#i refuse to listen to people who think that not everything is political
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cosmojjong · 11 months ago
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nowadays i really don't have any patience
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this-should-do · 7 months ago
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venting dont mind me xp ✌
#if i dont get out of my parents house im going to die#either by my hand or my mothers#i refuse to be forced into the role of woman becuz my mother cant get over herself or accept other peoples suffering#so i either leave or i die#i am never more depressed than when im in this house and it gets worse everytime i return#every second of oeace is a facade careful held up by smiles and jokes while ignoring who i am to please others#and ignorjng the genuinely genocidal beliefs of my parents against myltple peoples#at least one of which includes me#why cant life be easy#when is it .y turn to tbrive#in this hluse i am no older than a middle schooler no more mature or happy#everyday i dream of relapsing sh-ing just for some control of the pain i experiemce something anything#maybe someone will finally listen to me and se ehow ioset i am see how smothered i am and the sting will pull me back down to earth again#but no who would see would understand#my brothers or my parents none of them would kniw why even if i said it to thwir face#i dint event even want to think of what my mother woukd say#shed use it as an excuse to further deny my transness surely#say how horribke and spirtful and manipulative i am against her#that i ddi it to hurt her#i am trapped as a doll in a house only allowed to be agreeable no politics no emotions other tan#contentness and love and adoration for my family#or else i am unloveavle and horrible and sick#i cannot tell my mom she has uoset me becuz it would be unfair i am silent instead#i am to take her anger and rage as a perfect recepticle and no matter how well i handle it#i am thanked with resentment amd scorn amd terfisms#i can neither disagree woth her beliefs nor avoid discussing them to keeo the oeace all she wants is comoliance#i refuse to do that tho ill take hee scorn on that one thing i refuse to xomprimise my beliefs verbally to save my own skin#ill just be quiet#im sure id be a better recepticle for her dead so she can dress me up as a girl one last time#the dead cant argue or disagree with you its everything she wants from me
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kn11ves · 1 year ago
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i entirely agree that humans should depend on each other more and that we should try to approach people with open minds and not believe that they are out to get us, on that note, shaming and chastising people for not feeling comfortable to depend on other people and telling them that they need to fix it or they're actually MORE of a bother and a burden is probably not the best way to go about it
#10000 millionth post where some tumblr users' opinion breaches containment and i must comment on it vaguely#listen it is sort of upsetting how it really is true that the majority of those call-out-y posts on peoples' behaviours can be really#damaging for people with ocd. like you re just going to send us on a spiral because now we arent even sure if the thing we were trying to d#as to not cause other people pain is actually causing more pain and oh dear god we're really terrible people ohh fack ive known all along#i think the first step to making people feel more comfortable to take your help and hospitality is probably approaching them kindly?#at least instead of saying we must ''learn to accept it''#plus the mention of individualism and comunialism-- i agree individualism has hurt a lot of people and it is very bad#although to some degree i dont think it is entirely wrong you cannot fully depend on everyone 100% of the time for your own safety#we are as a society not there yet where that is possible. etc etc also learned helplessness#but anyways if youre going to talk about individualism then you have to actually acknowledge that a lot of collectivist societies have cult#cultures in which REFUSING THE HOSPITALITY IS PART OF THE CULTURE!!!! where youre meant to say no many times as a show of respect and as th#host continues to offer it. as well many many many MANY people born from immigrant parents or who are immigrants themselves have a shared#experience of being raised to be as completely clean and polite and small as possible when in someone elses' home#it just really rubbed me the wrong way the entire post...#i just dont think you should get so upset someone doesnt accept your hospitality consider everything is not erm about you and maybe they#arent comfortable enough with you or are having a bad day ?#''i can always tell when they are only saying it because they dont want to be a bother'' no u litearlly cannot#anyways it was a very american post that i did not like.#do help each other and take the help when you need it though we need that.
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goldenstring6123 · 5 months ago
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Lnds: Red tinted lover
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Warning: No warnings! GN!reader, fluff and teasing.
Author's note: Inspired by a cute ramble of anon!
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What makes Zayne blush:
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Compliment him and brag about him in front of his peers and yours. Being his lover, you observed a lot of things from him. Zayne performs minuscule acts of kindness when the situation calls for it, and sometimes, he does it in private, hidden from others' sight. When you bring these up, most people are impressed, but Zayne, on the other hand, is just beside you or nearby, listening to you ramble about his actions.
"You're super red."
"I am not," he politely replied.
"Yes, you are," you said in a singsong. "You're super red like a tomato. Is it because I complimented you a lot?"
Zayne doesn't respond and avoids eye contact. You cup his cheeks, and he is forced to look at you, wide eyes wide open. What he sees is your cheeky grin; behind it is the real intent of why you said those things about him. "Aren't you just the cutest? The cold and stoic Dr. Zayne blushing because his lover complimented him. Wouldn't that make a good headline for the hospital publication?"
You grab the opportunity to pinch his nose lightly, and he pulls away, no less red than before.
"You're so cute, I just want to—" You made a gesture of your fingers squeezing his cheeks.
"I can't help but think that you orchestrated this to get a reaction from me."
"Maybe I did, maybe not." You shrugged with a chuckle, giving him a sly expression.
"Cunning as always." The surgeon shook his head and turned away, hoping that he would return to his original complexion before someone else saw him.
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What makes Rafayel blush:
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Claim him and be jealous. Rafayel is naturally a magnet for people. No matter how much he likes his peace, people would flock to him all the time, both boys and especially girls. Sometimes, he has a hard time turning people down and is overwhelmed by their presence; he's sometimes unable to refuse a picture or two. That's when you come in. Confidently, you would hook yourself onto his arm and lean on him. When people ask who you are, you would say your name. And when people ask what you are to Rafayel, you would simply reply: "I'm Rafayel's wife. Do you need something from my husband?". The ladies who had ulterior motives backed away almost instantly.
"You're really a woman magnet, aren't you Rafa—" You turn to look at him in exasperation but pause. "Rafayel?"
The artist was avoiding your eyes. He was facing you, but his head was turned elsewhere, and he was biting his lip. Moreover, his cheeks and neck were severely red, almost looking like a rash.
"Are you alright? Is it the alcohol?"
He gave you the silent treatment for a good 15 seconds before saying: "You really know how to get me going. Calling yourself my wife and all."
"Hey, I was helping you out there!"
"You're really bold."
You can't help but analyze him for a moment. He doesn't seem offended, and you didn't do anything particularly wrong…
Is he…
"Are you feeling shy?"
He glared at you, puffing his cheeks. A hearty laugh escaped your lips. Rafayel narrowed his eyes even more.
You press up against him and go on your tippy toes, smirking. "You're feeling shy because I called you my husband, weren't you?"
"Did not." He crossed his arms over his chest, but everything else says yes.
"Did too." You pinch both sides of his cheek, and he stares at you in awe.
"Aren't you a little bashful pufferfish?" He took a step back and turned around, facing the wall to avoid your little confrontation. But you can still see the nape of his neck, and his ears turn maddeningly red.
"Cutie~"
"You're getting more shameless by the minute. Once we get home, I'll take my revenge on you!"
"Sure you would—little blushing pufferfish." You cooed, slapping his butt before walking away.
"I swear on my words!" You hear him say.
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What makes Sylus blush:
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You can make Sylus blush if you boldly flirt with him and touch his butt. Being a feared man would mean that people would want to spend little to no time talking to him unless it's a negotiation—it's no surprise that people are on edge if they're talking face-to-face with a dangerous leader. When it comes to you, however, it looks like you don't fear anything in life when you try to pretend that you're a stranger and hit on him like one would in a bar.
"Hey, hot stuff," you're pressed against the doorframe, looking too suave for your own good. "You new here?"
He stares at you while he garnishes the steak on the plate. He raised an eyebrow. "Yes," he said simply, but evidently playing along with your antics.
"Do you need someone to accompany you, handsome?" you asked, walking closer.
"I am an engaged man," he matter-of-factly stated with a nod, turning to his task once more. "A loyal one at that."
While he does whatever he's doing, your eyes land on the prize. "Really now?"
That perky gifted butt, accentuated by his slim-fit black pants. You licked your lips and walked casually to where he was. "A wife shouldn't leave his husband alone now, shall they?"
He hummed.
"You're too handsome to be tied to a single woman," you whispered. "Care for another cuter company?"
When he looked at you, you slapped his ass.
He shot up and gripped the pepper mill tighter. Sylus let out a singular laugh, placing it down on the counter and rubbing his face, hiding the reddishness of his ears. "You really ought to know who you're dealing with, sweetie."
He pushed himself away from the counter and walked closer to you, a sense of doom swallowing you as he got closer and closer with every step. Sylus bent down and picked you up by your knees, throwing you over his shoulder before a loud slap reverberated in the room.
Sylus returned the gesture to your ass.
He began walking towards the bedroom. "Sylus, I'm just kidding! No! Sylus! No! Ah?!" You clawed and held on to the doorframe, your life flashing before your eyes.
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What makes Xavier blush:
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Coax him to do something cute. It was easy to make Xavier blush as long as you were in the right environment. Sometimes, making him blush deliberately is also easy if you manage to play your cards right. It's not that he hates acting cute, but no one ever really asks him to do those things and wear cutesy stuff, so when you ask him to do it, he's a bit reluctant, but he doesn't want to disappoint.
"I promise I did not eat the last cake slice." Xavier placed his hand on his chest.
"Hmm. I don't believe you." You held out the empty Tupperware with an accusatory glare thrown at your boyfriend. "Wear the headband behind you and say 'Nyaa' three times. If you don't, then you're lying."
His eyes went wide. He slowly turned behind him and saw a conveniently placed cat ear headband resting on the console table. He held it and looked into your eyes with pity; a part of him smelled like something was going on, but you kept up the angry facade.
He sighed and put the headband on. Balling his fists and letting out cute 'nyaa~'s. With every sound he makes, he turns a shade darker until his face is fully red, and his eyes dart away from you.
He kept his little 'paws' near his chin. You held back a laugh. You were just messing with him. He seemed so innocent looking at you when you were mad—and maybe it was payback for last week when he hogged the blanket all to himself.
"I'm just joking, Xav." You pulled in closer, nudging his head to look up at you. You placed a kiss on his cheek.
"What?" you hear him say in disbelief, stricken with how you made a fool of him. Before he could retaliate at all, you opened your mouth and folded your lips inward to cover the tip of your teeth. You chomped on his face and pushed his face against yours.
"Mhmp!" he let out, holding on to your wrists. His cheek just looked so edible.
You let out a loud pop when you released him from your mighty grasp.
"You like making fun of me, don't you?" He was now glaring at you, albeit tenderly. There was a red mark left on his cheek, and you felt guilty for munching on it.
"Hehe~"
"In that case, let me bite you too…" Xavier yanked on your wrists, and the world suddenly began to tilt.
"Xavier, no—"
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Author footnotes: I made Zayne and Xavier blush in game and I realized I was smiling stupid :>
Layout by me, using canva premium | Do not repost
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nemesyaaa · 4 months ago
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favorite crime // psycho!stalker!rafe x innocent!reader
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summary ; sometimes being the obsession of someone can turn really bad. sometimes being friend to someone doesn't mean that you really know this person, and mostly, that your kindness will be returned.
warnings : dark content. stalking. manipulation. crimes : murder/kidnapping. smut. sick, poker face, and insane behavior. toxic attitude. innocence kink. violence. dubcon. fear/vulnerability enthousiast. jealousy. dark!mean!rafe. corruption. abuse of power. creepy behavior. minors dni. as always, be careful with the warnings please. don't joke with it.
author's note : i really love how all my concepts with rafe are so fucked up. it's around 2,6k words.
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as a shy and innocent girl, too kind for your own good and too sweet to attract nice boys, you had always attracted rafe's attention. especially when you were the pretty employee at his favorite video game store. it was only for you that he spent hours in front of the cash register, trying to get to know you when in reality, he knew you by heart, every detail of your life. he was obsessed with you. he was already terribly sick, diving into your perfect kindness and purity.
you didn't understand why people were afraid of him or said bad things about him because you found him charming and lovely. that was the impression he forced himself to give you. he always had nicknames for you like pumpkin, doll, cupcake, sweet, pretty thing.
the first time he walked into the store, your store manager was yelling at you. and you felt so ashamed and small. there were customers and that made you nervous. you were already crying, impossible to contain your tears in the face of the excess anger you received from this man. it wasn't the first time he did this but maybe the last.
you quickly returned to work, still in tears facing the products on the shelves and the new customer came to you. with a box of donuts. strangely, you didn't know how he could know that you liked it and that it was your favorite. but the attention was touching, more important for you.
“i bought them especially for you. it would hurt my heart if you refused them.”
“you didn’t have to do that.” you replied politely and smiled.
“i know but i wanted to do it. someone has to pay attention to you, and check on your messy health, pumpkin.”
"oh my manager is usually nice. i don't know what's going on."
"you're lying. you're lying because you're too kind to say bad things about people when they're fucking assholes. but don't worry, it won't happen again."
“how can you be sure?”
“enjoy your donuts, don’t think about anything else. let me ease you, pretty thing. ”
the next day, your manager had never been so nice to you. and the other days too. and he always disappeared in rafe's presence. it brought you a lot closer together, because now he came every day. you didn't know if rafe HAD time, or he FOUND it just for you. all you knew was that he made your days in the store so much better.
by coming here, he had become a loyal customer but also someone you could talk to, and he pretended not to know every moment of your private life while he spied on you as soon as he left the store.
he could stay in his car for hours until you finished work. he wasn't just watching you, no, he had also hacked into the cameras at your workplace to be able to record, listen and follow everything you did. nothing escaped him.
he was a jealous person and above all someone who didn't like having his ego attacked. that meant he definitely wasn't going to put up with you having this cute and perfect attitude with the other customers. well, especially men.
you were only doing your job for which you were poorly paid. to avoid getting bored and because you were trying to work on your shyness, you tried to come out of your shell by talking with customers.
but you made a mistake today. you didn't know it yet but you were going to regret it deeply and learn it hard.
"i think you're really pretty and you're so interesting..." the boy began, stammering a little, his elbows resting on the checkout counter. "i mean, it's rare to find girls like you... would you go out with me... i mean tonight haha! we could play a game ? "
it wasn't the first time you'd been flirted with, but certainly the first time you'd accepted. you had never dated anyone, you had never been in a relationship, you didn't even know what it felt like to truly be in love, to feel something for someone. and even if you were, you were too shy to admit it. but it was different, you wanted to try. you didn't have a plan tonight.
"you don't have to accept but here's my number..." he wrote on a post-it and you smiled back. you put it in the back pocket of your jeans.
you were so deep in thought that you couldn't have seen that the minute your new friend left the store, rafe got out of his car. he doesn't entered yet, he had something to sort out first.
but when he went to the store, you felt him different. there were bruises on his face, as if he had been in a fight. “what happened? do you want me to call an ambulance? "
“it's alright, pumpkin. it's just a little blood.”
“do you want me to take care of that?”
"it would be bad of me to abuse your time and your kindness. i have better things to offer, how about I walk you home tonight? i know your work is not close to where you live and i have my car right here...'
you had been surprised that he knew information like this. “no, don’t worry. besides, i’m busy this evening. ”
rafe's jaw tensed and contracted. he gave a tense and forced smile.
“ let me do this for you. you must be tired. ”
“you don’t need to do this for me, although I truly appreciate it.”
“you're wrong, i need to do this for you, sweetheart. just like everything you do for me. ”
“if you insist, it can’t kill me!”
if only you knew…
“ you're really so nice, pumpkin..."
“is that a bad thing?”
he scratched his chin with a light but somewhat dramatic smile before looking into your eyes. you were in ambiguous proximity since you were both leaning over the counter. he was taller than you, so you looked up.
"to be kind? no, not at all, sweetheart. it's just dangerous for you not to know who you're nice to. not all people are that sweet. sometimes they're really mean.”
“ what do…”
“ anyways, don't make me wait later. and you know you look really pretty today, you should dress up for me more often.”
you smiled. you couldn't ignore how nice it felt to receive a compliment, and especially from a pretty handsome boy. in one day, everything had gone by so quickly. you had a date, and rafe was taking you home. your evening promised to be perfect and unforgettable. you couldn’t wait.
at the end of the day. you had cleaned, tidied up all the shelves, turned off all the consoles, counted your cash register then closed shop in a breath of glory. you could finally relax.
as promised, rafe was waiting for you. he was leaning against his car, hands in his pockets.
he had opened your car door in a relatively clever way and then stood inside. he had closed the doors. and he had started. except he wasn't going the way to your house, he was going in the opposite direction.
“rafe, it’s not towards my house…”
“ i know, sweetheart, since we’re not going to your house.”
“but you said you were taking me home?”
“pumpkin, i lie a lot too.”
"rafe, i want to go home... seriously, this isn't fun. i have to meet someone tonight and he's going to wait for me ! "
“trust me, he’s not waiting for you.”
you were starting to panic because this really wasn't the person you knew. this time he didn't seem to be playing a character to please you. he was natural. you looked at him with big eyes. fear gripped your stomach, because you didn't know where you were going and he could go anywhere. you were on the verge of exploding, you needed to get out of that car but he was driving too fast.
“slow down, rafe. please, slow down.”
"oh no sweet thing, i make the rules here. you can't beg because i absolutely don't want to hear anything from you, you understand? i want you to stay nice and quiet like you've always been."
“rafe, fucking stop that car. "
he stopped suddenly, your head had hit the dashboard badly. he had gently lifted your face, putting your hair back in place while you cried into his hands from the emotion and shock.
“see? what happens when you swear like that? do you understand why you have to be polite now? it's a waste for a pretty girl like you to have such vocabulary. ”
you felt the tips of his lips on your nose, they were cold but comforting. there was something so bitter and disturbing in his tenderness as if there was nothing good even in his kindness. that all this affection was manipulation.
“i really want to go home.”
“i have a surprise for you. can you be patient?”
“ rafe, what is wrong…?”
“i’m taking care of you right now.”
"it's a kidnapping! i'm going to call the police."
he smiled wickedly as he resumed driving. “in your place, i wouldn’t make a single move. ”
“why? are you going to kill me?”
" oh i could, pumpkin. for now, i like you alive but if you still want to play silly with me, i might really want to. no, i will. so stay still and don’t make me be mean to you, i’d hate to have to hurt you.”
“if you don’t like hurting me, why are you doing this to me?” your tears were hot, rivers shining down your eyes. he was cruel and insensitive there. it didn't matter to him.
“ i really hate you..."
" oh such a pleasure actually pumpkin. tell me how much you hate me with those pretty annoying crybaby tears on your face. and don't forget to tell me when you're dry, i will gladly make you cry again. “
your throat felt tight and you were desperate. you had a knot in your stomach, fear that made you even more stupid and lost than you already were. because certainly, there was hatred but a lot of fear. he drove quietly, but he was mean to you. he no longer had the kind words he had for you when he came to see you at work. it was as if he was mad at you for something.
“what can i do to get you to take me home? "
“i could make you do a lot of things, but under no circumstances will i take you home.”
“you want sex? "
"oh i'm not sure that the virgin that you are would be able to make me cum but you can always prove me wrong."
“are you really going to kill me?”
“the more you ask me, the more i have the impression that this is what you would like.”
“i want to stay alive and go home.”
"you had to think about that before flirting with that idiot."
he had parked in an abandoned place, on a completely deserted road. when he opened the doors, you took your chance.
what a stupid mistake.
he was much bigger and faster than you. he had caught up with you without even running out of breath. he pulled you by the waist, pinning his arm against your bare stomach. he was clearly abusing all of his power. you had bitten him and he had released you. you fell heavily to the ground, and he positioned himself on top of you, crushing you against the grass with his fully beefy weight.
“it’s not time to play yet. try to escape from me again sweet thing, and i promise you that i will make sure that you have no more energy to run, but especially to escape. ” he had grabbed your jaw with one hand, gripping his fingers tightly against your skin. “and even if you are innocent, pumpkin. you and i know very well that you are aware of what i mean by that.”
your heart rate had increased so quickly. you were trapped and vulnerable. you wanted to spit in his face but you weren’t that suicidal.
he took your hand and placed it on his bulge which literally distorted his pants. “that's all that your heartbeat and your accelerated breathing make me feel right now. is it big? yes, and believe me i can make this bigger and very painful for you. so, no more playing, pumpkin.”
you nodded and he kissed your forehead. “you got it well, sweetheart. don’t let me be mean to you again because you’re really going to hate it.”
he stood up and extended his hand towards you. his tenderness was so unhealthy. he had taken you to the car and pulled a tied up boy out of the trunk.
the one you were supposed to see this evening. you let out a huge cry, taking several steps back but rafe took your hand, wrapping it too tightly against your little wrist.
“why did you do that? please leave me alone. i don’t want to see that!”
"oh oh, you're not the one who makes the rules here. i’m the only one who makes the fucking rules, i'm the only one who decides and not only do i decide what happens but also what role you're going to play. you wanted to flirt with this guy, go on a date with him? you had to be smarter and not do it in front of my eyes now look what you did this poor man is going to die because of you.”
"are you serious? you can't kill an innocent person! he didn't do anything."
"pumpkin, my sweet pumpkin, for every word you say, for every tear you shed, he will take a bullet. so please continue to defend him. i think we are already more than twenty"
you wanted to stop crying but you couldn't because the situation was surreal, horrible and so crazy. you refused to believe that rafe cameron could be a man like that.
“almost fifty. you're really going to kill him, sweetheart. you could be nicer. "
he was so sick and bad. he was taking advantage of the situation. it was completely sadistic. “i beg you to spare him.”
"now you beg for him? pumpkin, i’m the only one you can and should beg for."
he had fired more than fifty bullets into this poor guy's body. without the slightest shame, the slightest remorse and the slightest guilt. he didn't really feel anything. as you collapsed, completely devastated and ruined by what he had just done to you.
he had just killed a man in front of your eyes.
people always said that a guy who killed for you was romantic. but you didn't find it romantic. on the contrary, it had downright tortured you. you were afraid of him. you didn't even know how you managed not to piss on yourself because clearly, he was so creepy.
" i think he's dead." it was ironic, but coming from rafe, it wasn't funny or reassuring.
"what's wrong with you? and what are you doing with a gun? all those video games that made you sick or those horror movies?"
“watch your tone. you see how i killed him? it could be your turn too. ”
“no, don’t kill me!”
he moved closer to you, a laugh passing his lips. he knelt down to caress your tears with his thumb.
“you see what happens when you want to please others? how are you going to fix this now? ”
“i beg you to not kill me. ” you couldn't even see the ground, you were crying so much. it was a traumatic scene.
“now it's time to play. maybe i should have waited before killing him. i mean i wish he could watch you get destroyed by my cock. get in the car, and don't try to escape from me. i can be even more cruel to you. ”
he was hot and cold. all the time. you went to the car while you guessed that he must bury or hide the body somewhere. it had seemed like an eternity before he came back but on the one hand, there was something comforting about the fact that you weren't alone in the forest and that there was someone. even if it was cool.
he had gotten into the car. and patted his thighs to signal you to come on top. you didn't argue and came on his legs. you immediately felt his erection against the fabric of your underwear. it could hardly be ignored because the bulge had literally made you a few centimeters taller.
“are you still crying? he was a poor guy. he had a fucking girlfriend. do you want to date a guy who cheats on you? it's not worth it. you are better than that, you deserve better than that. ”
“by better, does that mean you? ”
“it’s different...but sure i would treat you better.”
“you killed someone in front of my eyes!”
“see? anything i can do for you.”
"you're sick and you ruined my life!"
"i’m tired of all this hysteria. i was going to kindly offer to prepare you with lube, but since you're offering me these pretty tears, we'll make do with it..."
“rafe…”
“oh no pumpkin. it’s not time to say my name yet.”
when he pushed himself inside you, the leaking tip slipped in your folds slick with a hard and brutal thrust. he made his way, watching his own cock stretching your cunt. you cried out from the pain, but you can't help but felt a little slight pleasure. “ if you're still crying for him, i swear i'm gonna fuck you until you're dry. ”
you started to bounce on him with your trembling legs, your ass slapping his thick thighs, your hair shaking on your shoulders, and your face ruined by your multiples and messy whining. you were tense as his girth splitted your sweet virgin cunt. he forced you to sped up the pace, smacking your butt every time you were too slow. his hands was big and strong, enough to feel the pain. especially, when the rings on his fingers left a mark on your poor skin. your tits were now on his hands, pressed firmly and your nipples on his mouth. he spat on them a couple of times. they were filled with spittles and marks, the succions noises in synchro with your rocking bodies. he was stuffed you with his hard dick. making you arched your back, and he placed his heavy hands on your waist, reaching your hips to help you go deeper, to fully take him, every inches.
“ it's like your pussy begging me to breed you…”
“ what…w-what is it ? ” you were too innocent to know those kinds of things.
you had the face and the attitude of an angel, too perfect, too pure, too delicate. “ maybe, it's better to show you, pumpkin. with that, you will be more able to learn the lesson and don't make me mad again. ”
“ what ? ” you gasped. you felt giddy but at the same time, curious.
“ m’ gonna make you so dirty, angel. tonight, you will lose your wings and purity for me. ”
“ please, don't hurt me ! ”
“ oh sweetheart, you're the only one to hurt me, the only one to make me do those kind of things..."
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tysm @ahhnini for the idea of psycho!stalker!rafe <33
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ellestra · 10 months ago
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The Voice from the Outer World
Dune is a story of failure. SPOILERS for Dune Part 2 below
Power corrupts and all of that. We all know this. So we would be able to avoid it, right? If you know what happens you can chose another option. You would be different.
And here's a story that shows that even when you know all of this and more and can literally see the future it's still not enough.
I get why people often think that to avoid this the person in power shouldn't want that power. That this would make them somehow immune. And this logic has multiple faults (like - how can you be good at doing something you hate?) and one of them is that just not wanting to abuse power doesn't mean you would do right things with it.
We are reminded multiple times in the film (and the books also aren't shy about it) that Fremen religious belief in a saviour is not something that arose naturally. It's a belief seeded by Bene Gesserit's Missionaria Protectiva. They seeded superstitions and myths in different cultures so they could use them in a future emergency. Everything Fremen believe about their Mahdi was created so their faith could be used by a Bene Gesserit in need. And both Jessica and Paul are aware of this even before they even set a foot on Arrakis.
It's specifically made for the saviour to be a foreign one (Lisan al-Gaib is The Voice from the Outer World) because the people who made and planned to use this prophecy were ones from an outsider culture. Paul doesn't hijack Fremen beliefs to insert himself as their white saviour. These beliefs was specifically created for someone like him to use.
It was made with purpose of hijacking Fremen religion into protecting the foreigners who know how this prophecy was constructed. This is a parasitic belief (cuckoo-like faith) and the truth doesn't set anyone free. We see why with Stilgar as he wants to believe so much that everything becomes a sign. Even when he's told this has been fabricated and he was manipulated he warps it into something that supports his beliefs not undermines them. I'm sure you've seen this in real life, in real politics if not religion.
Jessica and Chani got changed the most from their book versions. They've become opposite sides of the ideological divide. Not between religion and lack of it - Jessica obviously not a believer - but between using people and letting them decide their own future.
Book Jessica is more apprehensive of Paul's choices. She's often more worried he may not survive the trials than pushing for them for power. In here she becomes the driving force for using the messianic belief Bene Gesserit implanted for Paul's benefit. She makes sure Fremen believe he fits the story. She doesn't care about Paul's wishes to avoid this burden. She knows it doesn't matter when he tells the people the truth about Bene Gesserit, their abilities and their manipulation techniques. Belief is impervious to proof and confirmation bias makes you reject all evidence to the contrary.
But then, in the film, Jessica is kind of possessed. Stilgar warns Paul not to listen to the djinn but neither he nor his mother can stop listening to the voices. The film removes Alia's book doings but replaces them with foreshadowing of what she becomes. She whispers the truths about the future to her mother even before she is born. Funny, how this change makes her, not Paul, the first fully prescient Atreides. She is manipulating the events when Paul refuses to and that's a foreshadowing too. When Jessica took the Water of Life while pregnant she did it for the power this new position among the Fremen would give her. Alia never stood a chance. She was pre-born into this.
The only one trying to stand in the way of succumbing to the power corruption is movie version of Chani. She was never believer in a saviour. She wants her people to save themselves. They already have a plan for a better future that doesn't involve killing worlds for the Empire they never wanted anything to do with. They were not supposed to be warriors of the prophet. She sees this for what it is - a way to control her people. She understands this is just another form of enslavement. The only difference is that this one is embraced. No one listens to her when she tells them the truth. They only see what they want to see.
The power that comes from being close to the rule is just as blinding when you stand close to the throne as it is when you sit on it.
And the sad part is she knows she played a part in this happening to as she convinced Paul to give this a try. She didn't see the visions he saw so she hoped he can remain the person she fell in love with. When he submits to the way prescience shows him and takes over the faith we feel her heartbreak. She watches him becoming what he feared and everyone around him stops her from trying to save him because they get something out of it (not just the other Fremen or Jessica - Gurney puts atomic arsenal in Paul's hands).
Paul doesn't bring freedom. He just changes who holds the power but in the end the structures of power remain (the similarities between Saudarkar and Fremen are not accidental). And billions die so it can happen. But billions is a an abstract number. It's much easier to feel the consequences when they hit close and personal.
Everyone around Paul gets to gain something - Gurney gets revenge on Rabban, Jessica and Stilgar get to destroy the Harkonnens and the Emperor. They are on top now. The power corrupts before you even hold it. Just the promise of power is enough.
This film version of Chani doesn't let us forget that this is what we watch. That what is happening is not a good thing. We as humans have tendency to gloss over big numbers of deaths when it's some unseen people with whom we have no emotional connections. Through her eyes the loss is so much more personal. She loses her Usul to Paul Muad'Dib. And he takes her people and her planet too.
As Paul says - they are Harkonnens too. And they do what Harkonnens do too. The difference was always cosmetic.
And one more thing. A lot is said about Arabic and Muslim influences in Fremen culture and religion but they aren't the only ones. One other is the word used for the places where Fremen live - Sietch. It comes from Zaporozhian Cossack name for their fortified encampments - sich.
In the West the name Cossacks invokes the cruel Russian Imperial forces that tsars used to pacify conquered territories. But this is not what comes to my mind first. In the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth they were free people living in the borderlands of the Commonwealth on the territories often attacked by the Ottomans. The constant raids from the Turks meant they were warriors and constantly moving. But this also allowed for a lot of freedom as there wasn't a lot of direct control over these territories for the same reason. This meant that they were often joined by anyone wishing to have that freedom - from peasants escaping indenture to nobles escaping the law.
The dissatisfaction with the Polish rule eventually lead to an uprising and this part of Ukraine joined Russian Empire. That Empire destroyed all the freedoms Cossacks had and those independent warriors became just another enforcers of conformity for the Empire. They've become exactly what they fought against. I often wondered if Herbert chose the name Sietch intentionally to invoke this turn of events.
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ylangelegy · 29 days ago
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hello im here for ur jealousy drabble game 😗
"maybe i have a crush on you. so what?" with 🥁🥁🥁.... Mingyu! (surprise surprise haahah)
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ⵌ royalty!mingyu x royalty!reader. ⵌ word count: 998 ⵌ notes: alternate universe: royalty, mention of alcohol, teensyyy princess diaries mention. laughed at "... mingyu! (surprise surprise)". ilysb, maple. and since this was our last conversation, i offer you some royally down bad gyu! 🙂‍↔️
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When you're the crowned prince, you tend to get everything that you want.
Mingyu doesn't even have to ask. Anything his heart might desire has been served to him on a silver platter insofar. That horse for his eighth birthday? That Mercedes-Benz CLK-GTR for when he started driving? You name it; Mingyu has it.
He tries not to let it get to his head. Really, he does. He has a reputation to uphold, after all. He refuses to be the future monarch that's seen as spoiled, that's viewed as a brat.
It's getting increasingly hard, though, as he watches you from across the ballroom.
Mingyu's fingers are tight around the stem of his champagne flute, almost to the point that the delicate glass might just break. There's somebody trying to talk to him— some sultan from Brunei— but Mingyu is only half listening to him. He knows he ought to pay more attention. It would certainly be the polite thing to do.
Instead, he's trying to catch your eye as you dance with Lee Seokmin of all people.
The thought of the smiley prince from some small country almost makes Mingyu scoff. Seokmin isn't even the heir to the throne! He's a goddamn second born!
… And yet, you're looking up at Seokmin like he hung up all the stars in the sky. Mingyu doesn't like it. Not one bit.
"I'm sorry," Mingyu says to the sultan, who had started ranting about oil reserves. "I fear that duty calls."
Duty calls is one way to put it, Mingyu thinks, as he strides off to where you're waltzing with Seokmin.
Mingyu clears his throat the moment that he reaches the two of you. Without missing a beat, Seokmin folds into a curtsy. You follow, albeit with a barely concealed roll of your eyes. If he was less on edge, Mingyu might have teased you for it.
"I was hoping I could get a dance," he says coolly.
"Of course, Your Highness," Seokmin answers.
Delicately, he passes your gloved hand over to Mingyu's grasp. Mingyu doesn't miss the flash of disappointment on your expression, and oh, does that make him want to scream.
He doesn't, of course. Not in this party of dozens of some of the most important world leaders and their children. Not when all eyes are on him, are on the two of you, as you stiffly place your arms around Mingyu's shoulders and he rests his palms over your waist.
For a moment, neither of you say anything. You simply fall into the practiced choreography of this familiar dance, this tried-and-tested charade. Back, forth. Back, forth.
Mingyu breaks the silence with, "So, how was hanging out with Prince Charming?"
He sounds a touch more scornful than intended. You pick up on it as you often do. "Prince Seokmin is fine," you answer cordially, carefully. "He's a delight to be around."
I noticed, Mingyu wants to say. You laugh so freely when you're with him. You never laugh like that when you're around me.
In the end, he only says, "I'm sure he is."
The song you're dancing to winds to a close. Your arms twitch around Mingyu like you might pull away, but— despite his better judgment— Mingyu's fingers tighten at your hips. "Indulge me for one more song," he says.
There's a ghost of a smile on your face. "Is that a command, Your Majesty?"
"Never." His answer is quick, thoughtless. "I— I would never command you to do anything."
You seem appeased at that. At the knowledge that Mingyu's question was more of a plea than anything. You relax in his hold, and some of the tension eases out of him as well. Another song strikes up. Your waltz continues.
Mingyu thinks it's going pretty well, that things are falling into place, until you decide to poke the bear.
"You seemed rather cross with Prince Seokmin back there," you muse. "Has he wronged you somehow?"
It's a good thing that Mingyu has spent much of his life in dance lessons. Otherwise, he might have stumbled over his feet. As it is, he manages to maneuver you past a dancing couple without breaking a sweat— even though a muscle in his jaw does jump at your brazenness.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he answers. "I was perfectly civil with the prince of middle-of-nowhere Genovia."
A decisively un-princess-like snort of laughter escapes you. Mingyu's heart— the bloody traitor!— skips a beat or two in his chest. He's dazed at the thought of making you laugh, even if it is at his own expense. The back-and-forth that ensues is dizzying, matching the quickening pace of your dance.
"You weren't civil, you were cold."
"Well, I don't owe the prince anything."
"I think you're jealous."
"Am not."
"I think you want me all for yourself."
"And what if I do?"
The words are out of Mingyu before he can reel them in. He doubles down as he spins you around, his words spoken in a rush. "Maybe I have a crush on you," he says. "So what?"
When you turn back to face Mingyu, your palm lands on his chest. His arm snakes around your waist, holding you in place, as the two of you try to catch your breaths after the whirlwind of a dance. You're staring up at him and he's terrified that you can feel the hammering underneath your palm.
There's only a hint of surprise on your features, but it's as gone as quick as it came. When you answer Mingyu's hasty confession, it's with the ice cold composure that you're infamous for.
"Well, I would hope so," you say. "We're getting married in a few months, aren't we?"
The reminder of the arrangement is like a bucket of water over Mingyu's head. He swallows around the lump in his throat before giving you a jerky nod.
"That's right." A beat. "So don't go dancing with any other princes aside from me, then."
୨ৎ * GAME, SET, PLAY ! ( JEALOUSY ) DRABBLE GAME.
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notebookmusical · 1 year ago
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“In light of everything that’s happened in the past three months alone, here’s some incredibly valid reasons to be pissed off at Taylor Swift, or simply not like her — as someone who loved her, and loved her music. First and foremost, Taylor Swift is personally burning a hole through the ozone with the amount of CO2 she uses. That’s not even the main point of this video; but this is a graph from 2022 of how much CO2 she produced of her 170 private jet flights, versus the average person. She has spent 70 grand on jet fuel alone. Taylor Swift, alone has used 170 tons of CO2 in the past 3 months. The average person only burns like, 16 tons. That’s not even the main part of this video. The main point of the video is the fact that she has not spoken up about Palestine. And the reason that is so fundamentally frustrating is that Taylor Swift has influence. Quote Brittany Broski, when she also didn’t speak up about Palestine — “if you have a platform, and you have people listening, you have to use it.” It’s criminal to not use it, and Taylor Swift uses it. This is from September 2023. Record-breaking registration numbers from one Instagram post. Literally stating, saying “I’ve been so lucky to see so many of you guys at my US shows recently. I’ve heard you raise your voices, and I know how powerful they are. Make sure you’re ready to use them in our elections this year!” They had a 72(%) increase in 18-year-old registrations. When it comes to Palestine, she’s completely silent. And now that it’s somewhat more socially acceptable to attend Pro-Palestine events, she’s been quietly going with Selena Gomez, but I for one, think that your Instagram is perhaps the best asset you have. If not, money. And I’m sure in a couple months, we’ll learn about how Taylor Swift was quietly setting up foundations for pro-Palestine, and that she was always for the cause and she’s always supported them, but all it takes is one fucking Instagram post. Especially when Israel Palestine is fundamentally a war of narratives. It’s whose story do you believe, despite the mounting evidence that proves that Israel has continuously been doing ethnic cleansing and genocide. They are still maintaining this narrative that they are not doing that. And all Taylor Swift has to do is say “hey, 22 thousand deaths in 3 months? The most in any modern war? This doesn’t seem right.” I don’t even want her to be that leftist or radical, but literally just to ask the question to her largely American audience, when US has bypassed Congress twice to sell millions in arms aid to Israel.  Just for her to be like “Should that many kids be dying, perhaps?” The bar is on the floor, but she still refuses to do it. And the reason why Taylor Swift in particular, not because of the influence that she has and not because of the platform that she has, but why her in particular, is because the IDF continues to use her songs. I know it was a public trend, but the fact that so many occupation forces felt comfortable and confident  to make like, dance edits to Taylor Swift’s music. I think it’s so important how an artist’s music is used because when the republicans wanted to use Eminem’s 8 mile track, he was like “absolutely fucking not, I do not give you consent to do that, and I do not associate with your politics. Don’t do that.” I feel like she should know that her music is being used as the anthem of the occupation forces as they go and bomb civilians. Her, and other artists like her, like Beyonce, who showed her film in Israel, and they’re all like dancing and singing, and saying “you’re not going to break my soul”, whilst they continue to bomb the shit out of civilians have said nothing. And I hope, as I’ve demonstrated in the video, for the people who are going to be like “What’s Taylor swift going to do? She’s not a politician.” Be serious. Be serious. She has a fucking chokehold on at least a billion people. She could’ve said and done way more than what she’s done, and also the CO2 levels." (from: this tiktok*)
* i tried to transcribe the tiktok since tiktok wasn't showing the captions for me but if i misheard anything please let me know!
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vitalverstappen · 12 days ago
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Under the Mistletoe - F. Colapinto
summary: forced into a night of civility for the sake of your best friends, you try to ignore the small sparks and the insufferably charming man you loathe the most
pairing: Franco Colapinto x enemy!reader
warnings: drinking?
word count: 1.9k
masterlist
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It was supposed to be a fun, low-key holiday party, nothing out of the ordinary. That’s what you had convinced yourself of when your best friends invited you. You were looking forward to the usual chaos of bad holiday music, gifts, and way too much eggnog. 
What you hadn’t accounted for, however, was Franco. 
Of all the people your friends could have invited, of course, it had to be him. Franco Colapinto. The man that had spent months getting under your skin, never missing an opportunity to make your blood boil. Whether it was his smug grin or his ridiculously overconfident attitude, there was no end to your mutual dislike.
And now you had to pretend that everything was fine because your best friends were dating, and the two of you had been thrown into this holiday get-together to avoid drama. 
You stood in the corner of the living room, trying to avoid eye contact with him as you took another sip from your drink. The fire crackled in the fireplace, people chatting around you, and yet, Franco’s presence felt like a storm cloud hanging overhead. 
You could practically feel his gaze on you from across the room, even though you refused to look in his direction. He was talking to someone, laughing with that all-too-familiar arrogant tone of his, and it made your skin crawl just listening to it. 
But when he finally turned his head and locked eyes with you, you didn’t have time to look away. He gave you that infuriating, lazy smirk.
“You know,” he began as he walked over to you, his voice dripping with that unmistakable cockiness. “I didn’t think you’d actually show up.” 
You couldn’t help but scoff, already irritated before you even had a chance to respond. “I didn’t have much of a choice, did I? The adorable little lovebirds insisted.” 
Franco chuckled, shaking his head. “You could’ve easily made up some excuse. But you didn’t. You’re just here to see what kind of trouble you can get into, aren’t you?” 
“Maybe I am” you shot back, raising an eyebrow. “It’s not like you are any fun to be around.”
Franco leaned against the wall, still watching you, his eyes glinting mischievously. “You know, you’re a lot more fun when you’re angry.” 
“I’m sure you’d love that,” you retorted, putting down your cup with a little too much force. You crossed your arms, looking anywhere but at him, but the whole situation was making you feel tense and restless. 
Franco stood there for a moment longer, before glancing around the room. “Fine, let’s get this over with. For them.” He nodded over to your friends, who were clearly oblivious to the tension between you.
You rolled your eyes. “You’re really not that charming, Franco. You don’t have to pretend to be nice to me for their sake.”
“Oh, I know,” he said, his smirk still present. “I just think you look cute when you’re angry.”
Your stomach did a strange flip, and you tried to ignore it. “Keep it up, and I’ll make sure you regret this whole ‘play nice’ thing.” 
The night went on, and you begrudgingly found yourself having to engage in conversation with Franco more than you would have liked. The forced politeness felt strange, but over time, it turned into something unexpected. Every now and then, a laugh would escape, and the annoyance you’d felt earlier began to fade, replaced with something warmer, something unexpected. Franco wasn’t as unbearable as you once thought. In fact, you started noticing things, little quirks he had, like how he cared about his friends more than he let on, or how his smile softened when he spoke about his family. 
“Do you want another drink?” he asked, nodding his head to your cup. 
You looked down at the drink in your hands, only noticing it was empty at his words. A soft smile formed on your lips as you nodded “Just some punch if you don’t mind.” 
Franco raised an eyebrow, his smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “Feeling festive?” 
You shrugged, trying to ignore the unexpected flutter of warmth that ran through you at the sight of his teasing expression. “What can I say, I need it to be civil tonight.” 
“Civility looks good on you,” he said, hsi tone softening just slightly, though it was still laced with that signature smugness. 
You rolled your eyes, but there was no denying the faint blush creeping up your neck. “Yeah, well, don’t get used to it.” 
Franco let out a chuckle, and without a proper response, walked off towards the kitchen, weaving through the crowd. You watched him go, trying not to analyze why your heart was racing just a little faster. 
A few minutes later, he returned, handing you a cup full of punch. “One festive drink, as requested.”
You took the glass, your fingers brushing briefly against his, and you felt a sudden, inexplicable jolt of energy. You quickly pulled your hand away, trying to mask your reaction with a nonchalant sip from the cup. “Thanks,” you muttered, suddenly feeling self-conscious.
“So, are we still pretending to hate each other?” Franco asked, leaning against the wall beside you. His voice was casual, but there was a hint of something deeper lurking beneath his words. 
You glanced at him, unsure of how to respond. It was hard to keep up the charade now that you were actually talking without the usual barbed remarks. “I’m not pretending to hate you,” you said finally, the words coming out more honest than you expected. “I just… don’t like you.” 
Franco raised an eyebrow, his gaze softening. “Fair enough. But you know,” he said, his voice quieter now, “It’s a lot harder to hate someone when you get to know them.” 
You looked at him, caught off guard by the shift in his tone. The usual cocky bravado had faded, and in its place was something almost…vulnerable? “Are you trying to be profound?” you teased, attempting to steer the conversation back to familiar ground. 
But instead of retaliating with another smart comment, Franco merely smirked, though there was a hint of something more serious behind his eyes. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just getting tired of pretending I don’t care.” 
You blinked, momentarily unsure how to respond. There was no way this was the same man who had spent months getting under your skin. It wasn’t possible that the arrogant, insufferable guy who had always been just one step away from getting a rise out of you could be the same person standing in front of you now. There was something different about him tonight. 
Before you could say anything else, a loud shout from across the room interrupted, followed by your friends calling everyone over for a group photo. You felt a wave of relief wash over you at the distraction. The last thing you wanted was to be alone with Franco, not when you were starting to wonder if you weren’t as immune to him as you’d like to believe. 
As the evening progressed, the tension seemed to ease between you, and before you knew it, you were actually talking, laughing, enjoying each other’s company. It was almost too natural.
By the time the party started winding down, you realized that the animosity between you and Franco wasn’t so easy to keep up anymore. He found you leaning up against the doorframe that separated the kitchen to the living room as you watched some of the guests trickle out. 
“Any reason you’re standing right there?” he asked, his voice softer now as he looked above you
You followed his gaze, where sure enough, a small mistletoe was tacked into the doorframe. A quiet sigh escaped your lips as your cheeks heated up yet again. Of course it had to be there. 
You raised an eyebrow, “You really wanna kiss me under the mistletoe?” 
Franco shrugged, giving you a teasing grin. “It wouldn’t be the worst thing that’s happened tonight.” 
You stared at him for a long moment, trying to keep the tough exterior, but somewhere in the back of your mind, you knew he wasn’t entirely wrong. Things had shifted between you over the course of the night, and maybe it wasn’t all as terrible as you had originally thought. 
You let out a breath and stepped forward, surprising both him and yourself. Franco’s eyes widened for a split second, clearly caught off guard by your movement. For a moment, the room around you seemed to fade away, and all that mattered was the space between you and him. The playful banter, the tension, everything led to this moment.
You stood there, close enough to feel the heat from his body, but just out of reach. Your heart was racing, but you tried to hold your ground. “You really want this?” you asked, your voice lower than you intended, more vulnerable that you’d ever expected to sound around him. 
Franco looked at you, his grin softening, the teasing in his eyes replaced by something genuine. “I’ve wanted it for a while now,” he said quietly, his voice almost a whisper as he took a small step closer.
You froze for a moment, unable to process the shift in the atmosphere. There was something in the way he was looking at you now, something raw that made it impossible to deny the pull between you. 
You didn’t know what to say. His words had stripped away all of the defenses you’d spent so much time building up, and suddenly, you weren’t sure what you were supposed to do anymore. 
So, instead of saying anything, you stepped closer. Without thinking, you cupped his face in your hands, the warmth of his skin sending a shiver down your spine. His breath hitched as your eyes locked for one long moment before you closed the space between you, your lips meeting his in a kiss that was softer than you expected. 
For a moment, neither of you moved, as if both of you were waiting for confirmation that this was real. Then, as if the floodgates had opened, the kiss deepened, more urgent, more alive than anything you had imagined. The tension, the frustration, the lingering bitterness from months of disliking each other, all melted away in that kiss. 
When you finally pulled back, you were both breathless, standing there under the mistletoe, with the world around you seemingly on pause. Your heart was pounding, but it didn’t feel like you needed to run from him. 
Franco’s smile was less of a smirk than it had been all night. It was much more genuine. “Well,” he said, breathless, “that was definitely the best thing that’s happened tonight.” 
You laughed, the sound a little shaky, but you couldn’t stop the grin spreading across your face. “Yeah, I guess it was.” you said, your voice full of something you hadn’t expected to feel. 
Franco looked at you for a long moment, his eyes searching yours again, as if trying to make sense of the sudden change. “So… where do we go from here?” 
You shrugged, your heart still racing, but the answer felt simpler than you expected. “One step at a time, Franco.” 
He chuckled softly, taking a step back, but not out of read. “I can handle that.”
“There’s a pub down the way if you wanna get out of here.” You suggested, not wanting the night to end just yet. 
Franco’s eyebrows lifted slightly at the suggestion, his playful grin returning, though softer. “I’d love to,” he said as he offered his arm in a mockingly formal gesture. “Shall we?” 
You laughed, shaking your head, but took it anyway. “We shall.” 
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starlightsuffered · 6 months ago
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Forget the Past
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Info - angst Fic, some dub con, ascended Paul, unprotected sex, political marriage, technical cheating, yearning, Fremen reader, mention of having children
I spat blood out of my mouth as I was thrown to the floor of the emperor’s palace. Emperor, that very word sent chills through my bones. He was not my leader, not my king, and definitely, not my emperor. I had sworn it since that day he had declared it. I would not bow to him.
I tried to struggle to my feet. I didn’t think the emperor himself would deign to see a single lowly Fremen that had been caught, but I didn’t want to kneel regardless.
I was harshly pushed down every time I tried to lift myself on aching ankles. I was covered in muck and blood. Sand must’ve been in every crevice of my body. I wanted to wash off in the Fremen pools, and sleep, but my entire life was about to change. I’d been captured and there was nothing I could do.
“Y/n,” said a gasp. I lifted my head and locked eyes with him.
It had been half a decade since he’d taken Princess Irulan’s hand and declared a Holy War. He’d tried to contact me. He’d tried to send messages to me. I’d ignored everything he’d done. He would not be the saviour of my people. He was our next oppressor.
He was still beautiful though he was not the boy I’d once known. His dark curls and piercing eyes still made my heart pound a little faster. I couldn’t believe he’d known who I was under the blood and rubble. Yes, he’d tried to contact me, but that had stopped years ago. I assumed now he rested with his empire and his new wife.
“Take her to the bath house,” Paul said with a flick of his fingers.
“But your Greatness, Emperor, she is a traitor. She is one of the ones who does not follow your golden path to paradise,” argued the guard. They should have known better.
“LISTEN!” The bene gesserit gift of the voice echoed through the room. I hated that awful power. He was more foreign than he ever was when he used that manipulation tactic.
“Take her to the finest bath chamber we have. Give her a robe and clothing, but watch the doors. Do not let her escape,” Paul said, and with a flash of his robe, he was gone.
I was treated kindly. Their fingers did not dig into my skin. I was not shoved as I had been before. The fear and awe of the Emperor was great and fierce enough to have them obey even when out of his eye sight.
I remembered when he’d been a younger man. His large eyes and cautious ways had made me fond of him. He had let me teach him so many things. He had been so willing to learn. Now I assumed he thought that he knew all and saw all.
I bathed in the luxurious water. I couldn’t believe he’d wasted so much on me. I normally would have refused but men were stationed outside my door to make sure that I did as I was told.
I attempted to use as little as possible. It was not Fremen to use water so lavishly. I was disassociating though. I didn’t feel like I was truly in my body. All I saw was green eyes and sharp cheekbones.
I put on the silky pink robe. It was the softest thing I had ever worn. It was also short, and much of my legs were exposed. This too I was not used to. Baring your skin to the Arrakis sun was foolish, but here….. perhaps this place, this palace was more like Caladan.
I remembered how Paul told me it poured water from the skies there. He had promised that one day he would take me there and show me. There were a lot of promises he hadn’t kept.
I smashed my fist against the cold stone wall in defeat. I hated that I still thought of him. I hated that I gave him the time of day even in my mind. He had utterly betrayed me and I doubted he’d given it a second thought. He was the Messiah after all, they didn’t have regrets.
“You’re even more beautiful than the day you left me,” said a voice. It was calm and deep.
I turned to see Paul in the door way. He was in white robes. He looked older, though nothing much had changed about his face. It was his aura.
“I never thought I’d see you again my angel,” he said in a breath. It was the most unsteady he’d sounded this entire time.
He was rushing to me then as if he could not hold himself back. He had me in his strong grip even though I struggled. He was looking over every inch of me. I realised he was making sure I was okay and uninjured.
“Unhand me,” I snarled.
“Y/n, my love, my love,” he gasped. He was pressing his forehead against mine. I didn’t like how I was instantly pulled into his gravity.
“Y/n,” he crooned again. His hand curled into my hair.
“Let me breathe you in.”
“You deserve to breathe in smoke and choke,” I spat.
“My love, it’s me, it’s Paul,” he said. It wasn’t him. It was someone different. It was the Emperor, I didn’t know him.
“You are a married,” was what I raggedly said, though so many other things mattered so much more.
“You know I don’t love her. You are my only,” he told me earnestly.
“Yet there is a wedding ring on your finger.”
“She lives a life of celibacy, as do I. I have saved myself for you,” he whispered. His eyes still were trying to search mine. He was looking desperately for some part of me to tell him he wasn’t crazy for continuing to love me.
“Die,” I growled.
I turned around and made my way to the door. Paul let me go for a moment and then his body was behind me again. His hand was flat on my stomach.
“Paul,” I said with a warning in my voice.
“Please, she means nothing to me,” he promised. “She hasn’t known a moment of my tenderness, not like you have.
I thought of the Fremen lovers I’d taken to blow off steam, to release tension, to forget Muad’Dib, to soothe my wounds, to be held for once in a long while. I didn’t feel a moment of loyalty to them in this moment, but I wished they were here. I needed someone, something to distract me from the light that was Paul. I was an insect careening towards brightness though it was bound to be my downfall.
Had he really stayed loyal to my memory? Had he truly never touched Irulan the way he had me? If this was true, why could he not have loved me enough to not become what he was now?
“I will love you as long as I breathe,” he murmured into my neck. His hand moved lower.
A horrible noise echoed in the chamber. It was me. I was moaning. My body seemed to think it belonged with his. My brain screamed at me as I leaned back against him.
The heel of Paul’s palm was rolling against my clothed pussy. My trembling hand reached up and grabbed at the back of his neck.
“I could snap your neck right now,” I whispered.
“My love,” was all he said in response.
“Paul,” I tried to say. It came out as more of a warbling hum.
He was lifting my robe. I felt the press of his length. I was panting. I knew he’d stop if I used our old safe word, but I couldn’t manage it. How many nights had I craved one more touch from him.
“I never got to say goodbye,” he moaned. His lips were peppering along my throat. My pulse fluttered.
“Oh my darling, let me have you once more?” He pleaded.
“You’re despicable,” I huffed.
“You’re everything,” he responded.
I couldn’t help the way my body melted into his. I was rolling against his hand. I let him push down his pants and rub his member against my wet folds. I wore no panties under the robe.
“May I?”
“Who am I to turn down an Emperor,” I panted.
I was glad I was backed up against him. I didn’t want him to see my eyes as he pushed inside me. It was like every taste of him, every memory, every delicious feeling came back with him.
“You feel like heaven. You are bliss,” he murmured in my ear. He pumped inside me.
I closed my eyes and let go. I let the sounds I wanted to make fall from my mouth. I was keening as he held my hips possessively. He was snapping in and out as he mumbled praises against my skin.
“Perfect, what I was made for. You should be empress. Bare my children, be my goddess,” he pleaded. He didn’t use that harsh Bene Gesserit power on me, but he just pleaded.
Pleasure was erupting over me on chills. I imagined we were back in the dessert. We belonged to one another again. He was on the good side.
It was like we had never been separated. I was part of him again. We were one. I was shaking with the weight and glorious gratification of the connection. If I believed in connected souls, it would have to be us.
“Paul, Paul, Paul,” I repeated.
“I knew you missed me. I thought of you every night. Every time I chastely kissed her goodnight, I imagined it was you, and I imagined it was more than chaste.”
I felt tears fill my eyes. He had to go and ruin it. He had to bring the present into the past. I felt some of the warm light fade.
“Muad’Dib,” I sobbed, unable to call him his other name.
“Call me yours,” he pleaded. My mouth stayed shut.
I tried to lose myself in the lust again. I closed my eyes again and leaned back. I began to speak. I said all the things I’d imagined I’d say if things had been different.
“I stayed up nights thinking about how much I loved you. I didn’t mind the sunshine if I was able to wake up and see your face more clearly,” I mumbled.
“Y/n?” He asked.
“You made me giggle, smile, dream, and more. You made me feel home in a person and not a place.”
“Oh y/n,” he shuddered. He began to move faster. Despite myself, pleasure overwhelmed me. I arched and let out a whine.
“I love you. I never stopped, I never will!” He promised me. He rolled his hips and played with my clit to make it all feel more intense.
“I loved you like the moon loves the stars. I loved you like a flower loves water. You were part of my soul. I wanted to bare your children. I never wanted to imagine a life without you.”
“Yes, that is exactly how I feel. Oh, darling, I’m so close!” He gasped.
He was holding me tight and reverently as he pounded inside me. His lips were attached to my neck. He let out a pant of pure lust and need. His warm seed began to fill me.
I couldn’t help but fall over the edge too. I was doused in swirling stars once again. Once again the world was beautiful as we reached our heights together.
I heard the wetness as he pulled himself out of me. I stepped forward robotically and turned around. Paul’s eyes were glazed over with a film of pure love and satisfaction. This nearly dopey expression, the one I recognised from when we used to make love, fell when he saw the look in my eyes.
“Y/n?”
“Go back to your wife,” I said in a full tone. He was understanding now that everything is said had been past tense.
“Y/n!” His voice was shrill and worried now. He had truly become so haughty he hadn’t expected another rejection.
“Forget the past, Emperor,” I finished with a mock curtsy.
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The Prophecy Chapter 2: Even Statues Crumble
Summary: Aurelia prepares for her wedding to Lucius Verus and marries him to save her own life.
A/N: Thank you for reading this little idea of mine. It literally came to me as I was listening to The Prophecy in the car on the way to work. If you have any requests as to like blurbs or one shots that happen within this universe, please let me know. I also don't do tag lists but, I appreciate the support! Warnings: 18+, arranged marriage, forced marriage, talks of death, second guessing, weddings, Geta being an a-hole, use of flashbacks, talking about wanting to die, emotions., and as always, let me know if I missed any.
Flashbacks are labeled as such.
Separator banner credit to: sweetmelodygraphics.
Aurelia’s gaze flitted to the reflection of the gown on the bed, her heart sinking. The fabric seemed to mock her. Every thread, every seam, a reminder of the future she never wanted. She felt suffocated by her obligations—by the weight of what was expected of her. Her father, her mother, the Senate, the people—they had all decided for her. They had all played their parts in crafting her destiny, and now she was nothing more than a pawn in a game of politics.
The door opened behind her with a soft creak, but she didn’t turn. She didn’t want anyone to see her like this—not tonight. Not before the wedding.
Her servant, Flavia, stepped in cautiously, her voice gentle as she spoke. "Your Highness, everything is prepared. The gown... the feast… everything is ready for tomorrow.."
Aurelia stood still for a long moment, her hands gripping the windowsill. The breeze from the open window fluttered her hair around her face, but she didn’t feel the coolness of it. She barely felt anything at all. She was numb.
“Aurelia?” Flavia’s voice was concerned now, soft but insistent.
Aurelia slowly turned toward her, her face unreadable, her eyes tired but defiant. “You were right to be excited for me,” she said bitterly, her words sharper than she intended. "But I’m not." She felt the sting of tears rising in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She would not cry in front of anyone—not now.
Flavia hesitated, her brow furrowing with worry. “You don’t have to go through with this. You know that, right? You can—”
“No,” Aurelia interrupted sharply, stepping away from the window, her voice suddenly hoarse. “I have no choice. I am to be the Emperor’s wife, whether I want to be or not. It’s this or die.”
Her words cut through the air, thick with the weight of resignation. She hated them. She hated the fact that her life was no longer hers to control. She had no say in who she married, no say in what her future would be. Her marriage to Geta had been forced upon her, too, but at least she had known him, had grown accustomed to his cruelty. This marriage—this union with Lucius Verus—felt like a strange cruelty of its own.
Flavia opened her mouth to protest again, but Aurelia cut her off with a soft, bitter laugh.
“You don’t understand, Flavia,” she whispered, her hands trembling at her sides. “Geta and Caracalla are dead. The empire is in the hands of men who would never think twice about tearing me apart. I am a puppet. A trophy wife. Tomorrow, I’ll stand before the Senate, and they’ll pretend to care, while they all gawk at the new Empress. And Lucius…” She paused, her voice thick with disdain, “He doesn’t want me. He’s just another part of the game. Another ruler who’ll sit beside me in the throne room and we’ll both pretend to love each other.”
Flavia moved closer, placing a gentle hand on Aurelia’s arm. “He’s not like the others, Aurelia. Lucius—he’s different. He was a gladiator. He knows what it means to fight, to survive. He’s not like the men who’ve ruled before.”
Aurelia’s lips trembled at the words. She wanted to believe her. She wanted to believe that Lucius, this gladiator-turned-emperor, was different. That maybe, through some strange twist of fate, he might understand her pain. But the truth was more complicated than that.
She stepped away from Flavia’s touch, pacing slowly toward the edge of the room. Her fingers lightly brushed against the fabric of the wedding gown once more, the weight of it pulling her down. "I don’t want to marry him,” she said quietly, more to herself than anyone else. “I don’t want this life. I don’t want any of it."
The words hung in the air, thick with the despair she had not allowed herself to feel until now. There was a part of her, a small, fragile part, that wanted to scream at the heavens. Why me? Why is it always me who has to bear the weight of the empire’s cruelty?
Flavia, sensing the depth of her distress, approached her once more, her voice softer this time, filled with empathy. "You don’t have to marry him if you don’t want to. You are strong, Aurelia. You can walk away from this. There are other ways."
Aurelia looked at her, her eyes clouded with pain. “What other ways, Flavia? Do you think the Senate would let me walk away? Do you think I could just... disappear?” Her voice cracked, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, her composure shattered. "I am nothing but a political pawn in their game. If I don't marry Lucius, I’ll be executed. They’ll kill me and then they’ll put someone else on the throne."
Flavia’s heart broke at the words, but she stood still, not knowing how to comfort her. There was no escape, not really. Not for Aurelia. Not for the woman who had already lost everything.
“I have nothing,” Aurelia whispered, her voice hollow. “Nothing left. Nothing to give. Nothing to hope for. This marriage... this wedding... it’s all a lie.” 
Tears filled Aurelia’s eyes, but she quickly wiped them away, turning away from Flavia. “I wish I could die before tomorrow. Just to be free of all of this.”
Flavia’s breath hitched, panic rising in her chest. She grabbed Aurelia by the shoulders, turning her to face her. “Don’t say that, Aurelia. Don’t even think it! You’re strong. You have so much to live for.”
Aurelia pulled away gently, her voice strained and broken. “What do I have to live for? This empire? This crown?” She gestured helplessly to the room, to the gown she would wear tomorrow, to the life that awaited her. “I never asked for any of this. I didn’t want this.”
She sank into a chair, her head buried in her hands as she trembled. Flavia stood helplessly nearby, watching the woman she had served for so long unravel before her eyes.
And for a moment, the silence between them was unbearable, filled only with the weight of unspoken sorrow.
Aurelia’s thoughts were a whirl of darkness and pain but in the quiet, with the wedding gown looming in the distance, she knew—deep down—that she had to keep moving forward, whether she wanted to or not.
It was marriage or death.
For tomorrow, whether she accepted it or not, she would marry Lucius Verus and she would be Empress once more. 
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Flashback ~ Before Her Marriage to Geta
The night before her wedding to Emperor Geta, Aurelia lay in her bed, the cool sheets tangled around her legs, but it was the storm in her mind that kept her awake. She stared up at the high, vaulted ceiling, the shadows of the room stretching long and dark, as if the very walls were closing in on her.
She had barely eaten at dinner. She had hardly spoken. The weight of the marriage, of the future that awaited her, hung like a shroud. Tomorrow, she would walk down the aisle in a gown of white and gold, and before the Senate and the people of Rome, she would become Empress Aurelia, the wife of a man she barely knew, a man she had been told to marry to secure her family's place in the empire.
But Aurelia did not want this. Not this life. Not with him. She never wanted the titles or the riches.
A thousand thoughts raced through her mind, but one was clear: she could not go through with it. She would not. If there was any way to escape, to avoid this fate, she would find it. She had to.
She slipped out of bed, her bare feet cold against the marble floor. She had worn the finest silken gown, but now she felt it like a weight—a symbol of the chains that bound her to this life she had not chosen. Moving quickly, she crept to the door, her heart hammering in her chest. The guards would be outside, she knew. They always were. But what if she could slip past them? What if she could leave the palace unnoticed?
Aurelia moved silently through the darkened corridors, her breath coming in shallow gasps as she pressed herself into the shadows, listening carefully for any signs of movement. The stone walls of the palace seemed oppressive in their silence, like the very architecture was conspiring against her.
She reached the door that led to the garden, the place where she used to play as a child, and for a fleeting moment, it felt like a distant memory. The scent of roses filled the air, the sound of the night insects buzzing faintly in the distance. She stepped outside, the cool night air hitting her skin, and felt a fleeting sense of freedom.
But just as she began to move toward the edge of the gardens, a voice sliced through the silence.
“Aurelia.”
Her heart leapt into her throat. She froze. Slowly, she turned to find Marcus Cassius, her father, standing in the shadows, his face unreadable but stern. He had been watching her. Of course he had. The guards would never have let her slip by without reporting it.
“You should be in bed,” he said, his voice soft but firm, like the press of a blade against her throat.
“I—” Aurelia began, but her words faltered. She had no excuse. No lie would work.
She was tired of lying.
“I can’t do this, Father,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I can’t marry him. I can’t marry Geta.”
Marcus took a slow step forward, his face illuminated by the moonlight, and Aurelia saw the flicker of something in his eyes—concern, perhaps, or disappointment. It was hard to tell. His features were always so controlled.
“I know this isn’t what you want,” he said, his tone gentle, but there was an undercurrent of something darker, something unyielding. “But it is what you must do.”
Aurelia’s chest tightened, her breath coming faster as the weight of his words crushed her. “I don’t care about what I must do!” she snapped, her voice rising. “I care about what I want, what I need. And I need to be free. Free from this. I don’t belong with Geta. I don’t love him. How can you ask me to marry a man I barely know, someone I’ve heard only whispers of? How can you force me into this life?”
Her father’s eyes softened, but the hardness in his face never wavered. “It’s not about love, Aurelia,” he said, his voice almost too calm. “This is about Rome. This is about securing the future of our family. Your marriage to Geta will ensure that we remain in power, that our name remains in the annals of history. You were born to be a part of this.”
Aurelia stepped back, shaking her head in disbelief. “I never asked for this. You’ve always made choices for me, Father, but I’m not a child anymore. I’m not some pawn for you to place in a marriage bed just to secure alliances. I want my own life. I want to choose my own path.”
Marcus’s gaze hardened, his jaw tightening. “You’ve never had a choice, Aurelia. You’ve always known that. The empire does not offer choice to women like you. You are a Cassia, and that means you have a duty. Do you think your mother didn’t know this when she married me? Do you think she didn’t understand that duty? That she didn’t make sacrifices for it?”
Aurelia recoiled, her breath catching in her throat. She had never heard her father speak of her mother with such coldness. It was as if the warmth of her mother’s memory—of her kindness and devotion—was gone, swept away by the weight of duty and power.
“I don’t want to be like her,” Aurelia said, her voice barely above a whisper, her hands trembling at her sides. “I don’t want to give up everything for the empire. I don’t want to be controlled.”
Her father’s expression faltered, just for a moment, but he quickly regained his composure. “You have no choice. Neither does Geta. The Senate has already approved this marriage. The people will expect it. If you do not comply, there will be consequences for us both.”
Aurelia’s world felt like it was collapsing around her. The walls of the palace, the stone and marble, seemed to close in on her, suffocating her. “I don’t care about their consequences!” she cried, her voice breaking, but even as she said it, she knew she was lying. She cared about the consequences—she cared deeply. A refusal would mean disgrace, dishonor, and ruin for her family. And for herself.
“You must go through with it,” Marcus said quietly, his voice final. “You will meet Geta tomorrow. You will marry him. And you will do it for Rome. For us. For your future.”
Aurelia’s knees buckled, and she collapsed onto the stone bench in the garden, her hands pressing against her face. The tears she had been holding back for so long finally spilled over, and for the first time in years, she felt utterly, completely powerless.
Her father’s gaze lingered on her, but there was no sympathy in it. Only the cold, unyielding expectation of a Roman nobleman.
“You will learn to accept it,” he said quietly, before turning and walking back toward the palace.
Aurelia was left alone, the sound of his footsteps fading as the weight of her reality set in. She could run. She could scream. But she knew, deep down, that there was no escape. Not for her. Not from the life her father had chosen for her.
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Aurelia stood in front of the full-length mirror, her reflection hazy in the soft light of the candle-lit chamber. Her hands trembled slightly as she adjusted the silk robe that clung to her skin. The room was quiet, save for the soft rustle of fabric and the occasional clink of jewelry being prepared by her attendants. The noise from outside—laughter, music, the murmur of the Senate gathering for the ceremony—seemed distant, almost foreign to her in this moment of solitude.
Her wedding day. It should have been a day of joy, of hope for a future that could be built in the light of love and partnership. But for her, it felt like the closing of a door she had never intended to open.
The door to the chamber opened slowly, and one of her handmaidens entered, holding the delicate wedding gown in her arms. Aurelia’s eyes flickered toward it for a moment before returning to her own reflection. The gown was a brilliant red, trimmed with gold thread, the fabric soft and weightless like a dream. The delicate embroidery along the hem and neckline sparkled faintly in the light—symbols of Rome's glory, of the empire's future that was now her responsibility, and her burden.
"Aurelia?" The handmaid's voice was gentle, tentative, as if unsure whether to interrupt her mistress's thoughts.
Aurelia turned, giving her a tight, thin-lipped smile. "Yes, Flavia?"
"The gown is ready to don, Empress. Shall I help you?" The woman’s gaze was respectful, but there was something else there too—a flicker of sympathy that Aurelia couldn’t bear to acknowledge.
Aurelia swallowed the lump in her throat. She didn’t want sympathy. She didn’t want pity. She wanted to scream, to break something, to tear off this crown of thorns that Rome had placed on her head. But she did none of that. She simply nodded.
"Yes," she said softly, turning her back to the mirror so Antonia could help her slip out of the robe and into the wedding gown.
The cold air of the room pricked at her skin as she stood there, exposed, while her handmaiden adjusted the dress. The fabric felt like it was suffocating her, the layers of fine silk pressing against her ribs, wrapping around her like a prison. Every movement she made seemed to tighten the knot in her chest, that feeling of being trapped.
“Do you want to wear your crown?” Antonia asked quietly as she fastened the gown with a delicate clasp at the back.
Aurelia’s eyes closed for a moment, the thought of the crown heavy in her mind. It was an ancient piece, crafted with intricate gold filigree and precious stones, a symbol of imperial power. It had once been worn by the great empresses of Rome, and now it would sit atop her head—whether she liked it or not.
But no. Not today.
“Not yet,” Aurelia replied with a sigh, her voice flat. She didn’t need the crown to feel the weight of this marriage. The crown would only serve as a reminder of the chains that now bound her to Lucius.
The handmaiden gave a small nod and moved to prepare the rest of the ensemble. Aurelia looked back at her reflection, her eyes scanning her face, her chestnut brown hair, now expertly arranged in a complicated updo, twisted with strands of gold. The gold accents in her gown glinted, catching the light like cruel promises.
Her heart thudded in her chest. It was not fear that made her body tense, nor anxiety over the marriage itself. It was the overwhelming weight of her own complicity. She was walking into this union with her eyes wide open. She knew what this would mean for her. For her future. For her identity.
"I should be happy," she murmured to herself. "I should be proud."
But she wasn’t.
She wasn’t anything but resigned.
She had spent her life surrounded by men who used their power for their own gain—first Geta, then Father, and now Lucius. Each had taken something from her. Her love. Her trust. Her belief in what a marriage could be. Now, this marriage would be no different. Lucius was no Geta, certainly, but the coldness that resided between them was something that neither of them could escape. He may have been the son of Lucilla, the true heir to the throne, but she knew him only as a gladiator—someone who had fought his way to power, someone who had been shaped by violence and bloodshed.
The door creaked again, and another handmaiden entered, this one carrying the veil that would cover her face. Aurelia stood still as it was gently placed over her head. She let the fabric fall into place, the lace soft against her skin. It was beautiful, but suffocating.
“You look stunning, Empress,” Antonia whispered, as if her words would somehow erase the tension in the room.
Aurelia didn’t respond immediately. She couldn’t bring herself to speak, to pretend for even a moment that this day was anything other than the beginning of something that she had not chosen.
The heavy silence settled between them, the air thick with the weight of her decision. The marriage would proceed. The ceremony would go on. She would stand by Lucius’s side. She would wear the crown, and she would endure.
In a fleeting moment, as the last of the attendants left the room to give her space, Aurelia allowed herself one last thought: Perhaps, somewhere in the depths of her heart, she still longed for a different life. A life where she was not bound by duty, not made to be the symbol of an empire, not forced into a marriage for the sake of political alliances.
But as the clock ticked, the reality of her situation gripped her again, cold and unyielding.
This was not her choice. Not really.
She was an empress and empresses did not have the luxury of choice.
Aurelia stepped toward the door, the faint sound of the wedding procession echoing in the halls of the palace. She walked down the corridors, her heels clicking softly against the marble floors, her breath steady. Her hands, now trembling once more, gripped the edges of her gown. She could feel her heart race. But she kept her face neutral, resolute.
The doors to the grand hall opened, and before her, in the vastness of the room, stood Lucius—waiting for her. The air buzzed with anticipation.
And she, Aurelia, stood at the threshold, ready to step into her new life.
The price of power. The price of survival.
And, most of all, the price of being an empress.
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The grand hall of the imperial palace was bathed in golden light, its columns adorned with rich purple tapestries and intricate carvings that had witnessed countless ceremonies of wealth and power. But today, this sacred space seemed to pulse with an air of something darker—something forged by the sword, blood, and vengeance.
Aurelia Carina Cassia stood near the altar, her breath shallow and her body stiff with anger, her eyes dark and haunted as she gazed out over the sea of guests. Senators, generals, and various figures of power from across the Empire filled the space, their murmurs low and expectant. It was meant to be a celebration of Rome’s new era, but for her, it felt like a bitter mockery.
Her heart still ached for Geta, her late husband. Cruel though he had been, she had found a way to love him—a love that had never been returned but existed all the same. Now, the man who had taken his place as Emperor, Lucius Verus, stood in front of her.
Lucius Verus. He was unlike anything she had imagined. A gladiator. A slave. And yet, he bore the blood of the true Imperial line. He was her captor and her future husband, thrust into this role by the whims of power. He had murdered Macrinus, the usurper who had orchestrated the deaths of her first husband and his brother Caracalla, but in his victory, there was no joy—only a quiet fury that matched her own.
He stood tall and commanding, his piercing blue eyes scanning her face with an intensity that unsettled her. He was dressed in the traditional garb of an emperor, but his bearing—the broad shoulders, the ruggedness, the battle-worn look—betrayed his humble origins. He had spent most of his time in Rome now in the blood-soaked sands, fighting for survival, earning his freedom through the same violence that had stolen his childhood.
He was, in a sense, a mirror to her own loss. She, too, had been forced to survive in a world she could never control.
And now they were to be joined in marriage, a union that was born not of love, but of survival.
The officiant, a high-ranking priestess, gestured for them to stand at the center of the room, her voice smooth and practiced as she spoke the traditional words of union. Her gaze flickered between the two, noting the tension in their posture, the unwillingness that clung to them like a dark cloud.
Aurelia’s hands trembled as she reached out to take the hand of her new husband. His palm was rough and calloused, the grip firm but not comforting. She could feel the history of his life in his touch—years of hardship, bloodshed, and struggle. His thumb brushed against the back of her hand in a subtle, almost imperceptible gesture, but it was enough to remind her that despite all that had happened, they were bound by something now. A shared future of power, of control, and of the very Empire that had destroyed their lives.
Her lips pressed into a thin line as she nodded, the ceremony continuing in its formalities, yet her mind was far from the words being spoken. She thought of the fateful choice she had been given: marry Lucius Verus or face execution. It was a choice she had made out of necessity, but every fiber of her being screamed in defiance. She had loved Geta, and in that love, she had found a strange semblance of purpose, even if it had been a hollow one. Now, that love had been torn from her, and she was left with a man she neither knew nor cared to know.
Lucius, for his part, said nothing. His expression was unreadable, but there was something in his eyes—a flicker of something that mirrored her own anger. Perhaps it was the knowledge that neither of them had been given the luxury of choice, that their fates had been decided by forces greater than themselves.
The priestess continued with the vows, each word falling like the sound of a hammer on stone. As Lucius Verus spoke his vows, his voice was steady, though there was a quiet intensity beneath it, as if he were speaking not just to Aurelia but to the Empire itself, declaring his authority, his claim to this throne. He had killed Macrinus for the very right to stand where he was now. And she was his symbol of legitimacy, the last link to the imperial bloodline of the old regime.
Her turn came, and for a moment, she hesitated. The weight of what this marriage meant pressed down on her, the reality of her new life settling in. There was no love to offer him. No affection. Just the remnants of a broken loyalty to a man who had never truly loved her.
“I vow,” she said, her voice cold, “to stand by your side, as is my duty. I vow to give you the Empire that you now rule, for what it is worth. But know this, Lucius Verus—there will be no affection, no love between us. Only power. Only ambition.”
For a heartbeat, there was silence. The room held its breath.
Lucius’s blue eyes bored into hers, and for a long moment, she thought he might challenge her words, perhaps even reject her defiance. Instead, he simply nodded, as if he had already anticipated it.
“We will rule together,” he said, his voice steady and unwavering. “There is no room for weakness in Rome.”
And with that, the ceremony was complete.
As they turned to face the assembled guests, the crowd erupted into applause, their faces masks of politeness, their hands clapping with enthusiasm. The new emperor and his empress stood together, united in a marriage that neither had chosen but both were bound by. Aurelia could feel the coldness of her own heart as she stood there beside him, the weight of the imperial crown now heavy on her brow.
Her life, her future, was now irrevocably linked to this man, this gladiator-turned-emperor, whose blue eyes hid more secrets than she would ever be able to unravel. But as they walked down the aisle, side by side, she knew one thing for certain: in the world of power, there could be no true love. Only survival. Only Empire. Only Rome. Only duty.
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Flashback ~ The Wedding To Geta
The sun was setting over Rome, casting a soft golden glow over the city that stretched out below the Palatine Hill. Aurelia stood before a tall mirror, her hands trembling slightly as she adjusted the folds of her wedding dress—a gown of delicate silk and rich embroidery that shimmered in the fading light. The dress, fit for an empress, was crafted from the finest materials, but it felt heavy against her skin. Every stitch, every detail, reminded her of the weight of the day, of the promise she was about to make, and the life she was about to step into.
Her reflection stared back at her, but she barely recognized the woman in the mirror. Gone was the spirited young woman she had been before her marriage was arranged. Gone was the girl who had dreamed of love and adventure. In her place stood a woman bound by duty—her fate sealed by the politics of empire, her future written in the cold, unfeeling hand of power.
Aurelia closed her eyes for a moment, taking in a steadying breath. She would have preferred to wait, to delay this moment, to take time to come to terms with the reality of her marriage. But there was no time. The people expected it. The Senate demanded it. And her father, always the pragmatist, had seen the union as an opportunity for political gain—an alliance that would strengthen the family name.
"Are you ready?" came a voice, breaking her reverie. It was her father, standing in the doorway of her chamber. His expression was unreadable, as it always was, but there was something behind his eyes—a flicker of concern, perhaps, or maybe guilt. He had done what was necessary. But Aurelia knew it had not been his choice either.
She forced a smile, the kind of smile she had perfected long ago when she was a child trying to please her father. "As ready as I’ll ever be."
Her father’s eyes softened for just a moment before he nodded. "You will be Empress. You know what that means, Aurelia. It’s a responsibility to Rome. To the future. Remember all that your mother and I have taught you."
Aurelia nodded, her throat tightening. Her future was already laid out for her, and it was not a future she had chosen. But she had always known that in the Roman world, duty outweighed personal desire. She was a woman of privilege, yes, but she was also a pawn in a game of power and politics.
The doors to the chamber opened, and Aurelia’s attendants entered, guiding her to the grand hall where the wedding would take place. The hall was massive, filled with marble columns and the scent of fresh flowers, the long tables draped in crimson cloths. Guests had already arrived, dressed in their finest to witness the union of the Emperor and the daughter of a noble family. But none of it felt real to Aurelia. It all felt distant, a pageant for the empire’s elite, a performance where she was expected to play her role.
Her heart beat in her chest, faster than it had been moments ago. Not from excitement, but from a deep, gnawing apprehension. This man— Emperor Geta—would be her husband. A man who had already shown her nothing but coldness and indifference. Their marriage, she knew, was not one built on affection or love but on the weight of imperial necessity.
As she entered the hall, she could feel the eyes of the guests on her, their gazes heavy, judging. The high-ranking senators, the nobles of Rome, all gathered to witness the consolidation of power that this marriage represented. But Aurelia’s mind was elsewhere, focused on the figure at the end of the long aisle.
Emperor Geta stood there, his back straight, his expression impassive. His dark hair was neatly combed, and his tunic was rich with gold embroidery, the imperial seal shining brightly on his chest. His eyes, dark and unreadable, met hers briefly as she walked toward him. For a moment, there was a flicker—an almost imperceptible shift in his gaze—but it was gone before Aurelia could understand it.
His presence was like a shadow, looming over her, a reminder of what was to come. He was not cruel—at least, not outwardly—but there was a coldness in him, an emotional distance that made her uneasy. The idea of this man being her husband was foreign, unsettling. And yet, as the ceremony began, she knew there was no turning back.
The high priest stepped forward, his voice solemn as he began the traditional rites. Aurelia’s gaze remained fixed on Geta, but he was unmoved. His lips were set in a firm line, his expression a mask of indifference. He did not seem to care for the ceremony, nor did he seem to care for her.
"Do you, Emperor Geta, take Aurelia Carina Cassia to be your wife, to rule beside you in both marriage and in empire, in joy and in hardship, in life and in death?" the priest asked.
Geta’s voice was low, almost detached. "I do."
Aurelia’s heart skipped a beat. He spoke the words with no passion, no conviction, as though the act was nothing more than a formality to be checked off the list. A formality for the empire.
Then it was her turn.
"Aurelia Carina Cassia," the priest said, turning his gaze to her. "Do you take Emperor Geta, to be your husband, to join with him in marriage, in rule, in life, and in death?"
Her lips parted, but for a long moment, no sound came out. Her mind swirled with conflicting thoughts—fear, doubt, and resignation. She had no choice. There was no turning back. The empire was watching her.
"I do," she said, her voice steady despite the turmoil inside her.
The ceremony continued, the exchange of vows, the binding of rings, the symbolic gestures of unity. But even as the final prayers were spoken and the crowd cheered, Aurelia felt nothing but an overwhelming sense of emptiness. She was a wife, yes, but not in the way she had imagined. She was a wife in name, a wife to a man who would never truly love her.
As the final blessing was given, Geta turned to her, offering her his arm as he led her from the altar. His eyes met hers for a moment, and in the fleeting seconds, Aurelia saw something there—something cold, something distant. But she couldn’t place it. She wasn’t sure if it was pity, disdain, or something else entirely. But it didn’t matter.
They were married now. The empire will have its heirs. The empire had its future.
They walked together, side by side, but it felt as though they were walking in separate worlds, worlds that had collided for the sake of duty, of power, of an empire that demanded much and offered little in return.
As Aurelia took her place at his side, she couldn’t help but wonder what the future would hold for her in this cold, loveless marriage. Would she ever find warmth in his eyes? Or would she forever remain a figure beside him, a silent witness to the empire’s unyielding march?
In the end, she knew one thing for certain: the wedding had been the beginning of a new life, but it had not been the beginning of love.
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The grand dining hall of the imperial palace was a breathtaking sight, adorned with lavish tapestries depicting the heroic deeds of the emperor's past. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meats, honeyed wine, and exotic spices, while gilded chandeliers cast their warm glow over the guests, whose laughter and chatter echoed off the marble walls. The feast had begun in earnest, but for Aurelia, it felt like an insufferable pageantry, an endless display of opulence that was as hollow as her own heart.
The high table, where she and Lucius Verus now sat side by side, was elevated above the sea of guests, an uncomfortable reminder of the power that now bound them together. At one end of the table sat the new Emperor of Rome, his piercing blue eyes cold and distant, as if he were already surveying the entire Empire with an authority that didn’t need to be spoken. At the other end, Aurelia sat stiffly, her hands clenched in her lap beneath the rich folds of her gown, unable to fully appreciate the luxury that surrounded her. She had been made Empress again, yes, but it was a title that seemed to mock her more than anything else. She had no love for Lucius Verus—her husband only in name—yet here she was, forced to play the part, to smile and pretend that this was all as it should be.
Her gown shimmered beneath the flickering candlelight. It was the color of Rome’s old blood—the blood of emperors, of gladiators, and of countless men and women who had fought for survival. She hated the irony of it all.
Lucius, for his part, barely spoke. His jaw was set, his expression unreadable. He lifted his goblet of wine to his lips and took a long drink, his eyes briefly meeting hers, but only for a second. The tension between them was palpable, like an invisible thread pulling them further apart with every passing moment.
The servants moved around the table with practiced efficiency, placing golden platters of roasted boar, venison, and lamb, their skins crackling with crisp fat, alongside bowls of fresh fruits—pomegranates, figs, and clusters of grapes—and loaves of freshly baked bread. An assortment of cheeses and honeyed pastries were brought in, and the scent of wine—sweet, tart, and heady—filled the air. Flutists played softly in the background, and a troupe of dancers from the East began a slow, sensuous dance, their silks flowing as they moved in perfect harmony with the music.
But despite the abundance of food and drink, despite the spectacle unfolding before her, Aurelia could not enjoy a single moment. Her mind swam with bitter thoughts: memories of Geta, the brutal coldness of his reign, his violence—yet, within that cruelty, she had found something to hold on to, something that had made him hers, even if only in the darkest corners of her heart.
She was brought back to the present by a low voice beside her.
"Not hungry?" Lucius Verus’s voice was quieter than before, his words heavy with something unreadable. It was not a question of concern, but one of curiosity, or perhaps challenge.
Aurelia turned toward him, meeting his gaze. His blue eyes were sharp and intent, as though he were studying her, as though she were the next opponent to be defeated in his personal arena.
"I’m not hungry," she replied, her voice cool, and for a moment, their eyes locked, the silence between them thick and heavy.
Lucius’s lips tightened, though it wasn’t in anger. It was more a quiet acknowledgment of the tension between them. He turned his gaze back to the feast and picked up a roasted fig, placing it delicately in his mouth. There was something almost calculated about his movements, as if every action were part of a larger strategy.
Around them, the feast continued with laughter and revelry. A senator cracked a joke, a group of soldiers clinked their goblets together in a celebratory toast, and a young noblewoman tried to engage Lucius in conversation about the new laws he would enact. Yet, despite the outward merriment, there was an underlying current of unease. The guests were not so naïve as to ignore the strange and uneasy marriage that had just been sealed in the hall behind them.
Lucius shifted slightly in his seat, as though feeling the weight of the eyes that turned toward him.
"You don’t have to pretend," he said, breaking the silence again, his voice low and almost resigned. "I know why you’re here. You don’t have to like it."
Aurelia’s lips tightened at his words, but there was no anger in them. It was merely truth, blunt and direct, as always. She looked down at her hands, unwilling to meet his gaze again.
"I don’t pretend," she replied softly, though she knew the truth of her own hypocrisy. She was pretending, of course. Pretending that she didn’t care. Pretending that this was all something she could endure.
"Then why sit through this?" Lucius asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "Why endure this charade?"
Aurelia raised her eyes to his once more, meeting his gaze squarely. For a moment, she wanted to say because it’s all I have left, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, she said only, “Because I have no choice, just as you have no choice.”
For a heartbeat, Lucius said nothing. He stared at her, as though seeing her for the first time—truly seeing her. His gaze was piercing, intense, yet something flickered in those deep blue eyes. Perhaps it was understanding, perhaps it was something more, but Aurelia could not bring herself to interpret it.
A loud cheer broke the silence, and Aurelia turned toward the noise. The guests were raising their cups in a toast, celebrating the new Emperor and Empress, raising their voices in the name of Roman glory. It was an exultant sound, but it grated on her nerves, like the clanging of swords against stone.
"To Lucius Verus, Emperor of Rome!" a voice cried from the crowd.
"And to Aurelia Carina Cassia, Empress of Rome!" another echoed.
The room erupted in applause, and for a moment, the noise drowned out everything else. Aurelia didn’t raise her glass. Instead, she simply sat there, her hands folded in her lap, her thoughts swirling in dark circles.
Lucius raised his goblet, the flickering light from the candles catching in the deep blue of his eyes, but he did not look at her when he spoke.
"To Rome," he said simply, his voice carrying authority that silenced even the loudest of voices.
The crowd echoed his words, and for the briefest of moments, Aurelia felt the weight of the empire—its triumphs, its cruelties, and its endless hunger for power. It was the weight she had inherited, and it was a weight that would forever bind her to Lucius Verus.
For better or for worse, she was now his. And he was hers.
The feast continued around them, but for both of them, it had already ended. 
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The grand banquet hall was alive with the sounds of music, laughter, and the clinking of goblets, but amid the festivity, there was a tension that seemed to weave itself into the very air. The feast had stretched on for hours, but now the guests were beginning to murmur in anticipation as the next part of the evening approached. The moment that every wedding in Rome demanded—the first dance.
Aurelia Carina Cassia stood frozen at the edge of the hall, her gown heavy around her, the rich crimson fabric swishing as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. She could feel the weight of every eye in the room, the glances that flicked between her and Lucius Verus, the new Emperor of Rome, her husband by forced choice. He was already standing at the center of the room, his posture perfect, his jaw set in that all-too-familiar way of someone who had long since learned to suppress any sign of weakness.
They were supposed to dance. They were supposed to take the center of the room and spin in graceful circles, the crowd watching and applauding as if this were a storybook wedding. But Aurelia didn’t feel like a princess or a queen. She felt like a prisoner.
Her eyes flicked nervously to the musicians at the far end of the room, their instruments ready, their gazes expectant. They were waiting for her to take the first step, to move toward Lucius and begin the ritual. Her chest tightened with the weight of it. She couldn’t do this. Not with him. Not when every inch of her body wanted to scream in defiance.
Lucius turned toward her, his gaze cool but unreadable, like a glacier that had been worn smooth by the passage of time. He was not nervous. Of course, he wasn’t. A gladiator, a warrior forged in blood, who had danced with death more times than he could count. What was a simple waltz to a man who had survived arenas and emperors’ plots?
"You’re stalling," he said quietly, his voice barely audible over the growing hum of the room.
Aurelia didn’t respond immediately. She couldn’t. She simply stared at him, that same gnawing bitterness rising within her. She was trapped, caught in the unrelenting gears of this machine—this Empire, this marriage. And there was nothing she could do to escape it.
His eyes softened just the slightest bit, but it wasn’t with warmth. It was a recognition of the struggle she was facing, though he would never voice it aloud. Lucius knew what it was to be trapped in chains, though his were made of blood and iron, not silk and ceremony.
When he spoke again, his words were measured, as though he were giving her a final choice.
"You don’t have to like it. But we have to do this, for Rome." His words weren’t a command; they were simply a fact, one that neither of them could escape.
Aurelia took a sharp breath and glanced back at the crowd. She could feel their eyes on her, the heat of their stares burning into her skin. They were waiting for their Empress to play her part, to show the world that Rome was strong, unified under the rule of its new Emperor. She had no choice. She could feel the weight of it in the pit of her stomach.
Taking a deep breath, she straightened her back, trying to summon whatever dignity she had left, and began to walk toward Lucius. Each step felt like an eternity. Her heels clicked softly against the marble floor, the sound strangely amplified in the stillness that had fallen over the room. Lucius didn’t move, didn’t step forward to meet her. He simply waited, his posture as commanding as ever.
When she reached him, there was a brief, uncomfortable pause. He regarded her with those piercing blue eyes, his expression unreadable. Aurelia wanted to say something—anything—to break the silence. To tell him that she would never be the obedient bride he expected her to be. But instead, she lifted her chin, her jaw set in defiance, and placed her hand on his shoulder, offering him the coldest, most formal smile she could muster.
Lucius’s hand slid around her waist, the touch firm but not intimate. It was a touch that spoke of duty, not desire. He began to guide her into the first slow steps of the dance, his movements practiced and smooth, as though he had done this a thousand times before. Aurelia resisted the instinct to pull away, to lash out, but it was harder than she anticipated.
The music swirled around them, the sounds of the flutes and strings filling the room with a kind of ethereal, haunting beauty. The guests began to murmur, some of them leaning in to catch a glimpse of their new rulers, while others smiled and whispered praises. Aurelia could feel their eyes, their judgments, and it made her skin crawl. This was their moment, a moment they had all been waiting for.
Lucius’s grip tightened just slightly around her waist as they moved in time with the music. The movement was mechanical, almost rehearsed. She could feel the tension between them—an invisible barrier neither of them had the will or the desire to cross. Neither of them spoke. The only sound between them was the soft rustle of her gown as they moved in an intricate, slow circle.
Aurelia’s breath caught in her throat. It wasn’t the dance itself that bothered her—it was the feeling of being so close to him, so exposed. His scent, sharp and masculine, filled her senses, and she had to fight not to recoil. The proximity, the enforced intimacy, made her stomach churn.
Lucius seemed to sense her discomfort, but he didn’t falter. Instead, he gave a small, barely perceptible nod, as though acknowledging the weight of the situation. Aurelia couldn’t tell if it was sympathy, amusement, or something else entirely.
The music shifted, becoming faster, more energetic, but still they danced—two figures moving through the motions, a king and queen of an empire built on blood, sweat, and lies. Their feet moved in perfect time, yet there was a palpable distance between them, a gulf that no amount of waltzing could bridge. It wasn’t the graceful, romantic affair the guests had expected. It was a dance of survival. A dance of power.
Aurelia’s mind raced with thoughts of the life she had lost, the man she had loved, and the empire that had torn it all apart. She fought the urge to pull away from Lucius, but there was no escaping this moment. They were bound by more than the silk of her gown or the glittering jewels in her hair. They were bound by the expectations of Rome, by the empire that had demanded this union, this performance.
And so they danced. Neither of them truly present, both lost in the performance. And the crowd watched, applauded, and whispered their approval, as the two of them continued the endless charade that had begun with a marriage forged in blood.
When the dance finally ended, and the last notes of the music drifted into silence, Aurelia was left breathless. Her chest rose and fell with the exertion of holding herself together, and she quickly stepped back, her hand falling from his shoulder. The applause was polite, distant, but it was nothing compared to the silence between them now.
Lucius’s eyes met hers for a brief moment, his expression unreadable. His lips parted as though he might say something, but then he simply nodded.
"Thank you," he said, his voice quiet, though the words seemed hollow to her ears.
Aurelia didn’t answer. She simply gave him a stiff nod in return, the weight of the crown upon her head heavier than ever before.
Then, she turned and walked away, the crowd parting for her like water parting for a stone, their whispers now louder, more insistent but she didn’t care. All that mattered now was the emptiness she felt inside and the weight of the empire that bound her to a man she would never love.
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aledethanlast · 1 year ago
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I want to clarify something about my Lawyer!Andrew post:
Andrew is not doing this to impress people. In fact he actively doesn't want to impress people. He is done being a superman who holds everyone's lives in his hands. It's not good for his mental health when he's doing it and it's not good for anyone when that he fails, because the law is too big and some of these fuckers are just legitimately dumber and more guilty than his literal murderous mafia husband.
Anyways. Andrew wakes up in the morning, goes to his closet and shoves aside the 15k dollar Armani suits so he can put on the two piece he got at Macy's (then tailored to fit, cause he still has standards), and a matching tie.
He goes to the office. Brad asks him if he heard about the latest draft picks. Andrew stares him down until Brad goes to Andrew's desk and drops a quarter in the "Asking Andrew about Exy" jar. Andrew's coworkers seem to think that he's gonna buy the office a Foosball table with the jar money. They are wrong. It is for a new cat tower. Also, no Andrew hasn't seen it, but he got the rundown from Neil and Kevin, so he knows enough to tell Brad not to bother with a season pass for the Sealions this year.
He has two cases to deal with today. The first is a vehicular manslaughter charge. The client is pleading self defense, and that the victim was a stalker. Andrew likes her because, despite bursting into tears every time they have a trial prep session, she actually listens to instructions and knows when to shut the fuck up. He's confident.
The second is grand larceny. The guy is so super incredibly guilty but Brad gave him this case because he knows Andrew loves police misconduct cases and this one is just so full of protocol breaches that Andrew only had to show Neil the file for him to burst out laughing.
Janet says he has a call waiting. Janet is the highest paid paralegal in the county, because she also filters his celebrity mail. Technically Neil's pr firm still represents him, but Janet knows to turn down the DA's gala invitations without needing to argue with him.
He picks up the phone. It's the DA. The man invites him to the police gala because he knows Andrew ignored the emails. Andrew assumes the man was banking on Andrew giving a polite refusal he can wheedle or harangue into compliance. The man is new to the job, so Andrew will forgive this embarrassing miscalculation.
They spend the next hour discussing court dates for a certain case. Andrew's client for that one is disabled and only has partial aid, and he won't let them set court dates that they know she won't be able to attend. The DA, despite his embarrassing naivate, seems to be on the same page in this regard, so hopefully this will go well when they bring the matter to the judge.
In the span of this phone call, two of Brad's clients come into the office, and within five minutes of walking in are made to contribute to the jar. They don't get their questions answered, because he's on the phone, and they're not Brad.
He has court tomorrow. Court is annoying, because it's a room full of strangers who hear his name and forget why he's there, and he's not allowed to bring the jar. Court is a chore, because he has to walk people through their own idiocy, and then occasionally convince the room of just how stupid or brilliant it actually was.
Court is also, maybe, just a teensy bit fun, because whatever the stereotype of a lawyer is, Andrew really isn't it, and that makes people take him a lot less seriously until he starts quoting their words back to them faster than the stenographer.
(Janet also filters job offers. They tend to crop up every few months.)
(It used to be more fun, back in the early days when Neil would sit in sometimes, until he remembered just how horrifically boring the whole thing is. But that's fine. Andrew is happy having his own thing.)
But really, court is easy. It's a place where your word has weight, where promises are binding, and when everything is going to shit, nobody looks at Andrew like he's the freak for keeping his head.
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l-in-the-light · 4 months ago
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Trafalgar Law - Bad Manners edition
I got inspired by the reblog I got and I thought: damn, this would be fun to write, so let's go!
We all know our Surgeon of Death isn't exactly known for having good manners and is often called rude. So let's count his crimes against the etiquette, just for fun! And at the end of it I will leave you all a surprise.
List of Trafalgar Law's feats in rudeness (feel free to provide more evidence!)
Two middle fingers (one for Kid and one for Doflamingo, people he hates)
No greetings (hi, hello, bye, take care, good luck, welcome back, they're all nonexistent in his vocabulary)
Blatant and obnoxious lies (we will never forget the "this is my vacation house now")
Telling people to shut up (justice for Chopper!)
Never saying "please" and "thank you" (at least not on screen, with one notable exception)
Ordering people around (with exception of alliances)
Not introducing his crew properly
Using blatantly censorable speech (so far only Doflamingo deserved that)
Throwing empty threats of death
Calling certain people idiots
Other sins of uncertain nature:
using "ya" to adress people instead of usual "san", "kun" etc. (can be seen as rude, but at the same time just as quirky)
cheeky smirks
complaining (lots and lots of complaining), scolding and shouting
throwing bowl at the ground that one time (which I still think is his trauma response, he never throws anything besides that one time)
Things he could be doing but for some reason never does, despite people lowkey expecting him to:
being arrogant
speaking to people like they're stupid or patronizing over them
never apologizing (he actually always apologizes and takes responsibility for actions of other people he works with. He apologized to Sanji when his plan went astray and he endangered the crew in Dressrosa, he apologized to Kin for Luffy and Zoro doing the Okobore town shanenigans in Wano as well)
killing people (never happened on-screen. The closest to that was Vergo, but that was indirect and Law left him with a snail, so he could actually get help if he wanted to)
swearing (it is a shonen manga after all lol)
not listening or talking over someone (come on, he even let Luffy steal the bribe call he made to Doflamingo!)
refusing help when asked for it directly (doing support in battle also counts. he suggested leaving the kids behind in Punk Hazard, but it was a suggestion. In the end he still couldn't refuse)
butting into other crew's personal matters (he always asks Luffy first so he can communicate about staff to his own crew)
laughing at people (or laughing in general)
expecting to receive gratefulness (with the exception of Bellamy, but that's because the other blames him for saving his life. Other than that he never even waits long enough to hear a thanks)
We all know he wasn't always like this. He was a very polite child adressing his parents with "otousama" and "okaasama". The only time he said "please" on screen was when he asked Vergo to help Cora-san. I think you can imagine why that was the last time he ever said the word. Not only it was extremely difficult for him to utter that word after Flevance, his request was also met with the most bitter conclusion. I think he lost faith and trust in asking people for help (as well as lost faith in many, many things).
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Being accused of "bad manners" and using "-san" honorific brings back bad memories for Law.
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Now Law's reaction to Kid doesn't seem that out of place anymore. Is it enough to justify it? Probably not, but it's nice to know everything has a reason.
And now the promised surprise:
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Despite everything, Law still remembers his proper table manners and takes off his hat at mealtime. You have all those bad-mannered boys here and Law, the good boy, remembering it's rude to eat with a hat on. Or maybe it's even a sign of trust and respect, two things he reserves for people who have actually earned it.
Take that! *throws the finger Phoenix Wright style*
My conclusion: Trafalgar Law's rudeness, not counting very colorful speech that one time and two middle fingers, and some empty threats, isn't really that outstanding in general. I think most of his bad manners are shared with Strawhats (for example, many of them don't use proper greetings, regularly shout at each other to shut up and call each other idiots). Actually, compared to most of the guys in Strawhats, Law comes off as not really that oustanding or even pretty decently mannered which is kinda funny lol.
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theficdealer · 3 months ago
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“How do I—! How do I know!” Bilbo echoed, bristling with exasperation. “I journeyed all the way across Middle Earth, through forests and over the hills, crossed the Misty Mountains and the Great Greenwood through to the ruins of the great City of Dale and further still to Erebor, fighting goblins and orcs and giant spiders and a whole blasted war, then did the whole thing again in reverse, and you have the gall to ask me how I know!”
There was a beat of total silence. “Well, it was a reasonable question,” said Fortinbras, stung.
Bilbo drew in a long breath through his nose and gave an almighty huff. “Mark my words. All of you,” he said, pointing a finger at all the gathered faces, his voice tight with the desperation to be taken seriously. The dwarves would have listened. They would’ve had his back. “You must evacuate Hobbiton. Take only what you need to survive, and run. Go east. Forget your handkerchiefs and hang the silver spoons. Anyone who stays here, will die.”
“Now, Bilbo…”
He held up a hand to his cousin’s face. “No. No, don’t. You’ll see. Take my advice or don’t, you’ll see,” he said, casting a fearful glance at the smoke billowing from the ruins of the first raid. It was the pebble before the avalanche, and there were already more, thinner trails of smoke joining the larger one. A lump formed in his throat. They were already coming. He gave one last, loud proclamation to the crowd. “Flee on the east road. Tell anyone, everyone — we have no choice.”
—Excerpt from There Is One They Could Follow (One They Could Call Thain) by Oakensting (WorseOmens) on ao3
Basically, Bilbo pulls a Thorin Oakenshield and leads his people from the orc-ravaged Shire to safety. Meanwhile in Erebor, Thorin refuses to believe Bilbo is dead.
Sadly, i think this fic was deleted. I mourned it more than some family members.
*staggers into the room Kramer-style covered in water, soot, glitter, and slivers of paper from the waste bin of a paper shredder like confetti* So, guess who just watched the lotr trilogy for the first time despite being a fan of the Hobbit for a literal decade! Also the last two (three?) months have sucked ass and I’m exhausted, so buckle up.
Anyway, this is one of my comfort fics, I love it so much. Everything from the Pining(TM) to the blatant parallels between the dwarves and hobbits.
Things I loved in particular:
Gandalf the White Ox
Kíli taking one look at Thorin and being like “oh I know exactly what’s going on here”
Hamfast and Drogo
Petty Thorin
Seriously, he’s so petty I love it
Bard just being like “yeah, that’s pretty much how I was when I lost my wife”
The r e u n i o n
“you’re like a hobbit king!” “my title is thain, actually” *incredulous staring*
splash fight<3
The acorn speech<3<3<3
The “New Polite”
Dwobbit debate
read it or the ulnas are mine <3
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unreliablesnake · 1 year ago
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Reunion (Simon Riley x reader)
Simon wasn’t a huge fan of the school reunions that some of his old friends organized every few years. Usually he wasn’t even around to attend them. But he kept track of some people on social media, although this was something he would have denied without hesitation.
His main target was you. He knew about everything you shared, he saw the photos, he saw the cheesy posts about your life. About your perfect husband.
Because that guy was perfect based on the photos, your posts, the comments from friends and family, and his own profile. Tall, handsome, successful, popular, coming from a good family, and apparently he was so madly in love with you that Simon felt like throwing up every time he saw one of his declarations of love.
Back in the day, during those terrible teenage years, he had wanted to ask you out on a date. But with his background, he always felt like he wasn’t enough for you. You talked to him, yes, but it usually felt like an empty, polite chat instead of a deep conversation.
So when he went grocery shopping one day, he was surprised to meet you in the parking lot. His first reaction was to look away and act like he didn’t recognize you. You wouldn’t remember him anyway, and since you were still a beautiful woman, men looking at you should be nothing new for you.
But his whole body froze when he heard you call after him. “Simon? Simon Riley? Is that you?” He slowly turned around and watched you without a word. Sure, he nodded, even smiled a little, but he didn’t want to look desperate to talk to you. “Oh my god, it’s been so long!”
Before he knew it, you were wrapping your arms around him in a warm hug. He didn’t even know what to do. You were a married woman in the middle of a crowded parking lot, anyone could see you hugging a man who wasn’t your husband.
“You never come to the reunions, you’re inactive on social media… I know nothing about what you do these days,” you said with a pout after you playfully punched his chest. “The last thing I heard is that you joined the SAS. Are you still there?”
Who the hell had told you that? Whoever it was, they deserved a punch in the face. But it was water under the bridge, you already knew the truth. “Yeah, that's my life now,” he replied with a nod. “And what about you? What do you do these days?”
He listened to you giving him the answer with wide, happy gestures, and he couldn't hold back the smile that crept on his lips. You were so nice, so alive, so different from the people he was surrounded by. Maybe it was nostalgia making him see you in such a way, but he didn't really care about the why.
Having you in his life again, even if for just a few minutes, made him happy, made him wish you would stick around. He wanted to spend more time with you, although he knew you weren't available. But you could be friends, right? There were no rules stating a man and a woman couldn't be friends.
You suddenly looked down at your phone and cursed under your breath. “I'm late. It was so nice to see you again, Simon,” you said with a wide smile as you unlocked the phone and gave it to him. “Can I get your number? I might check in every now and then. You know, just to know you're okay, even if you don't attend the reunions.”
Oh, he was more than happy to give you his number. Once he gave back the device, you quickly called him so he would have your number as well. “Don't get lost,” he told you with a smirk.
“I won't,” you promised.
Yet you disappeared. He expected you to call him, to send a text, but there was nothing in the following months.
Being deployed and being focused on the mission he was on made things a little easier. He didn't spend every moment of the day thinking about you, thinking about whether or not it was him who did something stupid that made you change your mind. Price noticed that something was wrong with him, but when Simon refused to explain, he gave up trying.
And then, just one week before he was supposed to go home, your name showed up on the screen. At first he thought it was a mistake and you would end the call right away. But it kept ringing, so he took a deep breath and picked up.
“Hey, Simon. You got a minute?” you asked cheerfully.
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crystalandbow · 8 months ago
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YOUR STRENGTHS v/s WEAKNESS
Pick a pile↓
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Welcome back to crystalandbow 🤍 I hope y'all are doing great! Today let us dive into your greatest strengths and weaknesses. Pick a pile intuitively and check the corresponding message!
This is a general reading, only take what resonates :)
What pile are you choosing? Do let me know!
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PILE 1 -
Everything In Time
Strength: I think your biggest strength is resilience in the face of adversity. Despite experiencing setbacks and betrayals, you possess the ability to rise above them. You refuse to let past failures define you instead you use them as lessons to fuel your growth and determination. Your strength lies in emerging stronger on the other side. You understand that setbacks are temporary and believe in your power to shape your own destiny, no matter the odds against you. you know when to disconnect. You guard yourself well & you always try to protect your peace and the moment you feel something is fishy you try to leave the situation asap. You cut off people if they don't vibe with you anymore. "Moving on" is a word that I picked up on, it could suggest that you are always trying to move on, (in a sense of growing) like leave behind things that don't serve / match with you anymore.
Weakness: you have a tendency to be overwhelmed by worry and anxiety. You may struggle to manage your fears, allowing them to cloud your judgment and hinder your ability to move forward. You might need to work on finding healthier coping mechanisms and strategies for dealing with stress and uncertainty. You might also tend to give up soon? Or even have trouble falling asleep because of those constant thoughts. Also mental instability/ lack of "peace"maybe?
PILE 2-
Better Is Coming
Strength: omg the way you just carry yourself 😭 your fierce eyes, your personna, your hair everything about you screams professionalism. you possess the intellectual prowess, communication skills, and ethical integrity necessary to navigate challenges successfully and lead others with confidence and wisdom. You believe in the principles of justice and fairness and make decisions from your brain rather than the heart. Your leadership can be characterized by discipline.the way you express yourself with honesty and precision helps you earn trust and credibility from those around you. Great speakers/diplomats/ presenters also good for politics honestly.
Weakness: fear of change or fear of the unknown. You have a deep seated fear or resistance towards change and transformation. You might find yourself clinging to the familiar/known, even if it no longer serves you well, out of a sense of discomfort or uncertainty about what lies ahead.confront your fears and resistance towards change, allow yourself to embrace the natural cycles of life and trust in the process of transformation instead of viewing it as something to be afraid of or to avoid, see it as a catalyst for personal growth and evolution. You will unlock something special
PILE 3-
Choose What Chooses You
Strength: you have the ability to draw upon the wisdom of the past, whether through religious or spiritual teachings, cultural customs, or personal philosophies. you are a natural leader and mentor, capable of guiding others on their spiritual or moral journey. You offer support, wisdom, and guidance to those who seek it or you like to gain wisdom, inspiration and guidance from your role models and teachers. You listen to your intuition and have a sense of profound understanding of spiritual truths, which serve as a source of inspiration and guidance in your life. Your ability to tap into this higher knowledge empowers you to lead others with wisdom and compassion, offering support and guidance along their spiritual journey.
Weakness: Impulsivity and haste in your actions and decision-making process! You may feel a strong urge to rush into situations without fully considering the consequences, driven by a desire for quick results or a need to assert your dominance. This impulsiveness can lead to a lack of foresight, where you fail to assess potential risks or take into account the feelings and perspectives of others involved. Your eagerness to charge forward with single-minded determination may blind you to important details or alternative viewpoints.You may find yourself easily triggered by perceived obstacles or challenges.
PILE 4-
Enjoy The Now
Strength: a boundless enthusiasm and passion for exploring new ideas, projects, and opportunities! You are absolutely unafraid to step outside of your comfort zone and pursue your dreams with determination and zest.You have the drive and confidence to take bold action and seize opportunities as they arise. Your willingness to follow your instincts and trust in your creative intuition enables you to break through barriers and overcome obstacles on your path to success. You have a natural talent for innovation and originality/ thinking outside the box.
trust in your abilities to manifest your desires and achieve your goals!
Weakness: imbalance in nurturing and caring for oneself versus others! While it's essential to attend to practical matters and provide for your needs, neglecting your emotional or spiritual well-being can lead to feelings of emptiness or dissatisfaction. It is important for you to cultivate a more balanced approach to life that honors both practical concerns and deeper emotional fulfillment. Practice mindfulness & / or self-reflection to identify areas where you may be overly fixated on material possessions or security, and explore ways to nurture your emotional and spiritual well-being. Seek out for opportunities for growth and personal development. By adapting a more holistic sense of abundance and security, you can overcome these limitations that lead you to feel unfulfilled despite the goodness around you.
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