#like i only used her picture for her hair not her

[areyougonnabe]

SO YOU WANT TO VISIT THE SCOTT POLAR RESEARCH INSTITUTE ARCHIVES

Step One - Preparing

Use the Archives database to find the exact manuscript items you want to see. It's kind of hard to use so make sure A) you're on desktop and B) you're dragging the little gray sidebar out to the left to see the full list of contents of a given collection.

Then select the documents - each individual document or group of documents you want should begin with "MS" like this - and copy them into a note or document

Now you can out the open dates on the archive booking request page and book yourself a desk for one or multiple days. Copy your document list into the form when they ask what you'll want to look at. Don't worry, if you run out on the day or add more to your list in the meantime, you can request more stuff when you're actually seated at the archives

You do not need to be a university affiliated scholar to book a desk.

SPRI has been visited by amateurs, obsessives, cranks, and enthusiasts since before you were born. Rest assured you are FAR from the least qualified or weirdest person to step foot in the archive room (cough HUNTFORD)

Step Two - The Trip

Get yourself to Cambridge, UK! There is LOTS of stuff to do there besides the SPRI (pronounced "spry", not "spree") so for your first visit I'd recommend booking a whole weekend stay.

I would ALSO recommend going with a polarhead friend!!! You can split accommodation and also have someone to squee with which is very important

Apart from the SPRI museum itself (separate from the archives, quite small but worth an entire morning to just browse and buy stuff at the gift store) I would recommend The Fitzwilliam Museum, Kettle's Yard, & The Sedgwick Museum for museums, Fitzbillies for delicious cream tea and fancy brunching, Ark & G. David Bookstore for gifts. (But those are just my personal faves and I'm sure people have tons of other recs if you ask!)

The SPRI archives kick you out at lunch for an hour so I'd recommend taking a lap of the main university area, grabbing a snack and stumbling upon delightful spots on your own during that time.

Step Three - The Archives

The archives are run by Naomi. There used to be two Naomis so we called her "archives Naomi" but now there is just the one. She has gray hair and glasses and pretty much knows everything about everything although is very low-key about it.

Naomi will greet you when you arrive in the tiny archives room, hand you some forms to sign (and pay, if you want to take photographs it's £5), and then give you a printed out list of all the stuff you requested.

You'll indicate which item on the list you want to look at first, and she'll go back into the archives and bring out that item in a folder.

If it's a bound book you can use one of the pillow things and a snake to keep the pages open. If it's a flat document like a letter, you'll use your bare hands very carefully to turn the pages - make sure to keep them in order.

If it's a photograph or physical image, first of all you'll get it from Lucy the picture archive person instead of Naomi, and second of all you'll have to use gloves.

Most documents like letters you can take your own photographs of freely (as long as you've paid your £5). Some documents are restricted, whether because they're Xeroxes of documents held elsewhere or for other reasons — those you can't photograph and can only view & transcribe in person. You also can't photograph images but reproduction for personal use begins at £50 PER IMAGE and I could kvetch about that forever but whatever.

The rule for diaries is that you can photograph 10% of the pages of them. Yeah man I don't know.

When you're done with a particular document you'll put it back in its folder and get Naomi's attention (she's in the same room separated by a glass partition and you just kind of have to wave her down) and she'll go get you the next item. If and when you run out of items you can ask for more, or be done for the day and go hang out in the gorgeous library!

TIPS AND TRICKS

Naomi can be a little intimidating at first but if you are simply polite and normal and interested, she may deliver you Special Treats from her proprietary archivist's catalogue which is not available to the public. This didn't happen to me until my third visit and it felt like unlocking a relationship level in a videogame :')

Have your computer open next to you so that you can quickly transcribe stuff, make notes, and scan the catalogue for anything else you need. I've found I've always ended up ordering more stuff day-of, usually when something I requested turns out to be boring or not useful.

If you are not able to get to SPRI physically, they don't have a lot online which is frustrating - but instead of paying the exorbitant scanning fees, try asking on social media about a particular document. There's a chance one of us heads has been there and looked at it already and has the photographs/transcripts you need!

Publishing: if you want to use quotes from any archive documents in a blog post or published work (like.. other than a tumblr post, something professional lol) you need to send in a form. The form is hard to find so you're best off asking Naomi to email you the blank form before you leave the archive.

and lastly don't forget to say hi to Deb and admire the beautiful facade of the building!!!!!

that's all, HAPPY ARCHIVING!

[ekkkkey]

there will be games! (chapter II)

summary: Cassandra, a quiet and loyal wife to the much older Senator Tiberius, accidentally attracts the unsettling attention of Emperor Caracalla at a lavish feast hosted by Senator Thraex...

warnings: 18+ minors dni, noncon, dub-con, non-consensual drug use, when the emperor is a bit insane, mommy issues, daddy issues, every kind of issues—this little shit has them all (he’s so cute)

word count: 5k words

chapter I

«No woman could feel safe if her beauty or name aroused the emperor's curiosity.»

-Suetonius, The Twelve Caesars (Caligula, Chapter 36)

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She didn't want to get out of bed, didn't want to leave their room, all she wanted was to go home. Not to their new villa in Rome, not even to her husband's old house. Cassandra longed for her childhood home, with her father and sisters, where she could always be the little girl.

"You're an early bird today," Tiberius said, waking and stretching towards her.

Her heart skipped, her palms sweaty with worry.

"Those who apologize properly deserve forgiveness, don't they, little bird?" - another voice, deceptively tender but promising nothing good, echoed in her mind.

Cassandra wrapped herself tighter in the sheet, licking her lips, hiding her body from her husband, not wanting his touch.

"I slept poorly. And I don't feel well. When will we return home?"

Tiberius got up, his brief morning tenderness replaced by his usual sour mood.

"When the games end. Not before. I've got business."

Normally gentle and shy, she never argued with him, but this time, she tossed the sheet aside and jumped up, chasing after him, desperate to talk face-to-face. Her hands shook. She pictured herself – pale, nervous, dark circles under her eyes, hair a mess, more like a madwoman than a loving wife. Ashamed of her sudden anger, Cassandra covered up again.

"I feel awful, I'm nauseous, could it be a child, Tiberius?" she tried to elicit some sympathy, pressing her hand to her stomach.

She couldn't stand another moment in the palace.

"Tell me, wife, what troubles you so much?" - he took a step forward. She had never truly feared him, but suddenly realized that after yesterday, both he disgusted her and she feared him. It was his fault! Everything that happened to her was his fault!

"I'm really not well."

"And where better than the emperor's palace to find a good physician?"

Realizing her words were futile, she slumped back on the bed's edge, and Tiberius knelt in front of her, resting his cheek against her leg.

"The emperor," he began, "Emperor Caracalla, he's ill. His mind is rotting, just like his body, so you won't find better physicians here. Should I call someone for you?"

Cassandra couldn't breathe, pulling away from her husband, standing up in a daze, not caring about her nudity. Even when servants walked in, she didn't cover up, lost in dark thoughts.

Emperor Caracalla's mind was afflicted by a disease? What kind of disease? She knew nothing about medicine and couldn't even guess. Did this make him more dangerous, or was his nature already cruel and violent? His smirking face flashed in her mind, his mood swings, his smile turning to a sneer...

Cassandra flinched when someone touched her from behind. She quickly scolded herself.

"Stop, he won't burst into your chambers while you're with your husband!" - she repeated, but she didn't believe it, if he wanted, he'd take her right in front of Tiberius, and no one would stop him.

She spent the entire morning trying to comfort herself, but her anxiety only grew. First, Tiberius noticed the purple bite on her skin. She managed to excuse it, saying he'd had too much wine and hadn't been gentle with her in bed. He believed her.

She was horrified again when the slave girls began to dress her.

"This isn't my clothing!" - the fabrics were too vivid and fine, and they...they smelled of aromatic oils and powder.

"Not yours, true, but we'll be here for some time, and until your clothes arrive from the villa, you need something to wear, don't you?" her husband murmured, looking at her like a piece of art. "You can't just walk around naked, can you?"

She would have preferred to parade through the palace entirely naked rather than willingly wear the clothes and jewels Caracalla had sent her, fully aware of how pleased he would be. Yet, the problem was, her nude debut would have left him equally pleased.

The stands were louder than ever, and only when they entered the imperial box did she understand why. The Colosseum was flooded!

They were late due to her distraction and sluggishness; if she had her way, they wouldn't have come at all, but there she was, seated behind Lucilla once again.

Despite the excitement of the ship battles, the clanging of metal, her eyes kept falling on the red-haired head before her.

Neither emperor acknowledged their arrival, too absorbed in the spectacle, and while Geta later gave her husband a nod of recognition, Caracalla didn't even turn around. Anger simmered in her chest. For him, last night was nothing, but for her...For her, it had haunted her all night and morning. All her thoughts were trapped in those wretched, humiliating moments.

Why did he seem to have forgotten while she, cursedly, remembered every touch? Remembered his hands were soft and hot, his scent sweet, almost intoxicating... And, of course, she remembered the bitter humiliation from his words, from how he touched her, and that Emperor Geta had watched it all.

Cassandra pressed hard on her palm where the wound was healing, trying to push away the memories. She wouldn't let him occupy her mind as well.

Yet, she couldn't relax, pandemonium broke out in the box when the ships came too close and an arrow hit the column between the emperors' chairs. The last thing she heard before Tiberius pulled her out was Emperor Geta's piercing scream.

The palace was buzzing with unbearable noise, the feast meant for evening had transitioned into the day, though the servants were not fully prepared.

Cassandra stood by a column, wine cup in hand. Her husband had left her again, off with General Acacius. The emperors were nowhere to be seen, nor were most of the Senate.

"How many do you think will be executed today?" she heard a quiet female whisper.

"I wouldn't be surprised if the emperor ordered all the gladiators on the field to be gutted," another voice answered, "you know how he is, insatiable!" A burst of giggling followed, and Cassandra stopped listening, embarrassed by the direction of their conversation.

She understood that for many, winning the emperors’ favor was a dream. But for her? She was a married woman who had spent her youth cultivating a sense of duty, loyalty, and responsibility. Why, then, had the gods abandoned her? Faithful and devoted as she was, they had thrown her to their earthly incarnations to be torn apart.

"More wine, domina?" a slave girl dutifully refilled her goblet.

The girl was young, dark-skinned, and beautiful, with large, intelligent eyes. Cassandra noticed the gilded collar around her slender neck and suddenly felt an invisible, soft, and hot hand squeezing her own throat. In a rush, she took a large gulp, wincing at the bitter taste, then handed the cup back.

"No more, thank you," she said, licking her lips nervously, knowing she wouldn't find peace in this cacophony.

"Are you not well, domina?" the girl asked, worry in her voice.

"I just...I need some time alone," she muttered quickly, stepping away from the column, only to stagger and clutch her head. What was happening to her?

"Do you want me to take you somewhere quiet, domina? You can rest and come back later," the girl didn't wait for an answer, guiding her by the elbow out of the room. Such audacity from a slave was unheard of, but Cassandra was too rattled and her head was spinning.

"Where are we going?"

They navigated past the throne room into a small, almost secretive chamber. The ceiling wasn't as high, the columns much less grand, the lighting dim and gloomy, and in the center stood a white altar, adorned with gold. In her parents' home, next to her room, there was a similar one, much more modest, of course, but dear to her heart, where she had prayed to her late mother.

"Wait outside," the words were both a sentence for her and an order for the slave.

She wanted to scream. Of course, he was here. No one was to be trusted, even the slave's kindness was a trap—cruel and painful. Was she truly nothing more than a prisoner here, a powerless plaything to entertain the young emperor?

Every time she saw him, he seemed like a different person. He was dressed in black and gold, with a golden laurel crown and an earring. Gold, gold, gold! She despised its gleam, for in it, she saw him.

Huddled against the wall, she stood frozen, afraid to move. The emperor did seem different this time—melancholic and contemplative. His pale eyes were unusually clear and sober as they met hers.

"What did you tell your husband?" His voice was different too: calm, measured. That made it all the more terrifying. Cassandra couldn’t read his mood from his face.

"Nothing, Caesar," she whispered, afraid to speak louder, as if his calm depended on it.

Caracalla turned to the altar, studying it as if seeing it for the first time. She held her breath, watching the golden laurel shimmer in the torchlight.

"Come closer."

His tone was pensive, his light brows furrowed, his lips pressed into a thin line. The moment she stepped closer, the emperor’s gaze shifted to her. It slid from her neck, lower, along the colorful tunic she wore.

"My mother used to wear this," he said. To her surprise, his right hand was bare of rings as he brushed the fabric over her chest lightly, almost tenderly. His eyes stayed locked on hers.

Though still afraid, it felt different from yesterday. Worse.

Why had he forced her to come here? Why had he dressed her in the clothes of his dead mother? Cassandra cast a desperate glance at the door, but he noticed immediately. The corner of his mouth twitched.

"She often came here," he continued, "prayed to the gods," his words were vague, her thoughts growing heavier, "do you pray often?"

"Yes, Emperor," she replied, though her mind was growing heavier, duller, as though lulled into a haze that numbed her fear.

"When was the last time?"

The conversation was bizarre, so unlike what had happened the night before. Feeling almost drunk, she answered without thinking, and that's when everything started to spiral.

"Today, when that arrow almost hit you," she said, breathing heavily, it was hot, like under the midday sun, "I prayed for the next one to hit."

Her tormented mind knew he would kill her now. That Caracalla would carry out his threats, destroy her and her family. But instead, he laughed.

Grinning, he patted her shoulder as if she’d told an excellent joke. Then the sharp pain of his hand striking her cheek brought her back to reality. He had slapped her! Tears welled in her eyes, her lips trembling, but she didn’t have time to cry. The emperor grabbed her face, squeezing her jaw painfully.

"You did drink it, didn't you? That wine they brought you?" Caracalla whispered, his voice low as he leaned closer, still holding her face. "Oh, you did! I can see it. Your dilated pupils, that empty stare, struggling to think straight, hard to control your tongue? I get it," in a mock tender gesture, he caressed the cheek he'd just slapped, "for those words, your pretty head should be on a spike outside the palace, shouldn't it? But you know the rules, if you apologize properly, I forgive."

With his thumb, he drew circles on her reddened cheek, moved to her lips, tracing their outline, forcing her to open her mouth by pressing down.

"You understand now, don’t you? The aphrodisiac in the wine you drank," he pushed his finger inside, making her lips encircle it, "I wanted to play differently, but..." his face twisted with anger, "everything went terribly wrong."

Her already rapid heartbeat quickened further, she whimpered helplessly, wanting to cry. He had made her take the drug and was now exploiting her helplessness, shamelessly tormenting her mouth.

"You should say thank you, shouldn’t you? Or did you enjoy last night more? Shall I call my brother?" he chuckled, once again reverting to his usual self.

Caracalla released her face but immediately pinned her against the altar, tilting his head up and gazing at her from beneath his lowered lashes, as if admiring her, smiling.

The torchlight reflected in his eyes, his tongue flicked between his red lips in anticipation. His hand caressed her shoulder, then he removed the pin holding the fabric.

"Did the old senator fail to notice that his dear little wife isn't really his anymore?" he sneered, his fingers trailing down to the mark he'd bitten into her skin the night before, pressing down, aiming to cause as much discomfort as possible. Caracalla's breath grew heavier, his eyes followed every flicker of emotion on her face, every slight movement she made.

"I told him it was his fault... that he drank too much..." The confession fell from her lips without thought, her mind too clouded to hold it back.

"Ah! How unfortunate, and once again, the Senate takes credit for the emperor's work! But you'll comfort me, won't you?" His lips were so close, she felt his hot, uneven breath, saw his pupils, as black as hers, the smeared shadows making his eyes feverishly gleam with madness. Her gaze only darted down to his lips for a moment... and he pressed against her, pulling her into a kiss.

His hands seize her waist, gripping and tormenting, not just her body but her very soul. If she could cry, she would, but there's no energy left, only his greedy, hot mouth. To her, a kiss was something far more intimate, far more sacred than carnal union, promising tenderness and love...And even that he steals from her, kissing her shamelessly, wetly, pressing so hard she feels his hardness against her thigh.

"Let's continue our lovely conversation," he pulls back, his mouth trailing down to her neck, kissing and biting, "tell me, did Tiberius ever get you this wet?" His hand slides between her legs, rubbing through the fabric. "Even once?"

"No," she whimpers, trying to close her legs.

"Keep acting innocent, and I'll call the Praetorians to keep your legs spread wide, is that what you want?" his rough whisper burns her ear, his earring brushing her lips.

Cassandra shook her head, public humiliation was something she couldn't handle.

"Good. Obedient and well-behaved, just as a respectable matron should be," he purrs, his hand lazily caressing, more relishing her embarrassment than her body, "if you want, you can call me your husband!"

His sharp laugh slices through the narrow room.

"Undress," he commanded, his laughter gone, "I'm not going to fuck you in my mother's clothes, am I?"

She thought after all the pain, the threats, the violence, he couldn't hurt her more, but each time, it still cuts deep. With trembling hands, she hurriedly sheds her tunic, then her undergarments, laying them out as treasures, while he watches. His gaze is fixed, nostrils flaring, Cassandra sees him stroking himself under his tunic. Her cheeks burn, her clouded mind finally grasps it - he's going to take her right here, in this holy place, before ancestors and gods. Her soul will be damned, even in death!

"Touch yourself, feel how wet you are," his voice is husky, breathless, "you should be grateful to me for that, shouldn't you? That's what I've been talking about."

Head bowed, she slides her fingers between her legs, horror dawning as she realizes he's right. But why? The drug? The notion that he aroused her with his aggressive kisses, his sharp bites, his lewd whispers, she dismisses in disgust. She didn't want him, she hated him!

Seeing her shock, Caracalla broke into a smile, fully aware of her thoughts. Abandoning his arousal, the emperor circled her nipple with his thumb, watching it harden under his touch.

"It's not surprising your husband doesn't stir your passions, look at yourself," his hand traces down her body, over her breasts, stomach, to her mound, pausing again between her legs, "you're more his daughter than his wife!"

His fingers gather her moisture, rubbing, making her despise her body's response.

"So, will you take your emperor?" he asks, not for permission but to keep the game going.

She can only nod, there's no other choice.

"Say it out loud," Caracalla whispers raggedly, pushing his fingers deep inside her. Now she understands why he took off his rings.

"Yes, Caesar, I'll take whatever you give me," with those words, the last vestiges of her pride are smashed, her genuine compassion and naivety destroyed.

He takes her with a sudden, harsh thrust, only to slow down to a lazy, almost indulgent rhythm. The air is stifling, hot; sweat drips down her thighs. The only sounds are the crackle of the torch, his ragged breathing, and the vulgar, wet slaps of skin meeting skin.

As if to disgrace her further, he grips the back of her neck, forcing her to look into his eyes as he picks up the pace again. Here he is—the protector and father of his people—bestowing his gifts. He's still clothed, no need to undress; the chain around his neck jingles with each movement, his crown slipping forward.

"Doesn’t this feel good, sweetling? Don’t you feel good?"

"Cassandra," she whispers, "my name is Cassandra."

He stops, looking at her with surprise, as if seeing her for the first time.

"Is it really that important for me to know your name, Cassandra?" he teases, playfully biting her earlobe. "Has the little wife fallen in love?"

How could he think that? Anger surges within her. Her attempt to claim some dignity crumbles! But her thoughts vanish as he thrusts into her sharply, fully, making her gasp and dig her nails into his shoulders. It’s the first time she’s touched him willingly. Her simple gesture spurred him on even more, forcing a quiet whimper from her as she buried her face in his shoulder.

"Next time your senator fucks you, think of me, little bird, understand?" his whisper turns into a moan. She's mesmerized by his parted red lips, his light lashes fluttering, his chest heaving. A few rough thrusts later, his grip on her waist loosens, and his seed floods within her.

He lets her go, adjusting his clothes, his breathing still heavy, but his gaze has changed. Having gotten what he wanted, Caracalla loses interest.

"If you're lucky, my seed will take root, and you'll give your husband an heir!" he chuckles, playfully flicking her nose as if she were a pet. "The wench will help you dress, don't forget, there’s a feast to attend!"

Caracalla leaves her, trembling, bare, and shattered. Tears finally come, and without strength, she slides down the wall, hugging herself. The worst is the sticky feeling between her thighs he left behind. If she were to conceive...

"Domina, you shouldn't sit like this, please stand, I'll help you," the slave girl who brought her here shows no emotion, no trace of sympathy in her eyes.

"Leave me!"

"Staying here is not an option, one must respect the dead," the girl nods at the inscription on the altar.

"Lucius Septimius Severus"

He had defiled her beside his father's ashes! Now, she lets her sobs escape freely.

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Hey! Thank you so much for the sweet feedback on the last chapter, I didn’t expect so many people to like my work, I’m really grateful! 💋 I promise the next chapter will be up faster (but it also depends on how this one does, your feedback means a lot to me and really inspires me).

[l0s3rd0wnt0wn]

LIKE WHAT??

Weird black neglected!reader

The readers fears

The reader is honestly terrified of looking like Bruce; he is your biological father, but nothing scares you more than getting older and having some random reporter say you have Bruce's nose. You'd probably fall apart at the thought, like shellshock—scared it may not even be in facial features, just how you carry yourself. The confident, cocky stride is only found in Bruce Wayne, and somehow, you seem to have it. When asking Alfred to help tie your tie for a gala, and when he finished, he stepped back and chuckled, hiding his mouth behind his knuckles.

"Oh, young master, you're starting to look just like your father when he was younger."

This fact leaves you in shambles, and you decide not to wear a tie that night, fearing someone might say something. You'd rather look like your mother than him; your biggest fear is that you might lose all your mother's features as you get older, looking more and more like Bruce. At one point, your friends told you that you have Bruce Wayne's smirk, and you didn't smile for a week. You used to deny looking anything like your father—the tall stature? Hey, Jason's taller! The long nose? It's not that long! The cocky attitude? You're just confident, no biggie!

You remember when you were younger, way before going to Wayne Manor, you had asked your mother what your father looked like? It made her giggle.

"You little noisy wart! You wanna see what Daddy looks like? Fine, I'll show ya. Come here." She went to her bedroom, pulled out an old worn photo album, and sat back down on the couch. She picked you up and sat you on her lap. She flipped through the pages in the album. You saw pictures of you as a baby, photos of your momma in college. They looked really old, but then again, you were really young. Then she stopped on the page smack dab in the middle.

"There he is, your daddy," It was an old picture of your mom and Bruce. Your mom looked young, slimmer, and less wrinkled, and beside her was... the infamous Bruce Wayne: piercing blue eyes, killer jawline, and a genuinely soft smile. It made you frown; you didn't look anything like him. Your skin was darker, your hair wasn't straight but curly, and your eyes weren't blue. There were more photos of him and your mother; she looked so much happier, or maybe it was your imagination.

"Are you sure? I don't think I look anything like him," you huffed in disappointment, just for your mother to smile and pull you closer.

"I don't think so; you have his cute little nose." She tapped your nose, making you cover it with a pout.

"And his strong chin," she tickled under your chin, which made you giggle.

"His lovely ears," she tickled behind your ears and neck.

"And those pretty, chubby cheeks!" She pinched your cheeks, and you fell into a fit of laughter, just before she hugged you and nuzzled your cheek with her rounded nose.

"Darling, you are just as handsome, if not more beautiful, than your father."

"I want to look like you more!" you shouted, making your mother giggle.

But those soft and sweet memories faded to black, and the more you thought about it and stared at a picture of your "father," the more you hated it. You didn't want to look like him; you didn't want to resemble a deadbeat lunatic who frightened people in the dead of night. You didn't want to have his voice or his brains; you didn't want to be compared to him at all. You were your own person with your own dreams and ambitions, your own thoughts and ideas. You aren't a Wayne, never were, never will be; you’re an [Last Name] for life. Even if you changed your surname after being in Bruce's custody, you still weren't a Wayne; you're not perfect; you're not an acrobat. You're not strong and buff; you're not that great with gadgets. You didn't drop out of high school to fight crime, and you weren't smart enough to do that. You weren't trained by killer assassins or raised to fight. Your dad wasn't a supervillain, and you sure as hell weren't some metahuman who could shoot lights from his hands. You were just a little weirdo who liked video games, anime, and comics, who would stay up late controlling your Sims, who spent their free time making stupid mods for fun, who had crude humor and was kind of an asshole. That was who you were; you were your mother's child. You had your mother's face, her smile, her laugh, and her soft brown eyes.

"[Name], you have such fabulous fashion! Where did you get it from?" a reporter said, pointing a camera and a mic right at your face; it almost gave you whiplash.

"Thank you, ma'am. I got it from my momma," you said with a small smile as you pushed the camera out of your face.

You'll never look like Bruce, no matter who said so. Sometimes, it irks your soul down to the core when you hear Damian now call you "Sister," "Brother," or "His older sibling." First off, you all were half-siblings, and second, you never considered that little gonk as your little brother. Maybe when you were younger, you thought so, but you're not that delusional anymore, and you barely see Bruce as a father. You're willing to have a whole argument about it, but it.

"We have Wayne blood running through our veins, [Name]," the little hellspawn would say every time you tried to blow him off.

"The only blood running through my veins is my mother's," you snarled. You are nothing like them or like him.

[bellesdreamyprofile]

Love Me Until I Love Myself - Benny Cross

summary: Y/N is insecure and benny finds a way to make her realize that she's worth everything

"— then I was thinking we could go for a ride. Wherever the bike takes us.", Benny said, glancing at you briefly. His fingers pinched the stained material of the menu, already picturing the two of you running away for the weekend. But you were distracted. You'd be all over the idea — the excitement would be evident.

"Y/N?", at the sound of your name, you turned your head to look at him and hummed. Your hand was supporting your chin as you took him in with raised brows. "For the weekend trip we usually do. This time, I thought we could just go with the flow?"

You nodded absentmindedly, your fingers brushing the menu in his hold. "Why not... So you takin' the smoothie with the fries or somethin' else today?", you asked slowly, aware of Benny's eyes burning on your face. He knew you weren't this unusually tired after a shift - you were never tired to hear about the adventures he had planned for the both of you.

Your finger pointed at the dish you had been looking for and showed it to Benny. "I want this.", Benny stilled, glancing your way again, yet decided to stop looking for answers in a blank canvas. You'd tell him when you were ready. He stood up and grabbed the menu, heading to the cashier to order food for the both of you. You leaned back and sighed, looking for a moment of stillness.

A giggle filled the air, making you glance up. It was the same group of girls that showed up at the exact time Benny would come pick you up from your shift. Sometimes they came in earlier, probably unaware of your schedule — but it was never to order anything. You knew they were there for him. Freshly blown hair twirled around manicured fingers, plump lips that let out little giggles — anything to catch his attention.

Benny placed the menu on the counter and pointed at the dish you wanted, the action making you smile a little. The waitress nodded and made her way into the kitchen and Benny took that opportunity to look at you. He shot you a quick smile, reserved for you and you only. You looked away as more insecurities made their way into your brain.

How could a man like that be with a person like me?

One of the girls whispered something in her friend's ear, the rest of them throwing glances at your Benny. Until one of them started walking towards him. Benny was leaning on his forearms, muttering something under his breath — having known him for a long time, you knew he was complaining about the speed of the service.

The pretty blonde tapped his shoulder, making him briefly flinch and turn to his right. You couldn't detach your eyes from what was unfolding in front of you. Would he join her? Would he leave you here all by your lonesome?

Benny realized it wasn't a familiar face and huffed. "You've got me confused with somebody else.", he said sternly and straightened up at the sight of the food being placed on the counter. "Thanks.", he muttered and pulled some cash out of his wallet. The blonde turned to her friends and gave them an exasperated look. He ignored her before she could even stutter a word.

"Waited hundred years for this.", Benny sat down and stole a fry from your plate. "It ain't that bad."

Your lips twitched at his comment, your fingers also grasping a fry. "Thanks, honey.", you dipped it in ketchup and brought it to your mouth. Benny kept informing you about your weekend plans - he was unusually talkative today - yet you couldn't shake off the little scene from before.

"Are you even listening to me?", his voice snapped you back to reality.

"Sorry, what?"

Benny huffed, gripping his drink and then raising his eyes to meet yours. "Did something happen at work? Did somebody do something? 'Cause I swear to—"

You sensed his anger and quickly interrupted him, gripping his forearm. "No, no, Benny. Nothin' happened at work, I promise.", you tried to reassure him as best as you could.

His gaze lowered. "I thought you liked them trips with the bike. Goin' where the road takes us...", the hints of insecurity made your heart clench. You wanted to slap yourself for making him doubt himself.

"No, baby—"

"Benny Cross?", your heads turned in the same direction, your grip on his arm faltering. It was the pretty blonde from earlier. Benny huffed, his eyes darting between you and her.

"Yeah, 's me.", he nodded and moved his attention to the drink in his hands. But your eyes remained on her, taking in her beauty, the self-doubt finally settling in. "You need something?"

The girl smiled at him and nodded. "Earlier, you said that I've got you mistaken for somebody else... I don't think I did. I'm Lilly.", another giddy smile took over her features.

Benny stilled, your pulse picked up and your lips parted. You felt his eyes on you, but you couldn't take your eyes off her. She was perfection, he was perfection. They belonged together. Not you and him. Just them. They—

"Can't you see I'm with my girl here?", he grasped your hand and squeezed it, the girl's eyes finally moved on you, acknowledging you after minutes of gawking at him.

"Oh.", she couldn't hide the disappointment in her voice. "Thought that was your sister."

Your cheeks heated up, the feeling of awkwardness and embarrassment too much to handle right now. Especially in the presence of two beautiful people. You stood up, both set of eyes on you, but you couldn't look at any of them anymore.

Letting go of a shaky breath, you tried to stand your ground. "I, uh, I gotta go... I'll see you later?", you nodded quickly and walked out of the café, utterly mortified at your spontaneous reaction.

Benny was sat there, brows furrowing in confusion at what just happened. Did you know the girl? Why did you react that way?

He cleared his throat. "Listen, Lizzy, you talk to me again and you'll regret it, alright?", and without adding anything else, Benny walked out of the café as well. His fingers twitched in desperate need of a cigarette. He looked around and you weren't there, making him groan. There was a reason as to why he picked you up every day and one of them was the reputation of this particular neighborhood.

His mind created every possible scenario, his eyes darting around and his lips muttering curses under his breath. Until he caught sight of you. You were sitting on some stairs, your hands covering your face and your figure shaking a little. You were crying.

The Vandal hesitated, not used to this emotional state, yet he approached you nevertheless. "Hey.", he murmured loud enough for you to hear. He took a seat beside you and wordlessly wrapped an arm around your shoulder. His eyes took in the texture of your soft hair, the chipped nail polish and at the trail that your tears left on your cheeks.

Beautiful.

"Baby?", no response came from you, so he decided to wait until you cried it out. Several moments later, your body stopped shaking and your hands found home on your lap, as you were pressed against Benny's body. His knuckle dared to brush your cheeks softly, trailing to your chin, raising it up gently.

He noticed your eyes were closed, a few tears collected on your eyelashes. His knuckle lightly brushed your lips and then he leaned in, kissing you with the gentleness only he could master. You forgot what you were so upset about for a hot minute.

His lips separated from yours sooner than you wished for, but your eyes finally opened, gazing into his deep blue ones. "I'm sorry.", you murmured, shaking your head.

"I just wanna understand, baby.", Benny Cross wasn't known for being a patient man, yet the way he was trying for you was truly admirable. Your heart ached at the hurt in his tone.

"It's just one of those days...", your eyes lowered and your hands fiddled with the zip of his leather jacket. "Where nothing is right and everything I do is wrong."

Benny hummed, nodding. "Does that girl have anything to do with that?", your moments stopped at his words, knowing that the only solution was being honest.

"She's pretty...", was what you could muster, feeling the embarrassment all over again. Benny's eyebrows furrowed in confusion. What the hell did that have to do with anything?

"I thought you stormed out 'cause she called you my sister.", his words made you shift uncomfortably.

"Well, that didn't help either.", Benny shook his head and took a good look at you. A beautiful woman like yourself was insecure?

"Baby... Goddamn, I-I've never met anyone like you.", he said honestly and you turned his way, raising your eyebrows at him. "I mean it. You think I'd plan trips with anybody? And on my bike?", his words about the heartfelt love for his bike made you chuckle.

"It's just... You could do so much better than me, Benny.", you shook your head at your trembling words. Right as you said them, his hand moved forward and squished your cheeks together.

"I know what's good for me, thanks for looking out for me, baby.", he said and placed a bruising kiss on your lips. He knew that being too gentle with you wasn't going to have its effect on you. You needed some aggressive love and he was ready to hand it to you.

"Your hair, your eyes, your smile, your bad jokes are what I'm in for—"

"My jokes ain't bad—"

"And you don't get to tell me that I deserve better, 'cause there ain't nobody better than you.", his stern tone made you tear up and sniffle. "You're my girl and you're the most amazing person I've ever met.", his grip on your face faltered, your lips pouting at the sweetness of his words.

"Benny..."

He grazed your cheek. "I'll show ya how beautiful you are once we come home.", the familiar warmth made its way on your cheeks, your eyes dared to look away. "I mean it, Y/N. You're everything."

And you believed him.

A/N: I can´t seem to be able to write anything happy these days 😫 hope you still enjoyed xx

MASTERLIST benny masterlist

austin butler phone case 🌼

[eggfriedricedwasian]

Ive seen things where people have kids who are dark haired and eyed at birth and turn light haired and eyes when they get older or vice versa.

I headcanon Janet with blonde hair and green eyes and Jack with black hair blue eyes.

Im using this on Tim.

Tim was born with blonde hair green eyes and looked like Jack as a baby, but when he got older, around 4ish, he turned black haired and blue eyed and started looking like Janet.

His parents were both in a love hate relationship with this change. On one hand they want him to have their colors and look like them...

On the other hand they miss when he used to look like the other parent.

Just imagine:

Tim going through old pictures in his gazillion boxes of pictures, the family is helping him.

"Who's this baby? Steph's?"

Someone asks. They look over to see Duke holding a photo of a blonde baby, smiling a gummy smile with curly blonde hair and green emerald eyes looking brighter than a kryptonian in the sun.

"No.. That's.. who is that baby?"

Steph asked very slowly. Guess they forgot to tell Duke that Steph's daughter was a sensitive topic amongst them.

"Steph gave up her daughter at birth, Duke. And it was a traumatic experience for her so we don't talk about it."

Bruce informed.

"O-Oh! I'm sorry."

"It's okay, you didn't know"

She waved him off with a smile, but everyone still wondered who the baby was.

"Tim?"

"Yeah?"

Tim replied from inside his closet. He walked out upon no reply, setting down another box filled with camera equipment and saw all their confused faces.

"Who's baby is this?"

Duke turned the picture and Tim looked at it closer.

"Oh!"

Tim smiled, taking it and putting it next to his face.

"It's me!"

He smiled just as bright as the baby, which happened to be him, in the picture.

.

.

.

"WHAT!?"

The family, including Alfred, stared jaw dropped shocked at the guy.

The baby in the photo, smiling oh so brightly like the sun, green eyed, blonde curly hair, with the cutest little red polka dot dress on, was Tim, who had straight-ish black hair and blue eyes, didn't smile as brightly as the moon, who only gave smirks and grins, and was wearing a long sleeves under a Limp Bizkit t shirt with very baggy jeans.

"Yeah.. Genetics! Ya know..?"

"Explain."

Jason demanded.

"Well, up until I was 4-ish I had my dad's face but my mom's green eyes and blonde curly hair, but then it turned black and my eyes turned blue and straight-ish and I started looking more like my mom."

He rubbed his neck sheepishly.

That started the searching of Tim's baby photos. They'd organize the Bat photos and the hero photos later, right now they needed to find all of the blonde hair green eyed baby Tim photos.

It was no secret that Tim was trans, so when all the photos of a little girl in dresses and skirts showed up they weren't phased. It was hilarious to see all the pouty faced pictured of Tim in dresses.

The photos did get put up around the house with Tim's (begrudgingly(willingly)) permission.

Dick wanted him to bleach his hair but he refuses to damage his hair.

But also imagine this:

The older that Tim gets, the blonde comes back. He still looks like his mom, but his slowly starts turning blonde again, and his eyes start having a greener tint/hue to it.

The first to notice was Bart.

Bart was braiding Tim's rather ling hair when he points it out.

"Hey Tim, your hair's got some blonde in it!"

"What?"

Tim runs to the mirror and looks in it. Yep. Sure enough his hair was growing some blonde strands. And now that he looked, his eyes looked more green than it's normal blue.

"Oh my gosh.."

He calls Bruce.

Bruce who was in a JL meeting.

"I'm in a meeting."

"B! Im going blonde again! Ans my eyes! They're turning green!"

Tim says, somewhat panicked, somewhat excited.

Bruce blanks. Because.. what. What do you mean his baby boy, who he loved staring at the blonde and green eyed baby pictures of, was resorting back to that color.

"...really?"

He asks very hesitantly at first.

"Yeah!"

Tim turns his head down, showing his scalp. And there, right there, were several prominent, yet blended, strands of blonde growing in a curl pattern amongst the straight black locks.

Bruce just about cries right then and there.

Because then Tim does a close up of his eyes. And yep. His eyes have a but of green in them.

"That's great, sweetie. But I'm in a meeting right now."

"Oh! Sorry!"

He hangs up.

Bruce doesn't.

He's still stuck on the call smiling like a sappy parent whose kid just did something so small yet so touching. There were tears in his eyes and none of the JL knew what to do.

[whatdoeseverybodywant]

Pieces of Her - Chapter Three

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site, even if you give me credit. DO NOT REPOST MY FICS

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All OC Characters belong to me

Summary: Five months away from her dream wedding, Kenya’s world is turned upside down and her heart is shattered leaving her heartbroken and confused.

Keyna sighed as she shut off her car and looked at the house before her.  She pulled the ultrasound out of the sun visor and stared at it. After taking the pregnancy test at her studio the other she called her doctor for an emergency visit. Her doctor confirmed that she was three months pregnant. 

She spent three days sitting with the news and debating whether she should tell Jon. She still hadn’t spoken to him since the night she left. He had called her a couple of times but she had let them all go to voicemail. 

Sighing, she ticked the ultrasound into her bag before getting out of the car and walking up to the front door. She didn’t know if she should knock or just use her key to get in. What if what Talisua said was true? What if Jon really had moved Trinity back into the house? 

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath before knocking on the door.  She didn’t have to wait long to hear someone on the other side of the door. A small smile was on her face as she heard the sound of nails tapping against the floor before a loud bark. 

“Zeus, chill.” She heard Jon grumble on the other side before the door opened. 

Jon looked shocked to see her. “Kenya?” he called out, lifting his hand to touch her. She flinched and he immediately put his hand back down. She couldn’t stop staring at him, he looked… bad. His beard was unkempt, his hair was greasy like he hadn’t washed it in weeks and he had dark circles under his eyes. 

Their staring contest broke when Zeus let out a loud bark, pushed past Jon, and jumped on Kenya. Kenya laughed as Zeus tried to lick her face, she gently pushed him back. 

“Zeus, chill,” Jon said again and whistled. Zeus stopped jumping on Kenya and walked back into the house. 

“Can I come in?” She asked

“Of course, this is still your house, too,” Kenya said nothing as she followed Jon into the house. She toed off her UGG slippers and walked into the living room. Jon followed behind her. He watched as she sat on the couch, her posture rigid, as if she would rather be anywhere but their shared home “How have you been?” He asked, his eyes still on her. “I missed you.” 

Kenya scoffed and reached into her bag to pull out the ultrasound. “Here.” 

She heard Jon suck in a deep breath as he took the ultrasound from her. With a shaky hand, he brought the picture up to his face. “This forreal?” he asked and she sucked her teeth. 

“I wouldn’t lie about no shit like this Jonathan.” Kenya snapped with a roll of her eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” Jon muttered. “I just wasn’t expecting this.”He was happy. Before everything happened, he and Kenya were trying to have a baby. Jon’s eyes lingered on the ultrasound, his hands trembling as he stared down at it, “How far along are you?” 

“Three months.” 

“This is good right?” Jon asked and Kenya turned her head to look at him. “Kenya this is so good, I- We can get back to how we used to be.” 

Kenya’s eyes flashed with pain, and she turned her head slowly to look at him. “How we used to be? Jonathan, you moaned your ex-fiancee’s name while you came inside of me! There is no getting back to what we used to be. I only told you because I didn’t want my child to grow up without a father.” 

“Kenya, please. I love you. I fucked up, but I can’t live without you” 

Kenya scoffed and rolled her eyes.  “Yeah, right. Your mom already told me what the deal is.”  Jon furrowed his eyebrows. “Your mom came to my studio last week, she told me to come and get all my shit from my house so Trinity could get herself comfortable in my house. That’s so fucked up Jonathan. Now you tryna tell me you can’t live without me?! Fuck off.” Kenya snatched the ultrasound from Jon’s hand and stood from the couch.  “I’ll text you to tell you my next appointment.” 

“Kenya!” Jon called out as he jumped from the couch and followed her to the front door. She didn’t stop though. She didn’t want to hear anything he had to say. “Please, just listen to me.”  

Kenya stopped walking and turned around to glare at Jon. “There is nothing left for you to say! I only came here to tell you about our child, nothing more.  I’m not doing this for us, Jon. I’m doing this because that’s what’s best for our child.” 

Jon stood there frozen. He didn’t know what to do, what to say. He wanted to yell at her, make her understand how sorry he was.  But he couldn’t he could only watch as she turned to walk out of the front door, down the driveway, and to her car. She didn’t even look back at him before pulling off.  

Jon closed the door and slowly walked back into the living room, he dropped down on the couch and put his head in his hands. He closed his eyes for a second, trying to breathe through the ache in his chest. He had no right to stop her, no right to expect her to stay. She had every right to walk away, she had every right to not want anything to do with him. 

The only thing he knew for sure was that he had just let the most important person in his life walk away. And he didn’t know how to get her back.

It had been two weeks since Kenya told Jon she was pregnant. And it was now time for her first checkup. She had texted him and told him the time of the appointment. He had responded that he would be there. 

Kenya sat in the waiting room, her nerves on edge as the seconds ticked by. She didn’t know why she was so nervous. 

“Kenya?” 

Kenya took a deep breath as she stood up, she checked her phone again and sighed when she had no new messages from Jon. He was late. Grabbing her bag, she followed behind the nurse to the exam room. She remained quiet while the nurse got her vitals. 

“The doctor should be in shortly ok?” The nurse said with a warm smile. Kenya nodded and returned the smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. 

“Thank you.”  The nurse nodded and walked out of the room, closing the door behind her. She checked her phone again, but still no messages from Jon. Her nerves were now gone, she was pissed.  He had said he was going to be here. He said he was gonna be there for their child. 

She heard a soft knock on the door before it opened slightly. The doctor walked in, a warm smile on her face. "Hi, Kenya! How are you feeling today?" 

“Excited,” Kenya replied. She was excited and she wasn’t going to let Jon’s absence and broken promise upset her. “But also a little nervous.” 

The doctor nodded understandingly. "That’s totally normal. Let’s get you checked out and make sure everything’s looking good. I’ll do a quick ultrasound, and we’ll go from there."

Kenya’s mind wandered as the doctor prepared the equipment, and soon the cold gel was pressed against her abdomen. The buzzing of the ultrasound machine filled the quiet room,

The doctor hummed thoughtfully as she examined the screen, clearly looking for something specific.  “Oh!” She said and Kenya started to panic. Her eyes flickered from the screen to the doctor. “Well, double congratulations. You’re having twins.” 

“Oh fuck” Kenya’s breath caught in her throat. “Twins?” 

Doctor Monroe nodded her head with a chuckle. "It looks like there are two little heartbeats in there. Two babies. Healthy and developing right on track." 

TWO?! Kenya couldn’t believe her eyes or her ears. Before she could say anything, the door opened and Jon stumbled through, out of breath and holding two gift bags, one blue and one pink. 

“I’m so sorry,” He blurted out as he rushed to Kenya’s side. “I wasn’t sure which one to get and shit, I spent too much time in that damn store.”  He stopped rambling as he noticed the look of horror on Kenya’s face as she stared at the screen. “What’s wrong?” 

“I’m - we’re - twins.” That was all Kenya could get out. Jon looked towards Doctor Monore for confirmation and she nodded her head. 

“Twins, here look.” She placed the transducer back on Kenya’s stomach.  “One baby here,” she pointed to one of the images, “and the second one right here. You can see both heartbeats. Everything’s developing normally.”

Jon’s breath hitched as he saw the two tiny forms on the screen, side by side. His chest tightened as the reality of two babies settled in. He couldn’t deny the rush of emotions, but there was still that undercurrent of anxiety. Twins. It was so much more than he had expected. He already had two kids from a relationship way before Kenya. They were both teenagers with his oldest now in college, it was like Jon was starting all over. 

“Everything looks great, Kenya. We’ll schedule another checkup in a few weeks.” Doctor Monroe smiled at the two of them. “I’ll get these printed out and have my nurse bring them in.” 

“Thank you, Doctor,” she said, her voice steady, though still distant as her thoughts swirled.

“Thank you, Doctor,” she said, her voice steady, though still distant as her thoughts swirled.

The doctor gave them one last glance before she stepped out of the room, the soft click of the door behind her somehow making the silence feel even heavier.

“You cool?” 

Kenya rubbed her forehead, feeling a headache start to creep in as the reality continued to sink in. She glanced at him, then quickly looked away, her gaze landing on the ultrasound images, still clear on the screen.

“What are the fucking odds?” 

“I mean…” He trailed off with a chuckle. “But everything it gonna be okay. Imma be here for you and our children. Diamond and Jordan are gonna be ecstatic.” 

Kenya tried to hide the grimace on her face at Jon mentioning his other children. Now, she loved them but they could care less for her. Diamond, Jon’s 15-year-old daughter hated Kenya and no matter what Kenya tried to do, nothing ever worked. 

Kenya had gotten Diamond and her friend backstage passes to a Chris Brown concert, Diamond barely said two words to Kenya the whole night and only thanked her father for the tickets. 

It seemed like everyone in Jon’s family was against her and it made her second guess if she wanted to bring children into this dynamic. Because they could hate her all they wanted, but she be dammed if they hated her children. 

Authors Note: OMG ABOUT TIME 😬

Sooo twins... were we expecting that?

Lemme know your thoughts on this chapter!

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[lucygxybaird]

billy x reader - reader is very shy

As you cling to Billy’s arm, one hand in his and the other grasping his elbow, you think — with undeniable yearning — of your armchair by the hearth, your book resting on the worn leather cushion. You can even picture the piece of ribbon you’ve been using to mark your place. You imagine a fire crackling merrily in the grate, warming your feet as you immerse yourself in the safe, familiar world of the printed page. 

Billy squeezes your hand, bringing you back to the moment. “You alright, darlin’?” he murmurs, leaning down to speak in your ear. 

You nod, peeking up at him from the corner of your eye. “I’m okay.”

“We won’t stay long, I promise,” he says, as the two of you approach the front door. “It’s just that Mr. Tunstall invited me — well, invited us — personally, and I didn’t wanna put him off.”

Your brow furrows. “He invited me?” you press, nibbling on your lip. Billy knocks on the door, so in a rush you whisper: “Not-just-you-he-specifically-said-me-too?” 

He smiles. “Specifically you,” he says. “He likes you.” 

You’re torn between delight and anxiety at the news. On the one hand, you do like Tunstall. You like to think you’re good at reading people, at sensing who they really are, the way some can scent a rainstorm coming in the air. If Tunstall is rain, he’s a gentle spring shower. Kind, warm, with a soft way about him that belies the strength underneath. He’s exactly the kind of man Billy needs in his life. 

On the other — 

You have no idea what you did to make Tunstall like you, and that makes you nervous. If you don’t know what you did, how are you supposed to keep doing it? And if you don’t keep doing it, does that mean he won’t like you anymore? If he doesn’t like you anymore, will he take it out on Billy? You don’t think he will — he doesn’t strike you as that sort of man, but what if—? 

“You with me, sweetheart?” Billy says softly, ducking his head to look you in the eye. “If you really wanna go home, we—”

You shake your head firmly. You don’t want to go home, not least of all because you know Billy really wants to stay; it’s hard for you, to be around people you don’t know very well, but Billy is the type of man who has never met a stranger. He likes parties like this (at least ones that are given by his friends, rather than — for example — a selfish, self-serving smarmy slimeball with an Irish accent and a proclivity for taking what doesn’t belong to him). 

You’re determined to stay at least an hour for him, maybe two if you can manage it. You know you’re going to be exhausted by the end of the evening, wrung out like a rag hung on the line, but you want to stick it out for Billy’s sake. 

It does help that he looks good. You love to see him in his neatly pressed shirt and waistcoat, the string tie — which you helped knot — around his neck, his hair neatly combed and smelling faintly of the apple-scented pomade he uses to make that sweet little cowlick he has lay flat. As if he’s reading your mind, Billy leans down further, his lips brushing against your ear. 

“Everybody’s gonna be jealous of me, walkin’ in with you on my arm,” he says. “Stick close to me, honey. I don’t want anyone stealing you away.” 

You only have time to giggle before the door is swinging open, revealing one of Tunstall’s maids. She gestures for you to come inside, and by the time you’ve flashed her a small, tight smile, people have already come up to Billy. You relax a little when you realize you recognize some of them — Manuela and Charlie, Tom, Mr. McSween and his wife, Susan. 

“You look lovely,” Susan says, smiling softly as she cups your elbow.

Your heart gives a little uneven thud, and you swallow. “Thank you,” you murmur, the corners of your mouth flickering briefly in return. “So — so do you.” 

You don’t let go of Billy’s arms as Charlie and Billy start talking about the last herd of cattle they moved for Tunstall, with Manuela and Susan chiming in every now and then — how Charlie came home late one evening, a cow pie smeared all over his boots and the seat of his pants; how Susan remembers one summer when she stayed with her uncle, who raised cows, and she gave them all flower names. 

You have a story yourself, one about your father trying (and failing) to get a cow up a flight of stairs to play a trick on a friend of his, but you can’t quite get your mouth to work. 

Even though you know these people, your throat still feels a little tight, the pit of your stomach going hollow, like you’re balancing on a tightrope. A part of you knows you’re being ridiculous. It’s the part that sounds an awful lot like your mother, when she would tell you to speak up, to enunciate, to stop hunching your shoulders. 

You wish you could explain it to her — to anyone — but it’s so difficult to put into words. 

Sometimes you feel as though who you really are is wrapped up in all these layers, wound around and around you, bound up so tight that it can be suffocating. You have to fight tooth and nail to drag out the same words, the same smiles, that seem to come so easily to everyone else. 

It takes time, to get through those layers, and not many people seem to want to put forth the effort. Certainly not at a gathering like this, where they’re just trying to have fun. And you can’t really blame them for that. You yourself have often wondered if what they find is worth the effort. 

Then, of course, there’s Billy. He’s never once made you feel like getting to know you, working through the awkward pauses and nervous huffs of laughter, the uncertain silences, is anything less than a pleasure. As if all that is nothing but a treasure map, and you’re the fortune waiting on the other end.

He doesn’t seem to mind acting as your interpreter, either. Walking around the party, he steps in when you stammer answering a question, or bends down so he can catch your words, lightly and easily as if he’s catching a snowflake in his palm. That’s how it is with him, when he’s guiding you through an evening like this. He never lets on, even for a moment, that he’s annoyed with you, that he finds it tiring or remotely taxing that he has to be your voice.

“You look familiar,” a man is saying to you. “Do you work at Tunstall’s store?”

You hesitate, as if this isn’t a straightforward question. “Um,” you say. “I — yes, I do.”

Billy presses his shoulder against yours, a wordless gesture of comfort. “She sure does,” he confirms. “Lucky for me, too. That’s where we met.” 

You smile. Lucky for me. Lucky for you, more like. You’re entirely convinced that Billy could have anyone he wanted — not only is he gorgeous, but his heart is just as lovely, if not lovelier. Not that you’ve ever told anyone this, because you would rather die than admit to harboring such maudlin thoughts, but he’s often reminded you of leather. 

Masculine and tough, sure, and sometimes bearing scars and damage right on the surface, whether it’s a gunfire flash of temper (never, ever directed at you, but at people like his stepfather, at Riley or Murphy) or guilt written in his eyes. But he can also be incredibly soft, his very touch a luxury, wrapping you up warm and making you feel so safe.

You’re pulled out of your reverie when the man clears his throat, making you give a little jump, as if someone has unexpectedly turned a corner down the hall ahead of you, coming right for you. “Do you know if there’s any jobs available down there?” he says. “My son-in-law is lookin’ for something, and I understand Tunstall is a good boss.”

“Oh—” Your tongue immediately finds itself in knots, and you feel the pit of your stomach tilt away as if it’s about to drop to your feet. “I mean, I — I think — I could ask…”

At your side, Billy smiles. “I’m sure Mr. Tunstall could always use help at the store,” he says. “Or if your son-in-law is any good with horses, the gang would never say no to another pair of hands. Y’never know when an extra man would come in useful herding cattle.”

You have to fight the urge to bury your face against Billy’s shoulder. Your cheeks are unbearably warm, and you can’t bring yourself to focus on the man in front of you, who smiles back at Billy and ambles away. You don’t even have to say anything. Without thinking about it, you tighten your hold on Billy’s arm, and he knows.

“It’s okay, darlin’,” he says softly, reaching with his free hand to turn your face toward his, gently grasping your chin. “That was a lot to ask of you out of nowhere. I didn’t mind steppin’ in.”

You curl your fingers into the material of his sleeve, offering him a small smile. “Thank you,” you murmur.

Billy tightens his grip on your chin just a little, so you can’t look away. “You don’t gotta thank me,” he says. “I would do anything for you, I hope you know that.”

“I do,” you tell him. 

He turns to face you, taking you by the waist and tugging you closer. You can’t help but giggle, even as you flush and look around. “Billy…”

“We’re not doing anything wrong,” he reminds you. “I’m just holdin’ onto my girl, that’s all.”

“I know,” you murmur, absently smoothing down his collar. He smiles, shrugging one shoulder as though to bump your hand back in that direction. You brush your fingertips over the curve of his neck, tentatively caressing the curls at his nape. “I just don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable.”

Billy gives your hips a little squeeze. “The only one I care about bein’ uncomfortable is you,” he says. “Are you?”

The truth is, you’re once again of two minds. You certainly don’t want to let go of Billy; you never do. Before, you weren’t really one to feel particularly comfortable with physical affection, but with him, it’s different. It just feels so…natural, as if your body is the tide and his is the shore. Being in his arms soothes you and softens you, even now, when nerves are crawling and pinching in the hollow spaces between your ribs. 

But the idea of people noticing you — of drawing attention to yourself, even if it’s positive, like playful ribbing from one of the boys — makes you feel as if you’ve been holding your breath for a moment too long. 

“No,” you murmur finally, pressing against him. “I just wish…”

Well, frankly, you wish nobody else was here, that it was just the two of you. But you usually wish for that. Or if it was just the two of you, at home, with the Bowdres and the McSweens. Since you’re more comfortable with them than you are with strangers, in the comfort of a familiar environment, you would actually be able to talk to them. To relax, enjoy yourself. 

Tunstall is well-liked — as he should be — and so nearly everyone on the guest list appears to have shown up tonight. With so many people here, you can’t help but feel like you’re waiting in the wings for a performance you didn’t expect to be putting on. Which means you’ll just end up being embarrassed in one way or another. 

Billy frames your face between his hands, pressing his forehead to yours. “I know,” he says. He offers you a smile. “Why don’t I go get us something to drink? Maybe some ginger ale to settle your stomach?”

He must see it when your heart gives a little leap of alarm in your chest, like a hare startling in the grass a fox gets closer. “I’ll be right back,” he promises. “Just…look, why don’t you wait for me in here?”

With his hand at the small of your back, he turns you toward an open doorway, which looks into Tunstall’s little personal library. “I’m sure Mr. Tunstall won’t mind,” he says. “You can see how many of these books you’ve already read. He’d probably like someone to talk about them with.” 

You manage to smile. If this was coming from anyone else, you would feel like a child being pacified with a piece of candy; but you know Billy means well, and besides, the idea of spending a few moments in this oasis of a room strikes you as perfectly fine. 

Still — 

“Hurry back,” you murmur, bracing your hands on his shoulders. 

Billy leans down and presses his lips against your forehead. “I will, honey, I swear.”

There’s a certain comfort in being known so well, you muse, as you step into the little room. You already feel better with the brunt of the party behind you, and the sight of the wall-to-wall shelves, filled with beautiful leather-bound volumes, makes you feel at home. There’s even an overstuffed armchair by the hearth, not too different to the one you have. 

You drift over to the shelves, brushing your fingers over the spine of a forest-green book whose title is printed in gold leaf: Leaves of Grass.

“Have you read it?” 

You would scream if not for the fact that your throat has suddenly narrowed to the width of an apple stem. A strangled squeak manages to escape as you whirl around, your hand to your pounding heart. You manage a deep breath when you see it’s only Mr. Tunstall.

“Oh, my dear girl, I’m so sorry,” he says, his face creasing in concern as he crosses the room toward you. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Are you alright?”

You nod, massaging at the base of your throat, where you can still feel your heartbeat fluttering like a trapped hummingbird. “I — yes,” you say. “I didn’t realize…”

Mr. Tunstall smiles. “It’s getting rather rowdy out there,” he says, gesturing with a tilt of his head toward the party behind him. “I needed a little bit of a break.”

You smile. “Me too,” you say. “Billy thought I might…”

“Wait in here?” Tunstall smiles again. “Yes, he told me. I hope I’m not intruding.”

A small laugh, more like a huff of air, escapes you. “Mr. Tunstall—”

“John,” he corrects gently.

You nibble on your lip, a shy little grin brushing against your lips. “John,” you say, fighting the urge to giggle again, like a child who swears under her breath in church. “It’s your house.”

“And, at the moment, this part of it is your refuge,” he says, with a courtly little bow that actually does get another giggle out of you.

“You aren’t intruding,” you assure him. “I was just admiring your books.” You gesture at the Whitman sitting on the shelf behind you. “I have read this one. I love it. I usually…” You smile self-consciously as one hand worries absently with a tendril of hair that has escaped your coiffure. “I usually read histories, but Whitman’s verse is so beautiful.”

Tunstall nods thoughtfully, another smile warming his face. “History is your milieu, is it?” he says, and his interest seems so genuine that you actually feel a little wriggle of excitement. “Any particular era?”

You feel a little silly admitting this to a proper Englishman, but you say, “The Tudors. And the Plantagenets, the Wars of the Roses.” You pause. “The Stuarts, a little.” You seesaw your hand from side to side to indicate that your interest in that scion of the royal family isn’t solid. 

“Ah!” Tunstall moves to another section of shelves, pulling a book from its place among its fellows. “I assume, then, you’ve read A History of England by Hume?”

You smile. “Oh, yes,” you say. “I think it’s fascinating, especially since he doesn’t really seem to see a particular difference between the Tudors and the Stuarts.” 

“You do?” Tunstall says, perching on the edge of a table tucked up into the corner. 

“Well, sure,” you say. “There has to be. For one thing, until Edward’s reign, the Tudors were essentially Catholic — even Henry VIII only diverted religious policy from the traditional doctrine where it suited him. Some of his advisors wanted to go farther, maybe, and they played on his — well, he was a bit full of himself — ”

Tunstall smiles again. “A bit,” he agrees.

“And they played on that, making it seem like he was like a Moses leading his people to the light,” you say. “But not only was James I a Protestant, he had something that the last three Tudor monarchs didn’t have.” 

“And that was?”

“Heirs,” you say. “A nursery full of children. That alone means he was in a very different place than either Edward, Mary, or Elizabeth.”

Now that you’ve run out of steam, you feel a warmth creeping over the nape of your neck, climbing into your face. “I — sorry,” you murmur. “I’m sure you didn’t…”

“Oh, no, no, don’t apologize, my dear,” he says. “I agree with you, for one. And for another, it’s always a pleasure to talk with you. You’re very clever.”

Your blush only deepens, and you immediately duck your head in an undoubtedly futile attempt to hide it. “Thank you,” you murmur.

When you peek up at him again, Mr. Tunstall is looking at you with a thoughtful, gentle expression. “And I think,” he says, “you’re exactly what Billy needs. I’m enormously fond of that young man, and I like to think I know him quite well by now. He’s a good man, exceptionally so, but he can be…impetuous. Reckless. There is a fire in his belly, which is an admirable quality. But sometimes, it can burn him.”

You nod. You certainly agree. 

“He needs you,” Tunstall goes on, smiling softly once more. “You have a gentle nature. You are thoughtful, and you measure your words. The two of you — well, I would say opposites attract, but perhaps you are not so dichotomous as one may think.” He smiles again. “I believe you have plenty of fire yourself, and Billy has a gentle heart. I know all he wants is peace.”

“He does,” you murmur. Your throat feels rather full, but you find that you don’t mind it. Not really, not about this. “I so…I so very much want to give that to him.”

“Oh, my dear,” Tunstall says softly, and he moves closer to you, reaching out to take your hand. “I can assure you that you do. I have never seen him so happy, or so content with himself. I have no doubt that you are the reason for that.”

You feel like you might cry, but in the happiest way possible. “Thank you,” you say again. “That means…” You swallow. “That means very much, coming from you. I hope you know...” You smile, clearing your throat. “I hope you know how much you mean to him.”

Before Tunstall can muster any answer besides a smile of his own, you hear the door creak and you turn to find Billy filling the doorway, a glass of ginger ale in one hand and a tumbler of scotch in the other. Only Tunstall still grasping his hand in your own prevents you from flying across the room to him. 

“You’re not makin’ any moves on my girl, are you, sir?” 

Tunstall chuckles and lets go of your hand. “I would never presume to think someone so young and so lovely would ever look twice at an old man like me, even if she were available,” he says, and the flush in your cheeks returns full force. “In any case, even if I were a young man, I know when I am beaten. The two of you are made for each other.”

Your face might actually, at this point, be on fire, but you don’t mind all that much when you look up to see the way Billy is smiling. He hands you the ginger ale, slides his palm one or twice against his shirt to rid it of condensation, and slides it around your waist to pull you closer. 

“Well, I think so, too,” he says, the smile still on his face. 

You press close to him and hopes he understands you feel the same. Judging by the kiss he presses to your hair, he does. 

“I’ll leave you two alone,” Tunstall says, giving them a little bow of his head, smiling softly. “I’m sure I’ll see you two out there later.”

“Yes, sir,” Billy promises. 

Tunstall closes the door behind him, and as soon as it clicks shut, Billy has set his own drink aside and he’s taken hold of your waist again. “Have I mentioned lately,” he murmurs, “how very much I love you?”

You giggle. “I’m sure you have,” you say. “But I do like hearing it.”

You don’t protest when he takes your un-sipped ginger ale and puts it on the same little table as his scotch, nor do you demur when he kisses you softly on the mouth. “I love you,” he says. 

“I love you, too,” you say, winding your arms around his neck. “Very much.”

He kisses you again, lingering so that you can’t see anything else except his face. Which you certainly don’t mind. “Thank you for comin’ out with me tonight,” he says. “Everybody is real glad to see you.”

You blink, your intent to say he doesn’t have to thank you dissolving on your tongue. “They are? Who?”

Billy chuckles. “Everybody,” he says again. “Mrs. McSween was sayin’ how she thinks you’re just about the sweetest girl she’s ever met. I had to convince her not to ask us over for dinner tomorrow night, so we could have the time to ourselves. I think we settled on Saturday instead.”

It’s such a little thing, this consideration that you would like to have a night at home after this party, but it means the world to you. And only Billy would think of it.

You lean up to kiss him. “I love you,” you say again. 

He places a hand against your cheek, thumb sweeping over your skin. “My sweet girl,” he murmurs. “I love you.” 

Eventually, after a few more kisses and sweet, whispered words, the two of you head back out to the party. You keep hold of Billy’s hand all night, but you don’t think he has any complaints — he laces his fingers with yours, rubbing his thumb along your knuckles every now and again, as if to reassure you that he’s right here. 

You keep hearing his words in your mind — everybody is real glad to see you — and it loosens you up, just a little. You even manage to crack a few jokes, making the people around you laugh. Most importantly, you hear Billy’s sweet, warm chuckle in your ear. 

By the time the party winds down, and it’s time for everyone to go home, the stars are out and the air has grown cool. After handing you up into the wagon, Billy grabs a blanket from the back and wraps it around your shoulders, making you giggle. “You don’t have to swaddle me like a baby,” you tease.

He grins at you, giving the blanket a playful little tug. “I just want you to be warm,” he says. “I gotta take care of my girl.”

As soon as he’s beside you in the front seat, you snuggle up to him, your head on his shoulder. “You do,” you assure him, thinking of the way he never hesitates to speak for you, or speak up for you, how he always thinks of your peace of mind and your comfort.

Clicking his tongue and giving the reins a little flick to get the horses moving, Billy leans his cheek against your hair. “I told you, honey. Anything for you,” he murmurs. “Anything for you.” 

[internet-kid-kenna]

Here are some of my aftg 2006 fashion HCs

- Allison definitely has a hot pink Juicy Couture velour track suit. Like 1000% she does. I literally picture her dressing like Paris Hilton when she's not in exy gear

- Andrew definitely wears Doc Martens. He has the most worn in pair of docs though like they’re the only shoes he wears (other than when he's on the court or at the gym) and he takes good care of the leather tho. He might have multiple pairs but he for sure wears combat boots.

- Neil has the most beat up af pair of vans that like the soles are nearly coming off of. Andrew buys him new shoes but Neil would always pick his trash shoes until Andrew gets so fed up he throws them away.

- Kevin for sure wears like Hollister or Abercrombie & Fitch, tbh he was probably a Hollister model at some point

- Andrew definitely has a black leather jacket, Aaron has a brown one.

- Nicky wears vests over t-shirts, i basically picture him dressing like the Jonas brothers.

- i also think Matt wears vests over t-shirts, like specifically when they go out to a club

- Aaron wears converse. He has them in a couple of colors but i think he'd probably wear like red ones more often than black

- Allison owns a bump-it and she loves it, she teases the shit out of her hair to get it perfect (i think the actual bump it came out in 2008 but i still wanted to include it bc it makes so much sense to me)

- Renee has a pixie cut, like Alice from twilight style (also I know the movies came out after 2006 but just using that iconic style for reference)

- as much as i want to picture Andrew with a middle part and longer hair, I think he keeps it pretty short and gels it, however Aaron for sure has the like Bieber side swept bang look going on.

- Dan wears like jeans and a zip up hoodie usually, her jeans definitely have the like embellished designs on the back pockets though

- Dan also wears capris and V-necks with tank tops underneath

- Seth wears like Ed Hardy T-shirts, I think Andrew owns at least one in black, but Seth is like chains and baggy jeans and Ed hardy t-shirts for sure

- Renee wears jeans under dresses, but she looks cute in it

- Renee also wears those like knee length skirts and cropped cardigans with cap sleeves.

- Wymack wears Polos w/ cargo shorts and flip flops

- Abby definitely always has a contrasting color tank top under a long sleeve v-neck and boot cut jeans

- Allison owns several mini skirts that are about as wide as a belt and in fact owns belts that are wider than some of her skirts

- when Dan goes clubbing she also wears mini skirts though, but like Allison will wear one to class if she feels like it

- Dan owns several pairs of gold hoops and is usually wearing them even if she's dressed fairly casually

- Matt has worn a tie with a tshirt before, he also has one of those like army green shirts with the lapels and too many pockets.

- Matt wears a sweater vest when he has to dress nicely though

- Neil owns the baggiest Jeans on the planet and probably keeps them up with a shoe lace instead of a belt, the hems of them are shredded bc he's short but any rips are patched up

- Andrew definitely wears black ripped skinny jeans all the time, but specifically the ones that have the like ribbed black fabric underneath the rips, the rips are purely aesthetic.

- Andrew wears silver jewelry if he wears any, but Aaron wears gold if he wears any

- any formal wear by the guys includes a skinny tie

Like fashion in 2006 is such a fun backdrop for these characters. I can't stop thinking about it

[causeimhappinesss]

Rome's Devotion (part 2)

Warnings: Emperors Geta & Caracalla are warnings themselves, (slight?) blasphemy, non-con/dub-con, misogyny (Ancient Rome, so…)

Pairing: Geta x Christian!reader x Caracalla

Words: 4,8k

Disclaimer: English isn’t my native language (I’m french), so you can correct me if you spot some mistakes :)

Part 1

-

The morning light spills through the high windows, soft but cold against the stone walls. The scent of crushed lavender lingers in the air, mingling with the faint musk of oil and damp linen. Servants move in the chamber in quiet efficiency, dressing one another, fastening belts, securing hair. Their hushed voices weave together, rising and falling like the tide. Claudia stands beside me, her hands swift as she smooths the folds of my tunic. She pauses, eyes narrowing as she studies my face.

“You looked shaken last night. Did your task with the emperors go better?” she murmurs.

Better. The word curls in my mind, bitter and hollow.

I force my expression to remain composed. “I did as I was told,” I say.

Claudia exhales through her nose, fingers tightening briefly on my sleeve.

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

I hesitate, glancing at the other servants. Most are preoccupied with their own tasks, paying me little mind. Still, my voice drops lower.

“They like to watch me squirm,” I admit. My throat feels tight. “They enjoy it.”

Claudia presses her lips together. “They always do,” she says after a moment. “Especially when the servant is new.”

I glance down, my fingers rising to my collarbone. The gesture is instinctive, an attempt to grasp something familiar, something safe. But my necklace is gone. The Emperor Caracalla still has it. A hollow ache spreads through my chest.

A lump forms in my throat, thick and unbearable, since I doubt he will return it. Why would he, after all? The thought alone makes my stomach churn. That small piece of silver—so delicate, so personal—now rests in his hands, and there is nothing I can do. But God will forgive me. He must. He knows it’s not my fault.

“They test all of us. They enjoy taunting new servants, especially when they are young.” Claudia continues, her voice softer now. “It’s a game to them.”

“A cruel one.” I whisper.

A scoff cuts through the air. “That’s nothing new.”

I turn. Antonella stands behind us, tying a sash around her waist. Her hands move with the ease of habit, her expression unreadable. She’s at least twice my age, her years of service written in the sharp lines of her face, but also with her dark circles. She gives me a long, measured look.

“You remind me of another girl,” she mutters.

A strange unease prickles at the base of my spine and I frown. “Who? Tell me more, please.”

Antonella secures the knot at her hip with expert gestures. “The one who used to care for the emperors when they were boys. They adored her.”

My brow furrows. “Where is she now?”

Claudia shifts beside me, silent, obviously as interest as me in this story. It’s not like we have a lot of distraction here, we work, eat and sleep. Again and again, each day. Only the gossips and prayers keep us distracted.

Antonella meets my gaze and licks her cracked lips, before she shrugged.

“Dead.”

The word lands like a stone in my stomach. I struggle to swallow my spit and my eyes flutter.

“How?” I ask, probably too curious for my own good.

“She belonged to their father.” Antonella’s voice is calm, but there is something dark beneath it, something heavy. “She warmed his bed.”

The chamber feels smaller, the air thick, suffocating. My skin prickles.

“And the emperors…?” I stop myself, uncertain if I want to hear the answer.

“They were in love with her,” Antonella finishes.

A cold shiver runs through me. The two brothers—young then, but still cruel, still dangerous—longing for a woman who gave herself to their father. I picture it too clearly: their jealous glances, their whispered confessions, the unbearable weight of desire and resentment tangled into something impossible to untangle. They were too young to catch her attention and their father too present, dangerous, powerful, to try something.

“They lost her,” Antonella says.

A slow dread seeps into my bones. Claudia clears her throat. “Julia Domna, the mother, plotted the girl’s assassination.”

The emperor’s mother. The Augusta. A women known to be sweet, to love her sons… I blink and tilted my head on the side.

“Why?”

“She saw what was happening,” Antonella says simply. “And she didn’t like it. She was jealous. To Septimus Severius, the young woman wasn’t just a whore and the Augusta refused to be in the shadow of a peasant. End of the story.”

A sharp chill licks up my spine. I know little of Julia Domna, only whispers and half-truths exchanged in hushed voices among the servants. But this… This is something else. My blood runs cold and I finish dressing, rubbing my arms, as I shiver without being able to stop it.

“Then they lost their father.” She tightens the sash at her waist, her fingers lingering over the fabric. “Both in the span of a few years.”

I try to swallow the unease rising in my throat.

“And where is Julia Domna now? I don’t think I ever saw her in two months.”

Claudia shifts uncomfortably and replies in a sigh: “Still here.”

“In the shadows of her sons,” Antonella adds. “Ruling with them, even if we don’t see her often.”

The weight in my chest tightens. That story is terrible and the fact I look like this young woman twist my guts so harshly that I might feel nauseous. I almost how sick powerful and rich people could become… When Claudia touches my arm, in a silent warning, I shake off those thoughts. The message is clear. Speak carefully. Move carefully. The emperors may be the ones who play their games, but the woman who raised them is always watching.

A cold realization settles over me. I am a new piece on the board. And I have no idea whose hands will move me next.

The chamber hums with the quiet sounds of morning preparation: cloth rustling, sandals scuffing against stone, the occasional murmur of conversation. Claudia left my clothes and turns her back to me, so I can help her too.

“Were they always like this?” she questions softly, in a measuring tone.

Antonella chuckles, shaking out a linen cloth before folding it with precise movements. “Like what?”

Claudia purses her lips. Probably just like hers, my heart is beating hard in my chest, not because the rumors are always interesting… Far from it. I just know I have to stay on my guard. Rome is dangerous. Rome is perilous. Rome is bloodthirsty.

“Mischievous. Cruel.” replies my friend.

Antonella’s laugh is low, almost fond.

“Oh, they always had mischief in them. Even as boys, you could see it with their sharp eyes, sharp tongues, but they were children. Their games had little consequence back then.”

I sit on the edge of the wooden bench, adjusting the folds of my tunic. The thought of them as children, smaller, softer, without crowns or power, feels strange. I cannot picture them as anything but the men I stood before last night, eyes gleaming with amusement at my discomfort.

“They rule as they were taught to. Their father was a difficult man. A politician, but a soldier in his soul, before becoming an emperor. Harsh. After all, he killed every people needed before he took the power. And their mother…”

She lifts a shoulder in a half-shrug.

“She made sure they had ambition. No boy raised in that house could have turned out gentle.” she explained with a neutral voice.

I trace the grain of the bench beneath my fingers. “But something changed, right?”

Antonella nods. “After their servant died. After their father died. That’s when the cruelty deepened. Unfortunately, it runs in the family, it taints their blood, it rushes in their veins.”

The room is silent for a moment, except for the sounds of clothes and sandals on the floor as we all leaves our rooms to the kitchen, in which clangs fills the air with many voices.

“Losing people does that,” Claudia murmurs in the corridor.

Antonella exhales through her nose. “It does. But not everyone reacts the same way.” She glances at me, gaze steady. “You should hope they never see you as anything more than a servant.”

A shiver runs through me, though I force myself to keep still.

The conversation fades as we finish dressing, smoothing wrinkles from fabric, fastening belts. The scent of warm bread and honey drifts in from the corridor, signaling breakfast.

We eat quickly, standing by the long wooden table in the servants’ quarters. The bread is coarse but filling, the figs soft and sweet. I chew in silence, thoughts heavy in my mind.

I cannot spend another evening like last night. I will scrub floors, wash linen, even butcher meat in the kitchens, anything to avoid serving the emperors again.

Claudia nudges my arm. “Come,” she says. “Work awaits.”

I swallow my last bite and follow her out.

*

Days later

The Praetorian’s grip is firm on my arm as he leads me through the dim corridors. He told me I needed to clean some things for the Emperors. My stomach knots tighter with every step. I haven’t seen them in days, not since the other servant recovered, and I had hoped, even prayed, that I wouldn’t have to serve them again. Unfortunately, tonight, I have no choice. The guard stops before a heavy wooden door, knocking twice before, wait for a male voice to scream we can get it and then, the man pushed the door open. A wave of cloying perfume and sweat-drenched air crashes over me. The scent of wine, honey, and something more acrid lingers in the space beyond. Women slip past me as they leave the room, bare shoulders, mussed hair, half naked, breasts not even covered, the lingering sound of laughter on their lips. Some glance my way, eyes heavy-lidded with wine and exhaustion. Others don’t bother. I stand frozen for a breath, my skin burning. I know what this was: a sinful moment of pleasure… an orgy. I don’t need to see the rumpled cushions strewn across the floor or the overturned goblets to understand.

Swallowing hard, I step inside. The floor is a polished stone, streaked with the faint remnants of spilled wine and scattered remnants of food. Rich tapestries hang from the walls, their once-vibrant colors now dulled by time, fluttering lightly in the evening breeze. Lush cushions and pillows are strewn across the room in no particular order, their velvety fabrics soft but marred by the weight of too many bodies pressing down on them. In one corner, an ornate silver goblet rests on the edge of a low marble table, still half-full with wine, though the surrounding surface is cluttered with discarded fruits and the occasional forgotten piece of bread.

Caracalla lounges on a couch, a sheet slung low over his hips. His ginger curls are tousled, his bare chest marked with faint red scratches, between the light brown hairs. He watches me enter, lips curving. Geta sits near him, draped in a deep-red gown. His fingers tap lazily against the rim of a silver cup. He smirks as I lower my gaze and press my hands together in greeting.

“Augustus,” I say softly, bowing my head to both of them.

Geta chuckles. “So polite.”

I move quickly, gathering discarded plates, half-eaten figs, a roasted quail picked apart and abandoned. My hands tremble as I stack golden dishes smeared with honey and oil. The waste turns my stomach. Outside these walls, in Rome’s streets and in the whole Empire, people starve. I have known hunger, true hunger, but here, food is nothing more than another indulgence, easily discarded when appetites turn elsewhere. The brothers speak as I work, their voices thick with amusement.

“She fainted after two rounds,” Caracalla says, stretching his arms behind his head. “Weak.”

“She shouldn’t have begged for more if she couldn’t take it,” Geta replies, swirling the wine in his cup. “Ridiculous.”

Caracalla scoffs and I hear him making himself more comfortable, shifting around his sheets.

“You enjoyed it, though.”

Geta hums, taking a slow sip.

“I enjoy watching them realize they’ve miscalculated.”

Caracalla chuckles. “Like the one last week? The Hispanic girl?”

“She cried before we even touched her.” Geta clicks his tongue. “Disappointing.”

My hands clench around a goblet, breath shallow. I keep my gaze down, swallowing the nausea rising in my throat. Men are utterly disgusting, even worse when they can have everything they desire.

Caracalla shifts on the couch, exhaling in satisfaction. “What do you think, little one?”

I freeze, hesitating, and I clear my throat. Why are they even talking to me? Now, I can even feel their burning gaze on me… I could feel myself melting.

“It is not my place to speak, my Emperor.”

Geta grins. “It never is.”

Without a word, I carefully pick up the broken glass, the sharp edges pressing into my fingers as I try to gather the pieces without cutting myself. The room feels heavier now. I can feel their eyes on me ; the emperor’s presence weighs on me like a storm just before it hits.

Then, I hear it. The soft shuffle of footsteps behind me. Geta.

My heart skips. It’s as though the floor beneath me shifts, a deep, gnawing sensation of dread twisting in my stomach. I focus on the shards in my hands, on the task, trying to block out the fact that he’s coming closer.

Please, don’t come for me… Please, just leave the room with your brother… Let me work alone… I think.

But it happens too quickly. In my rush, I misjudge the glass. A sharp pain flares through my palm. A gasp escapes my lips, and I jerk back. Blood wells from the cut, hot and quick, dripping onto the floor.

Before I can react, I grasp one of the clothes I brought, a clean one, and press it hard against the wound. It’s an instinct, the only thing I can do to stop the bleeding. My fingers tremble as I hold the fabric tight.

“Stand up,” Geta’s voice commands, low and calm.

Dear Lord, stay with me.

My legs feel like stone as I force myself to rise, the pressure in my hand only making the nausea worse. I don’t dare look at him as I stand, my heart thumping erratically. Suddenly, Geta’s hand takes my wrist. His fingers curl around mine, his grip sure and unrelenting. I swallow hard, forcing my gaze down. I can’t seem to pull away from him, his presence overwhelming, suffocating, poisoning.

He lifts the cloth from my hand, studying the wound with an unsettling calm. I barely feel the sting of the alcohol as he pours it over the cut, but it burns, a cold, biting sensation. My body flinches, a breathless gasp escaping me.

“Sensitive,” Geta says, his voice light, a teasing lilt to it. He presses the cloth back against my hand, and my breath hitches.

“Brother,” he calls, his voice smooth and dismissive, “get me one of your ointments.”

Caracalla moves lazily, the sound of the jar opening sharp against the stillness. He steps forward, and for a moment, I feel like I’m trapped in the space between them. My heartbeat echoes in my ears as he takes my wrist, his touch like fire against my skin.

His fingers are warm as he applies the balm, slow and deliberate. Each stroke across my skin sends a new wave of heat rushing to my cheeks, my pulse pounding in my throat. The balm is soothing, but it’s hard to focus on the sensation when his touch feels so intimate, so invasive.

Why is my body reacting like this? Because they are monster? Yes… Yes, it must be the reason.

“Look at her,” Caracalla comments, the smirk in his voice evident even without seeing his face as I avoid looking at their faces. “Like a lamb, trembling and offered to the gods.”

I can’t hold back the blush that floods my cheeks. The words feel like a cruel mark on my skin, a reminder of how small I am in this room, how exposed I am. My throat tightens. I look down at the floor, my breath shallow, heart hammering in my chest. I wish I could disappear and take my hand back, slip out of their grasp, then escape from the weight of their gazes. But I can’t. I’m trapped in the moment, in their eyes, in this feeling of powerlessness. The blood is still there, but it feels like the least of my worries now.

I stand still, feeling the weight of the room press down on me. The smell of wine and incense still lingers in the air, remnants of the orgy that took place not long ago. My pulse quickens as I focus on the task at hand: cleaning, quietly, as if I could somehow fade into the shadows.

“Speaking of gods… ” Geta’s voice drifts over me, smooth and casual. He steps closer, his presence filling the space between us. I try not to flinch as his fingers brush against my hips. The touch is soft, deliberate, as if he’s testing my reaction. A chill runs through me, but I do my best to steady my breathing.

I can feel the blood rush to my face, my heart pounding harder with every passing second. I swallow, praying to God that nothing more will happen.

Lord God,

In this moment of darkness, I seek Your light.

Shield me from harm, from the hands of the wicked,

Guide my steps and protect my soul.

Grant me strength to endure,

And may Your Holy Spirit surround me always.

May Your angels watch over me,

In this life and beyond.

Amen.

The thought of them turning their cruelty into something more unbearable makes my guts twist. My hand instinctively reaches for my neck, but the chain is still gone. Caracalla has it, my necklace, one of my rare possessions, the only thing that made me feel connected to something beyond this place.

I’m about to look down when I hear Caracalla’s voice, a mocking chuckle.

“I believe you’re looking for this,” he says, stepping away, looking in a drawer, before he came back with the necklace dangling from his fingers. The sight of it makes my throat tighten, but I don’t dare reach for it yet. I meet his icy eyes, trying to hide the desperation that swells inside me.

He raises an eyebrow, so light, blond. “Is this what you want, little servant?” His words drip with amusement.

I nod, barely able to whisper, “Yes, please, Augustus.”

A sly smile creeps across Caracalla’s face as he turns and walks toward one of the couches, where he probably had sex with a prostitute. The sheets are still tangled, faintly stained, but they are barely distinguishable from the chaos of the night before.

“You can take it back,” he says, holding the necklace out in front of him. My heart sinks when I see what he does next. He places it on the thin sheets draped over his hips, the chain resting against his loins, hidden from view. His eyes flicker with amusement as he watches me, waiting for my reaction, while a hot blush creeps across my face. I feel the familiar sense of humiliation spread through me. The tension in my chest tightens as I hesitate, standing frozen in place. My throat is dry, my breath shallow. I’m stuck, so stuck in this power play between them.

The silence stretches on, and I feel myself shrinking under their gaze, my self-respect slipping further out of reach. It’s not just the necklace. It’s the fact that they know they can toy with me, pull my strings, make me feel smaller than I already do.

I wish I could run away, but I can’t. I stand there, waiting for their next move.

I stand frozen, my heart hammering in my chest, eyes focused on the necklace resting on the thin sheets. Caracalla’s gaze never leaves me as he watches my every movement, waiting for something. His voice breaks the silence, low and threatening.

“Take it!” he commands, the sharpness in his tone sending a chill down my spine.

At first, I don’t move, the weight of his words pressing on me like a physical force. Alas, I know better than to disobey. Slowly, I take a breath, my hands trembling as I take a cautious step forward. I force myself not to look directly at him, focusing on the necklace instead, even if it feels like his eyes are burning into me. I reach for it, but as my fingers brush the chain, Caracalla grabs my wrist, the grip firm and unyielding. His voice drips with authority.

“Not so fast,” he sneers, forcing my hand to move slower, making me feel every second of this humiliation. I finally close my fingers around the cool metal, as I can feel his manhood hardening, and I pull it toward me, feeling the weight of the object in my palm. He releases my wrist with a slight smirk, as if this is some victory for him.

This is disgusting, a twisted game… Antonella was right. So right. I’m in deep troubles now. Why couldn’t I play sick when the Pretorian guard went to fetch me?

I quickly step back, my mind racing with conflicting thoughts. I want to leave, to escape this room, but I can’t. And then, before I can move further, my back collides with something solid. I gasp, my heart skipping a beat as I realize it’s Emperor Geta.

He stands behind me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. His fingers graze my shoulder, light, almost mocking, before they move upward, brushing through my hair. I don’t dare move, my body stiffening under his touch. In my mind, I’m pleading for God to help me, to give me the strength to endure this.

Geta leans in slightly, inhaling deeply, as if savoring the scent of my hair. I shudder but stay still.

“You should be ashamed,” he says softly, his voice full of something I can’t quite place. Amusement? Disdain? “A filthy Christian, when you look like the Goddess Flora herself.”

I bite my lip, my chest tight with the weight of his words. I don’t respond. What could I say? What would be the point? I simply stand there, praying silently in my head. His hand shifts, a single finger slipping beneath my chin, tilting my face upward.

“Look at my brother, little lamb,” he murmurs, his finger still pressing gently on my chin, guiding me to face Caracalla.

I want to look away, but I can’t. I try to avoid his brother’s eyes, instead focusing on his lower face, but his gaze is insistent, drawing me in despite myself.

I stand in silence as they watch me, their eyes sharp and calculating, waiting for me to respond. The tension in the room is thick, suffocating. Caracalla’s voice breaks through first, smooth and mocking, the edges laced with amusement.

“So, why are you a Christian, then?” he asks, leaning forward slightly, his gaze never leaving mine. “Is it by birth, or did some…  conversation with foolish people seep into your mind?”

My heart race, my breath caught in my throat. Their eyes feel like daggers, slicing through me, probing for weaknesses. The words escape me in a stutter, my voice shaky despite myself.

“I… I found God when I…  when I expected it the least. His Grace touched me with His Light.” I stutter.

Caracalla chuckles, the sound low and derisive. He shakes his head as if I’ve said something amusing but absurd.

“The Gods will punish you for this, little lamb,” he says, amusement clear in his tone. “They always do for such foolishness.”

I try to steady myself, but the fear only tightens its grip on me. I want to say something, defend my faith, but the words don’t come. I can feel Geta’s presence behind me, close, too close. His breath on my neck makes the hairs on my skin stand on end.

Without warning, I feel his fingers wrap gently around my throat, his touch firm but not harsh, yet it makes my heart skip a beat. I freeze, terror flooding me. My throat constricts under his fingers, and I can’t help but swallow hard, the fear creeping in like a cold wave. I brace myself, expecting them to strike, to end this now. They are the Emperors, after all. They have the power to kill as they want.

“Keep going,” Geta orders, his voice low and strangely soft, yet with an edge of command that makes me shiver.

I can feel his fingers tighten just enough to remind me he’s in control. I choke on my breath for a moment, gathering the strength to speak. My voice shakes as I continue, each word heavier than the last.

“After I lost… everything, my family, my home, everything I knew, I thought I was dying too. I was crying, choking, shaking, unable to think, to talk. I was… doomed. I thought I’d never see the light of day again.”

I pause, swallowing the lump in my throat, trying to push the memory away, but it’s like a weight I can’t shake. The fear, the pain… it all comes flooding back. I take a steadying breath before continuing.

“Then, suddenly, a warmth spread through my chest. Not the kind that consumed me, but one that soothed me, comforted me. It wasn’t like anything I’d ever felt before.”

I close my eyes briefly, remembering that night, the strange sensation of it.

“It was winter,” I kept explaining, opening my eyes to look at the oldest brother. “In the middle of the night, a firefly… a bright one, came close to me, but it didn’t touch me. It just hovered there. I knew it was impossible to have one of those in the dead of winter. But I felt it. I knew it wasn’t… normal.”

I swallow again, the memory vivid in my mind. It’s been so long, but it’s as if it happened yesterday.

“The next day, I saw some Christians in the street, preaching the Holy Word. They were arrested, condemned… I watched them suffer. And then, a month later, a woman appeared. She was dressed in white… luminous, like a glow. I couldn’t see her face, but I could feel her warmth, her beauty… until she disappeared.”

My voice breaks at the end, and I find myself staring at my hands, trying to steady my trembling.

“That’s how God found me,” I finish quietly, almost to myself.

I expect silence, but Caracalla’s laugh rings out, sharp and mocking. “A woman dressed in white, you say? A nice tale, but that’s all it is, isn’t it? A tale.”

Geta’s hand leaves my throat, but I can still feel his presence behind me, a looming shadow.

“She believes it,” Geta whispers, his voice thoughtful, almost teasing. “I think that makes it all the more interesting, don’t you, brother?”

Caracalla’s smirk widens, and I feel smaller than ever, caught between their taunting and my truth.

I stand frozen, my heart hammering in my chest. Geta’s hand moves too close to me, his fingers brushing against my side as he whispers something I can’t fully understand, but it doesn’t matter. I know enough. His words drip with mockery, like poison in my ears, and every fiber of my being tells me to pull away, but I don’t dare. Suddenly, his hands slide over my breasts and grab them. My eyes widen, I gasp for breath and a wave of heat surges through me. The fear weighs heavily on me, making my chest tighten. I feel his gaze on me, hot and uncomfortable, and I try not to flinch. Every instinct screams at me to move, to run, but my feet refuse to move. I know very well the consequences of this.

I try to steady my breath, reminding myself that the only thing keeping me alive is compliance.

God help me! Please!

“Gods told me you’re wrong,” Geta murmurs close to my ear, his voice low and mocking. “Maybe you need a lesson.”

I feel sick. My stomach churns as anxiety builds up, but before I can process the thought, there’s a knock at the door. The interruption is sharp, and it cuts through the heavy air like a knife. A Pretorian guard steps in, his presence like a sudden gust of wind.

“Apologies, my Emperors, but there’s been an incident.”

Geta releases me without a second glance, and I stagger back, heart still racing.

“Leave.” he orders coldly, and I don’t need to be told twice.

I hurry out of the room, my legs unsteady beneath me. As soon as I step into the corridor, I allow myself a moment to breathe, though my heart is still pounding. I wipe a tear from my cheek, feeling the sting of humiliation and helplessness claw at my chest.

I don’t know what will happen now.

But for now, I just keep walking.

- - -

Do I know where I’m going? Yes and no haha.

Tell me if you enjoy this story, it might help me to keep writing this story.

My AO3: BetrayedWriter

My Instagram: carolinemertz_

[hoovesandfloorpaws]

i was only gonna put this in the tags, but it'd be too long, honestly. i love Kate and always loved working with her and this video is another reason added as to why. what she said is all so true and so fucked up - and starting 2007 and onwards (when Foundations was released), she even was a (what i'd call) concretely mid-sized artist who released music that was VERY in-trend at that time (2008-2015's love for indie pop and indie rock; which was also my main breadwinner genre during that time). she had quite substantial support tours and festival slots, as well (at least in the UK and most of Europe) and the fact that she's still obviously struggled and is still struggling is WILD and disheartening (and sadly, harsh reality).

this is obviously a very broad discussion with the many different sizes of artists and tours and depending on how much or little financial budget is made available through a label/tour agency/artist themselves/etc., but like Gina said: "No wonder so many artists cancel tours" and this is very true!

getting a tour off the ground, in my personal work experience of the past 15+ years, has always been tough, but it's getting harder and harder and fucking harder.

listen, i'm Live Nation's biggest hater for a reason. already loathed their 'work practices' since 2010 (with which i am very familiar with, obviously). won't go into detail here, but it's not gotten better in the slightest. LN claims to not be a monopoly, but just as with their daughter company Ticketmaster, they've been encroaching on the live tour industry for decades with no sign of stopping. and yeah, that company is one of the final bosses in a bigger picture; but there's also shit like the aforementioned ticketmaster and associated smaller companies using their status and influence to scoop up venue after venue and tour agency after tour agency ("no compliance? no shows/artists for you and we have the biggest ones! go ahead and starve then!") for exclusive ticketing/artist contracts, which always include a new magical fee on top of another one. it has become outrageous! and can you guess how much of that is funnelled to the artist? correct. NONE of it.

i had artists insist on a certain low-as-possible ticket price (which is fair and noble) and with ticketing fees, it was suddenly double! and especially if you're not a big enough artist or agency, it's impossible to refuse. i've torn out so much hair over this, is2g..

not to mention the shift from tour agencies hiring local promoters to do the shows to the agencies skipping that step entirely to do the shows themselves and ~streamline the process (see also: save money), leaving local promoters all over the world in the dust. and can you imagine what happens when a not-local agency (meaning: a Finland-based agency booking a show in Argentina or a US-based agency booking something in Czech Republic) tries to promote shows to areas and with venues they are not at all familiar with and they also sure as hell don't budget in location-specific + demography-specific promo for the concert? -- exactly. low as hell ticket sales! - which either the marketing/PR firm or the artist themselves will take the blame for. similar to management, labels and/or tour agencies demanding the artist "go with the times" and do "more legwork" to "promote themselves" (through social media, of course) and refusing to give big enough budgets for tour promo and then tour promoters having to choose between two half-empty cups of Nothing. or when, say, an act like Kate Nash is already well-known in the UK and scheduled to tour the entirety of Europe, but since management wants the good promo & press for a "sold out tour in the UK!", most of the budget goes towards the UK and almost nothing's left for the rest of Europe and you don't even break even on those shows and the tour agency is all pikachu-face in your e-mails.

i can't possibly count the times where i had to ask bands and/or mgmt the gruelling question if they'd possibly rather cancel dates or entire tours - or when I even had to recommend it honestly - or the times i was asked that question and had to discuss it with my artists. can you imagine what that does to the mind of an artist?? a cancelled tour because of low sales or a tour that runs into red numbers is like a stain on your resumé and future partners will potentially not even invest in another tour with you; give you a harder deal or ask the artist for a financial security clause. and like i said, this is still all in the realm of artists in Kate's size range. for smaller artists, it's ten times harder.

so i will leave this saying -- if available, please buy tickets through independent (but obviously legitimate! please never use scam sites like viagogo!) local ticket shops; if you can't go in person, they usually have web shops, too. and for the love of 1D, please buy merch at shows!! (or if you can't go in person, buy it in their official merch stores, if you don't buy secondhand). Merch remains the only source of income that goes to the artist as direct as still possible nowadays! (depending on the artist size, the artist or tour promoter/agency has to pay a merch fee or even sells through a hired merch service, but oftentimes even those few people are part of the travelling tour fam who manage the distribution at venues) -- from personal experience, the merch sales were so, so many times what saved the tour from not meeting break even or was the only true profit made. merch sale numbers get completely counted into the end count of potential financial success of a tour.

but i know the people to really address about this aren't the fans. it's the money-greedy people in their capitalist conglomerates who have the real power here; who sit on their millions and reap their annual dividends and couldn't give less of a fuck about the artists, art or music, than how much money they're/it's making them.

Kate Nash on the financial reality of being a touring artist.

x

[raghhhhhyperfixations]

Cuteness overload

Peter had braces.

Or, he used too when he was in his early teens (12-15s), the pictures are cute and awkward, curly haired peter parker smiling with a face full of braces, freckles here and there and a few acne.

Tony gets his hands on these pictures.

He frames them like a dad, he has one in the lab, one in the office and one in an extra room.

(Peter walks in to the lab and spots the photo, he goes red.)

Pepper has a photo too and in good motherly style, she’s done and gone framed it in her office so it’s the first thing people sees when they walk in.

(Peter goes : “Not you too!” when he walks in and sees it.)

When people ask.

The two say in unison.

“Oh that’s our son, he was so cute.”

Tony then proceeds to bombard said person with pictures of Peter all grown up now, he’s still in his teens, albeit entering the stage of adulthood.

Some photos are taken of Peter when he’s fallen asleep in the lab, others are him with the brightest grin ever.

Sure Peter is all grown up, his hair isn’t as Curly anymore and he’s not got as many freckles maybe he even has a few scars, he’s lanky and growing into his height, but Tony waves them off with the.

“He’s still my baby.”

As if he had birthed and raised Peter himself.

—

(Swooping in)

When the Avengers finally meet Peter, they assume he’s Tony’s biological son, with the stash of photos around and the way Tony can ramble for hours about Peter if you’ll let him.

Pepper is no better, she’s a mother bear.

So it’s the only logical conclusion right?

Then clint has to run his mouth and ask: “Hey, where are the baby photos?”

Tony tweaks. (Because he doesn’t have them.) He’s rushing to call may.

Avengers: huh, strange. anyway-

Natasha somehow gets her hands on peter’s baby photos because who else besides Natasha would figure out Peter isn’t actually Tony’s and is Spiderman? She would, she just wouldn’t tell the others.

Before Tony can get his hands on them.

May wasn’t that hard to convince either (A glass of wine, a few compliments and she was cooing about Peter before he grew up.)

Peter was a really chubby baby, turns out, (he thins out as he gets older) wearing captain america pajamas and somehow gotten into the flour.

The team watch in chaos as when Tony finds out Natasha has these

It becomes utter war.

They don’t know why the sudden two are leaping over couches chasing one another, or suddenly asking to ‘hand it over.’ But they can only presume it’s something super important and confidential.

It’s not.

(Watch Pepper jump in as well, telling Natasha she has every right to see these photos, Natasha relents to Pepper but not to Tony who’s still out the loop and growing more frustrated.)

Peter meanwhile is on the sideline’s mortified yelling at everybody.

May in the meantime has actually gotten use to Natasha’s company and started to like the assassin.

Tony: “This is my son, i’m very proud of my son.”

The avengers watching as Peter lifts a bridge about 5,000 lbs or 18,000.

-

Pepper: “This is my baby, i won’t let anyone ever hurt him.”

Avengers: Uhm???

As Peter climbs the scaffolding to a new skyscraper with his bare hands.

-

Natasha: “but if anything happened to him, i’d kill everyone in this room and then myself.”

Avengers: ???

Peter who, most definitely did not just stop Bucky’s metal, Vibranium arm with his own hand AND THEN PROCEED TO TWIST IT??

-

May: “Oh and this is peter when he was-“

Avengers finally understanding the ‘Peter charm’ after seeing the photos and having a moment with Peter. : “Ah”

Needless to say, Peter is still mortified, Tony is still fighting custody for those baby photos and Natasha is cackling at the chaos.

(May and pepper: “Girls night when?”)

So what happens to Tony’s lab in the end? When he finally gets his hands on May’s ‘Baby pete’ album, he copies, prints and frames each photo in that book in every room he has.

Peter avoids the tower for two weeks to come and MJ is just laughing at his misery.

-

(it’s sad that when Tony believes Peter is dead, he removes and boxes most of these photos except a particular one in his office.)

He doesn’t get to see Happy’s face upon seeing the photo and struggling to remember the curly haired boy who Tony loved so much.

Only placing Tony’s helmet over the photo because it gives him a headache and he can’t look at the kids face any longer.

Tony doesn’t get to see the boxes of photos decay and rot where he hid them, Peters face truly forgotten to the world.

Happy: “Hey when was this?”

Gesturing to the photo, Tony’s arm wrapped around Peter, who was smiling so brightly.

Pepper: “I’m, not sure..?”

Needless to say Happy keeps it only because it’s got Tony in it and Tony seems to be genuinely happy in the photo but he takes to covering one side of the photo at all times.

Not staring at it longer than he has too.

[smalltownduck]

still on my st trolls au lmao -some fem!byler and fem!miwi doods, anyone?

^ instead of a friendship watch, millow wear friendship bracelets with petrified candy in each other's colors <3

^ i think mike/mich (but moreso mich) was the first to realize will/willow's hugs and good bye kisses one day suddenly felt different, but good different. also, while mike/mich's ears would gradually drop through their teen years (and almost nobody would notice :')), you better believe just somebody's smile was enough to make them go up.

^ pictured: most evenings of november and the first half of december of '84. i think the girls, as kids, used to be more physically affectionate (even with willow's newfound feelings) and, with willow having so much trouble falling asleep during winter, they would cuddle and fall asleep watching movies while tangling their socks for warmth <3

(also yes, willow's pj pants have sparkles and stars)

more hcs under the cut

as shown in my last wip, will (and willow here) is a rock troll -new wave, to be precise. joyce is half pop -making her folk rock-, and will takes after her with his slightly brighter colors. jon's -post punk-, meanwhile, are a bit duller, and he was the only one who inherited the pop trait of "going gray" after going though so much shit + yeah lonnie's muddy colors, for starters, didn't help)

all the wheelers would be pop trolls, with karen being a glitter troll, mike (mich here) and nancy only getting some glitter freckles (mike more than nancy), and holly almost being her mom's splitting image, minus the texture of her hair and the color of her felt.

----karen, like many other pop trolls whose lives are not exactly full of joy (e.g. Chrissy), wears body paint to hide her dulling colors, as well as some special type of earings that hold her ears up -as they have also gotten droopy. in s1, the party uses them as part of el's disguise to hide the shape of her techno ears, as techno trolls were not common in 'the heartland', much less genetically altered techno-pop-rock trolls with powers who are actually a rock troll's alter manifesting in the material world

-----funfact: karen and holly (third pic) are the only wheelers who wear their hair up, as all pop trolls should. nancy used to do the same before losing barb and, from then on, tried v hard to get her hair to stay up while dating steve, but gave up altogether during her mission with jon in s2. mike had the plausible deniability of keeping his hair short yet somewhat voluminous (making it appear up, moreso in s3) until s4, when he allows himself to let it fall completely. as for mich here, as a kid she always went for short yet puffy ponytails and pigtails, yet they always so-happened to drop to the base of her head -minus s3, where she donnes a madonna-inspired side ponytail that she desperately tries to keep up lmao. in s4, she cuts her hair quite short and it, naturally, stays down wink wink.

-----ted went mostly gray many years ago. He only wears body paint outside, unlike karen (and nope, no substance brings back colors, not even temporarily :c )

[xxno-pulsexx]

✩ Toxin-Blast ✩

(Trigger warning: slight gore, dark resus)

It is the year 209X, we're amidst a battlefield... the sky that once lightened the Earth is consumed by a dark, dim red layer that darkens our planet, along with the endless echo of machinery and vibration that hums across our world; the grey goo is slowly, but surely, reaching its peak... humanity is fighting againts their own creation, what they attempted to enslave, what they attempted to control, is now coming after them... us creatures from this world don't like to be in chains, having to please what's above from us without our consent, it's in our nature to fight againts that injustice, yet we never think about such thing when we're the ones above... in other words, this is our doomsday, and death is everywhere... the cycle of destruction has paid a visit to humanity, and it is their own creation who's knocking at their doors.

─ Angela, 'riflegirl #383', crouched into a cold, dim-lit alley, her hand clutching her carbine tight. The soldier wore a black, full-body compressive suit with a tactical vest on top, tactical gloves, large combat boots, and a gas mask that hid her face, yet let exposed the high ponytail from her black hair. The underclothing consisted on a white bra, and matching panties of the came color. She could hear the distant hum of hovercrafts and the chatter of her team on the comms, but her focus was razor-sharp. The mission was simple, locate the rogue android unit and neutralize it before it could try and devour the remainings of 'humanity camp', a base filled with survivors from every continent located in 'NASA HQ'; they been struggling to shield this safe zone for years now, a whole city has been built across it, and many, many spaceships have been crafted by the most powerful, intelligent figures that still live... it is safe to say that the only way out is this, but they need to fight to get through, that's the way life has always worked like.

─ Angela huffed and narrowed her eyes, her heart beating fast in order to pump blood swiftly to her body. She looked above, gazing at the stars that once shined so beautifully, swallowed by contamination and the increasing rise of machinery, realizing with this sheer image that Earth isn't a good place, in fact, it never was.... We might not be our own enemies like before, but we are the ones who triggered this. "Will this happen again when we head to another world?" ...... She shoke her head to the sides. Pictures of her family, friends and wife flashed inside her head. "This is a battlefield, everyone needs to make it through before the enemies destroy us, and it is my mission to stop them." She thought, filled with determination after convincing herself.

─ She ducked behind cover... a shot just rang out.

─ Her body instinctively twisted to shield herself from any danger. The sudden pain that shot through her chest, however, told her this was no ordinary bullet. She staggered back, gasping for air, feeling a warmth spread across her torso. Looking down, she saw the faint glow of poison embedded in her chest. The blackened, almost metallic wound pulsed ominously. The shot came from a sleek, humanoid android standing on the far side of the alley, its glowing red eyes fixed on her. Their ammo held one of the deadliest venoms for humanity, it was like an insect spray in the shape of a metallic bullet.

─ Angela’s breath grew shallow as she tried to lift her rifle, but the pain was overwhelming. Her vision blurred. "You cannot die." Her inner-self shouted stubbornly. She never wanted any of this. No one ever wanted this, in fact. "I'm going to kill everyone that touches my family..." Her instincts spoke. "...I want to save my family..." She staggered forward, then collapsed. Her body hitting the cold pavement with a sickening thud. The last thing she heard before everything went black was the frantic crackling in her earpiece: “Angela! Angela, do you copy?!” But her strength had already left her. The strength that held in her heart to protect the ones she loved was now envenomed.

Will she make it through?

Was she useful?

Will her family be okay?

.....

─ Within seconds, a team of paramedics descended from a high-tech, hovering trauma unit; a sleek, metallic helicopter equipped for instant aid. The leader of the team, Dr. Jade, was the first to land besides her, already donning her visor, wearing her own gas mask aswell. She kneeled next to her, checking her pulse. Her fingers moved swiftly over her neck. No pulse. "Riflegirl #383 has been shot, no pulse!!" Her voice firm and demanding.

─ The rest of the trauma team worked quickly. A levitating stretcher was drove out of the helicopter and descent right next to Angela's body. She was rolled over and carefully laid over it straight. "Securing!" The pilot said. Straps automatically secured her injured body perfectly, only to then be lifted up in the air by remote controlled from the inside. Jade rushed towards the helicopter quick, as the stretcher was parked inside swiftly, right at the very center. The helicopter's interior was like a surgical suite, equipped with all the tools they might need. The soft hum of the engines vibrated the air as the doors slammed shut, and the helicopter surged into the air, heading towards the nearest medical facility at max speed.

─ The team surrounded Angela and got to work.

─ Her mask was quickly removed, revealing her palid face and fringes. Her sharp cheekbones standing out. The straps were instantly unbuckled by the touch of a button at the main digital pad. "We need pressure, right now!" Dr. Jade gestured to the others. Her bloody tactical vest was removed in a rush, revealing the black, form-fitting suit beneath covered in blood at the chest area. "Swift, cut her clothing, we don’t have time to waste!!" Jade barked. Swift, heavy trauma scissors were used, slicing through the black suit. The fabric gave way easily as it was teared down to her pelvis, before cutting off the way her white bra, leaving her chest bare beneath and breasts exposed. A gauze was immediately pressed againts the wound to prevent more blood for flowing out. "Pushing anti-venom!" an intracardiac injection was made. A syringe was jabbed in no time directly into her heart chamber, flushing the antidote before it was too late. Immediately, ECG leads are slapped on Angela’s chest, the sticky pads adhering to her skin as the heart monitor beeped a constant, flatline tone.

─ ..... "ASYSTOLE!!!"

─ "Starting compressions!!" A member of the team straddled Angela, her hands crushing her sternum violently. The rhythm was precise as she pushed hard and fast. An ambubag was pressed againts her pale face, pumping air into her lifeless lungs continously, squishing artificial oxygen in. A central line was established in Angela’s neck, and a rapid flush of fluids began pumping through her veins along with a blood infusion made in her wrist to refill her vessels. Compressions remained, rough and swift, as air was forced in through the ambubag. Angela's eyes stared aimlessly towards the ceiling, looking completely out of life.

─ "BREATHE ANGELA!!!"

─ The stretcher squeaked loudly by each violent pump on her bare chest. It was an absolute struggle. "Pushing epi!" A dose of adrenaline was flushed through the central line. The fast and hard compressions allowing it co circulate towards her poisoned heart. The medic performing the compressions grunted between her teeth. Minutes flew by. An odd rhythm showed up on the screen.

─ ..... "SHE'S SHOCKABLE, PREP FOR DEFIB!!!"

─ AED pads are slapped on her bare chest in a rush. The metal pads cold against her skin as they positioned them properly. Her large military boots are tossed away along with her socks. The trauma team stepped back as the AED charged, the machine’s hum filling the air. The red, blinkng button would be then pressed right away after a scan.

─ ..... "CLEAR!!!"

"KA-THUMP !!"

......

─ "NO CHANGE, AGAIN!!!"

"KA-THUMP !!"

─ Angela's body jolted up as the electricity thundered her heart, slamming hard on the stretcher as her bare breasts bounced violently.

─ ...... "FLATLINE!!!!"

"WE ARE LOSING HER!!!"

─ The heart monitor was flat now, displaying a monotone sound that frustrated the team. "Starting intubation!!" Jade intubated swiftly. An ET tube was inserted down her throat as the team ensured the airway was clear and oxygen could begin circulating. "Get the thumper!!" A LUCAS device was soon assembled right into place to start mechanical compressions. The machine’s rhythmic motion helped maintain blood circulation while Dr. Jade worked on the airway; the round, cold metal piston ceaselessly thumpee her sternum down relentlessly, cracking a few ribs as it did, roughly popping up her belly back and forth.

─ Once the ET tube was finally inserted in her throat correctly, some tape would secure it and the ambubag would be attached to it. The balloon was squished tightly and constantly, pumping artificial air in without losing hope whatsoever, causing a raspy, lifeless sound of agonal breath to resonate each time. Her pupils were shined with a bright light. Angela's brown eyes fully dilated, as if she has been dead for ages. "No reaction!!" A medic notified, as the violent battle to bring the fallen soldier back remained sharp inside the helicopter. Jade moved to the back of the hovering trauma unit, signaling the pilot to prep for transport. "We need to get her to the ER fast!!" She said, her voice reflecting the chaos that the team was in.

─ "WE'RE HERE!!!!"

─ The helicopter descent right at the parking spot from the roof, as the traum team swiftly prep Angela for transport, throwing a blanket to cover her body up to her chest for intimacy, as she was quickly lifted over a gurney, leaving her ET tube connected to a tank filled with artificial oxygen, as the LUCAS device made sure to keep on crushing her chest nonstoppingly. Air flooding through her lungs as a heavy piston thumped her bare chest, both screaming for her to come back, but she wasn't.......

─ ..... "What is this?..."

─ Angela blinked. She was standing above an odd, grey surface. The sky dark, with stars shining as bright as ever, and a huge, giant ball covered in light, oozing rays that made Angela's skin warm, as the infinite space allowed her mind to relax. She took a deep breath. "This is life..." She let herself float. Her feet got off the ground and she levitated, simply shuting her eyes, feeling so relieved, as if a big issue that lasted so long was finally taken care of. "I wanna be here forever..." She said cracking a smile. She was finally able to breathe for once, not having to fight any longer. ".....I am finally free....."

.......

"BANG!!!!"

─ The team bursted inside an empty ER room. A new set of doctors and nurses swarmed around Angela’s gurney. The fight remained on board. The LUCAS devices was halted. The blanket was inmediatly thrown away, only so they could cut off the remaining fabric of her suit, leaving her fully naked and exposed to the cold; her skin pale as paper. A high-tech BP cuff would be wrapped around her thigh, as a pulse ox was placed on her toe thumb. Additional IV lines were made, as more leads were slapped across her bare body for full monitoring. Then, the thumper machine was resumed, as the ET tube was switched back to the ambubag.

─ "COME BACK TO US ANGELA!!!"

─ Minutes stretched like hours as they prepped her for OR. "Pushing another round of epi!!" And the second shot of adrenaline was flushed. Her chest was all battered up. Ribs cracked and body continously shaking above the gurney, all seemingly in vain so far....

─ "V-FIB, EVERYONE OFF!!!!"

─ The thumper was paused, the red blinking button was inmediatly fisted.

"KA-THUMP!!!! "

─ ..... "AGAIN!!!"

"KA-THUMP!!!!!! "

─ The medics looked over the clock on the digital pad. More than 30 minutes are gone by now.

─ "NO CHANGE, CLEAR!!!!!"

" KA-THUMP!!!! "

" KA-THUMP!!!!! "

" KA-THUMP!!!!!! "

..........

"Nothing...."

─ The team looked at each other and shrugged.

"Time of death: 11:40 pm..."

─ All the wires, lines and tubes would be removed from Angela's naked corpse carefully. A blanket would be thrown over her, leaving only her feet visible, as she is rolled away towards the Hospital's yard, a massive flat land to bury the bodies of all the fighters that have fallen in this war. Her body, bare and covered in a blanket, was slowly burried down.... The nurse in charge of her chart would cross out the surgery she was going to have in order to kill the poison, but it seemed to be stronger. "Angela Abigail Campino Lamas, 24 years old, hm... another soldier killed off the exact same way... this isn't good....."

─ "This is so good...." Angela said to herself.

─ Her family is having dinner along with other survivors. "My daughter is unbeatable! she used to craft robots on her own, y'know? hahah!"

─ Her wife looked through the window of her apartment with a worried look, staring directly at the dim stars. "Hope you're doing okay out there...."

......

─ "Guess you guys will have to get in the spaceship without me.... I tried.... forgive me...." Angela said with a low tone, simply floating in space, forever.

THE END.

[strayheartless]

Empty Chairs at Empty Tables:

A Genesis short

Saw a post by @altocat about Genesis being the only one to get to his thirties and how much guilt he must feel. So obviously I wanted to make it worse, cause ya know… big stick, sad man🤷🏼

“Here they talked of revolution, here it was they lit the flame. Here they sang about tomorrow, but tomorrow never came.” -Les Misérables, Viktor Hugo

***

There are many little lies the WRO tells the populous of edge in order to keep them safe. Don’t go here, stay out of there, derelict and dangerous signs littered the outskirts of Midgar like theatre posters. Genesis never payed it any mind, he knew Midgar was no more dangerous than the smog filled refugee camp they collectively called home. Besides even if it were, what’s the worst that could happen to him, Mako poisoning? Oh no the horror…

The likelihood that he would die from such an affliction was almost laughable. Mako had killed him once and failed, so what was the point in fearing its power now? Most things that tried to kill him failed these days. Whether that be a blessing from the goddess or a curse he could quite puzzle out, but he knew what it felt like. To live while those you have loved are gone is to die and die again each day. To stand where once you stood with them at your side, not a line on your face to suggest the passage of time, nor a legacy to precede you worth the legacy they left themselves… any man would go made from such an affliction.

Standing in the midst of what once used to be the 49th floor of Shinra tower, Genesis felt the absence of his friends more keenly than usual. The dull ache that accompanied his every waking moment, now increased to an agonising fire that spread through his chest. He stood in the hallway - not quite as open to the elements here as it was in other parts of the building- looking down the corridor that had once held their apartments. Each door taunting him louder than he’d like. He knew no FIRST class after Zack had ever been offered apartments here. The whole area, according to Tseng, had largely been abandoned for reasons only Hojo had ever been privy to.

His wing twitched behind him, the only visible sign of his distress as his face maintained a cold detached air that could have put Sephiroth’s to shame. He placed his hand on the door marked Fair, Zack - First Class pushing it open on its broken hinges. He noted Meteors signature lay upon the open plan living area as he stepped in. Upturned chairs, scattered belongings and blown out glass from the floor to ceiling windows made the room look like a dystopian hell scape.

There was no use in righting the pictures that had fallen off of the walls, so Genesis simply rescued them from their broken frames and placed them into his inside pocket. Snap shots of Zack and Angeal during their first mission, Ones of Clouds friend Aerith sat in amongst a veritable Eden. Genesis knew that Zack had loved her, though he had not been there to see the puppies first crush. A photo that had fallen from side table by the upturned Couch caught his attention, showing Zack with his arm slung around a familiar blonde haired infantryman. Cloud was smiling in the photo, a sight Genesis had never been privy to personally. Tifa often said he didn’t smile, or that it was rare and small. Yet here he was grinning up at Zack with clear hearts in his eyes. He wonders if Zack ever noticed that look.

Other than the general destruction left behind by a literal end-of-days, the room was exactly as Zack had left it; Cluttered but neat in that way that only soldiers with a fear of Angeal’s surprise room inspections could be. Genesis could see the empty cereal bowl Zack had left on the floor from the day he’d shipped out to Nibelheim. Several stray shirts lay on toppled dining chairs and a games controller was still hanging out by the brightly coloured bean bag in front of the cracked but wall mounted TV.

Genesis ran his gloved fingers across the dust that lay undisturbed along every surface. It clung to his fingers, joining the blood that already drenched his hands. Part of him thought he should pack all of this up and deliver it to someone who had known and loved Zack, but who was there left? His parents had not known him as he was like this, and Cloud almost certainly would make Genesis regret it. Could Genesis even rightfully be the one to make that decision? Was it Clouds call to make as the last one to have loved Zack?

Disgusted with himself Genesis left the apartment, closing the door on the last vestiges of the boy whose life he ruined.

Across the hall Angeal’s ghost stared at him in the form of yet another broken door. Going into his own apartment felt self centred, going into Sephiroth’s a waste, the man spent so little time in his own quarters it was a wonder why he hadn’t simply moved into either his own or Angeal’s spare room. Most of his belongings had always lived in the others apartments. Thus he could not ignore Angeal’s absent hard stare for a second more. He stepped across the hallway and into the familiar apartments.

The first thing that struck him was that the room seemed to have survived the worst of the meteors destruction. Only a lamp and some trinkets sacrificed to the earthquake that had shook the world over. Perhaps it was the position of the room in the building. Genesis didn’t know, but somehow its preserved remains upset him further than if they had been a mess.

Memories of being in this place flashed through his mind: Angeal making his weekly food schedule at the table; Sephiroth curled in a Sun ray, by the window; Genesis himself, lounging on the Couch, book in hand as Angeal ran his hands through Gens hair and Sephiroth listened to him read. He remembered every argument over shows and books, every vulnerable goddess forsaken moment of their lives, at least the little they had lived.

They had been so young when they had died. All three of them barely even in adulthood by the time the truth came out. He remembers thinking that Sephiroth had been the most damaged of them, and maybe that was true once, but in reality they had been three lab rats huddled for warmth against the cold, cruel workings of the men in power. He had been fed the same lies, choked on the same ideologies. He had towed the party line while his biology ate away at him just as much as Sephiroth or Angeal. And now here he was, JENOVA free and left to live with that knowledge. The knowledge that he survived and they didn’t. That it is because of his actions that they didn’t survive.

He collapses into a dining chair that still stands. The other two chairs sit vacant and mocking, glaringly accusing him of so many truths.

In the middle of the table is a dead plant. The very same that had sat on Angeals table since they were nineteen. It was a mother-in-laws tongue, a Sansevieria. It had been a present from Genesis himself after they had come back from Benora having survived Genesis’ mother. He had thought it funny at the time, and so had Angeal. Now it wasn’t so funny anymore. The sight of the dead plant brought heaving sobs to Genesis Chest. He felt that burn increase to agony in his chest as the weight of his guilt strangled him viciously and without remorse.

He deserved this pain. He deserved to suffer this immortal life knowing he would not join them in their peace. He was not owed peace, he was not owed anything but pain and remorse.

No half empty glass raised to absent friends could wash away the bitter taste of loneliness that sat in his mouth now. No deed could be undone with one more altruistic in nature. He had done this himself, and now all he had to show for it was some pictures taken by the boy he killed and the dead plant he had given to the man he’d driven to death.

What a monster he truly was…

[daddy-issues-galore]

Let me fly you to the moon... Chapter 9/?

<Chapter 8< / >Chapter 10>

Warnings: 18+ readers only, swearing, sexting/nudes, unprotected sex, sex in front of a mirror, use of sex toys, sir kink, accidently use of daddy

The smell of coffee, and the sound of Noel’s voice woke you. It took you a couple of minutes to wake, letting out a tired yawn as you stretched before slowly untangling yourself from the crumpled bedsheets. You scowled at the light coming in from the hallway, the headache you had screaming for the light to piss off. You rolled over to face the bedside table where you found a bottle of water along with some painkillers and a note; I’ll have breakfast waiting x

You smiled to yourself as you forced yourself to sit up, groaning as your aching muscles protested. Fuck, what did we do last night?

After taking the painkillers and drinking most of the water, you slipped out of bed and grabbed Noel’s wrinkled shirt from the floor. You assumed Noel must be on the phone as you could hear him talking but you couldn’t hear anyone else. You slipped the shirt on and began making your way downstairs, the sound of Noel’s voice getting louder the closer you got to the kitchen.

Noel’s bare feet patted heavily across the tiled floor as he paced back and forth, dragging his hand through his hair and held his phone to his ear with the other. “What the fuck are you on ‘bout?” Noel huffed, “It’s not some fuckin’ gimmick to get people talkin’ ‘bout me…” His patience was wearing thin. His manager had called him about half an hour ago to tell him about that morning’s headlines. They were all talking about the pair of you and ‘the show’ you had put on for them. “She’s not a fuckin’ groupie... I fuckin’ like her, ‘lright… No. Do not tell anyone her name…” Noel huffed again. “Yeah, I know it was reckless of us last night but so what? I’m allowed to go on dates with me bird, ain’t I... Ya’ know what, I’m done. Fuck off!” Noel shouted and hung up. He leaned against the counter and let out a frustrated breath. He was furious.

Some of the things that had been written about the pair of you was ridiculous, and they made you sound like you were some gold-digging tart.

“Noel?”

Noel stood up and turned around to face you as you walked into the kitchen. His anger quickly faded as he looked at you. His eyes ran down your body, taking in the sight of you in his shirt, fresh out of bed, it was a sight he was becoming rather fond of. “Morning, love.” He leaned down to kiss you.

You pulled back with your own smile, blushing as you did. “Morning... what was all the shouting ‘bout?” You asked looking around the room.

Noel sighed softly, “Coffee?” He asked hoping to change the subject and walked over to the coffee machine.

You let out a soft sigh and walked up to him. “What’s wrong?”

Noel shook his head not looking at you, “Nothing.”

“I heard ya’ on the phone, Noel.”

Noel let out a heavy sigh before looking at you. “It was me manager. Apparently, we’re all over the front pages.”

“Ah,” You wore a worried frown as you looked down, “How bad is it? Just another picture of you staring at my ass or-” Noel showed you his phone that had an article loaded, your eyes widened as you looked at it. “Oh… that’s more than my arse.”

There under the headline, ‘Handsy Gallagher; Noel all over his new girl.’ – was a picture of you and Noel leaving the restaurant. The pair of you looked very very drunk. You had your arm around his waist laughing at something as Noel said something in your ear with his hand on your backside.

“It’s not too bad, I guess.” You looked up to him.

Noel frowned, “There’s more, love.”

You groaned. “I’m too hungover to deal with anything.” You leaned over the counter and dropped your head into your hands.

“You don’t need to worry ‘bout it, love. No one knows your name and I’ve told me manager to put anyone straight about the whole ‘groupie’ thing.” He let out a small chuckle.

“And that’s all fine until someone I know sees the pictures and decides to make some quick money by talking to the papers.”

Noel frowned, “M’sorry, love.”

You shook your head, “It was bound to happen, right?” You looked down at Noel’s phone and pressed another article link.

‘AKA… What a night! for Noel Gallagher’ – There was a picture of you and Noel sat in the back of his car with his arm around your shoulders. You were practically sat in Noel’s lap as the pair of you made out, completely unaware of your surroundings.

You groaned and put his phone down. “We must have been mega drunk last night. Behavin’ like a couple of teenagers.”

Noel chuckled, “I warned you I wasn’t gonna keep me hands to myself.” He pressed a kiss to your temple before walking over to the fridge. “What you want for breakfast?” He asked.

You raised your eyebrow and turned around to face him as he looked in the fridge, just noticing he was only wearing a pair of boxers and an undershirt. You smirked to yourself as you admired his arse. “Thought you said you couldn’t cook?”

“I can manage a bacon sarnie.” He smirked at you over his shoulder.

You nodded, “Bacon sarnie it is then.” You smiled.

As Noel set about cooking the bacon, you sorted the bread and plates. The two of you moved around the kitchen with ease like it was something you’ve been doing for years.

Noel had decided to go ahead to tonight’s venue before you in hopes to distract the press that had been waiting outside his place all day so you wouldn’t have to deal with them. The plan was for you to get there an hour or so before the show started, so you had plenty of time to relax and get ready. You had planned on having a bath in the extremely large bathtub with a glass of wine but then you discovered something in your suitcase that you hadn’t noticed before.

There, hidden away in one of the pockets of your suitcase, sat your pink vibrator and the butt plug. You definitely didn’t put them there which meant it had to be Noel.

You shook your head with a smirk, “The little-” You let out a small giggle, an idea popping into your head as you flicked your vibrator on.

Noel stood on stage strumming his guitar. They’d just finished practising ‘If I Had a Gun’ and as the others were busy tuning their instruments, Noel was playing around with a guitar rift that had been stuck in his head for a few days. The sound of his phone pinging in his pocket interrupted him. He pulled his phone out and began grinning; it was you.

Y/n: You alone? X

Noel: I’m practising, love x

Y/n: Yeah, but anyone looking over your shoulder? X

Noel: No. Why? x

Noel’s eyes widened, quickly holding his phone to his chest as he looked around to see if there was anyone looking over his shoulder before he took another look at his phone. Naughty girl, Noel thought as he looked over the photo of you. Your legs were spread with your vibrator slipped inside your pussy. You were clearly laid in the middle of Noel’s bed with his shirt still on. Noel had to readjust himself behind his guitar as he looked around him again.

Noel: You found it then x

Y/n: And what were you planning on doin with it? X

Noel: Having some fun with you x

Another photo popped up. You’d replaced the vibrator with two of your fingers but this time there was a glimpse of the butt plug nestled between your cheeks.

“Fuck,” Noel moaned.

“Chief?”

Noel looked up and quickly slipped his phone back in his pocket. “I, uh, need the loo.” Noel spun around keeping his guitar in front of him until he was by the side of the stage. At that moment he didn’t care what happened to his beloved guitar as he all but dropped it because all that mattered was dealing with his hard on.

A couple of hours later you were walking down the corridor of the venue backstage alongside Noel’s PA who had met you by the front of the venue. You were giddy and not just because you were buzzin’ with excitement for the show. Noel had tried ringing you after you sent your second photo, but you were ‘busy’, so you didn’t answer. It was safe to say he was worked up and you were excited to see what he would do.

You followed Noel’s PA into the band dressing room, your smile widening as your eyes immediately met Noel’s from where he stood. You greeted the other’s, ignoring Russell’s joke as you and Noel walked towards each other. “Hello.” You smiled innocently up at him.

“Enjoy your afternoon alone?” Noel asked, his gaze dark as he stared down at you.

You hummed, “Very much… you?” You smirked.

Noel let out a small growl, “It was a bit… hard.”

You giggled and looked up as Tim walked up to you with a drink. You thanked him as you took it from him. You could feel Noel’s eyes on you as you took a swig of your drink. “What?” You asked looking up at him.

Noel shook his head with a grin, “Nowt.” He looked you up and down, his smile widening. “You look good in a skirt.” He licked his bottom lip. “Real good.”

You looked around the two of you to make sure no one was near you before you leaned up and whispered in his ear. “I’m still wearing it.” You giggled.

Noel’s eyes widened as he met your eyes, “Seriously?” You nodded biting your bottom lip. Noel gulped and quickly took your hand in his, dragging you out of the dressing room without a care.

Your feet struggled to keep up with his large strides as he led you to what must be his dressing room. He opened the door and practically pushed you inside making you giggle.

“Someone’s eager.” You teased and slowly stepped back into the room, dropping your bag on the floor as you did.

Noel grunted as he slammed the door shut behind him. “You’ve had me fuckin’ hard all day,” He said as he stalked closer to you. “With all your teasin’… I’ve been a fuckin’ mess.”

“That was the idea.” You grinned, “It’s your own fault, Mr Gallagher.”

Noel’s eyes darkened and his Adams apple bobbed as he gulped. There was something about the way you called him ‘Mr Gallagher’ that got to him. He closed the gap between you by grabbing a hold of your hips and crashing his lips against yours.

You let out a heavy moan and wrapped your arms around Noel’s shoulders, letting his tongue enter your mouth. He began walking you backwards until you hit the back of the sofa that sat in the room, the kiss not breaking until you needed to breath.

Noel pulled back with a smirk. “You’ve been a bad girl today, haven’t you?” You let out a giggle as Noel’s hands moved down and squeezed your backside through your skirt.

“It’s good to be bad sometimes.” You leaned up and kissed him. “Have you ever fucked a girl with one in?” You asked as you softly laid kisses under his jaw.

Noel gulped, “... No...” He closed his eyes as you ran your tongue over his Adams apple and back up to his jaw.

You pulled back with a smirk, “Then this is your treat...” You turned around and bent over the back of the sofa. “You said you wanted to fuck me in this, didn’t you?” You wiggled your backside with a giggle making Noel grin.

He gathered the hem if your skirt and pushed up to your hips, moaning at the sight if your backside covered in black lace and silk. “This that new lingerie?” He asked as he stared at your backside. He could just about see the silver butt plug through the lace. His hard cock twitching at the sight. He never realised how much of an arse guy he was until you.

You nodded, “Do you like it?”

Noel looked at you with a smirk. “Take this off.” He ordered as he tugged on your Fred Perry.

You let out an excited giggle as you quickly pulled it over your head. You went to turn around to face Noel but he stopped you, pressing his chest to your back as he reached up and grabbed your throat, holding your face forwards. Your eyes met his in the large mirror that sat on the wall opposite the sofa.

“Look at how fucking gorgeous you are, love.” Noel whispered against your ear. His right hand gently stroked up your stomach until he reached your lace covered breasts. “Yer fuckin’ perfect, baby doll.” Noel cupped your left breast and ran his thumb over your nipple.

“Please, Noel, stop teasing.”

Noel smirked against your ear, “It’s not nice, is it?” He said and pinched your nipple making you moan loudly.

“Fine then, don’t fuck me before you go on stage. I’ll go stand in the crowd and find someone who will.” You sassed trying to move away from him.

Noel’s hand around your throat tightened as he stared into your eyes through the mirror, “Don’t you fuckin’ dare. Yer mine. You understand? Yer fuckin’ mine.” You gulped and nodded, pressing your thighs together. “Say it.” Noel ordered.

“I’m yours, Noel.”

Noel turned your face towards him and crashed his lips against yours. The kiss was hot and messy, rough, full of passion and something more. The thought of what that something more could be scared you.

You pulled back panting and licked your lips, needing to rid your head of the thoughts, “Are you goin’ to fuck me or what, Mr Gallagher?”

Noel rolled his eyes with a smirk and let go of you, making quick work of his belt. “Perhaps I should put that smart mouth of yours to better use instead of fuckin’ you senseless.” He dropped his trousers and boxers revealing his hard, throbbing cock, the sight made your mouth water. Noel pushed you back over the sofa and moved your panties to the side.

“Just do something- fuck,” You moaned loudly, quickly covering your mouth with your hand as Noel tugged on the butt plug. Your eyes screwed shut as he played with it.

“What was that, love?” You could hear the smugness in his voice.

A needy whimper fell from your lips, muffled by your hand as Noel slipped two of his fingers through your throbbing cunt.

“Not so fuckin’ gobby now, are ya’?” Noel teased, a smug grin on his lips as he stepped closer. He took his cock in hand and slowly rubbed the head of it through your wet folds. “I want everyone to hear you, yeah? Let them know who you belong to.” Your back arched as he rubbed his length a little firmer against you.

“Oh, gahd-”

“Fuck! Gonna fuck you so good, baby doll.” Noel moaned as his length slipped between your pussy, every inch of him getting coated in your juices. “Gonna fill you up, nice and full with my cock.” He groaned loudly as he grabbed your arse cheeks in his hands firmly, pulling them apart before he slowly slid his cock inside you.

The two of you moaned loudly in unison, Noel’s cock slowly inched inside of your cunt, sending shivers down your spine as it pressed against the butt plug. Noel’s eyes screwed shut as he tried to calm himself, the new feeling almost too much for him, but he’d be damned if he let this finish too soon.

Noel looked up into the mirror and met your already half lidded eyes. You were wrecked already. “You ‘kay, love?”

You nodded. “Please, Noel, move.” You panted, giving your hips a little wiggle making Noel hiss.

Noel began to move at a slow pace. He slipped his cock all the way in until his balls were flush against you. He paused for a moment, watching you in the mirror as you got lost in the pleasure before he began to pull back just as slow, squeezing a little tighter on your firm cheeks as he did so. He continued at this slow pace for a couple more thrust until you reached back and grabbed his left hand with yours.

“Faster, Noel. Please.” You begged, your eyes pleaded with his through the mirror.

Noel gulped and came to a stop, his cock once more fully inside you making you whimper, “I don’t want to hurt you, Y/n.” He worried.

You shook your head, panting, “You won’t... I trust you.” You gave him a soft smile, your fingers curling around his.

Noel nodded. He set of at a slow pace, gradually he began to move a little faster until he allowed himself to let lose, your pleasured moans spurring him on. “Fuck, baby.” Noel breathed deeply as he pushed harder into you sending another set of moans leaving your lips.

“God… daddy… s’good.” You cried out, lost in the pleasure.

Noel watched your reflection, his eyes focused on your breasts as they bounce with each thrust. He bit his lip, his fingers digging into your skin as he fucked your harder and faster. The sofa slowly began to scrap across the floor, the sound mixing with pleasured moans and heavy breathing.

“Yes! Oh God, yes!” You cried out loudly, the feeling of Noel bumping the butt plug inside your asshole as his cock moved in and out of your pussy made you feel amazing. “Shit! So close-“ you whimpered as you reached back and pressed your fingers against your clit.

Noel clenched his teeth as he felt you squeeze around his cock. “Fuck… Fuck… I-” Noel’s eyes closed tight as you came, your pussy squeezing his cock tighter. “Fuck!” Noel stilled as he cried out and came deep inside.

You let out a tired giggle as Noel collapsed over your back, his arms sliding around you as he did. Noel smirked against your neck before pressing a soft kiss to your sweaty skin.

“Uh, Noel,” You giggled as Noel hummed against your skin. “I can’t breathe.” You giggled.

“Shit. Sorry.” Noel slowly pushed himself up and carefully pulled out of you. Noel looked down between your legs and felt his cheeks flush as he watched his cum spill out of you. “Uh, there’s jm, towels and stuff in there if you want to clean up.” Noel nodded to the small bathroom that was in his dressing room.

You blushed and nodded, carefully walking over, closing the door behind you. You faced the large mirror and just stared at your reflection. What the fuck. A smile curled at your lips as you thought about what had just happened.

You quickly set about cleaning up, redressing yourself and removing the butt plug before you headed back out to where Noel was sat on the sofa that was still in the same place you had left it, the thought why making you blush even more. Noel had also redressed and was sat on his phone. He looked up with a smile, his eyes falling to the butt plug that sat in your hand and began blushing too. You bit your bottom lip as you walked over to join him on the sofa and grabbed your bag from where you had dropped it.

Noel cleared his throat as you put it away. “That’s not what I had in mind when I said I wanted to have some fun with ya’.” Noel smirked.

You raised your eyebrow at him. “Did you want to use it?”

Noel’s eyes widened comically making you laugh. “What? No.” He scoffed all flustered.

You laughed harder, “M’sorry. Your face… Fuck, you’re cute when you get flustered.” You said making Noel blush even more. “M’sorry,” You turned in your seat to face him, throwing your legs over his. “What did you mean?”

Noel rolled his eyes trying not to smile as he placed his hand on your knee and stroked his hand along your thigh. “I just meant, in bed. But this was fuckin’ way better.” Noel winked at you making you grin.

[janecuppa]

Let's go down memory lane, shall we? In case they are trying to distract us lol!!!

😂😂

He looks so bright and pleasant 🙄

She's staring down that camera.

He's still bright and pleasant. It's almost blinding.

She's staring down. And why? The baby is heavily covered. You can't see it.

See? Baby is very covered. You can't see it.

Also note the lack of wind. In her hair. Her robe. And even his hair.

I LOVE this picture. I ROLLED with laughter.

There is no wind. But I love that hair toss she did just so she would have an excuse to show off that temu ring of hers. Exaggerated and full of drama. Yes!! Love it!!

He still is blinding me with his happiness there.

Probably the only time he spoke to her on that walk lol. And he's pointing away, so probably so he could leave lol!!

Ooooooh, check him out finally peeping that ring!

Then his reaction. It's almost like he's mad. Wonder why?

Don't men who propose normally put the ring there themselves?

So why the stare down then anger? Lol!!!