#ive also read mercy!

[random-kido]

Ough I've been trying to figure out how to word this but I'm just gonna try to wing it if that's ok fgfgfh

I think that if the decepticons had won the war the scavs would more than likely still have been in the same predicament they were in when the war ended in the comics.

My minds kinda blanking right now on exact instances, but anytime the cons were at their strongest, megatron was never at his kindest. If he had won I think he'd send out a similar "war is over" message with the addition that thry had won it, and the simple "come home" attached at the end. I don't think he would have sent anyone out to go look for stragglers or for their dead, more than likely making people stick around to ensure his continued rule and to help rebuild cybertron how he saw fit.

The scavs would still be on a graveyard planet, only their post fulcrum awakening conversation would be a lot different I think. Probably more talk about how things are finally gonna get better for them only for a question (from fulcrum probably) of when someone was gonna be sent out to go get them followed by them having to explain no one was coming for them and they'd still have to find their way back home on their own.

I think their hijinks would still happen and they'd still be stuck wandering space facing obstacles to get back, but I feel the only main difference would be that flywheels would still be alive and grim probably wouldn't be there as I don't think the djd would have missed the opportunity to go see megatron claim cybertron as his own. Actually maybe they'd take grim with them anyway. Sign of loyalty to megs or whatever but thry befriend him on accident and are left with a conundrum.

Due to the cons winning though I think the djd would be a lot more hell bent on catching anyone on the list to ensure megstron's continued rule, so I do think that eventually thry would have to face off against them, one way or another. This would be their big stand off instead of skorponok I think.

But due to how much shit they faced trying to get back, seeing how their fellow cons are just becoming worse and worse, and how the closer they get to home, the bigger their opponents are (from their own team no less), I think they'd still ultimately come to the decision that maybe going back to cybertron isn't for them. Maybe they'll just decide to stay on the nearest con outpost where no one cares that grim is with them and settle there until they decide they want to keep wandering space.

Unfortunately the scavs are ultimately bottom of the barrel cons and even with the win being theirs, I do believe they'd stay down there even if their expectations were much more different

Saw a post on here not too long ago about certain IDW guys in a Decepticon-win scenario and one of the guys on there were the Scavengers and I'm just like... how WOULD that actually work like its intriguing but I genuinely have zero clue how that would go, they're like of those tf things that can only really be done properly in a post-war thing yknow?

[ludojudoposts]

RIP Andre Braugher ~ 1 July 1962-11 Dec 2023

[wordto-thewise]

The first time I read Time War, I decided right away that the world building was too convoluted and ultimately irrelevant to the love story. That was years ago and now I am a different woman, salivating at the very first chapter and the description of a dying earth.

[lavellane]

i cannot believe im saying this but ive been thinking about my cousland and sten all morning and theyre making me insane

[androjello]

after I finished ancillary justice I looked up the reviews and was surprised it was so...divided...on if people liked it or not because it won all the awards?? so I looked at the reviews for 2 and 3 and was kinda worried because they were all THIS WAS SO AWFUL EVEN WORSE THAN THE FIRST or glowing reviews and normally I find that the negative reviews are more accurate when its so either or. except not this time because I LOVED ancillary sword and ancillary mercy. maybe even more than ancillary justice?? absolutely living for fleet captain breq and her shenanigans. I miss awn but <3 <3 <3 mercy of kalr and sphene

[chickadee-chariot]

Self congratulatory man in YouTube comments section asserts that "all humor comes from making fun of other races and genders." He styles his verbiage with an aura of geniality and ease, using familiar terms of address for complete strangers who disagree with him.

Those who have the gall to not only disagree, but to do so with perceptible indignation (or--heaven forbid--vexation!) are certain to be deemed far too irrational to hold meaningful conversation. Not to mention, the unspeakable rudeness of not adhering to the tone he has set for this interaction. That is, the proud proclamation of how little affected he is by what he considers humorous.

He wears his self-proclaimed "thick skin" like a badge of honor. He either does not know or does not let slip the fact that his skin is as thick as his understanding of humor is deep. His percieved great invulnerability is brought about not by any virtue of his own, but by his position on the metaphorical field of battle. He stands on a hill from which endless spears and boulders rain down. Below him, people wail as they pull each other free from bone-crushing rock. He bristles at their cries, as they interrupt his afternoon ruminations. A pebble, shaken free by the chaos, lands on his foot and he smiles at how his skin remains unbroken. Below him, red banners fly, still wet, drops whipping from their edges to land on his cheek. This is upsetting to him, he is not thinking of how to save any of them, he is thinking only of how to stop the noise.

The great secret, of course, is that he is already dead. He is a ghost, turning envious eyes on the people below, who have the audacity to bleed. He paces his island between rows of the dead, his hand itching for a stone.

[princessmyriad]

That last reblog reminded me

Send me your favourite poems, please!!

I make wax stamp seals but ive nothing to really use them on, so i thought it might be a cute idea to print out poems i love and stick them each in their own little envelope so i have an excuse to use those stamps, and a collection of lovely and powerful writings that grows as long as im alive and have access to paper.

But i know like 3 poems off the top of our head lol. So please mutuals followers and friends send in your fav poetry pieces, even just the title and author and I'll look it up in my own time if you cbf right now!

[boabel]

listening to the last dinner party and thinking of my ocs has become a hobby atp

[miraclewoozi]

EXCUSE ME. WHO GAVE YOU THE RIGHT—

one of my favourite tropes for one of my FAVOURITE dudes by one of my F A V O U R I T E writers!!!!!!! i’ve been blessed. i’ve been healed. i have very real feelings for this, oh my god.

🙏🏻 This is my first time submitting a request because I can’t stop imagining Dino helping his drunk BFF home while secretly being in love with her 🧎🏼‍♀️Please if you have time!

superpower

summary: not all heroes wear capes, but chan would probably do so if you asked. pairing: lee chan x reader type: drabble genre: fluff au: friends to ?, pining word count: 1.4k (oops) rating: pg15 — still, minors do not have my consent to interact. cw: alcohol/drunkenness, obvi; no pronouns or gendered language is used for reader. a/n: not even remotely proofread (double oops), but i still love this down-bad doofus, so i hope you do, too!

“I’m not saying I have superpowers, but I’m not not saying it.”

Your eyes are blinking a little more slowly than usual, but the unimpressed look you fire off at Chan can’t be missed.

“Can you just —” A hiccup cuts your question in half. You frown with your whole face just to make it clear how serious you are. “Hold my hand? It’s wobbly.”

Chan knows you’re referring to the sidewalk — where you stand and sway along to music that isn’t playing — but that description fits his knees, too. 

He hopes you’re too busy pouting at him to notice the way he wipes his palms against his jeans, afraid you’ll notice how nervous you make him. You start to lean a bit too heavily to one side for his liking, though; and he thinks it’s safe to bet that you’re not noticing much of anything.

That settles it.

The second he envelopes your hand in his, you take it a step further, tugging him close enough that you can slot yourself under his arm.

“Smell nice,” you mumble from his side. “‘s that the new stuff? From the place?”

Now, Chan is the one that’s blinking slowly. He was as drunk as you were until you needed him, and despite his sobering up on a dime — which is a superpower, thank you very much — his processing speed is lagging. You nudge him with your elbow, as if that’ll make what you just said make sense.

“Ahhh!” He plays along, making a big show of realizing things. “Yes, that place. By the thing, right?”

You nod. “Exactly.” 

Behind you both, the Uber that dumped you back at your place pulls away from the curb. Three beats later, you tilt your head and cheer “goodbye” at a long-gone Kia. He feels his heart swell three sizes in chest.

“You like it?” He redirects you because he’s a little bit greedy for your praise — and also because he bought this cologne with the hope that you’d compliment it. Chuckling, he notes, “Considering how much I’m propping you up right now, you’ll probably end up smelling like me.”

When you smile and mutter, “Good,” Chan suddenly feels weightless.

It takes some concentrated effort, but he manages to guide you up the front steps to your apartment building. It takes significant concentrated effort to corral you into the elevator once you clear the threshold. You would’ve spent your night talking the doorman’s ear off, otherwise, providing a dramatic retelling of every single step you took over the last few hours. It takes everything Chan has not to laugh at the relieved sigh he gets in thanks for intervening, although it’s hardly altruistic to want your rambling to himself.

Surrounded by the metallic walls of the elevator car, you point to your joint reflection and muse, “Someone’s awful smiley this evening.”

Chan makes eye contact without having to tilt his head. His brain works overtime to churn out a response that isn’t self-incriminating, but the only thought ricocheting around his brain relates to how cute you look, nestled into him.

With a ding, your reflection is gone. The moment goes with it, and without a barrier in front, so do you — like a bat out of hell.

“Oh, my god,” you wail when your apartment door comes into view. “I thought I’d never see you again!”

Chan chases after you, arriving embarrassingly out-of-breath — and more than a little fond — just in time to watch you wrestle your keys out of your pocket. They clatter to the floor the second they’re free. You groan, bereft at the loss.

“Stay here,” he says firmly with a finger pointed because he knows you, knows you’ll take one or both of you out of commission if you don’t heed his warning. 

Your eyes cross a little bit as you stare down the barrel of it, but you listen, thankfully; and he’s able to pick up your slack without anyone receiving a concussion. He’s able to usher you into your own home without further incident, too.

Once again: superpowers.

The task of kicking your shoes off is apparently too much to ask of you, so you wander off to your bedroom without even trying. His Nikes are discarded so hurriedly that they barely hit your mat by the time he takes off after you. The second he catches up, he wins the pleasure of watching you flop backwards onto your mattress.

Funny, he thinks. His heart makes a similar thwump when you smile at him the way you are right now.

Gesturing to the feet dangling off the edge of your bed, he laughs. “Can I please help you?”

You shoot him with dual-wielded finger guns. He takes that as a yes, please, and gets to work on the triple knots you managed to install in your laces.

“Chan?”

He hums in acknowledgment without looking up, too confounded by your drunken rope-work to take his eyes off his fingers.

Were you a sailor in a past life?

A little louder and a lot more pathetically, you whine, “Chan,” adding several seconds’ worth of the vowel sound in the process.

Chan has no option but to look up at you. As far as he’s concerned, he’s got no choice but to smile with all of his teeth, too. “You rang?”

“You’re so nice.” It’s supposed to be a whisper, he suspects, but it sounds much more like a shout. “How?”

His bemused snort is disguised by the sound of your right shoe hitting the floor.

“I mean it!” You laugh — like he’d ever doubt you — and smack your palms against your duvet for emphasis. “Like, hello? Good boy alert!”

That — well, that does something to Chan that he’s not willing to unpack right now. Instead, he shucks off your other shoe, bites back his smile, and sits back on his heels.

For a minute, the two of you stay that way: you gazing at him, him gazing right back at you. In every second that slips by in comfortable silence, he works to convince himself that the twinkle in your eye is a byproduct of the shots you took, nothing more. You’re smiling at him like that because you won’t have to sleep in your shoes tonight.

Right?

You nibble thoughtfully on your lower lip before your smile turns sheepish. “Chan?”

He’s not thinking that an angel gets its wings whenever you say his name, but he’s not not thinking that.

“The one and only,” he says with a nod, and he only cringes a little bit at his words, after the fact.

Whatever you want to say next seems to be stuck on its way out. In fact, you open and close your mouth twice to no avail. Patience is a virtue, and you are divine, so he waits there — on his knees, no less — and lets you take the lead. Your eyes flick from his face to the fidgeting fingers in your lap, then to the blank space at your side.

“It’s cold out,” you finally declare.

It’s July, but that’s neither here nor there.

“You shouldn’t have to walk home in this weather.”

The sky simply couldn’t be clearer, but Chan would take your word for it if you said that it was green.

“Maybe you should stay.”

He tries not to let the giddiness overtake him. Really, he does. He attempts to shrug nonchalantly, but it's more of a shiver than anything else, and he’s scrambling to his feet before he can chide himself for it.

You laugh — with your whole chest, no less — when he leaps into the spot beside you, settling flat on his back and grinning up at the ceiling. You’re still giggling when you mimic his graceless movements, still beaming when you turn your head to look at him. The air still feels electric, somehow, even after the laughter peters off.

A few moments pass, probably. He doesn’t notice them on their way out.

In a whisper that is actually a whisper, you say his name again, and it kicks off that wild thwump inside his chest.

“Yes?” He responds, much more quietly than his pulse in his ears.

You tug gently at the pillow under his head to draw attention to it. “You’ll probably end up smelling like me now.”

[authorhjk1]

I loved reading how each member of Aespa would give blowjob. Please also do one for ITZY and IVE

Already did one for Itzy

Gaeul

Gaeul isn't a big fan of giving blowjobs, so you don't really ask her for them. But since you eat her out regularly, she feels the need to return the favour.

But only at home, where you can't get caught. She usually makes you sit on the bed, the couch or a chair and kneels in front of you. She likes to do it in a soft, caring manner.

Yujin

Yujin is almost the exact opposite of Gaeul. She loves giving head. Actually, she seems to love to give head almost more than you like receiving it. Which you never thought was possible, until you met her. Yujin loves it so much, she doesn't care where and when. And that also means she doesn't shy away from putting your cock in her mouth, when her members are present.

"I should lead by example."

That was her response, coupled with a mischievous smile, to your question after the first time she suddenly just pulled your pants down, while you were sitting next to her and Wonyoung on their sofa. Wonyoung is completely used to it by now, occasionally even joining Yujin, when she is in the right mood.

Rei

Rei loves to deepthroat you. She is not a fan of anything public. But at home, she goes all out. You swear her members can hear her gag almost every day. It's not like she can't control her gag reflex. It's more like she likes to play around with it. It's a tool for her to make you go crazy, while you're at her mercy.

Wonyoung

Wonyoung loves to roleplay. Even when she is just sucking you off. But only one specific kind. The bratty princess act. Which involves teasing you and leading you on, until you finally punish her. And the punishment usually results in you, face fucking Wonyoung, while she chokes on your cock, spit falling into her lap. She liked to be punished hard. You cum on her face most of the time, but when her mouth just feels too good, you can't help but paint her throat.

Liz

Despite getting better at it, Liz is still shy. That's why she only ever gives you a blowjob inside her room. With the lights off. She says it puts her under pressure, when you look at her while she does it. You are fine with it, but you'd prefer it if you could see her gorgeous face while she gives you head. But then again, this nice, unfamiliar feeling is also kinda interesting. Never really knowing what she does next, because you can't see her.

[nebbyy]

Please write a fanfic about King Baldwin IV from KoH, where he fell in love with female reader. The plot is up to you. Please make it a serious love story with slight fluff 🤗🤭

Baldwin IV x reader - Life always comes down to a game of chess

A/N: You have no idea how much I love you anon, this was one of the prompts I already wanted to write omgggg!! For this fic I kinda got inspired by this painting (which, for everyone interested, it’s “La belle dame sans merci” by Frank Dicksee), and you’ll see how and why reading it;)

Summary: King Baldwin IV receives an offer from an Italian nobleman to marry his daughter; unsure of whether to accept or not this compelling offer, Baldwin decides to do what he does best…

Warning: there are some mentions of christianity and religious references along with some hints at the misogynistic ideologies of the time (about the woman being “owned” by the dominant male figure in her life) ((I don’t condone this ideology at all but I thought it’d be fitting to add it anyway to give some accuracy to it)).

Word count: 2637

King Baldwin couldn’t quite wrap his head around you. The day that he was informed of your engagement, he felt himself quite skeptical of the idea of marrying someone. After all, ever since his leprosy had been diagnosed he had to get used to the idea of living a life of solitude, forced into a lifelong chastity, for no sane man would ever marry off their daughter to a leper. With time, he had found solace in nurturing his own knowledge and virtue, elevating himself to a level of wisdom that very few could boast at his young age.

During the following days, the young king's mind was plagued with thoughts, considerations he was making to weigh the choice. The benefits of marrying Lady Y/N were many, first and foremost securing a connection to the land of Italian speakers, allowing for easier trafficking of crusaders arriving in the Holy Land, not to mention the abundance that would be the young lady's dowry. And not only did marrying her mean strengthening the economical side of his reign, but it also meant giving the impression to the public that the king's health condition was improving to such an extent that he considered that to be an ideal time to marry. His most trusted men and all of his advisors kept repeating to him, marrying Lady Y/N would’ve been  comparable to a blessing.

But despite all the benefits this union seemed like it would bring, Baldwin continued to hesitate to make a decision. What left him so undecided was the possibility that this was some kind of deception, a conspiracy orchestrated against him, hidden in the form of the most convenient of marriages. It was up to him to decide whether it was worth taking these risks in favor of the benefits that would come if his concerns turned out to be unfounded. 

Like everything else in his life, this choice came down to a game of chess…

It was this idea that prompted him to make a decision. Baldwin had a messenger called, to be sent to Pisa to give the news to Lord Y/F/N that the king wished to report his decision to him live, at his court. For the lord to arrive it would have to wait, but Baldwin has always been a man of exceptional patience.

Four months passed, when at the dawn of Lent it was announced by a Pisan messenger that Lord Y/F/N and his daughter had come to Acre, and would soon be coming to Jerusalem. Another week passed before father and daughter, riding two white horses and accompanied by an escort of knights arrived at the royal palace.

When he first saw you, Baldwin could have sworn he saw Mary himself. You walked with such grace that you almost seemed to float. Your face looked serene, despite the anxiety that had been devouring you from within ever since the day the invitation from the king of Jerusalem reached you; a blue veil covered your hair, framing your face and falling over your shoulders. You bowed to Baldwin as was proper to do before a king, yet he felt so tempted to interrupt you, prevent you from bowing to him, perhaps even bowing to you himself.

At that moment he felt like Lancelot before Guinevere, completely mesmerized by your beauty, one who seemed more fit to an angel than a woman. But, he gave no sign of his true emotional state; after all, a gorgeous woman does not mean she can be fit to serve as queen. Her answer will be decided when she has had a chance to hear you speak, away from the judgmental stares of the court, free from any influence that might change what you really think.

As the sun shone bright in the sky, the banquet took place inside of the palace. The king excused himself before going to eat by himself in his chambers as usual, leaving his guests in the company of his sisters and his court. Loud chatter filled the room, goblets were raised to get more wine poured, courses flowed onto the set table, a tribute to thank Lord Y/F/N for making such a journey to fulfill the king's request. All this noise, yet in your ears all became quiet when a servant approached your chair, whispering a few simple words, "The king has requested your presence at dinner."

Your blood froze in your veins in surprise, and you could almost feel your father's thrill as you rose from your seat, having the servant guide you toward the king's study. Walking through the halls of the palace, you could do nothing but feel so small in comparison, you almost seemed to disappear, enveloped by the magnificence of everything around you that, if all went well, you would have called your own.

You were brought back to reality when the heavy doors of the king's room were opened by the two guards who stood at his sides. An enveloping fragrance, a mixture of myrrh and frankincense filled your senses with a feeling of serenity, an almost familiar feeling. In the center of the room, a hooded figure, dressed in silk as white as snow. "Come forward, my lady. I apologize for my absence at the table but," she interjected for a moment, rising from her seat and revealing her face-or at least, what was not covered by the veil-"many might find my appearance somewhat...disturbing during a meal." He chuckled a little at that last part. You wondered if irony had become a kind of means for him to soften his own hellish condition. 

As soon as he turned around you could not help but study the appearance of what will hopefully be your future husband. Rumors about his condition had been swirling since the day he was crowned, so you had been prepared to be confronted with a horrifically disfigured man. Instead, although part of his face was covered by the thin veil, it was like an instinct for you to try to study his features. You could vaguely make out the golden hair that adorned his face, although it was covered by the veil. His voice had intrigued you; it sounded so jovial and yet so deep. A melody that sang of the young monarch's endeavors. It intrigued you, you wondered what his lips looked like, whether they matched the sound of his voice.

But what really caught your interest were his eyes. They were blue, but of a color so deep, so intense, it reminded you of tales you had heard about the northern seas, of the waters that dark and deep seemed to beckon sailors, to lead them to drown within them. Likewise you felt mesmerized by such intensity. And you wondered, how much of this would remain the same as his illness progressed.

You recovered from that momentary trance, wasting no time to bow, but this time Baldwin stopped you before you were able to bow more than your head: "Don't bow, please. Such reverences are not necessary here." You looked at him a little dumbfounded, but despite the king's unusual attitude you did not object. He stepped to the side, revealing a finely decorated chessboard, with all the pawns already set in place. "Do you play?" he asked softly, and you finally mustered up the courage to speak "It's been some time since I last did," as you approached the table, taking your seat opposite Baldwin. He took his seat again, and for the first time in your life you found yourself face to face with a king. 

You quickly realised that he had assigned you the white pawns, the small courtesy of moving you first. You took a moment to think of an initial strategy, and moved your first pawn. A horse. Baldwin raised his eyebrows, surprised by your decision. "Aren't you going to move the pawns first?" You kept your gaze on the chessboard, partly out of respect and partly out of fear, still unsure why the king would call you to his chambers, if indeed it was all just to have a playmate. "I always prefer to start with the horse. I like to think that the pawns would be frightened to charge against the enemy without a knight to guide them." You looked up, meeting his eyes that studied you intrigued. Chuckling at what you had just said, you continued, shaking your head slightly, "Forgive me, it was just a silly thought."

"Not at all, my lady," he replied, studying your every detail, "I find it fascinating." It was his turn to move, and as per rule, he moved one of the pawns, the one in front of the queen. "So you think good leadership is better than letting the individual decide for himself?" There was a spark that had lit up in his eyes, something playful. It was clear that you were intriguing him, surprisingly in your eyes, since you had been instructed to stay behind your father's shadow, not to express your thoughts or externalize your ideologies.

Everything had to be perfect, one could not risk the futile mind of a young woman ruining the marriage that would have been so beneficial to her dukedom, but above all to her family. Yet at that moment she felt that expressing what resided in her own mind was exactly what Baldwin wanted from her. Something lit up in her too, and he in turn caught the same spark in her eyes. Could it be that she had figured out the trick...? 

Another pawn moved, it was Baldwin's turn to move again. Your eyes seldom parted from each other, just for that moment necessary to make your own move. "Independence is not always what benefits a man. Certainly, it is tempting, but in moments of indecision it risks leading to oblivion. An infantryman needs a leader, a young man who is lost in the woods needs a hunter to guide him out..." Another move, the white bishop points directly at the black king "...an indecisive man needs an outside opinion to make his decision."

You smiled, and like the sweetest of plagues you infected him too. You had deciphered his little deception. An innocent deception, with the purpose of seeing with your own eyes how you, in a condition so similar to what is the duty of a sovereign, would have acted. 

After all, his life always came down to a game of chess....

"So you understood..." Baldwin whispered, again sitting in his place. For the first time in his memory, someone had managed to leave him speechless. His witty mind seemed to have died out all of a sudden, the knight in him unarmed by the woman sitting in front of him. Maybe the deception wasn’t as occult as he had planned, or maybe this young lady was really able to stand up to him.

You smiled at him proudly, be proud of your intuition but also relieved that your thought had not turned out to be foolish. Your pride had removed from your mind every rule, every admonition that had been given to you from the moment you set foot in the Holy Land; your mind was now like a river in flood, finally free to flow out according to its natural course. "I do not blame you, my lord. I realize that this is a difficult choice for you, and that the factors at stake go far beyond your individual will."

"And what do you think about that?" Your smile acquired a bittersweet scent, and you answered without almost hesitation: "I am only a woman, my will is that of my father and it will be of my husband. My family prays that this role will be filled by you, and for this to happen I have been instructed to be fit to reign at your side."

“That I can clearly see, but what truly urges me is to know what your own will says. If we were to marry, you would be the bride to a wretched man, one whose fate has already been announced by God. My demise won't be far off, you’ll be left a widow in a foreign land. And before this… curse gets the better of me, there is no saying that it won’t get to you too. If it did, you would suffer the same fate I had been given.”

It took you a moment to let his words sink into your mind. He spoke the truth, a future with him would be filled with sickness and uncertainty; you would have to live in a court far from your home, where everyone was waiting for the king’s death like a flock of crows flying above a dying man. You took a deep breath, feeling as everything came down to this very moment. “I won’t lie to you, my lord, the future that awaits me while standing by your side is not an easy one by any means, and I’m very much aware of that. I do not expect my future to be easy, for it would be an excess of greed. So if I can have a saying in my own future, I’d like to say that I would much rather all the time that is given to me by the Lord standing by the side of a man filled with virtue, than by the side of a man too full of himself to see anything just an inch away from his reflection. There would be no greater honor for me than to stand by your side, for as long as you still have to live, my lord. And if I ever was to catch this disease as well, then I would have no other words to say other than God wills it.“

At your words, the young king had to shake himself up, now more than ever necessary for him to say something, anything really. “For you, my lady, I shall always be just Baldwin.” His tone was softer than ever, a soft breeze that reached to you and whispered I am but yours now. It was unsaid, but decided. Once this meeting would be over, the king would come to your father, and confirm his decision to accept the proposal. Only problem was, this meeting seemed to have become endless. What was supposed to be a quick meal, accompanied by a game of chess, turned into a lively exchange of political views, then silly childhood anecdotes, then again into a walk in the inner courtyard of the palace. Baldwin tried hard to keep you in his presence for as long as was deemed decent for an unmarried man and woman. He kept you with him as long as he could, and when that was no longer possible, he led you back into the great hall, gently holding your hand over his. Soon after the announcement of your engagement, the wedding was set to happen during the following Easter, and the banquet made in honor of his guests was prolonged until the sun had been long set, this time in honor of his betrothed.

You think back to that day fondly, as you lay on your bed, in the comfort of silky sheets and soft pillows. One of your hands holds your head while the others traces the patterns of the scars in your husband’s face that have considerably worsened during the years. Aside from the bed, sitting on a table, forgotten as long as the night reigned over Jerusalem, were two crowns, along with two chess pawns. A white queen and a black king. Both came from the set that had been used the day the two of you met, a reminder for Baldwin of the day God had merged your destinies in one.

A/N: wowww that came out longer than I though oopss. ANYWAY, this was my interpretation of your request, anon, hope you like it!! Also, for everyone who’s gonna read this, feel free to leave any constructive criticism since this is my first fic and I would like to improve a looot more in my writing skills. That’s it now have a nice day y’all <3<3

[whinypuppi]

thinking about satoru gojo thrusting in and out of you without mercy—not even giving you a chance to breathe as two of his fingers are stuffed down your throat and you're forced to choke on them. he has an absolute death grip on your hair and refuses to let go, craning your neck up so you stare into his eyes as he fucks you.

when he hears you constantly groan and mumble on his fingers, he finally lets you greedily intake air and speak your peace. “*huff* 'toruuu—please...gotta go s'bad. c-can't hold it!.. *huff*”

“isnt that just too damn bad, huh, sweetheart? you've been—hah...cockblocking me all day.” he struggles to get his words out with how fucking tight your little cunt is that hugs him so well with each sloppy thrust. and aren't you just breathtaking? (literally.)

“noooo! ca—can't...that isn't f-air...” your voice cracks as his thumb goes down to abuse your clit which makes you writhe under him as overstimulation takes ahold of you. “it's more than fair. think twice next time, angel.”

what your too-broken mind doesn't realize is that he gets off to your suffering, panting and muttering all sorts of disgusting things in your ear as he slaps your ass and only continues. “g-go if you must, pretty. 'm not stopping anytime soon.”

this makes you choke out another broken sob as fresh tears run down your cheeks—the uncomfortable mix of embarrassment and arousal overcoming you as you let out a gut-wrenching scream and finally piss and cum all over his cock, (i'm nasty as fuck for this) panting as your eyes roll back.

“there we go. that w-wasn't too bad, right, pretty? 'm almost there myself. just a few more hours.” he inhales deeply, and you almost swear he likes the scent of your pee. that's probably just an intrusive thought, but the of it makes your stomach churn. whether in a 'it-gives-me-butterflies' way or a 'that-makes-me-sick-to-my-stomach' way, you weren't sure.

AHHHH THIS WAS SO GROSS IM SORRY I JUST NEEDED TO GET MY THOUGHTS OUT AND IVE BEEN ABSOLUTELY INFATUATED WITH GOJO

school and overall life has been KICKING MY ASS so i do apologize this wasn't what i normally write and it's on the shorter side ♡

also i swear to FUCK if you guys don't start requesting i'll like quit tumblr and never feel motivated (* >ω<)

but thanks for reading!!! xoxo from creep!

[punk-in-docs]

A song of liars and beggars: part II

— Emperor Geta x Reader (Salacia)

— 5.3k words.

— Read all parts here: Part I — Part II — Part III — Part IV

Summary: You were raised outside of this Rome. Born into peace. To know of fathomless deep seas, and skies so big, they wrapped around your whole sight. The way that at night all you can smell are lemon trees kissed by salt. The jasmine plants wound around the white walls of the villa. Salacia. And now you are sent to Rome for your father in the Senate. There you will catch the attention of Geta; in all the wrong and darkest of ways— any reblog and comments are greatly appreciated 💙💙💙

TW: for this chapter; mainly violence and cruelty and mentions of death/imprisonment. also this has turned long winded im so sorry- i wish i could just bang out some gratuitous smut but noooo i need 7k of angst before penetration apparently --

The cell you are thrown into is poky small.

When the guards push you into it, you stumble and you fall. Stone breaks your landing. Collapsing in the dusty dirt. Soiling your pretty blue dress. The sea blue churned into mud. Into filth. Spoiled tide.

Bloody grit and sand sticking to your chin that still drips blood. Ichor dripped on your silk chest. Lip throbbing. Body bruised into the colour of nightshade petals.

You twist back, eyes blurred with tears, to see the dark expression under the Roman guards helmet.

Who spits at your feet and calls you a traitorous whore. He was the same one whose ring of fingertip bruises now circled your upper arm. Even though you were in chains.

Your surroundings are grim. There’s no window. No bearings. A bucket with filthy stagnant water sits in the corner.

The air is stale. Packed close and scorching. It reeks of piss and decay. Necrosis. Festering. Yellow bleached skulls. You hear the wailing shouts of men. The rattle of chains. You will be left down here until they come to take you. In whatever form that may be. Beheading. Or a stoning.

Maybe the Emperors really are gods. Those twin golden growling wolves. And now they’ve thrown you down to the underworld. Left you down here with the dying and the dirt and the vermin for company.

The walls are grimy stone, and strung with chains. Torches the only lick of civilised orange light in these otherwise miserable caverns. Rats creep along the floors - the scurry and click of claws. Not that they’ll find any scrap of food near here. There’s none to be had. Not even corpses. Death isn’t merciful enough to visit here.

Bile coats the back of your tongue. Sour and acetic. The men in the cells opposite you m, sneer and call filthy propositions in the dark. Dark so thick it was like wool. Ask to see under your pretty dress. Leering at you. Puckering kisses.

You are a rare drop of clean ocean in this savagery to them. Pure. A blue crocus blossoming in a crack in the barren dessert. Wash away the sin. Their rotten teeth shine in the dark like knives. Hungry and waiting.

You curl into a ball in the corner. Bring your knees to your chest. Cower in the shadows as the rats run past your feet. Clammy tails flicking over your toes.

You sob quietly. Arms folded. One smashed elbow drying to sticky blood, stuck with grit from your collapse.

Your father was torn away before you could see what happened or where they took him. You heard his shouts at Macrinus, his begging, but couldn’t see where he was taken. You couldn’t bear thinking about the alternative.

Your brothers body will be laying in a paupers grave somewhere you’ll never know. Never be able to go and lay orange gladiolus flowers before his headstone. Forgotten. Your mother will be told nothing of this- of you. Of the supposed treason-

Or maybe a garrison of soldiers were already marching on their way to deliver news. To slaughter the traitors family in that white villa by the sea. Smear crimson up the walls- droplets of red splashed on the jasmine petals. You think of the linen shifts your sisters ramble around in. You think how the perfect hues of soft blues and olives greens will be ruined with the garish red of blood-

You squeeze your eyes shut. Drops of salty ocean squeezing down your cheeks. And even that is of no use to you now. Landed sea nymph. Away from the oceans call. And now you’re bound for desolation. Gasping. Dying. Dragged to land by men who want to pick at your scales and leave you raw, bare.

You never should’ve left home. Not for a distant hollow man and his even emptier words.

Sleep doesn’t come to you. Nor are you awake. You slouch, curled on the cold dirty floor and envelop yourself into the grit and dirt. Abrasive on your soft milk-and-honey skin. The cornflower blue of your dress matted with mucky earth.

You enter a state between waking and sleep. A shallow one, spliced with sliced necks, pooling blood on biscuit coloured sand, and your brothers final cry.

Sounds start chipping at you. The slap of metal. Clicking and shuffling steps.

A jolt across your cell rouses you from your purgatory. Head snapping up on your shoulders. When you accustomed your eyes to the dim, the sight of the person unlocking your cell, makes your stomach plummet.

General Acacius.

There’s no mistaking him for another. That unmistakably noble profile. The firm set of his brow. His aquiline nose. The curl and bend of his greying hair. The way he looks at you - it might just be the kindest thing you’ve been awarded in this abrasive hell you find yourself in.

You raise to your wobbly feet. Heart felt like it had taken to thudding in your throat. Choking tempo as it beats there. Muscle thick and ticking on the back of your tongue.

One thought echoed around your mind; this was to be the path to your death.

You were being led by the General of the armies of Rome. It seemed a grand imposition for escorting a mere slip of a traitor to her death.

War has thickened his body. Muscular arms swing from a wide back and shoulders. Sun weathered skin which spoke of his time out in the elements, fighting for the glories and victories of Rome. Age lay in the silver threaded though his hair. The muted pain in his gait of past injuries catching up with him. Body littered with scars that probably ache and tug. Mars made flesh. Glory for Rome. Victory.

You swallowed. Throat dry. Easing your way to the door on uncertain feet. Hands clasped in chains still. They feel heavy as mountains to carry along. He’s come with guards. Four of them. Armed and marching to the beat of his strides. A valorous man indeed.

You step close to the heavily armoured man. Salty tears leaking down your cheeks that you don’t care to bat away. Atleast one spec of home will cling to your skin when life is gone. Even if it is only your silly scared tears.

He leans close to you when you come to the door

Suddenly a warm hand - calluses and hard furrows that only come from years of grasping a sword hilt - is around your forearm to steady. He unlocks the iron heavy chains and cuffs that surround your wrists. The chafing welts they left circling your wrists as the only impression of your imprisonment.

It’s the kindest touch you’ve felt in what seems like years.

You look at him with incredulity. He claims it all off you so easily. You were easy to devour. Every emotion worn open on your face.

Your lashes glued together with tears. Eyes so wide. Big and shining and they must reflect spring sun off beaded waves like a blanket of sapphires. A question lingers, tucked back shyly behind your teeth. Unable to wander off the curl of your tongue.

Why are you unlocking my hands?

He tilts his head at you. It’s almost chiding.

An unexpected warmth flows from his dark eyes. It’s too dark down here in this filthy stuffy pit to discern their colour. They swing somewhere between bronze and amber.

There is a mercy in them, a mercy to him, you’ve seldom seen anywhere else. Let alone a man as slaked in blood as he is.

Maybe it’s mercy- more likely that it’s pity.

He throws the shackles aside to the guard. Eyes for a long moment the way the iron has cut into your wrists. Raw skin. Damaging such a fine beautifully untouched creature.

He’s certain there’s worse damage to come to you.

His voice when he speaks is honey thick. Deep as it carved down all the rock walls around you. Louder than the clanking of chains and the wails from prisoners. Whom, you noticed, suddenly quieted down. They were whipped when they spoke up, you guess. So they go quiet. Like cowed dogs.

“I’ve slaughtered many a traitor in my time. You don’t seem a danger to me, or my men.” He observed. It’s both a warning and a comment.

It’s ridiculous really. The thought you could be a threat. All slippery, skin soft and coveted as a purely formed ocean pearl.

When you are in fact shivering in a silky thin dress the colour of harmless cornflowers. Huddled in your cell corner gently spilling tears. No hint of resistance or fiery hatred. No storm to be found here in your veins that houses entire oceans and their tempestuous wrath.

He knows innocence when he sees it. That rare, very rare, taste that clings to his tongue like sugary sweet ripe fruit. Something to cut and slice through all the ichor and viscera he all too well knows the flavour of. There’s a calmness to you. A damned sort of acceptance. Calm as still waters.

“Come.” He tilts his head. “The likes of you doesn’t belong down here.” You with your stock of noble blood, shouldn’t perish forgotten in these filthy caverns.

He walks to the pathway that you vaguely recall you were led down. The one that ascends steps and up into daylight. Out from the dust and the dirt and the still living bones of the trapped and the damned.

“General. Pray tell me. Is my father dead?” You ask. Whisper a pathetic imitation of your voice. Raw and weak. Choking on the unknown.

His face is stiff. He doesn’t seem inclined to reply.

“I cannot give you answers.” He chides. He turned his back to you. And his brute tone slaughtered any further enquiry you may have felt compelled to make.

You shrink down as you fell into step. Being led in your dirty dress, littered in cuts and scrapes.

Numerous guards form a metal lined wall around and behind you. Shields and swords and the metal clink of their steps. Trapping you. Armoured cage for a pretty captive. You wince when the new sunlight hits your eyes. Bright and acidic. Gulp for thick air that meets your lungs like ambrosia.

You walk and follow, silently. Waiting to come to the place you’d die.

Expecting to be led to gallows. Or an executioners block. Maybe even a court lined with people, one where you’d be trialed to death for a plot you’d no idea even existed. Maybe you’d be shoved into the coliseum on the next fight to be mauled to shreds by lions. Gouged by teeth and claw. Die screaming in the same dirt as your brother did.

It doesn’t come. None of that comes.

Your surroundings change again and you find yourself outside the grand walls of the coliseum. Looking up at the huge enormity of its powerful walls. The golden stone standing proud against the searing blue sky.

You’re marched across the dusty dirt of a yard, to yet another cage; this one held bars just like your previous one. A cage built on the back of a cart that has two horses ready to pull it along the capital roads. The general opens the barred door and gestures guards in around you.

One of the soldiers hit you forwards with a harsh shove. The back of his sword hilt. A hard enough shove for you to know it would purple to a bruise soon enough. Mulberry purple staining your skin at the back of your hip. You barely even yelp.

The general admonishes the soldier harshly for his rough treatment. You were to be brought - unmolested.

A word the Emperor had ordered with a growing wolfish grin.

“Where am I being taken?” You dare ask. Words crack out your throat. Unused. Thirsty. Timid. Ocean starved. All this dry land is making you dizzy and miserable.

He explained. Tone grave. Before you are pulled inside the bars. Caged once more.

“You’ve been summoned.”

“By whom?” You seek.

His eyes weight into you. Wrapped in pity and severity. His words clang around your head. Coffin nails. Just like bars he shut around you.

“You’ve been requested by the Emperor himself.”

~

You struggle to comprehend the enormity of the palace before you.

Palatine hill boasted of the richest and finest palaces in all of Rome. Including the imperial palace. The huge sprawling building. The importance and grandeur of these halls weighted on you like tonne heavy rocks.

You feel like a smear of dirt among these polished white walls and halls. Crawling with servants and guards. Stuffed with so much riches and finery. You’ve heard tale of how Emperors were hand picked by the gods. They were gods to the people they reigned over.

You are escorted once again out of a yard and into this place you’d heard only grand things about. Marched along corridors longer than you’d ever known. You saw fountains spitting streams of clear crystalline water and imperial gardens with huge tropical plants. Statues of marble and tiled mosaic floors that shine as if recently scrubbed.

Guards at every door. Servants clad in cloth finer than you’ve ever owned - or touched - they carry huge platters of bread or bowls spilling over with plump fruits. Large amphora jugs of wine held aloft in careful hands. This seemed like a luxurious heaven. You wondered if you’d see clouds, goddesses and sun beams even from your lowly mortal perch.

The guards keep you in step. Hauled along so fast you feel blisters aching at the balls of your feet. As you’re traipsed in. Bloodied and low. Beaten down. Your split lip has dried to a cut. You worry it with your tongue. The little whip cracks of pain a reminder of your mortality - one you’re certain you will be relieved of soon.

You are brought to a set of huge imperial doors by the general. Who is bid to enter right away.

Your eyes don’t know where to settle first; the room is one of the richest displays you’ve ever seen. Orange fabric the colour of vibrant mandarins, hangs in drapes over the open arches and doorways. Mosiac floors polished to a shine. There’s gold and marble statues and plinths. Paintings in dark deep colours of battle scenes. Swords and blood and male glory. As if it had come to life right before your eyes. This room is threaded with gold and devotion to male gods.

As is the man who sits leisurely awaiting you on a padded lectus. One spilling with tasseled silken cushions to soften his seat. Emperor Geta.

His robes were the same as when you last saw him. Dark jewel colours of black and blue. Gems cast in gold on each finger. Dark cloths with gold items of jewellery on his breast in the form of a broach. So much gold you don’t now where to test your eyes first.

Maybe he is a god. He certainly has all the riches of one. Stood before you as if he were Jupiter and all his delights. Thunderbolts seeping from his powerful fingers.

A golden crown of laurels ringing his light waved hair. His eyes was where true darkness laid; dark kohl ringing eyes the colour of the darkest Umbrian. Earth of shadow.

He was idly picking at food laid on a rose petal strewn table before him. You’ve never seen an offering of food so large and all for one. Cups of wine. Bread. Dried Fruit and a tiered stand flowing with fresh fruit. Some cheeses. Meats and fish. All laid on plates for him to pick over and discard, or saviour at his behest.

You wonder which category you’d fall into- the former appears the more likely.

Your stomach pangs for the smell of the freshly baked bread. The sweetness of the fruit. The tart wine. Tongue dry as sand and sluggish in your mouth.

“There you are. My little sea nymph.” He sneers over at you. One side of his lip curls upwards.

In panic, you bend the knee and bow your head, subservient, meek, and that makes him smile more.

He’s snapped his regal bejewelled fingers and had you bought to him. Bloodied and blinking dust out your eyes. Dirt stroked on your once fine dress. It now hangs in shredded tatters at the hem by your sandals. Blood spots dried like rusted petals. Brutal handling from guards lay in the bruises now scattering your lovely arms and the welts banding your wrists.

You want to cower behind the wall of guards. But you are rudely thrown forwards. Those shadowy eyes trace over your poorly clad form; you do feel like a minuscule scrap of dirt. A crack in a looking glass. A tarnish on something gleaming golden. The smear of imperfection allowed to exist in this heavenly palace.

He sees your hands are loose by your sides; unbound.

“Why is she not in chains, General? Have we stopped chaining our prisoners” He asks. Ire woven into his words. Eyes unflinching and hard and he scowls at Acacius. Who remained unmoved even in the face of his petulant wrath.

“I saw no need to chain her. Emperor. Such a woman in her position could surely not be a threat to you.” It’s a barb. A small sensible thorn, perhaps.

You flick your eyes across to the General.

“I didn’t even have to draw my sword or threaten her. She came willingly.” He tells his Emperor.

Like a sweetly led fool. A sacrificial creature led blindly to her own slaughter.

The guards stand to attention. Unwavering. Wall of armour and swords around your back as you cower. Eyes cast to the floor as you’re being discussed like a slab of meat. Something without autonomy or feeling.

You can feel Getas eyes on you still. Hard and weighty as warm metal. Searing into your skin. The way livestock are branded.

Those eyes are unrelenting. Violating. Scouring you up and down some more. Inspecting the span of your hips. The dip of your waist. The fall of your chest. Plump of your breasts and hips. The once pristine coil of your knotted hair.

Goddesses would envy you. The furies would want to tear down your beauty and goodness in wrath. Scratch out your eyes. Shear your hair. Anything to steal the golden thread of goodness from you.

Juno had blessed you and kept you indeed. Like you’re fresh out of her temple and sparkling with promise. He knew it the second he saw you. He made up his mind to have you then.

You had something. Something wrapped inside yourself like a shell protecting a pearl. Something good and virtuous. He wanted you all for himself.

If he was good as a god, then blessing himself with a wife who was a gift from the most beloved goddess was his right.

He can smell lemons and salt. And wondered if he inhaled the nubile skin of your neck and hair if then he’d find the source of it. Made him want to bite down on that supple neck and leave his mark-

“An unlikely source for a traitor do you not think so, General?” He asks.

General doesn’t answer but his expression is very telling. “My spies tell me she was not in the capital for two days before the suspected treason.” He offers.

Your stomach lurches, manages to tie itself into knots. Clammy sweat prickles your brow and your neck.

“Maybe she wasn’t aware of the plot. An unwilling participant dragged into the sordid scheme.” Geta speculates.

No answer comes from you still.

“Is she mute? I certainly heard her screams well enough at the coliseum.” He mocks. Impatient.

“Speak. Your Emperor demands it.” The General barks at you. You flinch at his sudden raised voice. Finally trailing your eyes from the mosaic tiles.

“I am not mute. Your majesty.” You explain. Feeling the tickle of humiliated tears at your eyes.

“I can offer no plea for innocence, except the truth that I had no knowledge as to my fathers schemes.”

Because no such schemes existed. Macrinus should be here in chains instead of you. The lying snake. He orchestrated the whole thing.

Geta savours your words. Drinks them in the way he’d taste wine. Rolls them around in his mouth.

He merely nods slightly. You hold your breath for his response.

“Come.” He sneers. “There’s something I want you to see.”

He guides you across to the huge marble pillars which guarded the open mouth of the balcony.

You walk behind him and come to the balustrade of white marble. Peering over the ledge. Out into the courtyard below where a cluster of soldiers and horses are gathered close.

“The soldiers will ride on my command.” He tells you. Sick delight in the power he wields.

When they pull away, and the sight below is exposed to you, your entire body wrenches forwards. Desperation grips you violently. A cry shattered out your throat.

They were going to quarter your father before your very eyes.

He stood, small and beaten, blood pouring from a gash to his head, in a filthy cloth tunic, because they’d humiliated him. Had him stripped of his noble senate robes.

His limbs each tied to separate riders on separate horses. When they galloped off in different directions, he would be torn to pieces. Barbaric.

Through a blackened eye and a swollen brow your father gazes up at you. Despair on his face. A once strong man brought so very low. It wounds you.

Geta is drinking in your every expression. The full horror and pain writ across your pretty face.

“No. No, mercy, please. Your majesty. I beg of you. Mercy.” You babble.

Eyes wide with desperation. Voice breaking as surely as your heart was. Cracking in two in your chest. Sharp as glass shards. Clinking to pieces sharp enough to make your insides bleed anew.

“Why should I spare a liar? Salacia?” He asks you. “Why should I not make an example of what happens to traitors in my court…” He demands. Eyes locked on you.

“He’s offered me things I don’t want or need to delay his death. Money. Information. I cannot help but feel it’s inevitably drawn him closer to it.”

He raises his hand, calmly. You sob. The riders bolt to attention. One more move and that would be it.

You flew for him. Unrestrained. Desperate. Willing to beg on your knees if needs be. You put yourself in front of him. Put your hands to him.

The General and his guards drew swords and came close. Geta turned and and ushered them back with a harsh wave of his fingers. He was enjoying this too much. The nature of despair- the clammy stench of desperation pouring off you like ocean waves.

You could only think of one instance that might appease his lust for blood-

Dying in the place of your elder for his crimes was all you had. All you clutched in your empty injured hands.

“Let me take his place. Put the bonds on me instead. Let me take his punishment. Make me the example.” You beg. Tears shiver and fall down your cheeks. Burning drips of salt spear at your lash-line.

In your desperation you cling to Getas chest. Your nails raking gold and the fine threads of the fabric coat he wore. He didn’t seem to mind. He seemed amused by it.

“Little Salacia.” The way he used your name with a brazenly satisfied smirk altered something in you.

An arm winds itself around your hip. Cups the back. Pressed a bruise that you want to hiss in pain at. But can’t.

His other hand rings your neck. Ghosts his thumb over the curve of your chin. Smearing tears with the gold and jewels on his fingers. You gasp. Air emptying out your lungs in one fell swoop.

“You have so much more to offer your Emperor than your death.” He says quietly. His meaning became intimate. Wrapped in insinuation.

Your mouth opened, no sound came. Your lower lip trembles. You glance down at your father who is crying. Straining, wrenching forwards at his bonds. Desperate to keep you from this.

Geta takes his hand and runs his hand through one knotted lock of it for a moment. Leaning in to savour the smell of you. He moans with it.

Definitely lemons. Mixed with something briny salt, the ocean. In odes to your name.

Your father sees this. The closeness. The insulation that this man would take you. He shouts from his bonds below. Begging.

“By the gods, spare her.” He cries.

“Not my daughter. It is my crime. Take me. I am here. Take me!”

With your father and oldest brother dead, your mothers and sisters would be destitute. They would be reduced to beggars. Brought low. With him alive they were respectable- reduced in honour perhaps, but at least they’d live.

Tears bite at your eyes. You let them. Blink them away.

“What’s say you? My patience is wearing thin…” Geta bullies. Hand dropping from your hair.

It pushes you to act.

“Servitude of my body. I will enslave myself to your every whim. Emperor.” You say through tears. Every sordid whim.

“Exile him.” Youoffer.

Geta’s eyes gleam to that. Intrigued. You would exile and dishonour your own father?

“Exile him from Rome and the Senate, and send him back to Corsica to be with my mother and sisters. Where he is needed.” You implore.

“And what of you, how will you serve me?” He drawls.

“I will stay here and act as your servant in whatever manner you wish.” You accept.

“I have servants. Little nymph. I don’t require any more servants. I don’t need whores or courtesans. What I do require, however, is a wife. One who will give me strong heirs.” He smiles. Clutching your hip in a strong, thick fingered hand.

Your throat constricts. Tears squeeze. As if he’s fisted a hand around your throat and squeezed and choked until you gave. Melted into his hands pliant.

Geta has you exactly where he wanted you. As he planned.

“I need your word you’ll spare him if I agree.” You counter. Eyes hard as diamond tips. Still watery and half logged in tears.

“My word is bond. He will leave this city unharmed.” He assures. Displeased at your doubt.

Clever little nymph, too. To bargain with a god.

Asking an Emperor like him to pledge his fealty. Were you any other commoner he’d have your tongue cut out for that insolence.

Then again, cornered creatures will snap and bite and claw for survival. They will do anything.

“Then I agree.” You cry. “I accept.”

His smirk grows. Wolfish. Unsticking a coil of hair from the blood on your cheek. And he’s close. Too close for your comfort.

“You will be my Empress.” He decides.

“My wife and my property. I will own you in every manner there is. You will give me healthy sons that will dethrone my brother.”

Those words make you shrivel inside.

What have you just agreed to. You may have delayed your fathers demise. But it appears you’ve just turned the sword aimed his way to your belly. Chalked a target on your own back instead- an eye for an eye-

He turns, keeping you in his hold, he lowers his hand.

“Exile that snake out of Rome. This instant-“ He orders sharply. “Take him to the city walls and tell him never to return or I will have his head on a platter for me and my wife.”

You watch with thinly veiled relief as the guards come in to cut his bonds and drag him by the collar.

You want to run to him. You want to embrace him and tell him to return to mother with kind words and love. He is dragged away out of sight.

Bleeding and battered. But safe.

You lock eyes. Same colour as yours, shaded ocean, surrounded by bloated skin and blood sheeting his face. Cut with paths of tears rolling down, before he is gruffly marched away. Dazed, bound, and bleeding. He is choking on his sobs too.

You didn’t even get to say goodbye. Nothing. No familial words. No kindness.

He was torn from you. Now your every whim is stolen away. Dictated by this man. This cruel stranger. One who would bed you and keep you cowed like a broodmare.

You stood there. Watching down on the scuffled marks in the dirt where he’d once been. Dust clouding. Now empty. It seemed like an illusion. Had it all just passed like air. Like a warm sea breeze. Your life altered in one brief moment of mercy and begging.

Geta turns to his General. “You are dismissed. Leave. Go win my wars.” He sneers curtly.

Acacius took his leave with a frown and a bow. Look directed to you as he did. “Emperor. Empress.”

The Emperor snapped his fingers. And within seconds, servants scurried silently from other rooms. A handful of maidens came. Long hair unbound. Robes of orange and blue. He snapped his orders at them. They folded their hands in front of themselves. Heads low as they obeyed.

“Escort my new bride to her chambers. Have her bathed and made presentable. Put her in something decent. We will marry at dusk.” He informs. Glancing you up and down with a leer.

“Then she will grace my bed. Doing her duty like a proper wife.”

He strides over to you where you stand on the balcony, the marble thing holding you up. All strength sapped. Your knees and arms and bones were water. Not marrow.

It was always foam whipped off the waves that made you up. And now you sagged with it. Plaint and drowning. A sad drowned maiden in her brook. A doomed saint of the sea.

“Leave her hair unbound. I like it down.” He orders. Wrenching his hand to the back of your neck. You wither under his touch. He senses this.

“Be grateful. I spared your filthy treasonous father. But I can still make your existence an unpleasant one if I choose.” He warns.

He leans close to claim your mouth in a kiss so sudden and brazen it makes you weak.

His lips are pillow soft and anything but delicate. His tongue seeks your mouth, licks the blood off the healing cut. Moans sordidly when he does. He kisses like a starving hound.

A trail of spit connects your mouths when he pulls away. He smears it to your chin with a finger. Rubs his essence into your skin to stay forever stained.

“I eagerly await to taste more of you later. Empress. Don’t disappoint me. It’s not a wrath you want to risk.”

“Yes, Emperor.” You sigh.

He leaves you so quick, you almost keel over. The servants wait patiently to escort you out in his absence.

In the faraway sky, over the capital, new clouds sag and bloat. Darkly stalking across the once clear blue. The sky turns to grey and churning clouds. It’s too bad you couldn’t see the sea. You had a feeling there would thrashing, heaving storms and waves double the size of these damned palace walls.

Thunder crashes in the distant gathering dark. The ocean wanted you back. Neptune’s rage for the loss of you. You picture home. Humble white walls. The wind so fierce it ripped petals clean off the climbing vines of jasmine. The lemon trees swaying and rocked violently. News of treason and abduction reaching your sisters’ horrified ears. Your mothers cries in situ with the storm.

You watch at the sky until rain pelts the marble walls like lashes. Rain dots your skin. Cold stroking your hair and shoulders. Marring dark blue arrows down your ruined dress. Maybe you’re grieving-

A servant girl has to hook a hand on your shoulder and kindly try to urge you inside. Your tears entwined with the howling rain. It feels like that’s all that’s left of you.

~

Tagging in the hopes this finds its way to the right people- thank you--

@ceriseheaven @lurkingprincess @ramona-thorns @joequinnswhore @iliveforotps @eddiesskittle @roosterisdaddy36 @rose-tinted @lluviamg06 @ravensfromvalhalla @fujiihime @youaremyfamiliar @captain-tch @ghosttownwherenoonegoes @svenyves @sammararaven @feralgoblinbabe @groupie-love-71 @andromeda-andromeda @gvtosbith @munsonswhoresposts2 @shenevertricks1831 @hazzaismyreligion @harrys-titties @anaisweird @cinnamoncunt @red-lipstick-bisexual @wheels-of-despair @tvserie-s-world @callmeloverr @ho-for-joequinn-fics @bettyfrommars @rip-quizilla @songforeddiemunson @usedtobecooler @peachesandfiends @littlelioncub43 @heyndrix @babybluebex @blueywrites @joejoequinnquinn @cool-nick-miller @sheneedsrocknroll92 @rehfan @pedgito @dracomaledicte @gamingaquarius @mypoisonedvine @sharp-and-swift @chaptersleftunwritten

[agendabymooner]

"slut" ! charles l. x ofc (filo!celebrity!ofc)

"we'll pay the price, i guess."

summary: charles leclerc's ex trashed on his new girlfriend, who was his friend first before she became a lover. charles and the fans didn't stand for that kind of behaviour.

OR his ex tried to compare herself to louella lourdes villar, but even charles knew that no one could compete with her. after all, he wouldn't write songs with anyone unless the melody fit perfectly with his rhythm. (based on this request)

content warning: use of explicit language, ofc's discography is based on taylor swift, toxic!fictional ex (maddie lisandro) is not a girls' girl, hateful comments from ex, charles and ofc being each other's "homie hopper", wingman!arthur mentioned

note: i've tried my best anon 😭 it's my reading week so i'm gonna get one more homework out of the way and try to write as much stuff as a girl can do!! enjoy xx

a - n masterlist

o - z masterlist

i. "homie hoppers" but it's just a vice versa thing

ii. charles the muse

iii. haters gonna hate, shake it off

iv. made in monaco

tagged charles_leclerc

liked by pierregasly, estebanocon, arthur_leclerc

arthur_leclerc when the songs aren't depressing and not charles-coded >>> liked by louellalourdes

lorenzotl congratulations ella bella!!! i hope you do well in the job! ❤️ liked by louellalourdes

louellalourdes merci enzo!

pierregasly new best friend on the grid 🤩 liked by louellalourdes

estebanocon see you soon mon ange! liked by louellalourdes

user1 she's doing side quests what-

user2 how tf do you go from being an actress in the philippines to writing and making songs to working for formula one? 😭

user3 connections. connections we don't have

user4 if girlie is a barbie she'd be a "you can do anything" type 😕 liked by louellalourdes

alpinef1team have fun controlling those two 😩 i believe in you lou! liked by louellalourdes

louellalourdes i already got them on a leash don't worry admin! 🥰

alpinef1team stan lou villar for clear skin 🙌

charles_leclerc glad to work with you, bebe ❤️ liked by louellalourdes

louellalourdes my favourite co-writer 💅

[translation: i'm very proud of my darling.]

tagged louellalourdes

liked by lorenzotl, arthur_leclerc, maxverstappen1

user1 CHARLOU ERA 😩

user2 my guy went from wanting to hop his homie to writing love songs with his homie-turned-lover ❤️

arthur_leclerc too many Ls and none of them belong to ella bella 😩

user3 it's okay you can say maddie lisandro

arthur_leclerc hehe

user4 BRO WHY YOU BEEFING WITH THE EX ARTHUR 😭

landonorris tell her that i love her new album please 😳 liked by charles_leclerc

charles_leclerc she said she can also sign the vinyl

landonorris can she give me new merch too?!!!

louellalourdes how much money do you earn per year again landonorris?

user5 YES BBY HUMBLE THEM

alex_albon i just want an autograph 👉👈

charles_leclerc since you asked nicely 🤩

maxverstappen1 charles stop exploiting her

charles_leclerc she has all of the clout 😕

user6 these millenials are making me cringe actually stfu charles 😭

user7 no deadass i'm actually physically cringing- don't say "clout" ever again

louellalourdes merci my love ❤️ liked by charles_leclerc

[hazelfoureyes]

Ugh. Fuck. You set the Alastor smut bar pretty fuckin high, ya know?

At that point I'm at mercy of two smut authors, you being one of them.

I try to find m o r e, but everytime I start to read something and see Alastor OOC, I'm just like "oh for fucks sake. I can't fap to this... *opens your master list and mumbles to herself* fuckin' Hazel... I swear to fuckin' god..."

Are you aware that you're wielding the power of writing one of the best smutty Alastors on that side of tumblr? Not only character-, but also situation-wise.

A great, captivating reads overall.

I shook your hand, now I'm damned forever.

Fuckin' smut chain 'round my neck, and your hand holding the other end.

And I hate that I love it so much.

I feel powerful! Alastor has Husk and Niffty, Ive got you 💖⛓️ okay so it MEANS ALOT TO ME because I’m the same! I settle into a smut and it gets crazy OOC and I’m like “well I can’t get off to this 😩”

You flatter me and got me all giddy over here 🥺

I’m your smut dom??

ଳ⊹₊ ⋆ masterlist

[4pfsukuna]

I uh have an announcement.

How would yall feel about about a satosugu threesome with reader? Like itll be the filthiest smut youve probably ever read… honestly ive already written 3k words and im only 1/4 of the way done heres a tiny piece.

“Shes also been extra angry lately all she wanted was some fun time with us—“ Gojo begins to guilt trip him but Suguru being the sly talker he is cuts him off moving to the table in front of you watching as another finger gets added inside of you.

“Oh ‘m sorry sweetheart, can you forgive me” he coos pulling his hair into a bun and you knew what that meant.

“No!” And while Gojo smacks your clit telling you to play nice Suguru dangerously licks his lips enjoying the sight of his two brats teasing him and toying with another. His dick twitches at the sight and it doesnt go unnoticed Gojo slaps your clit with more force making you squirm until your hips spasm and youre moaning his name indicating youre the first of the 3 to cum.

“Suguru why dont you show her how sorry you are and lick her clean” and neither of you are sure when Gojo took control but the sexual charge in the room was thick and if you two were working together then Suguru was happily at your mercy.

He rushes forward tongue darting out to lap up your juices while Gojo plays with your nipples through your tshirt. He moans as his lips wrap around your sensitive bud and you nearly lurch forward but Gojo keep you tightly against him pulling your chin to lock lips with his puffy ones. Getos tongue flicks against your clit as he pushes in two thick fingers your legs almost locked around his head which never bothered him but gojo forces your legs open with his right hand and adds two of his own long skinny fingers in your tight whole with Suguru. 

Your hips begin to buck madly against both of your lovers fingers a crazed smile on your face as you chase your orgasm both men in a trance at your sexual bliss. Sugurus left hand grips Gojos length matching the pace making sure you both knew how sorry he was  as he sucks harder on your nub.

“Youre doing so good princess, taking both of our fingers so well.” Gojo praises watching how you falter. Oh you were such a whore for being praised and an even bigger one when they both worshiped your body. 

“Oh you like having both of our fingers in your tight little cunt, huh? I can feel you clenching…shit… you look so pretty like this fuck i want to be in your pussy so deep and feel you squeeze around my cock like that fuck” he groans and satoru was always vocal but right now his words were going straight to your core at the complete filth he was spouting. You needed him badly. 

“Fuck Suguru” he groans in your neck at the way suguru squeezes his length precum spilling onto his hand.