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glassbxttless · 2 months ago

Text

Columbina

emperor caracalla x fem!reader

word count: 11.1k+

summary: (Title Translation: Little Dove) You are a favored concubine of Rome’s twin tyrants— you certainly were not expecting the feelings you had been harboring for one of your Emperors to be returned.

warnings: 18+ Only (Minors DNI), this shit ain’t historically accurate— don’t expect it to be; that’s what text books are for. this is literally just emperor caracalla porn from the mind of a 25 year old who likes those freaky gingers a bit too much, I’m choosing to IGNORE the Syphilis— Caracalla does not have it in this; we’re blaming the dementia on lead poisoning, groping, touching, kissing— like a lot, oral male receiving, unprotected pinv (this is 211 AD, there’s nothing protectin them), swearing; “fuck” is used a few times, Caracalla is a little sweet (maybe a little out of character)— he just wants to be loved and taken care of and for something to be his. sweet next morning with caracalla, dondus makes a brief appearance.

notes: Big thanks to @peachyproserpina and @keeryhours for reading through this one for me!

The marble floors that wave across Palatine Hill, cold beneath your knees. The scent of ground patchouli leaves and wine settled thick in the air of Caracalla’s private chambers. You kept your gaze lowered, your hands folded neatly in your lap. You had learned long ago that letting your gaze linger too long, or speaking a bit too freely, could mean punishment— or worse, dismissal. You had absolutely no wish to leave. Not when you had grown accustomed to this life that had so graciously been bestowed upon you after the last few years. You adore the luxury of being in their presence, even if it was only as a pretty little plaything for their pleasure.

Geta drunkenly lounged against the curved arm of the chaise you had been so neatly kneeled beside. Fingers idly rolling the stem of his goblet between them. Wine settling warm in his belly and tongue stained red. Out of the corner of your eye you catch those beautiful redened locks in the flickering firelight. Bathed in the most beautiful golden glow. Caracalla, his younger brother by mere moments, sat beside him. He seemed less relaxed, his sharp gaze burning into you even when you weren’t foolish enough to meet it. The two of them had always been brute forces of nature— fire and water. Twin pillars of a power that ruled Rome with tyranny unlike any other. To be chosen by them, to be favored, was both an honor and a curse.

You had told yourself, many months ago, that the yearning in your chest was foolish. The thought of a lovesick child. Something you hadn’t been in many years. You told yourself that it was enough to serve Rome with your body. To be touched, to be whispered to in the dark when wine had softened their edges. You had never truly expected more than that. You hadn’t let yourself.

But you’ve noticed how Geta’s hands lingered. You’ve noticed him tracing lines down your arm when he should have already moved away. The way his hands would rest on your shoulders as he would pass by. You’ve noticed the way Caracalla’s voice softened when he spoke to you. It was lacking its usual bite, and his jealousy— always a dangerous thing— seemed to flare whenever his brother took too much of your attention. And you were no fool. You knew what it meant when an emperor wanted more than you had to give.

The silence stretched thin in the chamber, but was growing thick with expectation. You kept your head bowed, eyes fixated on the hands in your lap. You focus on listening to the gentle clink of Geta’s rings against his goblet. You can hear the way Caracalla’s robes shifted when he moved, his patience wearing thinner than the expansive silence settling between the three of you. You had been witness to his temper before, the way it could turn the air sharp as a blade’s edge. But tonight, there was an intimacy in the way he watched you— something that made the hairs on the back of your neck rise.

“You are quiet,” Geta’s voice is warm and inviting, something you’ve grown comfortable in. He reaches out to you— his fingers, cool from the chilled wine. He traces down the slope of your bare shoulder, his touch barely there. And yet your skin prickled beneath the touch. “Have we not treated you well enough, little dove?” Not tonight, I’ve yet to be touched— plagues your thoughts, but you bite your tongue. It was a dangerous question. One that you must answer correctly. You had been given more than most of their other toys— silks instead of rags, food fit for those of noble blood instead of scraps, their hands, and their favor. But there had been a distance between you. The lingering reminder that you were theirs to use, not to cherish. Geta’s touch stalled in a way that made your heart stumble. His fingertips tracing shapes idly onto your skin where his hand lay against your shoulder. You dared a glance up, only to find Caracalla watching you, his blue eyes zeroed in on you. He leans forward, resting his forearms against his knees. He clasps his hands together, bringing you to swallow hard.

“She does not answer, brother,” he lets out a frustrated breath. “Tell me. Do you find yourself dissatisfied?”

“No,” you said quickly, the word slipping out before you could think better of it. “Never.”

The chuckle that fell from Geta’s lips was soft and indulgent. “Then what is it, little dove? What makes you tremble?”

You hadn’t realized that you were. But between the two of them— Geta’s golden warmth that enveloped you wholly and Caracalla’s piercing gaze that heated you up from the soul out— you felt as if you were standing at the precipice of something so vast that you couldn’t understand.

“Perhaps,” Caracalla said, tilting his head. There’s a smile tugging at his lips as his eyes drift towards his twin, “she is beginning to understand.”

Your breath caught, eyebrows knitting down in confusion. “Understand…?”

“That you are more than just a passing amusement,” Geta whispers, slurring his words just a bit, The wine beginning to take hold. He drags his fingers up from your shoulder, curling a loose strand of your hair between his grasp. “That you belong to us entirely.”

The weight of those words settled over you, heavy and inescapable. You had always belonged to them, from the moment you stepped onto Palace grounds all those years ago. But never like you had these past weeks, not as something to be held, to be kept on a shelf only to be used when they needed you. And definitely not as something they may come to love. Your breath feels too shallow as you try to catch your breath. Your heart feels like a frantic kick drum against your ribs. The weight of their words pressed against your skin, curling around you like an invisible chain. You belong to us.

You had always known that, of course— deep down. You had been chosen directly. You had been plucked from your place of obscurity, creating great feasts for the palace and then placed at their feet just because of your pretty face. As a treasured possession meant to please. But never before had it felt like this— so real and so close.

Geta’s fingers continued their lazy exploration, looping that loose strand of hair around them before letting it slip free from his grip. His touch was featherlight against you, but his gaze was heavy. Curious in a way that made a warmth bloom in the center of your chest. He had always been the softer of the two— charming even, the golden emperor whose favor you had never once struggled to earn, it had come so easily. Maybe with just one look, he unfortunately was not the twin you yearned for. And tonight there was something unfamiliar in the way he looked at you. Caracalla was still watching you. Blue eyes searching for a change in your body language. You had now spent years at his side— learning the smallest shifts in his moods and the warning signs of his temper, you learned it all just as Geta had. Because you cared about him more than he would ever know. Although… Tonight his intensity did not feel like a threat, it never really had. No, this level of intensity felt like obsession— it was possession.

“Tell me,” Caracalla’s voice comes forward, low and commanding. “Did you ever wish to be just that? More than a passing amusement?”

Your lips part, but no words come. More? You did not allow yourself to dream of such things truly. You had become accustomed to the way things were. You would share a night with Geta. You would share a night with Caracalla. You would stay until they had their fill. And your body never knew the difference— but your heart couldn’t stop the fire flaming in your chest with each moment you felt their touch— Caracalla’s touch. You did want more, but that was a sentiment that you never let make it to the forefront of your thoughts.

Geta hummed, more than amused at your hesitation. “Come now, our little dove. We know you’re not as meek as you pretend to be.” He brings his hand up from where it had been against your shoulder— and his knuckles brush against your cheek. Calloused fingers against your skin, soft as silk. “We see the way you look at us when you think we aren’t watching. We know, little dove. Stand.”

You push yourself to your feet while the heat burns hot and bright beneath your skin. You had thought you had been careful. You had always tried to be careful. But it seemed nothing escaped their watchful eye. “I—” Your voice was barely a whisper, your throat feels drier than all of Rome in July. “I would not presume—”

Caracalla moves from his seat, standing two steps away. It’s not long before he crosses the distance with ease. His hand reaches out to catch your chin between his fingers. The touch isn’t cruel, not punishing, but it is firm. His index finger is curled beneath your chin, holding your head in place. His thumb traced along your jaw, holding you still beneath his gaze. “Presume what, my little dove?” he echoed, voice sharp as a blade drawn out slowly from its sheath. “As if we would deny you.”

Your pulse stuttered. You had spent years feeling the way you had felt. These last few months, the yearning had reached its peak. You were aching for his touch even in the moments you were alone. Your heart panging at the thought that Caracalla had chosen someone else for the night. Even when Geta would bring you into his bed, his body draped over your back, you would think of him. This confession… it was not just the fleeting pleasure the warmth between your thighs gives them, just as it was not for you, it was not a brief indulgence. This was the twins claiming all of you, your mind, your touch, your very breath.

“You are ours,” Geta said, his voice warm, loose from the wine he had consumed. “Not just in body, but in all things.”

Caracalla’s fingers tightened on your chin, just slightly, raising it to look him in the eye. “Do you understand that, dove?”

You swallowed, the weight of their attention nearly suffocating. Your eyes meet Caracalla’s. There was only one answer to give. “Yes, my emperors. I understand.”

Caracalla’s grip remained firm on your chin. His fingers pressing just hard enough to remind you of the power he held over you. Geta’s touches had always been indulgent and meant to coax you into softness. Pliable to everything he needed you to be. But Caracalla— he did not coax. He commanded. And yet, beneath the weight of his dark gaze— you never found cruelty like one would expect. No, there was something else lurking there, something that made your stomach twist. Longing— that was it. There was a longing for you in Caracalla’s eyes that just couldn’t be ignored any longer.

Geta exhaled a quiet chuckle. His hand resting against the chaise arm as he lounges back with the easy confidence of a man who had never in his life been denied anything. “It seems my brother has been waiting for this,” he points out, swirling the wine around in his goblet. His gaze flicking between you and Caracalla. “Shall I leave you to it, then?” He asks, but doesn’t make a move.

Caracalla did not look at him. His eyes remain locked on yours. His fingers still beneath your chin, tilting your face upward. Now his thumb is skimming the edge of your bottom lip. Your breath is catching in your throat at the soft touch. Finally, Caracalla speaks, averting his gaze to his brother, “Stay if you wish,” he said, voice low, distracted. “It makes no difference to me.”

Geta’s laughter was drunkenly warm, albeit knowing. He then leans forward once more, resting his elbow on his knee. “You see how he is?” he asked, addressing you now. He was speaking to you as you were some witness to an age-old truth— one that had been in the works since the day they were born. A brotherly rivalry. “He hoards his favorites, keeps them too close.” That drunken little giggle creeps out of his lips and his smile turns sharp. “Possessive.”

Caracalla’s fingers slid along your jaw, down your throat. His fingers curl around the soft flesh squeezing lightly just beneath your pulse. Your heartbeat was wild beneath his touch, giving away the feelings you had so diligently tried to hide. And something like satisfaction flickered in his expression. “Perhaps,” he admitted. “But I have shared everything since the womb. And I no longer wish to share what is rightfully mine.”

Geta hummed out his annoyance, but he did not argue. He only watched his twin with curious eyes.

And you— you had felt your world tilt on its axis. Because Caracalla had never spoken of you in such terms before. He had never used the word mine. Always theirs. Never referred to you as anything but a passing amusement. Never as a favored indulgence. Now all of that had changed, and you had to play it over in your head. Make sense of it all. Your lips parted, Caracalla’s hand crawling upward from where it had loosely settled around your throat. His thumb dragged over them again, silencing you effectively. “No more questioning,” he murmured. “No more doubt.” He tilted his head, his breath warm as he leaned in just close enough to make your head dizzy yet again. “You know who you belong to, don’t you?”

There was only one answer. The very one you had given before, “Yes, my emperor,” you whispered. And the small smirk that ghosted across Caracalla’s lips told you everything you had yet to admit to yourself. Through all your want and longing. Your yearning for something you never would have— you come to terms with the fact that you had been his from the very beginning.

Caracalla’s thumb lingered at your lips, his touch deceptively light despite the force behind his presence. He had always commanded attention, his unpredictability as infamous as his power, but tonight, in this moment, his focus was entirely on you. And you felt it like fire licking at your skin. “Good,” he murmured, his thumb pressing just slightly, enough to part your lips further. His blue eyes flickered with need. A need for you. “You learn quickly.”

Geta chuckled from his place on the chaise nearby— unmoved as before. It was distant, inconsequential. Geta might have indulged in the game if he had one more glass of wine in him. He might have delighted in teasing you, in drawing out pleasure like a leisurely hunt if it had been his turn with you in his own chambers. But Caracalla was different. He was never careless with what was his. And as he said, you are what’s his. His hand moved lower, tracing your throat yet again, pressing lightly against your pulse. Your heart hammered beneath his touch, and he knew. He could feel the effect he had on you just by watching the way your eyebrows change with his touch. There’s a flicker of satisfaction in his gaze that was unmistakable.

“Tell me,” he commanded, his voice low, even. “Did you think I had not noticed your feelings?”

You swallowed hard, voice quiet and unable to find the right words. “I—” His fingers tightened on your chin just slightly, a silent warning as if to say, Do not lie to me. “No,” you admitted, still barely above a whisper. “I had held hope. But I did not dare to think it was truly real.”

Caracalla hummed, eyes scanning over your features to confirm just a hint of the truth. His thumb brushes once more over your throat. “You are clever,” he mused, the corners of his lips tugging up in a smile as he lets out a soft chuckle. “And yet, still so foolish.”

A shiver ran down your spine. “Foolish, my emperor?”

His head tilted slightly. “To believe that I could touch your skin, command your every whim, and yet feel nothing for such an obedient little dove.” He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he spoke. “To believe that you could belong to me in every way and I would not want you for more than the pleasures of the flesh.”

Your breath catches in your throat. The heat of his words settled low in your belly, curling tight. “Perhaps,” you admitted, voice trembling, “I did not dare to believe such things.” At your response, Caracalla pulled back just enough to study your face. And then, after a moment, his fingers slid from its home against your throat, trailing lower. Fingers skimming over your collarbone. His touch was slow, deliberate, burning your skin with each movement.

“Then hope, little dove,” he murmured. “For I do not let go of what is mine.”

That word again. And you finally felt it— the weight of what he had been claiming, He was not like Geta, not as intentional with his passions. Geta knew what he wanted each night and cast it aside come the dawn in pursuit of something new, no matter how favored you were. But, Caracalla? He was absolute in his desires, so unrelenting.

Geta exhaled a small laugh. His eyes drift from you as he tilts his head, watching his brother’s movements. “It seems you’ve made your choice, then.” The words are directed towards you, but you dare not look his way.

Caracalla did not look at him either. His hand remained on your waist, his icy gaze locked with yours. “There was never a choice,” he murmured. You had belonged to him from the very moment he decided it. And now, you would never be escaping it.

Geta exhaled, a knowing smirk curling at his lips as he leaned back into his seat. “Well,” he slurred— the wine taking its hold— he’s stretching back like a lazy cat, “I do believe I’ve outstayed my welcome.” His bronze locks gleamed in the dim torchlight as he took another leisurely sip of wine, letting the moment stretch further just to amuse himself. See how long until his brother breaks.

Caracalla does not look at him. His fingers remained on you, his grip firm yet not unkind. Testing the weight of you beneath his touch. He’s reminding you of what he had said, what he had known for so long. He does not release you from his hand, he did not move, did not even acknowledge his brother’s words.

And Geta, ever perceptive, took the hint. “Try not to break her,” he finally adds, drunkenly letting his words drip out as he stands. His gaze flickered over you briefly. His gaze was something like giving approval— or perhaps extending you his pity— but he said nothing more. The sound of his footsteps echoed as he strode toward the exit, the heavy doors groaning open, then shutting with a firm clink behind him.

Then, there’s silence settling into the room.

Caracalla did not move for a few moments longer, as if he was listening. Ensuring that they were alone for what he had planned next. You could feel it the second he decides you are safe— the shift in him— the way his breath came slightly heavier, the tension coiling tight in his muscles. And then, suddenly, he grips you harder. With a swift motion, he pulls you toward him. One hand snaking upwards and threading into your hair, the other moving from your hip and pressing against the small of your back. The force of it stole your breath from your chest, but not out of fear— out of want, out of longing, out of needing him. His lips hovered over yours, his breath fans out warm against your skin. You could feel how tightly wound he was. How he was trembling as he restrained, holding himself back from taking what he wanted. You.

Caracalla, the ruthless emperor, the conqueror, the god among men— was trembling because of you.

His fingers in your hair flexed against your scalp close to the nape of your neck. He cradles you, his thumb brushing against the spot right under your ear as though he was memorizing the feel of you. His jaw was clenched, his breath uneven. He wanted this. He wanted you. And yet, he was hesitating. His pride would not allow him to beg. He’d never beg for a woman— not even you. But his body betrayed him, the way he leaned in, lips parted. In the way his grip refused to loosen on your body, and the way his nose brushed against yours in a silent plea. “Kiss me,” he rasped, the words a barely audible whisper against your skin. More an exhale than a solid command. This demand laced with vulnerability, a feeling so unknown to him he wasn’t sure what to make of it. But as his lips hovered against yours, the space between you felt unbearable, torturous.

And in that moment, you realized the truth— Caracalla did not just desire you. He needed you. He needed you so badly, he can’t imagine breathing without you near any longer. His breath comes fast, hot against your skin as he holds you so close to his body. His hand is still tangled in your hair as if he feared you would slip away from him the moment he let go. There isn’t even an inch of space between the two of your bodies. Although, his gaze bores into you, dark and heavy, full of the feelings he had long kept buried beneath the cover of his pride. The air between you grew thicker, suffocating you with everything unspoken. You could feel his heartbeat against your chest. The way his body shivered ever so slightly, a contrast to the cold and stoic emperor that he had always shown you. You truly were not just a desire for him any longer. This was something real— something even Geta had noticed.

He finally leans in, his lips brushing yours with a soft, hesitant touch. It was barely a kiss— but it stirred something deep inside you. This was entirely different than you had ever had with him before. Caracalla was quick to take what he needed, use your body for his own pleasure— and then send you away without as much another look in your direction. You start to think that maybe it was his way of keeping his emotions at bay. And so, you gave him the space to act on them. You closed the distance between your lips, offering yourself to him with a shift of your body. That’s the moment you realize he’s lost the battle with himself.

Caracalla is fast, crashing his lips against yours, desperate and unrelenting. His kiss was as demanding as he was, yet there was a tremble in his hands that spoke of a deeper need. The one you had seen glimpses of tonight. His tongue traced the seam of your lips, and you opened to him instinctively. You were feeling his heat invade every corner of your senses— you could taste the wine on his tongue and something so distinctly Caracalla it made your head spin. Your pulse pounds at the feel of his robes, heavy against your skin— and you couldn’t get enough. He pulls back from you, his forehead pressing to yours as he breathes heavily. His chest is rising and falling with the weight of his own realization. Those pretty eyes, blue and glinting with want, never left yours. The quiet storm you both had been harbouring within yourselves now exposed to the light. “I’ve wanted this,” Caracalla muttered, his voice crackled, his eyes closed. “I’ve wanted you for so long… but I could not let myself admit it. I-I’m an emperor. I could not let myself need you.” The admission clung in the air between you. It was the most vulnerable you had ever heard your twins. It was more than you had ever expected. You settle in the thought that Caracalla was his most comfortable with you— and that held a heavy weight in your chest.

You swallowed, your fingers moving to trace the sharp lines of his jaw, his head tilting to lean into your touch as you spoke softly, “I knew… I’ve always known, Caracalla. I’ve waited obediently… but never thought you would return it.”

He shifted his weight, his eyes are still closed and his cheek is warm in your hand. He was so cold on the outside, hard, blood hungry. Never let anyone see the true him. Maybe other than Geta. But here you are, exposed to everything, “Then why wait, if you knew?” His voice was softer now, and yet still thick with the weight of a question that seemed to haunt him.

You exhaled slowly, taking in the moment. His face cradled in your hand and the way his presence filled you, consumed you. “Because I never thought I could be more than a passing desire for you or for Geta,” you murmured, almost to yourself— but that prompts him to open his eyes. “I thought I was just something to pass the time.” He turns his head to press a kiss against your palm.

Caracalla’s eyes soften with something akin to regret, a flicker that made him feel more human in that moment, than the emperor he had always been. His hand, still tightly wound up in your hair— tightens. He moves your head to gaze into your eyes— holding you there, solidifying the truth. “No,” he said, his voice thick. “You are not just something to be used… Not anymore. You are mine.” He leans in again, his lips hovering just above yours. He drops his voice to a whisper, “And I have wanted you for a while now, needed you, more than I have allowed myself to admit… But you were never just mine. Always had to share. Now you...” His voice is cut off as you take a leap of faith and close the small gap between the two of you. Your lips are brushing against his once more. Tender this time, slower, a promise woven into the kiss right from your heart. It was not just a kiss of passion; it was a kiss that spoke of everything that would remain unspoken. When he pulled back, his eyes were burning with something deeper than just desire. There was love there too— silent, fierce, undeniable. Something you thought you would never see from your Emperors.

And you knew then, in that moment, that Caracalla had not only claimed you as his possession— a winning trophy in the lifelong rivalry he was forced to play a part in with Geta. He had claimed your heart as his own. They were two halves of a whole— they were beating in time with one another. Caracalla’s breath was ragged as his hands slid down your back, his fingers brushing the linen fabric of your tunic. The tenderness in his touch was unknown to you. The way his fingers on his free hand traced the curve of your spine, up, up, up— Was far different from the usual commanding nature he displayed in public, even in private with you. This— this was the emperor, your emperor, unmasked. He was a man who had long buried his desires beneath the weight of his crown. Always seeking love, something that didn’t belong to his empire or to his brother, but to him alone. His gaze never left yours as he slowly guided you backward, step by deliberate step, towards his bed. The soft flicker of torchlight cast shadows on his face, revealing that pretty blue of his eyes, a color you had loved so much. His fingers trail back down your spine and he lets his hand linger at the small of your back. He presses the warmth of his palm against the delicate fabric of your tunic, urging you closer, pulling you toward him like a magnet. Igniting the fire between your thighs to burn brighter. The wetness gathering there is a sure fire sign.

“Do you trust me?” he asked, his voice low, like he anticipated your answer to be no. His lips were hovering just above your ear, the warmth of his breath sending a shiver down your spine.

You nodded, your heart racing as you felt the power in his presence. “I do.”

His eyes softened at your words— an unexpected answer. His hand sliding down, fingers curling around your waist to pull you even closer. He doesn’t stop until your bodies are flush against each other. The moment was so quiet, save for the sound of your breaths mingling in the air between you. For a moment, Caracalla simply holds you as close as he can. As if he was absorbing the contact, the connection that had been years in the making. The attachment to you and yours to him— that was just his. Geta no longer mattered behind the doors of his chamber. It was just you. It was just him.

He began to move forward again slowly and carefully, guiding you onto the bed with a gentleness that contrasted the fiery passion of his earlier kiss. His hands roam slowly as he traced the outline of your form, settling on your cheek. Each of his touches lingering, savoring you, as though he could not quite believe you were there, beneath him, and in his arms. When he finally speaks, his voice soft again, almost hesitant. “I’ve been a fool to wait so long,” he murmured, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheek. “But now…” He paused, as if choosing his words carefully, “Now, I can no longer pretend that this is just a passing amusement. You are not just a common whore. You are…” His voice faltered— just a slight waver that anyone else might not have noticed— but you? Of course you noticed.

You reached up as well, cupping his face with your hand. Your warm palm presses against his face— grounding him there to the moment. You were offering him the same comfort he had given you moments before. “I never wanted to be just a toy…” you admitted with a whisper, your hand moves from his cheek upwards— fingers gently brushing through reddened strands of his hair. You think about closing your hand, pulling those locks tight. But alas, you just watch how he moves under gentle touches instead. How he keens towards you, much like a cat searching for affection. Caracalla closed his eyes at your touch, a light shudder running through his body. His hands moved to your shoulders, guiding you to lie back on the bed. The coolness of his silken sheets are a stark contrast to the heat growing wild between the two of you. Slowly, carefully, he lowers himself down— hovering over you. His body is just inches from yours. His hand drifted from where he had planted it against the mattress beside your head, to your side, his thumb tracing the outline of your waist— catching on the fabric of your tunic. He was committing every curve of your body to his memory. Something for him to keep safe and treasure like this might not happen again. That may have terrified you. The thought of never having his touch, his kiss, his love again.

He leans up, his lips brushed lightly against your temple, the touch sweet, almost reverent. And then right over your cheek bone, and then your jaw. “I need you,” he confessed softly, the words barely a whisper, “more than I ever thought possible.” And then there’s another kiss to your lips. Shifting himself onto one arm— Caracalla’s fingers found the clasp of his cloak first, unfastening it with practiced ease. Like all the times he had done this dance with you before. He’s letting the heavy fabric slip from his shoulders. He gathers it up at his waist and tosses it next to the frame of his bed— letting it pool onto the marble floor beside them. The absence of its weight seemed to shift something in the air between you— he was no longer the emperor draped in finery, he was no longer a God among the people— but a man stripped down to something human. Just for you. His gaze never wavered from yours as he reached for the hem of his tunic. His movements are slow and deliberate. His hands weren’t as steady as you remembered. There’s a shake to them— a tremble. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his breath had deepened as he peeled the fabric upward. The rich red and gold material had gathered against his chest before he finally pulled it over his head, revealing the soft edges of his body in the flickering torchlight. The tunic joins his cloak without thought, left forgotten against the marble. His skin, warm and golden from the Roman sun. The torchlight cast shifting shadows over the contours of his chest, the sharp cut of his collarbone, the taut muscles of his chest that flexed as he exhaled. Even the softness of his tummy.

For a moment, he’s still as he holds himself above you— watching you, measuring your reaction. He’s baring himself to you in all of his glory. A gift from the Gods just for you. He was so beautiful. Your eyes scan the ridges of his chest, the softness of his tummy, the way his cock was pressed between the two of you. One shift of his hips and he’s pressing so tightly against your thigh. You had everything to be grateful for. His hands found your waist first, his touch warm, feels like it was burning a hole through the fabric of your own tunic. He was treating you as if you were something to be worshiped rather than simply taken— unlike any other treatment he had given you before. He was letting himself break. Allowing himself settle in the comfort of this privacy. His fingers traced the fabric of your tunic again, lingering, teasing, before finally starting to pull it loose, mirroring his own undressing. His breath was warm against your cheek as he leaned in, nosing against your cheek. “Let me see you, little dove,” he whispered, his lips just barely brushing your skin. “Let me have you as more than just a dream.”

Your face feels flush, burning hot from your chest outward. Your hand places against his naked chest— pushing. Which catches him by surprise. He pulls back slightly, his eyes meeting yours. Were you denying him his right to have you however he wanted? But just as you see the gears turning in his head, you place your palm against his cheek. “Lie back for me.” Your request is quiet, barely above a whisper. “I need you to.” Your thumb brushes against his cheekbone and he moves to lie his head back against the silken pillows. He’s looking up at you through his lashes— eyes at half mast. His cock hard, standing at attention between you, the tip angry and red.

You press your knees to the mattress— the heat between your thighs growing larger and larger. You finish the job of undressing that he had started by discarding the rest of your tunic. You place it into the pile of discarded clothing beside the bed. His arms fold, settling behind his head as his eyes scan over your body— devouring you with just his sight. Now it’s your turn to place your hand against the mattress, right beside his hip. You lean closer, pressing a kiss against his lips, his neck, his chest, right above his navel. You stop where his cock was curved up towards his stomach. Hard, leaking, aching for you. for anything. “Dove, please.” His words are breathy, this was a new side of him. A side you had never seen before. A side he trusts you with. Your fingers trail down his stomach, tracing the line of heat pooling just beneath his skin. Wrapping your hand around him, you stroke slowly. Spreading the leaking precum along his length. You press a lingering kiss just below his navel before taking him into your mouth, inch by inch, feeling the way his breath stutters above you. His lashes flutter shut, and his fingers weave into your hair. He’s tightening them as he exhales a shaky sigh. “By the Gods…”

He moves in slow, shallow thrusts— tentative at first, testing the give of your lips as he holds your head still. He can feel the heat of your tongue as you let him take what he needs. Albeit your patience was wearing thin. He quickens the rock of his hips— gaining a steady rhythm. He’s caught between the softness of your mouth at his groin and the firm press of the mattress at his ass, feeling absolutely incredible. You hum softly, feeling his thighs tense beneath your hands, firm under your fingertips— hair dusting the skin. There’s no rush tonight. Caracalla is all yours. The stutter of his breath breaks you out of your thoughts. His fingers tighten in your hair, holding you still as his hips slow their pace. He pulls almost out of your mouth, letting only the tip stay pressed between those two pretty lips— before he’s pushing back in, allowing your head to hit that thatch of wiry hair at the bottom of his cock. His tensed up thighs twitch beneath your touch. You don’t have to do much, just let him use your mouth to repeat the motion over and over and over again.

A low sound rumbles from his chest. You couldn’t make out if it were a sigh or a groan— but you didn’t care. Against the pillow, his head tips— barring his neck to you. His lips fall open slightly, a breath slipping through them. You let your eyes drift over him. The glow of the torch flickered over his bare skin— giving you the best view of his abdomen as it began to tense itself. The steady rise and fall of his chest showed you just how fast his resolve was waning. He’s always been a man of conquest. Always took what he wanted without an ounce of hesitation, but here— here, looking at him now, he’s undone. At your mercy. A sharp breath leaves him, his fingers curling tighter where they rest in your hair. But then— he moves them entirely. His hand slides to just under your jaw, fingers wrapping around your throat. And he’s guiding you up, cock slipping from your mouth, and forcing you to meet his gaze. His chest rises and falls as heavy breaths fill the space between you. “Come here.” his voice shakes beneath you, and you move yourself up to right where he wants you.

His thumb rubs against your jaw as you throw your leg over his hip. He lets out a breath, a lazy smile tilting his lips. “Will you take me?” He asks, the hand that wasn’t wrapped around your throat, dropping down to press a finger against your pussy. “Will you have me as I would have you?” He asks again, pressing it into you as he receives his answer.

“Yes, Caesar. Of course.” At your response, he curls his finger inside of you, eyes meeting yours. He’s making sure you’re wet enough to take it.

“Then take what is yours.” His voice wavers, like he’s unsure of giving you the command. Something you had never heard his voice do before. His fingers pull away from your heat, sliding across the skin that almost joined you, to grip his cock at the base, guiding it into your waiting cunt. The hand on your throat is squeezing, pulling you down into a kiss. Your lips captured by his, not nearly as hungry as they had been earlier. He had you where he wanted you. His touches were soft. With one shallow thrust of his hips, the tip of his dick is breaching your core. You move closer, letting out a soft breath as you feel inch after inch of Caracalla settle inside of you. When he bottoms out, your ass seated against his hips— he lets out a shaky breath. “The gods must favor me,” he whispers, almost disbelieving. He lets go of your throat, hands sliding over your skin slowly to settle on your hips. “What else could explain this? That they would place you in my path, only for me to take you, to keep you?” You dare not say a word about gaining Geta’s favor first.

Your head is spinning as you feel Caracalla’s hips start to rock shallowly into you. He’s barely moving. You place a hand against his chest. A quiet laugh escapes those rosy lips, “I have fought for everything in this life. Geta always had the best.” His fingers flex against your waist, his breath coming faster now as your hips start to move on their own, the slight bounce driving him absolutely crazy. “But you… I did not have to fight for you. You were given to me. Just me. Right from Jupiter, little dove.” His hands slip to your back, pushing you forward into his arms. His lips find the shell of your ear. “And I would not anger the gods by refusing such a gift.”

“Calla…” The first time something as intimate as a pet name had slipped from your lips in the many years you had enjoyed this treatment. Your head lolling forward onto his shoulder as his arm, heavy and strong, wraps around your middle. He’s holding you tight to his chest, moving to plant his feet against the mattress as he rocks his hips up into you. Each thrust of his hips sending friction against that spongy spot inside of you. “I… I love you.” Your head is dizzy, you weren’t sure if you would have admitted it otherwise.

A sharp breath escapes him at those words, his fingers flexing against your skin. His head falling back against the pillow for a moment. His throat bared to you as you turn your head to catch a glimpse. His lips parting slightly as his muscles tense beneath you. If he’s not careful he’d cum too soon— too soon to see you unravel on his cock for the first time and it was a sight he refused to miss. His hands guide you again, his touch firm yet patient. His breath stutters, “Again,” he breathes, his fingers pressing into your skin hard enough to leave bruises— urging you closer to one of the most special orgasms you’ve ever received. “Say it again.”

“I love you.” You’re a bit more confident in your words this time. And that’s what breaks his restraint.

Satisfied, he shifts his weight, pressing into you to keep his cock nestled right where it belongs, as he rolls your bodies over. He’s careful as he lets you settle back against the sheets. He grabs one of the pillows, propping it under your hips with a deliberate ease. And then he’s leaning down again, he presses the gentlest kiss against your temple— a quiet contradiction to the heat still burning between the two of you. “Forgive me, my Dove,” he whispers, pressing another kiss against your jaw. His breath is warm against your skin. His fingers are tracing slow, idle patterns along your thigh as he hooks them around his waist. His voice is low, close to the volume he would use in a prayer. “Because I am about to fuck you as though the gods themselves dare not look upon us.” He pauses for a moment, letting the words weigh heavy in the air— and then his lips are moving from your jaw to brush against yours, his grip tightening at your thighs— “And if they do… let them fucking weep that I have you, and they do not.” And he keeps his promise—

His hands are pressed steadily against your thighs as he pulls back just enough to have you whining. Thrusting his hips back into you with a hard snap. Your hands are searching for any sort of purchase against the silks below you, moaning out as the force of his thrust empties your lungs of any air they held. There’s a soft grunt that leaves his lips, his head tipping back slightly as he pulls himself back again. He’s finding a steady rhythm, his fingers leaving imprints against your thighs. “Calla…” you whine out, that fire deep in your belly being stoked to life so fucking slowly. He pulls his head back up, looking down at you. Moving so he’s able to hold himself above you with one hand beside your head. His opposite hand sliding to the back of your thigh to press your one leg up and over his shoulder.

His breath stutters a little as he looks between your bodies. “The beauty you hold is unmatched.” He whispers, like Venus herself wouldn’t strike him down if she had heard his proclamation. His hips roll deep deep inside of you. And that fire is growing larger and larger. That familiar itch crawling up your spine and it’s making you want to squirm beneath him. And he’s so close too. He’s holding your leg to your chest with a hand on your calf, his breathing heavier than before. “Touch yourself.” He commands, but there is no real heat to it. His eyes are scanning up from where your breasts had been moving with each of his thrusts, to your own eyes. Your lip catches between your teeth as your hand snakes down between the two of you— rubbing small, tight circles against your clit. Your breath is coming in short bursts as you feel yourself pushing closer and closer to bliss. And Caracalla’s rhythm falters. He’s alternating between frantic thrusting, chasing the high he’s been waiting for all night, and agonizingly slow rolls of his hips to just get deeper into you. “You’re going to take it.” He states, the hand beside your head scooting over as much as it can to just touch you. He’s making sure this was real, that it wasn’t just some trick from the Gods, played on him to makeup for all of the misfortune he has caused. He’s fallen in love and he can’t bear for it to be a dream.

And when you’re finally tumbling over the edge, a wave of hot white pleasure rippling through you— you moan out his name, again and again and again.

“Dove.” His voice is shaky, he’s trying to keep his hooded eyes open to watch as your body shakes and keens towards him. He’s rocking his hips through your orgasm with reckless abandon and then he’s finally tipping over into his own. His hips still, deep into you as he paints your insides with his seed. His body arching over you as he groans, eyes squeezing shut. Your breath is heavy as you lay under him, so fucking sensitive, but the way he looks right now— He’s so pretty. And when he’s coherent enough to think again, he releases your leg, letting it fall to the mattress. He’s pulling out of you, slumping back into the bed next to you— a content smile on his face as one arm comes up to slide under his head. His eyes close again and he reaches out, pulling you as close as he can get you. And he shifts his body, the two of you melting into one body.

His chamber was quiet now, save for the distant crackling of torchlight and the slow, steady rhythm of Caracalla’s breath fanning out against your skin. His weight against you was warm, his body pressed against yours with an ease that made it feel as though he had always belonged there. And maybe he would for the rest of your time on Earth— you could only hope. His head rested against your chest, his hair— rich, red like embers— soft beneath your fingers as you combed through it, your touch slow, languid. He was silent for a while longer, his fingers tracing absent patterns against the bare skin of your stomach. Circles, lines, something close to letters— maybe his name— though perhaps they held no meaning at all. Maybe they were only the idle movements of a man too lost in thought to be still. His breath, deep and even, stirred against your skin, and you wondered if he would speak again.

“Do you know what it would mean to be my wife?” His voice was quiet, his fingers still moving across your abdomen with a featherlight touch. “To be bound to me, not as a whore, not as our favorite, but as my own. Mine.” His fingers then stilled against your stomach. His palm pressing flat, as if the thought alone was something weighty enough to keep him anchored to you. He exhaled sharply, shifting his hips, though he did not lift his head from your chest. “It is not a small thing...” His voice dropped lower, carrying off for a moment. As if his lucidity had outstayed its welcome. “To be my wife… is to stand beside an emperor, to carry the weight of Rome itself upon your shoulders. It is to be revered, envied… hated by many.” His fingers began to move again— this time tracing the shape of what felt like a laurel wreath against your skin. “You would belong to me, as I would to you. No other. No Geta. No pretenses, no courtly whispers of favoritism— only the truth. Only what is ours.” At last, he lifted his head. Shifting his body again so that his gaze met yours. Those blue eyes searching, as if he might find the answer there before you even thought it or spoke it. His hand, warm and solid, came to rest against your ribs, his thumb sweeping slow across your skin. “Tell me, Dove,” he murmured, his voice softer now— the pet name searing into your heart— though no less certain. “Would you have that? Would you have me?”

Your fingers stilled in his hair, your breath catching as his words settled between you. He had spoken of power, of duty, of the weight of Rome— but had left out the most important thing to you. Love. Your hand drifted forward from his hair, sliding down to cradle his jaw. You guide him upward until his eyes are level with yours. The firelight cast shadows across his face, the edges of him softened by the quiet vulnerability that flickered in his gaze. You did not see an emperor in that moment— you saw a man wanting to be held, to be loved, to be cared for in a way no one had yet. And for all his strength, for all his iron will, he was still waiting for you— for an answer that he would never beg for, but that he needed nonetheless.

“I would have you,” you whisper— your heart beating heavy and loud in your chest as your thumb is brushing the edge of his cheekbone, “as you would have me. But… not like this.”

His brows furrowed, not in anger— never in anger again (so he hopes)— but in something closer to confusion. His grip right above your ribs tightens ever so slightly. He was bracing his body for a rejection that had not yet come. “Not like this?” His voice was rougher now, the hurt threatening to spill.

You exhaled, shaking your head. “Not as a… a whore shared between you and Emperor Geta... Not as a woman plucked from my quarters when I am to please you or your brother.” Your words are bold, even in the safety of Caracalla. “If I am to be yours, Caracalla, truly yours… I cannot be beneath you.”

The silence that followed was growing thicker by the second. His gaze searched yours, stoic. Emotions undistinguishable— something that wasn’t at all common for you around him. His fingers are still resting against your ribs, feeling every breath you make and every shift of your body. Then he slowly moved. He lifted himself onto his forearms, shifting slightly, his body now hovering just above yours. His weight is pressing into you like an anchor. His hips slotted tightly against yours— but not in a way that makes you think he’d like to go again. Just to let you know he’s here. He’s with you. He moves one hand, his fingers drifting up to your face. He’s tracing the curve of your cheek, the shape of your lips, tucking back a strand of your hair. “You would stand at my side,” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin as he leans in for another kiss— soft, slow, pouring all of his love into it. “Not beneath me. Not as whore, not as shared possession… but as my wife.”

It was not a question any longer. It was a vow. Your chest tightened, a cry catching in your throat as you reached for him. You wrap your arms tightly around his shoulders, pulling his body impossibly closer. “If you will have me,” you whispered, “I will love you as no other has. I will be yours, as wholly as you will be mine.”

A slow exhale left him, something unraveling in his expression. His grip on you tightened— It wasn’t possessive, it wasn’t demanding, but it surely was certain. “Then it is done,” he whispers, his lips brushing against your temple. His fingers trailing down from where it had been tucked against your cheek, feeling everywhere they could until it stops your thigh— pulling it over his hip as he rolls onto his side— you’re impossibly close. “You are mine… and I, yours.” And as his mouth found yours again, slow and unhurried. This felt like the first promise he had ever made not as your emperor… but as a man. A man that needed you. Needed someone to trust. Someone to love and to hold him. And in that moment you found the quiet stillness that had fallen over Caracalla’s bed chambers comforting. It was the kind that settled heavy and warm in the hazy aftermath of sex. Caracalla held you tight against him, your chests pressed together, your leg still hiked up over his hip. His fingers were tracing slow, idle circles across the expanse of your naked back, his arm tucked around you. His breath was hot against your neck, but more steady with each exhale. You’d argue it was the steadiest it had been since Geta had called you into the chambers earlier that night. But you could tell there was a wanting tension still lingering in his muscles and something plaguing his mind that had not yet let him surrender to sleep. Your head rested against his pillows before you turned to face him.

The weight of his arm draped around your waist was heavy, warm, comforting. Your fingers skim over his chest, the skin there is always so much softer than you remember. You wondered if he had ever been held like this before. If he had said all of these things to another woman, another man, anyone before. He had confessed what seemed like love to you. Promised your hand. And suddenly, in the silence, everything feels like it’s seconds away from being pulled loose, like a thread from his silks. “What are you thinking?” You ask, your hand moving from his chest to cup his cheek.

Caracalla’s eyes close as he huffs out a breath— it sounds like a laugh, but it comes out strangled and tired. His fingers curl against your thigh, tugging you impossibly closer. Your bare hips slotting against his, it’s not sexual— it’s just… nice, comforting. A needed touch of skin to skin to remind one another you were here, you were real, you were together. “That I have not known a peace like this before,” he admitted, his voice no louder than a whisper, “and that I fear I may never know it again if you are not beside me… I’ve promised you marriage, but I don’t know if I can bear ever being apart.”

You lifted your head slightly, tilting it just enough to meet his eyes. The torchlight had begun to simmer, the orange cast only slivers across his face, but his eyes— those pretty blue eyes— “Then you need not fear at all, my love,” you whispered, brushing your lips against his jaw, the name rolling off your tongue like it had meant to be there. “Because I am here. You promised. I’m not going anywhere.”

His arm tightened around your waist. His other hand slipping up to cradle the back of your head, thumb rubbing against your scalp as he exhaled slowly. “Good,” he murmured, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. “Because I would raze the world to keep you close.”

The silence grew comfortable between you after that, the weight of the day— of everything; sex, love confession, marriage proposal— finally pulling you both closer to the edge of sleep. You both had barely noticed your breaths syncing. But your bodies slotted together as if molded for one another. Your legs intertwined and he’s moving downward. His head is finding a home against your chest. And for once, Caracalla allowed himself to rest. And so did you, holding your husband to be as close to your body as you could.

At least, until that next morning something stirred.

There’s a small nimble touch against your hair. An odd rustling sound that was just too soft to be Caracalla and a chirping you couldn’t place. Your brow furrowed as you stirred awake, blinking your eyes only to find yourself face-to-face with a pair of dark, beady ones you had only heard rumors of. Tiny fingers were combing carefully through your hair, twisting a few strands before releasing them again. You blinked again, slow and unsure if you were dreaming or not, and the creature— small, dressed in fine silk, and entirely unbothered— cocked its head as if studying you in return.

“Dondus.” Caracalla’s voice was gruff with sleep, his grip on you tightening instinctively— like this monkey was trying to steal you away from him— before his mind caught up with his waking reality. You felt his body shift against your body, his breath exhaling sharply against your skin as he finally lifted his head from your chest to take in the sight before him. His eyes— still heavy with sleep— landed on the small diapered figure perched beside you, its tiny hands now patting curiously at your forehead. “Dondus,” he repeated, his voice firmer this time as he shifted upright. Much like a voice a father uses to discipline their child. He’s careful not to disturb you more than the monkey already had, even if you looked as beautiful as ever in the early morning rays that were beginning to peek out from behind the clouds, pouring in from the window. The monkey barely reacted, as if completely unimpressed by the emperor’s tone.

You bit back a quiet laugh, watching as Caracalla ran an exhausted hand over his face. How dare he be pulled from the best sleep he’s ever had. Just a few more hours and he would have been fully rested for the first time in a long time. He’s exhaling before muttering, “Little beast, I should have you tossed into the Tiber.” Though every living being in the room knows Dondus is one of the single most important things in Caracalla’s life and he’d never entertain the idea. Dondus simply blinked at him, entirely unbothered by his master’s lack of amusement. Caracalla sighed once again, pushing the blankets away and shifting away from you to sit on the edge of the bed. You already missed his warmth. With a practiced ease, he reached out. He allowed Dondus to scamper up his arm and onto his shoulder. The small creature curled around his neck like he belonged there. He glanced back at you, a smile settling on his face. He leaned in, brushing a kiss against your lips before murmuring, “Do not move, my Dove. I will return.” And he keeps that promise when he’s clambering back into bed after a quick trip from the chambers— his arm sliding around your waist.

Later that same morning, a cool breeze wafted through the open palace windows. The marble halls of the palace still heavy with the hush of early dawn. The scent of honeyed bread and ripe figs lingered as you walked beside Caracalla, his grip firm around your wrist— it was not harsh, not demanding, but that of a man who couldn’t bear to let you slip away. He had barely let you go since waking, other than to take Dondus off to a place to play. When he had returned, his body stayed naked and still warm and curled around yours in the hours before dawn. His breath was warm against your skin as though afraid you might vanish in the night. But now, the softness of the quiet morning was completely gone. The coldness of his reign had returned in full just as the laurels that adorned his head. Emperor Caracalla was a stark contrast to the man who invited you into his bed last night.

You could feel the tension in his body as he led you into the dining hall, where Geta already sat. He was reclining with an ease that did not match the weight in the air. The older emperor, by mere moments, plucked a fig from the golden platter before him. He bit into it leisurely, though his sharp gaze flicked from Caracalla’s hold on you to the way your tunic, hastily draped in the early morning, bore the unmistakable creases of the night before. A knowing smile curled at Geta’s lips. “I assume you bring your morning appetites with you, brother?” His tone was light, teasing— something edged with amusement, perhaps even curiosity. You’re not sure if his words are aimed towards you or the way Caracalla’s stomach growls.

But Caracalla did not humor him. His grip on you tightened ever so slightly as he pulled you forward with him, guiding you to stand just behind him as he lowered himself onto the sofa across from Geta. He did not release you, even as he reached for a goblet of watered wine. Only after taking a long sip did he speak, his voice low, unwavering. “I will have her.”

Geta exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head as he leaned back against the cushions. “You already do, brother. Clearly.” The annoyance in his voice hadn’t gone unnoticed. Geta had brought you to the palace. Geta had been the one to give you his favor first. And here you were, besting him for his little brother.

Caracalla’s jaw tensed. “Not as she is.” He set his goblet down with a quiet thud, reaching for a chunk of the honeyed bread as his eyes lock onto Geta’s. “Not as one of our toys. Not as plaything. As a wife. Not something shared between us any longer.” The words hung in the air, the weight of them sinking between the two brothers like a blade waiting to be drawn. You felt your breath catch in your throat. One of your hands is clasped in a fist in front of you, the other is hanging over Caracalla’s shoulder as he grips tight to your wrist. Geta studied his brother, then you. You drop your gaze to the floor of where you stand, the only thing visible is the expanse of Caracalla’s silk covered back in your peripheral.

“You would wed her?” Geta’s brow arched, “You, who scoffed at marriage? You, who dismissed every noblewoman I had brought before you?” He let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “And now you would break tradition, cast away the role she was given, all for—“

“I would have her,” Caracalla interrupted, his voice was sharper now, laced with impatience. Geta did not understand. He could never understand. “Not because she is owed it. Not because it is expected of her. Because I will have no other. She is what I want.” A silence stretched between them. You could feel Caracalla’s fingers flex against you, his thumb now brushing idly against the inside of your wrist. His grip on reality was starting to waver— needing you to bring him back down to Earth.

Geta sighed, setting his half-eaten fig down onto the plate that had been held beside him, before finally meeting his brother’s gaze. “And what of Rome if you must do this?” Geta asked, tilting his head. “What of the Senate? You would take a woman not of noble blood, not of lineage, and place her at your side? You know what they will say. You will bear heirs with her. You know what our mother would think if she were breathing?”

Caracalla’s expression did not waver in the slightest. If anything, he looked amused now. His lips curling into a smile as he leaned forward, his voice dropping low. “Let them say what they will. Let her think what she will, for she is in her grave. I am not asking, Geta.”

Geta exhaled again, shaking his head. He turned to you then, studying you for a long moment. He noticed the way you seemed to tense when his eyes were on you— and one run of Caracalla’s thumb against your wrist seemed to soothe the tension plaguing your body— and then he’s speaking. “And you?” His tone was different now, more of the Emperor in him than you had seen in person before. “You would have him? You would stand beside him, knowing what that means? Knowing what it will cost?”

You swallowed, your pulse thrumming beneath Caracalla’s grip, but your answer was clear, it’s all you have wanted— Caracalla no matter the risks. “I would.”

“Then I suppose us making a freedwoman out of you is a small price to pay for my brother’s happiness.” Geta clicked his tongue at your answer. Now shaking his head with something like a reluctant laugh. Then, after a long moment, he lifted his goblet in a silent toast, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “May the gods have mercy on you both.”

(if you’re comfortable reblogging, please consider doing so! I appreciate it more than you know! And if you’d like to comment or drop me a message just to chat (and or gush about the emperors) feel free! i’d love to make some friends!)

tags ;; @x-vadon

#female reader #emperor caracalla #emperor caracalla x reader #emperor caracalla x female reader #emperor caracalla x you #cw: groping #cw: touching #cw: kissing #cw: oral sex #cw: oral m receiving #cw: unprotected sex #ca: pinv #cw: swearing

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empressdede · 2 months ago

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Whispers Of Magnolia - 4

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A/N: This is a love story set during segregation times. The languages are harsh but please be aware that I am trying to be as historically accurate as possible for fictional content. Racial slurs will be used, and some chapters involve really dark content: Death and Non consensual sex. Please read at your own will.

Banners used are made by @/firefly-graphics

Chapter Four

Evangeline could feel the weight of the day before it even began.

She woke to the sound of her mother moving around their small home before dawn, her movements hurried but precise. Lena had worked in the Rollins household long enough to know what was expected when important guests were coming. Today, the expectations were even higher.

Mr. Rollins had called a meeting with him.

The name Roman Reigns carried through the city like a whispered legend, a man who was both feared and revered. Evangeline had never seen him before, but she knew what he was. Everyone did. A man like that could walk into a room and own it without saying a word. He had the power to make people disappear, the kind of power men like Kevin Rollins envied and admired all at once.

And today, he was coming to their house.

By the time Evangeline and Lena arrived at the estate, the entire staff was already on edge. The kitchen smelled of spices and smoke, the sharp scent of onions and peppers filling the air as pots boiled over open flames. The clatter of silverware and fine china being arranged on the grand dining table echoed through the halls.

Then came the heavy, deliberate footsteps of him.

Kevin Rollins entered the kitchen like a storm, his presence making the air grow thick with unspoken fear. Dressed in his finest suit, a cigar already smoldering between his fingers, he surveyed the scene with the kind of critical eye that only came from years of owning everything in his reach.

His voice was sharp as a blade when he spoke.

“Listen up.”

The room fell into silence. Even the bubbling pots seemed to hush.

“We have very important guests coming today,” he began, his tone slow and deliberate. “The kind of guests who expect perfection. That means this house better be spotless. I don’t want to see a single speck of dust, not on the floors, not on the furniture, not on so much as a damn doorknob. You hear me?”

A murmured chorus of “Yes, sir” followed.

He turned to Lena and Meradith, the head cook. “I want the best Creole dishes you’ve ever made. No cutting corners. We’re going to show them what Southern hospitality really looks like.”

Lena nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Then his gaze swept over the rest of the maids, his expression darkening.

“And when our guests arrive,” he continued, his voice lowering, “you better make sure you serve them hand and foot. If I hear even one complaint, I will shoot one of you niggers dead.”

Silence fell heavy and suffocating.

Evangeline felt her stomach drop, but she kept her face blank, her hands still. The threat wasn’t new, but today, it felt different. Maybe it was the way Mr. Rollins’ hand rested on his belt, where the outline of his pistol was visible. Maybe it was the way his cold, blue eyes seemed to dare one of them to step out of line.

No one spoke.

No one moved.

And just like that, the moment passed. Mr. Rollins turned on his heel and left, his boots clicking against the polished floor.

As soon as he was gone, the kitchen sprang back into motion, but the air remained tense.

Evangeline exhaled slowly, then turned to the work ahead. There was no time for fear. Only obedience.

For hours, they cleaned.

The marble floors were scrubbed until they gleamed. Every piece of furniture was dusted, every shelf wiped down, every window polished until it was so clear the magnolia trees outside seemed to be part of the house itself. The grand chandelier in the dining room sparkled under the dim light, its crystals catching the last traces of sunlight filtering through the curtains.

In the kitchen, Lena and Meradith worked tirelessly over the stove. Gumbo simmered in a heavy pot, the aroma thick and rich. Platters of blackened catfish and buttery shrimp were arranged alongside cornbread and rice dressing. Fresh pralines cooled on the counter, their sugary scent mixing with the savory spices in the air.

By the time the clock struck seven, the house was immaculate.

And then they arrived.

The sound of cars rolling up the long driveway sent a ripple of tension through the household. Evangeline stood in the hallway near the dining room, her hands folded tightly in front of her as she heard the heavy knock on the front door.

One of the butlers answered, and the moment the guests stepped inside, the air changed.

The first man was Roman Reigns.

Even if she hadn’t known who he was, she would have felt it.

He walked with a quiet authority, dressed in a dark suit that fit him like it had been made for him alone. He wasn’t rushed, wasn’t impatient—he moved like a man who expected the world to wait for him. His hair, long and sleek, cascaded over his shoulders, framing a face that looked like it had been carved from stone. His deep brown skin was smooth, his expression unreadable.

Behind him, his cousins followed. Jimmy and Jey.

The three of them were the Bloodline—the most feared men in New Orleans. And they looked every bit as dangerous as the stories said.

Mr. Rollins greeted them with the charm of a man who knew he was in the presence of something greater than himself.

“Mr. Reigns, welcome to my home,” he said, extending a hand.

Roman accepted it, but his face remained impassive. “Let’s skip the formalities. Show me what you have.”

Mr. Rollins hesitated only for a fraction of a second before nodding. “Right this way.”

As the men moved toward the dining room, Evangeline stepped forward, ready to serve, just as she had been taught. She barely lifted her eyes as she moved to pour the first glass of wine—

And then it happened.

She felt it before she saw it.

A shift in the air. A pause that wasn’t meant to be there.

She looked up—just for a second.

And Roman Reigns was looking at her.

It wasn’t the kind of glance men like Seth Rollins gave—the kind that made her skin crawl, the kind that felt like a hand closing around her wrist, ready to pull.

No, this was different.

His dark eyes held hers, unwavering, unreadable.

It wasn’t lust. It wasn’t ownership.

It was curiosity.

Evangeline’s breath caught, but she quickly dropped her gaze, moving away before anyone else noticed.

But she felt it.

Felt his eyes linger just a second longer than they should have.

Felt something shift in the air between them, something unspoken but undeniable.

And even though she knew better, even though she knew what happened to girls like her when they caught the wrong man’s attention—

She couldn’t stop the shiver that ran down her spine.

The scent of cigar smoke curled through the air as Kevin Rollins leaned back in his chair, a smug grin playing on his lips. The dining room, grand and meticulously polished, had become a stage for negotiations that held far more weight than any of the fine china or crystal glassware decorating the table.

Across from him, Roman Reigns sat relaxed, yet commanding. His large frame seemed too powerful for the high-backed chair he occupied, and yet he made it his throne with ease. The flickering candlelight cast deep shadows against his features, making him look even more dangerous than the stories suggested. Beside him, Jimmy and Jey sat like shadows of destruction, their sharp eyes watching everything, missing nothing.

Kevin swirled the bourbon in his glass, feigning confidence as he spoke. “Now, Roman, I know a man of your… caliber doesn’t take meetings unless there’s something worth his while.” He chuckled, placing his glass down. “I need security. My shipping yards have been getting too much attention from the wrong kind of folks, and I need men who can keep things in order. I want my shipments moving without trouble, without questions.”

Roman simply watched him, unreadable.

Kevin licked his lips and continued. “Now, I don’t see why we can’t both benefit from this. You’re a businessman, Roman. You need places where no one asks questions. My shipping yards? They’re private. No one pokes around where they don’t belong. If you need them, you can use them.”

Silence.

Then, a low chuckle.

Deep. Amused.

Kevin stiffened as Roman leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. He looked at Kevin the way a lion might look at a wounded animal—mildly entertained, but unimpressed.

“If I wanted to use your shipping yard, Kevin,” Roman said, his voice smooth yet sharp, “I would’ve done so. And I wouldn’t have asked permission.”

Kevin’s throat bobbed as he swallowed.

“But,” Roman continued, “I’m a man of business, and I prefer things to be handled the right way.” He took a slow sip of his drink before setting the glass down with a quiet clink. “I’ll give you security. But it won’t be free. You’ll pay a price. Semi-annually.”

Kevin’s shoulders loosened with relief, his grin returning. “Now we’re talking. And what exactly is the price?”

Before Roman could answer, the dining room doors opened, and two maids entered.

Evangeline and Rose moved with practiced precision, their steps light, their heads bowed. The weight of the room settled over them like thick smoke, the presence of such powerful men making the space feel smaller, heavier.

They carried trays of crystal champagne glasses, the golden liquid shimmering under the warm light.

Evangeline kept her eyes down, focusing only on the task at hand. But the moment she stepped toward Roman, she felt it again.

That shift.

That pause that wasn’t meant to be there.

She placed his glass in front of him, careful not to spill a single drop.

And then she heard it.

“What is your name?”

Her breath hitched.

Her hands, steady just moments before, suddenly felt cold against the silver tray.

She had heard many things in this house. Commands. Insults. Threats.

But never that.

Never a question meant for her.

The room tensed. Kevin’s head snapped toward Roman, his jaw tightening. “She’s the help, Roman,” he said, his tone edging toward irritation. “The nigger’s name doesn’t matter.”

A dangerous silence followed.

Roman’s gaze didn’t shift. Didn’t waver. Instead, he spoke again, his voice quieter this time, but infinitely more dangerous.

“I wasn’t talking to you.”

Kevin’s expression flickered between surprise and anger, but he didn’t dare push further.

Roman turned his attention back to Evangeline. “What is your name?”

She swallowed hard.

Everything in her told her to stay quiet. To keep her head down.

But she knew better than to ignore a question from a man like him.

So she whispered it.

“…Evangeline.”

Roman studied her for a moment, his dark eyes lingering on her face.

And then he did something no man had ever done before.

He nodded slightly and said, “Thank you, Evangeline.”

A simple phrase.

But it shattered everything.

Evangeline felt Rose shift beside her, her breath catching.

Kevin’s fingers twitched against his glass, his annoyance barely restrained.

No one thanked the help.

No one acknowledged the help.

And yet, Roman Reigns had spoken her name like it meant something.

Like she meant something.

Evangeline quickly lowered her gaze, stepping back. Her heart pounded in her chest, a foreign feeling stirring deep inside her.

She knew she should forget this moment.

But somehow, she knew she never would.

Long chapter, the next one will be just a tad bit smaller.

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anabdaniels · 5 months ago

Text

Local God

A Secret Santa gift to @papipascaaaal.

Huge thanks to @pedrostories for this marvelous event.

Paring: Marcus Acacius x Female reader

Summary: It was supposed to be the best work of your life analyzing the general's statue, you just didn't expected the statue to turn into the general himself.

Word counting: 7.6k

Rating: +18

Warnings: Major spoilers of Gladiator II, descriptions of damaged mental health, heavy angst.

A/N: This ain't 100% historically accurate for the sake of convenience, but nothing too serious. I created Acacius' full name based on this post by @elflutter.

Divider from: @saradika-graphics

Masterlist || AO3 Link

You couldn’t contain yourself.

And actually, you weren’t the only one, after all, it wasn't every day that a statue from 210 AD showed up so well preserved, especially after the failed attempt of a damnatio memoriae. You spent your whole day in the museum room where the statue was placed, walking around it as you took notes about what you already knew and what remained an incognita, fascinated about all the information you had and wondering about the things you might never find the answer to.

You were about to roll your eyes and dismiss whoever was knocking at your door and interrupting your line of thought, but you promptly smiled sympathetically as you saw the kind old man who worked on the museum's cleaning team.

“We’re closing, Dr.” the senior man warned in his usual sympathetic tone, refusing to let go to address you by your academic title even after the many times you asked him to.

“Already?” you stated surprised and checked the hours on your computer, surprised by how you didn’t see it passing “I fear I’ll stay a little longer.”

“New boyfriend?” The man joked while opening the door slightly more to take a better look at the statue “I don’t know how you’re not afraid of being locked with these things.”

“Yeah, the big boy is keeping me occupied.” You joked back while patting the statue “You get used to them with the passing time.”

“I’m fine being away from them.” He laughed and shook his head “Good night, dear.”

“Good night.” You turned back to your notes when the man closed the door, recovering your line of thoughts and inevitably getting lost in them, wondering about so many things. You had spent most of your life studying ancient civilizations, especially Egyptians and Romans, and some events always got you thinking if the ancient rulers were truly that full of themselves or were simply dumb.

That statue in front of you was one of those cases.

You looked at the inscription on the marble plinth, a few bronze letters have fallen, but the dented gaps where they used to be had the shape of the letters, keeping the phrase complete and readable: ACACIVS VICTOR AFRICAE. Being face to face with such an opulent statue you wondered how crazy or stupid Geta and Caracalla were to think that the people would be amused with what and how they did to Acacius after they had converted him into Rome's greatest hero.

“You must have lived a hell of a life, hum, general?” you chuckled and shook your head, putting down your notebook on the nearest table and walking to the coffee machine on the opposite corner of the room, pulling your phone from your pocket while you waited for your espresso to be ready.

After the first shot of caffeine of the night, you hopped to get your brain to work faster, especially having drunk it while watching that sequence of short videos, remembering your psychologist explaining to you how they were probably the biggest cause of your troubles to fall asleep quickly. As you put your phone down and took back your papers, you were just about to write down what the next subjects you needed to check about the statue, until the noises of the street cats distracted you, making you involuntarily look towards the window.

And that simple action made any thought you could have shut down completely.

You blinked once, twice, rubbed your eyes, looked both sides, and still couldn’t gather a single logical thing in your mind, after all, wasn’t every day that an almost 6ft tall statue simply disappeared from its plinth. By the morning when it was brought to the Capitoline Museum and you got in charge of studying it, you thought that could only be a dream while seeing that it seemed to have evaporated, you prayed to all and any gods for it to be a dream, but your hope to be living a nightmare was crashed at the very second you heard a noise among the shelves near the door accompanied by a huge shadow; definitely wasn’t a mouse trying to gnaw old papers.

“Who’s there? This ain’t funny.” You felt like a stupid character from a low-budget horror movie while taking a few steps closer to the origin of the noise, but it wasn’t even a conscious move. You froze completely as the figure came out of the dark, not knowing if you wanted to run away or get closer.

“I apologize, ma’am. I mean you no harm.” The man spoke calmly, his deep voice echoing in the room.

“How did you… There’s no… You were just…” you still were incapable of making any coherent statement while facing a Roman general alive and right in front of you.

“I do not know how I am here either, ma’am.” Acacius explained himself while raising his hands at the level of his shoulders, wanting to guarantee you didn’t see him as a threat.

“This can’t be fucking real. You were a pile of bronze just two minutes ago.” You shook your head, rubbing your face one last time to make sure you were awake. “How could you just pop in here, Acacius?” The man seemed a bit surprised by your crude lingo, but what caught his attention wasn’t that.

“You know me?” he asked in a genuine mix of surprise and doubt.

“Of course, any dumbass that heard about ancient Rome knows the great General Marcus Acacius Justus Sacratus.” You said as if it was obvious, still shocked by the absurd situation.

“Ancient Rome?” he asked cluelessly, raising one eyebrow.

“Yeah, I mean, you lived on 210 AD and we are now on 2024 AD.” At that point you were sounding more casual, still not believing such circumstances, but holding yourself to the idea that you simply didn’t remember falling asleep and were having the craziest dream. Acacius digested the information with a frown, seeming to simply accept your statement.

“And what did you call me?”

“Acacius Justus Sacratus. They gave you the Sacratus agnomen after the chaos people made in Rome when the emperors tried to erase you.” You were quite surprised as you saw the shadow of a smile forming on his lips “Whatever, this is all kinda unbelievable. You weren’t supposed to be here. Oh my god, how I’m gonna explain to the director that a whole ass statue simply disappeared under my watch? I’m so fucked up, it would be our biggest exposition this year. I’m gonna be fired.” You had a small outburst of despair when the whole scene finally got solid in your imagination, after all, saying that one of the most searched historical objects had simply converted into its human form wouldn’t convince anyone.

“I deeply apologize for any inconvenience I might be causing you; I will leave immediately if it could help you.” Acacius’ sincere tone hit straight on your nerves, making you unsure if you were mad or sentimental about it.

“Leave where? The Rome you knew has fallen long ago and everything has changed. The empire you used to know and serve is now no more than a bunch of ruins spread across the whole Italy. Let aside the fact that you wouldn’t adapt to this new world by yourself and no one would believe your story. In no time you’d turn into an indigent or end up locked in a mental hospital because everyone would be convinced that you’re schizophrenic or something similar. And don’t get me started with your festive dress.” You said referring to his armor with the golden head of Medusa on the chest and the pompous red cape around his shoulders. “I can’t let you go, Acacius.” You sighed frustrated, all of that becoming too much. Acacius was lowkey confused about a few things you said, but also your temper was starting to annoy him.

“Well, since you know everything, tell me the way back home.” He rolled his eyes halfway, bothered about how you were speaking as if he wasn’t in a difficult situation either or had chosen to be there.

“Don’t start with that, I’ve dedicated a great part of my life to studying yours. I know your sassy temper.” You rolled your eyes, for a second lowkey forgetting that his personality was your smaller problem. Acacius had an answer ready, but your declaration got him unprepared.

“You studied my life?” he questioned, raising one eyebrow.

“Of course I did. You turned into the military version of Julius Caesar in terms of popularity, one of the most mentioned names when the subject is ancient Rome.” You sighed heavily, looking away from him “And I never got over what they did to you.” Acacius wondered for a moment what you were referring to, but he imagined you meant the whole situation in the coliseum.

“I remember all that.” He started in a contemplative tone “I remember being there, the exhaustion, the despair of my dear Lucilla, the pain of the first arrows, then I woke up somewhere else and remained there until today.” He sighed and shook his head “Do you have any idea of what happened?”

“No. Despite all the theories about time traveling and supernatural events, there’s nothing concrete about it that could explain you coming back to life.” You passed one hand over your hair, taking a deep breath. “Well, since I’m already screwed up with all this, can you answer a few things I always wanted to know?”

“Go ahead, it is not as if I have anything else to do.�� Acacius agreed while taking a couple of steps to approach you by your desk, looking curious at your notes written on those peculiarly connected letters.

“Are the theories that you were trained by Maximus himself true?” you looked at him expectantly, feeling like your life would finally make sense with that answer.

“Yes, I had the honor of having him as a mentor.” He confirmed while curiously nudging the mouse of your computer, looking abruptly back at you when you slapped the wooden surface.

“I fucking knew it.” You sounded like an excited child “The behavioral pattern in matters of war is so obvious and explains your ties with the royal family. I know I wasn’t crazy!” you got slightly self-conscious as you realized Acacius’ confusedly staring at you, surprised that such a simple thing seemed to be such a big deal to you. “Now you probably think I’m crazy.”

“Not much shocks me after Geta and Caracalla. You look very normal to me.” He affirmed casually, taking a genuine laugh at you with how he seemed so casual about everything.

“Speaking about our crazy boys, the urban legend that you laughed when they threatened you with a damnatio memoriae it’s true either?” Once again you saw yourself breathing slowly to not miss a thing of the answer.

“Sincerely, I am not proud of it, but yes.” He shrugged with a discreet grin “But how do you know such a thing?”

“Well, we believe that it started as a rumor among the Pretorians that spread like fire on the straw due to people’s compassion for your history.” You looked away as your phone screen turned on with some random notification, but what got your attention was Acacius’ suspicious gaze toward the object. “Don’t be amazed so quickly, there’s a lot of weirdest technologies nowadays.”

“Everything seems quite familiar to me.” He said while looking around the room.

“We’re in the middle of the Capitoline Museum, what did you expect?”

“Capitoline?” he ignored your sarcastic remark, more interested in the familiar name.

“Come with me.” Before he could agree, you already had grabbed him by the arm, pulling him to the hallway.

“But this is...”

“Yes, the imperial palace.” You finished his statement as the two of you walked through the hallway full of statues.

“But you said more than a millennium has passed since my time. This place did not change at all.” You sighed and rolled your eyes, stopping a few steps away from the staircase, pissed at yourself for assuming Acacius would magically guess what happened in the last 1814 years.

“This is a museum now; the idea is precisely to keep all of this the most intact possible. Look at that.” You pointed to The Dying Gaul behind Acacius “This is from around 60-40 BC, approximately 150 years older than you and still perfectly preserved, just like everything else here. That’s why your statue was brought here, to be studied, cataloged, and exposed to the public, while we made sure it was kept safe and intact.” Acacius attentively listened to your explanation, actually surprised that those things were from his time or even before since they looked very much like they used to in their time.

“Now it makes sense to me.” He took another look around the hallway and then back to you “What do you want to show me?”

“C’mon, general.” You passed your arm on his while going downstairs, laughing at his expression mixed with confusion and surprise. You got out of the building, getting to the courtyard and leading to the front door, you hesitated for a second before opening it. “Please don’t lose your mind.” You sighed quietly when he nodded and opened the door in front of you.

Acacius took a first hesitant step, at first not seeing anything so different, but then he paid more attention; the equestrian statue of Marcus Aurelius showing the signs of time with the marks on the bronze, if only he knew that wasn’t even the original one, the pavement also didn’t pass unnoticed by him, definitely that wasn’t there the last time he saw the place. Afraid with which other changes he could find, but unable to hold back himself, he walked closer to the edge of the square, taking a full view of the city, unable to identify what he was feeling while seeing a completely new city, despite still being able to see the Rome he used to know on those ruins. Acacius leaned against the plinth of one of the two enormous statues at the entrance of the Capitoline square, only then seeming to completely understand how much has happened in the world since his death.

“Are you alright?” you asked, approaching him, noticing his distress.

“Yes.” He answered while looking again at the city for a moment, then back at you “I just did not expect all this.”

“You’ll get used to it.” You said casually, not wanting to make the situation worse. “C’mon, we can’t stay here for too long, it’s almost 6 am, soon the team will be here to prepare the guided tour.” Acacius just followed you while still looking around, less shocked, but still not totally believing in what he was seeing.

“What is this?” he questioned as you opened that unknown metallic device.

“It's nowadays carriages.” You answered with one arm lying on the car door “Get in, general. I’ll take you home.”

“You are quite an odd lady.” He said unable to suppress a chuckle.

“I’m not the one wearing a dress and a crown of golden laurels.” You rolled your eyes with a quiet laugh as he got into the car the best someone from his time could. You closed the door and walked around, getting into the vehicle and looking at Acacius, smiling at his childish curiosity at the screen showing the GPS.

“Is this a map?” he asked while recognizing the image.

“Yes, and this little dot there moves simultaneously as we move.” You mentioned starting the car and moving on the street.

“Fascinating!” Acacius’ enthusiasm was obvious “This would have been so useful to navigations.”

“You would love to be a general nowadays.” You kept looking at the street in front of you but could see Acacius’ head turning to every side it could.

Your way back home at these hours used to be boring, but not when you had your favorite historical figure asking you tons of questions: “What happened to the coliseum walls? What are those red and green lights? How does the map dot know where we are going? How did those strange street torches extinguish themselves?” Most times you’d be annoyed with so many questions, but the way he sounded so fascinated and curious kind of warmed your heart, making your brain occasionally click; you’d never give any of your male coworkers a ride to the next street corner, yet you felt completely at ease near to an ancient roman general you only knew through the tons of history books you read over your life, truly feeling like some kind of good aura came from him.

And the same was true for him. Despite the little harsh moments you had earlier, he trusted completely his judgment about people, and you definitely were on the trustworthy side for him, after all, he understood you would be in trouble with whoever was your superior, yet you refused to let him at his luck.

Finally, at your house, Acacius’ fascinations with the modern world didn’t cease, some of them quite comprehensible, like his shock when your Alexa turned on all the lights on the house, and some others funnier like his interest in your thermal cup and how it was able to preserve temperature.

“Slow down, I still do not understand how people get inside this thing.” Acacius said in complete confusion while pointing to the TV in your bedroom.

“They don’t.” you laughed and sat next to him at the edge of your bed “What we see is that thing called video that I told you about.”

“Sincerely still confusing, but I think I understand.” He admitted while exploratory pressing the buttons on the remote, shocked with how many things existed inside that illuminated box “I know this.” You turned to look at the same spot he was, realizing he was talking about some random movie with the Roman legions on the cover.

“Oh yeah, there’s quite a bunch of movies about y’all and your fancy battle clothes.” You mentioned while looking into the grocery store bag you just found next to your bed, not remembering when that got lost there.

“But how do they have video from that time?” you couldn’t hold a genuine laugh at his adorable confusion.

“It’s not from your time, Acacius. It’s all acting as they did in Roman theaters, but now instead of only doing it in real-time, they record it so we can watch it multiple times, at any time we want.”

“How many amazing things exist in this time?” he questioned with an amused frown.

“A lot to be fair.” You found a bag of chips among your lost groceries “Lemme show you modern food.” You said as you opened the package and held it to him, with no second thoughts Acacius took a potato from the bag, savoring it as if it was a fine delicacy.

“This is what you eat every day?” He was already grabbing another chip from the package.

“Not ideally, but sometimes it happens.” You chuckled and grabbed the remote “Let’s watch this. Nothing like a real Roman general to tell me how accurate it is.” You settled better and played the movie.

You were surely amazed at his observations about the movie, sometimes perplexed with something absurdly inaccurate or highly excited with the facts that matched the reality while gladly savoring the potato chips. The most entertained you were, it was almost 8 am on Saturday and you’ve been awake since 6 am on Friday, so you didn’t even realize you started to melt on the bed, until you ended up fully asleep in an awkward position. When he stopped to listen to your opinions about his comments, Acacius looked at you, smiling discreetly as he saw you knocked out with one arm hanging out of the bed. Careful to not wake you, Acacius placed your asleep body the rest more comfortably and laid down on the other side of the bed, turning his gaze at you after looking around the whole room, still processing how amazing those modern things were and how you could be such a pleasing company despite your occasional rude manners.

"Acacius, I'm back." You said by the front door while taking off your coat. Not much later he showed up with a dishcloth in hand, taking a smile from you. "Hope you didn't make any mess in my kitchen." You joked despite knowing he hadn't.

"Can you trust me at least a bit?" He raised both eyebrows "I was just dealing with that plate cleaner thing." He said referring to your dishwasher, making you chuckle and shake your head. A week has passed and you were shocked by how good of a roommate Acacius was. He quickly understood how things worked nowadays to keep a house in order, accepting easily that no one would be around organizing the place and bringing him food as it used to be in his time, and he seemed to be quite fine with getting some tasks done, feeling useful and entertained while you were at work.

"I need to teach you how to use the vacuum cleaner." You chuckled and fell on the couch, pressing your temples and closing your eyes.

"Is everything alright?" Acacius moved to sit by your side, noticing your tension.

"They want to open the exposition next week." You said with a heavy breath "I don't know what I'm gonna do."

"Oh, my dear, I feel so sorry for causing you all this situation." He reached to touch your hand, looking at you with a guilty face.

"It's not your fault." You looked at him and smiled "And at the end, if I have to get stuck with any historical figure, I'm happy it's you." you hesitated for a moment, but surrendered to your desperate need for some comfort, tucking yourself between his arms and resting your head near the medusa figure of his armor he refused to take off. "Damn, you're probably the best man I ever met." It all got Acacius unprepared. You had exchanged some casual physical contact, especially because the two of you ended up falling asleep together every night while you showed him some new modern thing or asked him about how accurate the information you knew about his time was, he even occasionally woke up with your head resting on his arms a couple times, but nothing like that.

“I am really sorry to have met you in such complicated circumstances.” He started while wrapping his arms around you “But I have to agree with you about it, I wouldn’t choose another awkward sorceress to get stuck with.” He mentioned that in that casual sassy manner, making you look at him with a frown despite the silly smile on your face.

“I’m not a sorceress, it’s just technology. The awkward part, you might be right.” You shook your head while your fingers brushed against the medusa on his chest.

“It fits your beauty.” He said it with no flourishes, making your brain freeze for a moment, that was the last thing you expected to hear. Aware that your current situation couldn’t be worse, you stopped fighting against your rational thoughts and leaned forward, pressing your lips on his, not knowing what to expect from it, but being gladly surprised by the warm big hand rubbing your back as Acacius instinctively pulled you closer to him.

And everything became a blur. Nothing else mattered. For a moment you forgot that your job was at risk, that you had no idea why Acacius was there and for how long he’d stay, that was completely insane to fall in love with a man who could disappear in the blink of an eye just like he showed up, but you couldn’t do anything about it. Even before knowing him in person your affection towards him was a thing, since you never accepted how fate could’ve been so cruel to a good man, and after spending a whole week with him, feeling more at home and happy than ever, that feeling could only grow. To your luck, it wasn’t a one-sided thing. Acacius’ mind was a complete chaos on the first day, cursing the gods for having done such a thing with him, making him live once more with the vivid memory of his tragedy, but after spending some time with you, he started to consider it a gift from the gods; the chance of live again while having the company of such a peculiar figure like you, while having the unique experience of see by himself how the world evolved after Rome.

“I’m sorry.” Your whisper cut the line of thought of both of you as you leaned lightly backward “I shouldn’t have…” you were silenced by the thumb softly pressing your lips.

“Do not worry. I have finally known how the most spectacular thing from this time feels, I could not be more blessed by the gods.” You were incapable of thinking about an answer and he didn’t give you the time to do such a thing, pressing another kiss on your lips.

“Please, Mr. Bianchi, I promise you this is the last extra time I ask you.” You begged with all your might, unable to decipher your boss’ expression.

“Dear, I know your amazing work and for me, you could have a whole year with that statue, but it doesn’t depend solely on my wish as you know very well.” The old man spoke while aligning the pile of papers on his desk.

“Another week is all I ask.” You tried your chances, twisting your keys between your fingers.

“Impossible. The best I can do for you is a couple of days.”

“I understand.” You nodded, trying to keep yourself together, and got up, leaving the room after a weak goodbye.

You crossed the building of the museum faster than you ever had, glad that the visits were already closed, so you didn’t have to worry about anyone seeing the tears of despair rolling down your face. As you got out at the Capitoline Square, you walked around a couple of times in complete confusion. What would you do when they searched for the statue and only found the empty plinth? How would you convince anyone that your new roommate and lover was the lost statue? You certainly would go to jail accused of robbing the historical piece. Your academic career would be dead and buried and Acacius would be completely alone. Damn, you couldn’t bear the idea of him not knowing why you didn’t come back home or worse, thinking you had abandoned him voluntarily. The only way your life could not end in a disaster was if Acacius became a statue again, but that you could never wish for. Not only because your feelings towards him were almost unhealthily growing with each passing day or because you couldn’t imagine sleeping without his warmth again, but also because he seemed to be so happy and living such a light life, the life he deserved of all the misfortune he experienced before.

Standing in the middle of the empty Capitoline square, you stared at the replica of the equestrian statue of Marcus Aurelius, feeling your rage on the verge of getting out of control.

“Your stupid bastard. Couldn’t you have kept your damn dream of Rome to yourself? Couldn’t you have changed the fucking Roman rules and let your damn daughter assume the empire so she would’ve never involved Acacius in all of this? Your dumb old man.” You angrily shouted at the bronze figure of Marcus Aurelius as if he could hear you and as if Geta and Caracalla’s cruelty towards Acacius was his fault either.

Not wanting to bear your thoughts any longer, you ran to your car and drove like crazy back home, aware that you would probably receive some notes from the transit department, and not caring about anything else but hiding yourself in Acacius’ arms and pretending nothing of that was true and that you were just a simple roman peasant that got lucky enough to catch the attention of the empire’s greatest general.

“Acacius?” you called passing by the front door, your heartbeat getting wilder when he didn’t show up like every day until then “Acacius?” you called louder while starting to look around the house. You heard some noises from your backyard and headed there, sighing relieved as you saw your general there, safe and sound. Then your attention moved to the whole scene and you finally understood Acacius’ unending questions about modern table setting and the specific things he asked from the grocery after going into your grandma’s recipe book. “What is all of this?” you asked with a wide smile, observing the picnic towel in the middle of your patio filled with most of the recipes of your grandma that you told Acacius were your favorites.

“You have been so good to me and you’re one of the best hosts I ever met. I thought it would be the minimum to try to reciprocate it.” He explained while stopping in front of you, placing his golden laurels on your head with a playful smile then held out one hand to you. You were anesthetized while holding his hand, your mind going blank of all worries and concerns. How could he become better at any passing second? You would never know.

Your heart felt light as a feather on the wind while you two shared that meal under the starry sky and your body was almost in a trance, making you unable to do better than nod with a silly smile at every word that fell from Acacius’ lips, fully convinced that if the afterlife paradise existed, it must be like that: sit on the grass and be fed on the mouth by a gold-hearted man while using his laurels crown.

“You look distracted.” Acacius observed while fiddling with a lock of your hair.

“I’m sorry, it’s just that all of this seems better than any good dream I ever had.” You moved to sit sideways on his lap; after two complete weeks and five days of living together, that already had become a casual move between the two of you.

“I am glad you enjoyed it.” He smiled warmly, wrapping his arms around your waist and kissing your forehead “And be warned that I intend to do it again.”

“You won’t hear a single complaint from me, general.” You chuckled and passed your hand through his graying hair, laying forward to rest your face against the curve of his neck.

“I am not sure if your personality would allow you such a thing, but I will have faith in you.” Acacius pressed a soft kiss on your temple and remained like that, enjoying the warm feel of you all nestled on his lap, not knowing when was the last time he felt so at peace, not even the annoying cold on his arm being able to disturb him at that moment.

Having spent most of his life in the Roman wars, the feeling of being at home wasn’t a familiar sensation to him, but Acacius knew very well that being tangled at you in the middle of your patio with your breath tickling his neck was certainly his new definition of home, even in that strange period with its mechanisms that looked very much like some kind of wizard work and the memories of his first life haunting him, he still was unbothered by any of it.

“Are you tired?” he asked softly as your eyelids fell closed, caressing your face.

“No, I’m just too comfortable here.” You shifted slightly to look at him, smiling when he aligned the laurels on your head.

“Very well then, this was the goal.” He playfully pinched your cheek, making you chuckle and shrug.

“Damn, your hand is freezing.” You straightened yourself on his lap, rubbing his biceps to confirm that he was cold. “You’ll need a long-sleeved tunic to survive the winter.” You laughed and gave him a soft peck on the lips before leaning a bit backward, frowning as you felt a weird nudge on your back. You turned to look at what it was and immediately wished you had never done it, feeling the tears promptly forming in your eyes as you tried to deny the horrible truth, refusing to believe that Acacius’ whole right forearm was turning back into bronze. His gaze followed yours and he could only sigh exasperated when he saw it; despite imagining that the gods may not let him stay forever, he hoped it’d happen later. “No!” you shook your head in complete denial “This can’t be true.” You hugged him tight, hoping that was just a nightmare, but at the same time, you could feel his warmth fading away and his skin becoming as cold as the metal of his armor.

“Darling,” he cupped your face with his left hand, unable to move the other one “we both knew this might happen. Do not cry, everything will be alright, you will not have any trouble explaining my disappearance now.” It broke your heart how calmly he told you that, reminding you that he was the same man who surrendered in the coliseum to spare his stepson’s life, of course, he would only be happy and relieved that you would have a statue to present to your superior.

“It isn’t worth anything to me if I have to come back to my empty house every day. How am I supposed to go back to my old life now, Acacius? Who’ll make me explain to them that the singers aren’t trapped inside the radio?” you were already sobbing, holding onto his red cape for dear life.

“Ease yourself, dear. You are a very clever lady; I am sure you will be alright without me.” Acacius smiled tenderly, his eyes watery.

“I’ll not. This is not fair. I’ve dreamt my whole life about meeting you, and now that I did, you’ll leave me.” You clung to him like a scared child, feeling heartbroken with the idea of him coming back to be just a pile of bronze.

“Little dove, we both know this is not my place, no matter how much I loved every second spent with you. Furthermore, you’ll be close to me every day at the museum. It will be okay.” His voice was calm despite the crying tone. You still were in complete denial, but the rest of his arm also turning back into bronze was harshly bringing you back to reality.

“We should take you back to the museum, then.” That was the last thing you wanted to do, but there was no other choice.

The ride to the museum was dead silent, just like many authors said it happened at the coliseum the day Geta ordered Acacius’ assassination, and then you understood why the sepulchral silence was always mentioned in every work about the event, it was indeed a horrible thing to experience.

The way into the Capitoline Museum wasn’t the easiest, Acacius’ mobility was getting reduced and you could only curse Michelangelo for having put those huge ass stairs when he designed the place in the 16th century. Finally, at the Gallery floor of the Palazzo Nuovo, you entered the room you were designated to work in when Acacius’ statue arrived, feeling even more heartbroken when an invisible force seemed to put him back on top of the marble plinth and position his body exactly as it was the first time you saw it, the process of turn back to bronze seemed to be faster.

“Do you think we’ll ever see each other again?” you asked, sitting by the floor, desolated resting against the cold marble.

“Maybe not in this life, but I am sure we will meet again someday.” Acacius answered in a weak voice, just the upper part of his torso still in its human form.

“This is too much time.” You whined completely miserable, feeling like you didn’t have any more tears left.

“I am sure my clever lady will find a way to spend this time.” That warm affectionate smile was the last thing you saw before the rest of him turned back into bronze and his face recovered that serious imposing expression that made you so happy when the statue was found, and now would forever haunt your nightmares.

You grabbed the laurels crown that still was in your head holding it tight against your chest, wanting to protect the only tangible memory of him you had, but of course, fate wouldn’t be so generous, taking your last hope away when the golden crown unmade itself, just to show up again at the head of the statue that just a half hour ago was your companion, then you couldn’t hold it back anymore, screaming and crying while holding into the cold metal legs of the sculpture, feeling your stomach twist and your heart ache, sobbing until your whole head was hurting and you had no more forces to stand on your feet.

You had no idea of how you made your way back home that night when you woke up on your couch, you didn’t dare to lay on your bed, fearing that Acacius’ scent might no be gone from your bedsheets and already certain you would never have the courage of wash them. You spend the whole day walking around the house like a zombie, also not daring to look at your backyard, aware that you didn’t have the strength to revive that final happy memory with him. You ignored the 20 lost calls of your boss, only calling him back by the end of the day to ask for a few days off, claiming that you were sick and your voice hoarse from your uninterrupted cry made the excuse very convincing.

A couple of days later you heard that the opening exhibition of Acacius’ statue was a success, and that would be all your contact with it. You wouldn’t dream of showing up there, you didn’t even know if you’d be able to ever enter the museum again, especially when you found out that after the first week, it would probably go to the same room as The Dying Gaul, so every day when you got up the staircase you would face it, wanting you or not.

That whole next week passed like a confused mess in your memory, you never knew when was the last time you had slept, eaten, or taken a shower. All you knew was your computer screen and the pile of papers and snack packages forming around it, wasn’t an unusual scenario, since a lot of your work required research, however, the difference this time was the content. You always valued facts with reliable bibliographical sources, yet there you were, reading articles written by people that in any other scenario, you would completely despise the work and refuse to read, but in desperate times, desperate measures are called for. You started with serious stuff such as Einstein's theory of gravity, but it didn’t lead you to any positive answer about time traveling or anything that could bring Acacius back, so you started to dive into dubious corners of the internet and searched all the roman mythology book you had to see if there was any legend that could give you any clue of what to do, but of course all that lead to nothing, you would even had searched about it on the dark web if that tutorial you followed had worked.

After days of non-stop research and at the edge of burnout, your logical thought finally seemed to be back, making you come to your senses for a second and realize that all that was bullshit. What happened to you and Acacius was probably an isolated situation that never could be replicated. Overthinking everything and having a manic episode, you saw yourself finally having the strength to deep clean the nasty place your house had become while talking to yourself about how ridiculous that was.

The only thing that you didn’t foresee was that brand new wave of sadness when you saw yourself standing in the middle of your perfectly clean and silent house, hoping that at any moment you would see Acacius showing up with a random electronic device asking you how it worked.

But he wouldn’t do it, never again.

The unique nature of your relationship that a few hours earlier served as a consolation, turned into your new nightmare. It had been an exceptional occasion, supposing that the gods existed, they probably just had accidentally messed up with some timeline and put you and Acacius together. Of course, it had to be an accident, there was no way your relationship would be manageable, at least not in 2024, if you were the one mistakenly showing up in ancient Rome, maybe it could work, but it wasn’t like that.

You entered another spiral of insanity, repeating to yourself that there was no chance of it ever happening again while you sobbed curled up on the side of the bed Acacius used to sleep, confirming that his scent indeed was still there. As you planned originally, you didn’t wash the bedsheets or the dishcloth he last touched, just like the dress you were wearing the night he turned into bronze again, preserving every crumb of his smell you could, and also going into some more serious business, taking a tone of pregnancy tests as you realized your period was late and praying to every force above for a positive result, hoping to have a part of Acacius with you, and feeling like the world was ending when after all the negatives, your period showed up.

Despite feeling like your life was over, after two weeks, you had to go back to the museum, looking away or closing your eyes every damn time you had to pass in front of the Sala del Gladiatore where now Acacius’ statue was, facing the Dying Gaul sculpture and the door, making it harder to ignore, especially if added the fact that the Gaul was your favorite statue of the museum, certainly a cruel joke of the destiny.

On that random ordinary afternoon, you were unworriedly turning off the hallway lights, after so much time working there, you managed to walk among the statues in the dim light without being terrified. You were ready to go downstairs, but saw that someone did you the favor of forgetting to turn off the light in that room you avoided for so long, for a moment you considered just letting it be, but you knew that was a risky move that could even start a fire, so you built the courage to walk in, planning to quickly turn off the light and leave, but you failed even before trying, passing through the switch near the door with no second thoughts.

You smiled as you stopped in front of the Dying Gaul, only then realizing you had missed him too; you used to pass there almost every day to look at him, but since they brought the general’s statue to the room two months before, you never entered there again. For a moment you wondered if it was just your confused mind or if the Gaul and Acacius looked a lot like each other.

After building the courage, you turned around to face Acacius, feeling that familiar sting in your heart. Indulging your search for some comfort, you sit by the floor, resting your back against the wall, just staying there for a moment.

“I have to admit you were right. I found a way to spend time. I adopted a dog, you know, a Pitbull mix, the cutest little guy. I named him Justino if you catch my drift.” You chuckled and looked at the other statues in the room. “Y’all stop judging me, I had to share with someone.” You looked up at Acacius, smiling widely as you briefly recalled the night when he became human. “I miss you, general, and sometimes I rewatch that horrible movie about the Roman army you found amazing. I hope you know I haven’t stopped thinking about you, I just needed time to put myself together. I’ll probably never stop thinking about our time together, and probably will show up here every day from now on.” You sighed and got up, looking at him with a sad smile “I cursed your gods a lot, but now I can only thank them for having messed up with whatever cable that controls the timelines of the world.” You reached one arm up, managing to touch one of his hands, relaxing with the familiar form, even with the warmth absent. “You’ll always hold a place in my heart.” You closed your eyes and allowed your head to fall forward, resting your forehead against the bronze surface. “Ubi tu gaius, ego gaia.” You mumbled quietly, taking a moment there before building the courage to walk away, turning off the light, and getting downstairs, wondering if would be a good idea to try to convince Mr. Bianchi to allow pets at the museum, at least for one day, so you could take Justino to meet Acacius and finally see the man you told him so much about and named him after.

#Gladiator II #Marcus Acacius #General Acacius #Pedro Pascal #Pedro Pascal Characters #pedrostories #pedrostoriesgift24

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brainddeadd · 7 months ago

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Halloween Party

The New Jersey Devils' Halloween party was destined to be anything but normal. You knew that from the moment you walked into the venue—a rented-out lounge decked with fake cobwebs, jack-o-lanterns, and strobe lights—only to be tackled by a very enthusiastic Jack Hughes in full Spider-Man gear.

“Y/N!” Jack yells, wrapping you in a bear hug and lifting you off the ground. “You made it!”

“Put me down, Spidey,” you laugh, squirming in his grip.

Jack grins under his mask but finally sets you down, brushing invisible dust off your costume. “What even are you supposed to be?” he asks, squinting at your outfit.

“I’m a vampire,” you say, flashing the plastic fangs you barely managed to keep in.

“Cute.” Jack winks, slinging an arm around your shoulder just as Nico Hischier—dressed as a very convincing pirate—walks up, giving both of you a fond, exasperated look.

The lounge is packed with players, staff, and their partners—everyone dressed to the nines in goofy, spooky, or downright ridiculous costumes. Luke Hughes stands by the snack table, inspecting a bowl of candy with the kind of concentration you usually only see him use on the ice. He’s rocking a cowboy hat, boots, and a vest that’s way too small for his frame.

Dawson Mercer, meanwhile, has gone all-in with a werewolf costume, complete with fluffy ears and a tail that keeps smacking people as he walks by.

“I swear to God, Dawson,” you mutter, swatting at the tail when it brushes your arm again. “Control that thing.”

“It has a mind of its own!” Dawson defends himself with a mischievous grin.

As the night progresses, the chaos only multiplies.

Nico keeps trying to convince everyone to join him for a game of beer pong, insisting that pirates have an unfair advantage because they’re “naturally gifted at throwing things.” You’re not entirely sure that’s historically accurate, but no one argues with him.

Jack somehow convinces half the team to start a limbo competition—using a hockey stick, of course. Luke crushes it, his height somehow not being a disadvantage for once, though he nearly trips over his boots at the end.

Dawson, in typical Dawson fashion, sneaks up behind you at one point with a fake severed hand, pressing it to your shoulder.

You jump and swat him again. “You’re asking for a punch, Mercer.”

“Worth it,” he laughs, scampering off before you can retaliate.

The highlight of the night is, without a doubt, the costume contest.

You watch as Nico steps onto the makeshift stage, adjusting his pirate hat dramatically. “Arr, mateys,” he says, clearly enjoying himself way too much. “Who dares challenge the captain?”

Jack boos from the crowd. “Your hat’s crooked, Captain Fraud!”

“At least I didn’t dress as Spider-Man for the third year in a row!” Nico fires back, making everyone roar with laughter.

Luke takes the stage next, tipping his cowboy hat. He pulls out a toy gun from his holster and blows on the barrel dramatically, earning a mix of cheers and teasing catcalls from the crowd.

When it’s your turn, the boys start cheering before you even reach the stage.

“Y/N! Y/N! Y/N!” Jack chants, getting the whole room to join in.

You roll your eyes but strike a dramatic vampire pose, hissing playfully at the crowd. Nico, Jack, Luke, and Dawson lose it, clapping like you’ve just scored the winning goal in a playoff game.

“Best costume ever,” Dawson declares loudly, like a proud big brother.

After the contest wraps up (Nico wins because, as Jack puts it, “the pirate hat has plot armor”), the team settles into smaller groups, chatting and dancing to the Halloween playlist someone threw together.

Jack stays glued to your side for most of the night, making sure no one gives you too much grief—though he’s not above throwing in a little teasing himself. “You’re lucky you have us,” he jokes. “Otherwise, these guys would eat you alive.”

Nico walks by, overhearing. “We’re protecting you from them,” he says, tilting his head toward the crowd of rowdy teammates. “Not the other way around.”

You laugh, but you know it’s true. These boys are chaos incarnate, but they’re also fiercely protective. And if that means surviving a Halloween party filled with ridiculous costumes, bad jokes, and limbo competitions—well, you wouldn’t have it any other way.

The night winds down with Jack flopping onto the couch beside you, half-asleep but still grinning like a kid. “You have fun, Y/N?”

You smile, leaning your head on his shoulder. “Yeah. Thanks for dragging me here.”

Jack gives your shoulder a gentle nudge. “Anytime, little sis.”

Nico, Luke, and Dawson join you shortly after, each collapsing into the nearest seat. The five of you sit there, surrounded by the aftermath of the party—empty cups, candy wrappers, and a whole lot of memories.

And as you glance around at your chaotic, overprotective teammates, you realize there’s nowhere else you’d rather be.

#° braindead writes #nico hischier x reader #nico hischier fanfic #nico hischier imagines #luke hughes x reader #luke hughes imagines #luke hughes fanfic #jack hughes x reader #jack hughes imagines #jack hughes fanfic #dawson mercer x reader #dawson mercer imagines #dawson mercer fanfic #new jersey devils x reader #fic: baby devil

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chaconnehoonie · 1 year ago

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Welcome to Earth- Enhypen(Pilot) (discontinued)

⟿ Extraterrestrial! Enhypen x Fem! Reader

Synopsis- The idea of extraterrestrial life was never a deeply interesting topic to you. Of course, that was before you found a wrecked spaceship and seven inhuman beings.

Estimated WC: 20k-25k

Pilot WC: 812

Warnings: Aliens, cursings, angst, smut(hyung line), fluff, idiotic humor, mythology, [etc. will be added on]

Taglist-

@deobitifull @shinrjj @notevenheretbh1 @skzenhalove @jooniesbears-blog @kgneptun @minniejenseo @strxwbloody

Please comment or send an ask to be added to the taglist, and please have your age in your bio!! I will not be tagging minors or anyone without an age.

A/N: Although this is titled as the Pilot chapter, this will not be a series! The purpose of having this short Pilot chapter is for everyone to get a taste of what’s to come, and to test the waters with a less common genre. So, there will not be chapters, only the pilot and the full length fic.

The depictions of aliens and extraterrestrials in this writing are not meant to be “historically” accurate or follow society’s standard view, these characteristics are made to fit the storyline.

This is fiction and the scenarios are completely fake and from my brain, none of the characters are like this in real life, MDNI!

“Seriously- who’s idea was it to visit another galaxy just for some stupid party!?” Sunghoon stands up from the table he was sitting at, abruptly leaving the game he was playing with Sunoo and Jungwon. He stomps his way over to the spaceship’s control system, catching the attention of Jay who was taking a nap. “And why is Riki flying us? Who’s supposed to be controlling this ship!?”

The panic in Sunghoon’s voice rises, quickly attempting to shove Riki out of the seat but the younger just shoves him back. “Chill, Jake was steering but he needed a bathroom break so I took over.” Riki shrugs casually. Jay finds interest in the conversation and walks up next to Sunghoon, heavy yet squishy feet slapping the tiled floor underneath him.

“Chill? Chill?! Do not tell me to chill when we’re at risk of dying!” Sunghoon is yelling now, drawing their friends’ attention to the situation. Jay groans at Sunghoon’s volume ringing in his sleepy ears.

“What’s going on? Where’s Jake?” Heeseung hears the commotion and comes to rest a hand on Sunghoon’s slimy shoulder, speaking calmly to steady his friend. “Jake left to take a leak, and told Riki he could steer the ship. So unbelievable.” Sunghoon shakes his head in disapproval, mentally listing off the ways he’ll punish Jake in the future. “Maybe if I water his favorite plant with acid rain he’ll get the message.”

Heeseung attempts to relax his raging friend, forgetting about their younger one now steering the ship in the wrong direction. “Wait, Riki- do you even know where we’re going?” Heeseung looks towards the radar, noting how the small image of a ship was further than it should be. “Well…Jake didn’t tell me where to go, he just told me to keep steering.”

The eldest rubs a long finger against his temple, trying to remain calm unlike Sunghoon. Just in time, Jake comes strolling out of the bathroom with a sharp-toothed grin. “See! I knew he wouldn’t crash. You guys just have to trust me.” He sits in the passenger seat next to Riki, encouraging him to keep flying as he’s doing a great job at “keeping everyone alive.”

Before Jake was able to take over the steering, a loud shriek comes from Jay who was now pointing towards the radar. “Guys look! What is that?” All five boys focus on the electronic, watching the way the ship is now suddenly turning towards a massive unidentifiable object. “Not you Riki! You’re supposed to focus when you steer!” Jay turns the boy’s large head back towards the windshield, but it’s too late.

“Watch out! It’s an asteroid!” Sunghoon grabs the steering wheel above Riki’s hands, trying to take control of the whole ship, sighing as the flying vehicle becomes stable again. “Seriously guys, who lets a child have this much power?” Everyone lets out relieved laughs, although Sunghoon wasn’t cracking a joke.

Just as they thought they were safe, a loud crash is heard behind them followed by the screams of Sunoo and Jungwon. Everyone turns to see the two of them holding onto different pieces of furniture as a hole in the large broken window threatens to suck them out of the ship as smaller pieces of furniture fly out. “There’s more!” Jungwon shouts as him and Sunoo look out of the big broken window next to them, watching as the star-speckled sky fills with large flying meteors.

Jungwon grabs Sunoo’s arm, pulling him towards the front of the ship with everyone else to huddle for protection. “This is bad guys, there’s too many!” Sunghoon is cautiously dodging any meteors and debris while everyone else is balled up together, slimy cold skin pressed tight as they get ready to say their goodbyes forever.

“I never thought it would end this way.” Heeseung starts speaking, voice shaky as he tries not to worry the younger members. “I always thought Jake and Riki would accidentally light a mushroom forest on fire or something…not this.” He finally breaks down and everyone else follows, sobbing and gripping each other tighter.

Sunghoon doesn’t give up, continuing to steer even with multiple asteroids denting and destroying the ship. “I can try to land us somewhere.” His voice sounds frantic as he tries not to show his panic. Before he can find a clear planet to land on, a sudden asteroid is seen rapidly flying forward and into the windshield.

A fire erupts from the destroyed engine, any alarms enabled on the spaceship are now blaring and flashing red as the whole aircraft plummets down. “Hoon!” Sunoo cries out as he extents a hand to the older who is cowering away from the windshield and running over towards his friends.

“We’re going down! Prepare for impact!”

#enhypen smut #enhypen x female reader #enhypen angst #enhypen fluff #heeseung smut #jay smut #jake smut #sunghoon smut #enhypen drabbles

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insaincat · 1 month ago

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More ideas for family trauma beasts.

Mystic flour trauma is up.

Extremely strict training. Punishment for expressing individuality in the pagoda, hatea we’re not treated the best, so her friendship with cloud hatea was kept secret(she got found out & punished for “treating an animal as an equal”)

I eat. I actually need to rewatch all of the beast's stories again. While I was drawing and looking up ideas, I was thinking maybe Mystic would be a servant originally? She'd be able to see all the goings on inside as a servant girl. She'd been assigned to a high standing spiritual cookie (idk shit about Chinese stuff im white/american af. My info comes from Manhua/Donghua and Chinese historical/fantasy drama). Its defo something I'll have to think more on. Hopefully rewatching her story will provide more ideas. I do love the idea of Haetae being abused, maybe cuz he's a runt and a mix of two creatures. As for ttheir species, or at least Lion and Xiezhi in general, im gonna have to say no since their origin is that of a guardian in chinese myth. They might not be treated super well, but they are far from abused since that'd just risk them leaving and they'd be fucked. I struggled to find any accurate servant outfits for young women on google and im bad at finding historical costumes. But heres Young Mystic Flour Cookie and Baby Cloud Haetae Cookie. A good warm up. Funny enough, I've only drawn her once so far. Hopefully I'll draw her again.

#mystic flour cookie #mystic flour #cloud haetae cookie #cloud haetae #cloud haetae crk #cloud haetae fanart #mystic flour crk #crk #cookie run kingdom #cookie run #fan art #au #family truama #insain aus #angst #fan fic

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youryurigoddess · 1 year ago

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The biggest Easter egg yet

I’ve been meaning to address this for a while now, but @camdenleisurepirates gave me the final push after reading my piece on Gabriel’s cross. Huge thanks for that morsel of motivation, my ADHD brain loves you.

This is going to be yet another long read, although not as extensive as my bookshop statues meta. Still, better get yourself some hot chocolate or another drink of your choice and make sure you’re comfortable!

Now, remember the X-Ray interview with Peter Anderson on Easter Eggs in the opening animation he created for the second season? Forget red herrings, apparently our fandom has a literal red phone box! I’m convinced that this whole scene is a one big — the biggest, actually — Easter Egg, and I’ll explain why step-by-step.

The red phone box Crowley used to warn Aziraphale about the Antichrist and the following Armageddon in S1, the exact one where he left change for an emergency call, seems important enough in terms of the future S3 plot, but there’s so much more going on in this frame. Not only the lift.

The angels

At the very start of this sequence we can see a fragment of an elaborate bridge guarded by cherubs sitting on two columns, maybe globes, leading to a distant structure built over a literal mountain of trash — all elements of the S1 and S2 openings which were consciously picked out by the animators and put together in a very ominous pile.

Ready for some scavenging?

In the Gabriel’s cross meta, I already mentioned the importance of Ponte Sant’Angelo in relation to the ex-Archangel’s statue. Now it’s time to widen our perspective and focus on the full picture — quite literally. Apparently the bridge from the opening sequence has ten statues of angels, exactly as the Italian historical monument.

First things first though: the two big cherubs guarding the entry to the bridge might seem familiar to some of you. While they’re obviously not copies of the same statue, a very similar pair of brass cherubs is placed in Aziraphale’s bookshop to symbolize Aziraphale and Crowley. And looking at the screenshot above and the way they sleep or sulk with their backs turned on each other, they are most certainly not talking. The addition of more than one set of eyes is a lovely reference to biblically accurate angel memes though.

If we assume the traditional left-right positioning of the characters, Aziraphale is on the left and Crowley is on the right. Directly behind Aziraphale we can see a ship named “Good Traits”, but in reverse — kinda sorta confirmed by the animator Peter Anderson to be connected to the concept of the seven deadly sins on Twitter. Same that was mentioned recently by Neil in one of his asks.

The presence of Gabriel — a renegade Archangel wielding a broken cross — on the right, Crowley’s side, seems to match this theory. It could also support one of the possible interpretations of the very last bookshop shot in the S2 finale.

Out of all ten statues, Angel Carrying the Cross by Ercole Ferrata is considered inferior to the others on the bridge in that it appears to be a two-dimensional relief sculpture rather than an unbounded three-dimensional artwork, which seems to match Gabriel’s first impression as a character.

The inscription on the statue reads, “Dominion rests on his shoulders" — that is the weight of the cross that Christ was forced to carry through Jerusalem before being crucified. Even though Gabriel’s burden partially disappeared, the whole bridge and its environment is covered with crosses. It’s clear that we’re looking at a direct parallel of Via Crucis, the Way of Sorrows.

Towering over the Italian bridge, at the very top of Castel Sant’Angelo, is a statue of Archangel Michael, seen as the golden angel on the top left part of the trash pile. Aziraphale’s side, perhaps as his assistant, perhaps a rival? Legends of the Jews mention Michael as the chief of a band of angels who questioned God's decision to create man on Earth. The entire band of angels, except for Michael, was condemned to Fall — which could explain why they have such a good access to the Grapevine That Obviously Doesn’t Exist. And whatever’s going on between Michael and Dagon, perhaps.

In Roman Catholic teachings, Michael has four main roles or offices. Their first role is the leader of the Army of God and the leader of Heaven's forces in the final triumph over the powers of Hell. Viewed as the angelic model for the virtues of the spiritual warrior, their conflict with evil taken as the battle within. The second and third roles of Michael deal with death. Their second role is that of an angel of death, carrying the souls of Christians to Heaven. Michael descends at the hour of death and gives each soul the chance to redeem itself before passing; thus throwing the devil and his minions into consternation. In their third role, Michael weights souls on perfectly balanced scales they are often depicted with as their attribute. In their fourth role, Michael appears as the guardian of the Church. Might be the reason why they’re the closest to the building on top of the mountain.

It looks like Michael lost their sword though, just like Gabriel lost a part of the cross he was supposed to carry. The sword in question was supposed to be used to slay the dragon — Satan, the Adversary — according to John of Patmos and his Book of Revelations.

Speak of the devil: interestingly, there are two copies of an anonymous variation of the Angel of Light statue appearing twice on both sides of the bridge. Both the title as well as the statue itself seem like obvious references to one (former) angel literally called the Lightbringer, Lucifer. Perhaps one of them is representing his son, the Antichrist, instead, with the both of them helping out the Ineffables on two opposing — or perhaps only parallel — sides of the bridge?

The light carried by Lucifer appears to be green, a color used in the series as a visual representation of Hell, but on the intertextual level might also serve as a reference to F. Scott Fitzgerald’s classic novel The Great Gatsby and the green light at the end of the Daisy’s dock symbolizing the undying love, desperation, and longing for an unattainable dream. In the story, the color represents the limitations of power and money. Not surprisingly, the novel appears on Jim’s bookshelf and is part of the Good Omens book club — a list of personal recommendations from Neil Gaiman and Douglas Mackinnon for the fans to catch up on before the next series.

Last but not least, the possible connection to Libertas as the inspiration for the Statue of Liberty, shown multiple times in S2 as a foreshadowing of our character’s trip to America in S3. The related quote of Patrick Henry “Give me liberty or give me death” becomes even more relevant if we consider how the motto of the French Revolution was sometimes written as Liberté, égalité, fraternité ou la mort (“Liberty, equality, fraternity or death”). A lesson surely learnt by a certain angel back in 1793, when he was held prisoner for the last time before being forcefully taken Upstairs in the Final Fifteen.

The bridge and the castle

Okay, these are the basic observations. Now a brief historical overview and we will reach the fun bit in a jiffy.

Have you ever wondered about the meaning of this whole complex? It wasn’t always angelic, but named after a Roman noble dynasty. The Aelian bridge was built by the Emperor Hadrian in 134 AD to span River Tiber from the city center to his mausoleum. With time, the remains of more emperors were put to rest in there, until it was plundered and destroyed in a war. Then the remaining structure was transformed into a military fortress and a castle serving as the papal residence in times of war.

The Papal State also used Sant'Angelo as a prison; the Renaissance philosopher Giordano Bruno was imprisoned there for six years. Executions of the inmates were performed in the small inner courtyard, but they weren’t the only deaths in the area. On the other side of the bridge, in the adjoining Piazza del Ponte, under the watchful eyes of the stone likenesses of two saints, the public executions were held, and the heads of the criminals were brought onto the bridge and exposed to public view there.

As a prison, the former mausoleum is also the setting for the third act of Giacomo Puccini's 1900 opera Tosca. Long story short, the eponymous heroine convinces her lover to feign death so that they can flee together. Unfortunately, they are betrayed and the firing squad shoots at him with real bullets instead of blanks. Tosca believes in the quality of his acting performance rather than the truth, and when the realization hits her, she leaps to her death from the Castel’s ramparts.

After Nero’s bridge was destroyed, the travelers were forced to cross this bridge as the only direct route to the Vatican and St Peter’s Basilica, earning it the nickname “the bridge of Saint Peter”. That’s why in the 16th century Pope Clement VII erected statues of Saints Peter and Paul at the ends of the bridge, guarding it as they are supposed to protect the entry to Heaven.

In 1688 the bridge was embellished with ten angel statues, five on each side of the bridge, carrying Arma Christi, the Instruments of the Passion. The Good Omens characters represented by those statues in the opening sequence might be other instruments of Christ’s suffering as parts of the system that needs to be overthrown or replaced.

One angel appears particularly important in the context of both the bridge and the Second Coming — Saint Michael the Archangel.

Legend holds that the Archangel Michael appeared atop Hadrian’s mausoleum, sheathing their sword as a sign of the end of the plague of 590, thus lending the castle its present name. A less charitable yet more apt elaboration of the legend, given the militant disposition of this particular Archangel, was heard by the 15th-century traveler who saw an angel statue on the castle roof. He recounts that during a prolonged season of the plague, Pope Gregory I heard that the populace, even Christians, had begun revering a pagan idol at the church of Santa Agata in Suburra. A vision urged the Pope to lead a procession to the church. Upon arriving, the idol miraculously fell apart with a clap of thunder. Returning to St Peter's by the Aelian Bridge, the Pope had another vision of an angel atop the castle, wiping the blood from his sword on his mantle, and then sheathing it. While the Pope interpreted this as a sign that God was appeased, this did not prevent Gregory from destroying more sites of pagan worship in Rome. In honor of the vision and Michael, the bridge was renamed in their name.

What if the procession from the opening sequence was meant to imitate the procession led by the Pope from the legend? What if Aziraphale, now officially a Supreme Archangel, Commander of the Heavenly Host, is the one actually leading it, with Crowley finally at his side as his partner and second in command, just like it was proposed by him in the Final Fifteen?*

What if by some reason, maybe personal ambition, maybe just a tragic coincidence or situational necessity, there really was an impostor in Heaven, and Metatron — the so called Voice of God who seemingly doesn’t speak up for Herself since Job’s test — has been playing a winged version of the Wizard of Oz all along?

It would make just the perfect sense if not for one tiny detail. The procession we see on the bridge is actually led by Crowley, which doesn’t fit the parallel at all — unless it’s actually a proof of an ongoing body swap, as the mismatched names of the actors could also suggest?

The mountain of trash and the bookshop

The symbolic mountain of trash we can see Aziraphale and Crowley climb is a reference in itself. To an actual mount called Zion, believed to be the place where Yahweh, the God of Israel, dwells (Isaiah 8:18; Psalm 74:2), the place where God is king (Isaiah 24:23) and where God has installed king David on his throne (Psalm 2:6).

In a literal sense, it’s a hill in Jerusalem, although the sources refer to three different locations in different contexts — although for the purpose of this meta the Upper Eastern Hill (Temple Mount) makes the most sense. Its highest part became the site of Solomon's Temple. The same King Solomon the rituals in Freemasonry refer to. Masonic buildings, where lodges and their members meet, are sometimes called "temples" specifically as an allegoric reference to King Solomon's Temple, not actual places of worship. And Aziraphale’s bookshop is built around Solomon’s Magic Circle.

In a metaphysical sense, and especially in the context of the Christian New Testament, it is also believed to be a part of Heaven — the heavenly Jerusalem, God's Holy, eternal city. Christians are said to have “(…) come to Mount Zion and to the city of the living God, the heavenly Jerusalem, to an innumerable company of angels, to the general assembly and church of the firstborn who are registered in heaven” (Hebrews 12:22-23 cf. Revelation 14:1). Just like the procession were following in the opening sequence.

There’s been some speculation whether the lift on top of the mountain could symbolize Aziraphale’s bookshop, or, more specifically, the oculus in its centre. If you look closely at the enhanced screenshot, you can see that the dome isn’t made of glass and that it looks like a tower (a church’s bell tower, perhaps) more than a whole building.

And there is an actual doorway in there — not like the modern lift doors — opening up towards the source of that white, heavenly light. And what kind of enlightenment can you usually find up in the skies or heavens?

We’re welcomed to crack open the doors to the Heavenly Sanctuary — the Most Holy place, Sanctum Sanctorum, the Holy of Holies — to undraw the final curtain and finally stand eye to eye with God. Who knows, maybe even ask some questions or listen to some answers.

Or, at the very least, to meet one of Her forms known as Jesus Christ. Because that’s precisely where he serves as our (humanity’s) Mediator and the Holy Priest after his Ascension to Heaven. The structure at the top reminds of some temple architecture seen in Antiquity and Christianity.

The Catholic Church considers the Church tabernacle or its location (traditionally at the rear of the sanctuary) as the symbolic equivalent of the Holy of Holies, due to the storage of consecrated hosts in that vessel and their meaning as the Body of Christ. Tabernacle is commonly marked with a red light turned on and off depending on His presence or lack if it.

Looks like He’s already in the area, one way or another, keeping eye on some things.

Are we following a procession of believers happy to embrace their one and true Savior? Or are they actually protesters on their way to dethrone the authority and the system?

Guess we will have to wait and see.

#the good omens crew is unhinged #everything has a meaning #title sequence #angels everywhere #archangel fucking gabriel #gabriel’s statue #bookshop statues #statues update #ponte sant’angelo #let there be light #good omens analysis #good omens meta #bible fanfiction #yuri is doing her thing

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scary-grace · 9 months ago

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Off-Script - a Shigaraki x f!Reader fic

Tomura's been Dabi's stunt double for almost a decade, and he's not easily impressed, but when he squares up with you for a fight scene, he finds himself caught off-guard in more ways than one. As the shoot progresses and sparks fly between the two of you, Tomura has to decide if you're worth the risk -- or if the best sparring partner he's ever had is all you'll ever be. (cross-posted to Ao3)

This is my second fic for @threadbaresweater's follower milestone event, with the prompt 'summer blockbuster'! As usual, thank you for running this event and congratulations on the milestone!

Act 1 Act 2 Act 3 Act 4

Act 1

“No.”

“No?” Midoriya Izuku repeats. He taps his headset, like there’s something wrong with it instead of what Dabi just said. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t do swordfighting,” Dabi says. “It’s in my contract.”

Midoriya looks baffled, just like every newbie director who’s ever hit their head against one of the batshit provisions in Dabi’s contracts. And Dabi’s not anywhere close to done with kicking the director around. “How come I’ve got a sword, anyway? Quicksilver didn’t have one in any of the other movies. Or the comics.”

In Tomura’s opinion, Dabi should keep his mouth shut about what happens in the X-Men comics. Everything he knows about the comics and the character he plays is something Tomura had to explain to him way too many times, in detail. “We’re rebooting the Apocalypse arc,” Midoriya says. “The premise is that Apocalypse rises in every age – long enough for people to forget about him in between – and the same characters have been fighting him the whole time, reincarnated over and over again. Only this time it’s different, because four of those characters have been chosen as Horsemen, and they’re fighting for Apocalypse, not against him.”

“Great. Why is there a swordfight?”

“In the original arc, technology provided a boost to the anti-Apocalypse forces,” Midoriya says. “By setting it in the Iron Age, we’re taking that advantage away. That’s why everyone has weapons. Including Quicksilver.”

“Cool.” Dabi lights up a cigarette. “I’m still not doing it.”

“But –”

“That’s what I pay him for.” Dabi jerks a thumb at Tomura. “Talk to him.”

Tomura’s been Dabi’s stunt double for basically all of Dabi’s career. Most stunt doubles stick to stunts, but over the years, Tomura’s role has expanded from stunts to include anything Dabi doesn’t feel like doing. Swordfighting isn’t a stunt. It should be well within Dabi’s skills. And it is – he just doesn’t want to do it. Which means that Tomura’s up.

Midoriya looks at Tomura hopefully. Tomura levers himself up off the wall and rolls his shoulders. “Yeah, okay. Let’s go.”

Midoriya follows him to costume and makeup, yapping the whole way, trying to figure out what he did to upset Dabi so much. Tomura thinks about explaining that it’s not Midoriya’s problem and Dabi’s just like that, then decides against it. Midoriya’s the one who decided not to recast Quicksilver, and Dabi isn’t exactly known for being easy to work with. He made his own bed. Tomura’s not here to tuck him in, and he’s not here to make excuses for Dabi. He’s here to do stunts. That’s it.

Quicksilver’s costume isn’t skintight, which makes it miles better than any of the other Quicksilver suits Tomura’s had to wear since Dabi was first cast in the franchise. It’s his first time in the outfit, so he asks the costumer about it. “There was no Lycra in the Iron Age,” Magne explains as she stitches one last panel into place. “The director wanted historically accurate materials. And the SFX team threatened to quit if they had to edit any more bulges out of the shots.”

That’s a relief. Whenever a new movie in the franchise comes out, the fan blogs make lists ranking all the bulges, which is awkward at best and career-threatening at worst, given the one time a list used a shot where Tomura was doubling Dabi and ranked it higher than Dabi had ever placed on his own. Midoriya is deeply weird, even as far as directors go, but Tomura will take the wins where he can get them.

He tunes back in to what Midoriya’s saying as Magne screws around with his hair to mimic Quicksilver’s signature look. “Who am I fighting again?”

“Psylocke. You read the script, right?”

Sure, Tomura read the script. The script isn’t the problem so much as the fact that the actress playing Psylocke quit last week. “Did you find a new one?”

“Of course!” Midoriya brightens up creepily fast. “Right, you should meet her! She’s – um –”

“Up at the site already,” Magne says, spraying Tomura with hairspray without warning him first. “She was pretty quick to costume. I didn’t even have to put her in a wig.”

Midoriya beams. “She’s great,” he says. “We’re lucky we found her on such short notice.”

“Who is she?”

Midoriya says a name Tomura’s never heard in his life. Magne hasn’t heard it, either. “Come again?”

“She’s on the newer side,” Midoriya says. His smile’s looking a little insane. “Are you ready yet?”

“Just a sec.” Magne sprays Tomura again, then attaches three motion-capture dots to his forehead. “There we go. All set.”

Tomura stands up, but he doesn’t get clear fast enough to avoid Magne’s customary ass-slap. “Break a leg,” she says.

“Thanks.” Tomura slinks out of the costume tent, already in a mood.

They drive to the site in one of the various beat-to-shit Jeeps Midoriya inherited from the person who directed the last X-Men movie. Midoriya drives, which is bad all on its own, but halfway there, Tomura realizes there’s someone missing. “Don’t we need Aizawa on this?”

“Aizawa’s choreographing the first big fight scene. Most of the actors haven’t done real swordfighting before, so it’s taking a while.” Midoriya’s grip on the steering wheel goes white-knuckled in a way that makes Tomura wonder if he should be bailing out of the car. He’s pretty sure he can do it without getting a single bruise. “Even if it’s just for a few tracking shots before we cut away to you – sorry, Dabi – chasing Psylocke, it needs to look good.”

That’s fair. Tomura hates a lazy background shot, on the rare occasions when he watches a movie. Midoriya glances at him. “I know you said you read the script, but – give me your take on what’s going on in the scene.”

Tomura’s heard Midoriya ask people that before. Correction: He’s heard him ask actors before. “I’m not an actor.”

“There’s not a ton of dialogue in this scene. The physical aspect has to tell the story,” Midoriya says. “So?”

He’s not going to let this go. Tomura decides to get it over with. “During the main fight, Psylocke lifts the artifact everybody’s fighting over and runs. Quicksilver goes to catch her, but she uses her mutation to slow down time around him, which puts him on the same playing field as she is. They fight, he pulls her mask off, and figures out she used to be on his side. Then she cheap-shots him and escapes with half the artifact. Did I get it?”

Midoriya nods, but he’s frowning. “Quicksilver and Psylocke are foil characters in this interpretation of the story. He’s Magneto’s son and she’s part of a family of heroes. When they recognize each other, it should be a shock – they’re not just seeing a friend who’s now an enemy, they’re each seeing the person they should have been. So the back half of the fight should, like, reflect that.”

Tomura doesn’t do emotional turmoil. “You want Dabi for this.”

“That was the plan,” Midoriya says. He sighs. “Just – do your best, okay?”

Tomura was doing high-wire stunts while Midoriya was still in high school. He doesn’t need hyping up for a swordfight he can do in his sleep. But just because he can do it in his sleep doesn’t mean the actress Midoriya pulled out of a cattle call will be any good at it. “Does Psylocke 2.0 know what she’s doing?”

“That’s why I picked her.”

Huh. Tomura crosses his arms over his chest and slouches in his seat for the remainder of the ride.

The site is up on a bluff, in a stretch of forest thick enough that barely any sunlight gets through. “This is supposed to be a nighttime scene, but thanks to the tree cover we can fake it,” Midoriya explains as he parks the Jeep and scrambles out. “Hey, guys! Over here!”

The crew looks like they’ve been waiting a while. Tomura knows most of them after spending the last seven years on the sets of various X-Men movies and hanging out at C-list afterparties. Of the group, he really only gets along with Spinner, who handles props. Everybody else is just someone else to be irritated with when they inevitably start bossing Tomura around. He props his feet on the dashboard and waits for something to happen.

“Psylocke! Quicksilver! Over here!”

Midoriya’s beckoning to him. Tomura forgot about Midoriya’s habit of using character names during shoots, and he thought Dabi was just using it as something to bitch about until right now. It’s annoying as hell. Tomura gets out of the car and skulks over, but someone else gets there first. Midoriya’s talking to her as Tomura approaches. “I know the script says you’re shooting with Dabi, but he, um, doesn’t do swordfights, so he sent his stunt double instead.”

“Oh.”

“It’s not you,” Midoriya says hurriedly. “He’s just having an off day.”

“An off year,” Tomura corrects. Midoriya jumps, steps aside, and gives Tomura his first look at you.

He sees right away what Magne meant about your hair – you match Psylocke’s design from the comments in length and color, even if the texture’s wrong. You’re a little shorter than the original actress, and you don’t look like an actress, even though the makeup artists already got to you. Actresses in big-budget films look a lot like each other, because they’re all wearing the same makeup and getting the same plastic surgeries, and they’re all the same kind of hot. You look way too much like a person. Like you should be behind the camera, not in front of it.

As Tomura sizes you up, he’s well aware that you’re doing the same thing to him, probably having the same thoughts. But you smile and hold out your hand to shake. “Hi. I’m looking forward to working with you.”

Tomura shakes your hand for lack of anything better to do. “Go see Spinner for props,” Midoriya instructs, “and think about how you want to do this. Maybe get in character also? I’m not sure how many takes we’ll get before the light changes.”

“Got it,” you say. “Spinner is –”

“The guy with the swords,” Tomura says. It’s hard not to roll his eyes, and it gets harder when you fall into step beside him. Spinner is waiting for you both behind the props table. “Hey.”

“I was expecting Dabi,” Spinner says, picking up a sword. When Tomura reaches for it, Spinner chucks it to one side and lifts another. “I was gonna give him that one, but you’re better than he is, so I can trust you with this.”

Instead of the kodachi, he’s holding out a tachi to Tomura. “See how you like the balance on that. And for you, Psylocke – one katana, coming right up.”

Tomura keeps one eye on you and your sword while he’s testing the balance on his. You’re not being stupid with it, at least not yet. Holding it properly is the lowest possible bar, but Tomura’s met plenty of actors who can’t even manage that, and at least your grip looks solid. You walk a few steps away to practice sheathing and unsheathing it, and Spinner elbows Tomura. He nods in your direction. “What do you think?”

“What rock did Midoriya find her under?”

“I think she’s a stage actor,” Spinners says. Great. “Mainly musicals. She’s never gotten cast as anything bigger than an understudy.”

Tomura would facepalm, except he’s holding a sword. “Still,” Spinner says speculatively, “the director’s not a total moron. He must have seen something he likes.”

“Yeah. He likes not having to blow the costume budget on a wig,” Tomura says, probably a little too loudly. He sees your shoulders stiffen, and you turn to face him. You don’t look like you’re going to cry or anything, but Tomura’s been wrong about that before. “What?”

“I was just going to ask if you wanted to practice, or if we’re doing it blind,” you say. Before Tomura can answer, you make the decision. “I say blind. It’ll look more authentic if we’ve never fought each other before.”

Tomura likes that idea, if only because the chaos will mask his total lack of acting skills, but he was counting on a practice round to test your actual abilities. Still, it’s your funeral. “Fine by me. I’m not going to go easy on you or anything.”

“I’m glad,” you say, and smile. Tomura already saw you smile once, but it was nowhere close to being this spooky. You have to be doing it on purpose. “I wasn’t planning to go easy on you, either.”

Tomura should say something – maybe along the lines of ‘we just got off on the wrong foot, don’t cut my fucking head off’ – but before he can, Midoriya orders everyone to places. He must have given you instructions ahead of time, because you vanish into the trees, leaving Tomura to follow Midoriya’s hyperspecific directions for hitting his first mark. “We’re just going to roll,” he says, as Tomura steps out of frame and braces himself to run. “I’ll call cut once things go sideways.”

Things go sideways in choreographed fight scenes all the time. Things going sideways in an improvised fight is a guarantee. “Right.”

“Psylocke, are you set?”

“Set,” you call out from somewhere.

Midoriya takes a deep breath, like he’s the one who’s about to start a fake fight. “Okay. Action!”

Fake-running and skidding to a stop isn’t Tomura’s specialty or anything, but he can make it work. He hits the mark Midoriya specified, raises his hand to the hilt of his sword without drawing it, and takes a look around. Right here and now, there’s no reason for Quicksilver to think that someone’s about to attack him. Even Psylocke using her powers to slow him down could just be a tactic to ensure her escape. She’s basically already escaped. All Quicksilver has to do is wait for her grip on time to slacken, and then –

A twig snaps behind Tomura and he throws himself forward into a roll, pivoting as he gets to his knees and drawing his sword in the same moment. You put a lot of strength and a lot of momentum into your first strike, and if this was a real fight, Tomura would be injured or dead. As it is, you checked yourself at the last second, and you take your time settling into your next attack, giving Tomura just a second or two to plan out his own.

No attack yet. His wingspan is wider than yours and the blade of his sword is longer, which means the first step for Quicksilver to avoid a katana through the neck is to get out of Psylocke’s range. You’re not screwing around, so Tomura won’t, either – he picks up a handful of leaf litter, throws it into your face, and gets to a safe distance, remembering at the last second to make it look even sort of stylized. It’s a movie, after all.

You’re taking it seriously. The suddenness of your first attack has Tomura on edge, and the lack of any direction or choreography means he’s got no idea what you’re going to do. They won’t be in the back half of the fight until he pulls your mask down, and haphazard grabs look stupid on camera. He needs to get your mask on the first try, and between now and then, he needs to put on a show.

Tomura strikes at you, and you duck, pivot, halfway inside his guard before he can reverse the strike. But you’re in too close to use your katana effectively – on purpose – and Tomura aims a punch at your torso, hoping you know how to fake a hit. You do. You exhale sharply, jerk backwards, and Tomura separates from you again.

Who the hell are you? Where did you come from? Why are you going this hard? It occurs to Tomura as he parries your counterstrike and returns a few of his own that these are the same thoughts Quicksilver would be having if any of this was real. Now that Tomura’s introduced hand-to-hand combat into the equation, you start using it, too, throwing a high kick that brushes ever so slightly against Tomura’s jaw. Tomura snaps his head sideways to make it look good, then lurches backwards in response to a fake punch to the solar plexus. He’s holding his own, and he’s in control of the fight, but to the camera and everybody else it’s going to look like Psylocke is handing Quicksilver his ass.

And you should be. Tomura underestimated you, then insulted you, and now you’re making him pay. But as interesting as the fight’s getting, it’s a movie, not a grudge match. Tomura shortens his attacks and you step in closer, close enough for him to grab your mask. Or it would be, if your face was where it’s supposed to be. Instead you’ve gotten all the way inside Tomura’s guard, stepped across him, and grabbed his shoulder with your free hand – and now you’re throwing him over your hip to the ground.

You’ve got the physical strength to pull it off – Tomura can feel it – but he gives you some help anyway, making the resulting fall look even harder than it’s supposed to. He lands flat on his back with you poised above him, pinning him down with your katana at the ready. Now would be a great time to grab the artifact, since it’s hanging on a loop around your neck, but Tomura’s got his orders, as stupid as they are. He reaches up, seizes the mask over your mouth and nose, and pulls it down.

You really can act. Tomura watches your expression shift from startled to shocked to something else, and you recoil backwards away from him. Tomura’s slow to rise, because Quicksilver’s supposed to be shocked, too. Dabi’s going to have to deal with whatever character choices Tomura’s making here, and he’s going to be pissed. Tomura doesn’t care. If Dabi wanted to have a say over what this fight looks like, he should have done it himself.

You’re pulling your mask over your face, pressing it down. You’re so busy with it that Tomura almost gets away clean with grabbing the artifact from around your neck. You catch him at the last minute and pull it back, and it splits cleanly between his hand and yours. You take one artfully reckless swing with your katana and Tomura ducks back just a little farther than he needs to. Which is when you turn and run, booking it out of frame and towards the far edge of the woods.

Some camera guy – Iida, Tomura thinks – chases after you. Tomura’s off the hook, but he holds still anyway. He’s gotten yelled at more than a few times for moving before the director’s officially called cut. But Midoriya isn’t calling cut. He keeps not calling it. Tomura can hear him, though. He’s muttering to himself.

“Hey, boss-man!” hollers the unit director – Togata, or something. “Want to call a cut?”

“Oh, oops! Cut! Definitely cut.” Midoriya sounds like he couldn’t give less of a shit. When Tomura turns to look at him, he’s got a notebook and he’s writing furiously. And mumbling again. Tomura’s worked with a lot of directors and more than a few weird ones, and once he rules out the hand fetishist and the guy who wanted the fight scenes to include real knives and real blood, Midoriya’s definitely the weirdest.

You come back from wherever you ran off to, and you don’t seem to think Midoriya’s as weird as everyone else does. “Are we waiting for notes?”

“Huh?”

“After we run a scene in a stage show, we get notes,” you say. You’re not quite breathing hard. Neither is Tomura. “Do you not do that around here?”

“Nah,” Togata or whoever says. “Usually the director just hollers at whoever screws up and makes everybody do another take.”

“Okay,” you say slowly. “Who screwed up? Was it me?”

“You certainly took some liberties with the scene,” Iida says. “The original intent –”

“You want original intent, don’t tell us to improv,” Tomura says. The fight with you was maybe the most intense fight scene he’s ever done. When Midoriya inevitably nixes it, Tomura wants a copy. He addresses you. “It wasn’t you. Somebody on the sound side probably fucked up.”

“Excuse me?” The sound tech – maybe Jiro? – looks like she wants to club Tomura to death with a boom mic. “I fucked up? If you two hadn’t gotten all –”

“Midoriya,” Togata sings out, patting Midoriya on the shoulder. Midoriya jumps. “Hey! Good to have you back! Should we get set for another take?”

“No.”

Mirio looks confused. He’s not the only one. “Are we taking this one back to the drawing board?”

“No.” Midoriya shuts his notebook and looks up, his eyes shining in the crazy way movie people get when they have a really wild idea. “That was the take. We’re done.”

“What?”

“That was it.” Midoriya’s grinning. “It was perfect.”

Now you look weirded out. Finally. “No notes?”

“We need some close-ups, but –” Midoriya grabs his radio and hollers for somebody to put Dabi in his costume “ – you guys did a great job. Like, even the timing – it’s going to be so easy to use those beats for close-ups, and all the character stuff – you were so in sync it was scary, but emotionally you were each totally on your own journey, and it looked –”

“Hey, take a breath. Don’t faint,” Jiro instructs. Midoriya sucks down some air, and Jiro turns to you. “You did your first fight scene in one take. Congrats.”

Spinner lifts the sword out of Tomura’s hand, then takes the two halves of the artifact from both of you. Tomura’s done here for now. He’ll hitch a ride back on the Jeep that brings Dabi up and find a place to nap. Hopefully. He feels a little too keyed up to take a break right now.

You’re still standing there, looking sort of dazed. It annoys Tomura for a second, until he remembers that you’re used to understudying in musicals, not shooting superhero movies. “Hey,” he says, and you startle. “That was a solid fight. You’re better than I thought.”

“That’s not hard,” you say. “All I had to do to be better than you thought I’d be was to not impale myself or anybody else.”

“I haven’t seen you work before today. Sue me,” Tomura says. “You know what you’re doing. That was a really good fight.”

You shrug. It pisses Tomura off. Fishing for compliments always does, and Tomura hates it – but instead of telling you to grow up, he tries to hit you over the head with it for real. “You might not know your head from your ass yet, but I do, and it was a good scene. I haven’t had a fight like that in –”

Years? A decade? Tomura doesn’t think he’s ever been in a fake fight that felt real without actually feeling unsafe. “That’s the best one I’ve done in a long time,” he says finally. “You’re a real actress now. That modesty shit isn’t cute.”

You shrug again and make your way over to where Midoriya and Iida are talking. You’re probably going to ask Midoriya if you did something wrong, and he’ll get weird and reshoot the whole thing. Or he won’t, and he’ll think you’re insecure, which drives most directors up the wall. The fight scene was good on the first take. That never happens. Excuse Tomura for wanting to enjoy it.

“Shigaraki,” Spinner says from behind Tomura, and Tomura looks at him. “That’s not how you talk to girls.”

“Huh?”

“You, like – negged her. A lot,” Spinner says. Bullshit. Tomura knows what negging is. He knows he wasn’t doing it. “You told her she sucks, and then you told her she doesn’t suck as much as you thought she did. And then you trashed her whole career before now –”

“When did I do that?” Tomura’s done with this. “I said she knew what she was doing.”

“Uh, yeah. She took you to the cleaners on camera,” Spinner says. “And I hate to be the one to say this, but you looked really into it.”

What does he mean, into it? Tomura was doing his job. If he doesn’t get into it, he has to do extra takes. “So, like I said,” Spinner continues, “if you want to talk to girls and have it go anywhere, you have to give actual compliments. Not just tell her you’re surprised she wasn’t worse.”

“That’s not what I said,” Tomura growls. He doesn’t like anything about this conversation – not what Spinner’s implying, not what Spinner’s telling him to do. “Since when do you give me advice about girls?”

“Since I’ve gone on a date in the last six months,” Spinner says without blinking. “When was the last time you went out?”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Dabi spent the last six months in rehab. You could have gotten out there,” Spinner says. Tomura glares at him. “All you did was work out and play League.”

“That’s what I was busy doing,” Tomura says. “I don’t need lessons on talking to girls.”

“Sure,” Spinner says. “Give her a real compliment next time. It’ll help.”

It’ll help with what? Tomura doesn’t know what Spinner thought he saw, but whatever it is, it wasn’t there. Tomura doesn’t date actresses. Or actors, in spite of what a bunch of Dabi’s fans seem to think is going on between the two of them. And even if Tomura was going to date an actress, he wouldn’t date somebody like you – somebody new to all of this, somebody naïve, somebody whose confidence can barely survive a single hit. Maybe you’ll be the kind of actress Tomura would date if you make it through this shoot alive. The fact that no actress would ever date Tomura doesn’t matter at all.

Even if this is the only blockbuster you ever do, he’ll get to fight you at least one more time. There’s another fight scene between Quicksilver and Psylocke later on in the script. As Tomura leans against a tree waiting for his ride to show up while you talk way too earnestly to Midoriya, he finds that he’s already looking forward to it.

Act 2 ->

#shigaraki x reader #tomura shigaraki x reader #shigaraki tomura x reader #shigaraki x you #x reader #reader insert #stuntman au #man door hand hook car door #a bisquared production

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rkivefae · 13 days ago

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oh, your beauty leaves me breathless

Summary ── Trans FTM Steve comforting his boyfriend, Eddie, while experiencing bad dysphoria because his binder is done for and he has bad chest dysphoria.

Rating ── Teen And Up Audiences

Content Warnings ── none?

Word Count ── 3k

Note ── Not historically accurate LMAO. This is a re-upload from my old account and is NOT edited, I hope you enjoy anyways <3

Eddie pushed the tight material over his head and situated it on his chest. He smoothed it out and looked in the mirror. The material was becoming worn out, parts of it colored and wrangled out, he didn’t understand how it was even still holding on. It didn’t give the compact it was meant to when he bought it but he simply tried to forget about it, he did not have the money to buy another one. He didn’t have money to feed himself sometimes, he was lucky to even have this at the current moment. So, that was out of the waters. He didn’t want to bother Wayne with it either, the man worked for hours on end and didn’t have the time to relax.

Eddie would be damned if he was the cause of any more stress than the man already had, which is why Eddie took on jobs here and there to help bring in money to pay bills, always ate with his own money so he didn’t take Wayne’s and even hated the idea of Wayne spending money on him, money they didn’t have. That was not and never will be an option.

He was fine - Eddie reassured himself anytime he couldn’t stand the way his chest was noticeable from beneath the fabric, much worse than before. Eddie got really bad dysphoria about his chest, something he hated and right now it was at one of its worst because Eddie was so painfully aware, nothing to take his mind off of it. Not even smoking until his body went numb and brain dulled over.

Eddie pulled at his hoodies, feeling the sweat pooling beneath it and cringing but he was not taking it off. He tried to re-situate, eyes darting at the metallic box that showed him his reflection and he crouched a little more, watching as he tried to make it all the least noticeable. He wanted the ground to eat him, to separate and just reach up to get him; and he’d let it happen, whether it’s breath reeked or not because Eddie did not want to deal with this bullshit. It was all just bullshit and he stuffed his hands into his hoodie pocket to pull at it and keep it off his body so it wasn’t as vibrantly visible, tugging so it didn’t settle on his skin.

“Eddie, are you sure you’re okay?” Steve asked, furrowing his brows together and eyeing him just a little.

“Yeah, yeah, man. Just- you know, cold.” He muttered out, sweet and simple as he looked away from Steve.

They waited at Steve's work, knowing he was soon to get off and they had a date planned. But Steve would blow it off without wasting a second if he knew that it wasn’t a good day for Eddie. Steve always reminded Eddie that he was more important and there was nothing that he would put above him - except maybe the kids if it was a dire emergency, he admitted that. After things happened, with Max still being in the hospital healing, he realized just how much they really meant to him. A shitty way to find out but it was a real eye opener. Steve still carried that guilt, the one time he wasn’t watching them. Eddie nodded in understanding and joked around about him being a good dad often, to which Steve countered with, “We’re together, that makes you their dad, too.” Without realizing that Eddie still had a goofy smile on his face because he knew that but it didn’t stop him from saying it.

“Hey, no- none of that. You’re obviously bothered with something. Do you want to cancel today and just go home, we can t-”

“No, Harrington, it’s fine. Really. You planned this out, been excited about it all week and I’m not ‘bout to ruin that. Got it?” He said, giving a small reassuring smile that Steve did not take bait to. Instead, he huffed out a breath to retaliate back.

“You’re bullshitting and I can smell it from a mile away. What’s bothering you? If you don’t want to talk, that’s fine, but we don’t have to go out. You’re wearing your hoodie instead of leather jacket - which you never do unless you’re feeling- shitty. We can re-plan, just go home and watch a movie while stuffing our faces.”

Eddie squeezed his eyes shut and just sighed, trying to pass off a cry. Steve really knew how to work him up. Sometimes Eddie wondered if it was a bad thing because Steve seemed to be able to do it so effortlessly. Hell, Steve only cradled his face and looked at him like he was holding the most precious thing in the world and Eddie’s heart burst into flames, he literally melted into Steve’s touch. He often became embarrassed about it but Steve only shushed him with how much he loved Eddie and it was more than okay because it meant that he was comfortable and he trusted him.

“Dude, seriously, you’re going mad and they call me the crazy one.” He rolled his eyes, shaking his head and letting the brown curls cover his face briefly before looking up, letting some pieces fall back. “I’m Eddie Munson, the town freak, a once wanted murderer, an almost dead innocent guy. I believe I know when I’m fine.” He played off, looking back over at Steve finally and seeing the concern written all over it- he didn’t buy it for a second. It was incredibly aggravating because he didn’t need Steve to worry.

Steve went around the counter, not taking his time either, a little stumble in his steps every once in a while and stood in front of Eddie, his back against the counter - still keeping distance in case he was uncomfortable with touch at the moment but Eddie was the one to draw closer, hand pulled out of his pocket and reaching to pick at some imaginary fluff on Steve’s uniform. Steve crossed his arms and raised a brow. ‘Really?’ his look gave and it was enough for Eddie to sigh, bumping his head against Steve’s shoulder and resting it there.

After a few good seconds and pokes to Steve’s side later, he looked up with a small smile. “Just waiting for your job to get done and we can finally get out of this shit place. I’m fine, you worry too much.”

Steve shook his head, wrapping his arms around Eddie’s shoulders and pulling him close. “People don’t worry about you enough.” Steve muttered out, pressing a kiss to the top of his head after looking around the store once more for any hidden customers. “Tell me later?” He questioned, hope clear in his tone.

Eddie pinched at his side, hearing Steve let out a gasp and flinch back from him. Eddie grinned, “Sure thing, big boy.” Maybe a lie, Eddie isn’t sure just yet if he’ll talk, definitely not now though.

Turns out, Steve brought it up later when they were getting ready for bed - this time, staying at Steve’s place.

“Want to tell me what was bothering you?”

It was different, being in the comfort confines of home and not a public area. Eddie didn’t feel as stuffed and dragged as before being in that place and being questioned. He still had his hoodie on and ripped pair of jeans. Eddie threw himself on Steve’s bed, stomach down and watched as Steve sat beside him, looking at him with affection and adoration that made Eddie’s stomach do waves.

“It’s just stupid stuff, you know.” Eddie said, pushing himself on his elbows and looking at Steve, head in hand.

“It’s not stupid if it was bothering you.” Steve said, bringing a hand up to comb through Eddie’s hair, or try to at least. Steve begged to take care of Eddie’s curls but Eddie was reluctant and said it was fine, the tangled mess was something for future Eddie to deal with, not his boyfriend. Steve planned on convincing him one day- just let him at them.

“Jus’- My binder, it uhm, it’s not really doing too good. I think it’s fighting to live, it’s been through some stuff,” he let out a laugh; it’s been through a lot, having lasted a few years. Demon bat creatures definitely did not help spare its life. Granted, it only took a few pieces of the top layer but still. “I’ve definitely worn it to its best abilities but it’s not really binding anymore and it's falling apart - so I can’t wear it. You know how it gets for me, really not okay with my chest and all. Just waiting to save up, today was just a bad day, worser than others.” Eddie shrugged, looking down at the blanket like it was the most interesting thing ever, making patterns with his finger against the fabric. “Told ya’, stupid.” He muttered off to the side.

Then, within a few seconds, Steve was up and over at his closet, Eddie’s eyes on him immediately and watching his every move. Every move. Even when he struggled with a box at the top of his closet because he couldn’t figure what it was stuck on. Eddie wanted to laugh but he was still dumb founded on what the hell this boy was doing until a few pieces of fabrics went flying at him. Steve smiled at him, biting back a laugh as Eddie narrowed his eyes at Steve.

“Really? You just had to?”

“Yep.” He said, popping the ‘p’ before making his way back to his seat next to Eddie and holding the fabrics up.

Chest binders.

Two chest binders sat in front of him, one black and the other a tan color.

“Don’t call things like that stupid, it isn’t stupid. I think you forget sometimes that I completely understand what you’re talking about and it’s okay not to be okay, I get it - I do. I may have not had as bad of dysphoria with my chest but I did experience it with certain parts, like my voice and my hips. But you invalidate your own experience which is just - so fucking stupid. It’s real and I’m here for you when it’s happening. You aren’t alone, Eddie Munson. You’re the freak of the town but you’re my boyfriend who I care about a lot and I want to be there for you and if you need something, I want to be able to get you it.” He finished off with a huff of breath that he lost within his speech and looked at Eddie who had glossed over eyes, tears ready to spring out and it was obvious that it took everything in him not to just break down right there.

“Now, I know you know I have had top surgery and I don’t really need these anymore, so I’m giving you these, I know how you feel about gift giving and stuff. It can be a lot and I have the problem of just giving, but these are literally of no cost and I want to give these to you because you need them. So, you have no room to object, you have to take them. No but’s, or’s, please’s - Nothing! Got it? Got it. You have no say in this, you argue too much.” Steve said, with a resilient face and Eddie just sniffled before breaking out into laughter.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you.” Eddie, instead, let out and watched as the tough shield Steve put up, gave out as he let his arms rest and a smile became more present before Eddie got up and tackled him in a hug. Muttering small ‘thank you’s’ while pressing kisses all over Steve’s face.

Oh yeah, so worth it.

—

However, that wasn’t the only thing Steve was planning on giving Eddie. There was so much to happen and with little time to get it done.

Top Surgery.

Robin and Steve have both been putting money towards the surgery for Eddie for at least a year now, raising over enough for it with the help of Wayne occasionally putting in some when he can, even if they both argue with him that he should save it and they got it covered. He’d do anything for that boy.

They finally had gathered enough and now it was time for Wayne to give his talk to Eddie; this was going to be the hard part.

They all settled on all of them doing it, but Wayne was the one bringing up the surprise because it meant more for them to have the talk. Father and son even if they weren’t exactly that, but it might as well be. Wayne has raised him since Eddie could remember, parents falling into drug abuse and dying after a deal gone wrong, at least that was what they said, only Eddie really knows. Police showed up at his door at three in the morning, the kid beside them, shaking like a leaf and tears staining his face.

Ever since then it was always Eddie and Wayne, no matter what. They took care of each other, even if Eddie had trouble in coping in the beginning but he came around, there was no doubt for it with their bond becoming closer.

“Eddie, I needa talk to ya’. Can ya’ come out to the table for a few minutes?” Wayne said, knocking on Eddie’s door. It was around the afternoon and Eddie was making a new campaign, so it took him a few good minutes before he came out. Even then, he still had a pencil in hand, hair tied up in a loose bun and the side-torn shirt, that showed his binder, set loosely over his black jeans. He didn’t look up just yet but when he did, his eyes widened. He didn’t expect more people to be here, let alone his boyfriend and friend.

“Is this, like, an intervention? Cause uh, I ain’t gonna quit DnD, I swear I’m not addicted - you know what, that is probably what they all say, uhm-” Wayne just raised a brow while Robin let out a small laugh.

“No, this is about something else, why don’t you go ahead and sit down?”

Eddie did as he was told, getting a bit nervous while he shifted in his seat. He didn’t like this, it seemed way too serious and it only ever meant bad things.

First time was talking about how they might be kicked out.

Second, his parents.

Third, Vecna bullshit.

and so on.

“You ain’t in trouble none, jus’ got something important to tell you. You ready?”

Eddie nodded and prepared himself for the worst. Eyes cast down and hands in each other, fumbling with every finger tediously and waiting for the break down. Something, anything.

“You’re getting top surgery.”

Definitely not what he expected. His eyes shot up and he looked at Wayne.

“What? No- this is a joke, right? We can’t even afford it! This isn’t funny guys, like-” Eddie got choked up, looking between them all and going to stand up. Waiting for a laugh or a ‘it’s a joke’ to come out but it never did. Wayne grabbed Eddie’s shoulder and kept him seated, turning him to look at him.

“We ain’t joking any, all true. Expenses are paid already by your little boy toy and your friend-”

“-and Wayne.” Steve interjected.

Eddie’s bottom lip was starting to quiver, tears welling up in his eyes and Wayne grasped his nape, pulling him closer and hugged him. Eddie’s face in his chest, hands grabbing at his shirt and one of Wayne’s arms slung around Eddie’s physique and Eddie cried. Happy tears, of course. Overwhelmed but in a good way.

It took a few minutes for Eddie to pull back, sniffling and wiping at his nose to get away the snot. Wayne wiped the tears away from his cheek that still fled down, “I love you, son.”

“Oh god, you are going to make me cry, again.” Eddie laughed out, trying his best to collect himself. “I love you, too, Dad.” he bumped his shoulder against Wayne who only patted his shoulder, getting up.

“I’ll cook dinner tonight, you all go on and have fun. Nothing too crazy, though.” Wayne reminded but before they headed out, Eddie, being the last one, hugged Wayne. Really hugged him this time.

“Thank you, really.”

Steve and Eddie cuddled that night, Steve was shirtless and Eddie was laying on his chest with his binder on, laying in between Steve’s thighs that wrapped around his waist perfectly. Everything was perfect.

“Are you happy? Excited?”

Eddie hummed in return, proceeding to trace Steve’s chest scars. “I’m happy, really happy. I can’t even understand what I did to deserve you. All of you.”

Steve smiled gently in return, tilting Eddie’s head up and pressing a small kiss on his lips. “You being you is enough, hmm? You deserve so much more and if I can, I’ll give you it all.”

Oh yeah, Steve was cheesy. But Eddie was endeared by it, maybe a little too much for his own good because that one sentence was enough for him to feel all giddy.

“You know what?”

“What?”

“I hope my scars look as bad-ass as yours. Yours are so cool.” He said, leaning down and pressing a few small kisses over them, as he loved to do every time they got like this. “and I love you so much.”

“I love you too, pretty boy.”

—

A week passed by and everything was ready. Eddie was nervous, excited, and joked about pissing his pants a few too many times. “I’m serious, I think I might. This is crazy, this is crazy-” he muttered over and over again, even while sitting in the waiting room.

Steve picked up his hand and pressed small kisses on his knuckles. “It’ll be okay, we’ll be here when you come back. You’re going to be okay.” Steve promised.

Eddie let out a breath and nodded.

It was going to be okay.

—

It took only a few weeks for Eddie to take off his shirt in front of his friends and flash his new and improved chest. Steve laughed and cheered him on and Robin was happy for him. The DnD group, however, did take notice of his new mood. Much happier and definitely smiled more.

“What happened to him?”

“Did a jock die?”

“Nah, dude, his tits are off.”

#eddie munson #stranger things #steve harrington #steddie ficlet #steddie fanfiction #steddie fic #steddie #steve x eddie #eddie x steve #eddie munson x steve harrington #steve harrington x eddie munson #trans eddie munson #trans steve harrington #t4t mlm #trans t4t #t4t

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historia-vitae-magistras · 2 months ago

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I think Arthur’s origins are just soooo interesting! Especially his mother’s ties to the land - and then passing along to him and his brothers. I wonder if Arthur was a surprise to her? She already had 3 children in that time, what could another mean for her? What would raising 4 immortal children be like whilst also fending off invaders?

The usual caveat when I'm this far back into history and have to use archaeology and just general story telling to fill in detail: this is not a history book but perhaps just better informed than average historical fantasy.

I think Arthur was a surprise! And he’s a very welcome one at first. Her first three children are columns holding up her power. Brigantia was either a confederation of tribes united under a more powerful ruler or a series of clans and septs that just spread really far and got really important with an unusual amount of centralization by the time of the Romans. We’re not exactly sure. But, the Celts both on the continent and in Britain and Ireland had a very long tradition of hostage taking as political control. Brigantia’s hold on eastern Ireland, southern Scotland, and a nebulous area of England and Wales could have been very artificial and based upon holding her children. And hostage taking need not have been the only form of this purposeful political organization of their family life. Welsh, Scottish and especially Irish writings detail fosterage to raise children in other’s households as a way to create otherwise very rare political stability amongst the numerous tribes and petty kingdoms that otherwise defined political life in Iron Age Europe.

When Arthur first comes into being, she could have easily interpreted his existence as a sign she would soon be able to exert more power and create more social control over the more fertile parts of the island she can feel. Perhaps the Roman conquest of Gaul and the subsequent refugees will destabilize Britain just enough for her to campaign into the south and bring more land into Brigantia. She’s probably having a torrid affair with her neighbors in Yorkshire when the Parisii appeared and have links to the same culture that will give Paris its name. We don’t know how accurate the Roman accusations of how the Iron Age Britons practiced human sacrifice actually were but nonetheless, sacrifice and worship is powerful and there are many more people in the south who’s belief and blood could flow into her as power. The channel protects her southern neighbors and Rome was defeated by the those same neighbors the one time they crossed. And she is far more fearsome than they are, surely.

Her three eldest children aren’t entirely sure what their original relationship to her may have been but its also not something that bothers them overly much. Mother was a Celt at least by the end of her life, they speak Celtic languages. The mechanics are complicated but the results, at least to them, were not. Brighid especially had more of a mentor/menteé relationship with Eirian but she has no real issue with it being a mother/daughter bond. Eirian could have just been young enough with her first child that they had a more equal dynamic. But regardless of the specific circumstance with she acquired her first three children, they were very purposeful acquisitions. The ancient world understood everything to have a spirit. In her mind it would make more sense to have a child for every field and tree and spring and tribe but I’ve gotta limit characters somewhere so its usually just easier to write leaving large gaps where the historical accuracy could actually be lmao.

At the advent of the Roman invasion, they are a family of the same structure as are found in a wide range of ritual deposits that contain human remains and I’ve kind of borrowed from the concept. We don’t know what this significance was to the people who practiced the religions that deposited these bodies and bones but there seems to have been some relationship to fertility. The pattern seems to be one older adult, one young adult, an adolescent, a child and an infant.

One older adult: Eirian has been chilling since the Bronze age and might have initially made a solid base for herself as the primary tin dealer on the island. One younger adult: Brighid is nearly grown in the 1st century as she pops up around when the Celtic cultures of Iron Age Ireland form as La Tène culture explodes into importance. One adolescent: Alasdair is 12-13 and the ancient version of a lego kid as dry stone building and new technology seem to coincide with La Tène culture as well but with somewhat later adoption of bronze and iron and the curving art so he gets a date a little more in line with the Pictish art style coming into being. One child: Rhys appears about 5-6. He comes into being as a geographic distinction centered around the mountains between Wales and the rest of the country that to develop some kind of distinction in the material culture. One infant: Arthur is born just before the Roman invasion, as a new identity culture in Britain seems to form around new developments like coins, a move towards proto-towns and a seeming intensity in the archaeological record of an obsession with heads perhaps in response to Roman religious practices or just general upheaval.

When she’s raising these children, one already grown, one mostly there, two quite young its really a demonstration of both her pride, some arrogance, a whole ocean of realpolitik and the ability of Rome to grind her down over time.

Not long after Arthur is born, Eirian and the personification of Parisii I have yet to name but who gets a summer home in Yorkshire in the Iron Age (the Parisii of Yorkshire seem to be an offshoot of the Paris-Parisii) are sucking and fucking. They are both new mothers, Parisii for the first and only time, Eirian for the 4th and last time. Parisii moves back across the channel to her native territory when the Romans win. Francis’ ‘actual’ father is less her speed and she takes the opportunity given to her by the Roman invasion of Gaul to strike a deal with Lucius. She becomes one of his favorite mistresses and her boy one of his favourite ward/pseudo-stepchildren. Parisii tells Eirian if she was smart she'd just take Lucius up on claiming legal paternity of her two youngest sons. After-all, nothing is permanent.

Eirian absolutely fucking refuses. Lucius is not overly frustrated by this at first and justifies himself as no good Roman would take a child from the breast of a she-wolf. He’s content with a pragmatic half-defeat in the beginning, leaving Brigantia and Eirian as a semi-independent client kingdom. She’s fairly adept at keeping that for a long time and Lucius is patient, not immediately forcing her to hand her children over even when she quietly supports the resistance in Wales. But when Wales is largely pacified and the power centers of the Druids are largely gone, she might have ultimately betrayed the father of her third son and sent him packing to Rome to preserve her and the children’s independence. But whatever happens, the direct invasion of her lands begins. She loses most of her autonomy and the Romans become invaders on her land rather than neighbors she can have her do her bidding. Hadrian's wall goes up. She is forced to cut a deal with Lucius so that he can educate her two youngest sons as they age, with some kind of established legal relationship, perhaps fostering or wardship. Soon, he will set his sights on her firstborn.

And I'm going to stop there because I am about to speed run the entirety of Roman Britain and it is dinner time but she Boudicca on my destruction until I horizon.

#the ask box || probis pateo #britannia and her children || they made a desert and called it peace #eirian || into the nightlands #arthur || stone set in the silver sea #alasdair || my heart's in the highlands #Brighid || An Bearna Bhaoil #rhys || my word for heaven was not yours #need a tag for rome #need a tag for parisii #need a tag for her 4905390459035 baby daddy's

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ihopeinevergetsoberr · 3 months ago

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You say talk to me about Viktor and I am here to talk about Viktor. What films would this man watch? Would he have a favourite film? I'm such a film snob that I am so afraid to go there, but would he fucking cry on Star Wars? Is he truly a nerd as we paint them? Or he doesn't even bother with that and plays computer games instead? Or is he an utter man out of this era and just reads books? Does he love The Brief History of Time? Help. HELP WHAT ARE THEESE MAN'S HOBBIES he cannot just be into science, I do not accept this reality. My HC is that he loves Frank Herbert and hates the new adaptation of Dune :v He also probably likes Philip K. Dick. But that's BITCH BASIC I need MORE. And now a praise: your writing takes me to another dimension. It's amazing how I read your stuff and feel no negativity, no worry, just pure appreciation that I am able to interact with something so poetically hot. Loved Fornication, made me want to get drunk and low-key jealous of Reader's relationship with Viktor.

OKAY SO he’s either some niche videogames nerd or he’s that one annoying pretentious fuck who only ever plays chess (this has nothing to do with my fic /srs) it’s just a very tricky 50/50 cause he could easily be BOTH. he looks like could be… idk…. a fucking path of exile 2 nerd. or like he’s prejudiced towards people who game period point blank. bro’s steam account is either terrific or terrifically non-existent.

GOD it really is a tough one. i feel like act 1 viktor could be the pretentious fuck. HOWEVER. act 2 viktor is an exhausted guy who just wants to go home and play some sekiro. do you see the vision…..

as for the books he reads…. he doesn’t read fiction. same goes for movies. like if we’re talking about modern aus i feel like he’s just SO out of touch with what young people even like these days. give him a documentary and he’ll eat it up. i feel like he’d be one of them annoyed mfs who went to see oppenheimer and proceeded to complain about it being not 100% historicaly accurate. and if you make him watch breaking bad he’ll be annoyed it had dubious chemistry here and there.

— viktor, they can’t give us a step-by-step guide on how to cook crystal meth. that’s literally ILLEGAL

— i couldn’t care less. science is a commitment. a flimsy law-suit is a small price to pay for maintaining accuracy

but anyways i feel like he would also be into history. documentaries, memoirs of various historical figures, everything tediously lovely and cool and ACCURATE. i don’t know. i like pulling him out of arcane and placing him into some 80-90s dark academia au. you will never catch me writing him in an ACTUALLY modern setting because i like painting him as this sickeningly charming, detached from the pop-culture sassy man. i love pretentious guys okay. they’re so annoying i want to eat them

i also have this random hc that viktor used to be REALLY into medical shit once but he never wanted to become a doctor…. why? that i don’t know. he’s just. such an erudite when it comes to all kinds of complex stuff. when he read some victorian classics in highschool (dracula, for instance) he was absolutely furious and declared it a horror book not because of all the tame vampire stuff, but because the blood-transfusions were conducted at random (blood types were discovered only in 1901, and before that victorian doctors would just. choose the donor based on whoever looked the least pale that day. i’m genuinely surprised we’ve made it this long. read all this in viktor’s voice, by the way, i feel like he knows all these cools random facts and overshares them A LOT)

your frank herbert hc is totally valid though. I CAN SEE THAT. YES ABSOLUTELY???

like i said — MODERN modern aus are not my jam to write but i love reading that when it’s done tastefully. and you never disappoint <3

—

AND THANK YOU FOR PRAISING ME QUITE SO HIGHLY WTF IM LITERALLY CRYING I DONT DESERVE U

❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹

#sober yapps #asks #viktor arcane

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glinda-of-the-north · 8 days ago

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love lost, and happily ever after in wicked.

So, one of my favorite things I recently realized about Oz has to do with its very loose cannon. We started with the 14 wizard of Oz books;

The movie largely keeps the spirit of the books, but with light contradictions. Those contradictions are largely accepted as cannon to the universe by it's followers and admirers in a way that most media fans would likely reject (they'd still enjoy the movie but the line of what is cannon feels softer)

Gregory maguire then writes the wicked books... And he loves this universe, he meticulously makes sure to write in universe with little contradiction; but clearly shifts the intent. Again, the followers and admirers count this work as cannon in a way that it feels real to the universe.

The musical is then based on the book, and brings enough contradictions that it's often called a different story altogether, and still, it's accepted as cannon. There are obviously discussions around things being cannon to the movie or to the book and not the other, but the line just feels so much softer than I'm used to seeing.

I've spent a LOT of time on the fey. Both in terms of historical folklore studies, and personal spiritual experiences.

While there are multiple origin stories and religions in Oz, the oldest story is that Lurline's magic made Oz a magical place and cut it off from the rest of our world. Belief in her is fading amongst the residence of Oz according to the books - but many still believe. She's a queen of the fey, and based on what I've read so far, I think she's (loosely or not) based on Aine (a fairy queen and Goddess from our folklore irl. Even if it's not Aine a lot of these themes still work... It also.. *feels* like Aine) Anyway... reality works differently in the Sidhe (fey world), and This place in our world being shrouded in fey magic means that the laws of reality shift to something between that of the two worlds. in the Sidhe, Intent has physical power, and so do stories. In our world, reality bends perception in a way that perception fails to bend reality, but in the Sidhe, perceptions influence on reality is stronger than reality’s influence on perception. The lens a story is viewed through often has influence on what is true of that story, and the people involved. This is part of the reason for the warnings against giving they fey your name in the old stories - knowing your name allows them more control over your story, and what is true of you by how they see and tell it, and the fey love a good tragedy.. If they tell a story of an anonymous individual, their view may be a tale of you, but the listener’s imagination fails to match the picture - if however, a story is told specifically about Elphaba Thropp, we the perceptions of us, the listeners, harmonize on what this story makes true of her; perhaps not absolutely true, but truer than it was before the story was told.

So when it comes to contradictions among The musical, Gregory Mguire’s Wicked, frank L Baum’s 14 books that started it all, and even every fan fiction we’ve all written,. All of these stories define the experiences and lives of the characters - and even facts that can’t be harmonized can still be true despite the contradictions. Furthermore; each layer added, each shift of intent or new media, whether with contradiction or not, seems to make the world feel even more real. This aligns with faerie magic as well, as we’re giving it more focus, more cognitive energy, more intent.

They get every tragedy, and every happily ever after, all at once. We can take comfort in knowing they get those happy endings along with the bittersweet and the tragic ones, all equally accurate. They’re always;

Glinda, and Elphaba, enemies to lovers. opposites in many ways, fall into each other’s arms after a significant amount of tension, where they find love, and find themselves in the process. They’re eventually separated, by death or circumstance, leaving poor Glinda to mourn the love that made her who she is - and eventually, Glinda finds some clue that her Elphie is still out there, leaves her post caring for Oz, or Elphaba makes her way back to Oz, to find her Glinda and they leave again together, to be safe and happy. a tale of love lost, what could have been; and a happily ever after

Fiyero and Elphaba, the handsome, bold, and reckless adventurer, finds the selfless girl who wants to make a change and follows her toward the fire, and he gets burned, and she’s left to mourn his death; and her spell is able to save him. a tale of love lost, what could been; and a happily ever after

Glinda and Fiyero, the perfect couple. she’s beautiful, and he’s handsome, and they both know how to work a crowd. They’re to be married, and they’re to be perfect. He leaves her, to die, or to be with Elphaba, or for her own safety, and she’s left alone.. And after some time, ruling Oz, she eventually finds some clue of his resurrection, and after taking the necessary time to make sure everything is in order with the political turmoil of Oz, or at least that people she trusts are handling it - she tracks him down, and they reunite. a tale of love lost, what could have been, and a happily ever after.

The three continue to exist, falling away from each other, and back together again, sometimes in pairs, sometimes all three of them, forever, and always, or so long as we continue to share and shape their stories. and as we write our fanfics and tell our stories, we change that world in the same way Gregory Maguire did when he shifted the intent of the wizard of oz. the story on stage ends with the tragedy of their separation, but that separation doesn’t have to be permanent. The idea that the three of them find each other and come together in the end feels like the most agreed upon next step among writers of fanfiction and just fans telling stories about the universe, and as those stories are shared and grow and influence each other. We’re giving it enough attention to add another layer, and giving our beautiful thropple their eventual happy ending. the three of them get to be deeply in love with each other, and face whatever else their story holds together.

And while this is sort of true of any work of fiction, since we can continue to tell divergent endings, and send the characters on whatever adventures we want; I particularly love that this story has such a strong basis for it written into the creation of Oz itself, and such a strong history of the malleable cannon gradually giving us more endings and insights into the characters, and giving way for Fanfiction to be as real as the paradox riddled cannon multi media, multi author franchise that this world has become.

#wicked #thropple #glinda #elphaba thropp #fiyero #elphabaxglindaxfiyero #gelphie #glinda x elphaba #fiyero x elphaba #fiyero x glinda

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hannibalbabygirlifier · 1 month ago

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Getting to know mutuals!

Thanks @emthought for the tag yay I get to be chatty!

What’s the origin of your blog title?

Honestly I didn’t even have one for ages and then I saw a will graham meme with it and I was like damn girl you and me both. Sure, this represents me.

Otp (s) + shipname (s):

I literally have soooo many but recently most focused on radarhawk (mash-quelle suprise there) and hannigram because it’s 2015 again. BUT some of my other OGs that i return to over and over again for years are iorveth/Roche (Witcher) maxAnne and charles/Jack (black sails-ranger crew my belovedddddd) tommy/Alfie (peaky blinders) charmac (iasip) Thomas/jimmy (downton abbey) god the list just goes on… I think the OLDEST that I’ve been invested in over a decade are hannigram and iorveth/Roche though.

Favourite colour:

Toss up between pink and green depending on the day!

Song stuck in your head:

Lonesome love mistski for niche blorbo reasons- the person responsible knows who they are!!!

Weirdest habit/trait:

I will eat things by hand you didn’t know a person could… I have weird sensory stuff about cutlery esp metal forks so I just. Avoid them lol.

Hobbies:

Painting, singing badly, getting really into movies, cooking, I don’t know if it counts but I do have fun doing theatrical makeup and such.

If you work, what’s your profession?:

Hairstylist! Though I do 70% men’s cuts so I’m not sure if barber is more accurate…wotever

If you could have any job you wish, what would it be?

I was really interested in marine biology! I really love fish and aquatic stuff. I also was interested at one point in working with snakes and other reptiles but that is a significant amount of education for the fact that there is extremely little employment there soooo… but a fun idea!

Something you’re good at:

I’m really good at small talk and first impressions/interviews to a degree people have described as somewhat freaky-unfortunately this means I set a really high expectation that I can’t necessarily live up to. My fiancées old roommate has joked that after a month of knowing me he started to be like “ohhhh you are human after all! Okay cool!”. I just have really good scripts for certain interactions lol.

Something you hate:

Things not going to plan/last minute changes. Also bell peppers and matcha.

Something you collect:

Anything mouse themed! Also trinkets in general, little figurines, royal doulton China, perfume, I’m a magpie with pretty things. Oh hello kitty things too! If hello kitty has 1000 fans I am one if hello kitty has 1 fan I am that fan etc…

Something you forget:

Where I left my phone when I had it a minute ago and I haven’t left the house.

What’s your love language?:

It’s hard to say because of course they all play in but probably words of affirmation? I’m someone that needs a LOT of reassurance so it helps a lot with feeling loved, and I tend to be fairly heart on my sleeve about communicating it back. I think gifts is a big one for me too just because I’ve grown up being shown love through that rather than being told outright so it’s my learned way of recognizing/showing love-not so much fancy gifts as much as getting my fiancée nice coffee beans while I’m out or them bringing me home knickknacks from work, it’s just that you thought of them and wanted to brighten their day.

Favourite movie/show:

I have a lot but moonrise kingdom and aliens are probably my top favourite movies of all time, and my top shows are mash and iasip for comedies and hannibal and black sails for serious shows. Oh I also love over the garden wall ! Whatever that counts as!

Favourite food:

Anything lobster or homemade French onion soup if I’m being bougie, grilled cheese if we’re going comfort food.

Favourite animal:

So many but if I have to pick I will say. The humble mouse.

What were you like as a child:

Really quite strange if we’re being honest. I dressed in historical clothing and was really into the historical reenactment museum near me. Read quite a lot too! Much more than I do now. Generally had a lot of playing pretend and elaborate fantasy worlds and mythologies. I was obsessed with Japan and Egypt for a stretch as most children are, had a hamster named hamtaro, and had the devastating experience of trying sushi and not liking it. Funnily enough I love it now! But it was a big disappointment at the time. Oh I also was in a pretty formal children’s choir so that was a big chunk of my time.

Favourite subject at school:

Depended on the teacher! Probably English though-I would have liked art but I was locked in a four year conflict with my art teacher. I’m sure he hasn’t forgotten me.

Least favourite subject:

Gym. Wretched class.

What’s your best character trait?:

I think I’m relatively high in terms of empathy so I try to go out of my way for people if it’ll improve their day or make a big difference for them, or extend patience when people are difficult or unkind- it’s funny how if you go out of your way to be kind when someone is clearly picking a fight often they come back later to apologize and open up about something going on in their personal life and it really turned their day around that you helped them as much as you did, and that means a lot sometimes.

What’s your worst character trait?:

I’m one of the most sensitive people you’ll ever meet which is hard because I get so easily upset at everything. I think it would be a lot easier for me if I had a thicker skin but we are who we are so we make the best of it.

If you could change any detail of your life right now, what would it be?:

Honestly having a lot of money would solve like most possible problems lol

If you could travel in time, who would you like to meet?

On a personal close to me level, my grandfather on my fathers side just because I never met him but everything I learn about him is crazy. Genuinely fascinating life. Bigger historical figure, any of the Romanov children because I have weird historical fixations. And I do have questions about Rasputin.

Tagging:

@3asystreets but also anyone else who would like to!

#personal #I’ll start tagging that bc I talk about myself too dang much

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untitled-document-95 · 3 months ago

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More Than Just a Job (mike faist x reader)

Summary: Mike's sudden desire to leave Newsies concerns you, but in the end, you learn the true meaning of a happy ending.

Warnings: None, despite the slight innuendo in the summary

Requested: No

A/N: My Newsies hyperfixation is back, you're welcome. Forgive any inaccuracies in how Broadway shows work, it was the best I could do between Google, Reddit, and my limited experiences with high school theater. I also challenged myself to not use "y/n", let me know if you like!

*gif is not mine, found here on tumblr from @this-is-all*

Tap practice wasn’t the same without Mike. If he were here right now, he’d be doing whatever it took to keep a smile on your face through the exhaustion of re-blocking and rehearsing the King of New York number over and over. Luckily for him, he was called up to fill in as Jack tonight…hence why you were having to re-block and rehearse this number, since he wouldn’t be able to be part of it tonight and neither would any swing who knew the track.

Still, you knew how lucky you were to have met and bonded with him. As understudies, him for Jack and you for Katherine, you’d had lots of rehearsal time together. That hardly included rehearsals for things like King of New York, when Mike shed his typical role of Morris Delancey to dance as a run-of-the-mill newsboy like you. He’d been one of the only guys who’d been nice to you when you were cast, even though having a girl as a newsboy was actually historically accurate.

While others teased you, Mike stood up for you. It was clear from the first day you met him that he didn’t tolerate hate or disrespect towards anyone, no matter their gender, color, sexuality, or anything else. You admired him for that, because he didn’t just disagree with it, he put a stop to it every chance he got.

Where Mike was someone who’d moved to NYC at 17 to follow his dreams knowing his family back home would always be there for him, you’d moved here to escape what you’d left behind. Ironic, given Miss Medda’s speech to Jack in this very musical about running away. You were eternally grateful to Mike for being the person you needed when you had no one else.

“Alright, folks. That’s enough for today. Be here at your call time and break a leg tonight!” called the choreographer. “Oh, and don’t let these formations and counts fly out of your brain tonight, we might need them in the future!”

“Yeah, did you hear? Mike auditioned for a new role,” you hear murmured by a nearby castmate.

“Really? Did he get it?” replies another.

“Don’t know, but kinda sounds like it.”

Your cheeks burn. Mike might be leaving the show? It was only a few months into the show’s run. Presumably, you guys had at least another year before the show ended, maybe longer. You needed to know if it was true as soon as possible.

Across the building, down the stairs, and up the hall you hurry to find his dressing room. It’s still a couple of hours until his call time, but he also had rehearsals this morning and might be stopping by there or hanging out there for a bit.

The emptiness in your stomach upon seeing the empty dressing room is quickly brushed away when you hear that familiar voice call your name. Turning to face him, you waste no time.

“Did you audition for a different show?” His face is an unreadable mix of surprise and other, unrecognizable emotions. The hesitation before his answer makes for a tense, awkward silence.

“Why does it…matter?” he asks cautiously.

“It matters to me,” you say.

“Why? Why would you care?” his tone now has an edge, a sharpness you haven’t heard before.

“I care because we’re friends. If you’re leaving the show…why didn’t you just tell me?”

“It’s not personal. This is just…just a job,” Mike practically spits, like the words are bitter as they leave his mouth. Your face twists in confusion. This feels like a fantasy, the Mike in front of you unlike any version of him you’ve ever met. He shoulders past you into the dressing room, tossing down a pair of shoes he’d been carrying.

“So that’s it? You’re leaving your first Broadway show for…what?”

“I never said I was leaving,” he sighs. “I didn’t get the part.” Your indignation deflates just a little.

“I’m sorry, Mike. But I won’t pretend to be too sad about it. I don’t want you to leave.”

“It’s just a job. People come and go all the time.”

With that final phrase, Mike once again sidles past you and stalks out the door, down the hall, and seemingly out of your life.

—

Your afternoon is spent ruminating on the conversation. Why would Mike say something like that? He never had before. You’d had late night discussions about the exact opposite, about how being part of a cast like this was like being part of a family. So many of you had so much in common: living in New York and pursuing your dreams while most others your age were in college. With no family nearby, you’d found new homes in each other. Memories of stupid dances you and Mike had made up while bored between rehearsals are interrupted by a knock at the dressing room door. The stage manager enters.

“Hey, I’m really sorry it’s short notice, but I need you go to go on for Katherine tonight. Kara just called and said she’s throwing up. So start getting ready now so you have time to go over your marks and such beforehand.”

The stage manager closes the door. Your heart is pounding. You’ve only ever gone on as Katherine one other time, weeks and weeks ago. You review her lines and songs at least twice a week, and you got to do her part of King of New York a couple of times today while some swings stepped in to learn your dance parts. But you hadn’t run through anything with Jeremy recently, not-

Wait. Jeremy wouldn’t be there tonight either. Mike was going on as Jack. This morning, the thought of actually performing as Jack and Katherine on stage together would have thrilled you. Now, it filled you with anxiety. How were you ever going to give a good performance with Mike after that…fight, disagreement, whatever you wanna call it?

It’s just a job, he had said. That’s right, you remind yourself. You have a job to do, and you’re going to do a damn good job at it.

—

After a blurry late afternoon so busy your head felt like it was spinning, you were waiting in the wings as Mike started the show off with Andrew doing the prologue of Santa Fe, followed by Carrying the Banner, one of your favorite numbers to perform. You were too nervous to feel sad watching the rest of the newsies dance and sing without you.

It wasn’t hard to show disdain towards Mike during Carrying the Banner, nor during I Never Planned on You. Until the last moment, that is. When Jack is “sketching” the photo of Katherine, it’s of course faked. There’s nothing really even on the paper that Jack hands Katherine, since the audience wouldn’t be able to see it anyway. The audience knows what’s happening because of the screen on the stage.

The song ends and you pick up the paper to look at it like you’re supposed to and find “I’m sorry” actually scrawled in graphite near the bottom of the page. Looking up, “Jack” has already disappeared down the steps, right on cue. Your blush and look of embarrassment, on the other hand, is anything but acting. Climbing down yourself and rushing into the wings for the next scene, a stage hand flashes you a thumbs up and compliments your performance so far.

You don’t go on again until scene 6, after the intense performance of The World Will Know. Entering on your line, “Why’s everyone so scared of Brooklyn?”, you and Mike begin your back and forth for the majority of the scene. Though you force your mind to stay on the stage, in the present, you can’t help but remember how silly you and Mike had felt rehearsing this very scene, with him having to shamelessly flirt with you.

Scene 7 nearly makes your lunch come back up, being on that stage all alone. Not being a monologue nor having anyone else in the scene with you makes it so much more difficult to remember your lines. Thankfully the paper you’re “typing” on in the scene acts as a little bit of a cheat sheet, and you make it through without incident.

As much as you want to watch scenes 8 and 9, you know you need to go change up your costume, put on your tap shoes, and touch up hair and makeup before you have to go on for Act 2.

Leaving the bathroom during intermission, you run right into Mike, who’s already done his bruise makeup. You say one another’s names simultaneously, leading to nervous chuckles from both of you. You purse your lips and nod to tell him to go first. He nervously breathes in, then out, smiling anxiously. His words spill out uncontrollably and his face is alive with expression.

“Look, I’m really sorry for earlier. All I have been thinking about is how I am such a piece of crap for saying those things to you. I let some of the older guys get in my head. They kept telling me not to get attached to you because someday this show is gonna end and we don’t know where we’re gonna end up and…I was trying to get out of the show because I…like you. I like you, and…” he seems lost for what to say next. “I…I was gonna get a role in a new show and then ask you out because I didn’t want to be unprofessional, or whatever and now I’m really, really hoping that you like me too because otherwise this is gonna be super awkward.”

You grab Mike by the arm and drag him behind the nearest door standing ajar, which ends up being a storage closet.

“Mike, I…I don’t know what to say. I like you too. I got so upset when I heard you might not be part of the show anymore because I’ve imagined us seeing this whole thing through, you know? I don’t know how I’d get through a show night without you, or rehearsals, or anything, because I love being with you, I love hanging out and dancing and watching stupid movies and I love…” you trail off and lock eyes with him.

“…Do you…love..me?” his voice is barely a whisper. All you can do at first is move your head, nodding. Then, you muster the words.

“I love you,” you respond softly. “I love you, too,” he says, one hand gently cupping your face, thumb absentmindedly stroking your cheek. Leaning in, his scent is intoxicating, a mixture of-

“5 minutes to curtain, 5 minutes,” the intercom blares, startling both of you. You leap apart and look at one another with fear before stifling laughter.

“Go, go!” You say, swatting his arm playfully to send him out of the closet and to his place for Act 2. A moment later, you exit as well and dart off to get ready for King of New York.

—

Act 2 begins and plays out beautifully. During the rooftop scene, you do the stage kiss just how you were taught: when you go to grab Mike’s face, you slide your thumb in front of his lips, so you end up kissing your own finger. You continue the scene, which leads into Something to Believe In.

You’re not sure when, but at some point during the first verse, you realize you’re singing the words not as Katherine to Jack, but as yourself to Mike. You notice a similar shift in Mike, somewhere around the words “An angel come to save me.”

The music swells again as you sing in unison.

Do you know what I believe in?

Look into my eyes and see...

This time, however, Mike’s lips, warm and soft, find their way to yours for real. It’s probably the cardinal sin of stage actors, to truly kiss on stage instead of using a theater trick to fake it. Of course, it isn’t usually this mutual. You feel yourself practically melt into the kiss, not wanting it to end, but it has to. Mike has to pull away and say his line, followed by yours. You have to finish the song, which you do, probably with more passion and strength than ever before.

All too soon, the final scene is unfolding, and the look on Mike’s face is one of pure love. It feels like he is personally serenading you, not performing on a stage in front of hundreds of people.

Don’t take much to be a dreamer All you do is close your eyes But some made up world is all you’ll ever see

Now my eyes is finally open And my dreams they’s average size But they don’t much matter if you ain’t with me

You and Mike embrace once again, kissing one another. The audience may not notice the difference, but some of your castmates do. You can tell that their yells of joy and surprise are beyond acting.

Happiness and joy pours out of you during the finale, and then the bows. They say in show biz there’s no such thing as a perfect show, but this one had to have been pretty darn close.

#mike faist x reader #x reader #newsies #newsies the musical #mike faist #morris delancey #jack kelly #katherine pulitzer

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