now fully coated in flour. You leaned in, cautiously pouring the mixture into the well… but oh dear you were mistaken thinking Ellie was gonna behave. She looked directly to the camera and blinked before her flour-covered hand left the dough volcano, and smacked right onto your boob.

SMACK.

A perfect, powdery handprint appeared on your favorite shirt.

You froze. Blinked. Looked down slowly like you were in a movie about to go rogue.

“Ellie Williams…” you said, dangerously calm.

“What?” she grinned, so smug you considered throwing her into the volcano. “Just cleaning off my hand.”

“On my favorite shirt.”

“It’s a work of art, I left my mark. Like a signature. That’s love, baby.”

You gave the camera a long, deadpan stare. T-Rex meowed behind you rubbing his little head against your leg like he understood the gravity of the situation.

“You’re gonna pay for that.”

Ellie’s grin only widened. “Oh no!. Am I gonna get punished?” she asked, voice dipping into a mock pout.

You rolled your eyes, trying not to smile as you swiped some flour off the counter and flicked it right into her face.

“Oh it’s on now.”

Despite the chaos, the kitchen started filling with the warm scent of yeast and flour mixing as you combined everything, Ellie took over the kneading (with her left hand, of course), turning it into a flexing contest.

“Check this out,” she said, rolling up her sleeve and smirking at the camera. “These biceps? Built for dough.”

You raised an eyebrow, trying not to smile at how seriously she was taking herself. She flexed her arm, giving a playful wink before getting to work on the dough, her hand moving with surprising precision.

“Alright, go ahead and knead that dough, big shot. Show me what those ‘dough-building’ muscles can do,” you teased, arms crossed, watching her go full-on chef mode.

Ellie scoffed but didn’t hesitate, her hands sinking into the dough with exaggerated care. “This right here? The art of pizza-making. Watch and learn.”

You couldn't help but raise an eyebrow, eyes trailing down her flexed arm. Your gaze lingered on the tattoo on her forearm—the intricate design that you loved more than you'd ever admit.

“Damn,” you said, letting out a low whistle. “Those arms... and that tattoo? I’m gonna need a moment to compose myself.”

You stood next to her, trying to hold back your giggles, but the flour-covered chaos around you only made it harder to be serious. T-Rex jumped on the flour covered counter, sniffing the dough like he was ready to apply his biscuit kneading technique. "Hey, not you too," you said, shooing the cat away.

Ellie, of course, had no intention of letting this become a normal cooking session. She threw you a smirk. “So, you’re just gonna stand there and look cute while I do all the work?”

“Obviously," you replied, leaning back against the counter, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Somebody has to keep the camera in focus while you work."

“Right,” Ellie said, rolling her eyes as she continued kneading. “You’re just here for moral support and laugh at my flour-covered face.”

"True," you agreed, brushing the tip of her nose with your flour coated finger, you could tell that despite the playful banter, Ellie was surprisingly proud of her skills—despite the flour in her hair, and the random stray bits of dough sticking to her shirt. She paused for a moment, looking over at the camera. “You guys, this is actually kind of fun. like the adult version of slime”

“Who said adults can’t play with slime” you pouted jokingly, “Society.” you laughed out loud at the brunettes response, Ellie grinned, obviously pleased with the teamwork. “Just wait ‘til the pizza’s done. I’m gonna blow your mind, babe.”

“Ok now we need to let the dough rest for about two hours, or until it’s doubled in size—“ “WHAT? TWO FREAKING HOURS?” your girlfriend interrupted, clearly upset by the statement. “Yes Ellie…, now don't be impatient and let’s start with the marinara sauce” you tried cheering her up by occupying her mind on something else.

Ellie dragged you to where the tripod was situated, almost safely and changed it’s angle so the camera got a better view of you and the stove, “Alright all set, so what’s next babe?” she asked, looking at you with her mesmerizing green eyes. “Wait i got distracted— Ok so now we open the tomato cans and pour them into the pot with a little bit of olive oil, a garlic clove, some basil leaves and obviously salt and pepper”.

“Okayyyy chef, see guys that’s why she stays in the kitchen— wait that sounded so wrong… does that count as sexism if we’re lesbians?” Ellie said worried, but you laughed easing her nerves a bit “You are so stupid I think i'm in love with you” She blushed at your comment and proceeded to try and open the can, and try in the sense that you were holding the can while she placed the can opener on the brim of the can. “Why is this shit so hard bro”

Finally after battling with the can for a few minutes Ellie managed to get it open, triumphantly holding up the can opener with a smug grin on her face. “Hey, babe, check this out.” She held the tool in front of you like it was some sort of weapon, pointing at it dramatically. “This... is a can opener,” she said with a wink, then pointed at herself with a teasing smirk. “And this... is a leg opener.” There was a pause before you scoffed, rolling your eyes as you reached for the camera. “I swear, I’m deleting this footage later, just so you know.”

With a final defeated sigh, Ellie popped open the tomato sauce can. “See, I’m good at this.” she said as she started to pour the sauce into the pot. But just as she tilted the can, a little too much sauce splashed up and hit her favorite hoodie. Tiny bright red sauce drops splattered in the center of her chest.

You couldn't help but burst out laughing. “That is literally karma” you teased, your voice dripping with mock pity. “Looks like it’s your turn to clean up, chef.”

Ellie looked down at the red stain, then back at you, unphased. She wiped a bit of sauce off her hoodie with the back of her hand and smirked. “See, this is what happens when yall don’t appreciate my cooking skills.”

“STOP ELLIE YOU’RE MAKING IT WORSE, DON'T WIPE THE SAUCE OFF YOU'RE MAKING A MESS ” you whined at your girlfriend, the hoodie was in fact worse than before. That sauce was not going to come off anytime soon “The only mess i wanna make is the one with your—“ You smacked your free hand on her mouth before she could even finish the sentence. “One more dirty joke and I’m duct taping your mouth shut” you warned her, eyes fixed on hers.

Her eyes sparkled like she might actually enjoy that. You narrowed yours in return.

“Anyway,” you sighed dramatically, turning to face the camera again. “Back to the video. We’re gonna let the sauce simmer with some seasoning and, fingers crossed, it’ll turn out edible.”

Ellie leaned in to sniff the pot. “Smells good. Gordom Ramsey BEWARE we’re coming for you”

You laughed and grabbed your phone again. “Okay, while that simmers, we can start chopping the toppings. You’re on mushroom duty.”

Ellie raised an eyebrow. “You’re letting me handle the knife? While we’re handcuffed?” She said looking directly at the camera like she was some sort of reality cooking show “I trust you babe, just try not to chop your good fingers off.” you said teasingly, Ellie rolled her eyes and with a sigh she settled a few mushrooms on the cutting board and hoped for the best, “You sure you want ME doing this?…” Ellie looked at you, trying to reverse-psychology herself out of the situation, but when you saw how truly worried she was, you took the responsibility of chopping the toppings, while Ellie placed them on little bowls carefully.

“Okay you know what, maybe we should just settle for a classic pepperoni and cheese pizza…” you said glancing at the terribly chopped mushrooms in front of you, Ellie gave you a side eye that said more than words could tell, and you agreed to keep it simple and overall safe.

“Alright guys the chopping is canceled, sometimes you just gotta accept the defeat and move on, even I have to back off sometimes you know” Ellie said dramatically, like she was giving a pep talk to the camera.

“Ok, ok now what the hell are we supposed to do while we wait for the dough to rise?” you asked your girlfriend, “I know some ways we could kill time you know” She said with that stupid grin on her face.

“I would kill you right now but I’m attached to the crime scene so…” you said flatly, looking her dead in the eye, while she was trying to hold her laughter. This girl is going to be the death of you literally.

After a few minutes of thinking what you could actually do, Ellie leaned back against the counter, tapping her fingers like she was waiting for lightning to strike. You were scrolling through the recipe again, double-checking you hadn’t missed anything—until you noticed she was just staring at you.

“What?” you asked, not even looking up.

“I have an idea.”

You sighed immediately. “Of course you do.”

“Hear me out babe, blindfolded lipstick challenge while also being handcuffed… ” she said, already reaching for her phone, to look for the video that had inspired this idea. “We’ve got at least an hour before the dough’s done doing its thing, right?”

Your eyes narrowed. “Ok I’m in, but you should be the one putting the lipstick on me since you’re the one missing your dominant hand.”

Ellie lit up like a Christmas tree at the idea, pushing herself off the counter and dragging you along by the handcuffs toward the tripod. She grabbed it, still grinning, and carried it to the bathroom, where you both agreed the lighting was better (and the mirror would save your lives). You set the tripod down carefully on the sink, adjusting the camera just enough to keep both of you in the frame. Meanwhile, Ellie fumbled with a sleeping mask, pulling it over her eyes and completely blacking out her vision.

“Alright guys, while we do this, I’m gonna read some of the questions you sent to our Instagram story earlier,” you told the camera, trying not to laugh at how serious Ellie looked fumbling blindly with the lipstick in her hand.

“By the way,” Ellie interrupted, lifting the lipstick like it was a microphone, “if you don’t already follow us, it’s either because you’re a loser or you’re new here. Either way, all our socials are linked down below.”

You snickered under your breath as she tapped around your face, trying to locate your lips with the lipstick.

“Anyway, back to the questions,” you said, pulling out your phone. “First one: How did you guys meet?”

Ellie let out a dramatic sigh, like she was preparing to tell an epic love story. “Ah, finally, a normal question. Okay. So, we met in college. I was majoring in Visual Arts, because obviously, gay. And she—” she nodded blindly toward you, “—was majoring in Film. We crossed paths a few times, and I basically had a huge hallway crush on her.”

You smiled at the memory, leaning into her light touch as she awkwardly dabbed lipstick near your mouth.

“We found out we had a bunch of mutual friends, they introduced us, we started talking... and then you know, classic slow-burn, painfully homoerotic friendship that turned into this," Ellie said, waving the lipstick vaguely at the handcuffs between you. “Very on brand for us.”

You both laughed, the camera catching everything perfectly—the lipstick smudging halfway across your cheek, Ellie’s huge grin under the sleeping mask, and the pure chaos that somehow felt like the most natural thing in the world.

“Yeah at the moment I didn’t realize I was a lesbian yet, so that explains the homoerotic tension and painfully slow burn” you explained while Ellie still struggled to locate the lipstick where it needed to be.

“Dudeee stop moving, I can't do this if you keep talking—“ She said desperately “—Ok wait just let me read this question and I’ll let you do your work” you assured her.

You were mid-scroll, trying to find the next question, when you burst out laughing. “Oh my god—okay wait, this one is messed up. Who even asked this?”

Ellie paused, lipstick still in one hand, her other hand hovering awkwardly over your face. “What is it?”

You cleared your throat dramatically and read it in your best game show host voice.

“Would you rather: see your parents having sex... or have your parents see YOU having sex?”

Ellie ripped off the sleeping mask, like she couldn’t believe her eyes (or more likely her ears). “I think I spoke too fucking soon about you guys submitting normal questions.”

You were already crying, laughing, clutching the sink for balance. “I’m not answering that.”

“Oh no, you read it out loud. Now you have to.”

“I literally can’t choose, both are psychological terrorism.”

Ellie made a face like she was in physical pain. “Okay, okay, I think... I’d rather them see me. Just so I have the power. I can be like, ‘That’s what y’all get for traumatizing me first.’ Turn it into a full circle revenge arc.”

You wheezed. “Oh my god.”

“Now you have to answer,” your girlfriend insisted, like a puppy waiting for a treat. “I think I rather see them having sex, but just because I think i’d be too embarrassed and would actually die on the spot if they saw me, so yeah thats my answer, and also it couldn’t get worse you know—“

“—Ok that’s valid.” She pointed the lipstick at the camera like it was a weapon. “Whoever submitted that, you are sick, why would you even think that”. Ellie laughed, but it came out more like a smirk. She adjusted the sleeping mask back in her eyes again and continued to “apply” the lipstick on you.

“Okay I think I’m almost finished— time for the big reveal now, but close your eyes. On the count of three. One…”

“Two” you said in unison.

“Oh god im scared—“ you said already knowing your face probably looked like you made out with a crayon.

“THREE”

You looked in the mirror, bursting into laughter at the sight of the lipstick smeared well past your lips and halfway down your chin. “I look like I just made out with a clown.”

Ellie beamed. Tears in her eyes from the previous laughing fit “You’re welcome.”

“Ok now it’s my turn” you said, snatching the lipstick from her hand, Ellie was still snorting at your lipstick stained face, admiring her work of art, when you tugged the sleeping mask over your eyes. “Okay, my turn. Hand over your face.”

She scoffed, grabbing your wrist and guiding the lipstick into her face “My beautiful face is ready for the sacrifice.”

“Just stay still and don’t make any faces,” you warned, already gripping her chin with your handcuffed hand like an amateur dentist.

“No promises,” she said, settling back on the toilet lid, legs spread like she was about to do an interview with Vogue. She reached for your phone and scrolled through the next question from the Q&A sticker. “Ooooh, here’s one: ‘What’s your biggest ick about each other?’”

You and Ellie both went “oooooh” at the same time, the camera catching it perfectly.

You grinned mischievously. “I’ll go first. Ellie chews on random shit like a dog. Pens, her hoodie drawstrings, bottle caps… one time I caught her with my AirPods case in her mouth.”

Ellie gasped in mock betrayal. “IT WAS ONE TIME.”

You pointed at her. “One time too many.”

Ellie chuckled darkly. “Alright. My ick for you? You take hours to reply to texts. Like, I’ll send ‘are you alive?’ and you’ll answer six hours later with a meme.”

You shrugged, unapologetic. “I have a very active brain. I can’t be tied down.”

“This is your mouth, right?” you asked, blindly smearing the product around her lips like a toddler with a crayon.

Ellie was laughing. “I think that was my nostril, but I’ll allow it.” You giggled, blindly tapping her cheeks with your fingers.

“Okay, next question,” she said, biting back a giggle as the waxy tip grazed her nose. “Oh my god. You’re drawing on my nose, aren’t you?”

“No. I’m outlining your beautiful upper lip,” you lied blatantly, tongue poking out in focus as you smudged the lipstick across half Ellie’s cheek. “Next question, babe.”

Ellie cleared your throat dramatically. “If aliens came to Earth and offered to take one of you back to their planet forever, who would go?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Ellie. Because she’d cry less than me.”

“True, but also It would give me such good lore”

“Shhh,” you hushed her. “Stay still or I’m gonna give you a mustache.”

She burst out laughing as you smudged even more lipstick on her chin. “I swear to god, you’re using my face like a sketchpad.”

You peeked under the blindfold to see her face—her entire mouth, nose, and even her forehead now stained with lipstick from constantly touching her face mid-application.

You shrieked. “You look like the joker”

She looked at the camera with a straight face. “Guys is it giving performance art makeup yes or no”

“You’re giving a sick Victorian child ” you wheezed, “Can we do one last question please” you asked Ellie, she nodded while looking for one last question to end the little q&a.

“Who said ‘I love you’ first?”

Ellie leaned closer to the camera like she was telling a secret. “It was me. But I thought she was asleep when I said it, so technically I didn’t mean to say it out loud.”

“I was literally AWAKE. I was just pretending to sleep because I was so nervous I felt like my heart was getting ripped off my chest”

“You were fake sleeping?” she gasped. “You mean I confessed my undying love to a decoy?”

“Literally yes. But I said it back the next morning, so it still counts.”

“Okay, but can we just acknowledge how poetic that moment was? Me, whispering ‘I love you’ into your unconscious body like a sad poet?”

“And me pretending to sleep like a coward,” you added.

After a few more minutes of waiting — and filming a whole artsy montage of you both modeling the masterpieces that were your lipstick-smeared faces — the dough had finally doubled in size.

Which meant: pizza assembly time.

“Can I roll the dough?” Ellie asked, already scraping the dough out of the bowl with one hand.

“Of course, babe,” you said sweetly. “Just don’t rip my wrist out of the socket while you do it.”

Ellie shot you a cocky grin, grabbed the wooden rolling pin, and planted her uncuffed hand firmly on the left side. You lined up your hand on the right, both of you teamworking the shit out of it — handcuffed, half-delirious, and still somehow making it work. Once the dough was flattened into a kinda-sorta-acceptable circle, you grabbed the pot of sauce and spread a thick layer across it, narrating every step in your best fake cooking show voice.

“And now, we generously apply our lovingly handcrafted marinara— Ellie, STOP eating the toppings!” you snapped, catching her with a full knuckle of shredded mozzarella halfway to her mouth.

She rolled her eyes and popped it in anyway. “Party pooper.”

You dramatically sighed, sprinkling the rest of the cheese over the pizza. That’s when it hit you.

“Oh, fuck, Ellie, we forgot to preheat the oven!”

Ellie froze mid-bite. “...The oven works? I thought it was like a landlord myth.”

You stared at her in disbelief. “Do you even know how to turn it on?”

She shrugged, wiping her cheese-sticky fingers on her jeans. “Not a clue.”

Still filming — the camera balanced on the counter catching every second of this— you both stared helplessly at the untouched oven. After a few seconds of aimless button pressing and frustrated groaning, Ellie threw her head back.

“That’s it. We’re bringing out the big guns.”

She fished her phone out of her pocket (with much difficulty, considering the handcuffs) and FaceTimed Joel.

You both stared at the screen, waiting.

After a few rings, Joel’s tired face popped up — and the second he saw you two, his mouth opened like he was about to say something but no words came out.

“What the hell...?” he finally managed, blinking hard at the sight of his daughter and her girlfriend covered in what looked like smeared clown makeup, chained together by a pair of suspiciously shiny handcuffs.

Ellie cracked up immediately. "Heyyy Joel. We’re filming a video. Long story. Anyway— can you PLEASE tell us how the hell to turn the oven on before we burn the house down?"

You leaned into the frame, offering Joel your sweetest sauce-smudged smile. "Hi Joel!"

He shook his head slowly. "Y’all look like you lost a fight with a three-year-old and a Crayola factory."

Ellie wiped a fake tear. "That’s the nicest thing you've ever said to me, man."

Joel groaned. "And what’s with the damn handcuffs? Jesus Christ."

You started giggling. "Content, Joel. It’s for the content."

Joel gave the camera a look so fatherly it could've been framed. "I don’t even wanna know what kinda content y’all makin'. Alright, listen up. Find the oven buttons."

Ellie spun around dramatically, dragging you along with her. "Found 'em! There's like, a hundred buttons, though!"

Joel sighed, like he already regretted answering. "It ain’t rocket science, El. Look for somethin' that says 'Bake'."

Ellie squinted. "Okay, okay, I see it—What temperature should I set it at?"

Joel pinched the bridge of his nose. "Put it to 400."

"Yessir," Ellie saluted, poking the buttons with her free hand while you tried to steady the camera, still filming everything.

Meanwhile, Joel just kept staring at the two of you. "And you’re really just... sittin' there... wearin’ kids' makeup and chained together like morons."

Ellie grinned wide. "Yup. Living the dream, old man."

"World’s gone to hell," Joel muttered, but he was definitely smiling a little now. "Alright, once it’s preheatin’, leave it alone. No touchin' it. And for the love of god, don't try shovin’ the pizza in there without help, you'll burn the damn house down."

You gave a thumbs-up. "Thank you Joel! Love you!"

He shook his head but you swore you saw the smallest smile tug at his mouth.

"Yeah, yeah. Love you too, kiddo. Don't die."

With that, he hung up.

Ellie turned to the camera with a shit-eating grin.

"And THAT, ladies and gentlemen, was Joel Miller making his monthly YouTube appearance ."

You cackled, wiping some flour off your forehead.

"I can already smell the comments."

Ellie threw an arm (and by proxy, your handcuffed arm) around your shoulders.

"We should make him do the 'Handcuffed Baking Challenge' next time."

"Joel would rather be hit with a golf stick" you snorted.

"Facts," Ellie agreed proudly.

After hanging up with Joel, you and Ellie high-fived but it came out more like an awkward clank of your wrists, and turned back to the unfinished pizza sitting on the counter.

“Alright, final touches before this baby goes in the oven,” you announced, grabbing the bag of pepperoni.

Ellie wiggled her eyebrows. “Let’s make a pepperoni shaped figure on it.”

You snorted. "Like, a heart? A smiley face?"

Ellie grinned mischievously. "Nah. I was thinking something more mature."

You gave her a warning look. “If you suggest a dick shape, I swear to god—”

Ellie gasped dramatically, clutching her chest. "I would NEVER—okay, I was totally thinking a dick shape, but whatever, party pooper. Smiley face it is."

Handcuffed and giggling like idiots, the two of you painstakingly arranged the pepperonis into a smiley face, which turned out looking more like the default male roblox face. It took way longer than it should have — every time Ellie moved a piece, she’d yank your wrist with her, causing you to mess up your side, and vice versa.

"STOP MOVING!" you cried.

"I CAN'T, YOU'RE BREATHING TOO LOUD," Ellie shot back, sticking her tongue out in concentration.

Finally, after what felt like a solid ten minutes of struggling, the pizza was ready — just as the oven beeped, signaling it was preheated.

"Moment of truth, baby," Ellie said solemnly.

Together, you shuffled over to the oven like some three-legged race team from hell. You opened the oven door (barely), Ellie held the pizza tray with one hand, and you guided the oven rack out with your free one.

T-rex was awakened from his nap by the sound of you guys fumbling with the oven door, which caused him to meow so loud, you thought Ellie had stepped on his tail.

"Please don't drop it, please don't drop it, please don't drop it," you chanted under your breath as you both maneuvered it inside.

Somehow, miraculously, the pizza slid into the oven without major casualties.

You both whooped and fist-bumped midair.

"Alright, while that's cooking, we should probably clean up... before Joel somehow senses the chaos and drives over here," you joked, grabbing the dirty bowls and utensils.

Ellie groaned dramatically but helped you anyway, dragging you along to the sink like a reluctant kid.

The two of you struggled through washing dishes — you holding the plates, Ellie scrubbing them, occasionally splashing water all over the counter (and each other).

"This is teamwork, right?" Ellie said, throwing a sudsy sponge at your chest.

"Teamwork makes the dream work, baby," you said, wiping the water off your shirt with exaggerated dignity.

Facing the camera, Ellie leaned closer, water dripping down her sleeve.

"I just want the record to show," she said seriously, "that I do in fact help with the dishes in this house"

You bumped her hip with yours. "Barely."

Ellie laughed, then turned to the camera again, her green eyes bright.

"Alright guys, if you’re still watching this mess, comment down below who do you think is carrying this relationship: me, or her?" she pointed at you with a soapy finger.

You gasped. "First of all, it’s me, easily. Secondly, stop slandering me on MY YouTube channel."

Ellie wiggled her brows. "Our channel, babe. Equality."

“Equality would be you doing more of the dishes,” you muttered under your breath, making the camera catch it, and sending Ellie into another fit of laughter.

Just as you finished drying the last plate (and somehow still soaked the front of your shirts), Ellie sniffed dramatically.

"I'm actually so proud of us babe, even if the pizza turns out like shit (Which it wont) we did such a good job for being HANDCUFFED"

You leaned into her, grinning.

"Yes I agree, it wasn’t half as terrible as I thought"

Ellie flexed her still-cuffed arm like she was being awarded a medal.

"Told you It was a great idea"

“Yeah, yeah, now let's settle down for a bit — my legs hurt from standing up all day," you huffed dramatically, dragging Ellie along with you towards the couch.

Ellie clumsily carried the camera with her free hand and set it down on your little coffee table, adjusting it so you were both in frame. Finally, you collapsed onto the couch, feeling like you could melt into the cushions.

"I'm so hungry I could eat T-Rex," you groaned, your cat immediately hopping onto your lap and purring loudly.

"HEY. WHAT THE HELL," Ellie gasped, immediately scandalized. "Leave our baby out of this" She reached out with her free hand to pet T-Rex, who purred even louder at the attention.

"Who's a good boy? Who’s mama's good boy?" you cooed, scratching his chin just right, making his tail twitch with satisfaction.

Ellie watched the scene with a blank face before deadpanning at the camera, "I just got a girl boner from that."

You gave her a scandalized look and tugged at the front of her hoodie. "You're unbelievable."

"And yet," Ellie said smugly, ruffling your hair, "you’re still with me. Tragic."

You rolled your eyes, settling back against her shoulder. "If you could only bring one thing to a remote island, what would you bring?" Ellie asked suddenly, throwing the question toward the camera like it was a game show.

You answered without hesitation. "You. Obviously. There’s no one else I'd rather be stuck with."

“Aweee—“ Ellie's face went soft immediately, cheeks flushing pink. She leaned down and kissed the top of your head.

“—Same for me," she murmured, then smirked. "And honestly, if we were stuck on some island together, we would definitely survive. We'd never be bored."

You pulled back just enough to squint at her suspiciously. "Again with the sex jokes. I'm trying to have a moment here, Ellie."

"You love it," she teased, winking at the camera like she was hosting a late-night comedy show. "But seriously," she continued, getting a little more earnest, "I think we’d keep each other sane. Or, you know... drive each other insane. Either way, it’d be fun."

You laughed, leaning your head against her shoulder again.

"Besides," Ellie added with a shit-eating grin, flexing her arm dramatically, "you'd need my big strong arms to protect you from wild animals or whatever."

You pulled back, raising an eyebrow. "Define big."

Ellie clutched her chest like you’d just stabbed her. "You’re so mean to me on camera. They're gonna think you’re the top”

You snickered. "Oh my god."

Just as Ellie was about to ask another stupid hypothetical question, a loud beep echoed from the kitchen.

"Saved by the bell!" you gasped, practically throwing T-Rex off your lap meowing in betrayal as you and Ellie scrambled to your feet, your girlfriend rabbed the camera off the table with her free hand. "Alright guys, moment of truth. Will it be edible? Stay tuned."

You wobbled into the kitchen together like a two-headed creature from a sci-fi movie.

Somehow you managed to get the oven open without burning yourselves alive. Ellie used a kitchen towel to yank the tray out while you hovered next to her, uselessly gasping and flapping your free hand like that would help.

"Hot hot hot hot hot!" Ellie hissed as she placed the pizza down on the counter.

You both leaned over it, admiring your work.

"Honestly?" you said. "We ate this shit up."

"I wish you guys could smell it, it’s fucking heavenly." Ellie declared, giving the camera a dramatic chef's kiss.

You quickly sliced up the pizza using the pizza cutter, the two of you fighting over who was worse at it. Once you had two steaming slices on plates, you remembered the handcuffs and gave Ellie a mischievous look.

"Okay. We have to feed each other," you said, grabbing your slice with your dominant hand and holding it out toward her.

Ellie immediately cackled. "Cheers baby"

Still filming, you both counted down — "Three, two, one" — and tried to feed each other at the same time. Both of you missed by like three inches.

The pizza folded, the toppings slid around, and when you finally did get a bite into your mouth—

"AH FUCK, IT’S HOT!" you both yelled, flailing dramatically.

Ellie was fuming out of her mouth, nearly dropping her plate. "I think my taste buds just dissolved."

You fanned your mouth like that would help, eyes watering. "I can’t feel my tongue."

Eventually, once your mouths stopped being on fire, you both flopped onto the floor, handcuffed, eating pizza straight from the plate like it was a survival movie.

Ellie leaned into the camera with a dead serious face. "Let’s try again, I couldn’t taste anything other than lava"

You guys took another bite of the pizza (blowing it off a bit so it would be edible) and it was actually very tasty, the surprised look on each other’s faces said everything.

“This is so good I could orgasm right now” You said dramatically. “Just proving once again lesbians can do anything” Ellie added, proud of her work.

Between bites, Ellie looked at the camera, grease on her chin, and said, "We would could definitely make it to Masterchef"

"Absolutely" you agreed through a mouthful of cheese.

After a few minutes of shoving pizza into your faces, you both finally sat back up, looking absolutely wrecked — sauce stains, flour in your hair, and lipstick smears everywhere.

Ellie reached over and adjusted the camera a little, her fingers smudging the lens slightly. “Alright losers thanks for watching our video, it means a lot to us” You giggled, wiping your mouth on your sleeve. “But seriously, thank you for hanging out with us today, and for putting up with whatever this video was.”

“We love you guys so much, for real,” Ellie said, her voice a little softer now. She reached over and bumped your shoulder with hers. “Don’t forget to like and subscribe, you know leave a little comment and let us know if you like this type of videos or what would y’all like to see” You leaned into her, smiling. “And also thank you for sending in the craziest questions, you guys rock”

Ellie laughed under her breath and turned her head slightly, looking at you — her eyes all soft and melty despite the absolute war crime that was both your appearances.

Without thinking, you tilted your head too, closing the small gap between you.

Just as your lips brushed hers, you saw Ellie smirk against your mouth and suddenly lift her free hand to slap it over the camera lens — cutting the video feed to black mid-kiss.

The last thing the viewers heard before the screen went dark was the soft sound of you laughing against her lips and Ellie whispering, “So… about what you said earlier”

[starm0onlight]

Hey, can I please request Apollo x fem reader, where the reader gets sacrificed to Apollo. However, not knowing that the reader is Apollos lover. The men in charge of ruling the village and the sacrifice, gets punished by Apollo. At the end Fluff with Apollo and reader would be really great! Thank you so much, love your writing 😌❤️

"your love is my greatest disease !"

₊˚⊹ ᰔ pairing: Apollo x fem reader

₊˚⊹ ᰔ note: I LOVE APOLLO!! art from @/anniflamma

₊˚⊹ ᰔ warning: non.

₊˚⊹ ᰔ content: apollo blessings his lover, mentioned of death, disease, sacrifiction, apollo comforting his lover, Apollo and reader lives together at the end!

☀️- you were a girl from a small village, but you were lucky enough to catch the eyes of the god of the sun himself, apollo! at first he approached you as a normal mortal man, and after you trusted him enough he revealed himself asking you to be his lover, ofc you agree because you loved him back, and rejecting a god wasn't every ideal...

🪉- ofc being a lover of a god comes with it advantages, special with apollo. people of your village always how the sun shine on your body almost like kissing it. how your music and voice could lure anyone toward you.

🏹- people were seeing you as blessings and some got jealous of it. start cursing the god. which we all knows how this goes. apollo didn't appreciate people disrespecting him nor his lover so he start spreading disease through the village, of course protecting his lover out of it.

☀️- panicing start spearing through the village, everyone start dying. instead of taking this as hint and apologize to the god they decide to sacrifice what closer they got to him. you. you were blessed by him and you didn't get any disease yet.

🪉- so all the people in your village decided that, they going to sacrifice you to apollo as offering for apologize for their greatest sin.

🏹- they agree to sacrifice you by sundown out of the village on near mountain, you didn't even get to talk or convince them what they're doing is wrong until you were dragged away from your home. what hurt you the most that no one try to say anything or stop them for killing you.

☀️- your own people choose to let you die for their own advantage, not even one dare to look at you in the eyes as you were dragged out the village screaming for anyone to stop this. no one did a thing.

🪉- as you were dragged by two men to near mountain you get thrown harshly on the ground as one held you down while the other get his sword ready to cut off your head.

🏹- "please stop this!! you don't know what you're doing, you're dooming the whole village! please I'm sure there's another way to solve all this!" you say trying to get some sense of any of the men, but none of them even give what you were saying a care.

☀️- as the man higher his sword, you lower your head as you close your eyes, waiting to feel the cold metal touch your neck. but instead you felt your hand being released.

🪉- before you could understand what's happening you quickly felt a hand touches your face, soft hand warm as the sun. you know this hand ever well. its your lover apollo, he was here.

🏹- as you felt up your head you see his handsome face looking at you with his mesmerizing divine eyes, you can see love and care being carried in them as well.

☀️- as you saw him you quickly start looking around, wondering where did the men go but before you could he quickly pulled you into his chest, as if he trying to hide the view from your eyes.

🪉- "don't worry about anything sunshine, they aren't going to touch a hair from your head." he said as he pulled away cupping your face taking your attention all to himself.

🏹- "i know it was a mistake to let you stay there, i should have taken you with me the moment i could." he said pulling your face again to his as he kiss your forehead.

☀️- you on the other hand didn't wanna question anything, what happened to the men. what will happened to your village, all you care about now is that you're in the arms of your lover, and you didn't wanna let go.

🪉- "i thought... i was going to die.." you said as you hold into him tightly, holding him closer as if he would disappear if you let go.

🏹- "what kinda of a lover I'd be if i let my own lover get sacrificed?" he said teasingly as he stands up holding you in his arms like a bride.

☀️- "this time I'm not making the same mistake again, you're coming with me to Olympus whenever you like it or not." he said holding you tight enough not to drop you. you didn't wanna argue or disagree with him. you'd rather live with your lover than living with people who willingly choose you to die.

🪉- apollo take you with him up to mountain Olympus to live him there as his official lover, and your village... let's say it's no longer exists! but you don't need to worry, apollo is all you need.

[celuere]

arlecchino

all of my arlecchino works, either with fem! or gn!reader

𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ good night ritual. (nsfw)

cw: cunnilingus

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ teaser. (nsfw)

cw: semi-public, stimulation , mentions of giving head

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ teased. (nsfw)

cw: voyeurism, deepthroating, mirror sex, mild degradation, praising, full nelson

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ the hearth is now extinguished. pt. 1 (suggestive)

cw: unspoken feelings, doomed yuri, mutual pining

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ my hearth. pt. 2 (nsfw)

cw: mentions of blood, bit of angst, oral sesbian lex at the end

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ sweet dreams. (nsfw)

cw: threesome, arle and bossform!arle taking turns on you, overstimulation, fingering, mild degrading, squirting, cuckolding, oral

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ not enough. (nsfw)

cw: fingering, making out, marking, Arlecchino being desperate for her wife, mentions of pregnancy

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ give me what I want. (nsfw)

cw: porn without plot, strap-on, rough sex, overstimulation, pussydrunk Arle

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ arle finding out you‘re pregnant (sfw)

cw: slight angst

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ hard day. (nsfw)

cw: fingering, praising, fluffy through and through, comforting, worshipping

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ arle with a chubby wife (nsfw)

cw: body dysmorphia, insecurity, mirror sex, fingering, body worship, arle being a goner

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ be quiet. (nsfw)

cw: creampie ig??, against a wall, semi-public, almost getting caught, orgasm denial

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ fallen angel!arle x devoted follower!reader (nsfw)

cw: au, loss of virginity, hands down filthy sesbian lex, degrading, worship, arle fucking you out of pure spite for the divine

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ i know if i‘m haunting you, you must be haunting me (sfw)

cw: grief, doomed yuri, angst with smh comfort, depression

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ blunt rotation. (nsfw)

cw: modern college au, threesome, usage of weed, high sex, reader getting passed around, unprotected sesbian lex, might be a little ooc, backshots, cunnilingus (reader receiving and giving)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ sometimes silence guides the mind (sfw)

cw: pregnant wife!reader

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ kiss it, bite it, can i fit it? (nsfw)

cw: modern au, dilf arle, implied age gap, shameless flirting, reader is lowkey inexperienced, strap-on, cunnilingus, vaginal fingering, arle introduces you into the world of awesome sesbian lex, body worship

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ lockjaw (nsfw)

cw: sub!arle, faceriding, overstimulation

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ a little bit scandalous (nsfw)

cw: mild exhibitionism, carriage sex, dick sucking, riding, unprotected sex, pet names, slight degradation, slight homophobia

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ prepare for trouble & make it double (nsfw)

cw: arle uses her fancy domain trick on you, threesome, bossform arle, vaginal fingering, riding, bondage, cuckolding (kinda?????), squirting, degrading, size kink

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ help me get away from myself (nsfw)

cw: bloodsucking, cockwarming, vampire!arle

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ birds of a feather (nsfw)

cw: fingering, arles fat dick, soft sex, pathetic lesbian arlecchino, fluff, body worship, breeding, slight lactation kink

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ hopefully we don‘t have no babies (nsfw)

cw: modern au, experienced dilf!arle, implied age gap, pet names, praising, arle teaches you how to properly finger yourself, mirrors, voyeurism, strap-on, rough sex, dumbification, arle is called peruere

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ her body temperature. (sfw)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ arle x wife!reader (sfw)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ parent!arlecchino (sfw OFC.)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ arle taking care of her pregnant wife (sfw)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ MORE of arle caring for her pregnant wife (sfw)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ vampire!arlecchino (suggestive)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ nsfw headcanons (nsfw duh)

cw: degrading, bondage, sub!arle, breeding

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ random hcs about her (sfw+nsfw)

cw: dacryphilia, strap-on

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ girlcock headcanons (nsfw)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐚𝐬𝐤𝐬/𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐬

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ speaking french. (nsfw)

cw: fingering

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ playable character!reader earning her talent mats (nsfw)

cw: cunnilingus, strap-on, bondage

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ biker!arlecchino taking you on her bike (nsfw)

cw: semi-public, modern arle

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ hand or vibrator? (nsfw)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ what happens once her markings reach her heart? (sfw)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ pathetic girlfailure arle (nsfw)

cw: sub!arle, bondage

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ girldad arle (sfw obv)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ strapped up arle (nsfw)

cw: cockwarming, public

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ bassist!arle (sfw)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ more about her body temperature (nsfw)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ game night with the hearth (sfw)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ arle with a morning boner (nsfw)

cw: somnophilia

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ dilf!arle x milf!reader (nsfw)

cw: breeding, body worship

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ trying out your new lipstick (nsfw)

cw: deepthroating, masturbating, dacryphilia, slightly obsessive arle

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ arle assembling your furniture (nsfw)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ size kink with arle (nsfw)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ arle and her love for bushes <3 (nsfw)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ DIY strapon (nsfw)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ giving her a tit job (nsfw)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ dad!arlecchino and baby slings (sfw)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ arle coming home to see you wearing her jacket (nsfw)

cw: strap-on

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ giving you backshots (nsfw)

cw: strap-on, degradation, dumbification, overstimulation, teasing, pet names, forced quiet sex

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ she loves teasing you on a date (nsfw)

cw: arles fat fucking dick, stripteasing ngh, teasing, overstimulation, voyeurism kinda??, usage of a vibrator

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ divorced!arle and the ex-wife she still yearns for (suggestive)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ decorating the nursery (sfw)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ her favorite positions (nsfw)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ you can’t stop taking stray animals home (sfw)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ pathetic arle begging for your pussy (suggestive)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ sauna thoughts… (nsfw)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ pregnancy lex (nsfw)

cw: pregnant!reader, transfem!arlecchino

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ yearner husband arlecchino (nsfw)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ it‘s her first time living too (sfw)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ grinding on her abs (nsfw)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ office sex (nsfw)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ arlecchino clones hmfghhfg… (nsfw)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ arlezani blunt rotation (nsfw)

cw: transfem!Arle and Zani, usage of weed, creampie, unprotected sex

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

[knight-hiccup]

𝐌𝐀𝐄𝐋𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐌 | Hiccup x F!Reader 10

This is Chapter 10 to book 1 to this Hiccup series -> Masterlist here. Previous Chapter : Next Chapter

Pairing: Hiccup x female! reader Genre: romance, fantasy, suspense, drama, angst, dark, vioIence, friends to lovers, dark themes, heavy Viking lore, Norse mythology, canon divergence, slow burn Word count: 12.3k Warnings: This will have the lore of the films + shows but with much darker themes. Gore/blood, mentions of death, Norse mythology, some realistic dragon themes, more realistic scenarios, and mature themes starting at the point httyd 2 ark comes in, so, ofc NSFW. Any other warnings will be properly tagged upon story progression. A/N: Reader description not described besides clothing true to Viking/httyd fashion from time to time.

CHAPTER 10

In the hours since you'd left the Great Hall's yard, word had spread like wildfire through Berk: Stoick had rallied the island to war. Every soul—man, woman, warrior, and smith—had been summoned to the ships, their faces etched with grim resolve as they obeyed the chief's command.

You and Hiccup had watched, helpless, as the docks transformed into a hive of frenzied preparation. Longships lined the water's edge, their sleek hulls carved from oak and pine, reinforced with iron rivets that glinted dully in the daylight. These were vessels of legend—drakkars, their prows crowned with snarling dragon heads, a nod to the Norse gods who watched from Valhalla.

Each boat stretched thirty paces stem to stern, their sides bristling with oars and shields hung in tight rows, painted with runes of protection: Algiz for defense, Tiwaz for victory. Barrels of dried cod and smoked mutton jerky were hoisted aboard, their wooden staves bound with iron hoops, alongside casks of mead that sloshed faintly as they were secured—provisions for a month's voyage to and from into the abyss of Helheim's Gate, the mythic threshold to the dragons' nest.

Weapons followed, a clattering arsenal hauled by sweat-slicked hands: broadswords with hilts wrapped in leather, their blades etched with serpentine patterns; axes with crescent heads honed to split bone; spears tipped with blackened iron, their shafts hewn from ash wood.

Catapults loomed among the cargo, their frames of sturdy yew lashed with rope, their arms poised to fling boulders or flaming pitch into the enemy's maw. The Vikings moved with a precision born of centuries of war, their grunts and shouts mingling with the creak of timber and the clang of metal, a symphony of impending doom.

Yet it was their eyes that cut deepest—glaring up at the cliff where you stood with Hiccup, their stares venomous, lips curling into snarls of contempt. Hiccup flinched under each one, his shoulders hunching as if to shrink from their judgment, but you squeezed his hand, your grip firm and unyielding, a silent reminder that he was more than their scorn. He steadied then, his jaw tightening, though the flicker of shame lingered in his green eyes.

The scene below grew darker, more brutal, as the Vikings turned their wrath on Toothless. The Night Fury's wails pierced the air—high, keening cries that clawed at the soul, striking a chord of anguish in any heart still soft enough to feel. They'd bound him in chains, thick iron links that rattled with every thrash, and ropes that bit into his obsidian-like black scales, leaving raw, red welts.

When he fought, rearing against his captors, they struck back—fists slamming into his jaw, boots driving into his skull with sickening thuds that echoed up the cliffs. A new head-brace followed, a cruel contraption of rough-hewn wood bolted tight around his neck, pinning his head immobile, his jaws forced shut.

The dragon's resistance faded, his body slumping as if the fight had bled out of him, his eyes—once bright with defiance—dimming with an inward weeping that no sound could convey. The sight was a dagger to the gut, a raw, visceral cruelty that laid bare the reality of your world: Vikings and dragons locked in a dance of blood and fire since the days of Odin's first breath.

Hiccup's knees buckled, the weight of it too much, and he sank to the cliff's edge, the damp grass soaking through his trousers. You dropped beside him, your arms encircling him, pulling him close as his hands clenched into fists, knuckles whitening against the strain. His jaw locked, eyes squeezing shut as if he could block out the pain unfolding below—Toothless's pain, mirrored in his own chest, a wound that throbbed with every muffled whimper from the dragon.

You pressed your forehead against the side of his head, your breath mingling with his in short, ragged bursts, tears welling in your own eyes as you tried to anchor him through this. The salty streaks burned your cheeks from the already endless tears shed earlier, but this was different—sharper, laced with the helplessness of watching a creature you'd come to love brutalized before you. Your hands tightened around Hiccup, fingers digging into his gilet, a futile shield against the brutality that had always defined your people.

As the sun dipped lower, its rays bleeding crimson across the horizon, the longships began to move—one by one, their oars dipping into the water with a steady, mournful cadence. The dragon-headed prows sliced through the waves, sails unfurling like the wings of carrion birds, dyed red and black with runes stitched in gold thread: Eihwaz for resilience, Uruz for strength.

The fleet stretched across the harbor, a flotilla of war bound for the dragons' nest—a place whispered of in sagas, sought for generations by chiefs who'd fallen to its fire. Toothless was lashed to the lead ship, his chained form a dark silhouette against the fading light, his head bowed under the wooden brace.

The Vikings' chants rose, low and guttural, invoking Thor's hammer and Freyja's wrath whilst they hit their shields with their chosen weapons in beat to the drums, a battle hymn to steel them for the journey into Hel's domain. The sea swallowed their wakes, the boats drifting into the haze, and the cliff grew still, the wind carrying away the last echoes of their departure.

Hiccup remained seated, his gaze fixed on the vanishing fleet, his face a mask of numb despair. Blame gnawed at him, a relentless beast that whispered this was his doing—his secret with Toothless, his defiance in the arena, his failure to bridge the chasm between his father and the truth.

His hands rested limp in his lap, the calluses on his palms stark against the pallor of his skin, and his breath came slow, as if each inhale cost him something vital. You stayed beside him, your hand still clasped in his—the other wrapped around his shoulder, the warmth of your touch a faint tether against the void swallowing him whole.

Tears lingered in your eyes, unshed now, as you watched the horizon claim the ships, the weight of war settling over Berk like a shroud. The cliff's silence was oppressive, broken only by the distant crash of waves and the rustle of grass bending under the wind—a requiem for the dragon lost, the boy beside you, and the island teetering on the edge of its own destruction a reminder of reality.

Hiccup's mind, glimpsed through that omniscient veil, was a battlefield of its own. Guilt lashed at him, a scourge sharper than any Viking whip, each blow a memory—of Toothless's trust, of your faith, of the moment he'd chosen to reveal the dragon and unraveled everything.

He saw the nest in his mind's eye, a jagged maw of stone and flame in the pits of a volcano that revealed a beast so great like from the tales of old, a place where Níðhöggr might gnaw at the roots of Yggdrasil itself. His father led this war, driven by a fury Hiccup had sparked, and the cost—Toothless' suffering, Berk's blood—now rested on his shoulders.

Yet your hand in his, steady and warm, was a lifeline he didn't deserve but couldn't release. He'd lost so much, but you remained, and in the hollow of his chest, a flicker of resolve stirred—not enough to banish the blame, but enough to whisper that he'd fight to make this right, whatever the cost—somehow.

The sun sank fully, its last light bleeding into the sea, and the cliff grew cold, the wind sharpening as twilight draped Berk in shadow. You and Hiccup sat there, two figures etched against the darkening sky, hands entwined, no words exchanged, watching the empty seas that carried war and sail away—bound for a fate no rune could foretell.

Three days had bled into one another since the longships carved their path into the sea, leaving Berk a skeletal husk of its former self. The island's remnant souls—those too old, too young, or too broken to join the war—drifted through the village like specters, their eyes averted whenever Hiccup's shadow fell across their path.

The air hung thick with unspoken scorn, a miasma that clung to the cobblestones and thatched roofs, seeping into every corner he once called home. Mildew, that gnarled old wretch with a face like curdled milk, became a fixture of malice—his sneers sharp as a blade's edge whenever Hiccup dared venture into town. The man's yellowed teeth bared in a grimace, his staff tapping the ground with deliberate disdain and spit to the ground as Hiccup passed, head bowed, footsteps quickening to escape the weight of those venomous glares.

Hiccup had retreated from the public eye, a self-imposed exile that you watched unfold with a growing ache in your chest. He'd asked—quietly, almost ashamed—if you'd bring him food rather than force him to face the village's judgment, and you'd agreed, offering your home as a refuge after Stoick's disownment had stripped him of his own. The boy who'd once been a spark of defiance against the odds now bore the mantle of outcast, a title that settled over him like a leaden cloak, dragging him deeper into himself.

You saw it in the way his shoulders slumped, the way his hands trembled when he thought you weren't looking—depression gnawing at him, slow and relentless, breaking the spirit that had always burned bright despite the world's disdain. It was a quiet shattering, a million jagged pieces scattering before your eyes, and each day the light in him dimmed further, swallowed by a darkness you couldn't reach.

Mornings became a ritual of futile hope. You'd bring him breakfast—warm oatcakes drizzled with honey, paired with a strip of smoked herring—its scent wafting through your small home, a faint promise of comfort. But he'd only pick at it, nibbling a few reluctant bites before sliding the plate aside.

Menace, who you decided to sneak back to your home so you could care for them both—plus her lack of company in the cove—would pounce on the scraps with a gleeful yap, tail wagging as she devoured what Hiccup couldn't stomach. You'd watch, jaw tight, as the food disappeared, the act a silent testament to how far he'd fallen.

Hours stretched into bleak eternities where he wouldn't leave the bed, his lanky form curled beneath the furs, staring at the rough-hewn wall or the ceiling's cracked beams—motionless, hollow, a statue carved from despair. The worry festered in you, a coal smoldering in your gut, until it flared into something fiercer, a fury that refused to let him waste away.

On the third afternoon, you'd had enough. With a sharp yank, you tore the fur blankets from his frame, the heavy pelts thudding to the floor in a tangled heap. His protest came—a weak, rasping "Hey!"—but you ignored it, seizing his hand with a grip that brooked no argument. His skin was cool, clammy against yours, and you hauled him upright, dragging him toward the door despite his dragging feet.

The afternoon light spilled through the threshold, a harsh golden flood that stung his eyes, unaccustomed to anything but the dim shadows of your home. He squinted, flinching against the brightness, his voice a low mumble as you pulled him toward the forge.

"I'm not in the mood," he muttered, the words barely audible, but you shook your head, undeterred, your boots crunching over the gravel path.

"I refuse to watch you wilt," you said, your tone firm, cutting through the sluggish haze he'd wrapped himself in.

The forge loomed ahead, its stone walls blackened with soot, the air around it heavy with the lingering scent of charred wood and molten iron. You guided him inside and sat him on one of the cold wooden chairs, its surface worn smooth by years of use. He slouched there, a pitiful figure—lanky limbs folded in on themselves, his tunic wrinkled and askew, dark circles smudged beneath his eyes like bruises, a testament to sleepless nights and a mind gnawed raw by stress. His gaze drifted, avoiding yours, fixed on the scuffed ground as if they held answers you couldn't give.

You stepped before him, the forge's dormant hearth casting long shadows across the room, and sank to your knees, the rough stone biting into your skin through your trousers. Gently, you took both his hands in yours, their chill seeping into your palms, and lifted your eyes to meet his—a quiet plea woven into the gesture.

He resisted at first, his head turned aside, but slowly, reluctantly, he met your gaze. Those green eyes, once alight with restless curiosity, now searched yours with a dull, weary emptiness, as if seeking something he'd lost the will to find. Your thumbs brushed over his knuckles, tracing the familiar ridges and scars, a soothing rhythm that eased the tension in his fingers, though it couldn't pierce the sorrow cloaking him.

"Hiccup, talk to me," you said, your voice low but steady, cutting through the forge's stillness like a blade through fog. The words hung there, heavy with the weight of days unspoken, a lifeline tossed into the abyss he'd fallen into. The air between you thickened, laced with the faint metallic tang of the forge and the earthy musk of the damp wood around you both. He said nothing, his lips parting only to close again, but his eyes held yours—searching, questioning, a flicker of the boy he'd been struggling against the tide of what he'd become.

Hiccup's mind was that of a omniscient veil, like a storm-ravaged sea, of hitting waves of guilt and isolation crashing against the fragile hull of his resolve. The island's—his fathers—rejection had flayed him open, each sneer and turned back a lash that echoed Stoick's disownment—a wound deeper than any dragon's claw.

Toothless' absence gnawed at him the most, a constant ache that pulsed with every memory of the dragon's wails, and now, cast out by his own people, he felt the weight of his choices crush him. Your presence—your hands on his, your voice calling him back—was a beacon he didn't deserve, a warmth he feared he'd snuff out with his own darkness. Yet as your thumbs moved over his knuckles, a thread of something stirred—faint, fragile, a whisper of the fight he'd once had, buried beneath the wreckage but not yet lost.

The forge stood silent around you, its tools untouched, the fire unlit—a hollow shell mirroring the boy before you. Outside, the afternoon waned, the sun dipping behind the cliffs, casting the village in a muted glow that filtered through the open doorway. Your knees ached against the stone, but you held his gaze, unwavering, the plea in your voice a quiet anchor in the storm that threatened to swallow him whole.

The air hung so heavy, thick with the scent of cold iron and the faint char of extinguished embers in a cold stillness that pressed against you as you sat there on your knees. His voice rasped into the silence, brittle and halting.

"I—," he began, but the words snagged in his throat, dry as the dust that hung in the air.

You reached for the waterskin slung at your side—a precaution you'd carried for moments like this—and pressed it into his hands. He took it with a faint nod, sipping slowly, the leather creaking as his fingers tightened around it. Water glistened briefly on his lips before he shook his head, eyes squeezing shut, a long, weary sigh slipping from him like the last breath of a dying fire.

"I don't know what I'm supposed to do," he murmured, the admission heavy, sinking into the space between you.

You tilted your head, listening—truly listening—because that was all he needed, even if it wasn't his usual spark of ingenuity lighting the way. "I think you do," you said softly, your voice a steady thread in the dimness.

"No—I don't, not this time," he countered, his tone fraying at the edges. "Everything is. . .gone. Look at the mess I created."

His hands gestured vaguely, a helpless sweep toward the unseen horizon where the longships had vanished, then fell back to his lap, limp and trembling.

"I thought I could fix things—make them see dragons aren't the enemy. But it's all gone now. The village hates me, Toothless is chained up somewhere, probably suffering—probably not eating, and I can't—." His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard, the sound rough against the quiet.

"I can't undo it. I don't even know where to start. It's like I've torn everything apart, and there's no hammer big enough to put it back together."

He paused, his breath hitching as the weight of his words settled, and then the floodgates creaked open, slow at first, then rushing forth at last—as you waited.

"My dad—Stoick—he's always had this vision of the perfect son. Someone strong, you know? A Viking who'd stand tall, swing an axe like it was part of him, and lead Berk into battle with a roar so fierce even Thor would take notice. That's what he's wanted me to be, what he's tried to shape me into ever since I could walk."

He pauses for a long moment. "But that's not me. It never has been. I'm the kid who stumbles over his own feet, who'd rather sketch gears, tinker with ideas, and sharpen blades than fight. The one who thought—naively, maybe—that I could end centuries of war with just a dragon and a crazy, half-formed plan!"

A bitter laugh escaped him, sharp and jagged, the awkward Hiccup you loved flickering through the gloom. "He disowned me. . .because I couldn't be that son. Because I messed it all up—everything—and now he's out there, sailing to that dragons nest blindly—not knowing what he's brought upon himself, fighting a war he can't win, and I'm just. . .here. Useless."

His rant spilled out, a torrent of worry and stress that had festered for days, his voice rising and falling in that familiar, stumbling cadence—earnest, raw, and painfully honest. You watched him, the boy who'd once faced down dragons with nothing but wit and a wild heart, now unraveling before you, his freckled face taut with anguish. The forge's shadows stretched long across the stone, the afternoon light filtering through the open doorway in a muted haze, catching the dust motes that danced in the air like silent witnesses to his confession.

He glanced at you then, his breath easing into a faint, weary sigh. "Just come out with it," he said, voice low, threaded with a mix of curiosity and resignation, as if he knew you held something back.

Your fingers brushed the workbench beside you, its rough edge biting into your skin as you hesitated, the words teetering on your tongue. "Do you really want to hear what I have to say?" you asked, your voice catching briefly, a tremor of uncertainty beneath the calm.

His green eyes flicked up, steady despite the shadows bruising their depths. "Pretty much all the time," he replied, the faintest quirk of his lips betraying the Hiccup buried beneath the weight.

"Alright then," you said, letting out a slow breath as you met his gaze, silently willing him to listen.

"You're not useless, Hiccup—not even close. You're the strongest person I know, something only I've had the privilege of seeing—and them? They haven't truly seen you for who you are—and they won't, not unless you let them. And I think your dad cares more for you than you realize."

The words lingered in the air, raw and honest, as you shifted closer, the chill of the stone floor seeped through your knees.

He tilted his head, brow furrowing, confusion carving lines across his face. "What makes you think that? After all he said."

You steadied yourself, the air thick with the tang of metal and the memory of his father's fury. "Look, Hiccup—it's hard to say this out loud, but when has Berk ever valued you until those trials? Not that it's a bad change, but your dad's the chief. He's got to juggle their respect, their fears, with what he feels for you—and that's a burden heavier than any longship. They've always wondered if you'd ever fill his boots, and before, that seemed impossible."

You hold his hands tighter, eyes and brow furrowing with so much emotion. "Your ideas, your inventions, they didn't match their mold of a Viking. Stoick's been caught in that bind—protecting you from their doubts while proving you're one of them. He knows you're different, not like him or them, and I think he's always seen it. He's been carving a space for you, pushing you to fit, not to change you, but because he loves you. Don't let their expectations—or his—blind you to that. But don't let them twist who you are to earn it, either."

Hiccup's eyes fluttered shut, a shaky breath rattling through him as he swallowed, the sound thick and raw in the forge's hush. Then, in a sudden, unguarded surge, he leaned forward, his forehead pressing against your neck—his warmth seeping through your skin and sleeve, his auburn hair brushing your skin like a fragile tether. The world shrank to the space between you, the villages distant hum fading into a stillness that clung to the air, heavy with the unspoken. His shoulders trembled faintly, the weight of your words sinking in, and you felt the heat of his breath against you.

"Why do you always know what I want to hear?" he whispered, voice quivering, barely more than a murmur against your skin. "Always know what I need?" His fingers twitched on his lap, hovering as if yearning to grasp this moment, to hold tighter to the lifeline you'd become.

You drew a slow, shuddering breath, your heart thudding loud and insistent against your ribs, a drumbeat urging you toward the edge of your confession that needed to be said.

"Because. . .Hiccup I lo—" you started, the words cracking under the strain, each one a step into the abyss you'd buried for too long.

But before they could spill free, a clamor erupted outside—boisterous laughter and the sharp clatter of boots on stone as a gaggle of teens stumbled past the forge, their voices slicing through the quiet like a flung axe. You faltered—all boldness leaving, the moment splintering, your breath catching as the noise yanked you both back to the world beyond the forge's walls.

Hiccup's head lifted slightly, his eyes blinking open, the spell broken but not lost. The teens' chatter faded down the path, leaving the forge steeped in silence once more, the air still tingling with the weight of what you'd almost said. His gaze lingered on you, searching, a flicker of curiosity sparking through the haze of his sorrow—a thread of the Hiccup you knew, tugging at the edges. 

"I loathe the thought of you becoming some hollow version of yourself that isn't you," you said instead, redirecting the tide of your thoughts, your voice steady but laced with a quiet fervor.

The confession you'd nearly spilled retreated, buried once more beneath layers of caution, though its echo lingered in your chest, a dull ache of what might have been. You squeezed his hands, your thumbs pressing harder against his knuckles, grounding yourself in the roughness of his skin—a lifeline to tether you both to this moment.

Hiccup's brow twitched, a faint flicker of something crossing his face—disappointment, perhaps, though he couldn't name why. The shift in your words left a hollow space he didn't understand, a vague longing for something unsaid that tugged at the edges of his battered spirit. He opened his mouth, a breath of protest forming, but before it could take shape, you moved—instinct guiding you where words had failed.

Rising slightly from your knees, you leaned forward and pressed your lips to his forehead, a long, deliberate kiss that lingered against his skin. The warmth of him seeped into you, his faint scent of leather and forge-smoke filling your senses, and for a heartbeat, the world beyond him dissolved—all swallowed by the quiet intimacy of the gesture.

You pulled back slowly, standing to your full height, the stone floor cool beneath your boots as you straightened. Hiccup's eyes widened just an inch, a subtle flare of surprise that broke through the fog of his despair. His heart stuttered, then surged, a frantic beat thundering in his chest—faster than it had ever raced, even in the face of dragons or his father's wrath.

The kiss, so simple yet so uncharted, left a warmth blooming across his forehead, a mark that tingled against the cool air of the forge. He stared up at you, his breath catching, the dark circles beneath his eyes stark against the flush creeping up his freckled cheeks. For a moment, he was unguarded—raw and open, the boy you'd always known flickering back to life beneath the weight that had crushed him.

A flush crept up your neck, a warm prickle beneath his unwavering stare. He looked at you, unblinking, his eyes widening just enough to reveal a glimmer of something unguarded—surprise, maybe, or the stir of a quiet realization finally come to light. The air between you thickened, heavy with the scent of cold iron and the faint char of the unlit hearth, a stillness that hummed with the weight of what just happened. You nudged his leg with the toe of your boot, a gentle prod accompanied by a nod, urging him past the moment's fragility.

"I want you to eat something," you said, your voice firm yet soft, cutting through the silence. "You've barely eaten."

His lips twitched then, curling into the smallest smile—a fragile, fleeting thing, the first you'd seen in what felt like an endless stretch of days. It was a crack in the gloom that had cloaked him, a glimpse of the Hiccup you'd feared lost to Berk's scorn. He rose slowly, following your lead, his lanky frame unfolding from the chair with a creak of wood against stone.

You guided him out of the forge, the afternoon light spilling across the threshold in a golden wash that stung your eyes after the dark shades. The path to your shared spot wasn't far, a familiar trek over gravel and patchy grass, the wind sharpening as you climbed, carrying the briny tang of the sea and the distant cry of gulls wheeling overhead.

At the cliff's edge, you stopped, the harbor sprawling below in a restless expanse of deep blue, its waves glinting under the waning sun like shards of broken glass. Hiccup stood close, his shoulder brushing yours, a quiet tether as you reached into the pouch at your side. From it, you drew a small bundle wrapped in cloth—his favorite breakfast muffin, a creation you'd crafted just for him.

Its dense, warm blend of egg, melted cheese, and tender strips of smoked meat, its aroma rising in a faint, savory curl. You handed it to him, and his face broke into another smile—wider this time, a spark of recognition lighting his green eyes—and his stomach rumbled. He took it, his fingers brushing yours on purpose, and stepped nearer, closing the small gap until his presence was a steady warmth at your side.

You both ate in silence, standing there atop the cliff, the wind tugging at your hair and the muffin's flavors grounding you in the moment—rich yolk, sharp cheese, the faint salt of the meat melding into something comforting, something yours. The ocean stretched endless before you, its ceaseless rhythm a counterpoint to the stillness between you, and after a while, you let your head rest against his shoulder.

The fabric of his tunic was rough against your cheek, carrying the faint scent of leather and forge-smoke, and his frame steadied beneath your weight, a quiet strength you'd missed. The world felt smaller here, the village's judgment and the war's shadow fading into out of your minds but for a moment, leaving only the two of you and the cliff's unyielding embrace.

The peace held, fragile and precious, until the crunch of boots on gravel broke the spell—a deliberate, measured sound drawing nearer from behind. You turned, lifting your head from Hiccup's shoulder, and saw Astrid emerging from the path. Her blond hair caught the fading light, strands whipping in the wind, and her axe hung at her hip, its iron head glinting dully.

Her steps slowed as she approached, her sharp blue eyes flicking between you and Hiccup, assessing, calculating, a purpose brewing beneath her calm exterior. The cliff's edge grew taut with her presence, the air shifting as if the sea itself held its breath, waiting for what she'd bring to this quiet reprieve.

Hiccup saw her and tensed. Astrid's arrival tugged at the edges of that fragile calm, a reminder of the world he'd been cast out from. He felt the weight of her gaze, the unspoken questions it carried, and though your shoulder against his anchored him, a thread of tension coiled in his chest—bracing for what she'd say, what she'd demand of the outcast he'd become.

The cliff's edge trembled with the weight of the moment, the wind curling around you in sharp gusts, tugging at your hair and carrying the briny sting of the sea. Astrid stood a few paces away, her boots grinding into the gravel, her blond braid swaying as she shifted her weight. The fading sun painted the horizon in streaks of amber and shadow, casting a faint glow across her face as she broke the silence. You nodded, a subtle tilt of your head inviting her closer, and she stepped forward, closing the distance until she stood beside you both.

"Hey," she began, her voice rough-edged, faltering as if unsure where to land. "Haven't seen you around. Thought I'd come check on you." Her blue eyes darted between you and Hiccup, searching beneath her steady gaze.

You shifted slightly at Hiccups side, the grass beneath your boots slick with the day's damp. Hiccup's shoulder brushed yours, a quiet reassurance, and he spoke, his words clipped, evasive.

"Been thinking," he offered, a thin excuse that veiled the depths he'd sunk into—depths you'd only just hauled him from, though he wouldn't let that slip. His voice rasped, still dry from days of silence, a raw thread woven with the turmoil of the past several weeks.

Astrid's gaze softened, though her words cut sharp. "It's a mess," she said, her tone blunt but not unkind. "You must feel horrible. You've lost everything—your father, your tribe, your dragon."

She listed them like blows, each one landing heavy, while you tried to wave your hand to stop her and Hiccup's head snapped up, his brows furrowing in a mix of confusion and irritation. He stared at her as if she'd sprouted a second head, then lifted his brows, unamused, a faint wave of his hand punctuating his reply.

"Thank you for summing that up," he muttered, the sarcasm dry as bone, though it carried a faint tremor of exhaustion.

Astrid flinched at herself, her hand hovering awkwardly mid-air, unused to softening edges or lifting spirits. She glanced at you, a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, but you held steady beside Hiccup, your presence a quiet bridge between them. He turned his gaze to the sea, its restless waves glinting far below, and his voice dropped, raw and jagged.

"Why couldn't I have killed that dragon when I found him in the woods?"

The question hung there, aimed at the horizon but meant for you both. His eyes slid to yours, and you met them with knitted brows, worry etching lines across your face—you knew exactly what he meant, the memory of that moment a shared memory between you.

"Would've been better for everyone," he went on, his words rough with self-reproach, the weight of his fathers scorn and Toothless' chains dragging them down further.

You opened your mouth to respond, a breath drawn to counter his despair, but Astrid spoke first, her voice cutting through.

"Yep! The rest of us would've done it. So, why didn't you?" She paused, watching him, then pressed again when he hesitated. "Why didn't you?"

Hiccup's jaw tightened, his hands flexing at his sides. "I don't know. I couldn't," he said, the admission quiet, almost lost to the wind.

"That's not an answer," Astrid shot back, her tone firm, unrelenting.

He rounded on her, annoyance flaring as he stepped to the side, away from both your gazes. "Why is this so important to you? And all of a sudden?" His brows furrowed, his voice rising with a brittle edge, the stress gnawing at him again.

Astrid glanced at you, and you gave her a subtle nod, an exchanged look urging her to press on. She squared her shoulders, her eyes locking onto his. "Because I want to remember what you say, right now," she said, her words deliberate, carrying a weight that stilled the air.

Hiccup threw his head back, a groan rumbling from his throat as he rubbed his face with both hands. "Oh, for the love of—"

He sighed heavily, the sound scraping against the silence. "I was a coward, okay? I was weak. I wouldn't kill a dragon!" The confession burst out, sharp as his voice cracked under the strain.

Astrid tilted her head, catching the shift. "You said wouldn't that time."

"Whatever!" Hiccup snapped, his tone spiking as the stress clawed back, but your fingers tightened on his arm, a gentle pressure to calm the tide from rising in him again. He exhaled, the fight draining as he continued, voice raw but steadier.

"I wouldn't! Three hundred years, and I'm the first Viking who wouldn't kill a dragon!" He turned to you, his breathing slowing, his green eyes searching yours for something—forgiveness, understanding, a lifeline.

Astrid paused, letting the words settle, then spoke after a long beat. "First to ride one, though."

"And a Night Fury of all dragons," you added, a faint smile tugging at your lips—his voice trembling with awe, not despair.

Astrid nodded, her gaze sharpening as she edged him on. "So?"Hiccup's eyes flicked between you both—first to Astrid, then to you, your head tilted in quiet curiosity—before settling back on her. 

"I wouldn't kill him because he looked as frightened as I was," he said, calmer now, the fire in his voice tempered by a dawning clarity. "I looked at him, and I saw myself."

You smiled then, a soft curve of your lips as those familiar words echoed back—remembering the day he'd first told you something similar himself, a memory of the boy who'd dared to see beyond Berk's bloodlust.

Astrid's brows lifted slightly, her question cutting through the stillness. "I bet he's really frightened now. What are you going to do about it?" Urging him to do something about it.

He glanced at her, then to you, your steady presence beside him a silent prompt, before returning to Astrid. A new fire flickered in his eyes, faint but growing.

"Uh—well, probably something stupid," he said, a trace of that awkward Hiccup breaking through as he began to walk, his steps purposeful now.

You and Astrid fell in behind him, matching his pace. "Good. But you've already done that," Astrid reminded him, a dry edge to her tone.

He smiled again—small, but real. "Then something crazy," he said, breaking into a run, his boots pounding the earth as the cliff stretched out behind him.

You followed, your breath catching as you ran, a grin tugging at your lips. "There you are Hiccup," you whispered to yourself, the words lost to the wind as it whipped past, unheard by either of them but settling warm in your chest. The three of you raced forward, the sea a boundless expanse at your backs.

Your boots pounded the earth, gravel crunching beneath each stride, and you shouted after Hiccup, your voice slicing through the rush of air. "So? What's the plan?"

He didn't slow, his lanky frame weaving through the path with a newfound urgency. He glanced back, breath heaving, but his words came steady and sure as you veered toward the arena, its iron gates looming in the distance.

"We're going after them," he said, his tone laced with a clarity that hadn't surfaced in days. "The longships have a four-day start, heading for the dragons' nest, and we're not letting them get there alone—not with what they're about to face."

His gaze flicked between you and Astrid, a fierce trust burning through the exhaustion. "I only trust you two right now. You—" he nodded at you, "stay with me. We'll prep the dragons here. Astrid, I need you to round up the gang—Fishlegs, Snotlout, Ruffnut, and Tuffnut. Only them."

Astrid, then back to the path ahead, the arena's gates now in sight. Her brow lifted, her pace unwavering as she processed his orders. "Why just them?" she asked, her voice sharp with curiosity.

Hiccup clenched his jaw, his eyes squinting as the wind whipped against his face. "Because they're the only ones who didn't turn their backs," he said, his voice firm. "The others—they'd smirk and whisper behind your back whenever I was nearby." He glanced at you, his expression hardening. "And ever since Stoick disowned me, they've treated me like I'm contagious, avoiding me completely. But these others? They didn't mock me still. We need people we can count on, ones who'll stick with us to the end. I trust them."

Astrid nodded, a glint of resolve in her blue eyes. "Got it," she said, peeling off toward the village without breaking stride, her boots kicking up dust as she vanished around a bend, braid bouncing and jaw set with determination.

The air grew stiller as she disappeared, the wind's howl softening, and you and Hiccup pressed on, the arena's iron gates looming closer with every step. The village faded into a muted hum behind you—empty streets, averted eyes, the weight of Berk's rejection a shadow you outran together. You reached the arena alone, the vast circle of stone and chain eerily quiet, its stands deserted under the gathering dusk. No guards, no lingering villagers—just the two of you and the faint rustle of dragons behind their prison.

The space was a hollow shell, abandoned since the war party sailed, its silence broken only by the distant crash of waves and the creak of settling timber. You moved in tandem, hands fumbling with the heavy locks, the metal cold and gritty against your palms. Together, you heaved the gates upward, scraping against their hinges as they rose and the clank of metal echoing through the empty pit.

Inside, the air thickened with the musk of burnt wood and the lingering heat of dragon breath, the cages lining the walls silent but alive with coiled potential. Hiccup turned to you, his brows furrowed, a flicker of intensity in his green eyes.

"Before they get here," he said, his voice low but firm, "we're going to need ropes. Can you grab some from the bin by the wall?" He gestured toward a weathered wooden crate nestled against the stone, its edges splintered and stained with pitch.

You nodded, starting to turn, but his hand caught yours—a sudden, warm grip that stopped you mid-step. "No matter what," he said, his tone softening, a quiet intensity threading through it, "you ride with me."

His lips curved into a small, earnest smile, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes, and your own smile mirrored it, a spark of warmth blooming in your chest.

"Always," you replied, squeezing his hand before slipping free, your boots scuffing the dirt as you crossed to the bin.

The ropes were there, coiled in rough, hempen loops, their fibers coarse against your fingers as you hefted them onto your shoulder. The weight settled heavy, a tangible piece of the plan taking shape, and you turned back to find Hiccup standing by the Monstrous Nightmare's cage. He waited there, his lanky frame silhouetted against the iron bars, no trace of the nervous boy who'd once faced this beast with a trembling shield.

Confidence radiated from him now, a quiet assurance born of understanding—no danger lingered here, not for him, not anymore. He stood before the gate, hands resting lightly at his sides, the dragon's low rumble vibrating through the bars as he waited.

You joined him, the ropes digging into your shoulder, their coarse fibers scratching through your tunic. He glanced over, a nod of thanks passing between you, his eyes catching the dim light filtering through the arena's high slits. The silence stretched, taut with anticipation, until the crunch of boots on stone broke it—the gang arriving, their voices a low murmur as they stepped into the pit.

Fishlegs lumbered in first, his round face creased with confusion, followed by Snotlout's swaggering bulk, then the twins—Ruffnut and Tuffnut—trailing with their usual chaotic energy, heads tilted as they took in the scene. Their eyes darted from the open gates to Hiccup, then to you, questions simmering beneath their bewilderment.

Hiccup straightened, his voice cutting through the quiet as he faced them all. "Pack a bag—something light, just what you need. We're going after the longboats. They've got a four-day start, heading for the dragons' nest, and we're not letting them get there alone." His words carried a fire, steady and unyielding, the plan unfolding with a clarity that belied the days before.

"Exactly why are we going after them?" Snotlout asked, his tone sharp with confusion.

Hiccup's face softened, the tension easing as a small smile curved his lips. "We're stopping this war," he replied, his voice steady with quiet resolve.

The arena's walls seemed to lean in with tension, the air thick with the musk of dragons and the faint tang of rust, as the gang exchanged glances—Fishlegs nodding slowly, Snotlout grunting approval, the twins smirking with a spark of mischief. The pit stood silent around you, as the gang lingered, waiting for Hiccup's next move, and you adjusted the ropes on your shoulder, your gaze steady on him—the boy who'd defied an island, now ready to defy a war.

Hiccup's plan still echoed in their minds—his voice steady with his resolve a tangible weight grounding you as the others processed his words. Fishlegs broke the quiet first, his broad frame turning toward the gates, a spark of defiance flaring in his tone.

Hiccup's plan still echoed in their minds—his voice steady with his resolve a tangible weight grounding you as the others processed his words. Fishlegs broke the quiet first, his broad frame turning toward the gates, a spark of defiance flaring in his tone.

"Well, if you're planning on getting eaten," he said, his voice edged with a rare bite as he glanced back at Hiccup, "I'd definitely go with the Gronckle." He pivoted fully then, starting for the exit, his steps heavy with doubt, his shoulders hunched as if already retreating from the fight.

A spark of anger flared within you, hot and fierce, surging through your chest like a bellows stoked to life. You stepped forward, your boots scraping the stone with a sharp, deliberate grind.

"Go then," you commanded, your voice ringing out, a clarion call that cut through the arena's stillness and halted him mid-stride. "All of you if you're too cowardly."

The others froze, their eyes snapping to you, and you drew a breath, the air sharp with the tang of rust and anticipation. "Just remember. You all watched Hiccup tame these dragons through the trials—every one of you. You saw him stand where no Viking in history has ever dared walked toward, bending fire and fury to his will with nothing but his hands and his heart."

You turned, sweeping your gaze across them—Fishlegs, wide-eyed; Snotlout, arms crossed; the twins, leaning into each other; Astrid, steady as stone. "So, why doubt him now?" you pressed, your voice rising, each word a hammer strike forging conviction from the air.

You gestured sharply toward the cages, where the dragons' deep, rumbling growls echoed through the stone walls. "Hiccup's taken chaos and spun it into peace, turning enemies into allies while the rest of Berk clutched their axes and cowered in fear. If you think turning your back on him—walking away—is the answer, then go ahead and leave. But hear this: Hiccup's no coward—Unlike others. No—He's a dragon master, forging courage in a place others only see as weakness because they fear it. Anyone who abandons him now isn't just blind—they're the real cowards, too weak to stand in the fire he's kindled for us all. And mark my words, they'll soon regret it."

Your words crashed like thunder, echoing through the pit, and you stood tall, the ropes draped over your shoulder like a cloak of determination. Hiccup hovered just a few feet away, his lean frame motionless as he gazed at you—his green eyes glowing with a quiet, growing wonder.

To him, you were a revelation, a Valkyrie emerging from the haze of his hopelessness, your voice a sharp sword slicing through the mist that had clouded his mind. His chest tightened, a fresh wave of admiration unfurling within him as he saw you in a new light—not merely his loyal companion, but a fierce presence, forged from the same untamed spirit that had tied him to Toothless.

The others stirred, their uncertainty cracking beneath the weight of your resolving conviction. Fishlegs hesitated, then turned back, his round face softening as a flicker of shame melted into quiet inspiration; he gave a slow, thoughtful nod. The twins shared a quick look—Ruffnut tilted her head with a grin of approval, while Tuffnut's eyes gleamed with reckless excitement.

Astrid's lips twitched upward, a rare glint of admiration piercing her usual composure. Snotlout unfolded his arms, staring at you with a newfound intensity, as if truly seeing you for the first time—not just the quiet figure beside Hiccup, but a woman forged of steel and flame. He nodded, deliberate and grudging, respect carving itself into his posture.

You turned to meet Hiccup's gaze, giving him a steady nod. He held your look, still reeling from the force of your words, a soft flush spreading across his freckled cheeks as awe lingered in his wide, green eyes. 

Tuffnut shattered the moment, strutting forward with an exaggerated swagger, his grin twisted and shadowy as he leaned into Hiccup's face. "You were wise to enlist the world's most lethal weapon," he said, his voice sinking into a dramatic, ominous growl as he waggled his fingers between them. "It's me." With a wild, toothy grin, he stepped back, striking a pose with a flamboyant flourish.

Snotlout barreled in, shoving Tuffnut aside with his bulk, sending him stumbling as he locked eyes with you, then Hiccup. "I love this plan," he announced, his voice ringing with sudden enthusiasm, fists tightening at his sides. "I'm so ready."

Ruffnut jabbed an elbow into Snotlout's ribs, her rough laugh slicing through the air as she leaned in close, her tone gritty yet playful. "You're crazy," she said, pausing as her eyes narrowed and a smirk curled her lips, her flirtation bold and unapologetic. "I like that. . ."

Astrid stepped in then, her braid swaying as she moved with purpose, pulling Ruffnut aside with a swift, practiced flick of her arm. She faced you and Hiccup, her gaze keen and focused, cutting through the chaos. "So, what's the plan then?" she asked, her voice a firm tether, grounding the group back to the task at hand.

You shifted the ropes on your shoulder, feeling the rough fibers bite deeper into your skin, and glanced at Hiccup. He drew himself up, the spark in his green eyes igniting into a fierce blaze.

"We prep the dragons," he said, his voice solid now, rough around the edges but unwavering.

"You and me," he nodded at you. "We'll get them ready while they pack light, and after that we fly out. The longboats have a four-day lead, but since Toothless knows where they're going, he'll get them there sooner than a week, not a month—however since they're all on boats we have the advantage, these dragons are faster. We catch them before they reach the nest, free Toothless, and end this war."

He turned toward the Monstrous Nightmare's cage, as the arena thrummed with fresh momentum, the gang's voices buzzing as they split off to their tasks. Fishlegs mumbled calculations about flight ratios under his breath, Snotlout shouted commands to the air, and the twins squabbled loudly over who'd claim which dragon.

Astrid shot you a brisk, approving nod before striding off to collect supplies, the faint clink of her axe ringing at her side. You stood next to Hiccup, the weight of the ropes grounding you, your earlier words still hanging in the air—a rallying call that had forged their hesitation into unbreakable resolve.

Hiccup's mind churned with gratitude and resolve. Your speech had struck him like Mjölnir, rekindling the embers he'd thought snuffed out for a moment—your voice a beacon, your faith a shield against the abyss. A warrior—a Valkyrie—of words and will who'd rallied his fractured crew. He watched as you worked to untangle the ropes, his gaze tracing your movements before settling on your lips. Almost without thinking, his feet started moving, drawing him closer to you, step by steady step.

Before he could step in front of you, a blur of motion cut through the scene—Snotlout barreled back into the pit, his broad frame jostling the stillness, a rough-hewn sack slung over his shoulder. His wild grin stretched wide, his eyes gleaming with a manic, childlike thrill, as if he'd just unwrapped a long-awaited gift.

"Alright, I've got what I need!" he bellowed, his voice booming off the walls as he skidded to a halt beside Hiccup. "Which dragon do I get?!" He bounced on his heels, the bag thumping against his back, his excitement a stark contrast to the arena's brooding weight.

Hiccup blinked, shaken from the trance of your presence that had woven around him. His head tilted, a faint shake as if clearing a fog, and his eyes darted to you again—briefly, involuntarily—catching on your lips for a heartbeat too long. A flush of confusion, of want, flickered across his face, a pull he didn’t quite understand, before he wrenched his gaze away, flustered. He turned to Snotlout, rubbing the back of his neck with a quick, awkward motion. 

"Um—we'll let the dragon decide that," he said, his voice steadying as he regained his footing, though a trace of that rattled edge lingered.

Snotlout clapped a hand on Hiccup's shoulder, grinning wider, undeterred, and stood beside him, practically vibrating with anticipation.

You caught the shift in Hiccup's demeanor—the fleeting glance, the faint hitch in his breath—and a warmth stirred in your chest, mingling with the adrenaline still coursing through you. Snotlout's eagerness buzzed beside him, a chaotic counterpoint to the quiet intensity threading between you, and the pit stood poised.

The air hangs thick with tension as the others trudge back, boots scuffing against the gritty coarse stone floor of the arena. Hiccup stands resolute, his wiry frame silhouetted against the fading amber light of dusk. He gestures sharply, a silent command, and they shuffle into a rigid line before him—shoulders tense, gazes flickering between each other, a wave of unease rolling through them like a chilling gust.

Above the pit, your hands grip the rusted iron lever, the metal biting into your palms with a chill that seeps into your bones. At Hiccup's steady nod, you wrench it upward, muscles straining against the stubborn latch of the Monstrous Nightmare's cage. A groan of hinges echoes through the cavernous space as the log rose up and the heavy door grinds open. From the shadowed depths, a pair of slit eyes glints like polished embers, cutting through the gloom. The dragon's gaze locks onto Hiccup, unblinking, its massive form coiled in the corner—a predator sizing up an enigma.

Minutes crawl by, heavy with silence. The beast remains statue-still, its scales shimmering faintly with each slow breath, a living furnace of restrained power. Hiccup shifts, reaching into a burlap sack at his side. He pulls out a glistening cod, its scales catching the last slivers of sunlight, its fishy scent of salt and sea wafting into the air. The dragon's pupils flare wide for a heartbeat, a flicker of hunger piercing its stoic mask, before narrowing again as it weighs the offering against the boy who dares to stand so close.

Hiccup's movements are deliberate, his voice a low murmur barely audible over the distant crash of waves beyond the arena walls. He extends the fish, arms steady despite the weight of the moment, his posture soft but unyielding—a quiet declaration of peace. The dragon's nostrils flare, tasting the air, its ember-like eyes tracing every nuance of the boy's intent. Fear lingers in its taut muscles, a mighty creature worn thin by captivity, yet there's a spark of curiosity too, glinting beneath the surface.

A low rumble vibrates from the dragon's chest as it shifts, claws scraping faintly against the stone. It edges forward, each step a cautious dance between instinct and trust. The arena holds its breath as the Monstrous Nightmare looms closer, its jagged silhouette towering over Hiccup. Then, with a gentleness that belies its fearsome maw, it parts its jaws and takes the fish from his hand—teeth brushing the air inches from his skin, deliberate and restrained.

The dragon retreats a step, the cod vanishing in slow, savoring bites. Scales ripple as it chews, the sound a soft crunch against the stillness. Its gaze lifts to Hiccup once more, and with a tentative nudge, its snout presses against his empty hand—warm, leathery, and insistent. A plea born of hollowed hunger, etched into the gaunt lines of its frame, speaks louder than any roar ever could. It's been too long since it last ate its fill.

A faint smile cracks Hiccup's guarded expression, softening the sharp edges of his face. His fingers hover, then settle lightly on the dragon's snout, tracing the rough texture of scales worn smooth by time.

"More very soon, I promise" he whispers, the words a vow carried on the salt-laden breeze, meant only for the creature before him.

The dragon's eyes half-close, a low hum thrumming from its throat, as if it understands the weight of that promise. Hiccup steps back, slow and measured, his boots scuffing the dirt in a rhythm that coaxes the dragon to follow. The Monstrous Nightmare hesitates, then moves, its massive form unfurling from the cage's confines. 

Claws click against stone, wings twitching as they taste freedom for the first time since that match. The sunset spills across the arena, painting its scales in hues of molten gold and crimson, a breathtaking contrast to the shadows it leaves behind. Together, they cross the open space, a boy and a beast bound by something unspoken yet palpable.

From their rigid line, the others watch, breaths held tight in their chests. Awe wars with terror in their wide eyes, the sight of Hiccup guiding a dragon—a Monstrous Nightmare—too surreal to fully grasp. Snotlout trembles more than the rest, his broad shoulders quaking as he shifts his weight from foot to foot. Sweat beads on his brow, glistening in the dying light, as the pair draws nearer. His hand twitches toward the ground, fingers closing around a jagged rock small enough to conceal but sharp enough to wound.

The dragon's head tilts, oblivious to the threat, its focus tethered to Hiccup. Before Snotlout can lift the stone, Astrid's hand clamps onto his wrist. Her voice is a low hiss, cutting through his panic.

"Drop it." His jaw tightens, defiance flaring, but her grip holds until the rock slips from his grasp, clattering harmlessly to the dirt.

Hiccup stops a few paces away, his eyes flicking to his cousins' pale face. He reaches out, taking the boy's arm despite the resistance that follows.

"Wait!" Snotlout's voice cracks, sharp with fear, as he yanks back, boots skidding.

Hiccup's grip remains steady, gentle but insistent. "Shh. Relax," he soothes, the words soft as a lullaby against the chaos of Snotlout's racing pulse. "It's okay, it's okay."

With care, Hiccup guides Snotlout's trembling hand forward, pressing it to the dragon's snout. The scales are warm, almost searing, and the Monstrous Nightmare rumbles—a deep, resonant purr that vibrates through Snotlout's bones immediately taking a liking to the boy and his firm strength. 

Snotlouts' breath hitches, caught between dread and wonder, as the dragon leans into the touch. In that fleeting moment, an invisible thread weaves between them, fragile yet undeniable in a connection that made the boy smile—a real smile—in awe of the new friend before him.

Hiccup steps back, his boots crunching faintly, leaving Snotlout alone with the Monstrous Nightmare. The dragon's purring fills the air, his vibrations felt through the ground, a low vibration that rattles the stillness. Snotlout's eyes stay glued to the beast, his chest heaving as a high-pitched yelp escapes him.

"Where are you going!" His voice cracks, sharp with nerves, his gaze never wavering from the creature's ember-lit eyes, as if breaking contact might shatter the fragile peace.

Hiccup doesn't answer immediately. He strides toward a neat stack of ropes you'd coiled earlier, their coarse fibers glinting faintly in the dimming light. One by one, he lifts them, the weight familiar in his hands, and passes them out to the group. Each rope thuds softly into their palms—Snotlout's fingers twitch as he takes his, the others grasping theirs with varying degrees of reluctance.

Hiccup's grin breaks through, bright and unburdened. "You're going to need something to hold on to, aren't you?" His tone carries a spark of mischief.

A metallic screech cuts through the moment as you haul open the latch to the Hideous Zippleback's cage. The air grows thick, heavy with the acrid tang of smoke that billows out, curling in tendrils across the arena. Visibility fades, the sunset's glow swallowed by the haze.

Hiccup, undeterred, presses two slick, silvery fish into the twins' hands—Ruffnut and Tuffnut exchanging a glance, their bravado a flimsy mask. He guides them to the center, arms outstretched like offerings to the unknown. Their shoulders stiffen, chins jutting out in feigned courage, but their eyes betray them—wild, flickering with panic beneath the surface.

From the smoke, a single head emerges, sinuous and deliberate, its scales glinting like oil on water. The gas head of the Zippleback slithers toward Ruffnut, its movements serpentine, hypnotic. Her head tilts slightly toward Tuffnut, seeking reassurance, but Hiccup's voice cuts through the tension, steady and calm.

"It's okay," he murmurs, his hand gently steadying her arm. "Let it come to you."

She swallows hard, obeying, her arm trembling as the dragon's snout hovers closer, nostrils flaring as it scents the fish. Its breath brushes her skin, warm and faintly sulfurous, before it dips lower, inspecting her face. Her eyes squeeze shut, a reflex against the intimacy of the moment, until its jaws part delicately, claiming the fish. A rough, long-slit tongue flicks out, grazing her hand, hungry for more as it licks her palm.

Tuffnut's attention snaps to his sister, worry etching his features, until a glint of movement draws his gaze. The spark head emerges, its eyes narrowed with a mix of anger and curiosity, locking onto him. He freezes, the fish dangling from his grip as he lifts it slightly, a hesitant peace offering.

The dragon's head rears high, scales catching the light, its stare piercing. Tuffnut mirrors it, his own eyes wide and searching, a silent question hanging between them. Slowly, the spark head descends, its scrutiny unrelenting, until it blinks—a single, deliberate motion—and snatches the fish in one swift gulp, the tension easing like a held breath released.

The gas head nudges Ruffnut again, its touch gentle now, almost affectionate, while the spark head lingers on Tuffnut. Their gazes hold, a quiet acknowledgment passing between them, a bond taking root in the shared stillness. The smoke swirls, a witness to their tentative truce, as the twins stand bound to their twin-headed companion.

Next, Fishlegs shuffles forward, his bulk betraying him with every quaking step. His legs wobble visibly, knees knocking as Hiccup raises a hand, signaling you above. The latch of the Gronckle's cage groans open, and the arena trembles with the dragon's arrival. It doesn't emerge with caution—it bursts forth, a furious buzz of wings and a snarl of defiance, slamming against the cage's edge before launching into the air. Dust kicks up in its wake, the sound of its flight a low roar that sets your teeth on edge.

The Gronckle hovers, its stubby wings beating against the smoke-laden air, its beady eyes darting between the other dragons and their newfound riders. Confusion stalls its aggression, a flicker of doubt in its bristling posture. Then its gaze lands on Hiccup, and instinct takes over.

It dives, a familiar charge aimed straight for him, its growl reverberating off the stone walls. But Hiccup only smiles, unflinching, his hands already cradling a fistful of dragonnip. The scent hits the air—earthy, pungent—and the Gronckle falters mid-flight. Its tail wags, a comical pendulum, and it crashes to the ground with a thud, belly flopping against the dirt in eager submission.

Hiccup's laughter rings out, clear with joy, as he turns to Fishlegs. The boy's hands shield his face, his frame shrinking as if he could vanish into the shadows. Hiccup steps closer, pressing the dragonnip into Fishlegs' clammy palm, and nudges him forward.

"Hold it out," he urges, voice soft but firm.

Fishlegs complies, arm trembling as the Gronckle bounds toward him, its tongue lolling out in a frenzy of delight. The dragon's rough licks coat his hand, slobber glistening in the fading light, and Fishlegs' nervous giggle escapes—tight and shaky at first, then blooming into something genuine, a burst of joy as the Gronckle's tail thumps the ground like a drumbeat.

Astrid stands apart, the last in line, her stance a careful balance of anticipation and restraint. The air feels heavier around her, tinged with the memory of a past encounter—a sharp strike she'd once landed on the Deadly Nadder's head. Her fingers flex at her sides, betraying the excitement that thrums beneath her guarded exterior, tempered by a quiet hope that the dragon's memory isn't as long as her own. She shifts her weight, the dirt crunching beneath her boots, her breath shallow but steady.

Hiccup steps closer, his presence a grounding force amid the chaos of scales and smoke. "It's alright," he says, his voice low and even, cutting through the knot of tension in her chest. "Let her come to you. Just be calm and hold the salmon out. Show her you mean no harm." His words carry a quiet certainty, as she nods once, sharply, and turns her focus forward.

Above, your hands find the final lever, the cold iron slick with the day's dampness. With a firm pull, you release the latch, the mechanism grinding open with a reluctant creak that echoes faintly across the pit. Inside the cage, the Deadly Nadder stirs, roused from a slumber so deep it might have been mistaken for a hen brooding over an unseen clutch.

Her eyes flutter open, blinking against the intrusion of light, and she stretches her wings—vibrant feathers catching the last embers of the sunset—before stepping out. Her head tilts, first one way, then the other, her vision adjusting as she surveys the unfamiliar expanse.

The scent of the salmon in Astrid's hand wafts through the air, rich and briny, drawing the Nadder's attention like a lodestone. She moves forward, talons clicking against the stone, her gait steady and unafraid. Astrid mirrors her, determination hardening the lines of her face, her wide blue eyes locking onto the dragon's yellow ones with an intensity that feels almost tangible.

The Nadder's jaws part wide, a silent invitation, and Astrid tosses the fish with a flick of her wrist. It arcs through the air and lands perfectly, swallowed in a single, graceful motion as her head tilted—like a bird swallowing its meal.

Astrid lifts her hand, palm open and waiting, the gesture fragile yet bold. The Nadder pauses, her head cocking as she studies the offered palm with a flicker of confusion. Then, slowly, she leans forward, nostrils flaring as she sniffs the air, the warmth of her breath brushing Astrid's skin.

At last, she presses her snout into the hand, scales cool and smooth against flesh. A laugh bubbles up from Astrid, bright and unguarded, and the Nadder responds with a gleeful flap of her wings, the sound a sharp rustling chirp that cuts through the arena's stillness.

Around them, the other riders meld into their new bonds—Snotlout's hesitant pats growing surer, the twins trading wary glances with their Zippleback, Fishlegs still chuckling as the Gronckle nuzzles his hand. Hiccup drifts among them, offering quiet guidance, his silhouette weaving through the haze like a thread stitching the scene together. The dragons' rumbles and chirps blend into a strange harmony, a testament to the fragile trust taking root.

Your boots hit the arena floor as you descend from the upper ledge, the impact sending a faint jolt up your legs. You weave past the burlap sack of fish, its damp fabric brushing your arm, and pluck one from the pile—its size modest, perfect for what waits ahead.

The final cage looms before you, smaller than the rest, its latch a simple bar you lift with ease. The Terrible Terror inside bursts forth, a blur of scales and speed that forces you to spin on your heels to track it. Larger than your own Menace, yet still compact, it skids to a halt, nostrils twitching as the fish's scent hooks its attention.

You sink to your knees, the stone cool beneath you, and hold the fish out, your voice a soft coo that lilts through the air. "Come on, little one, it's yours."

The Terror's eyes—bright, inquisitive—fix on the prize, and it scampers closer, claws tapping a rapid rhythm. Hiccup approaches, his steps measured, and kneels beside you, close enough that the warmth of him brushes your side. He watches as the dragon takes the fish, its tiny jaws working slowly, savoring each bite with a deliberation that belies its earlier haste.

A gentle laugh escapes you, light and unforced, as the Terror's tail flicks in contentment—much like Menace you thought. Hiccup's gaze shifts from the dragon to you, his smile softening into something deeper—fondness etching itself into the corners of his eyes, the curve of his mouth. The arena fades for a moment, the clamor of dragons and riders dimming, leaving only the quiet space between you.

Hiccup's hand finds yours, his calloused fingers wrapping around your own with a quiet urgency as he pulls you both to your feet. The dirt clings to your knees, a faint grit against your skin, as he leads you toward the others. The night has settled fully now, the last traces of sunset swallowed by a sky thick with stars and the pale glow of the moon. Shadows stretch long and jagged across the arena, the air cooling with each passing moment.

"Get ready to fly," Hiccup calls out, his voice cutting through the murmur of dragons and riders. His tone is firm, laced with purpose. "Once we're back with what we need, we're leaving."

The group shifts, their silhouettes tense against the dark—Snotlout clutching his rope a little tighter, Astrid smoothing a hand over the Nadder's scales, the twins exchanging a quick, nervous glance. Hiccup turns to you, a nod sealing the plan, and together you stride out of the arena, the crunch of gravel underfoot fading into the night.

Outside, he pauses, the moonlight catching the sharp angles of his face. "Meet me a few steps from the arena," he says, his gaze flickering with something unspoken. "I need to tell you something." Before you can respond, he's off, his lanky frame disappearing toward his house, leaving you standing in the cool, quiet dark.

You make your way to your own home, the familiar path lit only by the moon's silver sheen. Inside, the air smells of baked bread and smoked fish, a comfort you quickly set to work dismantling. Your bag lies open on the floor, and you pack with ruthless efficiency—sacrificing space for the essentials.

One spare set of clothes is all you allow yourself, the rest filled with spices and herbs tied in small bundles, extra cloths for wrapping food, the last of your dense loaves, strips of jerky, and the smoked cod you'd prepared for journeys like this. The weight of it all presses against your shoulders as you hoist your largest—full leather waterskin, its contents sloshing faintly.

Menace chirps from her perch near the hearth. You scoop her up, her scales warm against your hands, and settle her into the leather carrier you'd crafted—a snug sling that straps across your back, designed for flights with Hiccup and Toothless. She nestles in, cooing with contentment, her tiny claws flexing against the material as you shoulder your loadon the opposite shoulder and head back into the night after having put the fire in the hearth out.

Hiccup waits where he'd promised, a small bag slung over his shoulder, a pouch of dragonnip tied to his hip, its earthy scent drifting faintly on the breeze. His waterskin hangs at his side, and a spare set of clothes bulges the pack slightly.

"Hey," he says, a warm smile cutting through the dimness as he steps toward you.

"Hey," you answer, shifting the load on your back. "Brought the food since I know no one else bothered."

He chuckles, the sound bright and easy. "Did you at least pack some clothes?"

"Of course," you retort, a grin tugging at the corner of your mouth.

The walk back to the arena is quiet, the moon's glow painting the world in muted silvers and grays. Your footsteps fall in sync, a steady beat against the quiet, until Hiccup falters mid-stride, his pace slowing. His hand twitches, as if reaching for words he can't quite grasp.

You glance at him, brow furrowing. "Are you alright?"

"Oh yeah! Yeah—never better," he blurts, his voice cracking oddly as he flashes a strained smile. His eyes dart to you, then skitter away, too fleeting to linger.

"Hiccup," you say, your tone flat, unmoved by the flimsy lie.

He lets out a breath, shoulders dipping as the pretense fades. "Seriously, I am. Thanks to you more than anything. Am I nervous still? Of course. But I just—I'm starting to realize something." His glance flicks to you again, brief and searching. "And it's strange. Something I'm not really sure of yet."

Concern creases your face, and you pivot, walking backward to face him fully as you both press on. "What is it?" The question lands with weight, your eyes fixed on his, unwavering.

A flush creeps up his neck, faint but undeniable even in the moonlight's soft glow. His mind churns, tangled in the memory of earlier—the sudden, inexplicable urge to kiss you catching him off guard. His best friend. The thought twists in his chest, unfamiliar and unsteady. He rubs the back of his neck, fingers digging into the skin as he wrestles with it—too uncertain to voice, too risky to confess—dangerous to admit—especially now, with a dragon fight looming and the nagging doubt that his mind might just be messing with him.

"I just hope we all get to them before it's too late," he says instead, his voice leveling out as he steers the conversation elsewhere. "And that we'll be okay getting there."

You stop short, making him stumble to a halt mid-stride. Leaning in—closer than he's ready for—your face draws near, your breath a warm contrast to the night's chill. His pulse spikes, heat surging from his neck to his ears, his fair skin betraying him even in the dark's faint cover.

"We'll get there, Hiccup," you say, your words deliberate and firm, a smile tugging at your lips.

"And we'll get there just fine. We have the dragon master with us." You give him a light, playful nudge, stepping back with a glint of satisfaction in your eyes, clearly enjoying the chance to tease him.

His face still burns, the flush scorching beneath his collar, and he silently thanks the darkness for concealing what his skin can't hide. You turn and march off, leaving him frozen for a beat. A shaky breath slips out, one he didn't know he'd been holding until the sound of your footsteps dwindled. With a quick shake of his head, he jogs after you, falling into step as the arena's shadowed outline rises into view.

The others are ready when you arrive, their dragons shifting restlessly in the dark—wings fluttering, tails thudding against the ground, eyes flashing like scattered constellations. They nod at you both, a quiet sign they're ready, their ropes clutched firmly in hand. Hiccup steps up, his smile broad and unguarded, a flicker of thrill cutting through the haze of uncertainty.

"Alright," he says, his voice sharp and steady. "Let's fly."

This is Chapter 10 to book 1 to this Hiccup series -> Masterlist here. Previous Chapter : Next Chapter

Gifs/edits, dividers + template credit to #uservampyr my co-writer + beta reader ♡

Lovely tag list ~ @kikikittykis | @icantcryicantstopcrying | @teeesthings | @ph4nt0m19

[lightsoutletsgo]

I’m such an angst girly omg how about lando’s phone not working and reader gets sad he’s not replying or answering her calls for a few days🤨

pairing: lando norris x reader

word count: 1.2k

warnings: angst, allusions to a panic attack, reader is v emotional, lando is an idiot ahhhh tysm for sending this in! It was fun to write but ofc I had to make it fluffy to end bc I didn't wanna make myself too sad happy reading! love mimi 🤍

— ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ — — ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ — — ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ — — ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ —

Long distance relationships were hard, you knew that before you’d even started dating Lando. You’d heard all of the stories before but like the many innocent others who had yet to experience their partner being on the other side of the world, you were determined that everything would be okay. 

Now, as you thought back to how naive you’d been, you scoffed, how could you have thought it would be so simple? If you weren’t battling with time zones, you were battling to find free time, and if you found free time, it was never quiet and peaceful and it never lasted more than a few minutes. You knew you should have been satisfied with those snatched moments you did get, but you missed your boyfriend. 

You missed him even more when he got another podium and you weren’t there to celebrate with him. You’d stayed up until stupid o’clock to watch the race live and you’d cheered and jumped as your boyfriend performed overtake after overtake to move up the grid to claim second place. You knew that once he had done his post-race interviews and meetings he would call you. You sighed as once more Lando’s contact picture flashed up with ‘facetime unavailable’. You’d scheduled this call the night before but he was only a few minutes late. You shook your head as you took a deep breath, he was probably just finishing up in meetings. Half an hour went by and your stomach twisted with worry as you still hadn’t heard from him. You checked your phone but there were no new notifications - not from him at least anyway. 

You curled up on the couch, noticing Lando’s hoodie still resting over the arm of the couch. Pulling it towards you, you nuzzled your face into it and inhaled, the smell of his cologne washing over you. You felt tears well up in your eyes. No matter how busy or tired he was, he had never once missed your call. You grew angry, not with Lando, never with Lando, but just at the situation. 

You huffed and grabbed your phone once more, deciding to doom scroll through instagram until Lando finally called. You noticed that a few people had posted new stories and so you pressed on the first one, absentmindedly tapping your screen until you paused, sitting up quickly as you realised the story you were looking at was Max Fewtrell’s. He’d posted a video in the club at a post-race party. You normally wouldn’t have batted an eyelid, but you could have sworn in the back corner of the dimly-lit club video was a figure that looked suspiciously like Lando. Going back to the start of his story and scrolling through again you realised it was Lando, wearing the black shirt you’d given him for his birthday the previous year. 

Turns out you could be mad at Lando. Something uncomfortable and hot flashed in your stomach as nausea hit you. Anger curled its way up your spine and through your chest, tightening around your lungs and making it hard to breathe. He was out at a club? And that’s why he hadn’t called you? You growled and glared at your screen, thumbs jabbing into the keyboard as you furiously typed a message to Max. He was online, you noted, as you hit ‘send’ and waited for him to read it. You barely had to wait five minutes before Max was apologising profusely and sending you a long paragraph about how he was sure Lando had texted you and would be letting him know straight away. You scoffed and rolled your eyes, throwing your phone down on the couch next to you with a ‘hmmph’. You sat in silence for a while, your emotions slowly welling up as tears gathered on your lash line. Was this how your relationship was going to end? Long nights alone while Lando partied it up on the other side of the world? Surrounded by scores of choices of pretty women and an endless supply of alcohol? You couldn’t help the way you sobbed as you grabbed his hoodie once more, desperately trying to catch your breath. You were crying so hard you almost didn’t hear the way your phone vibrated on the cushion. You gasped for air as you picked it up and turned it over, Max’s name flashing on the screen. You snatched your phone up and pressed the green button to accept, not even registering that it was a facetime call and he was going to see you crying.

You inhaled sharply as it was Lando’s worried face that appeared on the screen, he looked panicked and you could hear the music thumping in the background although slightly muffled. Despite the fluorescent lights he was standing under, he still looked good, “Baby? Oh my god…” He took in your tear stained cheeks and the way your eyes were red. He noted your sniffling noises and the way your bottom lip trembled, “Love I’m so so sorry!” You let out a laugh and rolled your eyes, trying to not let him see the next wave of tears that were threatening to fall, “Sure.” He sighed, “Honey, I promise you, I didn't mean it. I did text you! I didn’t realise it didn’t go through because I was in the post-race meeting!” “I wanted to celebrate your win with you!” Lando gently shushed you as he saw your chest heave, your breathing quickening once more, “Baby, baby, shh sh sh it’s okay, it’s okay, I’m right here.” He looked off screen for a moment to a person you assumed to be Max before the music got louder again and then quiet, as if Max had left Lando alone. You followed along with his breathing as he over exaggerated for you to copy.

“Love I promise you it was just an accident okay? I texted you to ask if you were ready to call but when there was no reply I assumed you’d fallen asleep so then I texted you to ask if you could be at the airport for 4am…” He winced, “I decided to fly home early and have a few days with you before the next race.” You melted back against the couch, hugging his hoodie to your chest as you tucked your knees up under your chin and rested your phone there, “4am?” You sniffled with a giggle, “Is that my hoodie?” He said, doing his best to distract you and you let out a proper giggle this time, “Lando! 4am is so early!” He laughed, relieved to see you feeling better, “I figured we could go for a super early breakfast and then go home and fall asleep together, in our bed, in our apartment which is my favourite place to be, with my love. Your bottom lip wobbled once more, “You promise?” He nodded to assure you, “I promise.” You inhaled deeply and let out an exhale with a sigh, “I can’t wait to see you,” your thumb gently rubbed across his cheek even through the screen. “I can’t wait to see you either love, can’t wait to be home”

[daizedndconfused]

hello!! how are you?? i was wondering if i could request something to do with cole brookstone 🫣

please could it be something about him and the reader have a sleepover at the readers house and its just fluff!! you could write about them making dinner together or something

idk if you’d be down to write this and i hope i’ve done it right, this is my first time requesting anything 😭

slumber party

a/n: hii ofc you can!! i’m doing good thanks sorry this took a while haha but thanks for being patient with me <3 this was such a cute prompt btw i had a lot of fun writing this

characters: cole brookstone x reader (established relationship)

type: fluff!!

warnings: none (not proofread)

synopsis: you sneak cole into your house for a sleepover while your parents are out of town

word count: 2.5 k

Your boyfriend was perfectly punctual. So when the clock struck four the rap at your window didn’t come as a shock to you.

Smiling to yourself, you got up from your bed and bounded over to your curtain covered window. Sliding away the light fabric, the grinning face of your boyfriend waited for you, perched on the roof below.

“What do you have against the front door?” you asked as you swung the window open.

Cole gracefully hoisted himself up and vaulted into your room, his landing ever so silent.

“It just doesn’t feel right.” Cole gave you a quick peck on the lips, pulling away with a lovesick smile. “Hi, honey.”

“Hi, Cole,” you smiled at the term of endearment, linking your fingers behind his neck.

You and Cole had been planning this weekend for months. Being eighteen and finishing up your senior year of high school, your parents still weren’t extremely open to your boyfriend spending the night.

To them it didn’t matter if he was a ninja with honor practically flowing from his bloodstream, the bottom line was he was your boyfriend and therefore no sleepovers. Apparently his boyfriend title outranked his ninja status.

Who knew?

But none of that mattered this weekend. This weekend your parents were out of town for a wedding. Of course they suspected you’d pull something like this, but before they could even bring it up, you told them Cole was going to a training camp that weekend as well.

A lie, but a necessary one. That meant you two had the whole house to yourself for the entire weekend. You were giddy just thinking about it.

“What did you tell the elders?” you asked him.

Your parents weren’t the only problem. If either of you thought Wu, Garmadon, or Misako would be fine with this stunt you guys were pulling–dead wrong.

They loved you, seeing as you had been to the monastery countless times, but they were like Cole’s parents. And they also didn’t approve of sleepovers.

“Got everyone else to cover for me,” he assured you. “As far as the elders are concerned I’m violently sick and extremely contagious.”

You shook your lead with a laugh. “You better hope they don’t try to bring you medicine.”

Cole shook his head. “Locked it and snuck out the window. And I told Jay to tell them I brought a bunch of medicine into my room so they didn’t have to.”

“Very smooth,” you complimented.

“Yeah, come one give me some credit.” Cole scooped you up bridal style. “I can lie when I have to.”

“Which is usually never.”

“Only when it means I can spend time with my beautiful girlfriend,” Cole beamed as you two flopped down on your bed.

“Aren’t you the charmer?”

“Always have been.”

“Lies,” you poke his cheek resulting in a shared laugh. “So, whole house to ourselves. Whatever should we do first?”

The two of you looked at each other. Twin smirks on both your faces.

“Are you done yet?” Cole huffed from below you, doom-scrolling on his phone. You peeked over his shoulder a few times and saw that he was watching edits of himself. Both liking and saving them too.

“One second,” you mumbled around the cap of your marker. “So impatient.”

“I’ve been laying here for hours,” he complained.

“Hour–singular,” you corrected, removing the cap from your mouth and clicking it back onto the marker. “You’d know that if you went to school.”

Cole turned his head and shot you a glare over his bare shoulder. You laughed at the sight, ruffling his dark hair.

“You and I both know Misako homeschools us.” Cole attempted to get up, but you pushed down on his shoulders from your position–straddled over his lower back.

“Wait!” you insisted, leaning over his back to snatch his phone out of hands.

He protested slightly, but it was back in his hands in no time. You had just used it to snap a picture of the artwork you had done on his skin.

“Is that my dragon?” Cole asked, a hint of awe in his tone.

It was indeed. Using a marker that was one hundred percent safe for skin, you tested out a new design on your boyfriend. The idea had been in your head for a long time, you just didn’t have a suitable canvas until now.

“Mhmm,” you confirmed, pecking his cheek, looking at the picture on his phone.

The earth dragon’s strong wings stretched over the width of his broad shoulders while the dragon’s body and tail resided down the expanse of his back, ending just above his waistband.

“That’s a crazy amount of detail.” Cole zoomed in on the head of the dragon where you had drawn out his crown of spikes and added texture to most of your drawing.

“Maybe I’ll give you a tattoo one day,” you shrugged, climbing off his back allowing him to throw his shirt back on.

Cole was no stranger to tattoos. In fact, he had some. A few small ones here and there, but he told you if you ever got your hands on professional equipment, he’d let you give him a tattoo.

He even has your initials behind his right ear. You remember staring at it for hours after he finally showed you.

“Come on,” you patted his back. “I’m starving.”

“Starving means food, I’m in.” He hopped up immediately, following you down the stairs and into your kitchen.

The two of you forged for something you could make a meal out of. Luckily, your parents had just restocked all the groceries since they were going out of town.

“How does pasta with a side of salad and garlic bread sound?” You asked from within the fridge.

You felt a presence walk up behind you, and suddenly your boyfriend’s strong hands were on your hips, his front pressed against your back.

“I’ll eat anything you make, gorgeous,” he said, breath brushing against your left ear as he reached up and grabbed the lettuce and dressing from the top shelf of the fridge.

You turned in his arms and gave him a quick kiss. “Pasta it is.”

“Want me to–?”

“You can put the lettuce in a bowl and add the dressing.” You cut him off quickly.

Unfortunately, it seemed like that was the only task he could complete successfully. Throwing things into a bowl he could do. Anything else? Not so much.

You don’t mind much. Not everyone’s a good cook. And you personally find it much more fun with his company.

You saw the slight pout on his face, but he knew you were right.

“You can add whatever else you want if you can find it in the fridge,” you said over your shoulder while grabbing the pasta from the pantry and a few more things to make the sauce recipe your mom taught you.

“Yeah, yeah,” he waved a dismissing hand while the other grabbed a larger bowl for the salad.

Laughing softly, you made your way back to the stove to boil some water, and get started on the sauce.

You were in the midst of stirring and setting a timer when music flowed from the speakers built into your ceiling. Turning around, you saw Cole sat on one of the barstools, phone in hand as he nodded along to the song.

“Elvis?” you asked, pointing upward.

Cole nodded in confirmation. “Suspicious Minds is one of my favorites.”

“Mine too,” you smiled before leaning over to check on the boiling noodles.

It wasn’t long before you were being spun around. Taken aback, you almost tripped over your own feet, but he was there to catch you. He always has been.

Hazel eyes met your own, and you couldn’t help but mirror his elated expression.

“Dance with me?” he offered.

You just pulled him closer in response. One of his hands curled around your waist, while the other gently clasped your hand that wasn’t planted on his shoulder.

Unsurprisingly, Cole was a good dancer. Other than the fact he had amazing balance being a ninja, his father taught him to dance as a kid. While Cole didn’t love it like his father did, he loved dancing with you.

The two of you sound around each other and between the counter and the island as Suspicious Minds continued to play from above.

Neither of you could keep the grins off your faces, and you couldn’t help but laugh as he dipped and spun you. His strength just made dancing with him all the more entertaining. He could lift you with one hand above his head if he wanted.

However, the blare of the timer you had set had your feet faltering to a stop and ducking under his arm to check on the things at the stove.

You gave the sauce another quick stir before lowering the heat before moving to strain the pasta. Before you could get to it, Cole had placed a dish towel on either side and carried it to the strainer in the sink.

Steam wafted up into the air as he tipped the pot over the bowl of the sink.

“Thank you,” you sing-songed as he returned the strands of pasta to the original now water free pot.

“No problem, gorgeous,” he gave you a heroic smile before moving to take the garlic bread out of the oven as well.

Watching as he carefully slid the bread out of the hot space, you couldn’t help but be thankful that you caught him first before some other girl beat you to it.

“What is it?” Cole asked as he placed the tray on one of the unoccupied stovetops.

“Nothing.” You shook the lovesick expression off your face. “Taste this for me.”

You lifted a wooden spoon up to your boyfriend's mouth. He complied immediately, always eager to sample your cooking.

“Thoughts?” you asked.

“Amazing as always,” he responded with a nod.

“You flatter me,” you shook your head, tossing the spoon in the sink before combining the pasta and sauce into one pan.

“Flattery or honesty?” Cole asked, leaning against the counter as he watched you work.

“I suppose I can always rely on you to be honest with me,” you admitted.

“Damn straight.”

You laughed, announcing food was done. Cole fetched the two of you plates and held one out for you. You accepted, and per his insistence, got first dibs at the food you had cooked.

Soon, the two of you were sat at the island, eating your dinner side by side. Cole praised your food, and you laughed, insisting he only likes it so much because he can’t cook to save his life.

After you two had finished, Cole wouldn’t even let you touch your plate, claiming since you cooked he’d do all the dishes. You protested at first, but after he quite literally carried you out of the kitchen and into the living room you gave up.

Instead, while he did the dishes, you were looking for a movie to put on for the two of you. But you didn’t stop there. It was almost like a girlfriend ritual to make your boyfriend do skincare with you, and while you weren’t overly into skin care, you did have a few face masks.

Cole stopped dead in his tracks when his eyes landed on what was in your hands. Pore strips. You’d put them on him before, and though he denied it, his eyes started to water when you peeled it off him.

“No.” He crossed his arms.

“Please!” you begged. “It’s good for you!”

“Lies, that’s just what they want you to think so you keep buying them.”

You didn’t back down, and eventually, you dragged him over to the couch and placed a pore strip over the bridge of his nose.

“Why do I let you do this to me?” he whined.

“Because you love you,” you said, patting his chest.

“Sad but true,” he sighed dramatically.

You gasped in fake offense before he tackled you back onto the couch, tickling your sides briefly. To compensate him for the pore strips, you picked one of your mutually favorite movies to put on.

However, when the thirty minutes for your strips were up, you had to chase Cole down around your house. Eventually, you caught up, reassuring him you’ll be gentle this time.

He eyed you skeptically, but stayed still anyway. You began to remove the strip from his nose, but almost every time you moved it, he’d wince.

“You’re so dramatic!” You laughed.

“I’m not! This shit hurts!” Cole leaned his head back, blinking furiously.

Slowly, you managed to get the strip off his face, but you had to stop him from scratching at the exposed place. To show him it wasn’t that bad, you removed your strip in one fluid motion. It hurt a little, you had to admit, and it made your eyes water slightly, but you powered through it.

“What happens when a villain slaps a pore strip on you, then what?” You asked as you two made your way back down stairs.

“Then I die a hero’s death.”

The rest of the night you two had spent watching your favorite movies with a bowl of popcorn between the two of you. At one point, you had put on one of your favorite sad movies, and when the main character died, Cole gasped and threw a piece of popcorn at the TV.

After the movies, you found one of your old Just Dance discs. It didn’t take a lot of concing to get Cole to do it with you. Somehow, he beat you every round to the point where you took to tripping him in order to win.

After another loss, you suggest a switch in games that led you to Mario Kart. Unlike Just Dance, he didn’t beat you once at Mario Kart. Not even when he covered your eyes with one of his hands.

Eventually, well into the late hours of the night, you two dragged yourself up to your room where Cole put on a pair of pajamas he kept at your house, and crashed into bed.

Soft morning rays bled through your half closed curtains as you buried your face further into the warmth of your boyfriend next to you. Cole’s soft breaths were ruffling the hairs on the top of your head, and his arms were wrapped around you as if he was afraid you’d disappear during the night.

Stretching as well as you could, you scratched at his scalp lightly, not wanting to wake him. A triumphant grin spread across your face. You had just gotten away with your boyfriend sleeping over at your house!

A cleared throat had your eyes shooting open. Your gaze landed on both your parents standing in your open doorway. Your father’s brows were raised, arms crossed as he tapped his foot while your mother was doing her best to conceal a smile.

“You’re back early,” you forced out a laugh, attempting to slide the covers higher to cover Cole’s body.

“And you’re grounded–three days,” your father deadpanned. Letting out a tired sigh he continued, “Breakfast is downstairs when you’re both ready.”

Your mom gave you a wink before following your father downstairs. You could tell neither of them were genuinely upset.

Well, you almost got away with it.

[rimunagenius]

It Was Doomed From The Start

ʚ pairing: Kate Martin x Roommate!reader

ʚ word count: 3.1k words

ʚ warnings: RPF!! , stalking, harassment, angst, self reflection (this topic scares me…don’t judge), fluff ofc bc it’s Kate

ʚ rimunagenius speaks: i know the title looks scary, but i promise, it’s nothing bad with Kate and reader. I wouldn’t write angst for them for this story not yet atleast I also wanted to introduce what Kate has reader under in her phone and i’ve also been thinking about adding one shots about how Kate and reader came up with the nicknames for eachother or little one shots of them before or during the events written about in the series (stuff that didn’t make it to the fic)…if i do they’ll be on the series masterlist but let me know if you’d like to see that!! anyways…here’s the long awaited part three!

Part 3

| Series Masterlist |

"C'mon, it's time to get up, sleeping beauty." There was no beauty in how you were currently knocked out in Kate's bed. Your hair is all over your face and pillow; with parts sticking up due to the lack of hairstyle before going to sleep.

You had your mouth slightly open, quietly breathing through it. You needed this sleep. You usually slept way more appealing but this—this was your well-needed catch up on weeks' worth of rest. "Y/n...y/n. C'mon. We have to get ready." Kate leaned over the bed, a hand on your hip, softly attempting to shake you awake. A string of muffled and incoherent curse words left your mouth as you pulled the comforter over your head.

Curling in on yourself to make yourself small and generate more heat. It was a pretty cold morning in Iowa City. "I don't wanna." You whined under the blanket. Eliciting a small giggle from the blonde, she crawled into the bed, almost spooning you before speaking to you softly.

"Well we have to, sunshine. We have classes, and if you still want to eat breakfast, I suggest you get up now." She flipped the comforter off your head, rubbing her hand up and down your arm. "C'mon, let's go." She gave your arm light taps before she then gripped it and started to pull you out of her bed.

"We should not have stayed up so late last night. It's your fault. I blame you.” You pointed in her face, your hair everywhere and eyes closed, preventing her from taking you seriously. “You kept doing that thing you do with your mouth." You mumbled as you now were standing right infront of your roommate, eyes looking up at her, your mascara under your eyes.

"Sorry I was having a good time. From what I remember you didn't want me to stop." She looked at you, wiping some of the mascara fall out away, giving you a bright smile before walking you towards the bathroom.

"Kate, we were drinking and you know that trick is only funny when we're both under the influence. If you would've stopped messing around, we could've finished both movies at a decent hour. I literally fell asleep in your bed and halfway through the movie." You say as you look at her through the mirror, narrowing your eyes before cleaning your mascara and whatever makeup you had on.

She raised her arms in defense, "I mean, what can I say? I'm the life of the party, baby." She said before placing herself on the counter. "Oh, and I already made waffles and yours are on the counter." She sat and watched your do your whole routine, her legs swinging a little every now and then.

"Yes?" You looked at her as you placed a refreshed coat of mascara on your lashes. You could see her staring. She's been doing that a lot lately. It made you feel warm inside and you wouldn’t lie and say you haven’t been doing it more recently also.

"Nothing. Just watching you." She smiled softly as she watched you do your makeup. A small blush casting over both your cheeks. You both knew what it was.

"Okay, creep." You side eyed her before giving her your best smile, just to prove you were being playful.

"Haha. Funny." Kate mocked you, lightly kicking her foot against the side of your thigh.

"Kate? Can you do me a favor?" You looked at your best friend, her blue eyes immediately meeting yours. She nodded her head quickly, eyes trained in yours immediately trying to read your face for anything wrong.

"Yeah, of course. Is everything okay?" She picked up on your nervous look. You sighed, looking down.

"Nick’s still weirding me out, so I wanted to know if you could walk back here to come get me after your class and take me to my next one? I just don't want to be on campus alone with him being around." You looked nervous, almost as if you had a feeling she'd say no. Of course Kate didn't, though. You still haven’t told her about not even going to report him in the first place.

"Yeah, for sure. I can do that. I'll see you in a bit, yeah?"

"Yeah. Okay, thank you. It's just for this class and my next two and then Hannah can take me to practice later." You watched Kate's face soften.

"Y/n, you know i'd take you to every class. It's not an inconvenience. Whatever you need, I got you." She hugged you before saying a small goodbye and watched you walk inside your class while she waited outside.

You went inside and sat down, your phone pinging with a new message.

bear <3

be safe, ily.❤️

sunshine☀️💕

ilym😘

'bear <3 loved "ilym😘"' 

The class went smoothly, you walked outside to see Kate standing, waiting for you. She must have left class sooner to be here on time to not make you wait. God, you were so grateful for this girl.

She walked you to every class before you had anatomy. So far, Nick hasn't spotted you, and you felt a wave of relief wash over you. You didn’t want to put it past him to find you, but for right now, you were taking the win. As you finally made it to anatomy, Juliana had been waiting outside.

You and Kate had been laughing about something she said when you looked over and saw Juliana watching you both, a smile on her face. "Oh, Kate. This is my friend Juliana, the one who's helping me with the girlfriend thing." You introduced your two friends, them shaking one another's hands.

"Hi, I'm Kate. Nice to meet you." Kate greeted, a friendly smile on her face.

"Oh, I know who your are. Y/n has said so many great things about you. You're almost all she talks about in here." Your face immediately grew red. You hadn't realized you talked about Kate so much. Did you really?

Kate looked down at you and smiled. A small blush rising to her cheeks. "Does she now?" She asked teasingly.

"Yeah, she's always going on about how such a great friend you are. How good you are to her. Makes me jealous." She jokingly added, before chatting Kate up some more. You didn't know what it was but something about Juliana being overly excited about talking to Kate, Kate being engaged in the conversation, was something that made a pit grow in your stomach.

You had no idea why two of your friends talking gave you a sense of jealously. It was frankly ridiculous. Shaking the totally absurd assumptions of this otherwise normal interaction out of your head, you looked down at your phone. A new notification from a random account on instagram.

The picture less profile, what seemed to be a randomly generated username had sent you a message. Clicking the message, you immediately felt a ball in your throat form. Suddenly your knees felt like they would give up and the world would swallow you whole from right where you were standing.

maybe you should make her leave…

this won’t be good for you.

she’s not good for you.

make her leave.

it won’t be good for her either.

You looked around, trying to find who had sent it. They had to have been talking about Kate. You knew who it was, just thing to find him to justify that you weren’t absolutely going crazy and imagining this whole thing.

“Hey, you okay?” Kate looked at you, her eyes scanning every inch of your flushed face, her worry growing by the second.

“Yeah, I’m totally fine. I’m just going to walk into class.” You swalllowed before you looked around once more, suddenly seeing him. Lurking at a nearby a table, hat on, just staring right at you. He was sitting a healthy distance away, but watching your every move. Watching Kate. You couldn’t take this.

You hadn’t realized you had been staring, Kate followed your stare and saw him too. Juliana wrapping her arm around your shoulder, kissing the top of your head. You instantly regretted not being able to sell that you were unbothered, due to Kate starting to walk over to Nick.

“Kate! Don’t. I don’t need you talking to him.” You grabbed her arm, and pleaded with her.

“He’s obviously making you very uncomfortable. I thought you told someone about him already. What did he even say?” You did not have the heart to tell her that you let this man harass you for weeks just because you didn’t want to have any conflict. It wasn’t the best decision but it saved a lot of people trouble and you didn’t want to be inconvenience with this stupid thing. You could handle it. You could handle him.

“Kate, I was going to I swear. But I just forgot. You going up to him and telling him off isn’t going to make it better. Trust me. I do not want him to harass or hurt you too. ” You were getting super overwhelmed. Your eyes burning, your vision going blurry, eyes watering.

“Hey, it’s okay.” Juliana said, rubbing her arms up and down your arms. She didn’t have the first clue of what to do other than report this. She just didn’t want to do it without your permission. It was wrong, but it wasn’t her place.

“Hey, can you give us a moment?” Kate asked her. Juliana nodded and walked inside the class but not without staring Nick down before doing so.

“Hey, look. I’m sorry. I didn’t meant to get all riled up over this. But you do need to tell someone, baby.” Her face dropped and immediately started turning red. She should’ve caught herself. It just slipped. You hadn’t noticed because you were avoiding looking anywhere and seeing him.

You hadn’t picked up on the name. Trying to focus on what she was actually saying instead of thinking of all the ways Nick could harm Kate. What did he mean by ‘it won’t be good for her either’ ? All you could think about was her safety.

“I’m sorry, what?” You looked up at Kate, your brows furrowing. Suddenly feeling the biggest migraine come on.

Kate’s face relaxed, sighing before grabbing your face. “I was just saying that we should go report him, and i’ll take you home. I’ll tell coach we caught something and don’t want to get the team sick. We—I just need to get you out of here. Okay? Can you do that for me?” Her eyes stared into yours, wordlessly pleading with you to choose your safety over thinking you’re a burden to someone else.

You nodded, looking behind her to see that Nick had left. He was gone. That’s when you felt a hand grab yours, fingers interlocking. Kate. Immediately you felt more relaxed, more safe. At home. No one could hurt you when you were with the people you loved and cared for. Who cared for you. The team, your friends, were your home. Kate was your home. Your anchor.

Nothing could hurt you, and you were going to do it together. Sending a quick text to Juliana, letting her know the situation, you and Kate started walking to the deans office. Kate sat with you, held your hand, and made sure you were comfortable while telling the dean everything Nick had done to you and said he’d do over the course of the two and a half years you had been here.

It was extensive. It started off so small that you didn’t notice that he slowly integrated into your life. He was obsessed with you. Stalking you. You didn’t realize until it was too late—til it got bad. You and Kate had found out he was a transfer, changing his whole major and career plan to follow yours. He had been to 6 different universities in the last 3 years due to ‘personal’ issues.

Turns out every formal complaint had been waived and disproven. You weren’t the only woman he’s done this to. It was crazy to think that of the many women, the countless evidence of severe mental disorders and psychotic behavior and harassment, he was still allowed into many other universities, was able to appeal the accusations and allowed to leave it behind him.

Kate was in better words, fuming. Her and the dean had gone at it, you trying to mediate before the dean resulted to benching her for her last season. You guys had been in the deans office for about 2 hours. Leaving just in time to send a text to Coach Bluder that you’d both be in absence at practice today.

You two had been walking, still hand in hand, back to your guys’ apartment. “Kate are you sure you want to miss practice today?” You looked at her, eyes still a little bloodshot from the crying you had done. “I can totally just go home alone and say I just didn’t feel good. I’m not on the team, you are.” She still looked upset and very irritated at the situation. She hasn’t said much since you both left. The second you spoke, her face softened. You tended to do that a lot; you changed her mood. Her mood affects yours and yours hers. And only you two could fix it for the other.

“And leave you alone? On campus where a crazy guy is stalking you and making you feel uncomfortable and unsafe? No way. I’d miss as many practices as you needed me to.” She smiled at you, squeezing your hand, before letting it go, and settling for wrapping her arm around your shoulders.

“Thank you, Kate. Seriously. I don’t know what I did to deserve you.” You leaned your head on her, arriving at your apartment.

“Of course. Anything for my favorite girl.” She kissed the top of your head, smiling to herself. She was grateful to have you in her life, she needed you just as much, probably more, than you needed her.

You both helped and healed things in eachother more over the last two and a half years of knowing eachother than anyone had for you both in your guys’ entire lives. “You didn’t do anything to deserve me, you know? Anyone would be lucky to have someone like you. Someone as kind, beautiful, smart, loving, caring, and gorgeous as you. Oh, did i mention you were pretty?” Kate laughed, her cheeks growing pinker by the second.

“Okay, Kate.” You laughed as she unlocked the front door, letting you walk in first. “Thank you. I appreciate you, and I feel the absolute same about you. Any girl who gets you, is the luckiest girl alive.” You smiled at her as you sat the on the couch, her in the kitchen grabbing you both water.

She smiled at you, before you turned to turn the TV on. When you looked away, her smile faltered. You looked at the tv, thinking about what she said. What you had said. You both cared for eachother so deeply. You couldn’t possibly be catching feelings for Kate. Was what you said too obvious…? You had known her for a long time, she was your best friend. That could ruin everything.

Could it? I mean, Kate thought about it over and over, watching your from the kitchen. The way your lips curled slightly when you watched the same reruns of your favorite shows. The way you always sat in the same spot on the couch, next to hers, leaving the perfect amount of room for her but also not enough so that you guys would be touching.

It was hard for the both of you to think this way about the person you have shared a space with for so long. Your roommate. Your best friend. You both needed to figure this out. But it was hard. You couldn’t possibly harbour feelings for the one person you both told yourself not to when this arrangement came to be.

Maybe that should’ve been the first sign. The sign that this living situation was doomed from the moment it was thought into existence; it was doomed from the start. How could you possibly set that boundary, silently in your guys’ head, that you guys couldn’t catch feelings. It would only have meant that you both could’ve seen this coming. I mean, neither one of you turned a blind eye to the other being attractive. Let alone, being eachothers type.

Kate brought you both the waters. Setting them down on the coffee table infront of you. Sitting down in her spot, next to you. You leaned your head on her shoulder almost instantly. Whether you had feelings for her or not, the comfort Kate had brought you was something you couldn’t describe. The need to have the feeling of Kate next to you seemingly growing worse with the feelings.

The familiarity was something you haven’t known since back home. So you essentially chased the feeling whenever you could have it. “Thank you for being there for me, Kate. I mean, truly. I already said it, but thank you.” Snuggling a little closer, bring one knee to your chest.

“Anytime, you know that. I’d do anything for you,” Her voice grew quieter at the end of her sentence. She meant it. “Besides, you’d be completely lost without me, sunshine. You need me.” She smiled when you landed a soft playful smack across her chest. She reached her arm over your shoulders, making you more comfortable.

“You’re right, I do.” You laughed before turning your attention to the TV. You both watched TV the rest of the night, deciding that you’d worry about the Nick thing more tomorrow. The dean telling you that it’d be handled very soon and quickly as possible. So, it was tomorrows problem.

As you both watched TV, you both thought over the fact you may be inlove with your best friend. It may be real and you’d both have to find a way to either move on or deal with it.

And fast.

[moonlight-sonata99]

Project Red Room

Bucky Barnes x reader

A/n: now before yall have my neck, Cardinal is a fake name. Readers real name will be revealed later on, (that will be your choosing ofc) my fic my rules!!hehe:> enjoy the Prologue you guys. Im really excited to write more!!I proof read this but I spent a whole day of writing so...tmrw it is!!

Prologue

It started with a man, a man was all It took to ruin her life. Well granted he wasn't an ordinary man, he was a man with money, a man who would help the world at any cost.

Enter..her. She was twenty and was in dire need of a mentor, someone who looked to her and told her they were proud of her., and most importantly a drive to help the world.

He was that someone.

He called it Project Red Room,based off The Red Room in Soviet Russia and she was his first official subject.

The good news was that it worked. She worked. But in doing so he doomed himself, She became the perfect widow. But at the cost of his own life.

That was years ago,and Nick Fury somehow had gotten wind of her work, as a vigilante that is. And he took her in and trained her. She was a covert agent, doing the "dirty" work per say, taking out war criminals who committed crimes against humanity. It paid, and she might well get some use out of her training.

Now the only problem was that Nick Fury had gone out on a space mission, and he hadn't returned. Although she did find a hard drive that was labeled 'use against her' the file contained evidence against Valentina de Fontaine. And considering what she was being accused of (and what was being said behind the scenes) She knew exactly what the message was telling her to do.

Mel panted as she did her best to switch tabs on her tablet with a coffee in her hand. Seeing which appointment Valentina had next, with who, what exactly they'll be doing. The usual. Her heels clicked through the halls as she quickened her pace reaching valentines office, and she opened the door. "Okay im back-" she panted as she closed the door "we have a meeting at 2 with the press" mel said putting the cup on the desk and putting the tablet down as she ruffled though her bag.

"Mel, right?" A voice shook her out of her thoughts, as assistants eyes widened and her head darted up to the women on, what usually is valentinas chair. "Uh- where's-" Mel stuttered out her eyes darted around the room. "Valeria?" The woman asked, standing, her fingers fiddling with a pencil as Mel's brow furrowed. "Valentina?" The young woman asked. "Huh, I could've sworn it was valeria." The other women hummed to,

"well! Valentina has been...discharged, from her role." The woman said her gaze away from Mels. "I'll be filling in for her now, so anything thunderbolts-related goes through me." She started as she took the coffee and opened it as Mel started. "Urgh...just black coffee?" The woman asked as Mel nodded.

“God she really was a monster.” The older woman murmured her face scrunched up as Mel examined her, “and you are..?” Mel asked as the woman turned to her again.

“Cardinal” [Reader] Cardinal.”

It was…weird. Mel's thoughts just kept running into the creepiest places and the worst fates for Valentina. Most of all, who was this [Reader] Cardinal? Mel had never even heard of her and yet the women had taken over all aspects of Valentinas old job, and some part of Mel knew that this woman was bad news, so she stayed up at night looking at Bucky's contact. Did he even know about this change? Should she tell him?

“What are you thinking about Mel” [Readers] voice tore her out her thoughts as Mel looked up at her.

“Uh..I was just thinking about the appointments today.” The girl replied, tucking a strand of hair behind her hair as [Reader] hummed looking at files.

“I could imagine…that charity ball thing isn't too far away as well” [Reader] murmured in thought her attention on the file as Mel nodded as it stayed quiet the soft music played in the background.

“Is-” Mel stuttered out, as the older woman's eyes flicked up to her. “Is valentina dead?” She blurted out, eyes wide as [Reader] stared at her, the expression she was holding mel couldn't tell as her heart raced, what if she wasn't supposed to ask questions?what if she ended up dead in a dit-

“I killed her” [Reader] replied, stopping Mels thoughts as her heart completely stopped as [Readers] eyes stayed on her…”just kidding” the older woman smiled as she closed the files. “She's fine” [Reader] replied, chuckling as she walked past the young women Mel just sat there catching her breath

It just added to the list of questions she had about this woman.

She had tuned out the sound of voices a while ago as she stood by the food table looking at the variety of plates there was. [Reader] had already greeted most people that were attending the fundraiser, and hell if she knew if there were more. ‘Damn’ she thought as she plopped a small small tart into her mouth. ‘That's good’ [Reader thought as she grabbed one more and began to make the rounds for the night.

Making small talk, buttering up more investors that sort of stuff. What they spoke about she really could not care, to her their mouths just opened,

And she agreed. 

“Sorry to interrupt,” Mel said softly behind [Reader] to get her attention as the group turned to Mel, “your assistant?” One of the men asked [Reader] as she nodded smiling. “

“Yes, she's quite amazing really” [Reader] nodded as mel smiled and pulled out her clipboard, “we need to do the thing” Mel said urgently as [Reader] smiled at the men “Oh right, the thing. Sorry gentlemen I have business” she said, picking up a glass of champagne and nodding it to them as the men bid her farewell and [Reader] quickly sifted through the crowd as the two walked into a secluded hallway. 

“Thank you” [Reader] sighs out as she hunches down, her hands on her knees, and lifting up her heeled feet, “no biggie” mel smiled at her. It had only been a few weeks, but with attending meetings and rectifying some of the shady things Valentina did it was a stressful few weeks. 

“I'll be fine from here” [Reader] breathed out to mel, “go and enjoy yourself for a bit” she added as mel looked at her and nodded, her brows furrowed. But she didn't question it and disappeared in the crowd. 

After resting a bit, [Reader] leaned back up, her feet feeling a bit more better from the pain that hit every time she walked. “Okay” she breathed out as she stood straight fixing her dress as she walked out, a smile grazing her face as she nodded to people who looked her way. Faces among faces..more faces… until. She stopped for a minute as her gaze set on someone in the distance.

He was just like how he was on television, reserved and serious. His hair was swept back and he wore a black suit.

Bucky Barnes. She had heard and seen so much about him, or rather the winter soldier as Nick called his old self, white wolf, etc… his blue eyes were glued down to the floor as if deep in thought as [Reader] watched him all the stories didn't do him justice. He was handsome, he wasn't clean-shaven, and just the right of hair graced decorated his chin,he was very handsome....she had already said that.

“Mel” [Reader] called out softly, turning back a little but forgot that she had dismissed her. What was he doing here? Oh…right she had been so busy she hadn't even made herself known the new “New Avengers” ....her attention stayed on him. That was until he must've felt the stare because his eyes flicked up to meet hers but before she could even wave or anything, a voice called to her. [Reader] turned to see Sam Wilson as he caught up to her. 

“Ah I was wondering when i'll see you” she breathed out smiling, as sam nodded “its nice to see you too” he chuckled. He knew her position and yet they seemed to be on friendly terms as she placed her hand on her hips. Sam opened his mouth to continue to speak a voice called out his name and the two turned to a man, his hair was combed back and his eyes met hers and she stared at him. He was handsome,  she would give him that.

“Oh right I don't think you two have met” Sam started looking at his friend. As the man on his left just stood there for a moment as Sam glanced at him and then back at [reader] who stuck out her hand. "We havent" she started, “[Reader], [Reader] Cardinal.” She smiled as the man shook himself out of his gaze. “Uh-joaquin torres.” he breathed out as a grinned graced sams lips as [reader] looked at Torres. 

“Right, sams told me alot about you, i've actually been looking forward to meeting you” she smiled at him as Torres nodded a sense of shyness coming from him. "He has??" Torres breathed out chuckling a fond smile grazing the woman's face

The trio spent some hours talking before [Reader] bid farewell as she walked away claiming her feet hurt from standing.

“hey..you think she liked me?” Torres asked as they watched her walk away as Sam looked down, chuckling.

“She's way out of your league.” 

“now thats just true man” 

The night was almost over, thankfully as her heels echoed in the empty halls and she sighed looking at the paintings that decorated the walls of random senators, historic events..

“Boring right?” A voice murmured and her head darted toward it, it was him. But she quickly regained her composure and smiled. 

“Congressmen Barnes” [Reader] Greeted, “we meet at last.” She added as Bucky who had his head turned to the painting turned and met her gaze. He nodded shifting his position. 

“I thought..you couldn't attend this anymore,” she asked gesturing around them “Aren't you too busy leading the New Avengers?” [Reader] asked tilting her head, her eyes examining his features as his attention stayed on her.

“You know why im here” he stated as she turned to him fully. 

“You don't like me” [Reader] noted grinning as she looked down and back up as Bucky's eyes narrowed. “I don't know you.” He replied firmly as she turned back to the painting. “That's fair.” She breathed out with a smile on her face “Is that why you came here?”

“Partly” he sighed, turning back to the painting. “from what I've seen you don't seem like Valentina” he murmured, attention to the painting. Had he been…watching her? [Reader] thought as she glanced at him she pursed her lips holding in a chuckle. “You're right.” She replied, “I'm not like her.” The woman added as she focused on Bucky. Before starting

“ But rest assured,” [Reader] said before holding out her hand, “you're in good hands.” she finished as his blue eyes met hers, and they flickered down to her hands, before closing his lips and reaching out, his hand meeting hers in a firm handshake as Bucky's eyes met hers again.

“Yeah, nice to be working with you

[chilschuck]

omg… thinking abt chil reconnecting w his ex wife and becoming platonic besties. imagine they talk about it finding love again (chil’s ex has a new gf)… chil realises he’s caught feelings for reader… his ex teasing him about it…

`✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹ OMG ANON THIS HAD ME GIGGLING AND KICKING MY FEET, WAHHHH. SUCH A CUTE IDEA!!!! it’s currently 2 am but i had to get this out for you since you’ve been waiting a while!!! it was so much fun!! <33

— ALL BECAUSE OF YOU.

꒰ info: ꒱ chilchuck x gn!reader

꒰ warnings: ꒱ none, sfw!! some cussing ofc lol

꒰ wc: ꒱ 586

✦ tumblr deleted this before i could post it twice so let’s pray it posts this time, LOL. short but sweet, i hope you enjoy!!! <333

“So… Who are they?”

That simple question was enough to make him choke on his drink. Was he that easy to read? Catching his breath, the half-foot immediately sputtered.

“What are you talking about?” Yet, the knowing look on her face said it all. Even if they had been separated for this long, she could still figure out just what he was hiding. So much for trying to keep some things personal…

“You have this expression, this content smile I haven’t seen in years, Chilchuck. Someone’s making you happy.” Her tone was not condescending in the slightest, rather content with this new revelation. Her words caused his cheeks to flush, more than the ale in his cup could.

And she was right. He was coming to terms with his feelings; and even the thought of you was enough to make him whole again. The fact it was so obvious was rather embarrassing, and he could feel the tips of his ears burn.

“Yeah, yeah… I guess you figured it out before I got a chance to tell you.”

They were nothing like they used to be, having settled on staying close through friendship. Although this maybe would’ve been hard to do in the past, Chilchuck felt more peaceful than he thinks he has in years. There was something about you that lit fire to his senses in ways he had long forgotten, and he found himself seeking you out more than he’d like to admit.

“I’ve told you plenty about my new girlfriend, now it’s your turn to spill. What are they like? It’s a sight to see you this happy.”

It was something only someone who really knew him could see; the change in his demeanor, the light in his eyes, the smile that threatened to spill from the corners of his lips. And it was all because of you.

“You’re going to laugh when I tell you how I met them,” he began, licking the ale from his lips in thought. “Laios’ party. I really ended up eating my own words about inner party romance, huh?” The last sentence came out in a grumble, one that caused her to laugh.

“Wow, they made you go against your own rules? Must be a keeper.”

And you were. Warm, but not enough to burn. Bright, but not blindingly so. Sweet, but not sickening. Chilchuck found himself feeling like a teenager again when it came to you. He bit his tongue.

“So you’re going to confess to them, right?” She teased, prodding his shoulder. “Look at you, blushing like a schoolboy. Must be serious.”

He opened his mouth to retort, before closing it again. The words died before he could speak, the full gravity of his feelings for you hitting him like a freight train. Burying his head in his arms, he groaned. “Shit…”

Chilchuck was doomed. Yet even as his head spiraled from a mixture of the alcohol and his new found love, it always went back to you. You, and your smiles, and your laugh, and your touch. There weren’t enough curse words he could possibly growl out in this moment to make himself feel better.

His ex wife laughed again, patting him on the back and stirring him from his thoughts. “Jeez, you really are a schoolboy. Maybe you should give them a love letter while you’re at it. Might be smart, actually.”

That’s how the rest of their time together went; two close friends musing about the ability to find love again. All because of you.

— dividers by @/cafekitsune! <3

[myownwholewildworld]

vi. O Seanalair - acta, non verba

chapter 5 | series masterlist | ao3 pairing: conqueror!marcus acacius x ofc!reader. summary: you irremediably find yourself in Marcus' bed again and make a discovery which may help your people. a/n: i have a genuine question. do people like long chapters? because i can't seem to stop when i start writing for these two D: as always, all interactions welcome, i do appreciate you liking, sharing and/or commenting! take care 💖 warnings: 18+, mdni. mentions of war, death, marital abuse, etc - i think you know the drill by now. attempted SA (not by Marcus), callie fights back. fluff and angst. some internal battles. smut. unprotected piv but no creampie. oral (m!receiving). fingering (f!receiving). sleepy morning sex. aftercare. marcus is 49, ofc!reader (callie) is 26. unbeta'd. if i'm forgetting anything, please let me know! w/c: ~11.3k. dividers by @\saradika-graphics taglist at the end (let me know if you want to be added/removed please!)

You couldn’t stop thinking about him, about what happened yesterday morning. Every time your mind wandered, it ran back to the exact moment Marcus buried himself in your slick heat for the first time.

How he made you feel. How he ensured you were comfortable and thriving under his touch. How he talked you through it and paced it down to make the whole experience even more pleasurable. How his fingers found refuge in your pussy, working you expertly in preparation to take him. How your cunt deliciously burnt with that heavenly stretch.

How you were gushing now for him, craving the fullness of his dick, pussy desperately clenching around nothing.

“Dè air thalamh? (What on earth?)” you mumbled to yourself, shaking your head to clear your mind.

The fact that the memory kept coming back―to your despair―was dangerous, extremely dangerous. Yes, sex had been good ― no, fucking amazing. But it didn’t mean anything, nothing at all.

A means to an end, that’s all he is, you mentally reprimanded yourself.

It shouldn’t bias you, despite how good he had fucked you. You couldn’t get… attached, because whatever this was, it was doomed from the beginning. That was what you had decided the first time you locked eyes with him in the battlefield, and you were not one to go back on a promise. Especially one you made to yourself ― to avenge your family.

To your disgust, you had to admit to yourself that it was harder to keep the focus on that now, knowing how satiated he had left you yesterday. It was truly shameful that you were looking forward to getting fucked stupid again.

In a couple of hours, hopefully. You couldn't wait to have Marcus plunge in and out of you. In... Out... So deep inside…

You bit your bottom lip down out of pure, horny desperation and pressed your knees together, containing the dampness that threatened to soak your underwear if you didn’t rein your thoughts in.

“A bheil thu nad shlàinte, mo bana-phrionnsa? (Are you well, my princess?)” Brighid’s soft voice pierced through your wet daydream, bringing you back to reality.

Blinking rapidly, you gave her a stern nod. A muted reply, since your throat felt dry with desire.

“Are you sure, my lady? You look flushed. There’s a fever going around in the village,” she pushed, lips pouted with concern.

Fuck, kill me now.

“I’m fine, Brighid, don’t worry,” you croaked once you found your voice.

Your cheeks were burning and had nothing to do with an illness. Unless feeling cock-drunk could be considered an ailment. Maybe it should.

“Are Daimh and Iona sick? Perhaps you―”

“They are fine. It’s just hot in here with the hearth running on full blast,” you cut her off, slightly embarrassed by the fact that Brighid had noticed your flustering.

But if she had been fucked the way you had been, she would fully understand. Of that you were sure.

Not by Marcus though, she can find another man. He’s mine.

What the hell was that about?

To avoid any further interrogation, you grabbed the jug, filled to the rim with wine. Veering around, you exited the kitchen promptly. The cold air of the hallway was most welcomed ― the Gods knew you needed it, considering you were about to enter the room where the personification of your wet dreams was.

As soon as you reached the double doors to the great hall, you quickly scanned the room. Every night the great hall of your family home would be desecrated with the presence of your enemy. The legionnaires were chatting and laughing loudly, goblets clinking with their contents spilt all over the wooden tables.

Once a sanctuary for your family and clan, you barely recognised it anymore. The beautiful tapestries that your ancestors had woven had been taken down, the stone walls bare and undressed. Even with the giant fireplace crackling nearby, it still felt cold. It even smelt different ― musty and sweaty, the lingering stench of death they carried coating the air.

Pushing those thoughts aside, you made your way to the dais. Only when you went up the wooden step did you realise that Marcus’ chair was occupied by a man you didn’t recognise, and Maximus’ spot was empty. Another sweep of the room told you what your blood already knew: for whatever reason, they had stepped out.

“Expecting someone else, puella (girl)?” the man on Marcus’ chair cackled as you approached, interrupting his talk with Cassius.

Raising a mighty brow, you decidedly ignored him, pouring wine in Cassius’ cup.

“I am talking to you, you stupid, savage woman,” he sneered.

Before you could think, the man laced his arm around your waist, forcing you to sit on his lap. Your blood ran hot with rage, palms itching to slap him until he fell unconscious. The need to turn around and spit on his face was a call from the Gods themselves.

But you couldn’t, not in a room full of Romans who would behave exactly the same way. You were at a loss here, and you only wished that when the day came and you encountered this bastard on the battlefield, you could slit his throat.

Clutching the jug between your hands, your eyes landed on Cassius. He was watching you with intent, almost studying you, but it was pretty obvious that he was not about to keep his man in check. If anything, he was about to fucking smile.

“Where’s that arrogant look now, huh?” the man cackled, pressing you against his tiny bulge.

“Do you really think you can threaten me with that?” you hissed, referring to the small erection brushing your buttocks. “That is the size of a barnacle.”

You definitely hit a nerve there, because the man pushed you off his lap hastily, grunting something unintelligible, but heard enough to know he was cursing you.

How bad you wished you could empty the contents of the jug on his face. For a long minute, you really considered it, running through the scenario and its outcomes in your mind ― you would be fast enough to catch him off guard, throw the jug at him and make a run for the small door on the back of the dais, latching it behind you and running up the spiral staircase to your father’s solar.

However, before you could act on any of it, Marcus’ deep voice interrupted your train of thought.

“Move, Brutus. Now,” Marcus snarled.

You turned around at the fury his tone distilled, his eyes locked on the man you now knew as Brutus. His pupils had darkened, his jaw tightened. Despite the tenderness he had shown you in the bedchamber, the General was an imposing man outside of it, and Brutus knew as much.

He soon scuttled away like the vermin he was, while Cassius straightened his back, eyes fixed to the front, avoiding contact with his General. Odd.

Maximus was a few steps behind Marcus, closing the door you had planned to escape through. The thought of both of them in your father’s solar didn’t sit well with you, but there wasn’t much you could say without blowing your cover.

“Dux Meus,” you bowed your head down, stepping aside to let him sit.

His opaque orbs lingered on you for a second too long, softening ever so slightly as he studied your composed expression.

You gave him a feeble smile, averting your eyes so people would not notice the brief exchange. By the way Maximus cleared his throat and a smirk curled his lips, you had not been as subtle as you had originally thought.

Once both men were seated, you proceeded to fill Marcus’ goblet. Your hand was still trembling with the fury that coursed through your veins, causing the jug to almost kick the wooden cup. Thankfully, Marcus caught it before it spilt.

His eyes shot to yours, and they were screaming at you. His mouth didn’t open, but his orbs spoke for him very loudly: Are you okay? What’s happened? They were mad with worry ― an honest one you didn’t expect at all. The hand that a second ago was straightening the cup, was now softly clamping around your wrist, the shaking gone under his soothing caress.

The weight of his sight, of his concern for you, was momentarily overwhelming.

“I’m okay,” you whispered before he spoke, giving him a reassuring nod.

“Are you―?”

“I’m fine, truly,” you insisted, worried that people would pick up on your hushed conversation.

Marcus finally let go of your wrist, and soon after you stepped off the dais to fill other goblets.

For the rest of the night, he couldn’t take his eyes off you. Before his private conversation with Maximus in the castle’s solar, you had been acting all lively and relaxed, but since his return, your features had been tamed into feigned calmness. Marcus could feel the anger simmering beneath your skin, seeping like venom dripping off a serpent’s fangs.

Wished he had stayed so could understand what had changed, but his duties to the Empire should come first. That morning, he had learnt that Agricola had been ordered back to Rome, claiming that the Caledonian tribes had been subdued, and his replacement would be Sallustius Lucullus. This news came like a shock to Marcus, who could not wrap his head around the fact that Rome was willing to withdraw the vast majority of troops to assist with other conflicts elsewhere in the Empire. It meant they would be left alone in an island that was far from conquered, despite what the false propaganda said.

They only had a couple of weeks before Agricola left with his men, leaving Marcus’ battalion, and other small military pockets around the area, in a very compromised position. In light of this new situation, Maximus and Marcus had discussed going to the Roman fort of Cawdor, just fifteen miles east of Inbhir Nis, to talk to Agricola before his departure.

But now, seeing your composed demeanour, he wished he could have stayed behind. It was wrong―putting you first before the Empire―but it couldn’t be helped. You lurked in the confines of his mind, ever present in his thoughts. It was even worse considering the ring that symbolised his marriage to another woman. Everything he thought he stood up for, crumbled the moment he had his first real taste of you.

His chest still swelled at the memory of you all pliable around his girth. How you had creamed, coating him in your arousal, the first time he sank into you. How you whimpered and hissed his name in ecstasy, the most beautiful melody he had ever heard.

However, it wasn’t only that what made him swoon, but how you blindly trusted him with your pleasure. How, despite being mistreated in bed, you had let him show you how a man should treat a woman. How fucking fulfilling it had been for him to see you fall apart, rediscovering how sex should really be like.

Marcus had never felt this way before ― caring, giving, in tune with your body. The connection that tethered him to you transcended the sexual aspect your relationship had taken. For the first time in decades, his heart was not as empty and cold. He found himself craving your eyes, your proximity. Not because he wanted to bed you again―he did―but because your presence put him at ease, even when war seemed to be knocking at his door again.

“I take you’ve finally bedded her,” Maximus’ jest forced his orbs onto his friend’s.

Marcus rolled his eyes to the back of his skull, his shoulders slouching. Sometimes he wished he could sew Maximus’ lips together or punch him square in the jaw to shut him up.

Briefly looking around the table on the dais, it seemed like the other men―Cassius, Valerius, Brutus and one of Valerius’ men―were immersed in a conversation of their own.

“That’s none of your business,” he gritted between clenched teeth.

Maximus palmed his shoulder, a hearty laugh reverberating in his chest.

“I’m just saying, the sexual tension every time she comes on the dais can be cut with a sword, my friend. Good for you, about damn time,” he congratulated Marcus, removing the hand from him. “I don’t understand why you want to keep it under wraps though.”

“Because some could think I’d be fraternising with the enemy,” Marcus admitted to his friend, knowing he could confide in him. “And it’s far from it.”

Maximus’ thick brows bunched up, confused with his reply.

“Because you’re fucking one of the savages’ whores? Like every man in your legion―”

“She’s not a whore,” Marcus quickly cut him off, anger firing at the distasteful insinuation.

Maximus was taken aback by his response, silence filling the gaps in the dead conversation for a minute. Marcus looked at his Commander, his own brows knitting now too. How dared he refer to you as a prostitute? The insult burnt his insides, he’d hate himself if your reputation was sullied because of your involvement with him.

“Alright, she may not be a whore, but she is a savage. Don’t lose sight of that,” his friend replied, the mock gone from his eyes. “If she’s not a prostitute, then what does she want with you?” he hushed, tone dropping an octave so people would not listen. “Do you trust her?”

Marcus’ frown deepened, his friend’s words gnawing at him. He had not even contemplated the scenario Maximus was implying ― he thought he knew you enough now, and you wouldn’t betray him like that. Not after yesterday’s passionate morning.

“Again, none of your damn business,” he sneered, emptying the Carmo wine in his mouth with finality.

“But it is my business to worry about your safety, dammit. I’m your second in command,” Maximus sighed, a hand pinching his nose. “I hope you know what you’re getting yourself into, Acacius. There’s a lot at stake here, as you well know.”

Maximus’ reminder of his duty to Rome just angered him more.

The night was coming to an end, with the Roman soldiers scattering and walking back to the barracks. You had seen most of Marcus’ retinue leave the dais too, and you hoped you could catch him alone before he retreated to his chamber.

You were returning from the kitchen with an empty wooden tray, hoping to clear the last of the goblets off the tables and call it a day. Saying that you were looking forward to fuck Marcus tonight was an understatement ― not even the small incident with Brutus could put out the fire between your thighs.

As you ambled along the corridor, you almost collided with someone. Gripping the tray tight so it wouldn’t fall, you looked up to apologise, but the words stuck to the back of your throat.

Brutus. His cold hands clamped like a vice on either side of your waist, fingers buried so deep in your skin it would bruise. He slammed you against the stone wall, his body flush with yours and his nauseating mouth too close for comfort.

Your heart was racing wildly as your mind was coming to terms with the situation, drafting a plan.

“You’re not so fierce now, are you? How dare you insult me in front of my Commander, you slut?” the stench of his breath reached your nose, and you couldn’t help but make a face. “You are nothing more than a cockroach. If I want, I can squash you under my foot like the filthy bug you are.”

Before you could snap back with a retort, he grabbed the tray you carried and threw it to a side, then his mouth covered yours. His lips were cold and tasted horribly, his tongue trying to find an opening into your mouth. You jostled, but the grip on your hips was so tight you could barely move. His stubble prickled the skin around your mouth as Brutus kissed you sloppily, your teeth still shut.

Vile rose up to your throat, your initial panic transforming into steadfast resolution. This fucking cunt was about to get what he deserved. Who did he think he was? He was nothing, no one. A man you could best in the battlefield with one hand tied to your back and the other one holding a wooden sword, all whilst blindfolded.

When his hands loosened on your waist to very harshly squeeze one of your breasts, you took the opportunity. You lifted your knee up hastily, hitting him right on that tiny bulge he seemed to be so proud of.

Brutus started wailing, crouching with his hands protecting his groin. Placing your hands on his shoulders, you pushed him back ― snarling now, ready to fight. Quickly you snatched the tray off the cobblestone and as you were lunging forward to hit his head with it, a strong arm wrapped around your waist, freezing you in place.

Bewildered, you turned around in the arms that held you to redirect your anger at whoever dared to stop you.

Your resolution faltered the moment your emerald greens met Marcus’ brown irises.

Marcus didn’t understand what he had walked into but was pretty sure that Brutus was about to be in the receiving end of your wrath. Instinctually, he had jumped into the situation, hoping to deescalate it by holding you in place so you wouldn’t kill the man. Because if you hurt the man, Cassius would ask for your head, and he would be between a rock and a hard place.

But the moment you veered around in his embrace and Marcus saw the reddened, wet skin around your mouth, he understood.

For a second, he only stared at you, eyes fixed on your swollen lips. His brain had gone quiet, but the sudden cacophony of his own voice asking for blood brought him back.

“Marcus,” you whispered breathlessly, and his stomach churned at the unspoken plea.

His hands freed your hips to cradle your face, delving into your glassy green eyes. His heart flipped, torn with the idea of what Brutus had tried to do.

“Are you okay?” he asked the question he wished he had said an hour before.

“Aye,” you replied with a small voice.

It didn’t calm him down. In fact, he was seething with rage, blood boiling in his veins with a protectiveness unfamiliar to him.

Once he ensured you were alright, he liberated you from his grasp and faced Brutus. Commandeered by his own anger, Marcus seized Brutus by the neck of his toga, forcing him to stand up and pinned him against the wall as one of his hands clutched around the man’s neck.

Marcus really contemplated the idea of killing him. He wanted the man beheaded and six feet under. How dared he touch you? Force himself on you? Even if you weren’t his to claim, it wasn’t right ― Marcus could never put up with how badly some men treated women, so he would never allow it in his ranks.

“Marcus, don’t,” you called from behind, your soft hand squeezing his shoulder. He looked over it, jaw clenched, to glance at you. “I think…” you paused, “just let him go. I have a bad feeling about this.”

The sense you talked into him finally filtered in, and Marcus released the purchase he had on Brutus, taking a step back. His hands curled into fists at his sides ― he really wanted to smash his skull in, but you were right.

“Get out of my sight,” he muttered, and Brutus quickly obliged.

The moment you two were alone, he looked for you. His hands reached out, one sliding around your waist and his other thumb ghosting over your bottom lip. His heart was still pounding, ears ringing with fear. He couldn’t ask how you were, knowing it was an obnoxious question given the circumstances.

Your gaze locked in on his ― blown pupils, crazed darkened irises. But as much as he searched, Marcus didn’t see any dread in you. Had you been so used to being mistreated by your late husband that what happened unfazed you? How desensitised were you?

What he did see was the ghost of a past memory haunting you, the haze of years of abuse clouding your eyes. You didn’t need to speak it; he could feel it.

His heart cracked at the thought. And what pained him most was that one of his own men was who brought back the pain he had not seen yet swirling in your eyes. And it was so prominent now, he almost folded, lungs burning with ragged breaths.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, removing his hand from your face, afraid his touch would incite any more distress.

Your head tilted, eyes regaining part of the spark that reeled him in.

“You have nothing to apologise for, Dux Meus,” you uttered under your breath. “As a matter of fact, I wasn’t in need of rescuing, I was about to smash his head in and have his brain scattered around the floor.”

Despite your smile, there was no joke in your low tone. He realised you actually meant it. And he shouldn’t be surprised, considering he’d already seen you take a man’s life with no regrets.

“I know, but I failed on my promise.”

“What promise?” you asked, confused, with a cocked brow.

“I swore to you that I wouldn’t let this happen again. And it has, right under my nose,” Marcus confessed, the ride back to the castle after the attack still vivid in his mind. “That you wouldn’t need to defend yourself.”

Your brows lifted, expression softening and lips pouting. Were you trying to hide a grimace?

“It’s alright,” you shrugged. “I’m used to it.”

You said it as if it was meant to make him feel better, but it had the opposite effect on him. If anything, it made him feel worse.

The faded sound of footfall approaching broke the moment, both of you untangling from each other and taking a couple of steps back. Marcus watched one of the other maids scurry along, her scared eyes dancing between the two of you. For a moment, it seemed like she was about to intervene in defence of you.

“Do Ghras (Your Grace),” she mumbled in your language, one Marcus didn’t understand a word of.

Quickly, you gave her a stern look and the girl’s eyes widened dramatically, then bowed her head down and ran towards the double doors as if the devil himself was chasing her.

Your eyes shot back to his, pupils enlarged again, studying his face with a vehemence that would have forced any other man to look away. But he didn’t, mesmerised by the strength you were showing after what had happened. Any other woman in your situation would be upset, but here you were standing as if nothing of relevance had happened.

His eyes lingered on your face, deciphering how you really felt. The darkening purple mark tarnishing your bottom lip really concerned him, to the point where he couldn’t stop himself from raising his hand towards your face.

Your head snapped back away from his touch. Marcus flinched at the rejection, slightly hurt ― but he couldn’t blame you for reacting that way, he should have known where the limit was. It was understandable that you didn’t want to be touched after…

His blood began to boil again ― Brutus would pay, he would find a way to make him suffer.

As his hand dropped back to his side, you took a step forward towards him ― your fingers lacing around his wrist. The caress of your palm against his skin was warm, but your gaze was warmer. Marcus froze in place, overpowered by your eyes.

You averted your beautiful orbs, looking down to the cobblestone, as your free hand tucked away a stray red curl behind your ear. That mere gesture flooded his chest, replacing anger with care. Despite how strong-willed you were, there was this aura of innocence around you; one he had not fully perceived until yesterday morning. Now that Marcus thought he knew you a tad more, every piece of the puzzle started falling into place.

But you still surprised him.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. Trained reaction…” you trailed off with half-lidded eyes, your teeth sinking in the cushion of your bottom lip.

You didn’t need to finish that sentence for he knew how it ended. Your late husband was, once again, sullying your thoughts.

Heart clenching in his chest, Marcus reached for your cheek again, this time successfully. His thumb hovered over you bruised lip, afraid he would inflict more harm than good.

“No need to apologise, mel. It’s okay…” Marcus hushed, still madly worried about your well-being. “Did he… did he hurt you elsewhere?”

You nodded before nuzzling your cheek against his open palm. That simple action had his heart racing and melting at the same time. He really needed to get a grip, or he’d lose his damn mind over you ― something he could not afford amidst impending war.

“My hips,” a very long pause, “my breast.”

If his blood had been boiling before, now it became sharp icicles scratching the insides of his veins. Hearing you say that actually caused him physical pain. His heart had stilled, then resumed its maddening beating, deafening him.

When he trusted his voice had returned, he cleared this throat.

“Can I check, please?” There were no veiled intentions behind his ask, just honest consternation.

You shyly nodded after a brief pause.

You followed Marcus through the corridor, his forearm softly hugging the small of your back and his broad hand splayed on your hip. The possessiveness of his embrace was weirdly soothing.

Checking over your shoulder, you ensured no one witnessed your affectionate exchange. And once you arrived and took shelter in your old bedchamber, the tension gripping your shoulders dissipated.

But the anger inside you still burnt hot. Brutus deserved what you were about to do, had Marcus not interfered. But when he did, something about the whole night nagged at you. As if there was a bigger plan at play, one you could not construe yet.

“Your lip’s bruising, mel,” his voice tinged with concern forced you out of your thoughts.

When he touched it again, you winced. Brutus the Brute had done a bit of a number on you, one you hoped to repay in the near future.

“Can I see, please?”

Well, this was not how you expected the night to go, because judging by Marcus’ rigid stance, sex was out of the cards.

With a heavy sigh, your fingers lifted up your long skirt, exposing your loincloth. Bunching up the fabric, Marcus’ hand and gaze dropped to your mid-section, fingers careful when pushing down the hem of your underwear. His caress venerating, too respectful in comparison to how he treated you yesterday morning ― the contrast abysmal.

His eyes squinted, nostrils flaring, but he quickly tamed his furious expression. Looking down to where he was focused, you understood his reaction. Where Brutus’ fingers had sunk in the flesh of your hips, he had left deep, purpling imprints ― an aquarelle with shades of red, lilac and blue.

“What a cunt,” you hissed when Marcus’ thumbs ghosted over the bruised skin on your hips. His eyes swiftly looked up at you, apologetic. “Not you, him,” you clarified.

You hoped your half joke would lighten his temper, but it didn’t. If anything, his brown orbs darkened even more, a black veil consuming his dilated pupils.

Awright, no jokes when he’s in a bad mood, you mentally noted.

“Show me, please,” he husked, eyes loitering on the neckline of your dress.

His gravelly words shouldn’t have sent a shiver down your spine, but they did. This wasn’t the fucking time to get all worked up, but the effect he had on you had seeped further into your being than what you originally thought.

I’m so fucked up.

With a trembling hand, you pushed down the frill of your neckline, your left breast spilling over. You held back a raspy breath when the cold air of the room hit your sensitive skin and felt your nipple perking up.

You didn’t dare to look down, eyes fixed on Marcus’ torn face. His lips had fallen into a flat line, jaw clenched as if chiselled by the Gods themselves. And while you were burning hot under his inquisitive stare, his eyes were… cold.

Were you broken past the point of repair? Had Iain shattered you so much, altered your perception of sex? How would you, otherwise, explain why you were roused right now when you should surely feel at least shaken up?

By Red Cap’s beard, I’m sick. There’s got to be something wrong with me.

Sick with lust, perhaps. One you needed to control, because when Marcus cupped your breast, there was nothing sexual in his hold.

Pure, utter worry painted his features, his brown irises opaque.

“I’ll kill him,” he muttered under his breath.

When his thumb stroked the skin under your aureola, your eyes finally drifted down.

Seeing the growing bruise around your nipple was a goddamn reality check, as if someone had thrown a jar of icy water on you. It looked bad, really bad. You didn’t think he had such a tight grip on your breast, but the rush of adrenaline had drowned any other feelings, letting survival guide you.

It reminded you of a time when your body was covered with marks and lesions, and you would do your utmost effort to conceal the damage Iain had caused. How you made up excuses when your siblings queried about a bruise you could not camouflage―oh, don’t worry, I’m just clumsy―or a new limp―ah, it’s fine, I fell off a horse―that had you barely walking.

How you hid under layers of textile when visiting family so your father wouldn’t feel the guilt of shipping you off like cattle to the slaughter.

“For peace you must,” had been his final words before Iain snatched you away from the comfort of your home.

Fiercely loyal, you played your part dutifully. For clan you had silently suffered for a decade, not even once questioning your father’s decision. You endured what you had to, so your people would know peace in their time.

Never once did you let the façade tumble down. Never once did you show your fear, your desperation ― your thirst for freedom.

Never once, until now.

Seeing those bruises again brought back all those feelings you had deeply buried and thought forgotten. Panic bubbling within the walls of your chest, you blinked rapidly to clear the tears that threatened to fall.

Years of abuse crawling back, clamping your throat, stalking your mind ― it all came back in a trice. Your heartrate quickened, the sensation of nasty ants creeping along your skin unbearable. Trying to calm your agitated breathing, but the memories only making it all worse.

Suddenly you felt the searing pain when Marcus brushed your skin again. Not physical pain, but the kind that had tangled itself up around your entrails and become a part of you ― strangling your resolution, your very being. Silently suffocating you for a decade.

Why was it all coming apart now, out of all the fucking moments?

“Hey, look at me, hey. It’s okay, mel,” Marcus’ mellow voice pierced through your eardrums.

Wet eyelashes fluttering, you glanced up at him. For the first time, feeling lost in a loch of torment.

Marcus’ chest squeezed at the sight in front of him.

Your face tilted up, a downcast expression distorting your beautiful features. Your mouth had parted, letting out a trembling sigh that had him shaking with you. Your eyes, always bright, sparkly green, were now of a deep shade of a darkened hue, your blown pupils swimming somewhere in there. And they became darker with every spent tear that wetted your cheeks.

He searched your face, impending dread consuming his heart as your curated front crumbled. Something primal twisted within him, a sense of protectiveness gripping him tight.

Marcus couldn’t see you like this ― with your defences down, as if you trusted him enough to hold the pieces of you together. For a fleeting instant it felt overwhelming, staggering him.

But he knew what he had to do ― what he wanted to do. Marcus let go of his gentle grasp to envelop you in his embrace, hoping to bring you some sense of tranquillity. One of his hands softly rested on the back of your head, fingers lost between your red curls.

At first, your arms were just loose by your sides, but soon enough, when the warmth of his body seeped into yours, you laced them around his waist, hugging him in return.

Time became ethereal, and Marcus wondered if what saddened you had anything to do with today, or past events. You had hinted at a life of marital negligence, and he couldn’t help but ponder the atrocities you had to survive. Society wasn’t kind to women, at least in Rome. Was your culture any different in that respect? How had your life been?

Not easy, by the looks of it. And it pained him realising that, especially after seeing the fierce side of you. The part of you that intrigued him the most, that reeled him in despite the wedding ring on his finger.

How could someone even dare break your spirit? How did Brutus even dare to breathe in your direction?

“I’ll kill him,” he reiterated in a hush, lips pressing on the crown of your hair.

“No,” you muttered, leaning back to let him dive in your determined eyes. “I think that’s what he wanted. What Cassius wanted.”

“Cassius?” he repeated after you, confused.

You paused, lips pouting, and then nodded with averted eyes.

“Aye. There’s something about him that is not quite right… Do you trust him?”

Why was everybody making him question other people’s loyalties today? He couldn’t afford the doubt, not when Agricola’s departure was just around the corner. Marcus needed as many men as possible, and he had to trust them.

“Yes, I do. Don’t worry about him, or about―” he stopped himself before Brutus’ name leaked. “Let’s not talk about them now. Come sit.”

Marcus carefully guided you to his bed as you readjusted your dress, palm pressed on the small of your back. Once you settled, he turned around in search of the concoction Atticus had prepared for his wounds ― a mix of aloe, lemon juice and onions. The balm had been cool and soothing on his skin, so he hoped it helped alleviate your pain.

He snatched it off the chimney’s sill and walked back to you, handing it over so you would apply it. The pad of your fingers touched his knuckles, the feathery caress of your gentleness. When you didn’t grab it, Marcus foraged for your eyes.

“Will you help me, Dux Meus?” you whispered, tone stripped of your usual snappiness.

“Are you sure?” he found himself saying, not wanting to make you uncomfortable.

You gave him a soft nod in reply, gathering your long skirt and holding it around your mid-section.

Marcus crouched down in front of you, knees cracking with the friction of time, and dipped his index and middle fingers in the gelatinous mixture. He reached for your hip, one last undecided glance at you, and then gently rubbed the composite on your skin.

You sighed at the touch, shutting your eyes, muscles visibly relaxing now.

“Does it feel good?” he asked, eyes focused on the other side now as he administered the balm.

“Aye, it’s cold. Tapadh leibh a Seanalair” you muttered, palms resting on the mattress as you leaned back.

Marcus’ brows pinched together at the unrecognisable, softly delivered words, but it didn’t stop him from pressing soft circles on your skin, hoping the imprint of fingers would disappear.

“Is that―”

“That barbaric language, yes,” you retorted, head tipped to one side, your green orbs watching him with intent.

Inevitably, he flinched. Those exact words had almost slipped his tongue when you both were returning to the castle after the skirmish in the forest. It was hard letting go of the old ways ― Romans always considered other cultures uncivilised. Now having been in Caledonia for a few months hadn’t wholly changed his mind, but he was starting to see that you all were more similar than what Rome had her people believe.

As a General, he had been trained―indoctrinated―to not see humanity in others. That was the only barrier keeping him from losing his sanity. Because if he saw other people eye to eye, if he acknowledged their humanity, then the resolution to wield his gladius would falter in battle.

And his resolution had faltered. Once.

“May the Gods protect and guide her, for her path is to become darker today,” was one of the few exchanged words that Murdoch of Inbhir Nis had whispered to him before Marcus claimed his life.

They still haunted him to this day. The piercing shriek of the female warrior still rang in his ears like a broken bell, her scream a dark omen it was hard to forget.

“I didn’t mean it that way,” was his poor attempt at apologising. You cocked a brow, expectant of another explanation, and Marcus sighed, realising that was a lie. “Perhaps I did, and for that I’m sorry.”

“Not following Rome’s doctrine doesn’t make us savages, Marcus,” you hushed, expression softening. “Just different.”

“I know that. I just― Force of habit,” he shrugged, slightly embarrassed for being called out. “What does it mean?”

“Aye means yes. Then I simply said thank you, General,” you explained, letting your skirt go after the concoction had dried on your skin.

“Seanalair means General? It sounds so different,” he thought out loud. “I like it. Although Dux Meus sounds better to me,” he ventured with a lopsided smirk.

“Does it now?” you laughed, the first time a crack of happiness making its appearance.

For a moment you didn’t say anything else, just pushed down again the hem of your neckline for him to spread the mixture on your bruised breast. He didn’t waste time, being extremely careful around the sensitive skin of your nipple as to not cause you any more pain.

“You like it when I call you Dux Meus, don’t you?” you said under your breath, voice low and laced with need.

Marcus’ sight shot up to yours in the blink of an eye, removing his hand from your chest. The unexpected tone caught him off guard, so focused on spreading the balm he almost missed the seductive inflexion in your tone.

He couldn’t reply, breath hitching at the back of his throat while a ray of warmth travelled down his spine.

His reaction felt wrong given the circumstances that brought you to his bed. Feuding with himself, Marcus froze when your hand found his cheek, cradling it. You bowed down towards him, the tip of your nose brushing his aquiline one.

“Don’t you?” you insisted, your mouth now ghosting his, testing his wavering resolve.

“I do,” he avowed, eyes fluttering close when your lips caressed his. “Callie― I don’t think this is the time.”

Your head canted back, a flash of anger swirling in your pupils, robbing him of the warmth of your mouth.

“Don’t tell me what I want is wrong. I am not going to let that bastard and his ruffian manners take away from me what I desire. Who I desire,” you retorted back. Not appealing but demanding. “I want you, Marcus, and I want you now. Yesterday you asked me to come back, nothing has changed. Is this not why you’ve taken me to your chamber?”

The carnal delivery of your words gnawed at him, your last question triggering his heart to spike, rejecting such vile idea. He was not a man to take advantage of anyone, least a woman who had barely escaped the hands of a repulsive scoundrel.

“Of course not. I wasn’t thinking of― Deodamnatus (dammit), Callie, I just wanted to help you,” he gritted, springing tall to his feet and raking his curls back in muted desperation.

You swiftly followed, rising up from the bed with unravelling determination in your eyes.

“Then fucking help me. Help me forget his hands, replace his memory with yours,” you beseeched in a hush.

This was fucked up. You were fucked up in the head, it was the only reasonable explanation to why his caress while applying the concoction had turned you on, literally a few minutes after you were crying your sorrow in his embrace.

You knew you shouldn’t, but your body thought otherwise.

And despite the wrong timing, you were serious about not letting Brutus ruin this, ruin you. He was just another notch in the weave of your life, another man who had wronged you, and you were not about to let him become more than that.

You were done with letting men dictate how you should live your life. How you should or shouldn’t react, how you should or shouldn’t feel. You had been ashamed of your sexuality your whole life, forced to be a sack of meat for a despicable man since a very young age. Marcus had soothed that fear, letting you rediscover what you actually desired, opening your eyes to a new world of wants and necessities.

No, you were not fucked up. Men were. You were just dealing with the repercussion of their fucking actions the best way you could. And if Marcus thought otherwise, then he was just part of the problem, not the solution. No matter what he had shown you so far.

Good fucking riddance.

“Faex (shit),” he exclaimed under his breath before framing your face between his broad hands.

His mouth crashed against yours, teeth colliding. The moment his tongue sank between your lips, you moaned a sigh of relief, the heat between your legs enlivened.

The desperate strokes of his tongue had you answering with fierce ones of your own, fingers quick to find the V opening on the front of his toga so one palm slid across his ribs. His skin felt like fire under your touch, and you only hoped that heat was redirected south of his tummy.

Stalking the hairy trail guiding you down, soon enough you found his manhood. Still soft and pliable, you felt a throbbing pulse shooting up his length. With a smirk, your fist clamped around his girth and Marcus gifted you with a guttural groan that you eagerly swallowed.

Slowly you began pumping him, working him hard, while his mouth ransacked yours with tidal force. His cock palpitated and you felt high with power, knowing you literally had him on the palm of your hand. Thumb swiping his wet glans, you squeezed him hard, endowing you with yet another rumble.

“I want to taste you, Marcus,” you purred against his lips, drunk with the memory of your visit to Naimh’s cottage.

“Fuck,” he blurted out, jaw as tight as a bow. “Don’t― Fuck,” he repeated after another compression on his already stimulated cock.

His resolution finally dissolved. While still gripping his shaft so he wouldn’t go anywhere, Marcus unwrapped his toga in quick motions, the white fabric falling to the floor and leaving him completely exposed to your hungry eyes.

Marcus was the fucking reincarnation of Alator, all hard edges except for the welcomed softness of his lower tummy. Your mouth watered at the sight, proving it difficult to show self-restraint.

This time around, you were not shy to undress yourself, anxious to get started. Then you faced him, both standing bare in front of the other.

And without any other words, you dropped to your knees. Marcus closed his eyes, face tilted to the ceiling, while his erection swayed at your eye level, enticing and yearning for your touch.

The second you fisted his base and led him to the damp warmth of your mouth, Marcus hissed between gritted teeth, his eyes meeting yours instantly. Suckling on his flushed head, you maintained eye contact with him, but when the musky taste overtook your senses, your eyelashes fluttered close as you gave yourself free rein on his cock.

Your tongue twirled around his glans, the tip playing with his slit to clean off the precum beading there. Then your lips trailed down his length, pressing gentle kisses on your way south to lick the heavy balls underneath. When you were satisfied with the spit covering his sacks, you lapped his underside, feeling the throbbing, feeding vein until your lips sealed shut around him again, hollowing your cheeks to make room for his delicious girth.

You went through the motions over and over again, revelling on his taste, on his growing weight on your tongue. While saliva and precum overflew, dripping down from the corners of your mouth, you looked up again.

Marcus’ heavy-lidded eyes were transfixed on you, his hand gently resting on the back of your head to feel your bobbing. His hips slanted forward when you stopped, waiting for him with an open, welcoming mouth.

Slowly he fed you, rocking his hips softly, while you remained still below him. The tip of his mushroom head kissed the back of your throat, and you irremediably moaned around his circumference, clamping your lips on him.

When he pulled back, the pop sound forced you to open your glassy eyes. A bridge of spit connected his angry tip to your swollen lips ― a connection that reached further down to your gushing pussy.

“Stop, mel. Or I’m going to come,” he pleaded, caressing your cheek with a tenderness that contrasted heavily to what you had just done.

“And is that a bad thing?” you asked innocently, blinking rapidly as one of your fingers swirled in the air between you to catch the thread of saliva and push it into your mouth, licking your finger clean.

Then you pressed a kiss on his tip, lingering with parted, waiting lips.

Marcus pouted, his fist wrapping around his base to contain himself, but couldn’t resist the urge to stroke your lips, swiping his glans a few times on your mouth.

“No, it isn’t. You’ve sucked me so good, mel, but I want to fuck you as you deserve,” he admitted, and you definitely didn’t argue.

He extended a hand towards you, which you gladly accepted to stand up to your feet.

“And I want to fuck you so good, you’re even going to forget your name,” his promise made your slick pussy throb at the expectation.

“That’s all I’m asking,” you whispered, crawling onto the silky bed.

His gaze tracked you like a wildcat chasing after a vole, lingering on the swaying of your hips as you inched forward, settling on the centre of the mattress. You saw his eyes darkened with desire, taking in the moment ― for a tad too long, because his attention drifted to the bruising skin on your hips.

“Marcus,” you called softly, shifting his attention as you coaxed your thighs apart, your sweet dripping nook in display for him.

He stilled, transfixed on your sex as if it was the first time you bared yourself in front of him. His mouth fell flat into a fine line, then the tip of his tongue flicked out to lick his bottom lip ― a simple gesture that had your pussy leaking onto the linen.

Without a second to waste, Marcus joined you on the bed posting himself between your legs, his broad frame blanketing yours as you slowly sank into the feathery cushion underneath. Your hands reached up his ribs, tracing the battle-scarred map of his skin until your palms rested on his shoulder blades, pushing him down towards you.

This time, the kiss was gentler, paced. The languid strokes of his mouth pulled a wanton moan out of you as the weight of his throbbing cock rested heavily on your mound, his balls rubbing against your puffy fold every time he leaned forward. It was feverishly intimate ― the way his nuts would kiss your sex, your clit writhing in your seam.

The soft pressure of his lips turned into a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss. His hand cradled your left breast with reverence, thumb skimming your pebbled nipple delicately and incessantly. Fingers intertwining with yours, Marcus brought your laced fists down your belly and past his erection.

Guiding your hand, Marcus pushed your own fingers past the cover of your seeping slit. A throaty sob escaped your lips, eyes shutting with pleasure, as the General showed you how to press tight circles on your thudding clit, leading you and your desperation right to the edge of a cliff. A now-known wet warmth pooled around the bottom of your spine, your inner walls squeezing nothing but the emptiness of your womb.

“Oh…” you cooed, back arching into his chest.

“You love that, don’t you?” Marcus teased you, his fingers moving yours against your slick nub. “You’re melting, mel. You’re so wet already, why?” You didn’t reply, brows pinching in concentration, mouth agape. “Did tasting me excite you, hm?” You gave him a little shy nod, too focused on the thunderous, pulsing feeling in your cunt. “You enjoyed sucking me, having your sinful mouth full of me… dribbling, just like your pussy is drooling now.”

His sweet talk had you gushing again, his thumb now drawing tight, precise circles on your clit as your middle and ring fingers framed it for him, for his delightful attention. The sensation was so intense, so delicious, it curled your toes as your limbs stiffened ― climbing up Beinn Uais (Ben Wyvis) was less strenuous than this.

Your lungs were burning, heaving now, but your pussy was catching fire.

“O mo chreach (oh, my goodness), Marcus― I’m coming, don’t stop,” you begged, lewd noises spilling from your mouth. “Please, please, don’t stop.”

“I won’t, sweetheart. Come for me,” Marcus purred, mouth ghosting yours, inhaling your needy whimpers, fingers insistent.

At his command, you did. Fuck, did you come… Your pussy clenched almost painfully whilst your overstimulated button pulsated maddingly in your seam ― your whole body quivered as you reached for the sky, stars bursting behind your eyelids.

And as you came crashing down, an intense orgasm hitting you from all flanks, Marcus led your fingers away from your twitching clit, down to your leaking hole. He rammed your two digits in your pliant, slimy opening, compelling you to fuck yourself throughout your blissed climax.

Your pussy wolfed down your own fingers down to the knuckles with ease, Marcus’ hand halting the movement of yours.

“Curl them,” he whispered, kissing your cheek. “Curl your fingers, touch that spongy spot for me.”

Still blissed out from your high, you followed his directions as your eyes fluttered open. His blown pupils had yours in a trance as he watched your expression transform when you found the precise point he had referred to.

Without breaking eye contact, you fingered yourself under his attentive guidance. Pleasuring yourself like this should feel wrong, but Marcus made it seem as natural as breathing. His constant reassurance became a mantra, humming his approval when your hips jerked up in ecstasy.

Suddenly, his middle and ring fingers joined yours in your tight pussy, the burning stretch almost unbearable. The feeling of fullness so severe, you started withdrawing your own hand.

“No, don’t pull out, mel. Follow my lead. I know it’s overwhelming, but it’ll be worth it,” Marcus breathed. “Trust me.”

You did. So far Marcus had shown you a path of pleasure you thought forbidden, and this was not the time to doubt him. With four fingers shoved in your throbbing pussy, the palm of your hand cradling the back of his between your thighs, you let him guide you ― it was overwhelming… but in the best fucking way possible.

Marcus knew perfectly what he was doing, because soon enough the pads of his fingers were persistently rubbing that tender spot on your anterior wall while his thumb smothered your clit yet again.

“Fuck, I-I’m coming again…” you hiccupped, whimpering aloud now as the coil inside you started tautening again.

“You’re pulsing so hard, do you feel that?” he gritted out, your walls squeezing all four fingers tight. “Such a sweet grip, mel.”

“Y-yes,” you whispered, squeezing your eyes shut as another tidal wave washed over you with an ungodly force.

You screamed Marcus’ name, tears spilling from the corner of your eyes due to the intensity the orgasm hit you with. After that, you felt your cunt beating for a very long minute, the contractions further apart as you relaxed under Marcus, all sweaty and satisfied.

“Do you think you can take me?”

Your heavy eyes flew open at Marcus’ strained voice. Looking down, you realised his cock was still resting on your mound. A constant trickle of precum had slid down his shaft, a milky puddle sitting on your skin.

Even if you were tired, you couldn’t deny him ― not when he had been so mindful with your needs. And, truth be told, you wanted him inside.

You didn’t reply. Instead, you curled your fingers around his girth and slid his glans along your slick slit, soaking him in your arousal. You lingered on your sensitive clit, rubbing it with his tip a few times until you led him down.

The moment his throbbing head kissed the mouth of your cunt, you knew you could come again, no matter how tired you thought you were. You led him in and let go of his thudding cock when he was halfway in.

You sighed, trying to relax your muscles, but your pussy had a mind of her own. His girth pried your pussy lips open and, once fully seated inside you, Marcus froze in place. His brows furrowing as you fully sheathed him, wrapping him in your wet, tight heat.

“I could stay here forever. You hug me so tight, take me so well now…” he hushed, leaning forward, his weight almost crushing you. “You only need a bit of encouragement, patience… And I am a very patient man. I’d be so happy with just making you cream, mel.”

He was right. Sadly, you were no stranger to sex, but this kind? This was so new to you, sometimes you doubted yourself ― what you were doing, how you were doing it. Something about Marcus made you feel insecure, because you didn’t want to disappoint him. For once in your life, you wanted the man to enjoy you, make you fall apart.

Your head spun around to the point of almost fainting when he pulled back softly and then back in. A wail broke free from your mouth as Marcus slowly but steadily rutted into you, picking up the pace with every mind-blowing thrust.

You dug your nails on his back, leaving bloody crescent moons behind. His mouth hunted down your lips, fusing into a deep kiss as he fucked you good and harsh. The snapping of his hips against yours filled the room with wet, squelching sounds ― the atmosphere brimming with the musky scent of sex and sweat.

Marcus dove in so deeply, you swore you could feel him in your throat. His sharp stabs hit all the right spots, another climax building up ― both of your sexes pulsing in unison, fitting together like pieces of a puzzle. It wasn’t long until you were creaming around his girth again, moaning like a madwoman as another climax overtook all your senses.

The General pumped his cock into you relentlessly, fucking you through yet another wave of ecstasy. He pulsed inside and you knew were close to finding his own release. When your walls relaxed around him, Marcus swiftly pulled out, a chesty groan bouncing between the walls of the room ― his flushed, reddened glans nudging your clit as his warm spent spurted out in thick, white ropes.

His cum clung to your pebbled nub, sliding down your tacky, swollen pussy lips and pooling on the sheets underneath.

Marcus kissed your forehead before falling to the other side of the bed, utterly spent. His skin glistened under the candlelight while his chest raised in quick succession.

As your heartrate calmed down, you giggled, the most content you’d ever been. Marcus looked at you, a creeping smile curling his lips, and extended an arm towards you, inviting you onto his chest.

You were quick to accept, your blushed cheek resting on his sternum. He kissed your forehead again, a slight brush that pulled a satisfied sigh out of you.

Neither of you spoke for a while. Surprisingly, the silence was comfortable, calming in a sense. You never got to enjoy the aftermath, too busy with keeping yourself together. This was different.

Marcus was different.

But he couldn’t be. He was just another man focused on the next battle ahead, planning your demise. Whether you liked it or not, the General was your enemy, a conqueror ― the incarnation of everything you hated. The man who had killed your father right in front of you, with his expression blank and devoid of emotion.

You hated him. You should hate him. Your determination shouldn’t falter just because you were fucking him. You were not doing it for your own enjoyment; you were doing it because you had a purpose. In fact, you should be repulsed every time he put his hands on you, every time he easily sank into you, blissfully stretching your inner walls.

And despite everything, despite knowing who he really was, you still… liked him. You were not disgusted by his touch, but horny for it, craving him.

You were so fucked.

Marcus stirred under you, battling his own demons.

He knew this was wrong but couldn’t stop himself. There was a gravity around you that pulled him in, no matter how hard he fought against it. Irremediably he found himself orbiting towards you, like two stars in a colliding path.

There’s no harm in having a little fun.

But was it just that? A little fun? Couldn’t be, not when his unoccupied mind kept drifting back to you. Before he would be thinking about the next step, what he needed to do to win the next battle, but now war was far from his mind.

He wished he could shut the door and keep the outside world at bay. He wished he could live in this little cocoon with you.

But duty always called.

You had fallen asleep on top of him, so carefully he moved you off his chest. His mind was so loud he couldn’t follow you into Morpheus’ realm.

Sitting back on the bed, Marcus looked over his shoulder at you, sleeping on your side. Your face was buried in the pillow underneath, your red curly hair an angry could around you. Completely naked on his bed, you were a godsend. A voluptuous figure with generous, round breasts; your moonlight skin glistening with the product of your pleasure.

His eyes travelled down your figure, arriving at the sweet gap between your thighs. His cum was still smeared all over your mound and pussy lips, dry and tacky, a reminder of the shared passion.

Damn, you looked beautiful.

With a sigh, he got up and walked towards the basin near the fireplace. The fire kept the water lukewarm, and he dampened a clean rag and wringed it out. Walking back to the bed, Marcus sat beside you. Delicately, he pushed one of your legs aside and swiped off his spent, cleaning your folds with extreme care not to wake you.

But you did. One of your eyes fluttered lazily, and looked over your shoulder to stare at him, slightly dishevelled.

“You alright?”

Marcus smiled softly, discarding the rag to the feet of the bed as he laid down behind you, head propped up on his hand.

“Yes, I was just wiping you clean,” he muttered, kissing your shoulder.

You groaned with a smirk, pushing your sweet ass against his hardening bulge. Your buttocks rubbed his growing erection as your eyes shut again.

“Another round?” you whispered and then bit your bottom lip, wriggling your hips so his manhood found refuge in the gap between your thighs.

“You nymph,” Marcus moaned. Your heat was turning wet again, soaking his now stiffened cock. “But I can’t, I―”

“I’ll be quick, I promise,” you husked sleepily, one of your hands slipping down your belly to grab his beating dick poking between your legs. “Just a quickie, Marcus, please,” you added, leading his leaky tip inside you.

There was no discussion after that. Groaning, Marcus plunged in in a smooth motion, your velvety walls parting to greet him and hug him tight. His arm draped around your waist to hold you in place and began fucking into you from behind. You hummed your approval, Marcus paying worshipping attention to your neck, kissing and nipping at it.

When you squirmed and whimpered, your pussy clamped down around him with force, announcing your orgasm. Still rutting into you, the hand holding you down trailed down your belly to gently pet your clit.

Your moans grew louder and needier, your ass pushing back into him, meeting every thrust. You came sobbing his name, strongly pulsing around him, wetting his cock and balls with your warm cream. Mustering all the strength he could, Marcus pulled out, his dick resting between your pussy lips.

You pressed your thighs together to squeeze his throbbing manhood and cradled his glans as he pumped himself between your inner thighs, his tip kissing your clit every time he pushed in. A minute later, Marcus came undone too, his warm spent landing on your cupped palm around his mushroom head.

Marcus remained still behind you as his cock softened and both of your breathings calmed down. Your eyes were still closed, but a smug smile curled your lips.

“See? I was quick,” you retorted.

“Always true to your word,” he joked, pulling back to grab the forgotten rag. He began rubbing your skin again and you parted your legs to have him wipe you clean. “But I really need to go.”

“So soon? Where are you going?” you pouted, craning your neck to glance up at him.

“It’s almost dawn. I…” Marcus fell silent, pondering his options.

He could tell you where he was going as a test to your loyalty. Prove Maximus wrong. He didn’t know why but confiding in you felt natural.

Marcus really wanted to trust you. If nothing went wrong, then he would know he had nothing to worry about.

“I’m going to the Roman fort in Cawdor with Maximus. We need to discuss some news we’ve just received,” he explained, carefully studying your expression.

“Oh, okay,” you muttered, completely unbothered by the information he had just shared with you, as if he had just told you that today was going to rain. “I’ll leave then.”

“You can stay and sleep in, no one will bother you here, mel,” he kissed your shoulder, heart lighter, before he stood up and started putting on his black armour.

You rolled around to lay on your other side, watching him dress with your hands tucked under your face.

“Need a hand with that?”

“No, I’m okay, thanks,” years of practice made it easy. He tied the belt around his waist and sheathed the gladius, then walked towards the bed to bend down and kiss you goodbye. “There’s some more of the concoction there. Please use it.”

You nodded your agreement, still half asleep, and Marcus stepped out.

The moment the door had closed behind Marcus, you had sprung to your feet, dressing yourself in a frenzy. But knowing you couldn’t just follow him, you had paced around the room for half an hour.

You had never run faster in your entire life. Once in the stables, you had fought with Kelpie to saddle her and trotted to Bonnie’s crannog. There you had encountered Torcall, who grilled you with questions.

“Where have you been? You’ve been gone the whole night! I was worried sick! What the hell are you up to?! Don’t tell me you’ve been with him, please.”

Needless to say, you didn’t answer any of it. You were a grown ass woman and didn’t need a nanny. Plus, it was none of his fucking business.

You had not intended on falling asleep on Marcus’ bed, but you had felt so at ease, you hadn’t fought your heavy lids.

You just told Torcall that you had gotten your hands on some valuable information and needed to go again. You knew that Marcus was testing you, if you could be trusted. If you told your father’s men about this, they would take action, outing you in the process.

No, you had to go alone. If you passed his test, then you were sure he would share even more in the future, just what you wanted.

Daimh and Iona were at the dining table, breaking their fast. You had kissed each of them before vanishing again.

It didn’t take you long to track down the prints of hoofs on the muddy eastbound path. Soon you caught up with Marcus and some of his men. Maximus, Cassius and Valerius accompanied him, as well as three other legionnaires you did not recognise.

You kept your distance from them and traversed through the forest instead of the path to avoid being seen. After three long hours, you finally arrived at your destination.

You were not prepared to see all those troops at Cawdor. There were hundreds of soldiers, the fort brimming with life. At the same time Marcus and his retinue arrived, a legion did too.

Why were there so many men here? Something was going on, something that could change the course of history. Was this just a repositioning exercise?

There were no women in sight, so you couldn’t just put a cloak on and blend in as you had intended. So you remained in the shadowy edge of the forest, hidden behind a tree.

Suddenly Marcus halted and veered his horse around. Someone from the newly arrived legion stepped out on a white horse.

“Governor Agricola,” you heard Marcus say in a greeting.

“General Acacius,” the man said back.

So, this was Agricola, the man who terrorised Caledonia. You wanted to hate Marcus, but your easy hate for Agricola burnt hot. He was the one responsible for the defeat of your people, the one who had taken prisoners in boats and parade them around the coast to show others what would become of them if they rose up in arms.

“We’ve heard the news of your premature departure, Governor. We wish to discuss the defence of Caledonia in your absence,” Marcus spoke clearly.

“Not Caledonia. Britannia, Acacius. That’s its new name. Use it,” Agricola’s arrogance seeped through his stupid smile.

Britannia? The bastards had already renamed your land? How fucking dared they?

But this was huge. It seemed like Agricola was leaving, possibly taking many of his men with him. If that was the case, the number of Romans in Caledonia would drastically reduce, giving you a fighting chance.

The snap of a branch behind you startled you, quickly turning on your heels. The forest was dark, so you squinted your eyes while scanning the area.

Perhaps it had just been an animal, so you redirected your attention back to the men.

To your misfortune, they were walking through the portcullis and a second after you lost sight of them.

“Fuck,” you whispered.

You ran back to Kelpie, needing to make the way back home fast.

Finally, some good fucking news.

@orcasoul @immyowndefender @sjc7542 @fairiebabey

@thepalaceofmelanie @harriedandharassed @whoaitspascal87

@verybigvag @jessthebaker @ivoryandflame @missadangel

@pepperstories @mewantpeepaw @inept-the-magnificent

[getaapologist]

The Tension and the Terror............Part XIII

Pairing: Emperor Geta x OFC (extremely loosely, character is named but otherwise not described besides hair length)

Summary: Geta is starting to realize something isn't right. Letha has to fight for her own protection. Caracalla wishes to save his brother from himself, because he's being Rome's biggest idiot (not so affectionate).

Warnings: violence, death, period-typical sexism, 18+ only.

Word Count: 3.6k

Part 13 of 15

[ Part XII ]

Series Masterlist

A/N: I think writing action (be it the fun kind or the dangerous kind) is the hardest part. I hope this is even slightly entertaining. Next part might not be the last, I'm still writing so it depends on how long it gets. I would also like for there to be some sort of resolution as well so it doesn't end so abruptly. We'll see. I should really thank one of my favorite bands for putting out a particularly angry song that helped me get in the headspace for this. Thank you for reading.

The Emperor’s box remained empty until moments before the event began, the usual pomp and circumstance of the games abandoned for a dour display of punishment. 

The games held the people’s attention. Watching men fight for a chance at glory, to possibly better themselves, it was entertaining. Tactics could be observed, armor and weapons utilized in new and unique ways. Legends were written by the combatants and their actions daily. Physical prowess could be appreciated and admired.

Fighting desperately in an ultimately futile battle to survive a few short minutes longer didn’t hold much attraction. There was no one to root for, no underdog to champion. No one to bet on beyond who might die first. Only the most voracious Romans attended these events. 

As Geta stared down at the empty arena, he felt ill. Ill at the thought of the previous 24 hours. The visible fear he’d seen in Letha’s eyes as he stood over her made Geta’s stomach twist uncomfortably. Sleep eluded him. He feared what horrors awaited him in his dreams. 

He distrusted people on principle, but for him to be so wrong, let alone twice… It left him reeling. He resisted looking over to Macrinus who had visited upon them this horrible news. Something was off about the man he’d dared call a friend. Ever since delivering Geta’s own death knell, the man lingered nearly everywhere about Palatine Hill. 

As if he were taking over in the absence of Letha.

And what he had said… the party. It was clear to Geta that Macrinus had no clue about the specific nature of his interaction with Letha. He’d clearly made some assumptions, but the idea that Letha had somehow found time to not only speak with Thraex, but concoct a scheme against him and his brother felt impossible. Especially when accounting for the small slip of time in between him dismissing Lyra and stepping out to meet Letha in the hall.

No, there was something else. Something Geta hadn’t quite cracked yet. He had considered visiting the miserable cells where Letha waited for her doom to ask her himself, but he didn’t trust himself. He couldn’t possibly predict what his reaction would be to seeing her again. That scared him.

Caracalla sat in the seat beside him, staring daggers into the side of his head. On the ride over, he’d insisted again that there was something wrong here. And Geta did agree, though he didn’t say as much to his volatile brother. Regardless, none of it changed Letha’s sure guilt. He would not relish today, not by a long shot, but it was necessary. 

And to think, he would’ve sought to marry her.

“Emperor?” Ancus questioned quietly.

Geta glanced over to see Caracalla in close conversation with Ancus, his eyes fixed on his personal guard. What was said, Geta couldn’t make out. But he did notice the way Caracalla’s hand lingered on the Praetorian’s forearm.

“There will be three others,” Ravi warned quietly, wrapping the gauzy fabric strip around her shoulder, beneath her arm, and across her chest, the pressure of it easing the difficulty of moving her arm. “You must be first to get to the sword.”

“Or I definitely die first,” she lamented.

“Or you definitely, probably, will die first,” Ravi agreed, tying off the thick wrapping. “Sorry, princess.”

The mood was deeper than melancholic. Letha pulled up the straps of the plain scrap of cloth she’d been provided, a familiar sight. It still bore Hyacinthia’s signature stitching. 

Letha remembered Hyacinthia insisting to Macrinus upon her arrival that she be provided something more suitable to wear. Within a day of Macrinus’s assent, Letha had been provided with this top and some modified braccae. Though they were discouraged among men, it relieved Letha to be able to wear something more concealing around the stable of gladiators. 

And she treasured it now, eager to get rid of the bloodstained dress.

Ravi broke the uncomfortable silence first. “Did he hurt you?”

Letha played dumb. “Who?”

Ravi sighed. “The tyrant.”

“No,” she answered. “Not at all.”

Perhaps if he’d lived up to his reputation, it wouldn’t be so painful.

Before Ravi could ask any other questions, a Praetorian appeared, standing outside the cell. They could hear Viggo chasing him down, shouting that he wasn’t allowed to be back there and needed to speak with Macrinus.

Ravi bristled beside Letha, but she stood, approaching the cell bars.

“Ancus?”

“Get away from there!” Viggo ordered, finally catching up.

Ancus didn’t bat an eye. “I’m here on orders of your Emperor. It would be in your best interest to leave us.”

Viggo looked for a moment like he might argue before he turned tail and fled, most likely in search of Macrinus.

Ancus returned his attention to the cell and its current occupants. He glanced from Letha to Ravi, then back, raising an eyebrow.

“He’s trustworthy,” she assured him. 

Ravi played it cool, shooting an unbothered smile Ancus’s way, though Letha knew he was brimming with curiosity.

“I was told to deliver this to you. If it is as planned, you may need it.” Ancus reached through the bars, a small bundle wrapped in cloth in his hands. Letha took it, pulling some of the material back to get a peek at what was inside. Letha saw the familiar shape of the dagger she’d used all those nights ago. Someone had kept it.

“Tell Geta I am thankful,” Letha begged.

Ancus frowned. “I’m sorry, my lady. It is Caracalla who has sent me here.” 

It shouldn’t have left her feeling so cold, but it did. Of course. 

“Well, tell him the same.”

Ancus nodded. “I will have an eye on you.” He moved to leave, but came back. “Good luck, Letha.”

She couldn’t say anything in return, just nodded and looked down at the bundle in her hands as he walked away.

“Friends in high places, princess,” Ravi commented. 

She unwrapped the dagger, finding it still coated in dry blood. 

“Well, if you don’t need the sword, I’d say you should definitely go for the shield.”

The sound of one of the large gates on the edge of the arena opening drew Geta’s gaze. His breath caught in his throat at the sight. She had some cobbled-together armor on her shoulders and arms, but little else. Her hair had been braided, circling her head not unlike a crown. She looked nothing like the woman he had come to know.

All the better. It would be easier to watch that way, he supposed. No, no. What a ridiculous notion.

Nothing about this was easy for Geta. He regretted his choice almost as soon as he’d made it. His suggestion was borne of the grievous injury she’d dealt him. Now that the outcome of it stood on the sand below the box, the selection of weapons waiting in the center of the oval, he sat in his seat stewing in dread. 

“You can still put a stop to this madness, brother,” Caracalla reminded him, his voice terse, uncharacteristic. Geta looked over, seeing a conviction he wasn’t used to finding in Caracalla’s eyes. 

“Do not speak to me of madness, brother,” Geta spat back, irritated with Caracalla’s needling ever since he’d formed an opinion on his handling of Letha.

Caracalla’s temper flared. “You cannot even stand to look at her now,” he accused.

Geta reared around to face his brother fully, muscles in his neck tensing as he tempered the volume of his words. “Because I cannot bear it.” 

The sun burned Letha’s skin, as if Apollo himself decided to visit the arena. Her eyes moved over to rest on the Emperors’ box, seeing the two of them sitting there, in conversation with each other, their copper hair shining. Perhaps they were touched by the divine after all. 

Or perhaps the gods were playing a trick, drawing out her pain until she couldn’t bear it any longer. They would send her to her death, despite everything, all thanks to the snake, Macrinus. She got in his way. This would be the consequence.

“Don’t die too quickly, princess,” Viggo jeered from behind the wooden gate, just off to her side. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint your lover.”

She didn’t dare look over, focused instead on the gate opening up in front of her. Who, or what, would walk through it? What insurmountable task would she have to deal with? How swift a death could it provide? 

Just one moment and it could all be over. All the heartache, the pain, the vitriol, the rage. It could all disappear if she just let it happen. No matter where she ended up, be it Elysium or the pits of Tartarus, anything would surely be better than this. 

Maybe she would see her family again. Her brother could mock her once again. She could feel her mother’s hand against her cheek. Her father would seize her in a tight hug, telling her she did what she had to do, even if those words didn’t exactly ring true.

The tears welled up, obscuring her vision until she blinked and let them fall onto the sand. She quickly wiped the trails from her cheeks, breathing deeply. 

The man walking out into the arena bore an unmistakable red line across the top of his cheek, just below his temple, and it went all the way to the back of his head. The missing portion of his ear a stark reminder of her fury and how she arrived here. 

General Plautianus. 

They did this on purpose. She wondered if this was Macrinus’s idea, or if Geta had suggested it himself. This was a former general of Rome, not a gladiator. The idea of dying at his hands repulsed her. He had already claimed her father and brother, he couldn’t claim her, too. 

But did she even stand a chance? Her shoulder was still injured, she couldn’t rely on her dominant arm for too much before it grew tired and tender. They had only given her the most basic armor, nothing for her chest or legs. The only weapon she possessed was a dagger. Her dagger. A kind gift from Caracalla. She didn’t think she’d get a chance to properly thank him.

Letha didn’t know how she was supposed to fend off a Roman general. If she had just done what Macrinus tasked her with, none of this would be happening. None of this additional pain would exist. Protecting the twins had earned her no favors, clearly. It all meant nothing. 

He felt nothing. And that was almost worse than the death that awaited her. 

“I should have killed you. I knew there was something off about you,” Plautianus taunted. “You thought you could take revenge? You? You’re as dumb as your brother. Clearly fated to die by my sword. My hand was stayed once, it will not be again,” he promised, flexing his hands, his eyes focusing on the three items at the center of the arena. 

Two other men joined them, standing an equal distance from the items waiting at the center. A gladius, a spear, and a small round shield. That meant someone could be left empty handed. As Ravi had warned her, that couldn’t be her. Still, the idea of rushing to meet all of them in the same place didn’t fill her with confidence, though she didn’t have much choice.

An announcer stepped forward, dressed down compared to the usual games. There was no formal ceremony. It took Letha a moment to even realize they’d been given the go-ahead. The only tell was a flicker of movement from the other prisoners. 

Letha snapped into a sprint, her legs fresh after sitting in the cell for so long. The same could be said of the others, however. She could see them approaching the center just as quickly as she was. She did note that the general seemed slower, his bulk and elaborate armor weighing him down. But he was still fast. She didn’t think it wise to underestimate any of them.

Before Letha could get her fingers around the lip of the circular shield, she was body-checked, knocked to the chalky gravel, and one of the other prisoners hefted it. She scrambled to her feet, grabbing the next thing within reach. The spear.

Surely not the most optimal choice for her stature, it was better than nothing, the sword getting snatched up by the other man, leaving the General with nothing. 

Plautianus approached the group, his eyes raking over the slight build of the man currently holding the gladius. It took him only a moment to dodge the reckless swipe and tackle the man to the ground. He wrenched the sword from his grip and ignored his protests as he plunged the blade into his chest, rising to his feet with an ease that surely frightened those he fought against in battle. 

Three. 

Letha tried to find a good way to grip the spear, the wood rough lacking any wrap or protection for her bare hand. Even having the weapon, her options were slim. Even if she took out the man with the shield somehow, that would leave the General. And she didn’t like those odds.

It seemed Plautianus was similarly assessing his options, and as his gaze fell heavy on the shieldbearer, she knew he’d made a decision. It wasn’t what she would’ve done, had she been in his place, but she was no general, had no tactical prowess. Or maybe he was just saving her for last.

She couldn’t do nothing. Nothing would get her killed.

As Plautianus charged, she almost lost her nerve. He reached the shieldbearer, holding the sword threateningly in his direction. As he swung it overhead, the shieldbearer hefted the round disc high to block his blow. 

Letha moved in.

She jabbed the point of the spear into the back of his knee, as hard as she could. The roar Plautianus let out echoed around the arena. Before she could pull it free and step back, a swipe of the gladius cut through the pole of the spear, sending her on her ass. She got up as quickly as she could, keeping hold of the useless pole just in case.

Stunned by her action, the shieldbearer stood no chance, taking the brunt of Plautianus’s fury as he gutted him. He ripped the shield from the man as he fell, hopping a bit to take pressure off his injured leg as he faced her.

As he stared her down, she felt like she was back on the floor in the entryway to her house, shoved down to her knees. She could picture her brother slumped against the wall, his biting wit still being used to lash out at the Romans standing around them. It did nothing but earn him a few extra kicks to the ribs. But still he sat there, making use of the only tool he had left, right up until her impulsive action got him killed.

“You are the thorn in my side no longer,” Plautianus promised, leveling the sword at her, shield held close to his chest. He did not charge at her, no, he moved with purpose, a significant limp the only sign he’d been injured. It didn’t show in his face or his focus.

There wasn’t anywhere to go. She couldn’t run or hide. There were only the two of them. She was forced into a defensive position after sacrificing the tip of the spear, for all the good it did her now. He would still bear down on her, he still had the sword. 

Plautianus moved quickly, striking like a viper. She brought up the spear’s shaft to attempt to deflect the blow. The sword skated off it and cut a hot slash into her upper arm, thankfully only splitting the skin and not going deeper. Her hand went to the fresh wound and she backed away from the general, trying to pay attention to his movements as he stalked her. 

He moved in swiftly. She chucked the pole at him for lack of anything else. He raised the shield to smack it away, giving her a small opening. She drew the dagger quickly and advanced, ducking under another slash to drive it into his thigh. It had worked, another blow in this war of attrition, but she left herself open, the lip of the shield colliding with the side of her head, the crack of it audible. 

She scrambled back, seeing stars. It was hard to recover from, her stunned state causing her to lose her balance and crash down onto the fine pebbles. The chalky surface stuck to the sweat on her skin. 

Plautianus let out a roar and reached for his bleeding thigh, inspecting the damage done. With a gut-wrenching glare, he abandoned the sword and shield. He wouldn’t need them. 

As she tried to regain her breath, her vision swimming, his foot caught her injured shoulder, knocking her back onto the ground. The small stones bit into her palm as she pushed herself up onto her knees, holding the dagger desperately. Her chest burned as she tried to steady her breathing.

He just kept coming at her. There was only one way this would end. This had been orchestrated since the order was given to claim the lands she came from. Perhaps the gods were here in this arena after all. Putting things into motion in order to amuse themselves later. They must view the people as playthings, acting out plotlines for their entertainment.

It bothered Letha that she might have always been going to die at the hands of General Plautianus. Someone above surely had a penchant for torture, letting her fool herself into thinking there could be anything else but this waiting for her. 

None of it mattered. Not to her outcome. Not to him. 

It was hopeless to try to salvage her feelings now. Let it hurt, let it burn her up. If she was to meet her end here, by his order, within his view, then she could allow herself to feel the sadness of it. It was sharper than any blade. It cut deeper. By that measure, she was already dead. No point in fighting it.

She threw the dagger down onto the sand, abandoning any effort to stand. 

General Plautianus laughed. “Surrender? You’ve been watching too many gladiator matches. There’s no such thing here. The gods don’t intervene to save treasonous whores.”

She watched him turn around and hobble over to where he’d abandoned the sword, something close to happiness in his face as he reclaimed it.

“You put up this fight, all this bluster, but you’re ineffective,” he spoke, gesturing to the scar along the side of his head. “At least you’ve realized that now, and I can put right this wrong.”

Letha would not rise to his taunts.

She waited for the sword to meet her neck, her head bowed low, the careful plait of her hair exposing the back of her neck for the blade. Plautianus was strong, she’d seen him wield that blade before. Her death would be swift. 

She rested her hands on her covered thighs and closed her eyes, letting the breeze blow in the scent of the heat, the stench of Rome. She would soon add to it, a carefully crafted perfume of misery. 

The crowd had gone quiet, their breath bated for the spilling of her blood. She could hear the crunch of the gravel underfoot, could just about picture how close General Plautianus was standing. Would he cleave her head from her shoulders in one blow? Or two?

“Stop!” Geta roared, his voice echoing around the colosseum. The silence stretched, no one sure of what was happening. 

Letha opened her eyes, turning to see Geta leaning out of the box, his chest heaving. 

“Enough,” he spoke, his voice not as loud this time. She could hear the pain in his voice. She didn’t dare let herself indulge in it. It changed nothing. 

“Mercy,” Caracalla agreed, standing beside him.

Letha heard Plautianus scoff, his shoe scuffing the ground. “Mercy?” he spat. “I was promised blood,” he yelled at them. She looked up at him, alarmed, as he began to ready his arm for a swing despite the Emperors’ wishes.

“Ancus!” Caracalla shouted. 

Before she could bring up an arm as if to shield herself from his blade, the shunk of an arrow sounded as it struck Plautianus in the chest, piercing the armor. The sword clattered to the ground. She sat there, shocked, as he sank to his knees right in front of her, his expression one of disbelief as he reached for the arrow lodged in his lung. He choked on blood as his face turned an ugly color. He finally fell back, landing on his side as he continued to claw at the wound. 

The Colosseum filled with uncertain murmuring. Why was she still breathing? Why did their general lay there, dead? Why was Emperor Geta so upset? Why did they intervene?

Letha refused to look up at the box, refused to look for Geta. Refused to let herself hope. She heard the Praetorians before she felt them hauling her to her feet. Despite being carried out of the arena still alive, she felt far from safe. In fact, nothing was certain now. 

What would Macrinus have to say about Geta’s intervention? Was he fuming in the box, wishing to crack the brothers’ skulls together and be done with it? She assumed he wished to see her dead before he enacted the final steps of his plan. Now that it was foiled, the twins weren’t safe, and she was stuck in the belly of the Colosseum, unable to help them. If they would even welcome her help. 

If she somehow got the chance, she would see Macrinus dead. And then, the fates could have her.

[ Part XIV ]

[ihopesocomicask]

Do you think it's possible to make a main protagonist of a story, who was an abusive person just like Vicious was, be likable? like, keeping the fact that they won't be forgiven by their victim, but at the same time exploring them actually evolving and becoming a better person and creating new healthy relationships. Not to pat abusers on the head, but yk, something like "You can choose to CHANGE". Because ngl I keep thinking about Vicious' future. I know she won't die and thankfully she will get out of Jasper's abuse, but what then? Would she go on a journey to realize her mistakes and act differently? Who knows.

I see a lot of people talking about Bojack Horseman, but I don't know if it's a good example because apparently the point of his character is to be a hypocrite who acts like the victim for everything that happens while continuing to ruin his relationships (I've never watched it so sorry if I might be saying shit lol 😭). I even know that there is a moment where he almost takes advantage of an underage girl, and while I do believe in change and growth, there are things that have limits for me ofc

There's likeable and then there's sympathetic and/or relatable.

Bojack Horseman as a character is relatable to a lot of folks but there has certainly been a crossroads when it comes to people who relate to him excusing his behaviour because x, y or z happened to him and completely missing the point of Todd blowing up on him and then there's people who still relate to him but feel he needs to be held accountable for his actions in order to improve himself.

And they're absolutely correct. A main reason why Bojack failed to improve is because he was stuck in an endless cycle of victimisation and feeling like he was not responsible for his actions for whatever reason. Namely the abuse he suffered at the hands of his parents. Only he's not that child anymore. He's an adult and he's very much responsible for his actions.

Like I will openly admit that I was an utter asshole to people online years ago because I didn't have a very nice home life and I was dealing with undiagnosed autism and mental health issues. I felt powerless and being a confrontational prick online gave me power. Bojack certainly works in a similar manner. His celebrity status gives him the power to act out in ways he never could as a child and whatever regret he feels is purely a sense of apprehension that his celebrity status and the power/respect it grants will be taken away from him. It's very selfish and it's why he didn't grow at all until his actions were exposed. And he certainly would've been doomed to keep things going had he not gone for that second interview. Especially as a college professor, given his history.

I can't speak for everybody who says they wish that second interview hadn't happened and Bojack may or may not have improved on his own but - from my perspective - he would've just used his newfound confidence and power as an 'advocate' for addiction to harm others, especially indirectly. The indirectness already happens with audience members of the show who feel Bojack justifies their problematic behaviour.

And this is something you have to be especially wary of if you wish to pursue this kind of topic: your character being used to validate the negative behaviour of others. Bojack's writers did a great job of making it clear that - while sympathetic - Bojack needed to be held accountable for his actions and needed to improve. People can view that as a negative thing all they want but they are not the kind of people the writers wanted the approval of anyway and they're not really worthy of anybody else's approval either imho.

And we also have to recognise that change doesn't automatically come with forgiveness either. Going back to Bojack again, I feel Herb would've absolutely entertained having a friendship with him once more if Bojack had accepted he was not entitled to forgiveness. It's just the kind of character Herb is. Charlotte, on the other hand, would've been 110% right to have Bojack tossed in jail as a mother. It all depends on the character and the nature of the deed. Like you've already pointed out, there are limitations. And it's also why Vicious will never have access to Hope or Adamant again. - RJ

[foundtherightwords]

Fallen Empires - Chapter 19

Pairing: Geta x OFC

Summary: Having done the unthinkable to secure his throne, Emperor Geta rules with ruthlessness and paranoia. Now, after escaping an assassination attempt, a badly injured Geta is saved by Daphne, a young widow, who takes him back to her remote village without knowing his true identity. As Daphne nurses the former emperor back to health, attraction blooms between them, and Geta discovers a soft side he didn't know he possessed. But can their love survive his thirst for revenge and his desire to reclaim power?

Chapter warnings: violence, blood

Chapter word count: 4k

Prologue + Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9 - Chapter 10 - Chapter 11 - Chapter 12 - Chapter 13 - Chapter 14 - Chapter 15 - Chapter 16 - Chapter 17 - Chapter 18

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Chapter 19

The hill lay quiet under the baking August sun. There was no hint of anything out of the ordinary, not a blade of grass trampled, not a pebble displaced. But Geta wasn't fooled. As he climbed the path to the hut with his dagger clutched white-knuckled in his hand, through the pounding of his heart, half from exertion and half from fear for Daphne, he cursed his own thoughtlessness. How could he not have foreseen this? How could he lure himself into a false sense of safety, even for one moment, and believe that Macrinus had given up, that Macrinus's reach would not find him here? He shouldn't have left Daphne alone. Even if she had screamed and raged at him, he should've stayed close to make sure she was safe. That's what one does for the person one loves, isn't it? But no, he had been too busy nursing his wounded pride and feeling sorry for himself, and in doing so, he had doomed Daphne.

"I'm coming, carissima," he whispered under his breath. "I'm coming for you."

As the hut came into view at the top of the hill, Geta tried to keep an eye out for any sign of danger and found none. No assassin jumped out at him from behind the boulders lining the path. The languorous buzzing of the bees filled the air. The goats were placidly grazing by the garden fence. Vulcan came bouncing over, dragging his limp leg, and rubbed his head against Geta's leg. Geta scratched the goat's soft ears, giving him a silent apology for leaving without saying goodbye. Well, he was back now, and he would make it up to all of them.

Only Midas showed signs of agitation, with his ears pinned back and his feet pawing the ground restlessly. Geta ran to the donkey and rubbed his head, calming him down, to prevent him from braying an alert. Glancing at the hut, Geta saw something he hadn't noticed when he first came up the path—the front door and all the windows were shut. Now he was certain something was wrong. During these hot summer months, Daphne never shut the windows, and even at night or when she went out, she only closed the door, not barred it. There was nothing on these hills that could harm them—lynxes and jackals would not venture so close to a human dwelling, there were no thieves or robbers in this quiet, remote place, and Daphne had nothing worth stealing anyway.

She hadn't counted on killers and assassins coming for her.

Geta gripped the dagger more tightly in his sweaty palm. The assassin was here already, no doubt about it. He prayed that Daphne was not in, but he knew there was little chance of that. She was still recovering from her fever; she had no reason to go out. He could only hope that there was only one assassin—Macrinus would not bring an entire army to Osroene and risk the Senate finding out that Geta was still alive. And Timon had made no mention of anyone else. No, whoever the assassin was, he would be working alone. Pierced ear, Timon had said. Geta only knew of one man with pierced ears.

A crash from inside the hut jolted Geta into action, reminding him that he was wasting precious time. While he stood there contemplating, the assassin had captured Daphne and was doing gods-know-what to her...

He crept around the hut, searching for an opening, anywhere he could gain an entrance into the hut without the assassin knowing. Passing the woodpile, he picked up the axe, which he himself had put there the day before after cutting down the branches and vines to weave into wreaths as decorations for their wedding. Their wedding... It seemed so absurd, so ridiculous that just a day ago, he had been preparing for their wedding, and now he didn't even know if Daphne was still alive or not. No. The assassin would keep her alive if he wanted to find out where Geta was.

The window in the back was open, but it was too high up and too small for him to climb through. The other window, the one on the side of the hut overlooking the garden, was ajar. Holding his breath, afraid that even the slightest movement may give him away, Geta put his eye to the crack between the shutters. The interior of the hut was dim, and it took a moment for his vision to adjust. What he saw both frightened and enraged him so much that his hands shook, and it took all of his willpower not to burst into the hut immediately.

Daphne was sitting on a chair, her wrists tied behind her. Her hair had come loose again, and the beginning of a bruise was forming on her cheek. All around her was a scene of destruction—broken jars and crockery, upturned chairs, even the cot was stripped bare, the blanket lying in a heap on the floor. Standing in front of her, pressing the point of a knife under her chin, was a man clad in a dusty tunic. His face was turned away so Geta couldn't make out his features; all he saw was a closely cropped head of salt-and-pepper stubble. But even from the back, Geta could recognize that silhouette. Macrinus. So he had decided to dirty those pampered hands after all.

"I'm not asking again," Macrinus said to Daphne in a rough voice that belied his Berber origin, quite unlike the polished accent he put on in Rome. "Where has the Emperor gone?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," said Daphne. "I don't know any Emperor." Her voice was clear and steady, without a hint of fear in it, and Geta's heart swelled. His sweet laurel, always so brave and strong.

"You don't deceive me, my dear," Macrinus said, and Daphne flinched as the tip of the blade bit into the soft skin under her jaw. "I know Geta has been with you these past four months. I was surprised he could stay hidden for so long, but now I understand. Who would leave, when he has this to warm his bed?" Macrinus ran the knife lightly down her neck and rested it at her throat, but Daphne didn't turn away. She kept her gaze fixed on Macrinus, her eyes sparking green fire.

Geta could wait no longer. He ran to the front of the hut and, with a roar of bravado that he didn't feel, kicked down the door, brandishing the axe in one hand and his dagger in the other, hoping, praying that the element of surprise was on his side.

For a heartbeat, it seemed to work. Macrinus jumped and fumbled at his knife as Geta charged at him with the axe. At the last moment, Macrinus rallied and dodged to the side, and Geta overshot the mark. He landed by Daphne's feet, while the axe buried itself in the fallen table behind her.

"Romulus!" At Daphne's warning, Geta rolled over to his back, just as Macrinus lunged at him. Geta kicked out at Macrinus, but from his position, there was not much strength in his leg, and Macrinus barely lost his balance. Geta grabbed his dagger and jumped to his feet. Macrinus faced Geta, waving his knife to keep Geta at a distance. In the full sun spilling through the open door, Geta finally faced his usurper, the one who had driven Caracalla to attack him, the one who had convinced Martialis to assassinate him.

"Domine," Macrinus said with a mocking tilt of his head. "I hardly recognize you."

"You've changed as well," said Geta, keeping an eye on the wicked glint of Macrinus's knife. Now divested of his luxurious robes and jewelry, wearing only a simple tunic, Macrinus finally looked the part—no longer a smooth-talking, refined politician, but a killer through and through. "How did you find me?"

A smug smile spread across Macrinus's face, a smile Geta knew well. He'd seen it plenty of times before, when he and Caracalla played right into Macrinus's hands, like the fools they were, only he hadn't known it then.

"I have eyes and ears everywhere," said Macrinus. "A word of advice to you, Domine. When you fight off robbers, it's best not to leave them alive to tell the tale."

Robbers. Those men in Adala. Geta cursed himself for his show of mercy.

"They're your spies?" he asked.

"They're your men. Your soldiers. That was how they were able to recognize you. If you had paid a little more attention to your own army instead of trying to become Alexander the Great, you would have recognized them too, Domine."

Abruptly, Macrinus slashed across the air with his knife, aiming for Geta's torso. Geta snatched up the blanket on the floor and threw it at Macrinus, like a retiarius in the Colosseum throwing his net. The blanket caught Macrinus's knife, but he quickly sliced through it and advanced on Geta again.

"Aren't you Domine now?" said Geta.

"Not until I have your head." Slash, slash. Geta jumped back, his spine colliding painfully with a shelf. More jars and pots crashed to the floor, spilling their aromatic content everywhere.

Geta soon realized he had underestimated Macrinus's physical prowess. Despite having more than thirty years over Geta, Macrinus was in great shape, strong and fast. Worst of all was his fighting style, which was chaotic and without strategy, dependent on dirty tricks and sudden movements to catch his opponent off-guard. Geta, who had only known the regimented, carefully controlled exercise fights in a gymnasium, felt himself in over his head.

They continued to circle each other, knives at the ready. Throughout it all, Daphne still sat tied to her chair, her eyes wide open as she followed their every move. Though his whole being was screaming for her, longing to gather her in his arms and comfort her, Geta dared not make eye contact with her, for fear of getting distracted. He observed Macrinus with a cool detachment that surprised himself. There was none of the rage he'd felt when he faced the robbers in the dark alley of Adala, none of the rage he'd felt just a moment ago, when he realized Macrinus had found him, none of the rage he'd felt all his life, watching his brother steal his thunder. None of it mattered anymore. He had to keep a clear head to save Daphne.

"I'm surprised you can take time off from your busy schedule to come here yourself," Geta panted. He needed to keep Macrinus talking and find an opportune moment to disarm him.

Macrinus grinned. "You want something done right, you do it yourself."

"Including killing your emperor?" he said. "Staging a coup?"

"All I do, I do for the glory of Rome, Domine," Macrinus said in mock reverence.

Another slash of the knife, another parry. Geta saw Macrinus's eyes dart surreptitiously to the axe, and back again. Whoever reached the axe first and got it out of the table would have the upper hand. A familiar pain throbbed between Geta's ribs, like a needle pricking his lungs every time he took a breath.

"Glory?" he asked, hoping to distract Macrinus. "What glory is there in stabbing a man in the back?"

It had the opposite effect. Macrinus laughed, sounding like a jackal barking. "That's rich coming from you, Domine. You've had plenty of glory yourself after stabbing your brother in the back. Perhaps it's time you share it." Slash. This time the blade caught Geta on his left shoulder. Daphne let out a choked cry. Geta could feel warm blood welling up from the stinging cut, though it seemed to be shallow enough not to hamper his movement, only to keep him more focused.

Seizing the moment, Macrinus advanced, but the hut was too small and there was no room for him to tackle Geta. He hurled a broken pot at Geta. Geta jumped out of the way, only to stumble on a chair and go sprawling. As Macrinus's knife flashed toward him, Geta threw up a hand and caught Macrinus's wrist, twisting the point of the knife away from his eye, while scrambling for his own knife with the other. A strange, dreamlike sense of familiarity settled over Geta. He had been here before, twice. Once he'd wrestled the sword out of his brother's hand, the other he'd wrestled the dagger out of Martialis's. Both times he had prevailed. Would Fortuna favor him again this time?

A whimper from Daphne shook Geta out of his reverie. He thrust up a knee into Macrinus's belly, throwing the usurper off, but by the time Geta got back to his feet, Macrinus had also regained his balance, and they were back to facing each other again.

"I heard you've had a hard time dealing with Artabanus of Parthia," Geta said, trying not to show how breathless he was. "How did the Senate take your defeat?"

"Your defeat, you mean," said Macrinus. "I was only trying to clean up your mess."

"You're a fool if you think the Senate and the Army are going to let you stay on the throne after you've made such a hash of that war."

Macrinus's self-satisfied grin wavered for a brief moment, before returning in full force. "You're not frightening me with that talk."

But it was clear that doubt had started to creep into his mind, and when Macrinus thrust his knife forward again, Geta was able to catch it with his own blade. The grinding sound of metal on metal set his teeth on edge. With a turn of his hand, Geta slammed the hilt of his dagger into Macrinus's wrist, knocking the knife out of the usurper's numbed fingers. The knife clattered to the floor. Geta kicked it away.

But Macrinus would not go down so easily. Leaning into the momentum, he seized Geta's arms and grappled with him, trying to wrestle the dagger out of Geta's hand. Geta fought back, but his strength was already waning. Sweat was pouring down his face and into his eyes, making it difficult to see, and the stitch in his side grew more and more painful with every lungful of air he took. His arms shook, and he could feel the dagger slip from his hand.

Get up. Get up, you pathetic fool. Get up for her.

He could not give up now, not with Daphne's life in the balance. Once he'd killed Geta, Macrinus would not let her live, and Geta could not let that happen.

Gathering all his remaining strength, Geta wrenched his arms out of Macrinus's grasp and shoved hard at the usurper, throwing him to the far end of the room.

Immediately Geta realized his mistake. He had pushed Macrinus to where Daphne was, and, in a flash, Macrinus pulled Daphne toward his chest and held her head in a death grip.

"Hold it right there, Domine," he said, seeing Geta lunge toward him with the dagger. "You take another step, and I'll snap her pretty little neck like a twig."

Geta paused. The three of them stood there, frozen like a group of marble statues, Geta with his dagger held in front of him, Macrinus with his hands on both sides of Daphne's head, and Daphne with her wrists tied behind her, her eyes stretched wide in terror, staring at Geta.

Then Daphne's arm moved. Almost too fast for Geta to see, she broke free of her bond, grabbed a bottle on the shelf next to her, and smashed it into Macrinus's face. The sharp smell of vinegar hit Geta's nose just as Macrinus snatched a hand to his face with a terrible scream.

Daphne ran over to Geta. The rope around her wrists, which had been sawn away by a piece of broken crockery, now dangled in tatters. Seizing his chance, Geta rushed forward and yanked the axe out of the table. While Macrinus was still blindly groping about, trying to wipe the vinegar from his eyes, Geta swung the axe's handle at him. It caught the usurper on the side of his face. Blood spurted from his mouth, and he crumpled to the floor.

Geta turned to Daphne. "Go!" he urged. "Kavos and the others are coming. Go, now! I'll deal with him."

"No!" She threw her arms around his neck. "I'll not leave you."

At that, all of his exhaustion, his pains, his fears, melted away like snow under the warm spring sun, leaving him feeling like he could face the entire Roman army. She had forgiven him. It was all worth it, just for this one moment. He hugged her back, holding her against him and enjoying a brief reprieve from the scent of her hair and the touch of her soft body in his arms, vowing never to let her go again, before turning his attention back to Macrinus.

The older man was beginning to stir. Geta turned him over and knelt on his chest, pinning his arms down so he couldn't move, and positioned the dagger at his throat. Macrinus opened his eyes and fixed their malevolent gaze upon Geta, waiting for the final blow. Geta's hand shook. He could not bring himself to drive the dagger down. For all his boasting as a great military leader, in all twenty-eight years of his life, he had only killed one man, and even then, it had been under the pretense of self-protection. He had never killed a completely defenseless man before.

To Geta's astonishment, Macrinus started laughing. "Losing heart, Domine?" the usurper said through blood-stained teeth. "You can kill me all you want. I still have the support of the Army and the Senate."

Geta's heart went cold as those words sank in for him. It was true. He could kill Macrinus, and then what? Would the Army and the Senate reinstate him? Or would they simply see this as a chance to do away with him for good, and put on the throne whoever they could control? And what of Daphne?

Geta glanced at Daphne standing behind him. In her anxious eyes, he saw reflected his dilemma. He couldn't leave her, not again, not after this day, but he couldn't ask her to go with him either. Even if she was willing, even if he regained the throne, he couldn't subject her to such a life, hanging precariously to power, always having to look behind them, always afraid... It was no way to live. Thinking back, Geta realized he had been living that life ever since he killed his brother. He had done it believing that it would secure his position on the throne, but it had accomplished the opposite. It had only brought him fear and paranoia and driven him to kill more and more, in the search for that elusive feeling of security and peace.

"I've left instructions for my son, Diadumenianus," Macrinus was saying. "The Army is loyal to him. If I don't return, he will hunt you down. You'll never escape."

He could kill Macrinus. It would be easy. Just a thrust of the knife or a swing of the axe. If the villagers asked, he could say he'd killed the man to protect Daphne. Daphne would back him up. Nobody would know. But he knew now that killing would never bring him peace. What would?

Geta looked at Daphne again. He could not let her see him kill, not even for her. He had to show her that he was not a murderer. Turning back to Macrinus, who was still laughing his mocking, taunting laugh, Geta's eyes landed on the ring on the little finger of his own left hand. He gazed at the image carved on it—the imperial eagle, the emperor's crest, the symbol of his rule. Such a small thing, to hold so much significance, so much power.

Suddenly he knew what to do.

Taking up the axe with his right hand, he laid his left hand with the fingers spread wide on the seat of the chair. He swung the axe.

Lying prone on the floor, Macrinus shut his eyes, waiting for the blow to hit.

It never came for him. Instead, the axe struck Geta's little finger just below the second joint with a dull thud. Weighed down by the ring, the finger didn't fly off as a stick of wood normally would, but rolled to the edge of the seat and fell to the floor.

Geta saw the finger fall before he felt any pain. But he didn't have time to be surprised, for a scorching ache rose from his hand all the way up his arm and his shoulder, and hot blood poured from the stump. The pain blurred his senses. Dimly, he heard a scream, but he didn't know if it was from Daphne, Macrinus, or himself. He stumbled backward.

Free of Geta's knees pinning him down, Macrinus scrambled to his feet. His jeering expression was gone, replaced by a look of horror as he stared at the chopped finger on the floor.

"Take—take it," Geta said through gritted teeth. "And take this as well—" He tossed his dagger to the floor next to the finger. No, it wasn't his dagger. It had never been his. It was Martialis's. Having it only reminded him of the past, of the person he'd once been. "The throne—it is yours. I don't want it. Just—leave us be."

Macrinus looked from the finger and the dagger to Geta, who was still clutching the axe in his right hand. The usurper seemed to decide that it would be unwise to oppose a man holding an axe dripping with his own blood. Swiping a rag from the floor, he scooped up the finger and the ring, picked up the dagger, and staggered out of the hut without a look backward. Soon, the sound of his feet disappeared down the path.

The moment Macrinus was out of sight, Geta slumped to the floor. Before he hit the ground, Daphne's arms were around him, picking him up. Something was pressed to his stump, sending another jolt of pain through his arm and wrenching a groan from his lips.

"You fool!" he heard Daphne's tearful voice. "You utter fool! Why did you do that? You couldn't have taken the ring off and given it to him?" She was winding a roll of linen around his hand and tying it tightly around his wrist, and the flow of blood gradually slowed.

"No," he said, breathing hard. "Macrinus has to be convinced that I am no longer a threat to him. It was the only way. The only way you would be safe."

She gazed at him, aghast. "You did that... for me?"

"I would gladly cut off my own hand for you." He tried to smile. "I told you I'd give it all up for you. Now do you believe me?"

Tears welled in Daphne's eyes, dripping down her cheeks, falling onto his bandaged hand. The moment he felt those tears on his skin, Geta's pain vanished. "Don't cry," he said, brushing her tears away with his right hand. "We're safe now."

Daphne nodded. She kissed his hand, then his cheeks, and then his lips. His face was now wet with tears as well, though it wasn't her tears—it was his, the first tears he'd shed since childhood. He kissed her back, tasting the salt of their tears mingled together, drinking it in, finding strength in it as if it were the healing water of the Ionides.

"I love you," Daphne whispered. "I love you, Romulus—Geta"—a helpless laugh escaped her—"what do I call you?"

He smiled and pulled her close. Now that she was here, nothing bad could come to him again. "Romulus is fine," he said. "I will always be Romulus to you."

Epilogue

I know people were waiting for Macrinus to get his comeuppance, but I'd like to stick with historical facts as much as I could (even though this is an alternate history/canon divergent fic), so he has to survive. Stay tuned for the epilogue!

Taglist: @sheneedsrocknroll92, @justnobodynothingmore, @barcelonaloverf1life, @myotakureprieve, @flawssy-227, @itsrainingbisexualfrogs, @deliciousfestsalad, @charmingballoon

[seandiazworms]

can you pretty please write like a scenario where the reader is like in a band and they invited Sean to their party/concert.

Then Sean is like omg yessss ofc I’ll be there but then he’s like freaking out to lyla on what to wear or say. basically like what was SUPPOSE to happen with Jen but it’s happening with the readerrr😝

plus ur writing is literally so good like wtf

chef kis

sean diaz x rock f!reader (draft)

heyy guys i originally wrote this like a year ago but i was super unsatisfied with it and couldnt bring myself to finish. reader is mentioned but isnt actually there, just a convo between sean and lyla. im cleaning out my stuff for space so thought i would post it. sorry for neglecting everybody!! warning: unfinished

“fuck i got bubble gut…”

lyla snorts, “sean, you are literally the most disgusting person i’ve ever met.”

“yeah, right,” sean mutters. “so anyway, should i wear… this?” sean moves his head to the left, shoving a pair of black baggy jeans into the frame. “or what about this?” he moves his head to right, showing the exact same pair of pants, only slimmer in size.

“well, her band’s all about that hardcore shit aren’t they?” lyla says—clearly distracted. sean can tell from a mile away because if she were focused, she would’ve already interrogated him on if he was into you or not. plus, the glaringly white skype chatroom is practically reflecting off her face.

“hey, can you not text right now? this might just make or break, like, everything about me,” sean whines. “who’re you even talking to? if it’s eric tell him to go smoke out of his dumb electric guitar bong or something.”

lyla continues typing, “god, chill. you’ve been to concerts before, just wear whatever… also eric says fuck you—and that his bong is hardcore—” lyla scans her eyes across the screen “—and you’re just mad you’re broke as shit.”

“what the fuck, no,” sean scoffed. “i just don’t spend my paychecks on stupid shit like that. tell him to go fuck off.”

“oh ho ho, you don’t wanna hear what he has to say about that…”

“you’re right. i don’t,” sean mutters. his eyebrows furrow into concentration—staring at the little frame of him in the corner of the call.“should i make my hair messier? do you think she likes messy hair—‘cause i’ve seen the guys in her show highlights…”

“umm…” lyla’s typing crunches through sean’s speakers. “just like, do your usual thing y’know? no need to stress…”

lyla can hear sean’s abrasively move his finger across the screen, the red hang up button appearing. “lyla if you say something stupid again i will hang up on you right now.”

lyla jolts her back in surprise. “woah! no need to get worked up! if you want me to see the same two pants i’ll look at them…”

sean glances at the call screen, and he swears he feels his impending doom churning in his gut. lyla’s screen changes over to their call. she stares blankly at him. then a familiar, slow, disgusting, vile grin forms on her face. the dreaded face of someone who finally connected the dots, and feels the need to run their mouth all about it, stares right back at him.

“wait…” she says, practically oozing in intrigue. “sean, do you—“

“no,” sean says firmly. he runs his fingers through his hair in frustration which only provokes lyla more.

“you do!”

“no!”

“oh my god you totally do! how’d i not see— god i must be fucking blind!” lyla slaps herself over the head.

“why’re you hitting yourself—“

“shut up! okay since when?”

“since never, because she’s not cute…” silence passes between them. “…and i appreciate her craftsmanship…”

lyla scoffs, “bullshit.”

“what? i do!”

“name at least one band that we met at that party—and no, misty mice doesn’t count.”

sean’s face scrunches in pure frustration.

“uhh… look—“

“pfft! you are such a poser!”

sean rolls his eyes, “oh don’t pull this dumbass shit on me!”

“okay, whatever. point is you only go to small shows when i beg on my knees—“

“—that’s what she said—“

“shut up,” lyla rolls her eyes. “you’re trying to distract me and it’s not working.”

sean shrugs. he only has so much snarky remarks in him.

lyla leans back on her swivel chair, that stupid smirk still playing on her lips. “tell you what, sean—“

“to be honest i don’t really care lyla—“

“no, shut up. tell you what sean, she’s cute. i get it—would.”

“the fuck is that supposed to mean—“

“would?”

“yeah?”

“you know damn well what it means!”

sean’s irritation becomes all the more apparent on his face. still, lyla remains unphased. her legs rest on her desk as she leans back, basking in sean’s discomfort.

“well, no, i don’t—“ sean grumbles.

“yeah you do!”

“well, i don’t ‘would’ people because i’m not some kind of… virgin loser!”

“you quite literally are one,” lyla scoffs.

sean stares blankly at the screen in fury.

“y’know what?”

“what?”

“i’m hanging up—“

“no!” lyla lunges forward toward the camera. “you are not gonna do that to me sean diaz! not today!”

“stop being a dick and help your boy out then!”

“with what? clearly you don’t need much if you don’t even like her…” lyla says, staring at her nail beds.

“you really want me to say it don’t you?”

“say what?” lyla swivels around in her chair, throwing around the plushie sean and her got from a rigged claw machine.

“oh fuck this…” sean whispers.

they both sit in silence and sean begrudgingly inches closer toward his laptop.

sean sighs, “since i saw her at that afterparty, y’know the ones you always go to, but i only went this one time and you made me take seven shots—”

“i fuckin’ knew it!” lyla hollered at the top of her lungs.

“okay, we’re done—“

“no, no, no, we’re not done! wait- okay. you want help right?”

sean’s face is practically inflamed at this point, the tips of his ears a vibrant hue of red.

“yes! finally! fucking hell…” he aggressively swivels around, kicking his feet.

sean had never seen her this amused in his entire life—not since she had coerced him into downing eight shots and recorded him vomiting in the snow. or the time she had convinced him, while high, that there was a homeless baby epidemic that he needed to solve. or the time that eric threw sean’s pants at the top of his cabin and he had to crawl to the top, only to fall into the slush of snow underneath. he didn’t actually remember any of that happening—lyla had shown him the video first period the next morning. he absolutely hates that video with all his soul.