#flaming rib rub

[embers-lewds]

Midg's Flaming Rib Rub Sugar, seasoned salt, paprika, and black pepper come together in this dry rub for prime rib or any type of meat that keeps for months.

[ysaefinn]

There's overprotective, and there's Suguru Geto.

"Ah- you'll hurt your eyes, baby, let me handle it"

You're just about to start dicing your onion when Suguru comes up from behind you –fully enveloping you in his warmth– and gently rests his palm on the back of your clenched hand before prying the knife away.

"And this" He runs one long finger along the edge of the blade, from heel to tip "is too sharp for you"

..That damn tone.

Suguru only speaks to you this way when he's about to succumb to the voices, the ones that tell him to scoop you up to hold you in his palm forever, to lock you inside his rib cage and keep you warm, to hold you in his arms and never loosen his grip. You know your faith is set when he begins to rub his cheek against yours, a mother lioness and her little cub.

Smothering.

You have reason to believe that Suguru seriously considers baby proofing the house in its entirety.

"Suguru..." Your disappointed expression only gives him more fuel and now he's audibly cooing at you. How precious, the tiny little baby kitten in his palm, pouting so sweetly, how do you have the nerve to go around being so adorable and still act all inconvenienced and fed up when he finally gets his hands on you?

Suguru doesn't think it adds up, so he takes things into his own hands.

"I'll handle the rest, you should take a rest, baby"

He'll handle the rest? Seriously??

"Suguru, I haven't even started anything yet" you whine, and he runs a hand through your hair before pulling you against his chest.

Bastard, he knows what he's doing.

Your world shifted the day Suguru learned that his chest can also double as a tranquilizer.

Like a moth to a flame, ice in a fernace, you melt into him, every single time without fail.

Your tense figure immediately relaxes, the rumbling laughter that runs through his chest feels like a declaration of victory. You know that you have once again lost.

"There you go.." comes an almost taunting coo "isn't this so much better? I like you best this way" And it really, really is, it feels amazing, it feels wonderful being fussed over this much, cared for like this, coddled like a fragile little thing.

"I got here just in time. What if you got hurt, hm? I wouldn't be able to forgive myself if my baby was harmed when I could have been there to stop it" the whispering voice of a siren, how you managed to stand your ground this long is a mystery to you, Suguru is a force to be reckoned with.

So you put up with it, and let him have his fun, let him play the role of the sweet doting overprotective husband, because like this, everyone wins and everyone is happy, he gets to care for you, you get to be cared for, perfect.

Aren't you both just a match made in heaven?

[lee-pace-everyday]

Midg's Flaming Rib Rub Sugar, seasoned salt, paprika, and black pepper come together in this dry rub for prime rib or any type of meat that keeps for months. 2.5 cups white sugar, 1/4 cup chili powder, 1 tablespoon onion powder, 2 tablespoons mesquite-flavored seasoning, 2 tablespoons ground cumin, 1 cup seasoned salt, 1/4 cup ground black pepper, 1/4 cup paprika

[dmitriene]

cw: age gap (legal but not specified), mentions of readers virginity, just two people in love.

simon ghost riley doesn't think he's ugly outside, but he does think he is inside, too rotting comparing to you, so much more sweeter when you flutter your eyelashes at him and brush your fingers against his biceps in fleeting touches, trying so sweetly to gain the attention he doesn't let himself give you.

you're younger, it's visible in the lines on your face and cheerful smiles you flash him, in polite behavior that you keep up when you talk with elders, not yet on the same line of age with them, in how you call him sir and make his whole body shudder as it slips from your plump lips, and it's shouldn't make his cock chub up.

simon knows you're not a baby, you're a capable young woman, and even his friends date girls looking like you, but he feels like his hand are too dirty, bloodstained and calloused from the years of military service, his face is rugged and he can't even keep his stubble shaved properly, a mess of a man.

but you gaze at him with heart shaped pupils and trail around him like affectionate kitten, rubbing yourself all over him for at least one bit of attention, and the way you erupt in giddy smiles and sincere giggles when he garners you these bits.

pats at your head or accepts some baked treats you made, and there's something acidic behind his ribs, little sparks that instead of smoking erupts in licking flames, burning scorching hot across his whole body, and he's so addicted it's embarrassing to voice out, forbidden fruit is always sweet.

you were throwing yourself willingly at simon, and when he accepts your shy invitation to keep you an evening company in some town pub, where you sit under dim light on plush leather couch, body adorned with tight fitting dress that is too revealing for your usual attires, simon let's himself snap.

he knows it's all for him, the fabric ridding up all the way your plush thighs, pressed together when you squirm and tug it down, just so you won't sit with you ass bare on the leather, simon fists his hands until they whiten on his thighs as he tugs at his jeans, suddenly too tight.

all for him, the way you lean against the table, as if to hear him better, teasing your teeth at the plump flesh of your lips, warm breath mingling with his, smoky, made to make you push away, but your eyes grow heavy, swallowed dark by dilating pupils, and simon is fucked up badly.

he barely makes it to the front door of his apartment, you're feisty, nipping little teeth's at his stubbled jaw, rubbing sloppy kisses against his skin that grows hot and itchy from want, from the feeling of your body pressed against his tightly, legs wrapped around his hips, for him, all for him, his.

your body is soft, welcoming his touch with small goosebumps and small shudders, supple under his fingers that he traces too carefully across your curves, shedding every piece of clothing off you, like a kid with christmas present, hands trembling when he tugs your panties to find them sodden.

you're wet, wanting, squirming on the cold sheets that soothe your burning flesh as you spread your thighs to trail your hand down beneath your navel, simon feels like a virgin, breath hitching loudly when you spread your glistening folds with obscene squelch, chanting that it's all his fault.

for neglecting your affection, making you fuck your pussy on your own fingers every night, dreaming of being stretched around his cock, of granting simon your virginity, your flesh and bones, everything he'll please, you'll give him, just as you show him your dripping hole that clenches in need.

simon is a fool for making you wait so long, for depraving himself from you, because you feel heavenly, thin skin stretching around his fat, veiny girth, dribbling precum that mixes with your cloying slick, easing the glide, letting him stuff you, inch by inch, plugged with fat cock that throbs inside.

you clench with each drag, with each shallow thrust simon gives you because he can't make it faster, not because you'll be hurt, but because he shudders at the feel of your gummy walls latching around his meaty shaft, because he wants to enjoy every second of this encounter.

to hear your punched mewls, to watch the way you knead at the sheets below you like a docile kitten, meeting his languid movements with careful rolls of your hips, chest to chest with him, his breath burning against your ear as he showers you with sloppy kisses.

you're sopping wet between your legs, supple flesh coated with saccharine slick, splayed on his bed with simon's scent so heady around you, with his tongue toying with yours, his palms pawing at your hips and tugging, making you bounce towards his pounding hips, rumbling when it makes you arch.

simon loses himself in you, he listens to your pitched, garbled chants of want to be filled up with his seed, and he grits his teeth until veins pop on his jaw, increasing his movements to jab his tip against your sweet spot, make your walls clutch and pulse rapidly with bubbling magma in your belly.

you purr in delight when he fills you, coating your velvety walls with spurts of warm, thick cum, leaking past your clenching muscles, with simon's cock drived impossibly deep, enough to feel full despite how it dribbles down in creamy mess to stain the sheets.

pleased enough to let your body drift into drowsy state, sated to the point of your eyes slipping shut from minute to minute, enough time for simon to ease himself from you and go fetch a warm cloth to clean you both, just a bit to be comfortable while curled in each other during night.

simon ain't sure to which point this sex had drove you both, but he doesn't want to push you away, he enjoys the feeling of your naked body pressed against his, cradled against his brawny chest, soft breath tickling his skin and your eyelashes quivering in peaceful slumber, and he wants to remain there.

main masterlist. quidelines.

[lovemisakoaoki]

Recipe for Midg's Flaming Rib Rub This dry rub for prime rib or any kind of meat combines sugar, seasoned salt, paprika, and black pepper. It keeps for months.

[peachdues]

Levi Ackerman can and will blow your back out, but he’s also the type to lean in and press his lips hard against your forehead when you’re in the middle cumming so prettily for him.

He has your legs bent and nearly pinned to your ribs beneath the solid mass of his body. His arms are braced on either side of your head, one hand loosely fisted into your hair to make sure you keep your eyes on him and him alone. Every bit of his weight bears down into you, and it strikes you that between the fullness you feel from his cock and the pressure of his body against yours means there is no part of you that isn’t being thoroughly and completely consumed by him.

He curls one arm over your head, caging you in against the pillow while the other shoves between your sweat-slickened bodies. You think he means to play with your clit, but instead his hand presses firmly against your lower stomach as he continues hammering into you, allowing the blunt head of his cock to push repeatedly against that spot deep within that makes your vision turn white and your toes curl.

“There you are — oh,” he smirks at how you begin trembling beneath him, and the vibrations of your body only magnify as he rubs his hand in time with each hard grind of his hips as his cock continues bullying deeper and deeper into your soaking heat. “That’s the spot, huh, pretty girl?”

His smug, mocking smirk is a front; you know it by the way the muscles in his shoulders tense, signaling he’s summoning every bit of his own will power to fight off his own release, far too invested in savoring yours.

You’re also trying to hold on, and he knows that; he can sense it in the way your nails bite into his back, can see it in how your teeth sink into your plump bottom lip.

You want to cum — badly. And he’s more than eager to see you fall apart.

A growl, low and possessive builds in his throat. “Go on then — be a good girl and give me what I want.”

He gives another sharp, pointed thrust of his hips, burying himself all the way to his hilt before grinding against you, hard. “Let go,” he orders, his voice firmer and you know the leash he has on his own restraint is rapidly fraying.

Levi exhales a quiet swear of relief when he feels your cunt finally seize around him like a vice, and he is transfixed by broken staccato of his name that falls from your pretty lips as your climax washes over you like a wave. A surge of pride wells in his chest at how you manage to keep your eyes locked with his, even though he knows your instinct is to let them roll back into your head as you float among the clouds of pleasured bliss only until he can reach in and haul you back down to earth.

“Atta girl,” he coos, and the pace of his hips slow from those relentless, bruising thrusts to a gentle canting, each roll into your heat deep and purposeful. Then, he feels a surge of your wetness gush over him, dampening the coarse hairs of his base as the walls of your cunt continue to flutter and pulse around him, and Levi somehow finds himself becoming even more smitten with you than he already is. “Oh — it’s a big one, isn’t it?”

And when you look up at him with those big eyes of yours — wide and sparkling with tears of pleasure and exhaustion- and you nod, lower lip quivering, Levi can’t help but lean forward to press his lips to your forehead, as he continues fucking you through your high.

“Good girl,” he murmurs against your damp forehead, his groin churning torturously against yours. “Good fucking girl, cumming for me like this.”

Each grind of his coarse base right against your clit sends sparks additional waves of electrifying pleasure rocking through you until your legs are twitching and spasming beneath him. But Levi only chuckles, the sound dark and rich and so distinctly him.

He continues to guide you through the dizzying ripples of your orgasm, and when the last, gentle wave flickers out like a candle flame, Levi imparts one, final kiss against your forehead.

And then he pulls back, but he is not finished — no where near it, in fact. One by one, your legs are pushed over his shoulders until your knees are pressed to your chest, and his lips curl into something between a grin and a sneer.

He leans down and presses his mouth to the shell of your ear, and you’re not sure whether it’s the heat or his breath or the severity of his promise that sends an excited chill down your spine as he hisses, “My turn.”

Banners from @/benkei-bear!

[ekkkkey]

vestal (chapter II)

…in which Geta acts like an utter buffoon, and the ginger cat—well, acts like a ginger cat.

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

chapter I

warnings: 18+ minors dni, dubcon

tags: caracalla is a freak, darkfic, no softboys here

word count: ~3k

ৡ ৡ ৡ

On one of those warm, cozy days, Livia sat in her chamber in the House of the Vestals, just a short walk from the temple. Caesonia lay at her feet, reading aloud from Hesiod, while Livia slowly braided her hair, slipping into a light trance. The steady rhythm of her sworn sister’s voice lulled her, and every so often, she startled, lifting her head to keep from drifting off.

"You’re falling asleep!" Caesonia exclaimed, breaking off mid-sentence. "Is this how you study?" Her tone was scolding, but not entirely serious. They had been sitting there since dawn, and for most of that time, Livia had listened diligently.

"Sorry, I’m listening," she mumbled, trying to gather her thoughts as she straightened up, letting go of her sister’s hair.

"No, this won’t do. Let’s go get some fresh air."

The garden surrounding the Vestals’ house was vast yet felt intimate, a peaceful refuge tucked away behind the temple walls. A narrow, shaded path lined with cypress trees wound through it, like a quiet green corridor. On either side, the garden cascaded down in terraces, filling the air with the sweet fragrance of roses, wisteria, lilies, and narcissus. White marble benches and small, graceful gazebos rested beneath the shade of almond trees, magnolias, and acacias, their branches heavy with delicate blossoms, offering quiet spots for reflection and rest.

They settled on a bench, letting the soft sunlight warm their pale skin, savoring the sweet scent of the flowers. Livia’s hair was loose, and she wore a simple white tunic and sandals. At home, she rarely wore jewelry or styled her hair, unless they had guests.

"The High Priestess is in a foul mood today," Caesonia said lazily, squinting and basking in the sun.

"She’s always in a foul mood," Livia replied, catching a faint smile from the Vestal out of the corner of her eye.

"Careful! One day I’ll tell her all this, and she’ll have you whipped," Caesonia teased, playfully grabbing Livia’s side and tickling her ribs, making her laugh.

"Stop!" Livia caught her hands. "Then you’ll be the next one whipped!"

It was indeed a fine, warm day, despite the onset of autumn. The priestesses stopped laughing and gazed thoughtfully at the clear sky, enjoying the peace and quiet.

Then, from somewhere in the treetops, came a sudden rustling—leaves stirring, birds startled into flight. Livia flinched, her eyes darting toward the tangled branches of an acacia. The dark green canopy shifted restlessly in the breeze. And then, from deep within the foliage, a flash of red shot downward, streaking straight toward the Vestals’ feet.

Caesonia yelped and pulled her legs up, clutching Livia’s shoulder.

"That bandit again!"

The ginger cat, entirely unbothered by her fright, wove around Livia’s legs, rubbing against them insistently. She gave a faint smile, bent down, and scooped the animal onto her lap, stroking it between the ears. It purred deeply, kneading her with its claws, scratching even through the fabric of her tunic.

"Oh, sister, at least one man is touching you," Caesonia chuckled, finally relaxing. "Only tomcats are ginger—and this one has no shame at all."

The cat stretched luxuriously on Livia’s lap, rolling onto its back with a pleased rumble. She ran a hand over its warm belly, and in an instant, it seized her wrist with all four paws, biting and kicking. Livia bore it without protest, unwilling to push it away, while the cat stared up at her with wide yellow eyes. A strange shiver ran through her—then came a particularly sharp bite. She finally brushed the cat off.

It flicked its tail, let out an indignant meow, and vanished into the garden.

Livia’s tender skin stung where its claws had dug in. She glanced at her hand without much interest—one scratch was especially deep, a long, bloody line running from her index finger to her wrist.

"You should take better care of yourself! We should have the slaves keep him out," Caesonia gently blew on the wound as she stroked Livia’s hand.

"It’s nothing," Livia replied lightly, wiping away the blood to reveal a faint pink line. "See? It’s already fine."

They sat quietly in the sun, but the stillness didn’t last long. Near the villa, slaves had begun moving about under the gatekeeper’s direction, their voices breaking the afternoon hush.

"Are we expecting someone?" Livia asked, watching the commotion.

"No, the High Priestess didn’t mention anything," Caesonia said, squinting as she tried to make out what was happening.

Life in the House of the Vestals was one of routine and devotion—days spent in study, interrupted only by prayer before lessons resumed. Moments of peace like this were rare, especially for Livia, who hadn’t even served a full decade yet.

The gatekeeper was already making her way toward them. Their solitude was over. With a sigh, Livia rose to her feet, brushing ginger cat hairs from the folds of her tunic. As she tucked her hair behind her ears, she silently cursed herself for not covering it with a veil. If they had guests, appearing like this—bareheaded, in a plain white tunic, with her hair simply loose—was hardly appropriate.

Suddenly, she recalled how the citizens of Rome had stared at her in the Colosseum, their mouths agape in awe… A pleasant shiver ran through her. She was still a priestess of Vesta, and in any guise, she inspired reverence.

The High Priestess had once said that Christians considered pride a sin. If so, Livia was the greatest sinner, for more than anything, the young priestess took pride in her position. Though her family had once been respected, they were far from wealthy, meaning her fate might have been that of an unloved wife to some old man, like Cassandra. Had that brought her much happiness? Claudia, though married to a man she loved, hardly looked happy—more sickly and pale. While other priestesses sometimes found themselves intrigued by gossip and the mysteries of love and passion, Livia lived only for the love of Vesta. Caesonia said that this was for the best. Livia herself agreed.

Her gaze drifted to Caesonia’s white garments, and she noted to herself that the tunic was less than perfect—its whiteness tinged with gray, the fabric wrinkled. Livia primly smoothed the folds of her own impeccably white tunic. Even now, at home, bareheaded and unadorned, she never forgot who she was.

At the house, on the open marble terrace, guests were indeed waiting. The slaves serving the Vestals were easily recognizable by their white attire, but the young men and women dressed in red and gold were unfamiliar to Livia.

Her lips tightened, her brows furrowed. Who had disturbed their peace?

A chill ran down her spine when she finally saw the cause of the commotion.

"Emperor Geta, what an honor," - she bestowed him with a light nod, then immediately lifted her chin, straightened her shoulders. Here, on her own ground and surrounded by her people, Livia felt confident.

The young emperor stood in the shade under the terrace roof, as if reluctant to step into the light. Why was he alone, she wondered?

"Lucilla is at the temple with your High Priestess," - he explained. His voice was hoarse, sounding strangely unsure, as if the presence of the Vestals made him uncomfortable.

"And you are curious about how the Vestals live? We are flattered, it’s been quite a while since emperors have graced us with their presence," Livia quipped, and Caesonia pinched her hand—subtly, but firmly enough to make her hold her tongue.

"Perhaps His Imperial Majesty would like to see our garden? Livia would be honored to show you the most beautiful flowers while you await your mother," Caesonia slyly set her up, but there was no way out. At the word mother Geta grimaced, but still nodded eagerly and stepped into the sunlight.

Livia immediately noticed that the Emperor rarely spent time in the sun. Dressed in a white tunic and a gilded toga with a purple border, he looked out of place among the pristine white garments of the priestesses and slaves. His ginger hair was neatly curled and styled, a small golden laurel gleaming in the sun. Yet, to her surprise, there was a restraint in his dress today, a simplicity that stood in stark contrast to their first meeting.

He orders the servants not to follow them, though Livia can tell he’s overheated—powder has smeared on his neck, and the skin where it wasn’t applied has immediately turned pink.

"We can stay on the terrace if you’d prefer," she offered, more out of courtesy than true concern as they made their way down the cypress-lined path into the garden.

"And you’re not feeling the heat?" His question, though a bit silly, makes Livia feel a wave of discomfort. She doesn’t like being flustered. Still, she nervously tucks her hair behind her ear, wishing once more that she’d covered it with a veil. She feels his dark eyes on her, studying her with interest, and again she’s certain there’s no respect in that gaze.

For a young, unmarried woman, being alone with a man like this was hardly proper. But she was not just any woman, and he was not just any man.

She comforted herself with that thought as they walked beneath the cypress shadows.

"You don’t visit the city often, do you?" He was making an effort to be polite, and it amused her. Why was he trying so hard? Their order was loyal to Rome, and the emperors were Rome. Even if they were the worst people on earth, the Vestals would stand by them.

"Nor do you and your brother, do you?" They stopped at the same bench where she and Caesonia had sat earlier. "I find the world’s bustle repulsive, Caesar. How people live, what they think, what they talk about… it’s all empty, fleeting. Entertainment, finery, words—just tinsel they drape over their aimless existence. Do you understand me?"

He likely didn’t. He enjoyed entertainment, finery, and idle talk himself, but he listened so superficially that he didn’t even realize she was speaking about him. Instead of offense or anger, his dark eyes held only curiosity, even delight.

Emperor Geta sat a short distance away, careful not to touch her, but she caught the sharp, pine-like scent emanating from him. While he studied her shamelessly, like a child, she only watched from the corner of her eye, unwilling to show interest.

Of course, it flattered her to be speaking, for the second time, with a Father of Rome—one who smiled foolishly and nodded at her every word. Where was his brother? Livia thought of Caracalla—not out of genuine curiosity, but simply because the emperor had dared to touch her, pretending as though nothing had happened! Insolent, pompous…

"I’d like us to meet more often," Geta interrupted her thoughts. "Our father wasn’t particularly devout, so the Vestals didn’t receive the attention they deserved." His gaze swept over her, far too openly, as if she were some common street girl rather than a priestess.

Livia pressed her lips together and looked away, conceding defeat in their silent staring contest with the emperor.

"Yes, your father was rather occupied with persecuting Christians and crucifying them across the streets of Rome," she said. Even with all the authority and privileges her position granted, she was still beneath the Emperor. Provoking him wasn’t wise, but she despised his tone—the way he looked at her. Let him complain to the High Priestess if he wished.

Geta froze as if she had struck him. Her words about his father unsettled him in a way she hadn’t expected. His powdered face tightened, lips pressing into a thin line, jaw clenching.

"Do you speak this way to everyone, or have I earned special treatment? Because it seems to me you’re taking too many liberties," his voice turning cold, laced with quiet menace.

She flushed with shame, stung by his words. It was true—she had thought him less educated, less clever, treating him more like a boy than the man who had caused Rome to burn for months. He was dangerous, and angering him was foolish.

"Who am I, Livia?" His next question followed her silence.

Forcing herself, she turned to face him. He sat rigid, his pale fingers gripping the edge of the marble bench so tightly they seemed to blend into it.

"The Emperor," she answered, avoiding his probing dark eyes, regretting her earlier sharpness. "Father of Rome and Pontifex Maximus. Forgive me, Caesar, I got carried away. Vestals don’t often speak with men," she added, hoping this conversation would end soon.

He squinted slightly, his taut lips easing into something resembling satisfaction.

"Messengers of the gods," he lifted a finger adorned with a heavy ring, first pointing at her, then at himself, "must have a strong bond to ensure Rome’s strength. After all, the sacred fire of your temple is the fire of the emperors, isn’t it?" He tilted his head slightly, his eyes locked on hers, waiting for her answer. Geta was pressing on their divine connection, and it was clear he knew more about the temple and its priestesses than she’d assumed.

"Yes, Caesar," she replied, her voice steady but with a hint of resignation.

The sun climbed high into the sky, relentlessly baking her dark hair. Livia fidgeted, the heat growing unbearable. She felt a bead of sweat trickle down her neck, and she noticed that Geta’s dark eyes followed it, tracking the drop with an unsettling focus. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath his pale skin.

"I’d like you and the other priestesses to attend the games again in two weeks," he said, sensing her discomfort, his tone confident as though he knew she wouldn’t dare refuse. "The plebeians were thrilled by the last games, and seeing you…" His eyes swept over her from head to toe. "The white robes, the veils—it drives the common folk wild," a strange smirk tugged at his lips, "and not just them."

The silence hung awkwardly between them, the conversation taking an uncomfortable turn. Were all men like this?

"You should discuss that with the High Priestess, Emperor," she replied, her voice steady despite the tension. He simply nodded and rose from the bench, stepping in front of her and blocking the sun. His towering form loomed over her, and the boyish air that had accompanied him earlier was gone, replaced by an aura of overwhelming authority.

Livia glanced up at him, and Geta smirked, a self-satisfied grin curling on his lips as he extended his hand, fully aware she wouldn’t take it, nor would she ever touch his pale palm. Did he think she’d break her vows just to lay her fingers on the divine emperor? In her mind, the priestess wondered what his skin would feel like and, oddly enough, she imagined it would be as cold as marble.

They returned to the terrace in silence. The High Priestess and Lucilla, back from the Temple of Vesta, were already waiting. Livia, lost in her thoughts, almost misses the sympathetic glance from the emperor’s mother. The daughter of Marcus Aurelius was a striking woman, though no longer young. She seemed as if she wanted to speak to Livia, to approach her—but Geta got to her first, leaning in close and whispering something in her ear. His grip on her forearm was anything but gentle.

Livia caught only fragments of his words:

"…where is he?"

The senior priestess noticed her lingering and, displeased, sent her off to the temple. Under Geta’s mocking gaze, Livia once again felt the sting of shame and frustration. Still, she lifted her head high and, escorted by her assigned guards, left the Vestals’ house.

ৡ ৡ ৡ

The sunlit marble walls of the Temple of Vesta gleamed, a dazzling white against the deep green of the laurels and cypresses. Livia stood before the grand temple once again, mesmerized. She saw it every day, yet each time, a wave of awe and reverence washed over her anew. As she approached the entrance, the dark thoughts that had been clouding her mind dissipated, replaced by a profound stillness.

The men who had accompanied her remained below, at the foot of the steps leading to the sacred house of Vesta. Men were strictly forbidden from entering, and any who dared defy the law faced a dreadful fate.

Inside, the temple was cool and serene, untouched by the outside world. Livia made her way toward the sacred fire, her steps measured and slow. She paused, allowing herself a moment to stare into the flames. For a long while, an unbroken peace lingered in the air, the flickering light of the altar dancing across her face, its glow reflected in her eyes.

In this place, Livia always felt a profound sense of calm and protection, as if the very walls of the temple held her in an embrace. Here, she was the vessel of the goddess—pure, untouched, like the sacred flame itself.

That’s why the voice—a man’s voice—that suddenly echoed behind her was such a shock.

"So, this is the legendary eternal sacred fire?" the intruder drawled, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Her heart jolted, the blood rushing to her ears. An intruder! A man! In the temple of the Great Goddess! Her hands flew to her chest, and she spun around instinctively, positioning herself between the flame and the interloper. No man could enter the Temple of Vesta. Everyone knew the consequences would be terrifying. If someone was brazen and fearless enough to break this rule, that person was undoubtedly dangerous.

"You have no place here!" Livia’s voice rang out, sharp and steel-like, before she even cast a glance at the uninvited guest. Her words echoed loudly beneath the temple’s vaulted ceiling.

Only then did she see the one who had disturbed the temple’s serene silence. The faint, melodic chime of his golden bracelets echoed softly, and Livia’s fingers tightened around the folds of her tunic.

"And why is that?" the emperor replied tauntingly, taking a few slow, deliberate steps forward, his blue eyes glinting in the light of the sacred fire, never leaving her.

If his brother, Emperor Geta, had dressed modestly today, Caracalla was once again flamboyantly adorned and painted in striking colors. The first thing she noticed was a small golden earring with a white pearl that shimmered red and yellow in the firelight. She should have called the guards, shouted for help, driven him out—but he… he was an emperor. If they had let him in, would anyone help her expel him?

He took a step forward; she stepped back. A quiet, satisfied laugh echoed in the temple, rising to the high ceiling. The heavy burgundy fabric, embroidered with gold, rustled as Caracalla stopped in the center of the sanctuary, clearly pleased by her frightened expression.

"Are junior Vestals even allowed near the fire?" The earring clinked softly as he tilted his head, studying her. The pearl rested against his pale skin, nearly blending with it.

His lips seemed even redder than she remembered—bright, vivid, and strangely cruel. He smiled, but she felt no warmth or mirth, only a stifling irritation and an unsettling fear.

"You’re breaking laws established long before either of us was born, Emperor," she tried to steady herself, though it was no easy feat. "Twice now."

"Enlighten me, priestess," Caracalla replied, his smirk widening as he clasped his hands together. Her gaze lingered on the endless array of massive rings adorning his delicate fingers, but she quickly forced herself to meet his eyes, determined not to reveal how terrified she was. She knew the fate that awaited any Roman citizen who dared break the laws—but what punishment awaited an emperor?

"You touched me when we first met, though you knew it was forbidden," her frown deepened. "And now you’ve entered the temple, fully aware that’s prohibited too."

Caracalla moved his lips from side to side, as if truly reflecting on his past actions, then flashed a wide grin, a gold tooth catching the light. He took a few unhurried steps, narrowing the distance between them until he was just a breath away.

"Yes, I did." A sweet scent wafted from him, reminiscent of the temple during festivals—the fragrance of incense burned to honor the gods. He wasn’t a god, so why did she feel such trembling unease? "Should I be punished, Amata?" The mockery in his voice was so blatant that she nearly choked with rage. How dare he!

Livia faltered, lowering her gaze to collect her thoughts, but the soft rustle of his heavy garments made her tense again and look up.

A faint breath of air skimmed her cheek, though there was no breeze in the temple… only him. His hand, pale and delicate, almost feminine, nearly brushed her face—but no, it lingered in midair, achingly near, cloaked in that faint sweet scent.

With his fingertips, he followed the shape of her face without touching her, tracing the curve of her cheek, the angle of her jaw, the trembling line of her mouth. A ghost of a touch. And yet, she felt it—the phantom heat of his fingers crawling over her skin.

The emperor didn’t touch her—so why did it feel like sacrilege?

As a priestess, she should have cast him out, gotten rid of him as quickly as possible. Instead, she found herself holding her breath, terrified he might lean in closer and press her right up against the altar.

"Please, leave," she rasped, all her bravado gone. Rules and laws didn’t frighten him—so how could she make him go? And more importantly, why was he here? "What do you want?"

"I wanted to see the one who caught my brother’s eye," he lowered his hand slowly but didn’t step back. His presence filled the space, and she found herself looking down to avoid his gaze. "Li-vi-a," he dragged her name out, savoring each syllable.

"Emperor Geta, like you, I assume, came here because of your mother, Lady Lucilla." The priestess chose her words carefully, steering the conversation away from the disturbing direction it was heading.

"You really think he cares about Lucilla’s wishes?" He ignored the word mother entirely. "Geta wants you, but he’s too cowardly to take you. So he just stares and then has the others—dark-haired, pale-skinned slaves. Only they can’t give him what my brother so desperately craves…"

His hand hovered near her cheek again, then slid lower, as if the emperor was about to grab her by the throat, but then, still, he changed his mind, curling his fingers into a fist and pulling away.

"They’re all whores, not Vestal virgins, Livia. That’s why he keeps seeking you out," he leaned in, pushing into her space closer than any man ever dared, his hot breath brushing her ear as he whispered, "to keep your image sharp in his mind while…"

What he said next made her flush a deep red. Not here, not in the Temple of Vesta, pure and sacred like its priestesses, should such blasphemy be spoken! His very presence was a desecration, a strike against everything they stood for. How dared he speak to her like this?! How dare he whisper such filth in this holy place!

"Get out!" Her voice rang with fury, her anger rising like a storm, giving her strength she never knew she had.

She had already realized that Caracalla was dangerous—much more so than Geta, even if what he said about Geta was true. If her defiance had angered Geta earlier today, what would Caracalla do? Would he order her to be flogged?

No, the young emperor doesn’t get angry. On the contrary, he laughs loudly, visibly pleased with her reaction, and Livia, mesmerized, watches as the white pearl sways, lost in his red hair.

"So alike in appearance, yet so different at the same time, little bird!" He cut himself off, his smile fading, and his gold-lined eyes narrowed.

"My brother told you about the games, didn’t he? Of course, he did. Well, see you later, priestess, though…"

Without finishing, Caracalla strode out of the temple, and Livia followed to ensure he was truly gone. At the exit, he turned, flashing a crooked smile over his shoulder, showing his profile.

Livia squints, blinded by the sun behind the emperor, by the glare of his golden laurel and the shimmering brilliance of his ornaments and robes.

"Not Jupiter, fierce and stern, but Sol—the god of the sun and light," she thought with a strange thrill. Radiant, luminous, fair-skinned, youthful, with a wild mane of unruly red curls—he struck her as beautiful for the first time. And that thought horrified her.

"…Perhaps we’ll meet much sooner," he winked at her boyishly, as if they shared some delicious secret.

Livia stepped back into the shadows, her sweat-dampened hands hidden behind her back, watching him until he left the temple grounds.

Only then did she lean against the wall, exhaling shakily. Her perfect composure had cracked. The sun beat mercilessly on her head, but she couldn’t move—just as she couldn’t under Caracalla’s piercing blue gaze.

"If Emperor Geta is the moon—cold, silent, enigmatic—then he, Caracalla, is surely the sun: bright, scorching everything in its path, neither gentle nor warming," she thought, wringing her hands nervously.

At the foot of the stairs, a slave boy in white robes appeared, gesturing for her to come. She hurried down, noticing the small bundle in his hands.

The message was indeed for her, from Claudia. The news was far from joyful. When Cassandra, before… before her death, had sent a plea for help, Livia hadn’t responded. It had been spring, the festival of Vesta in full swing, and there’d been no time… and then her sister was gone.

Claudia begged her to visit, pleaded desperately, for Livia was her last remaining kin.

This time, Livia wouldn’t abandon her sister. She’d fulfill her request after speaking with the High Priestess, but… as fate would have it, Claudia and her husband were now residing in the emperors’ palace. Nausea gripped her.

As if mocking her, that same ginger cat appeared at her feet, purring deeply and rubbing against her.

Truly alike, indeed.

ৡ ৡ ৡ

note: this story is directly connected to there will be games! Livia is the sister of Cassandra, the protagonist of that story. It’s been about two months since the events of the finale and what Geta did.

[neeeooon]

Can I request Sakura, umemiya, kaiji, and hiragi getting decked in the face because they were distracted aka love at first sight at a terrible time I can see this happening to a lot of first years. Prob not suo or kitty tho

suo 🥰 no i agree lol this is so cute ty!!

when you (unintentionally) distract them during a fight

love at first sight wbk x oblivious gn!reader. fluff, mentions of violence/fighting. might be a little ooc

sakura haruka

-> when sakura saw you rushing across the street to beat the timer, he expected his face to burn the way it usually did around people. it didn’t. instead, something in his chest fluttered, like his heart was trying to break through his ribs and fly straight to you

-> his head snapping to the side reminded him of where he was. a fight. the punch was pathetic, a hail mary from the barely conscious fighter with his collar still held tight in sakura’s grip, but thankfully it brings him back

-> it doesn’t take much longer to get the guy unconscious, and sakura drops him before looking around for you again. you didn’t get too far, but as sakura dares to take a step in your direction, he’s instantly overwhelmed by what he could possibly say

-> he’s lost in thought as he starts in your direction, too distracted as he mouths greetings to himself to realize you came to a stop at another crosswalk, and bumps into you

-> “shit! i mean, uh, crap? are you okay?” he asks, helping you back into the sidewalk and quickly checking you for injuries. you chuckle at how flustered he looks and wave him off. “i’m good! no worries. lot on your mind?”

-> and his body chooses that moment to flame, turning his entire face so red he has to turn away from you. “n-no! nothing! get home safe from here! bye!” and he’s half-running-half-stomping away, leaving you to laugh by yourself at the strangely cute stranger

umemiya hajime

-> oh. my. god. the world slows down like in a romantic drama when umemiya sees the door to kotoha’s shop open. he can’t help but stare, eyes gradually widening when you walk out with a bright smile as you wave goodbye to kotoha

-> and right when you turn, face moving in his direction, his head snaps to the side with the force of a punch that shouldn’t have taken it out as severely as it did

-> “you shouldn’t lose focus during a fight,” his opponent grumbled, struggling to stand after the beating he received, and umemiya flexed his sore jaw. “you’re right! but i just realized there’s something i have to do. sorry!”

-> instead of knocking the guy out like planned, umemiya pats his shoulder and jogs in the direction he last saw you

-> when he finds you, umemiya walks a few steps ahead of you, turns so that he’s walking backward to face you, and rubs his nape. “mind if i walk you home? there’s been an increase in civilian-targeted violence recently.”

-> you’ve seen him interact warmly with kotoha before and assume he isn’t one of the people causing the civilian-targeted violence. “sure! i’m not too far from here, anyway.” “short walk, then. no worries, i’m umemiya.” “y/n.”

kaji ren

-> kaji swirls the pink lollipop around in his mouth as he dodged blow after blow. his opponent is getting tired, he can tell by the sluggishness in his posture. only a couple more aversions before he can—

-> you walk past, a gentle breeze catching the ends of your hair as the rest is held in place by the chunky headphones over your ears. you’re too immersed in your phone to pay attention to the fight happening in front of you, but you’re far enough away to be out of danger

-> kaji blinks, his focus thrown, and forgets to move out of the way of the fist flying toward his gut

-> it doesn’t pack much punch since his opponent is already tired, but it’s enough to bring him back to the present. kaji’s able to knock the guy out, but his focus is thrown as he props the unconscious student against a street bench

-> he glances around, trying to catch sight on you and your headphones again, but you’re gone

-> kaji doesn’t see you again for a while after that, but your face doesn’t leave his mind. it’s a bit infuriating, as anytime someone with your build walks by, he’s immediately out of focus

-> it isn’t until kaji takes a detour to the convenience store for more candy when he spots you feeding stray cats in an alleyway. unable to find his words, kaji follows you from afar to make sure you get home safe before heading home himself, completely forgetting about the candy

hiragi toma

-> annoying, hiragi mentally grumbled when his opponent grabbed a steel pipe. they’d been using fists only, an unspoken rule in the fight, but the second the guys started losing, he reached for a weapon

-> hiragi caught it when it swung at his head, successfully ripping it from the opponent’s sweaty grip. he jerked to throw it to the side but froze when you accidentally locked eyes

-> you had been cheering him on with your grandparents, who were already prepping food and first aid. it was your first time witnessing a bofurin “fight”, and you gasped when hiragi finally broke eye contact due to a fist punching him in the face

-> “ooh,” everyone sympathetically groaned in unison, but hiragi recovered quickly and knocked the guy on his ass. he rubbed his shoulder and cracked his neck before glancing back once more, hoping to catch your eye again

-> you followed your grandmother’s lead as she approaching him with an ice pack. “toma! have you met my grandchild yet? they haven’t visited us in nearly 10 years!” “grandma!” “they’re looking to move here! and they’re single.” “oh my god.”

[idkyetxoxo]

Six | A Light to Follow Home | Little Star

Pairing - Azriel x reader

Word count - 2.5k

Warnings - Slight angst (if you squint basc)

<- prev || series masterlist || next ->

Being woken up by shouting and off-key singing was the last thing I expected.

The warmth of my cocooned blankets vanished as the silky sheets were ripped away, cold air rushing in to replace them. 

I groaned barely conscious, instinctively flinging an arm over my eyes just as the curtains were drawn open, sunlight piercing the dimness of my room.

"Happy birthday!" a voice screeched far too close to my ear than I would have liked.

Even with my eyes shut, I knew it was Mor. The scent of jasmine and joy clung to her like a second skin.

"It's not my birthday," I mumbled voice hoarse, still half-asleep. I cracked an eye open and immediately regretted it.

Far too many people stood in my room.

"You're four hundred and fifty today. You're ancient," Rhys drawled from near the foot of my bed, his violet eyes shimmering with amusement.

"Rhys," Feyre hissed, elbowing him in the ribs. He winced dramatically, rubbing the spot like he'd been grievously wounded.

Mor grinned and tugged me upright by the shoulders, fluffing the pillows behind me as I blinked away the sleep.

"What if I was naked under those sheets?" I muttered, squinting at her through a curtain of hair.

"Then we'd all witness far more than we had hoped for," Amren said flatly from a chair in the corner, a glass of something red already in her hand despite the early hour. 

Her tone was clipped, dry as always like she had far bette things to do but the fact that she was here at all drew the faintest curve to my lips.

"I, for one, would've been delighted," Cassian chimed in as he shouldered his way to the front of the chaos. 

He immediately thrust a plate into my lap, something suspicious and oddly shaped wobbling slightly on top of it.

I stared at it inconspicuously. "What... is this?"

"A cake," he announced proudly. "Mor and I baked it. It's in the shape of a star."

"I only made it if you like it," Mor interjected with a smirk. "If you don't, it was all Cassian."

Cassian scowled at her betrayal.

It looked atrocious. Lopsided. Slightly burnt on one side. A few sad dollops of icing slid down the surface like they were trying to escape. But it was perfect.

"We couldn't fit 450 candles on it," Cassian added, "so you get three. It's symbolic."

With a small flick of her wrist, Feyre lit the candles. Autumn flame danced atop the crooked little wax stubs.

"Thank you for not singeing off her eyebrows," Rhys said solemnly, deadpan. "She would've pummeled me."

I arched a brow at him but didn't get the chance to respond before Cassian launched into a booming rendition of "Happy Birthday," dragging the rest of them along with him in a cacophony of sound.

As I leaned forward to blow out the candles, I caught a pair of hazel eyes watching me from near the door. Azriel, quiet as always, stood just on the edge of it all.

I exhaled. The candles flickered out. Still, his gaze held.

"Now eat it!" Cassian said far too gleefully and, before I could protest, he shoved a bite of the cake straight into my mouth.

I tried—I tried, to chew but it was thick and dry with some strange crunching texture I didn't want to identify. My stomach rolled ominously.

I clamped a hand over my mouth as I stood on shaky legs. "Nope," I uttered through gritted teeth before bolting for the bathroom.

The door hadn't even clicked shut behind me before I was on my knees, the contents of my stomach heaving into the toilet. I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing one hand on the cold porcelain, the other gripping the edge of the wall.

Warm fingers swept my hair back.

I hadn't even heard him follow.

One scarred hand held the strands of hair out of my face while the other rested gently between my shoulder blades, rubbing slow, steady circles. Azriel didn't say anything. He didn't need to.

I let myself lean into the silent comfort of it.

The noise of Mor and Cassian bickering filtered faintly through the walls, like background static. But here, it was quiet. Just me, the ache in my chest I didn't quite understand, and Azriel's patient presence at my side.

"I really tried," I rasped, forehead still resting on my arm.

"I know," he murmured, soft enough it felt like a secret.

The worst of it passed. I sat back on my heels, still breathing through the nausea.

Once Azriel had ensured I was done being sick and that I hadn't turned a lovely shade of green, he offered me a glass of water, his hand brushing lightly against mine as I took it. 

No words were exchanged, only a small nod between us before he helped me to my feet.

We made our way back to my room. 

The moment the door creaked open, I was met with the sight of a rather flustered-looking Cassian and Mor, both of whom wore sheepish smiles as if they were trying very hard not to laugh.

"Feyre has something she'd like to give you," Rhys said smoothly, stepping aside with a smug grin. "Now that Mor and Cassian have failed to poison you."

Feyre flushed slightly and nudged her mate in the ribs before stepping forward with a large, carefully wrapped canvas in her hands. 

"Come over here," she said gently, ushering me to a quieter corner of the room.

I peeled away the wrapping slowly, unsure of what to expect—until the moment I saw it. And everything else fell away. My throat tightened. My vision blurred.

It was a painting, no, the painting. A memory I hadn't touched in centuries, perfectly preserved in brushstrokes and colour. 

Feyre had captured it exactly, me as a child, laughing with my arms thrown in the air, perched atop Azriel's shoulders. Cassian and Rhys stood on either side of him, barely more than boys themselves, all three of them grinning wide with the kind of joy you can only find in fleeting, golden childhood.

"I asked Rhys to show me the memory," Feyre said, her voice soft, "I thought... maybe you'd like a reminder of how long you've been loved."

I set the canvas down with trembling hands and pulled her into a fierce hug, words tangled in the back of my throat.

"Feyre, this is—thank you. Thank you so much."

Behind us, Cassian groaned dramatically. "Well, how are the rest of us supposed to top that?"

I let out a laugh, the tears clinging to my lashes. "Wasn't the cake your gift?"

"Mother above, no," he said, as if horrified by the idea. Then, before I could tease him further, he thrust a small, poorly wrapped box into my hands.

The ribbon was tied like he'd wrestled it into submission but I managed to undo it. 

Inside was a slender dagger with a gleaming gold finish. Tiny stars had been carved into the hilt, shooting stars, arcing across the polished metal like a constellation.

"I expect you to kick my ass with it," he said with a wink, and before he could play it off, I tugged him into a warm, laughing hug.

Mor's gift was next, a glittery slip of paper that shimmered like stardust. Her familiar, elegant handwriting danced across it, "An adventure with your favourite person."

"A day of shopping, dancing, and food," she grinned. "And I get to pick the outfit."

I rolled my eyes fondly, holding the promise close to my heart.

Then came Amren, who held out a velvet box with all the ceremony of a queen bestowing a gift upon a courtier. 

Inside was a bracelet of silvery thread and a single gemstone that sparkled in the light. She didn't bother with an explanation, only muttered, "I get to borrow it whenever I want."

"Of course," I said, suppressing a laugh. "How generous of you."

Next was Rhys who ushered everyone out of the room as he approached. He stepped forward, expression unreadable for a moment, and placed a small, worn book in my hands. The leather was black and soft with age, the corners rounded and fraying.

"It was our mother's," he said quietly. "A journal. She used to write little things—about her days, about us."

My breath hitched as I flipped through the pages. Her handwriting. Her words. Like she'd just stepped out of the past and into my hands. A familiar ache bloomed in my chest, one I'd long since buried under other wounds.

"How... how did you even find this?" I asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Rhys only smiled. "That's for me to know."

He gestured to the last page. "Open it."

I did and instantly felt the breath rush from my lungs.

There, in the same delicate hand, was a single line.

"To the stars that never dimmed, and the dreams that answered anyway."

It was her favourite line from the book. The same one I'd clung to during the darkest nights, thinking it had been lost forever by the hands of Daeron.

I instantly flung my arms around Rhys, burying my face in his shoulder as I whispered, "I love it. I love you. Thank you."

"I know, little star," he said gently, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. "Now go get dressed. We've got a whole day planned."

He stepped away, giving me one last look before slipping out of the room himself.

As the door clicked shut behind him, the light in the room shifted. Shadows drifted in, quiet, smoky tendrils of them curling at the edges of the walls.

And then he stepped through. Azriel.

His entrance was silent, but I felt it in my bones, the sudden, subtle shift in the air that only he could bring. He paused by the door for a moment, just watching.

"I wanted to give you your gift," Azriel said, his voice quieter than usual. 

There was a flush staining his usually controlled demeanour, a faint colour dusting his cheeks, just barely visible. His shadows swirled around him.

He held out a small box, wrapped in midnight-blue paper that glimmered faintly as though it were woven from starlight itself. The ribbon that held it shut was black, simple yet deliberate in its neatness, and I found myself hesitating for a brief moment before I accepted it.

I gently untied the ribbon, the paper crinkling softly under my fingers. The moment the lid opened, I gasped.

Nestled inside was a necklace, delicate and elegant in design. A thin chain of gold caught the light, and from it hung a small, glowing blue star, shimmering with an ethereal, otherworldly light. 

My fingers shook slightly as I lifted it out, the cool metal warming in my palm. 

The star was small, almost like a fragment of the night sky itself—something too perfect, too beautiful to belong to this world.

"It's beautiful," I breathed, my voice barely above a whisper. My gaze lifted to meet his, and for a heartbeat, the room seemed to hold its breath.

"It's enchanted," he murmured, his voice soft, almost hesitant. 

His eyes remained fixed on the necklace, as though he couldn't quite meet mine. His fingers brushed over the charm one last time. 

"It holds a piece of my shadows. Not just to protect you..." His words trailed off, and I noticed his gaze flicker upward "...so I can always find you. Even in the dark."

The words sank deep into my chest, like a hand gently pressing against my heart. 

My throat constricted. I swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his gift, the depth of it pressing against me. 

I could feel it, a warmth growing from the small star, pulsing in time with my own heartbeat.

I didn't trust my voice, so I didn't speak. Instead, I turned, my fingers trembling slightly as I handed the necklace back to him. 

My heart beat faster as I brushed my hair from my neck, exposing the delicate skin there. I could hear him move behind me, the faint rustling of his clothes, the quiet shuffle of his boots. 

He hesitated for just a second—one agonising moment where neither of us moved and then his fingers brushed the back of my neck, scarred hands cool against my skin.

He fastened the necklace with practised ease, his fingers lingering just for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. 

I could feel the weight of it settle around my neck, and I closed my eyes for a brief moment, overwhelmed by the sensation of his touch, the heat of it.

When I opened my eyes, I stood on my tiptoes and before I could second-guess myself, pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his cheek. 

It was a gentle touch, a fleeting whisper of affection, but it felt like it was more than that.

His shadows stirred violently at the contact, swirling around him in excitement. It was as if I had offered my heart to him on a silver platter, vulnerable and raw, without a second thought. 

His eyes flickered briefly, his jaw tightening, but he said nothing. He only nodded, as though the moment was something too sacred, too fragile, to be spoken aloud.

"Thank you," I whispered, my voice trembling with the intensity of the emotions I couldn't quite name. 

He gave me a small, almost imperceptible nod, his gaze softening ever so slightly, before he turned and walked toward the door. 

The shadows followed him, their presence lingering as they always did, and with a soft click, the door closed behind him.

For a long moment, I stood there, my hand still resting against the delicate star pendant, feeling the weight of it, feeling the weight of his care. 

It felt as though the room had shrunk around me, the air thick with unspoken words, the heaviness of emotions I couldn't hold in anymore.

And then, before I could stop it, I crumpled to the floor.

The tears came in a rush, a flood of them that spilt from my eyes, hot and overwhelming. I barely registered the cold floor against my knees as I sat there shaking, my arms wrapped tightly around myself as though I could hold in the pieces of my shattered heart. 

Every single moment of the morning replayed in my mind—each gesture, each tender word, each bit of love that had been given to me in spite of everything that had happened, in spite of the darkness I carried inside.

The love, so pure and unwavering.

The quiet trepidation I could feel in the way they all treated me.

The collective guilt that gnawed at me, the overwhelming belief that it was all my fault, that I was the reason for the weight they carried in their hearts.

And then, as if the shadows had sensed my unravelling, they moved.

Azriel's shadows slipped under the door, soft and silent, like the touch of a whisper. They drifted into the room and wrapped around me, like a blanket of cool air, soothing and gentle, a quiet presence in the chaos of my mind. 

They were his and for a moment, I wasn't so alone.

Outside the door, Azriel paced, his footsteps hesitant, uncertain. He touched the handle once—paused. He stood there for what felt like an eternity, his shadows curling under the door. 

He didn't come in. 

Maybe he didn’t know how. Maybe he thought I wouldn’t want him to. Or maybe... maybe he just didn’t know how to show me that I wasn’t what I believed I was.

I could hear the faintest of breaths he took before he let the door handle go, his steps retreating softly down the hall.

And just like that, the quiet settled in.

I was alone again.

A/n - If you didn't cry on your birthday, did it really happen? Okay, Slightly filler chapter, but I had to add it for the necklace (it'll all makes sense later, trust me).

I also needed to show her bond with Feyre and a sentimental gift felt like the perfect way to do that! I’m not diving too deep into the background plot here because it’s not super relevant to this story—just giving little bits and pieces for now!

Also I know Azriel probably wouldn’t actually leave someone crying like that... but humour me. I can’t let things resolve too quickly—it’s a slowburn for a reason :))

Pre-warning, the next chapter is angsty and full of drama, so get ready. It’s definitely one step forward, three steps back <33

Little Star tag list - @jaybbygrl @writtenbypavani @fall-winter-heart97 @coeurdeveea @lilg101010 @krazykangaroo712 @moonlitlavenders @lil-lupa @jasmineee05 @pinksnowtiger @yourdarkrose @nerdybee123 @bookwormysblog @thoughtfulcoffeeflower @suspicious-stain-in-spain @anainkandpaper @theflowerswillbloom @queenoffeysand @historygeekqueen @lexi-in-wonderland @tele86 @saamanthaag3 @whydohumansss @xlosttdreamss @bookishwondersworld @plants-w0rld @i-am-infinite

[arietem]

got me an angel

masterlist

jj maybank x fem!reader

summary: you had an awfully anxious day and jj makes it all better

fluff ♡

a/n: i keep using the cupcake nickname because i love it so much

Tonight was one of those nights when you just can't stop fidgeting, full of weird, nervous energy making you restless and on edge. There was no way you could finish your shift without bursting in fucking flames, so you faked sick and got out of the store early.

After taking a long, hot shower, you made yourself comfortable on the couch at the chateau, waiting for JJ to bring you some snacks. Your job for the movie night is to find something on Netflix worth watching, but nothing seems to grab your attention.

“Ya know cupcake, I can hear your loud ass brain from way over here.” JJ waves from the kitchen, where he is busy making popcorn, judging by the popping sounds coming from the microwave. You just blow a raspberry in his direction, pouting slightly.

When the microwave dings, JJ walks over to the couch, putting the bowl on the coffee table. Nudging you gently, he makes himself comfortable behind you, pulling you half on his lap. “I don’t know. Nothing.” You shrug, leaning back on his chest.

“Come on, I can tell something’s bothering you.” He starts playing with your hair, gathering it in his hands and twisting it, tugging a bit.

“I just, argh,” you sigh, “ever since I woke up today, I feel so anxious. Like I am just waiting for something bad to happen, you know?” You turn around to look into JJ’s baby blues, trying to ground yourself.

JJ craddles your face in his hands, kissing you on the top of your nose. “My sweet baby.” He brushes your cheeks with his thumbs.

You close your eyes, leaning into his touch more, instantly feeling relaxed. His body so close to yours emanates warmth, enveloping you like a soothing blanket. You snake your hands through the holes of his tank top, splaying your palms on his ribs.

He brings you even closer and you clasp your hands around his abdomen. “Mmm, you’re so warm Jayj,” you mumble in his neck.

He rubs circles on your back, just enjoying having you in his arms. The relationship you have is different than anything else you've experienced. And it's true for both of you. It is gentle and sweet, providing you with peace you didn't even know you needed.

JJ gives you a kiss on the top of your head, and takes your hands out of his shirt, whirling you around.

You try to protest but he steadies you by putting his hands on your shoulders and kissing the side of your neck. A shiver goes up your spine, making whatever you wanted do say stay silent on your lips.

“You just relax baby and let me do this for you.” JJ knows how overstimulated you get when your hair is in the way when you are already feeling anxious. His fingers on the nape of your neck tickle you and you start wiggling. He lightly flicks your shoulder for you to stop.

You obey his touch and try to stay still while he works on something behind you. After a few moments, he gathers your hair and starts braiding it.

You nearly melt when you realize what he's doing. Nobody has ever taken the time of day to soothe you the way he is right now. You can feel your eyes filling with tears at the thought of him paying attention to you doing your hear so he can recreate it.

"I'm not a professional so m'sorry if it's not perfect, but I know your hair bothers you sometimes, so…," JJ trails off not finishing his sentence. You subtly wipe under your eyes before speaking.

"How do you always know what I need?" you ask him earnestly. You really mean it. He is so in sync with you, it's like he knows what you crave before you even know it. You've never felt safer than you do when you're in his arms.

"I don't know, cupcake," he says tugging on your braid, "I just know you."

"I love you." You press a delicate kiss on his soft lips, tracing his jaw with your fingers. JJ whimpers softly in your mouth.

You deepen your kiss, bringing your hands upwards to his golden hair, your fingers getting tangled in the locks. The bowl of popcorn sits forgotten on the table, the tv remote buried in the couch cushions somewhere. JJ falls backwards horizontally and you land on his chest.

The two of you are breathless when you finally part. It's hot in the living room and both of you have a thin sheen of sweat on your foreheads. JJ's eyes flutter when he presses the pad of his finger on your full lower lip.

"You're the best thing that happened to me," JJ whispers. You know how hard it is for him to be vulnerable and the fact he is with you makes you want to cry the happiest tears. The look in his eyes and the expression on his face say so much more than an i love you ever could.

[daosies]

one more kiss

this piece is part of the spring & swag event!!

Exhausted after a mission, you find solace in Sylus's tender care.

sylus ♡ gn!reader

warnings: sylus calls u "sweetie," reader has a skincare routine, allusions to sylus's myth lore, reader is the protagonist but gender neutral, nonsexual intimacy, kissing

notes: this might js be the most romantic piece ive ever written

“Oh?” an amused voice starts. “Someone looks a little tired. Did those wanderers rough you up, sweetie?” 

“Shut up,” you quip despite being too exhausted to fight back; you drop your bag on the floor of Sylus’s office before crashing into the couch, your gaze fixated on the ceiling above. 

You had made plans to stay with Sylus in the N109 Zone for the weekend, not realizing how taxing your mission would be beforehand. 

“Sorry,” you suddenly say, “I don’t think I’m in the right mind to go to dinner today, I’m really so—”

Before you can utter another apology, Sylus is by your side, hovering over your splayed form on the couch; his fingers come to tap on the skin of your bottom lip, a tender gesture in an attempt to seal them shut. 

“No more apologies,” Sylus states, the teasing smirk on his face not matching the tenderness of his tone. “We’ll just go tomorrow.” 

“But we’re already going to a nice restaurant for lunch tomorrow.” 

He raises his brow in mock offense. “So? You underestimate me, sweetie. Why must we only have one?” His thumb comes to rub tender circles into your cheekbones, massaging the skin before trailing up to the ridge of your brows, tracing the indent. 

You don’t say anything, but the way your eyes flutter shut, the way you lean towards him, the way you don’t say anything when his hands trace closer and closer to your neck—Sylus feels something stir. Your neck is bare, he notes. His thumb comes to massage the skin just below your jaw, and the stir grows, wild, brewing within his ribs; you; his hands; your neck. 

He has known violence across all his lives; and yet, your eyes are closed, never once questioning what he chooses to do. 

But Sylus is a simple man when it comes to you. He’ll choose to love, time and time again. Because every time you burst forth, reckless and wild and lovely, Sylus thinks that he’s become a stranger to himself. Because there’s something in his chest. A stir. A hand; a neck; entwined.

It’s love. 

But his love doesn’t rage, it doesn’t flicker like a flame, it doesn’t scorch like a burn. His love is gentle. 

Like the rustle of the flowers, the gentle breeze which dances through a meadow; Sylus’s love is unlike himself, for it has never known violence. 

At the same time, however, Sylus’s love is completely himself: because it has only ever known you.

“I’m sleepy,” you say, a yawn following soon after. Sylus chuckles, sitting on the floor next to the couch, his calloused fingers tracing over every inch of your face. From the bridge of your nose to the curve of your lips, no feature remains untouched, his hand dipping into every crevice, circling every crinkle. Divine.

“Are you wearing sunscreen, sweetie?” he responds simply. 

You hum. “I’ll take it off after a quick nap. I’m tired.” 

“Sleep, then.” He presses a kiss to your forehead, featherlight. 

Sylus has seen your night routines a plethora of times before. It comes naturally to him: the color of your cleanser bottle, the order of your skincare routine, the intervals he must wait in between applying each step in order to let the solution properly settle into your skin. Even the motions which he applies to your skincare is a reflection of you; you’ve told him once, just once, that it’s best to apply products in circular motions. 

It comes naturally to him, really. The circular motion of his hands as he rubs your skincare into your face, his calloused hands gentle, more accustomed to the tenderness than to the hilt of a gun. The way he waits at least fifteen seconds before moving onto the next step. The way he washes his hands during these moments. 

The way he hooks one arm under your knees, and the other under your back. The way he lifts you up with ease, careful not to disturb your rest, walking quietly and contentedly towards the bedroom. The way he tucks you into his bed, the way he brings the covers up to your neck, bare, the way he finds his spot next to you soon after.

One more kiss to your well-loved face. But then he realizes that your hands may feel neglected; so he kisses them, too. And your neck, bare. And your lips, parted. 

One more kiss. 

You stir from your sleep. Something stirs in his chest alongside you, tugged by the movement of your lashes, the slight flutter of your eyes as you stare at him, expression hazy.

“What’re you doing?” you mumble, voice marred by sleep. Sylus chuckles. 

“Nothing. Go to sleep, sweetie.” 

“Wake me up later. I have to remove my sunscreen.” 

One more kiss, this time, to those parted lips. 

“That’s already been done. Do you have any more requests?” 

“The lights,” you say. “Off, please.” 

He reaches over to the nightstand, flickering the lamp off. 

Sylus turns back to you; he has never needed the light to see your face, to know how your features are, to understand the expression which twists at your lips. 

One more kiss. Then, he joins you in sleep, his neck bare, his chest full, his heart: satiated. 

[punksyeet]

- Heart & Sole 4 ❥

Plot: “Do you love her, Joshua?”

Warning: Mature language & fluffy romance! <3

A/N: we’re back! GAHHH i missed this! so uhh if you missed it, it’s been a hot minute (at least for me) since i updated this series. and while i’d like to blame it all on writer’s block (which i definitely had so pls don’t get it twisted), i’ve also been in my gifs era!

shameless plug: you can check them out here AND one of my favorite ones that i’ve made so far is above!

anywho, ngl i’m kinda proud of this part (for once lmao) so i hope you all enjoy! 🥲💗💗

previous chapter! <3 | next chapter! <3

———————————————————————————————

“Mm!” Jon hums in approval, chewing his first bite of barbecue chicken. “Ma, this chicken is gas.”

In true mom fashion, Talisua turns from the barbecue and raises an eyebrow, placing a hand on her hip. “Gas? Boy, you got a problem with my chicken?”

He and Josh share a look before both nearly choking on their food from laughter.

“No, mama!” Trin replies in between giggles. “Gas means good. Like really good.”

Their mom still seems unamused, mean mugging us before turning back to the grill to flip the last few pieces of steak. “I’ll never understand y’all youngins and your random words.”

We all share a laugh before Jon looks over at me.

“How you like the food, Gi? This your first time tryin’ it, right?”

I nod, taking a sip of my lemonade. “It’s amazing! The ribs are my favorite.”

“A woman with taste!” Galina chimes in, offering me a high five.

I reach over and accept it, before we laugh in unison.

“I’m glad you like ‘em honey,” Talisua replies, walking over to the table with a tray of even more freshly cooked meat. “There’s plenty more if you’d like.”

I thank her sweetly before we all go back to our separate conversations.

As I’m awkwardly swirling my drink, I feel a warm hand on my thigh.

I look up and immediately smile, my eyes being brought with the most beautiful man in the world.

“How you feelin’, ma?” Josh asks, picking up his beer bottle from in front of him.

I nod, placing my hand over his. “Good. Really full though.”

He lowers the bottle from his lips and licks them before letting out a low chuckle. “Das the best way to feel after havin’ our food. Happy n full.”

I smile, nodding in agreement, before looking back down at my cup. 

He lifts our hands and places a soft kiss on my knuckles.

I scoot my chair over and lean my head on his side, wrapping my free arm around his waist.

He presses a deep kiss to my temple before our focus is brought back to his mom, who comes back outside from the house with a couple more beers.

I watch on as she talks with Josh’s stepdad, smiling and laughing like a teenage school girl on a date with her crush.

They look so happy.

And as if he can read my mind, Josh interrupts the soft sound of mutters throughout the yard.

“She in her element f’sho.”

I look up at him, smiling. “They’re adorable.”

“It’s been a tough go for her and pops since we been little,” he continues, rubbing small strokes on my hand with his thumb. “I’m just happy she’s happy.”

A soft smile appears on his face, as his deep brown eyes watch his mom from afar.

I don’t know if it’s the flame from the decorative torches spread throughout the yard or just a natural glow, but his eyes are extra sparkly tonight.

God he’s so dreamy.

I guess I stared for a little too long, because he turns his head after a few seconds and we make direct eye contact.

“Whatchu lookin’ at, girl?” he teases, the wholesome smile now turned into a playful smirk.

I roll my eyes playfully and look back down at my cup. “I can’t admire you now?”

He chuckles and gently lifts my chin. “Nah baby, feel free. I like lookin’ atcho pretty self.”

I smile and lean up to kiss his cheek, before resting my chin on his shoulder.

“You’re so beautiful,” he coos, staring deep into my eyes and lowering them onto my lips.

I chew on my bottom lip gently, reaching out to play with his curls. “Thank you, love. So are you.”

He raises an eyebrow, a confused smile on his face. “Girl, I’m a dude!”

I chuckle and cross my legs so that I’m fully facing him. “Guys can be beautiful too, you know.”

“Forreal?” he asks, tucking a curl behind my ear and resting his hand on my cheek shortly after.

I nod, leaning into his touch. “And you’re exhibit A.”

He chuckles and we slowly start to lean in in unison.

Second time’s the charm?

“Check check!” Jon’s voice echoes throughout the yard.

Fuck.

I let out a quiet sigh as Josh pulls away, throwing his head back.

“Ain’t no way I got cock blocked for a second time,” he mutters, running a hand down his face. “And by the same dude.”

I shake my head smiling and rest it on his chest again.

Our focus goes to Jon, who’s stood on the deck with a microphone in hand.

“It’s karaoke tiiiime,” he announces, in a goofy tone and follows it up with a dance.

Everyone laughs and cheers in unison.

———————————————————————————————

It’s now 10pm.

The past couple hours have been spent singing, dancing, laughing, and just enjoying each other’s company.

You’d never guess I met these people less than 12 hours ago.

From the second I let out a yawn, Josh is on my case.

“You tired, baby?” he asks, sliding an arm around my shoulders and rubbing my arm.

I smile, leaning into his touch and rubbing soft circles onto his back. “I’m getting there.”

He smiles back and presses a deep kiss onto my temple. “Let’s get you home then, yeah?”

I nod and kiss his shoulder before getting up.

“You guys headin’ out?” Jon asks from the far end of the table, placing his beer bottle down.

“Yup,” Josh replies, holding out my jacket, allowing me to slide my arms into the sleeves. “She gettin’ sleepy, uce.”

I whack his arm playfully as we all laugh in unison.

“It was so nice meeting you,” Almia exclaims, getting up and reaching over the table with her arms wide.

I smile, accepting her offer and squeezing her tight. “You too, girl. Thanks so much for having me.”

“Anytime!” she replies sweetly, as we let go and I head over to Galina.

“Let’s all plan something soon,” she suggests, rubbing my back during our embrace. “A little spa day or something.”

We all agree and I head over to Trin.

“I’m so glad you came boo,” she says, pulling me into a hug and squeezing extra tight.

I chuckle and hug back, rocking us back and forth. “Me too, girl. Thank you for everything.”

We give each other sister-like kisses on the cheek before separating.

And finally, Jon.

“Real nice seein’ you again girl,” he says, embracing me in a warm bear hug. “Quit bein’ such a stranger.”

I chuckle, hugging back. “I’ll do my best.”

He laughs and, directly after, daps up his twin brother.

On the way out, we say goodbye to all the husbands and cousins as well and, eventually, we’re ready to go.

“Do you mind if I just run to the bathroom quick?” I ask as we head back inside.

“Not at all,” Josh replies, pulling his car keys out of his sweatpants pocket. “I’ll go start the car.”

I smile and kiss his cheek. “Sounds good. I’ll be quick.”

** Josh’s POV **

Just as I’m about to head out to the driveway, the sound of a throat clearing behind me grabs my attention.

I know that tone from anywhere.

And sure enough, when I turn around, my mom is stood in the kitchen, arms crossed.

When we make eye contact, she crooks her finger, signaling for me to come over.

“Ma you ain’t done this since I was in middle school,” I exclaim, walking over. “The hell I did?”

She rolls her eyes and leans her elbows on the island, as I take a seat on one of the stools.

“I just wanna talk to you,” she replies, taking my hand. “About Gianna.”

Here we go.

Don’t tell me she doesn’t like her.

“Ma-“

“Shh,” she continues, cutting me off. “It’s not what you think.”

I immediately shut up and take a deep breath, letting her continue.

“She’s a sweet girl,” she exclaims. “Very kind and friendly. And she loves my cooking.”

I smirk as she tosses her braid to the side while saying that last part.

“That’s the most important part, huh?” I tease.

She nods. “Boy, you got no idea.”

We share a laugh and, shortly after, she speaks up again.

“But forreal, my love. I adore her. I have from the moment I met her.”

I smile, hanging onto her every word.

To have my mom’s approval? This shit means so much to me.

“I guess what I wanna know is…..do you feel the same way?”

My breath hitches.

The muffled sound of my brothers and cousins bursting into laughter, probably in reaction to something Jon did or said, takes over.

“What?” I ask, partly in disbelief, the other part in shock.

She takes a second before asking again.

“Son, I don’t mean to overstep. But I’ve seen this with you and your brothers before. And before anyone gets hurt, I just wanna do my part as your mother.”

I blink, still speechless.

Not because I don’t know how I feel.

God, that’s the least of my worries.

I love her. I know I do. With all my heart.

It’s just expressing my feelings - to my mom no less - that scares the shit outta me.

“Do you love her, Joshua?”

A glint of hope appears in her eyes from the second I open my mouth to reply.

And finally, when a well needed wave of courage comes over me, I give her what she wants.

“I do, Ma. I really do.”

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[mediumgayitalian]

“The key is under the mat.”

Nico glances down at his boots. Under them is indeed a mat, or at least an approximation of one, woven grass long since thinned and ripped enough to see right through. Enough so that Nico can see, quite clearly, the rings of the giant tree, but no key.

Not the it matters. Since the treehouse doesn’t have a lock.

“Will,” Nico sighs, “can I please just come in.”

“The key is under the mat!”

Nico wishes he was friends with less complicated people. Like Connor, maybe. Gods, he can’t believe he’s even thinking it, but bring back the Stolls. Nico needs to spend his time with people who aren’t worried about thoughts or neuron pathways. This is too hard.

“I can hear your superiority complex from in here.”

“Shut the hell up.”

“It’s stifling.”

Scowling, Nico really considers barging through the faded tapestry currently serving as a door. It would be so much easier. It would take him three steps, he estimates, to lunge in, grab the holy fool he calls his best friend, and drag him out, kicking and screeching if necessary, down the stupid tree and back to camp. Just to eat and shower and sleep.

Gods, when did he become a babysitter.

“The key is under the mat,” Will insists for the third time, and to avoid blowing up like an actual bomb Nico whips the stupid mat off the stupid floor and looks.

And.

Well.

“Huh,” he mumbles, and ignores Will’s indignant I told you so!. He squints at the faded letters, puzzling what they might really be — because there’s no way he’s reading them right — before giving up and hesitantly saying. “Ghed?”

“It’s gheD,” Will corrects.

“I said that!”

“No, you said Ghed.”

“I —” Nico takes a deep breath. And another. Then he mimes strangling someone in the direction of the door. “Okay. Can you. Repeat it please.”

“Yes,” says Will patiently. “Say it like this: gheD.”

Nico wonders what sins his father is punishing him for.

“GheD,” he tries.

“Lower case g!”

“How the fresh fuck do you —” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Okay. Okay. In through the nose, out the mouth. Okay. Fuck. gheD.”

The tapestry door-thing whooshes open. Nico stares at it.

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

It begins to descend. He rushes through it, tripping over a bent branch on the door frame and nearly toppling himself straight out of the tree and splatting on the floor. Fuck.

“This is, without a breath of hyperbole, the most annoying structure I’ve ever —”

His gaze skips over to the middle of the cramped little treehouse, where Will is curled up, in the middle of a frankly offensively large beanbag, knees tucked to his chest, curls dropping, eyes red.

“— seen.”

Will tries for a smile. “That’s what they get for letting an eight year old nerd design it.”

A curl of guilt cinches Nico’s heart. He does not have to ask who ‘they’ might be.

“How much did you have to beg to let them do that?”

“Barely.” Will snorts, scooching over to make room, snorting harder as Nico misjudges the softness of the beanbag and lands facefirst into the centre of it. “Michael liked to pretend to be a hardass but he was a big fat liar. I asked him first.”

Nico tucks his legs together, criss-cross, swiping the lint off his flaming face. “Now that is a challenge to picture.”

“Mhm. He really had the whole camp fooled.” He squeezes his eyes shut, burying his face in his knees, but he can’t hide the tremor in his voice. “He spoiled me bad.”

“Figures,” Nico says softly. He pokes his friend hard in the ribs. “Only brats like you are this annoying to find when you need to.”

Will chokes on a laugh, and then it warps something heavy in the back of his throat, and Nico winces at the sharpness of it, rubbing his own neck. He shifts, hands twitching. Will curls up tighter, leaning away.

“S-sorry.”

Nico clears his throat. “Don’t be.”

It is hard to be in the same room as someone who is crying. It is harder still to sit next to someone who is trying desperately not to.

Slowly, heart pounding, Nico pulls his hand out of his pocket, and rests it on the curve of Will’s spine.

The shaking worsens. But the muscles of Will’s back relax under his palm.

He lets Will cry. He’s not sure what else to do. He tries to imagine it, for a moment; not just Bianca’s death but Hazel’s, Reyna’s, Jason’s, even Percy’s and Annabeth’s and — gods, six more. At least. Watching them die, one by one. Feeling them die through the burning heat of your hands. The lump in Nico’s throat aches something fierce.

Fuck. He’d run away sometimes, too. He did, really.

“Is it — is the doorway enchanted?”

He winces. That is not the Statement of Support™️ he’s meant to say, but luckily Will only laughs, wet and muffled as it is, and nods. Unbidden, Nico’s heart begins to smart something nasty, hand sliding up without his permission to comb through Will’s hair. Of course he’s — laughing. Even when hurting.

“Yes. I — me and Cecil got banned from any kind of locking mechanisms after The Incident of 2006 so Diana improvised. She had a buddy in New Jersey, an old foster sister, who was a Hecate kid, so she called in a favour. And Lee let me choose the code word before Michael could stop him so it’s in Klingon. That’s why it’s hard to say. Cass convinced me to write it under the mat. She said it was in case I ever lost my voice or something and someone else had to let me out, but really it’s ‘cause I used to fall asleep in here all the time and they had to come carry me back.”

“They sound like they loved you,” Nico says softly.

Will turns his head, just enough that Nico can see the dark blues of his eyes, the tears sliding across his nose, his temples. He smiles, wobbly, and it is so cracked and fragile that Nico is reaching out before he realizes, palm wet where it covers Will’s cheek, and Will’s long fingers are wrapped around his wrist.

“They did.” He sniffles. “I miss them, Nico.”

“You’re allowed to.” He runs his thumb over the heavy bags under Will’s eyes, careful not to catch the soft skin with his calluses. “Maybe, like, let someone know before you disappear, but you can take the time to miss them, Will.” He squeezes gently. “‘Feel it, don’t forget it’, right, Mr. Therapist?”

Will smiles again, and there is no attempted lightness, in it, this time; it is small and it is sad and it is sincere.

“Right.” He leans into Nico’s hand. “Thank you.”

Nico exhales. “Of course, tesoro.”

[stevieschrodinger]

Part One Two Three

Robin sucks on her drink through her straw, “why, exactly, are we here?”

Steve sighs into his own drink.

Robin looks around the yard from her perch on a lawn chair, “I can’t help but notice, Steven, that we are very clearly the oldest people here.”

Steve watches Eddie balefully. He’s trying and failing to light the grill. It’s almost embarrassing to watch; Steve can’t seem to look away.

“Steven, I am drinking something that was mixed together in bowl. I’m drinking it out of a red solo cup. I haven’t touched one of these in a decade. I require an explanation.”

“I don’t have one.”

“That is a lie. Your pants will catch fire and then you can use them to help that moron to light the grill.”

They watch for a little longer.

“Fucks sake Steve just go and do it for him. This tastes like paint thinner; I’ll need to eat some bread at some point or I’ll go into kidney failure.”

Steve gets up and lights the grill for Eddie. He’s wearing another butchered tee shirt and some black board shorts. He’s so pale, and all of his bony bits are on show. Elbows. Wrists. Ankles.

His hair is gathered up into a messy bun on top of his head.

He still has a smear of make up on one eyelid where it hasn’t washed off properly.

Steve knows exactly what he sounds like when he comes.

“Thanks man,” Eddie’s blushing. He’s rubbing the back of his neck. It reveals Eddie’s pale ribs. His dark hairy armpit-

Steve runs away before he does something stupid.

“Okay, so, step by step, no gory details please, what exactly happened last night, because I know damn well you didn’t spend the entire forty five minutes I was waiting hanging around in a gross bathroom.”

Steve sighs, rubs his forehead, then goes and gets them both refills.

“Coward,” Robin calls after his retreating back.

He’s refilling their cups with an honest to fucking god soup ladle out of the kitchen – avoiding the fly that has met it’s sticky end in what is, no doubt, highly toxic punch – when it happens.

“Hey man,” Steve is being addressed by an actual pimply teenager.

“Hey.”

“Nice car,” he sounds weirdly angry about it.

“Uhhh...thanks,” because Steve doesn’t know what the fuck else to say to a dude wearing a dungeons and dragons tee shirt over flaming basketball shorts. He has nothing on his feet. Outside. Steve represses a shudder.

“Look, you clearly have money, or whatever, and probably a fancy job and you’re like, forty-”

“Hey-”

“- or whatever, but this thing with Eddie, can you make it fast please? Dragging it out isn’t fair on him.”

Steve blinks. He’s getting a shovel talk from someone who probably doesn’t know what a VHS is.

Steve can remember playing video games with no save; if you were going to do it, you had to play the whole damn thing in one go. Steve didn’t have a mobile phone until he was fifteen. Steve is not going to take this.

“This ‘thing’ I have with Eddie is none of your business. Eddie can speak for himself-”

“No Eddie cannot speak for himself, because Eddie is the nicest guy I know and Eddie already thinks he’s in love. Don’t think I don’t see what this is for you, Eddie’s just another thing to play with until you get bored. Look at this place, look at us. Now look at you and you’re fancy friend over there,” the kid gestures and, yeah, alright, the difference is pretty obvious, “you wouldn’t be caught dead here, slumming it, if you weren't getting something out of it. Now hurry it along, Eddie only writes good stuff when he’s heartbroken. Which is a lot, by the way. We all know how this goes.”

“What’s wrong with your face?”

“I just got a shovel talk from a kid who probably shouldn’t even be drinking yet.”

“Ouch,” Robin takes her drink back, “how does that feel?”

Steve shrugs, “not sure, actually.”

Across the yard, Steve watches as Eddie gesticulates wildly and hisses angrily at the pimply face DnDer. He catches Steve watching. Eddie grabs the kid by the arm and drags him away.

“The burgers are burning,” Robin idly points out.

Steve sighs, he loves this polo, grease stains are a bastard, and the chances of finding an apron in this place are none existent.

At least Robin comes with him. She half unwraps some cheese and generally pretends to busy herself, slicing buns and stacking paper plates.

“So, last night?”

“Right,” Steve sighs through his nose, shuffling some onions around on the flat plate. “So I was just going to you know, get him.”

“Get your man tiger,” Robin purrs.

It shouldn’t be funny, but it kind of is. Steve laughs.

“But he just...grabbed my hand. And he said ‘Steve! Come and meet the guys!’ So I...did.”

“He introduced you to his friends,” Robin raises that lethal eyebrow.

“Yeah.”

“And you went along with it?”

“Well I kind of...he didn’t let go of my hand so I kind of…”

Both of Robins eyebrows are now in the stratosphere. She appears to spend a few minutes digesting that, “and then you got invited to...this.”

Steve’s already dug half a hole, and he still apparently has the shovel in his hand, so he keeps going, “he was just so happy to see me,” Steve admits, quietly.

“Who is that?”

“Who?”

Robin grabs Steve by the hair and forcibly turns his whole head, “that.”

There’s a blonde girl talking to Eddie. She’s wearing a white tank top and daisy dukes, “no idea.”

“Come on, high time you introduced me.”

Steve really tries, but he cant hide the fact that he is delighted by this turn of events, “why, Robin Buckley! Oh how the tables have turned-”

“Shut the fuck up. I’m going to make her cry.”

Part Five

[a-leg-without-fear]

Sweet

sin sin sin sIN SIN THIS IS SIN. please enjoy pleasuring our dear college!matt

Ship: Matt Murdock x Female!Reader

Rating: 18+ (pure filth, truly)

Wordcount: 2.7k

Warnings: smut, sexual situations, foreplay, some depressive thoughts (because i apparently can't write anything without them)

Warm.

Soft, warm, gentle, sweet. Sweeter than anything he’d tasted. Like dew that’s been licked off a cold strawberry, or the fragrant scent that wafts through the air outside of flower shops. A delicate and tender sweetness. Subtle, comforting, like the smell of home after being away for years. Such sweetness could make Matt lose himself, letting himself drift away on a current of fond smiles and warm embraces. He would allow himself to drown in the sweet taste, even if it was the last drop to pass his lips before he drifted to the ocean floor.

At the sudden loss of the warmth, the tenderness, the sweetness, Matt’s throat let out a whine of annoyance. His body moved of its own accord as he scrambled to reconnect himself to the source. Fingers tangling in silken hair. Hand bunching in a tank top. Teeth nipping at a plump, pink lower lip.

“Matt,” you sighed. The words cascaded past Matt’s tongue and down his throat, carrying a breeze filled with cherry blossoms in their wake. He could distantly feel delicate fingertips brush at his jaw. A tingling warmth trailed behind the gentle touch, only fueling his need to swallow as much sweetness as he could.

“Matt, honey. Breathe.”

Matt’s eyes fell open as he pulled away from his brief reprieve. His senses came crashing down like a cave in. All he could see was a haze of swirling oranges and reds that filled every inch in sight. Streaks of flame and blood painting the college dorm room like a canvas on fire. His cotton shirt was too tight, too scratchy. The humid air settled in his pores like an unwelcome visitor. A sudden cacophony of noise spilled into his ears through the crack under the door and the thin material of the walls. He blinked a few times to reorient. 

The first inhale he allowed himself felt like a punch in the lungs. Gone was the taste of strawberries or cherry blossoms, the feeling of warmth and comfort. A sharp tang of stale alcohol plunged its way into his sinuses and left him reeling. Notes of old, worn carpet and water-damaged ceilings shoved their way through to stand side by side to overwhelm thought and feeling. Matt screwed his eyes shut, trying to recall the smell of flowers that flowed like water down his throat.

“Hey, I’m right here,” you whispered, your melodic voice brushing aside the sounds assaulting Matt’s senses. Your soft hand rested along his jaw and brought his forehead to yours. Matt could feel your breath fan across his face. Warm and gentle and sweet.

“I… I’m sorry,” Matt said. He felt naïve. The world was harsh and cold and unforgiving. He shouldn’t have let himself get carried away by the allure you unintentionally provided. The sweet ambrosia that flowed from your lips could never compete with the torrential downpour of too much all around him.

“Sorry for what?” you asked. Your fingers brushed strands of Matt’s dark hair away from his face, then trailed their way down his cheek to rest on his collarbone. 

Matt opened his eyes again in a desperate attempt to see you. See anything. But all he was met with was the clouded reds and oranges that submerged the world beneath a pool of blood. 

He tried to focus on where your face would be, using the brush of air currents along your seated body to understand where you were on the bed. Your head was cocked, hair falling in front of your kind eyes. Matt could tell you were looking at him. From the way your heart calmly beat behind your ribs and the pheromones that surrounded you like an aura, Matt assumed you were happy. Content.

“I got caught up in the moment,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. You chuckled at his bashfulness, the sound ringing like a small bell around Matt’s head. Hopefully he could deflect from his lapse in awareness. Of course he had to be blind and easily distracted.

“That’s not a bad thing, you know. Just gotta remember to breathe,” you said. Matt scoffed playfully at the jab. He let his hands drift down to your waist, tucking his fingers beneath the bunched-up hem of your shirt.

“I don’t know, you seem to like it when I prevent you from breathing.”

Your breath caught in your throat as your heart leapt and your face heated. A flash of the intoxicating scent that was distinctly you floated from between your legs. Matt could feel his own arousal swirling like a whirlpool in his stomach. An uncontrollable tempest begging to be released over calm waters. Despite how desperately he wanted your clothes off and you beneath him, he pulled his mouth into a cocky grin while his fingers worked their way up to your bra.

“What’s wrong? Feeling embarrassed? Or are you just remembering how good it felt when I choked you?” he purred.

That got you riled up. Your chest started heaving as your skin grew hot and clammy over your entire body. A fresh wave of wetness and delicious scent warmed the inside of your thighs. You swallowed heavily and Matt could practically feel the way the muscles in your throat moved.

But you hesitated. Your fingers stopped their soft stroking along his sensitive skin. Your breath halted just behind your soft lips. Matt’s brow furrowed as a frown tugged at the edges of his lips.

“You okay?” he asked warily. Matt forced his hands to cease in their uphill climb and placed them on your hips. Anxiety gripped at his chest. Did he misread the situation? Misread you? Did he make you uncomfortable? God, what if you finally realized you’d made a mistake in dating him? It was bound to happen, sooner or later.

“Can I be on top tonight?” you asked, as though that sentence didn’t hit him like a ton of bricks to the stomach.

“W-What?” Matt spluttered.

“These past few times you’ve been making me feel good. Really good. I want to try to return the favor,” you explained. Your nails began to pick at a stray thread on Matt’s shirt collar. Matt’s ears picked up on the uptick in your pulse. Were you… nervous?

“If you don’t want to, that's fine, you can be on top. We can also just kiss if that’s more what you’re feeling today. I don’t want to make you feel weird and-”

“Sweetheart, slow down,” Matt said, interrupting your fast-paced tangent. Your mouth clamped shut as a deep breath filled your lungs. Matt grabbed loosely at your shoulders, thumbs rubbing back and forth on your bare skin, as an easy smile fell over his face.

He gave you a few seconds to catch your breath then said, “You can be on top. I just wasn’t expecting you to ask.”

In all honesty, he wasn’t expecting you to ask. Matt’s life was a never ending learning curve of discovering that love was not guaranteed. His mother left before he was a year old, his father died when he was nine, his mentor, Stick, abandoned him at the first sign of affection. He learned long ago to not expect anything from anyone. That was the first lesson Stick had taught him. 

And yet, against all odds, here you sat. An enigma if ever there was one. Offering your affection on a silver platter at Matt’s feet. A clear sign of trust, of devotion, of love.

“Okay,” you said. A relieved smile broke out across your face. You tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear as you cleared your throat. Matt’s heart raced in time with yours. His fingers began kneading in the soft flesh at your hips.

“Lie down for me,” you said. Four words, spoken softly with the gentleness of a feather, yet they struck Matt in the chest like a wide haymaker. A sentence that carried the weight of authority and a gentle caress all in one. Suddenly all he wanted to do was follow instructions.

In a flash he had his head on the pillow, arms at his sides, breathing at an alarmingly fast rate. Anticipation burned its way through his veins and clouded his senses. The world outside the dorm room faded away. Like a memory retreating into a dense fog. Loud voices down the hall quieted into nothing, the humidity in the air evaporated, his shirt felt like the softest silk, and the scent around him. God, all he could smell was you. Your breath was like the first day of spring, your skin like rolling hills of green grass, your hair like soft strands of pure sunlight. Matt’s world was, yet again, sweet.

“Let me know if I’m making you uncomfortable,” you breathed, your lips suddenly brushing against his earlobe. Matt would have jumped had he not been so relaxed beneath your comforting presence. Your sense of calm had washed over him like a warm wave at low tide. 

“I will,” Matt replied, having to use what remained of his mind to form two coherent words. A soft hum of acknowledgement rustled the baby hairs by his ear. He had just enough awareness to track you as you pressed a soft kiss under his jaw. 

A sigh escaped his lips as he tilted his head back against the pillow. You smiled against his skin, rewarding the accommodation by pressing a firmer kiss into the soft skin beneath his ear. Tendrils of goodgoodgood shocked their way through his veins from where your lips connected to the sensitive skin. His breath hitched as he let his eyes fall closed.

“Good spot, I take it,” you said through a smile Matt could hear. Matt barely got out the word “yes” before you licked a broad swipe up his neck and ended at that sensitive spot. Matt’s back arched as a groan kicked its way out of his throat. His hands fisted into your tank top out of pure instinct, practically begging the source of his pleasure to stay put. Another pass of your tongue stoked the embers in his abdomen into a bonfire, flames licking their way over his damp skin.

“Sweetheart, please,” Matt begged, the words a whisper on his parted lips. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was begging for. All he knew was he never wanted you to stop. 

Blunt fingernails traced the exposed skin beneath his shirt. Matt’s hips bucked up, chasing the light touch. The muscles beneath his skin jumped as you slowly, so slowly, started pushing his shirt up. It was agonizing, the feeling of your nails lightly scraping along his stomach. Each finger lit up thousands of nerve endings, each nerve ending pushing him further and further toward the edge of a steep cliff.

You pressed a soft kiss to the shell of Matt’s ear as you whispered, “Arms up, Matt.”

You could tell him to kneel at your feet for the rest of his life and he would.

Matt did the best his melted body could to help you take his shirt off. The two of you were a mess of limbs and cotton for a moment before you were able to pull the infernal garment away. Matt’s arms fell beside him like two sacks of grain. Palms as soft as calfskin ever so gently glided down his bare chest. You made sure every divot and round muscle got the attention it deserved, caressing Matt like he was the finest lace. When your pinky brushed against his nipple, a sharp hiss escaped through his teeth.

You hummed, hands retreating in their path, fingers dancing along the edges of Matt’s nipples. Matt choked out a moan, baring his neck as his back arched into your touch. Your tongue made another pass of his throat as feather-light glances of your fingers across both of his nipples chased the last coherent thoughts from Matt’s mind.

“Fuck,” Matt groaned. Every millimeter of his skin felt like it was aflame. Fire left in the wake of your gentle touch. Burning away all sense and reason until all that was left was Matt’s writhing body.

He was close. Embarrassingly so. Matt clung to the cliff’s edge by his fingertips, each kiss and caress prying his fingers off one by one. His hips moved of their own volition. He was bucking into your thigh like a dog in heat. Whines and moans flew from his glistening lips while his hands scrabbled against the sheets.

With your hands still toying at Matt’s chest, you shifted in his lap until the warm heat between your thighs settled over where his shorts had tented. A slurred string of curses and your name spilled from between his teeth. His wild grinding now dispersed your scent in the air around him. And God, there was so much. It settled into every inch of Matt’s skin until he could taste it on his tongue, feel it coat his lungs as he breathed it in.

“Sw-eetheart,” Matt choked out. He could feel his fingers falling away from the cliff in rapid succession. The precipice below him seemed to climb up the cliffside until it was just beneath his feet, tempting him to let go and plunge into its depths.

The final nail in his coffin was when you nipped at his neck, teeth closing around where his pulse flowed strongest. The air in his lungs leapt through his throat in one big gust. His unseeing eyes rolled back in his head, hands grabbing at anything in their vicinity. 

Matt’s final grip on the cliff fell away, plunging him into warmth and gentleness and sweetness that surrounded him like a strong embrace. Held him tight and wove its way through every muscle in his body. A shock of white hot pleasure rolled through him like a steam train. Starting in his groin and washing over him in wave after wave of fuckyesgoodfuckkeepgoingdon’tstop. He could barely register how loud he was over the roaring in his ears. His heart pounded against his chest like an animal behind bars.

Your lips found his again and everything clicked into place. Matt lapped at your mouth like he was drinking his first glass after a month in the desert. The sweet nectar that you produced flowed down his throat and prolonged his orgasm. His hips rocked up into yours, chasing a heat that he could feel in his bones. Hands, trembling, bunched themselves in your shirt and pulled your chest flush to his.

It took several minutes for the aftershocks to calm down. Every breath, every twitching muscle made his overwhelmed senses go haywire. In his mind, the world around him was a swirling cloud of bliss. All he could hear was your breathing, all he could feel was your heartbeat against his chest, all he could taste was strawberries and cherry blossoms. He let his fingertips trail along your exposed shoulders, zeroing in on the feeling, bringing himself back to reality.

When you felt the movement, you lifted your head to look at him, “Back with us?”

A tired smile spread itself over his lips. Matt opened his eyes, the effort to lift his eyelids like lifting a dumbbell, and let his empty gaze land somewhere on your face.

“Yeah, I’m here,” he sighed. You responded by giving him a quick peck on the lips. Matt grumbled, brow furrowing, then guided your chin back up to kiss him again. You chuckled against his lips, a whisper of “ridiculous man” absorbed between your mouths. Matt relished in the familiar sweetness before letting you pull away.

“I take it you enjoyed that?” you asked. Matt gave you a solemn nod, at which you laughed. He shifted beneath you so he could attempt to meet your eyes.

“Did you like it?” he asked tentatively. He fiddled with the hem of your shirt as he waited for your answer. He hadn’t done anything for you, he just laid there and made you do all the work. What kind of boyfriend was he? Not to mention you didn’t even touch him. A few grazes of your fingers over his chest and he was done for.

“I loved it. It was fun to figure out what buttons to push,” you laughed. The tinkling tune of your laugh erased any negative thoughts Matt retained about the experience. He let his smile return, holding you tighter to his chest.

“Give me a few minutes and I’ll return the favor,” Matt said, letting that seductive edge find its way back into his voice. You shuddered on top of him. Your thighs clenched instinctively around his. You blew a stray strand of hair out of your face, attempting to mask the want clearly written on your skin.

“3 minutes, then we’re back in business.”

“Deal.”

HUGE thanks to the Murdock Tuna Team for being the inspiration for this fic. i have them to blame for the filth that fills my head on an hourly basis.

Murdock Tuna Team 🐟: @vigilxnte-shit @pastafossa @yarrystyleeza @ecxlipse @sunflowersandsapphires @amphitrite-5 @fuckyeahpommelstrike @mar-thewriter @zomtart @what-i-call-men

[onlybeeewrites]

Easy to Blame

Request: Darling....can I request a fic of xaden ....where the reader is her sister and he and other marked ones don't like her due to some reason...but then she's a goddamn badass and yeah make it angsty as hell(I don't know if this makes sense)

Pairings: Xaden Riorson x sister!reader, Marked ones x Reader, sort of Sawyer x fem!Reader

Word count: 1.7k

Warnings: IRON FLAME SPOILERS, cannon accurate violence, targeted hated, cursing, life threats, past deaths, misdirected hatred and grief, bad parenting.

A/N: This is where my mind went with this request! Hopefully you all enjoy it ❤️

~~~~~~~~~~~

The weight of the guilt clung to you like a second skin, thick and suffocating. A burden and weight that seems to be placed rather unfairly onto your shoulders. As each and every step through the halls of Basgiath War College was met with narrowed eyes, cold glares, and the ever-present whispers that followed like a specter.

It didn’t matter who you passed in the halls. It didn’t matter when. Didn’t matter who you sat with in class or in the dining hall. The other cadets in your year would see the swirling dark tattoo on your left arm and lift their noses at you. While other marked ones would do the very same thing.

They didn’t trust you.

No one trusted you.

He didn’t trust you.

Xaden Riorson had made sure of that.

Your older brother—the only family you had left—had turned his back on you the moment you arrived at the college when you were old enough. His expression carved from stone, his voice sharp enough to cut. You had known it would be difficult. You had expected anger, the frustration, even the resentment.

But this? This was something worse.

You wasn’t just unwanted. You were avoided. You were the enemy. To everyone.

“Stay the hell out of my way.”

His voice was ice, cutting through the tension between them like a blade. And cut through you like shards.

You had found him in the training yard, surrounded by the Marked Ones in his squad, his second-in-command Garrick, your old friend, leaning against a post while Bodhi, your cousin, didn’t even look at you. While Imogen crossed her arms, regarding her with a mixture of distrust and disdain.

But ever so determined, you lifted your chin. It had been almost two months since you had gotten there. Almost two months and he still refused to even give you two minutes of his time. And yet you refusing to shrink under their scrutiny. “I’m not your enemy, Xaden. I’m your sister. You’d think after six years you’d know that. I’m not here to cause trouble, I’m here to,”

He scoffed. “A little late for that, don’t you think?” Interrupting your sentence

That had hurt. Had it been too late? You could feel your stomach twisted. You had prepared herself for hostility, but hearing it aloud—from him—still hurt. Hurt more than expected. That was your brother.

But in that moment you had never more like a stranger.

Garrick sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “Look, it’s not personal—”

“Like hell it isn’t,” Xaden cut in, his jaw clenched. He took a step toward you, his voice lowering to something dangerous. “Because of you, our father is dead. Because of you, our mother walked away from us. Had you just been a little more helpful, things wouldn’t be this fucking difficult,” he said. His voice filled with pure distain, pure hatred and anger.

His words hit like a punch to the ribs.

You had only been fourteen years old, just barely understanding what was even happening when their father was executed for his rebellion along with the other leaders. You had stood there, frozen, tears streaming down her face while Xaden held her hand so tightly it hurt.

But it was your mother who shattered everything.

It had been before the rebellion. Years before. Right after Xaden’s birthday. She had tucked you both in at bed that night. Told you both how much she loved you. Kissed you both so lovingly and softly. And the next morning?

Gone.

No note. No explanation. Just a home that felt empty and wrong.

Xaden had never forgiven her for that. Neither had you.

And now, surrounded by the people who would die for him, who would follow him into battle without hesitation, he made sure they all knew where she stood.

“She can’t be trusted,” he had told them. “Keep your distance.”

And they had listened.

The isolation was suffocating.

It was a permanent weight in you chest that was always threatening your mind constantly.

You were used to whispers, but the silence was worse. The Marked Ones didn’t speak to you unless necessary. They didn’t train with you. If you tried to spar, they found someone else. If you sat down at a table, they left.

Even the others followed their lead.

Even your squad. They put up with you when they had to. But that was it.

Sawyer was the only one who seemed indifferent, watching her with something like curiosity rather than outright hatred. At least she had him. Sawyer was sweet.

But Xaden?

Xaden didn’t look at you at all.

And that was worse than all of it.

It was months past, presentation and threshing was just around the corner—or just over the gauntlet.

The Gauntlet loomed in the distance above them, an unforgiving structure of swinging beams, crumbling platforms, and gaps that seemed impossible to cross.

Failure meant death.

And you weren’t about to fail.

The morning of the run, whispers followed her as she strapped on her training leathers. Echoed whispers surrounded them around the dining hall and through the halls out side.

“She’ll fall.”

“She won’t even make it halfway.”

“She should’ve never been allowed here in the first place.”

“She won’t make it past threshing.”

“Let’s hope not.”

You ignored them.

You had to.

You couldn’t allow those thoughts to take over. You couldn’t let them be right.

All the odds were against you. Abandoned and ignored by your brother. Ignored and shunned by your family from a decision that you truly had no part of. It wasn’t your fault. In the big grand scheme of things, it was not your fault. But that didn’t matter.

Because in their minds, and in Xaden’s, it was your fault. Everything. Was. Your. Fault.

And that guilt? That unfair burden? That would always remain as long as Xaden blamed you for everything.

It had been months now after parapet. Threshing was in a few weeks. Presentation. But first was the Gauntlet.

Xaden stood at the top with Garrick, arms crossed as he surveyed the cadets. If he heard the murmurs, he didn’t acknowledge them. His dark eyes narrowing down the course at his wing as the other sections and squads prepared to do their practice runs before the timed trials.

Practicing for when threshing was finally around. The test for a chance to prove themselves worthy. Worthy enough to make it past presentation, they’d need all these skills. To ride your dragons. If you made it that far, at least.

The course was grueling. Designed to push cadets past their limits. Designed with dragons in mind for each obstacle. Designed to weed out the weak ones.

And so here you were. Standing in the front of the line for your squad, just behind Sawyer. First squad was finishing up ahead of you. The first few competitors barely made it over the first swinging bridge before slipping to their deaths. Others hesitated at the crumbling stones, losing precious time.

Then it was time for your squad. Sawyer went first, his agility unmatched as he maneuvered through the course with a speed no one could match. It was probably because he had done this before.

Sawyer was a repeat, as you had learned. He had gone through all this last year.

Then it was your turn.

Your pulse thundered in your ears, but you shoved the nerves down. You didn’t have the luxury of fear. You couldn’t afford to feel. Not now. Not in front of the rest of your Squad, the

As the signal to begin echoed through the training grounds, you launched yourself forward with unwavering resolve.

The first obstacle, a towering vertical wall, stood as an imposing sentinel. Without hesitation, you sprinted toward it, you steps light and measured. Utilizing your momentum, you leaped, you fingers gripping the edge with practiced precision. With a controlled pull, she swung her leg over and descended smoothly, barely pausing before advancing to the next challenge.

The rotating wheel loomed ahead, a notorious obstacle that had bested many cadets. Timing her approach, you synchronized your movements with the wheel’s rotations. With a swift, calculated jump, you grasped a handle and swung yourself to the other side, landing in a crouch before springing forward without losing momentum.

A series of balance beams awaited, each narrowing mean. You navigated the beams with grace. Your arms subtly adjusting to maintain equilibrium. Your focus was absolute, gaze fixed ahead, blocking out the murmurs of onlookers and the weight of expectations.

Next came the rope climb. Seizing the coarse rope, you ascended hand over hand, you movements fluid and efficient. Reaching the summit, you tapped the marker and descended in controlled slides, your feet touching the ground with barely a sound.

The next challenge, the chimney climb, required both strength and strategy. Positioning yourself between the narrow walls, you used opposing pressure to “walk” upward, your movements steady and controlled.

The final challenge was the huge steep wall. The one to run up, the challenge that simulates climbing up the dragon leg to ride. And just above it was where your brother was.

Taking a deep breath, you backed up. Backing up as far as she possibly could. This was where she proved them all wrong. And then. Suddenly, you bolted forward. Using all the strength she had, she spent it into and bolted up the wall. Your feet pressed against the wall as you pushed yourself up and up and up until your hand reached the lip of the curve.

With all the strength you had left, you pulled yourself over the edge. Your body was pulled over with the last bit of your strength as finally your right leg got pulled over. And a soft click of the stop watch sounded in your ears.

A stunned silence fell over the crowd as you finished hauling yourself over the edge.

Garrick’s voiced cleared before he read your time aloud.

Second place.

Second place.

Only second to Sawyer.

The silence stretched, heavy and stunned, before someone let out a low whistle. And then some hushed mumbling.

You got to your feet before you turned, locking eyes with Xaden. Onyx eyes, locking with onyx eyes. Sweat dripping down your skin.

For the first time since you had arrived, he was looking at you.

Really looking at you.

And for a moment—a single, fleeting moment—you saw something crack in his expression. Something uncertain. Looking like you big brother again. But there was something else.

Something like doubt.

But then he turned away, jaw tightening.

He didn’t congratulate you.

Didn’t acknowledge what you had done.

But he couldn’t ignore it, either.

You weren’t weak.

Just like Xaden, you were a Riorson.

And you were a goddamn force to be reckoned with.