#romanticizing minor characters

[cuntyglam]

two gay brown soldiers hopelessly in love sacrifice their lives for their country to protect the royal family and they die together (chaka and pell from op)

[spangelmybeloved]

I really don't think that some people understand that not all fictional characters are meant to be morally perfect? Like, yeah, that character fucks up a lot and is morally pretty grey. That doesn't mean that they're not enjoyable to watch or that they don't play a role in the story. Flawed characters can be very interesting. Am I saying you have to like every character? No. However. It often seems like people expect all the characters to be morally perfect all the time and when they're not, whoops "worst person ever I hate them".

[lucent-nargacuga]

.

[anyarose011]

Et tu, Brute?

Pairing: Emperor Geta x Reader x Lucius

Summary: You went by many different names: "Rome's Delight", "The Woman with the Golden Mouth", "Geta's Favorite Whore", and "Julia". None of these were your true name; all used just to dehumanize you as nothing more than a slave. When the General Acacius returns from conquering Numidia, and you meet one of the slaves that was brought from the bloodshed, you hope to reclaim not just your freedom...but power along with it.

Part 1 of 2 (Masterlist)

Warning(s): Depictions of rape and SA [not shown], slavery, cannon typical violence, minor Stockholm Syndrome, major character deaths, historical inacuracy [but I tried my best to make it somewhat accurate] and Spoilers for Gladiator II

I saw this movie once, watched Game of Thrones at the same time, and cranked out a story where you, the reader, know how to play "The Game" (but also not because let's keep it kinda realistic) I'm gonna be honest, this might be a hot mess, and I used a script I found online (but Idk how accurate it is). Also, this first part is just mainly story based with the events of the film the SECOND part will focus on reader and Lucius' relationship (including smut, you sluts {I am also slut, don't worry}.

I do want to say though that the depictions of SA are in no attempt to romanticize them. I also decided not to write out the specific scenes because I myself am a survivor, and wanted to focus more on the protagonist's growth. The trauma still affects her story, but I do not want to write rape scenes merely for shock purposes.

Also, if you name is actually "Julia"...no it's not :)

Word Count: 16.1k

It was your own fault, that was what they tried to make you believe.

How dare you not wish to participate in the public baths, how dare you desire to bathe in the place you felt most safe.

Foolish, foolish girl. You were not even safe on your own porch in the house you grew up in.

Your father hadn’t been the wealthiest of merchants, but before he passed into the Elysian Fields after his death that year, he had made a fortune; so much as to buy a bathtub for your house.

If anything, you had bathed at night when you believed no one could see you not for your own modesty, but to prevent anyone from stealing it.

Yet, one particular night, a man had spotted you.

The Emperor Geta of Rome had watched your naked form glisten in the moonlight as you washed the most intimate areas of your body; sighing at the feeling of being clean after the day, only for your soul to feel tainted once morning broken.

Guards had nearly broken the hinges off the front door to your house, and dragged you to the palace. You had lived in that house for your entire life, the same neighbors beside you, yet as you kicked and screamed…none helped.

You had grown tired once in the palace, and the eldest of the twin emperors stood before you. He cupped your chin.

“What is your name, girl?”

You answered him, attempting to speak with venom, but the quaking of your voice betrayed anxiety.

He hummed, repeating your name. “Why are you all alone?”

You huffed. “My mother died in the battle that is childbirth, and my father was lost to an ailment in his loins.”

“You have no brothers?” Geta questioned, his eyes running down your form. “No husband?”

“They called my father strange for leaving me his possessions.”

“He mustn’t have passed on so long ago.”

“Why does the death of my father concern you if you only seek my body?” You questioned.

A smile twisted upon his lips. “Perhaps I like to know my fruit before I devour it.”

And he kissed you.

You had been kissed before, but this was the first time you hadn’t wanted to be. You hadn't expected him to be serious about devouring you. His teeth sank into your chin, then your cheeks, until they were finally upon your lips.

It was the first time, in all your life, you felt your body grow cold and freeze despite his hands wandering over you, pulling at the thin fabric of clothing that covered you.

You fell to the floor, clinging to it desperately as he tried to lead you to his chambers. You had expected him to order one of his men to kill you, or have them carry you…

Instead, he took you right there. He simply lifted his own robes then yours and stole what wasn’t his to take.

All you remembered of that was counting how many pillars were in the room.

You were one of his several concubines. Yet, despite being the newest, you were his favorite.

“Julia,” he whispered to you in the night a month after he had made you his. A month after he had decided to call you by his mother’s name instead of your own. “are you awake?”

You mewled, sitting up. “I am now, my love. What is it?”

Geta smiled, holding out a stack of parchment. “Look at what some of the men found in Carthago.”

You rubbed your eyes as the lamps in his room brightened before looking down at the crudely written words. Geta looked at you in earnest.

“Can you read them?”

A few days prior at him and his brother Caracalla’s birthday festivities, it was revealed that you spoke five languages: Latin, Phoenician, Aramaic, Hebrew, and Greek. Your father had taught you every single one of them to fend for yourself amongst all kind of people.

Now, it was nothing more than a shameless trick Geta used to his amusement.

“Rome’s Cleopatra,” he deemed you in front of the crowd. “the Woman with a Golden Mouth”.

Everyone in that room and all of Rome knew that your ability to speak so many dialects was not the only reason he gave you that title.

Still, as you lay in his bed with crumbling parchment in hands, you forced a tender smile. “Yes, I know what it says. Would you like to know?”

He laid his head in your lap without another word.

Months passed, and he had grown kinder…only when it was night, and even so, that was only when the moon was full.

There wasn’t a day where your body hadn’t ached from the turmoil he put you through. It was hard to discern when he would want you to be small and subservient to him, or confident and commanding in matters of the bed.

The handmaids that were blessed to not be in bed with him would bathe and coddle you as best as they could, for even through your suffering, you tried your best to treat them with kindness.

You didn’t even know who you were after the fourth month of being Geta’s slave.

Gone was the girl who had a peaceful life; there was now the Emperor’s Pet.

General Marcus Acacius returned to Rome after overtaking the kingdom Numidia in the emperors’ names, and it was the first time you were in his presence. It was certainly a surprise that Geta would string you alongside him on personal matters that had nothing to do with sex.

The general would glance at you every so often, and his look of pity felt more violating that any of the times Geta, or his brother, or anyone else in all of Rome had looked at you.

Upon the general’s return, a series of games at the Colosseum were to be hosted, among parties that would last for the remaining week.

The first was at Senator Thraex's home.

“My little Julia,” Geta caressed your cheek as you sat upon his lap in the makeshift throne. “might you fetch me another cup of wine?”

You nodded, taking his cup and kissing his hair. “I shall, my love.”

He ran his fingers down your neck as you got off of him and made your way to the barrels. Yet, as you passed an open door, something caught your eye. Peeking around the somewhat crack in the door, you saw a few men sat in the room, chains around their ankles and their wrists.

One of them, more muscular than the others with brown curls, held his head low. His skin wasn’t as dark as other men from Africa Propria, but not as pale as the Germanic lands.

When his eyes met yours, you saw a pale blueness only seen in the sky on a summer’s day.

Gasping, you hid behind the door for only a moment before looking again. His gaze was still on you. Deciding to end the strangeness of the situation, you spoke.

“I’m sorry.” You apologized.

He said nothing; you tried again.

“I’m sorry.” You said in Greek.

The look in his eyes changed to confusion, but he said nothing.

“Hebrew?” You questioned. “Aramaic? Phoenician?”

“You speak Phoenician?” He asked as if he hadn’t heard it in forever.

You nodded. “I speak five languages.”

“Ah,” he answered in your native tongue to your surprise. “Rome’s Cleopatra.”

Your nose scrunched as if you smelt something rotten. “You understood me the first time?”

“I did.”

“So why not say anything?”

“What am I to say to your pity?”

You hummed. “I do not pity you, I was showing respect.”

He scoffed. “Respect? Am I a man that looks as if I deserve respect?”

“I believe every man deserves respect so as long he is kind.” You glared at him.

The man shook his head, sighing. “You are a foolish child if you believe that men can be kind.”

“I haven’t for quite a while.” you stated. “I pray that it is the hope that kills me.”

He questioned. “And not one of the emperors?”

“What is your name, slave?” You crossed your arms.

He huffed, drawing his eyes away from you and clenching his fists before relaxing them. “Hanno.”

You nodded. “They call me ‘Julia’.”

“But that is not your name.”

It was blistering hot that particular day, but you felt your body run cold; the same cold you felt when Geta…when he first…

“Who says it is not my name?” You challenged.

“You are merely a concubine,” he said. “you are not a part of his lineage, and therefore, your name is not ‘Julia’.”

You do not know why you seethed with so much rage from his words. You did not even spit on him; you merely stomped away from that door, filled up the emperor’s cup, and went back to Geta.

“It took you nearly a millennium to come back, my sweet.” He scoffed yet kissed your bare shoulder. “I was beginning to worry.”

You shook your head, leaning against him as you sat on the arm of the throne. “You mustn’t over me, my love.”

“You seem distressed.” Caracalla teased beside you. “This is a festivity; you should be merry!”

All you did was smile and nod. It was a pleasant change from the parties you were forced to attend in the past; you weren’t the center of attention, and this was the first time Geta dressed you in the bright colors everyone else wore instead of white.

You could pretend you were royalty for a day.

Not so long after you came back, both Thraex and Macrinus, a stable master who traveled far and wide for new gladiators, approached with their own champions to fight.

You were not even at the Colosseum, and yet, violence still had to be played for everyone’s amusement.

Hanno entered from the door you had previously been at, and another man entered from the opposite side of the room. Both were given swords.

“Brother,” Hanno began. “let us not kill each other for their amusement-.”

The other man struck him without hesitation. You had seen fights before, but none like this. It was ruthless, quick yet drawn out. Hanno lost his sword in the middle of it all, leading to him smashing a flowerpot over his opponent’s head.

The fight was still not done, he rose up on his feet and took his sword from the ground, raising it high above him. Hanno, against all odds, knocked him back onto the ground and took the sword just as they both sood, stabbing his opponent in the chest.

A chorus of cheers and groans echoed in the room. Geta arose from his seat, laughing and applauding as you sat there, eyes as wide as they could be at the bloodied sight before you.

“Remarkable! Gladiator, which part of the Empire do you hail from?” He questioned Hanno. Hanno stood stoically, glaring at the emperors before him. Geta tutted, turning to you. “Julia, open your golden mouth and-.”

“-The gates of hell are open night and day.” Hanno interrupted in the common language. “Smooth the descent, and easy is the way: But to return, and view the cheerful skies, in this the task and mighty labor lies.”

Geta smiled. “Ah…a poet!”

The rest of the world fell away as you could not tear your gaze away from the man laying on the floor. If he hadn’t died from his wounds, he would’ve from choking on his own blood.

“-You understand, don’t you?” Geta asked.

You sat in your own personal chambers that night for the first time in a while. You were never overjoyed to be in his bed, but being sent to your own perplexed you.

Then, he simply told you that you were to be General Acacius’ for the night.

“He’s sacrificed so much, my little Julia.” Geta combed his fingers through your hair to soothe you. “I refused him once already; I cannot do so again. Do you understand?”

The emperor had never shared you with anyone. He wasn’t delicate with you, but at least you knew what to expect.

He clenched your jaw. “I do not care to ask you a third time, girl.”

“Yes,” you squeaked. “I understand, Geta.”

Nodding, he softened his hold, leaning his head against yours. “You are still mine alone; I promise, it will only be us after tonight.”

You swallowed thickly. “Okay.”

“There she is.” He kissed your lips before pulling away and standing. “He will be in right away. Do not fret, I told him to be gentle with you.”

Geta left through your chamber doors without another word. There you were, sitting on your bed, draped in silks you should have known were given to you out of lust and not out of kindness. Your eyes trailed to the empty vase on a table beside your bed.

You didn’t know what possessed you that night, but you yanked it off the table, and smashed it on your bed. The handle of the door began to rattle. Quickly pushing the shattered pieces under your bed, you hid a shard behind your back and sat at the head of the bed.

In came General Marcus Acacius, wearing only a thin overshirt that went down to his knees. You’d done this game of seduction many times with Geta, how different could it be for him? Grabbing the bottom of your night dress, you raised it until it bunched up your thighs, revealing your bare center to him.

He took a hitched breath. “My lady-.”

“-What troubles you, general?” You asked then smiled with gritted teeth. You felt your hand begin to ache as you squeezed the vase shard.

Marcus furrowed his brow, and as if he already knew, he said. “Cover yourself and show me what is behind your back.”

Your eyes dropped along with your heart. Still, as his face turned into a scowl, you cooperated. Handing him the shard and quickly pulling your dress back down, you spoke with intensity.

“If you will not stab me before you rape my corpse, then I shall throw myself from the nearest window and allow the people of Rome to defile me. I will not lie on my back and take it anymore.”

He took a deep breath, holding the sorry excuse for a weapon in his hand. “It is unwise to tell the enemy your plans.”

…What?

“It would serve you greatly to control the faces you make before harming a man as well. Yet, above all,” He held the shard out to you. “your enemy is not afraid to kill you; you should feel the same.”

“Why do you tell me this?” You asked, still not believing it.

Marcus sat up. “I believe we can help each other, my little dove.”

“How?”

He lowered his voice. “You have heard of the gladiator Maximus, his dream of a free Rome, yes?”

“Yes.”

“A dream that cannot be obtained from the rule of two emperors.” He lamented. “My wife and I, along with several others, plan…to fulfill our shared dream.”

They were going to overthrow Geta and Caracalla.

“What gives you reason to believe I won’t say a word of this to them?” You asked.

He smiled for the first time since you’d seen him. “That freedom belongs to you.”

“I…I’m still lost. How will I be of any use?”

“Emperor Geta favors you considerably. He is a man, and not a cunning one at that. There are ways to wear foolish men down.”

You nodded, beginning to understand. “There’s always a woman.”

“There’s always a woman.” He solidified. “Gain the trust of the public; make them love you, and they will not see the emperor’s whore but a woman of the people.”

“And how will that dethrone them?

He smiled. “My wife and I will meet with the counsel tomorrow night. I will send for you.”

You scoffed. “Geta said that after tonight I am just his alone.”

“Then I’ll refuse to give him Persia and India.”

“He’ll have your head.” You berated. “Besides, I don’t think he’d believe my cunt would be worth two countries.”

Marcus shrugged. “Considering he only wants you to himself, I have no doubt that it is worth that much. But I am unable to confirm it.”

You sighed. “Even if he’ll allow it, he’ll send a guard with me.”

“I am not one to invite a third into the bedroom.”

“Then where shall-?”

“-Little dove,” he interrupted. “the city was not built in a day, therefore it cannot be emancipated in one.”

Gods help and forgive you for being impatient on wanting to be free. Still, you composed yourself. “Alright.”

He nodded, standing up. “I will be seeing you on the morrow, one way or another.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

“For what, child?”

You swallowed thickly, avoiding his gaze. “Not forcing yourself upon me.”

Marcus’ face softened, and he lowered himself to your height as you sat on the bed. He took your face into his hands, and you immediately tensed when his face drew closer to yours.

“Don’t be afraid,” he whispered. “it’s not that kind of a kiss.”

With a tenderness that reminded you of your father, he placed his lips on your forehead and pulled away. Giving you one last knowing nod, he promptly left your chambers.

You wanted to do nothing more than shed tears of happiness, yet for no reason at all, you could not cry.

Your father had only taken you to the Colosseum to watch mock animal hunting. Even when your friends invited you to watch gladiator fights or other public executions, he had found ways of making you stay far away from them.

There was a strange humor in sitting in the best chair for your very first gladiator duel. That being in the front as Emperor Geta ran his hand up and down your back.

In utter honestly, you tried to stray your attention away from the fights, speaking more with Caracalla of all people. He was more erratic than Geta by far, and it was more difficult to tell when he would be kind one moment, then out for blood the next.

Yet at least he was open about being cruel, unlike his brother.

When you would watch the fights…a familiar face seemed to catch both you and the general’s wife’s, Lucilla, eye.

The man with light skin yet hailed from Numidia…Hanno.

You hadn’t recognized him at first, for it wasn’t his mere presence that drew you to finally look at the event before you. No, it was the way he fought.

Most men previously had attacked with brute force; just stabbing the beast and hoping it would die. Hanno fought with wit. Simply using the sand beneath his feet as an advantage, blinding and tricking the rhinoceros to run directly into the wall.

He was cunning…he commanded the men beside him as if it weren’t the first time he’d done so in his life.

Then, when it came to deciding his fate when all seemed lost…Geta turned to you.

“My love,” he played with a strand of your hair. “shall I show the poet mercy, or bloodshed for your entertainment?”

Even if it weren’t Hanno, your answer would have been the same. “Mercy.”

As a hush fell over the crow, Geta rose his thumb up, sparing him. As cheers erupted, Hanno shook his head.

“No, no mercy.”

Geta furrowed his brow. “Gladiator, we have spared your life. No one refuses-.”

“-I would sooner face your blade than accept Roman mercy!”

Thus, the fight continued. An act of defiance…Peculiar…Quite peculiar.

Both you and Marcus were correct about the night; Geta did indeed allow you to go to the general’s house, but only if you were escorted by a trusted guard. When you arrived, Marcus immediately draped you in a cloak, practically covering your face and had excused as not wanting the staff to tell his wife of who he was bringing into their house.

Marcus led you into his chambers, and there you saw two people. Apparently, they weren’t even apart of the counsel; simply paid to pretend to be both you and the general as the guard would listen outside, assume it was the two of you fucking.

He had certainly thought through every little detail.

Marcus pushed on a stone in his chambers, revealing a hidden door. You had only heard of these within stories, and as he led you down the darkened passage with only a torch in one hand, and the other holding yours, you had never felt more alive since your past life had been stolen.

You were welcomed to a room filled with dozens of the senate you had passed by in the palace. How strange it was to see them all huddled into a dimly lit room, plotting the demise of the men they initially swore to serve.

An arm looped through yours, and it was Lucilla. She whispered into your ear.

“Whatever you have to say, speak it to me, and I shall speak to them.”

You turned. “Why must I not speak for myself?”

“I only allowed you to be here if Marcus agreed to not let your voice be heard.”

“What?”

“I will explain more to you soon after, I vow it.”

Thus the meeting began. In all truthfulness, you were only able to understand the bare minimum: In a few days’ time, Marcus would lead five-thousand men into Rome to overtake the thrones of the empire, and thus destroy them, restoring the Roman Republic.

When the conversation turned to you, you were merely referred to as an informant who had the closest relationship to the emperor.

It still perplexed you as to why you needed to remain anonymous; there was an excellent chance they would know you as ‘Geta’s Favorite Whore’.

Yet, you did your best to inform the counsel of a plan you had simply created on the spot (they did not need to know the latter part of it).

You would gain more favor from the public, while at the same time, putting Geta’s worries to rest about any uprising or dislike from the majority of the empire.

How you would do that…it was fortunate that they didn’t ask you to give specifics.

Once the meeting ended, you were taken back up from the secret passage, yet instead of going back to the chambers, you felt Lucilla take your hand and lead you down another path.

You couldn’t even get a sound out before she said. “It is alright; he knows I want to speak with you in private. We will not take long.”

She led you up into the bath area of the house. It was quite beautiful; the tub wasn’t made of porphyry, but that did not make it any less exquisite. There was something about it being lesser of the baths you’ve had in the palace. It wasn’t entirely reminiscent of the one you had at home…

But you felt safer.

Lucilla had been gentle in pulling off your robes, and never once did it feel wrong. You were a woman and so was she. She never pulled or scratched your skin, and you knew that she only felt sorrow when she gazed upon the bruises and wounds you had received from Geta.

“How long have you been at the palace?” She questioned as she carded herbs through your hair.

You glanced at her, sighing. “I’ve stopped counting…months, I know.”

“Were you forced to leave any family? Brothers, sisters, children?”

“No. My mother died birthing me, and my father was taken half a year ago to an ailment emperor Caracalla also suffers from.”

She hummed. “Have you ever been in love?”

You laughed the most genuine laugh ever since you became a slave. “Why on earth would you ask that?!”

“I am merely curious!” She teased. “You are truly beautiful, and there is no doubt that men would throw themselves off cliffs for you; but it matters most of who you would choose.”

Her question scraped your mind. There had been times you were fond of, even lusted over, men both your age and older…but love? The only one you experienced would be storge; perhaps philia…but eros? Agape?

“I don’t think I have been.” You answered. “Have you?”

She nodded, a forlorn look in her eyes, but smile upon her mouth. “Twice.”

“Twice?” You couldn’t help the nervous giggle that left your throat. “It can happen twice?”

“It’s possible, yes.”

“And who have you willingly fell captive to?”

“Marcus is the most recent, though there are days I do not understand what he sees in me. Then…the father of my child.”

Lucilla poured water upon your head to wash out the soap in your hair, and a silence fell over both of you. One that was broken when you spoke a name.

“Lucius…”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“He-he had gone missing all those years ago, hadn’t he?”

“He had.” She ran the bar of soap over the top half of your body. “I believe he must’ve been around your age when he ran away.”

“And there hasn’t been any sign of him since?”

“No.” She answered right away.

You curled into yourself. “I apologize if I upset you my lady-.”

“-No. I…I love talking about him.”

You managed a gentle smile to soothe her. “What was he like?”

“Headstrong.” She chuckled. “Wanted to become a gladiator more than anything in the world. Yet, he was gentle, and kind as well. He…I believe he would’ve adored you.”

You shook your head. “Maybe when we were children, but I don’t think so now.”

“It’s hard to judge.”

Whilst the air between you turned into more intimate topics, the question that had weighed on your mind was brought to light. “Why did you not allow me to speak or show my face tonight?”

Lucilla stopped her ministrations. You looked up at her, and the look she wore bore an exhaustion that you had felt recently.

“I know too well the cruelties of men.” She began softly. “My brother had done everything to keep me from ever resisting him…he had done everything. I had only wished for someone to be there with me at every moment when I faced his abuse.”

Words; simple words that meant everything to you was what made you weep.

There was no warning at all. Once she was finished, tears sprang to your eyes, and you felt your sinus clog up. Even as you tried to tear yourself away from her comfort, she merely wrapped her arms around you in an embrace from a mother you had never felt.

“I don’t want to go back.” You begged. “Please don’t let me.”

She kissed your hair. “I’m so sorry.”

“No!” You sobbed. “I-I don’t want to! Please, please, you can’t make me. I-I-I-!”

Lucilla shushed you, rocking you back and forth. “Do not weep. You will be free beside all of Rome, and the past months of your life will be nothing more than a distant, horrible dream.”

You pulled away just enough to look at her. “You-you must promise me something.”

“My child-.”

“-Promise me and I shall help you overthrow them until my last dying breath!”

She stared for a moment before nodding. “Yes. What is it?”

Your lip quivered. “When I die, you must bind my legs with chains or ropes when you bury me. I have,” you whimpered. “I have been told of men who dig up the bodies of girls and…”

Lucilla kissed your forehead before holding you once more. “I vow I will honor your wishes.”

All you could do was believe her.

There were more times than not the Emperor Geta would talk about filling you with his seed as he bedded you. You never were able to discern if he was serious about wanting to give you a child (they would be his, not yours).

It all became too real when you didn’t bleed that month.

Yet, you also did not feel sick in the morning, and your breasts hadn’t swelled. You still had urinated on wheat seeds for several weeks, but they had not sprouted.

You weren’t with child…yet there was nothing stopping you from convincing Rome you were. It would certainly be a risk; for there was no telling how Geta would react. But that was a risk you were willing to take.

Once a week, you were allowed to go outside the palace during the day, and you had chosen then to venture out into the numerous markets. It was nice to speak with the merchants you knew from your childhood. Some were elders who would watch over you when your father was busy, others were friends who had grown up with you.

“Now what would a little empress want with commoner’s food?” A man’s low timbre voice asked behind you.

Turning your head, you saw Macrinus standing before you with a curious grin. You mirrored it. “That’s not an appropriate title for me.”

“Ah, you are correct.” He nodded. “My apologies, ‘Lady with The Golden Mouth’. Or do you prefer ‘Rome’s Delight?’.”

“You may call me whatever you wish if you’d like.” You forced a laugh and turned back to the merchant you had known since you were a babe. “I’ll take a sack of wheat and small bag of garlic, Gaius.”

“Of course, lady Julia.”

Not even a childhood friend could say your real name. A tight smile formed upon your lips when he turned to sack the wheat before you. Macrinus spoke again.

“You still didn’t answer me about why you’re exactly here.”

“I am not an empress.” You turned to him. “I am not a queen from another realm, I am not even a lady. I am a lowly whore that was fortunate enough to be chosen by the emperor. I like to keep my own schedule from before, so I am aloud to bake my own bread.”

He hummed. “Is that so?”

“Yes.”

Gaius handed you the sack of wheat and garlic, and you held out three silver coins. He shook his head. “No, just a copper-.”

“-Please.” Was all you said.

He hesitated, then took them from you, smiling. “May Fortuna rain a thousand blessings upon your head.”

“And unto you as well.” You curtsied and turned on your heel to leave.

Macrinus walked beside you. “How generous you are.”

“I try to be.” You decided to change the topic. “You are in charge of Hanno, are you not?”

“I certainly am, why do you ask?”

“Just out of interest.” You shrugged. “There is talk of him being similar to the one Maximus from years ago. Many admire him already and it has only been a day.”

Macrinus laughed. “It is my duty to entertain the people. I noticed though that you are more prudish of the games.”

“I must admit, I am not used to the violence.”

“A sheltered girl?”

“Ashamedly so.”

“There is no shame at all. So, it is the Numidian that has captured your affection?” He teased. “How scandalous for the young empress to fall for a slave.”

You chuckled. “Nothing of the sort, I just find him amusing.”

“Oh, I am more than happy to let you see him alone if you ever so desire. You don’t need to wander upon him at another party.”

Your carefree air fell once he asked that. “I don’t know what you-.”

“-It’s alright.” He interrupted. “There’s nothing wrong with being curious, I am only concerned for your own safety.”

You stood taller, a shy smile upon your lips. “I am capable of taking care of myself, sir.”

“Of course my lady, why else would you be out here in the streets of commoners without a chaperone?”

Purposefully, you turned onto one of the crowded piazzas where the music and laughter was the loudest. You grinned from ear to ear.

“Oh please, don’t tell me you volunteered yourself to keep me safe.”

He laughed. “No, just wanted to say hello.”

You didn’t have time to respond, as one of the performers had recognized you. Ah, a girl that lived in the house across from yours when you were children! You still remembered her name, and after you passed your belongings to Macrinus, she pulled you into the circle of performers, dancing with you.

You laughed the most you had that year; in fact, you swore your bruised your ribs just from the sheer joy you felt. You don’t know how long you danced and sang with those who were your neighbors and friends, but just as you felt your feet begin to give out, Macrinus put his hand on your shoulder.

“I believe you should go back to the palace and rest.”

Nodding, you said farewell to your companions and took the bag of wheat and garlic back from him. “You are right, thank you so much.”

He grinned. “Let me escort you back.”

“No,” you walked ahead of him. “I wish not to bother you anymore. Good day, Macrinus!”

You lost yourself in the crowd, purposefully making it harder for him to follow. Once you were in the palace, you rushed into the kitchen, holding the sack of wheat behind your back, you greeted the cooks and snuck into the small pantry. You set the sack down on a shelf and pocketed two single reeds, along with an onion.

That night, Geta had called you into his chambers. Before going, you had cut the onion and brought it to hover around your eyes. You were crying by the time you were at his door. Immediately, he took notice of your reddened eyes and tear-stained cheeks.

“What is it, what’s wrong?”

You shook your head, only crying more. It was less because of the onion now, and just everything coming down crashing onto your shoulders once more. Geta pulled you into his chambers by your shoulders, sitting you on the bed.

“Tell me now what is bothering you.” He commanded.

You shook your head. “I-I can’t-.”

“-Now, Julia!”

Taking a deep breath, you reached into the pocket of your breast, taking out the two reeds and setting it in his hand. He furrowed his brows.

“I do not understand.”

You took a deep breath. “The handmaids have given me wheat and barley seeds ever since I have arrived. If they grow, then that means…that means I am with child.”

The look on his face spoke it all. You were certain you were dead.

“I-I didn’t know how you would feel, and-and so I-.”

He crushed you in an embrace, attaching his lips to your jaw. “Jupiter has blessed me.”

It was the first time you felt happiness in his presence. Of course, not because of him, but still joy. You returned his embrace, sighing in relief. “You are happy?”

“Happy?” He pulled away, holding your face in his hands. “There is nothing in this world that could sadden me right now. I will have an heir.”

As long as it was a boy (if it were real at all).

You feigned your smile and leaned into his touch. “I am fortunate to give you one.”

“And I am most fortunate to have you.” He laid down and brought you with him.

Perhaps, in another life, he was kind to you and didn’t only value you until you gave him a child. Perhaps you would be in love with him, and he would make you empress

But you weren’t fortunate to be born into that fantasy.

You wished nothing more than to sit with Marcus and Lucilla as you made your way into the emperor’s booth of the Colosseum. The three of you had managed to speak to one another, but only about meaningless things. Still, you just enjoyed their company.

 It would be more exciting that day. A naval battle, the Naumachia. The arena was filled with water and sea creatures you could never even possibly imagine. It was a wonder in and of itself how all the ships managed to fit themselves in the arena.

“Caracalla,” you said to the brother beside you as you were about to take your seat. He looked up upon hearing his name. You handed him the bag filled with garlic. “I finally found some for you.”

He grinned from ear to ear. “And you say that if I mix this with myrrh, I shall be cured?”

“It should treat the lesions on your skin.” You corrected. “This is what I did for my father.”

He died of the same ailment, but Caracalla didn’t ask; simply smiled. “Thank you, dear sister.”

You nodded, sitting down on the arm of Geta’s throne that would have put you in the middle of him and his brother. He wrapped his arm around you.

“You’ve been far kinder these days.” Geta pointed out.

“Perhaps that means I’ll be the most agreeable mother.” You jested, kissing his cheek.

He smirked, and as the man on the far end of the Colosseum began to announce the games, Geta stood up and rose his grail.

“I would like to propose a toast!” He yelled. The crowd fell silent, and you felt your skin crawl away from you. Geta continued. “To the health of wives and to mothers. Especially to my lover, Julia, who carries my son the moment as we speak!"

An eruption of applause and cheers filled the stadium. You blushed upon the praise, and genuinely wanted to hide yourself from the gaze of everyone; especially the ones closest to you. You could feel both Marcus and Lucilla’s eyes on you, attempting to hide their shock and perhaps horror. The worst was that of Macrinus.

He knew. Just from the look of him (or perhaps it was your own paranoia), but he had to have known from the moment you bought the wheat.

Still, they all applauded, and ones the excitement of your supposed pregnancy died down, the enthusiasm for the battle was born.

It was perhaps the one event you could stomach. While you could still clearly see men dying, it wasn’t as horribly bloody as the prior. Were you becoming numb to the cruelty of these games because you were pretending…or were you letting the game invade your head?

As several ships collided within the growing chaos, men would either die from their fellow man or would simply fall into the water and be devoured by beasts you had never seen until then. Your eyes had been following Hanno the whole time, whether purposefully or not.

Words could not describe the terror that had been brought upon you as you saw him aim his crossbow at the booth you sat in.

You did not think the arrow would pierce you, but it did. It longed into your right shoulder, and a cry you had no idea you were capable of making tore through your throat.

Tears blinded your vision, but the screams from the whole arena deafened your ears you could not even hear what Geta was saying to you.

You could barely make out Marcus’ in front of you as he snapped the body of the arrow and then hoisted you into his arms. You’d never been carried like this as a woman; only as a child by your father.

The heat of Rome felt hotter that day as the pain in your shoulder only grew tighter and tighter as if your skin was going to stretch away from you. The next thing you knew, you were laid upon a cold, solid surface, and sound returned to your ears.

“It’s alright, you’re alright.” Geta shushed, brushing your hair. “You’ll be okay.”

Someone stuck their fingers into your wounded shoulder, and you could only scream. A tender hand laid itself on your cheek, and just from touch alone, you knew it was Lucilla.

“Do not touch her!” Geta hissed, swatting her away.

“No, no!” You whined, reaching out and holding onto her.

Lucilla dropped to her knees, kissing every part of skin that was available, mumbling. “I know, I know. This too shall pass, you are stronger than you believe, my dear.”

Then, just like that, you felt the arrowhead leave your body. The pain was still excruciating beyond belief, but all that was left was for your arm to be wrapped in cloth, and to rest.

One of the guards in charge of the gladiators approached you when you were finally able to sit up.

“My lady,” he began. “did you happen to get a look at the man who shot you?”

“She’s only starting to recover!” Geta snapped. “How dare you. She carries my child, and-!”

“-It’s alright, Geta.” You soothed.

You could’ve done it. Told him with full confidence that it was Hanno. There would have been your chance of power; to kill the man who had nearly killed you.

Yet…you were vindictive and wanted to do it yourself.

“I have no memory.” You told him. “It happened so fast.”

How horrible it is that Geta would stop forcing you to pleasure him only when you were supposedly with his child and injured. You assumed that if you were suffering from only one of those ailments, than he still would’ve held you down and used you.

You thought nothing else would happen that night. You would simply speak to one another, pretending to be completely enamored by his existence, and then lie down to sleep.

Of course, that would be too peaceful.

You were awoken gently, to your surprise, by Geta shaking you. Humming, you rubbed your eyes. “What is it?”

“The general and his whore wife.” He gritted his teeth. “They planned to kill us.”

You shot right up, forgetting about your injured shoulder, and let out a cry. Geta helped you stand, and that was when you saw Caracalla standing before you, his monkey companion Dundus perching upon his shoulder.

“How-how do we know?” You stammered, not having to feign your terror.

Neither of them answered, and the three of you were led out into the throne room. There before you in their night clothes just as you were, Lucilla and Marcus.

Geta approached them first, seething. “The honor, the dignitas that Rome has bestowed upon you. All this you have forfeited by your treachery. Thanks to the civic virtue of men like Macrinus and Thraex your insurrection has been revealed-.”

 “-Torture me if you want,” Marcus shook his head. “but please, don’t lecture me.”

Geta’s face turned almost as red as his hair. “Your name and deeds will be forgotten, lost to history! You are damned to oblivion!”

“You damn me?” He laughed. “I don’t care. Everything is forgotten in time. Empires fall… and so do Emperors.”

Caracalla rose from his seat, reaching for his brother’s sword. “Why wait? I'll gut him right now!”

Geta grabbed onto him. “Brother! Brother! His death must be public.”

“Public, yes. Hang his entrails from the city gates!” He pointed at Lucilla. “Crucify her!”

“No!”

All eyes fell on you after your outburst. Even you froze in place, feeling bile begin to rise up within you. Geta let go of Caracalla. “‘No?’ You say? What would you have me do then?”

Swallowing thickly, it was hard to speak as tears began to fall. You held your stomach. “Crucifixion is…it’s…”

His face dropped into a scowl. “You aren’t saying I should let them live, are you?”

“No-!”

“-Then which is it?!”

Your voice fell silent as your chest constricted, and you could barely breathe. Your mouth would move, but nothing came out; not even strangled noises of desperation.

“If I may, your grace,” Macrinus stepped forward. “I believe she means to bring equal punishments to the crimes committed.”

Geta furrowed his brow. “I do not know what you speak of.”

“Please, let the rest of them out of the room so I might explain more clearly.’

He considered his words, then turned to his guards. “The criminals to the dungeons, my brother to his chambers, and my love-.”

“-I wish to be alone tonight.” You stated.

The emperor scoffed. “What?”

“The babe.” You began. “I-I have helped many women deliver their children, and what has always caused an early birth is stress. I-I cannot take any-anymore of it, or I fear…”

Finally, he took in the sight of your fearful face. Sighing heavily, he said. “Put my lady in her chambers for tonight.”

“Thank you.” You kissed his hand.

You were led into your own chambers, and once the door was shut, you threw yourself onto your bed and wept. You wept until you were wailing into the night, you wept until your eyes were as red as the sun in the morning, you wept until it hurt to continue to do so…

It was unknown how long you had cried, but the opening of your bedroom door is what alarmed you. Snapping your head over in the direction, you were shocked to see Macrinus.

“The general and his wife’s fate has been decided.” He stated.

You held a pillow to your chest, rubbing your reddened nose. “And what is it?”

“The emperor has chosen to let the gods decide, and Acacius will fight against Hanno tomorrow in the arena.”

“You mean you convinced him to.” You glared.

Macrinus approached you. “May I try some of the bread you have baked, my lady?”

You held no confusion when he asked you that. Surprise, yes; but you knew what he asked. You took a deep breath. “I believe I don’t understand.”

“The wheat you bought only days ago.” He reminded. “You said you would bake your own bread. Surely, you didn’t use it as false proof of you carrying the emperor’s heir?”

You didn’t dare look at him. Even when he laid his hand on our back, rubbing circles over your nightdress. “I wish to help you, my child. You must be willing to help me first.”

That was why he also didn’t alert Geta of your betrayal…unless, he had no idea of your alliance with Marcus and Lucilla.

“What is it that you want?” You asked.

“All in time.” He soothed. “I wish to give you the privilege to speak to someone.”

You finally looked at him, your eyes wide. “General Acacius?”

“No.” He shook his head. “I am unable to escort you to the dungeons below the palace. Yet, I can take you to the pit of gladiators.”

“It is easier for you to take me out of the palace than below it?”

“Take you to the man who nearly overthrew the emperors?” He chuckled bitterly. “Not possible. I cannot grant you the gift to say goodbye, but I can allow you to bargain for his life.”

You blinked. “Hanno?”

“Correct.”

“How can I leave the palace at this hour, after what has just happened?”

“You underestimate the silence men will take when it is weighed in gold.” He tutted. “I can only give you ten minutes with him. Will you go or not?”

You were forced to decide quickly…This could be your chance. He had nearly took your life the other day, and the pain in your shoulder was just a growing reminder of that. If he were dead…there was no way you could overtake him.

Yet, you learned that, in a world of men, you didn’t have to be stronger than them: Only smarter, and faster.

“I will go.”

You had hidden a kitchen knife under your bed the moment you had your own chambers. Geta had gifted you several colorful ribbons he loved to see you wear in your hair. He perhaps did not expect you to tie one around your waist under your gown, securing the knife.

Macrinus led you swiftly from the palace to the gladiator pit, which was thankfully not a long walk. You ignored the stares and intrigued calls from the other men as you treaded the halls. You were stopped by a door. Macrinus didn’t even warn Hanno who stood shirtless in his cell, only opened the door and let you enter.

“I’ll rattle the door when it’s time.” That was all he said and left.

Hanno didn’t even seem alarmed. “And what is Rome’s Delight doing here?”

Your blood boiled upon seeing him, yet you remained calm. “I have come to make a bargain; a plea.”

That was when the puzzlement appeared on his face. “And what is that?”

“The man you will fight tomorrow, you must spare him.”

“Why should I?”

Your grief and despair had made itself known to everyone around you for the past few days; yet, in that cell, only with Hanno as your witness, did he see your rage.

“He is the one who saved my life when you meant to steal it!”

The only change you saw in him was his jaw clenching. Other than that, nothing. “The general?”

You only nodded.

He sighed, brushing past you and shaking the door. “Macrinus!”

“What are you doing?” You hissed.

“I will not have you waste your breath on that man.”

“I will give you anything you desire.”

Hanno faced you. “Then you can deliver his head on a platter for me.”

You gawked as he walked away.  “What have I ever done to you?”

“What?”

“Do you truly hate me that much?!” You turned back to him, getting closer. “Kill the man that is the reason I am still here?”

The last thing you thought you would hear left his lips: A laugh. No, not a genuine one. One that you yourself have released on multiple occasions when you have been in disbelief.

“You truly believe everything that happens is because of you?” He taunted. “Has the emperor been filling your mind with so many delusions of grandeur, you can no longer conceive a world where you are not the center of it?”

“Is it so difficult for you to answer my question because you are a fool, or because you wish to not admit it?” You hardened your tone.

“What is your question, my empress?”

“Why did you shoot me?!”

“The arrow was not meant for you!”

You felt your shoulders drop upon the confession. Your aggression ceased only because of your bewilderment.

“Then who?” You asked.

He backed away. “The general you so wish to defend.”

“Whatever it is that he has done, it can be solved with-.”

“-He murdered my wife.”

Hanno said it so easily. No pain, no rage, nothing. It was a fact, and that was what he wanted you to know.

And how stupid you had been. No one in all of Rome was pure of heart; including Marcus. He was a war general; how could you think he wouldn’t have committed sins against the innocent?

“Why so silent, my lady?” He asked. “Are you in disbelief that he has enemies?”

“I didn’t know that.” You admitted.

“That the general is too a monster, or that he killed the only thing in my life worth living for?”

“And that is your desire?” You prodded. “Take his life so that he may die knowing his wife will be ravaged by wolves?”

When he charged at you, you barely had enough time to reach in your dress and unsheathe your knife. Hanno stopped himself just in time for the tip to kiss his chest. Nothing to cause any more harm than a scratch.

Even though you were not the one hurt, you breathed as if you were. He stared down at you as you shrunk under his gaze, and the two of you remained frozen. That is, until he grabbed both your wrists, and rose them above your head.

“I am only merciful because the general still breathes.” He spoke so only you could hear. “If your bastard of a lover had put him to the sword this night you chose to visit me, you would be dead before you could scream.”

Your nose was an inch from his, that was how close he stood to you. His breath caressed your skin, and you turned away in disgust. He let go of your empty wrist, yet still held the one with the dagger.

“Did you believe you could kill me tonight?” He asked, yet you said nothing. Hanno then brought the dagger to his breastbone, angling it upward. “Do not stab head on; stab up.”

Silence and an iron gaze was your reply.

He then hovered it to the pulse point of his neck. “If you want a quick death, right here; with a thinner blade, preferably.”

Then, he placed the tip just above his brow. “If you need information out of a rat, and you have the stomach to do so, drag it across. It will make the mightiest of men cry like a child in the night.”

“You are clever and a skilled warrior,” you finally said. “what is it you want me to tell you?”

“That you will leave it up to the gods and to me if your general lives or not.”

“But I cannot.” You dared to dig the blade just a little into his skin, and his breath hitched. “My desire for him to live is stronger than for you to die.”

Hanno finally let go of your wrist, and you immediately retracted the knife from his brow. “So do you wish to try again to kill me?”

“I wish for you to show mercy.”

“Mercy?” He questioned. “Mercy upon the man who pillaged my home and killed my wife? Mercy for the one who has made me a slave?”

“I too am a slave and-.”

“-And?!” He cried. “And there is nothing! You are draped in silks whilst I in chains and are bathed in clear waters while I in blood, yet you say we are the same?!”

You swallowed your anger, knowing it would bring you nowhere. “You entertain the horrid creatures of Rome; I am forced to pleasure the emperor. We perform differently, but we are still slaves.”

“You are with child.” He stated. “Will that child also be a slave though the emperor is quick to claim it is his heir?”

The crackling of the torches in the room only added to the fire th in your soul. If not contained correctly, you would surely burn and take him with you.

 “A child…yes.” You relaxed, folding your hands. “A child that I could command to be Geta’s. Perhaps, if I wanted to have the brothers slaughter one another, I could say it belongs to Caracalla. Or, if I despised you anymore than I do at this moment…I could say that it is yours.”

Hanno’s eyes dropped in recognition, saying softly. “You carry an empty womb.”

You nodded. “It is the same as your honor.”

Moments later, the door behind you rattled, and Macrinus spoke even when you didn’t. “The time is up, my little empress.”

You bowed your head to Hanno, curtsying. “Sleep well.”

He said nothing in reply, and you turned on our heel, leaving the cell. You pulled your hood back over your head as Macrinus led you through the darkened streets of the city.

“Did you get what you came for?” He asked.

“No.” Was your immediate reply. “And I do not know truly what I wanted.”

The day was as blistering hot as the others, yet the stare Lucilla gave you as she was being led into the emperor’s viewing box made your blood turn to ice. There was not a hint of wrath upon her face; there was nothing at all.

She already looked as if her soul had been stolen.

“How does your shoulder fair, dear sister?” Caracalla brushed his fingers over your arm.

A watery smile was upon your lips like second nature. “It still aches, but it heals, thank the gods. And your overall health?”

He sighed. “I do not know how much longer I have upon this earth.”

“Do not say such things.” You squeeze his hands. “If the gods will it, you shall live for another hundred years.”

He kissed your hands that held his. “I hope so, my love.”

Your grin fell upon the title, and Geta immediately sat you down on the chair behind him that was beside Lucilla’s. He gave an apologetic look.

“He only grows more confused by the day.” He caressed your cheek. “You are well?”

You were far from it, but you could not say that. “Your son feels better now.”

Geta smiled, lowering his head down to kiss your womb. “He will need all his strength.”

The announcer on the other side of the arena yelled to gain everyone’s attention. “From the vanquished city of Numidia, the victor of three contests in the Colosseum, the barbarian Hanno!”

You watched as he ran up from the pit, sword in hand. On the other side, you watched at they brought in Marcus. You could barely look at his already beaten figure. The announcer continued. “Will challenge General Marcus Acacius for his treason against the lives of the Emperors and the enemy of the State!”

The two approached one another on the sandy field. Even from where you sat, so close to them, you could barely make out the look in their eyes. You assumed their was hatred, but your own eyes must have deceived you, because you swore you saw a hint of regret within Marcus’ own gaze.

You blinked and the battle between the two had begun. It was a different level of insanity at how they fought. Marcus was decades older than Hanno, and yet, there were moments where the Numidian had to keep up with him.

Than, the roles would be reversed.

Blood stained the floor of the Colosseum as they fought. Then, when all feel silent between them, and Marcus could barely stand, his lips moved as he spoke to Hanno, then raised his hand.

He yielded.

The patrons of the arena began to mumble amongst themselves, growing louder and louder. Geta rose to his feet. “Romans! What say you?”

In an instant, choruses begging him to be spared overpowered the few that wanted him to be killed. Geta shut his eyes, raising his hand, and they were silenced.

“The gods have rendered their judgement.”

His thumb pointed downward, and the crowd erupted in dissent. Your heart was forcing itself to beat out of your chest as you could only stare at the sight of Hanno glaring down at the general before him.

He tossed his sword to the side.

You hadn’t even noticed Caracalla stood until you heard him yell. “Kill him, kill him!” Like an angered child.

“Is this how Rome treats its heroes?!” Hanno shouted, staring at the audience all around him and pointing his sword. “If his life has no value, what are yours worth?”

Geta stepped up onto the barrier, balancing between the viewing box and a fifteen-foot drop into the arena. He held his arms out to his side, his sleeves dropping to the ground, and his pale face was red. “The gods have spoken! Kill him!”

From all sides of the stadium, hundreds of archers aimed their bows at the center of the battleground. Yet, none fired. Caracalla jeered.

“In the name of Jupiter, kill him!”

The arrows were released, and they screamed like none other as they fired into the center. As they pierced Marcus’ body, you did not know you had been wailing in fright until Geta had slapped you.

“You mewling cunt!” He cursed. “You wish to weep over the man who nearly had you killed?”

Blood fell upon your tongue from your bruised lip, and you did not dare to look at him nor Lucilla.

“Death will be too good for you!” She cried with all of her heart.

The noise from the crowd died as if the people themselves had done so. Then, just like the confused murmurs when Marcus yielded, the same began to grow and grow into a call of rebellion.

It was all in your ears. Lucilla’s weeping, the curses from the crowd, the panic of the emperors…but you stood absolutely still.

With hooded eyes, they drifted up to see that Geta stood just on the edge of the barrier, his back turned to you. Your gaze fell to the ground below you, and it was only then you realized how high up you truly were.

You do not know who or what willed you to, but you then looked at Hanno still the center, covered in blood. As if he knew what you would do, he shook his head.

“Ah, ah, ah.” Macrinus grabbed your arm roughly when you took one step towards Geta.

The emperors turned to him upon his appearance, and Macrinus loosened his grip on you before saying. “For our safety’s sake, we should leave.”

“Yes.” Geta stepped down, wrapping his arms around you. “We should.”

You never knew there was a safe house in Rome until you were forced into it. Perhaps that was the reason for it being a safe house, so that no one knew of it. Yet, apparently, almost all of the roman citizens found it that night. Or, they were simply rioting wherever a free patch of land was.

The cries played in your ears despite them being behind heavy walls of the safe house, and you dared not to peek out the windows as the several fires would temporarily blind you. In the house was you, Macrinus, Dondus (Caracalla’s pet monkey, although he’d call him his other half), and the twin emperors.

“How is the babe?” Geta asked as you sat with your head hanging low.

Of course he would ask that. You didn’t look at him. “He is in fear for his life.”

“I understand,” he sighed. “but there-.”

“-But what?” You finally looked at him, hissing. “Chaos has fallen upon the city because of your actions.”

“There was nothing else to do.” Geta glared at you. “He and his bitch were plotting to kill us! If I’d let him live-.”

“-Don’t you hear them?” Caracalla cried out from his seat, holding Dondus. “They’re calling for our heads! She is right, you brought this upon us!”

Geta placed his hands on him. “Calm yourself, brother. The Praetorians will put down this crowd like they have others-.” The money upon Caracalla’s shoulder chirped out in anxiousness from the people outside. “Keep the ape still!”

“Beware of how you speak to Dondus!” His brother berated.

“Perhaps,” Macrinus finally intervened. “you should take Dondus and Julia elsewhere. The noise outside is too much for them; you should comfort one another someplace quieter.”

Caracalla nodded, gathering up Dondus and moving to help you stand, but Macrinus reached his hand out first. You took it, and as you stood, he said into your ear.

“I will find you on the right side of the hall.”

This was not the time nor place for riddles, but you could not react in any sort of way. You looped our arm through Caracalla’s and walked out of the room, hoping to find somewhere quieter.

“I’m afraid,” you confided in him, truthfully.

“I am as well.” Was all he could say.

You stopped in the middle of the hall once he found an open door. “I…I need time with my own thoughts. Please.”

He nodded, cradling Dondus closer to his chest before entering the room, shutting the door tightly. Within the minute, you watched as Macrinus approached you from the other side of the hall.

You spat. “What do you want?”

“I know I stole your moment of vengeance, and for that, I apologize.” He stood before you. “But let me make it up to you.”

“How could you possibly?”

From his cloak, he brandished a knife, holding the handle out to you. You took it without hesitation, yet question was still upon your face. “I do it myself?”

“You could,” he shrugged. “or, you could have his own brother do so.”

“Caracalla? He is senile.”

“Then I have a proposition for you.” Macrinus pointed to the door Caracalla was behind. “Convince him that Geta will destroy all of you if he is not disposed of. Convince him that, as the new emperor of Rome, he will need more trusting subjects. I shall be his second in command, and you shall be free.”

You furrowed your brow. “Who shall be first?”

“The monkey.” He smirked. “Do you believe he would put me above him?”

It sounded so simple; too simple. Yet, as the crowd began to die down, and you could no longer hear their protests from outside, the quietness brought to you what you had always known: You would never be your own person again so long as Geta breathed.

You held the dagger to your heart, saluting him. “I shall do my duty.”

He nodded. “May the gods be with you when you do, Brutus.”

An insult to most, and while it shocked you, you took it in stride as you stood outside the door. You made yourself look smaller, more afraid, and hid the dagger within your cloak as you entered the room.

There, sitting upon the floor, was Caracalla and Dondus. Like a scared child, he held the monkey close to him, grooming one another as if it was the only thing to bring comfort.

“Caracalla?” You whispered.

He stared up at you, and you noticed he had been crying. Immediately, you sat before him, bringing him into your arms.

“Nothing was ever mine.” He cried, embracing you. “Everything was ‘ours’, always. Even in the womb, he gripped the umbilicus in his tiny fist to deprive me of air.”

“He did?”

“Certainly, one cannot forget.”

You pulled away only to hold his face tenderly in your hands. “You must listen to me, for what I tell you is dire. Your brother wishes to blame you before the Senate; for what happened, for the chaos in the streets-.”

“-That is a lie!” He tore himself from you. “I didn’t do it!”

“I know that, but they don’t. No testimony is more damning than that of a brother against another.”

“He lies! He always lies!” He sobbed.

“He’s very persuasive.”

“What will they do to me?”

“I don’t dare imagine, but…gods above, I don’t wish to know what they will do to Dondus.”

His jaw quivered with the rest of his body. “What-what shall we do?"

You sighed. “I…I have a proposition, but it is most outrageous and-.”

“-Julia,” he begged, grabbing your hands. “dear, sweet sister, please tell me.”

Breath shuttering, you reached into your cloak and held the blade out to him. “Slay your brother tonight. You shall be crowned the sole emperor of Rome when morning comes, and Dondus, the child I carry, and I will be safe.'

He took it, yet still had that look of terror. “This…It has always been he who led everything. I do not know who to trust or-or who to command.”

“Then let me-.” You stopped yourself, eyeing the monkey that lay at his legs. You held your hand out to him, and Dondus climbed into your arms. “Let us help you. Claim Dondus as your first in command, and I your second.”

You wished the same as Lucilla and Marcus; to have Rome be a free empire. Yet, you would have to free Lucilla yourself before that happened.

Caracalla nodded yet said. “You-you are with child. You will become delirious as time progresses.”

And he was the epitome of having a clear mind.

“I will need a third.” He settled.

You shook your head. “That has never been done before-.”

“-I will be emperor!” He screamed. “If it is to be done, it shall be done!”

Raising your hands in surrender, you pleaded. “It shall, it shall! For a third…Macrinus. He has been loyal and informed us of the general’s betrayal.”

“Yes, yes Macrinus will do.” He grabbed your face and pressed his lips against yours. It didn’t even truly feel like a kiss, yet it shocked you nonetheless. “You are the wisest woman I have ever met, dear sister.”

You nodded, forcing a smile. With that, he stood on his feet and left the room. IT would have been easy to stay in there and wait for his return…

Yet, you wanted to be the last thing Emperor Geta saw.

No fear toiled within your body as you approached the throne room, not even when you hear the cries that you knew belonged to Geta. You walked through the doors, watching as Geta held his hands up in fear, begging his brother to spare his life as he was forced onto his knees, trying to stop the knife in Caracalla’s hand.

“I love you!” Geta squealed, staring up at him through tears “You are my brother, I love you!”

You moved to stand behind the younger twin, glaring at the man before you. Geta’s eyes dropped in relief.

“My love, my love, please help me!”

There was nothing uncertain about how you grabbed Caracalla’s hand that held the dagger. With eyes unblinking, you guided the blade into Geta’s throat, pushing it further and further as blood drained from his mouth.

The emperor was dead, and you would sleep like a child once more that night.

There was something inside of you when you awoke that morning. Not the child you had lied to all of Rome about; it felt like a parasite. You threw up an hour after you woke up, but when you checked with the healers, they said that there was nothing ailing you.

Was it…guilt? No, no it could not be.

Was it possible to feel guilt for the act of killing someone, but not feeling it for who was killed?

You had no time to debate these issues as if you were a philosopher.

Dressed in your finest silks, you made way into the room where the hundreds of senators met, carrying a hefty sack beside you. You sat in a chair next to Macrinus.

“You have done well.” He said softly.

You smiled. “Only because of you.”

Your gaze turned to Caracalla, who sat in one of the two thrones that were there for him and Geta. He looked like the worst you had ever seen him be. A blood rag had been placed at his feet.

“Now I am the only one.” He began, voice low. “I was the true us, and he was the false me. We were always ‘we,’ all our lives, but now I am only I, me, alone.”

The senators look at one another in silent terror. The only ones to not feel fear were you and Macrinus.

Caracalla continued. “My hand held the blade, but my father’s hand guided mine. I was the puppet, dancing on his string. As Emperor, I have convened the Senate to appoint my First Consul and bestow upon him the power to administer the military and civic functions of the Empire.”

He tossed his hand to the second thrown, revealing his fury companion. “I name Citizen Dondus!”

Where the senators were beyond terrified, they were now confused. Macrinus was the first to rise, applauding. “Hail Dondus!”

You repeated his sentiment, clapping with vigor. Caracalla and the rest of the mortified senators applauded all repeating ‘Hail Dondus!’.

Once the excitement died down, Caracalla resumed. “As is custom, I am naming a Second Consul to advise the First and to assure his integrity. Though you will find that Dondus is incorruptible! As Second Consul, I name…”

Macrinus took one step forward.

“The mother of the future heir to the throne, Julia!”

All eyes fell upon you, standing taller than you ever had done in your life. How strange it was though, that the same reaction to a monkey being assigned first in command, was to you, a woman.

Utter silence, until Caracalla applauded enthusiastically. Like sheep, the senators followed; all but Macrinus.

“Yet, as mother to the heir,” the emperor said after finishing. “it is apparent she shall be incompetent for majority of her advising. So, for the first time in the history of Rome, I name Citizen Macrinus as my third!”

Even with this third twist in a counsel, the senators seemed more so relieved at the decision. Macrinus did not smile or even acknowledge the honor, simply stared ahead. Caracalla gathered Dondus in his arms.

“There will be a triumphal parade to celebrate. There will be games and mass executions! Long live the Empire!”

“Long live the Emperor!” You and the senators all yelled.

The Emperor Caracalla carried the First Consul Dondus sweepingly out of the hall, to the Senate’s terrified silence. You picked up the sack that had been beside you this whole time, then making your way to the center of the room.

You opened the sack, and out fell Geta’s decapitated head. The Senate gasped and gagged at the sight of the former emperor’s head. You almost felt sorry for the horror they felt that whole time. Yet, there horror is what would bring you fortune.

“This is what befell your emperor.” You pointed to the head at your feet. “He was slaughtered by the one who shared a womb with him. Tell me, senators, is this who we must trust to maintain the greatness of the Roman Empire?”

They did not glance at one another in uncertainty; no, no they were listening to you.

You continued, your heart stammering. “I am not the one who will stand with you for the rest of my days, it is the son I carry within me. And if it is my son who will become emperor, then there must still be an empire for him once he is born. Hysteria has poisoned the streets for decades now, it is time to put an end to it!”

Murmurs and nods of approval began to echo amongst the counsel.

“Every single one of Rome’s children matters; from the beggars to the emperor himself. If one falls, so shall the rest of the Empire. I have walked beside the lay people of the city, and they feel betrayed by the former emperor for the murder of their beloved general. To right this wrong, I call for the release of Lucilla, daughter of Marcus Aurelias.”

Not one of the hundreds of senators made a sound. Deep within you, you knew that there wouldn’t be much rejoicing over Lucilla’s freedom, but you still had to try.

“The people adored her for far longer than they adored the general!” You pleaded. “If we kill her only for the amusement of the elites, then the children of Rome-!”

 “-Shall live.”

You turned to Macrinus, who finally stepped all the way forward.

“Forgive me,” He bowed mockingly. “my lady, but for a woman complimented to have a golden mouth, you have no idea what you are saying.”

A few of the senators chuckled.

“You wish to free the woman who mean to have you, and the emperors killed?” He questioned.

You refuted. “I wish to show the world that Rome is capable of forgiveness.”

“A desire so foolish, only the emperor’s favorite whore could have it.”

“Another word of slander out of your mouth, and I will have your tongue removed!” You stood toe-to-toe with him.

He grinned like the devil, and just from your outburst alone, no matter how warranted it had been, he had you. Macrinus stepped away, looking around at the senators.

“Me thinks the little girl believes she is Marcus Aurelius himself born again.” He straightened his tone. “What say you, senators? All in favor of releasing a traitor to the Empire, speak.”

Not one of them said ‘aye’. If you weren’t under a sheer amount of duress, you would’ve seen perhaps a few faces of inner turmoil, debating on calling for Lucilla’s release.

Yet, no one said a word because they shared the one thing that will contribute to the death of humanity: Cowardice.

Macrinus tutted. “Now, dear Julia and I happen to have, through good fortune and not a little skill, the remaining emperor’s ear. We can speak reason in it and tame the madness in the street. Yet, I will leave the domestic work of calming the emperor to his second in command. As for myself, to restore order to Rome, I will need power over the affairs of the state. Including command of the Praetorian Guard. The decision is in your hands. Ballot or hand?”

One hand rose immediately. Another followed, then ten, then thirty, and then, all of them. He provided no evidence for his cause…yet there was a unanimous decision.

Macrinus held his hand out to you, and you could only stare up at him in question.

“I believe we shall take the seats that are rightfully ours.” He said lowly.

Carefully, you slipped your hand into his, and he led you up the stairs to sit upon the chair that belonged to Geta, while he took Caracalla’s.

This would be the first and the last time a woman ever sat upon the emperor’s throne.

After being embarrassed that morning, you paced around your chambers. Perhaps you could have found Caracalla and gave him the same reasonings the senate did not listen to. Perhaps he could somehow see to the logic that would be in setting Lucilla free.

No, of course he wouldn’t. Even if his mind was sound, he still knew she was apart of the coup to try and have him dethroned; killed in his mind’s eye.

As your mind grew heavy with existential possibilities towards the future, the door to your chambers opened. Stopping where you stood, you watched as Macrinus entered.

“Now, try to make me understand this," he shook his head. "I let you have your vengeance on the man who used you as a slave, I promised you freedom, and yet you wasted it.”

You clenched your jaw. "How dare you-."

“-How dare I?” He tensed his voice. “How dare I keep silent about your lie? How dare I give you the privilege to take your revenge? I have saved you more than you believe I have harmed you, lady Julia."

The name had always bothered you, but with one emperor dead and the other incapacitated, you assumed it would stop.

Now, it only enraged you more; or perhaps that was just because it was Macrinus saying it.

You glared. “It was your own mistake to believe you were the only one who desired power.”

He took a deep breath, then moving to sit on your bed. “Sit beside me, Rome’s Delight; I have a story to tell you.”

“I am not a child, you may tell me in short.”

“You are not the only slave wishing to be free.” He pulled back the collar of his clothing, revealing a branded ‘M.A’ “You are lucky enough to not carry your master’s mark, but were a slave nonetheless. Marcus Aurelius spoke of peace while still using violence against those who served him.”

Swallowing your pride thickly, you said. “I’m sorry.”

“You have learned now, that is all that matters.”

“But Lucilla will still be dead.” You tried to keep your voice steady. “She wanted the emperors to be gone as much as you, but she will-."

“-Her father enslaved me.”

“Her father is dead; and if taking his empire wasn’t enough, than killing his last child will satisfy you?"

Macrinus clutched your arm, fingers tightening with every word. “I would be careful with how you speak to me. I wish to offer you one last ounce of kindness before I regret it. Now tell me, Brutus, will you accept me as Rome’s new emperor?”

You had all the right to say it was Caracalla, but you thought better of it. So, with the softening of your entire person, you nodded. “I accept you.”

He dropped your arm. “I’ll let you say goodbye this time.”

Macrinus led you down into the dungeons of the palace, and he was right; somehow it was more heavily guarded than the gladiator pit. Even when the worst of the worst prisoners sneered or jeered at you, your sorrow and anger could not stir your fear.

The door to one of the cells was open, and you ran in just as Lucilla turned to see you.

“Five minutes.” Was all Macrinus said before locking the door and leaving.

You embraced one another when he left. Neither of you said anything, just clung to each other as if the world itself would tear you apart.

“Forgive me, mother Lucilla.” You choked up.

Lucilla pulled away, taking your face into her hands. “Sweet child, there is nothing to forgive.”

“I failed you.” The tears finally came. “I was right there in the senate’s room, I-I told them the chaos that would befell Rome if-.”

“-You were in the senate’s room?” She sounded as if her breath had been stolen.

You nodded. “Yes, but they wouldn’t listen!”

“My dear girl,” she smiled. “if you were able to even get half a sentence in, than they listened! My father but sixteen years ago said that it was a shame I had been born a women, for I would have been a magnificent emperor. Yet, here you stand; you who had been once a slave, rose above into having a sear in the senate council.”

Still, no matter how much pride she held, your own shame outweighed it. “I still have failed you.”

“I have already accepted my fate.” She whispered. “I must take care of those who matter to me before I leave this earth.”

“Do not say such things!” You cried. “I’ll still find a way to save you.”

“Hanno is my son.”

You expected her to deny your attempts at rescuing her, you even expected her to coddle you, curse you…but this?

“What?” You uttered.

“He is Lucius Verus Aurulius,” she said gently. “second of his name, but the first son of Maximus Decimus Meridius.”

“The-the gladiator?” Was somehow the first question you asked.

“Yes.” She nodded. “Lucius didn’t run away, I sent him. With him as heir to the empire, I know many would not rest until he was dead. How was he to fight for a claim he knew nothing about? Now, he is here; and I am no longer frightened of dying.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to!”

She shushed you, combing her fingers through your hair. “I can speak to you until the earth is burnt by the sun of how I have made peace, but I know that will not work. So, I have two final requests for you.”

“Anything.”

Lucilla walked to the small desk she had in her cell, then picking up a scroll loosely wrapped in twine. She handed it to you. “My first is to give this to my son before tomorrow. It…explains a great deal of things I do not have the time to say to him.”

You took it, holding it to your heart. “And the second?”

She smiled, wrapping her arms around you and kissing the side of your head. “To take care of him as I intend him to take care of you.”

It was not the first time that day your eyes had grown. “He despises me.”

“If the gods are merciful, then I truly believe you will both come to see eye to eye as the only two who remain.”

“I nearly killed him.” You admitted. “The night before his duel with Acacius, I brought a knife with me and stabbed him; well…not enough to harm him.”

Lucilla shook her head, giggling. “He will need someone who disagrees with him.”

You found yourself laughing along with her, even through your sobs. She pulled away from you, wiping your tears. “He is a good man. He may deny it but believe me when I tell you.”

“I trust you.” You nodded.

She took a deep breath. “I will be with you, even when I’m gone.”

“I…I know.”

“Now go before I beg you to stay.”

You forced yourself away from her before you could change your mind. You could not even look at her as you left her cell and went up the hall. Just in time, you remembered to hide the scroll as Macrinus approached you.

“Leaving so soon?” He asked.

Sighing, you said. “She’s…inconsolable. I couldn’t bear another moment with her.”

Macrinus nodded. “You should rest for the remainder of the day. It has been quite exhausting.”

“Yes,” you agreed. “it certainly has.”

It was the first time that night you were forced to sneak out of the palace on your own. Fortunately, you remembered the route you took to the Gladiator pit and managed to dodge any of the guards on patrol that night.

The pit proved to be more difficult as the overseers of it had less space to watch over, yet you still somehow managed to maneuver them.

Perhaps the gods were on your side.

“Hanno.” You whispered once you found his cell.

The man turned over his shoulder once he heard your voice and approached with a scowl. “What are you doing here?”

You wasted no time, holding out the scroll. “Your mother told me to give you this.”

He paused for only half a beat. “My mother died when-.”

“-Your mother is Lucilla, daughter of Marcus Aurelias.” You whispered fiercely. “And you are Lucius, the lost son.”

His eyes didn’t leave yours as he reached down to the latch of the door, and cracked it opened. “Get inside.”

Though you wished to, you didn’t question how he had unlocked it and only walked in. He shut the door tightly, then took the scroll from you. You stood there as he unraveled it to read. His face changed every few seconds, ranging from distress to downright confusion. When he was finished, he looked at you.

“She gave this to you?” You nodded. “Why?”

“I was allowed to say goodbye to her.”

“From Macrinus?” He tested. “Was this before or after you attempted to steal his power?”

“I was cruel to you.” You admitted. “Even after discovering Acacius had pillaged your home and murdered your wife, I expected you to show mercy. I am astounded you did, but as I look back, I wouldn’t have blamed you if you didn’t. My desire for the general to live extends to your mother; if not more. She did not give up my name at any moment despite the fact I too was apart of the coup to try and overthrow the emperors. I cannot simply let her die.”

Lucius stared at you, his gaze intimidating yet at ease. He approached you. “You wish to save her life?”

“More than anything.”

“It is a rumor that Macrinus was the one to puppeteer Caracalla in slaying his brother. But…it wasn’t him, was it?”

Breathing deeply, you looked at the floor. “It was I.”

“Look at me.” He commanded softly, and you did. “Would you kill again if it meant protecting her?”

Your mind said ‘yes’ without a moment’s hesitation, but your heart only sunk into your stomach at the thought. It must have been apparent on your face, for he said.

“There is no shame if you are unable to.”

“I will be with him in the emperor’s box.” You said, determination in your eyes. “I will simply need you to buy me time in the arena. It shall be done.”

Lucius nodded, and released along breath before saying. "I treated you harshly. I...I don't believe I would have survived what you have been put through."

You picked at your fingers. "I think you would have."

"No." He solidified. "I wouldn't."

A silence fell between the two of you. There wasn't a hint of discomfort; as if, for the first time, you felt seen.

“You never told me your name.” Lucius uttered.

You pressed your lips together, shrugging. “It was never important.”

“It has been,” he said. “and it is now. You know my true name, if I am to understand you as how my mother wishes I do, then I must know yours.”

Your mouth parted to speak the first syllable, but even that had felt foreign. You instead lied. “I do not remember it.”

As he looked at you, the steely gaze you always knew began to disappear. “You must remember how it sounded from your mother’s mouth.”

“She died before she could hold me.”

“Then your father.” He walked closer to you, yet you felt no fear. “It does not matter if he was wretched or kind, he spoke your name and your name alone. What did it sound like?”

Like he loved you. Even when he was cross, he never raised his voice. You hated more than ever how tears started to build within your eyes.

“Geta had beaten me until I could no longer use it.” you confessed. “It will feel like poison upon my lips.”

“Then whisper it to me so you will scarcely have to move them.”

You had been lain down on a bed and had every bit of a man touch and invade your body. Even before the emperor, you had lain with people in the past of your choosing…

But none of that amounted to the intimacy you felt in that cell as Lucius stood nearly chest-to-chest with you, hovering his ear over your mouth as you finally (finally) spoke your name aloud.

If the heat of his body lingering over yours did not set your entire being aflame, it was the breath he released once he said.

“It’s a kind name.”

It was all too much for you, so you pulled away from him, drying your eyes. “I…I will pray for your safety.”

He outheld his hand to you. “Strength and honor.”

A saying you had overheard people use as they entered the stadium. You shook his hand. “Strength and honor.”

You didn’t expect to be in the parade Caracalla raved about the day prior. Yet, there you were, draped in the finest and most colorful silks with jewelry in your hair. Inside your sleeve, you’d hidden the same kitchen knife you attempted to stab Lucius with.

You were sat beside Caracalla, who had Dundus upon his shoulder, and who had only grown more delusional since the day prior.

“Where is my brother?” He pulled on your sleeve like a child as you were escorted from the float and into the Colosseum.

A watery smiled pulled upon your lips, and you soothed him. “He feels most unwell today.”

“He should be here.” He sulked as you walked. “He would be happy for me.”

“And he is.” You lied. “You will see him again shortly.”

That managed to ease him, and you both were seated in the emperor’s box with Macrinus. It didn’t escape your vision how hundreds of Praetorians also circled the entire arena. As the time to the match grew closer, you did your best to calm your own nerves. This would be for the good of Rome. Once it was done, you would be able to rest easily again.

It was then you watched as, on one side of the Colosseum, a wagon was rolled out into the center of it. Tied to a pole, dressed up as if she were Venus herself, was Lucilla. All that attempt at soothing yourself was gone once you saw her eyes.

“Must we kill Lucilla?” Caracalla questioned.

You couldn’t even snidely repeat his question to Macrinus you were in such a state of anxiety. Macrinus responded.

“Until she is dead, you will never know peace.”

Thus, the event commenced. The announcer himself even sounded guilt-ridden as he spoke of the crimes Lucilla was being charged with. Treason, betrayal, all of it only anguished the spectators even more to see her being prepared for execution.

“Let it not be said that the Emperor is not merciful!” He yelled. “The queen will be granted a champion to defend her!”

Out from the other side of the arena came Lucius. Half of the Praetorians held their weapons to the man, while the other half faced the civilians as if expecting them to riot. Once again, at the sight of the scene before them, it would not surprise you.

You had been taught one a many myths by your father, mainly belonging to the Greeks. You were Cassandra; blessed by Apollo to speak of prophecies but cursed to not be believed.

When it seemed that hope was gone…Lucius rose his sword, and hundreds of gladiators sprinted from all sides.

The crowd and Caracalla were in an uproar at the excitement. Pandemonium ensued as the gladiators began to climb the barriers and civilians were attempting to enter the arena. The sound of arrows screaming entered your ears; so much so you could not hear what Macrinus was saying to another man, and why Caracalla was screaming.

You simply blinked, and once your eyes were open, you watched as Macrinus dove a needle into the side of Caracalla’s neck, killing him.

Only a gasp tore through your throat, having no ability to scream. Your body soon found reason to move, and you rose to your feet, remembering your duty. Macrinus had acquired a crossbow, aiming it towards Lucilla and Lucius now at the center of the arena.

You rose the knife from your sleeve, charging towards the man. The arrow was fired, and you leapt upon his shoulders.

He moved wildly, trying to force you off of him. You made attempt to slash his throat, but it made contact with his eye instead.

Still…he overpowered you. Flipping you over him, you dropped down into the arena, your head colliding with the ground.

The sky was orange above you when you opened your eyes. Your head had never felt so awful before, and you were surprised you could even sit up. All around you, bodies littered the Colosseum floor. If there was not blood laid before you, there were swords and shields.

Your eyes drifted to the center, and now sunken to the floor, was Lucilla on her wagon. You forced yourself to stand and walk towards her.

When you could see the arrow sticking in her chest, you began to run.

Climbing atop the wagon, you untied the ropes around her hurriedly.

“Mother,” you begged. “mother, can you hear me?”

“I am still here, sweet child.” She whispered weakly.

“Save your energy now.” You managed to free her, and then pulled her to your lap.

“I will be seeing my beloveds now.” She smiled.

“No,” you hissed. “you are going to live.”

She reassured. “It is alright. I have fulfilled everything that was asked of me, and what I wished for.”

“Mother-!”

“-You will look after him, won’t you?”

You wanted to cry; you wished that sadness was the first thing you felt. But no, it was anger. Still, you nodded. “I will, but you will be there to make sure he takes care of me too!”

“He shall.” Was all she said.

“You will live, just please stop talking.”

“I love you.”

“Lucilla…” Your voice broke.

“Tell Lucius I would do this all again for him.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Lucilla rose her hand to your cheek, brushing it tenderly one last time.

Her eyes were held open as she went limp in your arms. You closed her eyelids, knowing her gaze would haunt you.

You did not move for the first hour, nor did you cry out in despair. It was when the sun was completely gone, and you tore yourself away from her corpse did you collapse into a fit of sobs.

The ugliest sounds were released from your mouth as you could barely stand. You do not know how long you cried, but when you could finally move again, you crawled to the nearest sword, and trailed it behind you before climbing back up onto the wagon.

You tied the rope from her body around her legs, and brought her back into your lap, sword in hand.

There was no rest for you that night. You would nearly drift off into sleep, but you couldn’t bring yourself to give in until you could bury her properly. You also couldn’t bring yourself to bury her at the same time.

When you had lost time altogether, and the sky was purple as twilight broke, a gentle hand shook you.

Raising the sword in surprise, you felt your body relax once you saw Lucius. You should have asked how he survived, what happened to Macrinus, anything else…but all you said was.

“I wouldn’t let anyone touch her.”

He nodded, tears threatening to fall as he gazed upon his dead mother. He took a deep breath. “May I take her?”

You handed her to him, and he took her into his arms. You scooted off the wagon, your eyes reddened and exhausted.

“Where,” you cleared your throat. “Where should she be buried?”

“I…” He heaved. “I know where my father’s grave is.”

“Okay.” Was all you managed.

And you walked by his side, neither of you knowing what your fate would befall in Rome.

Yet…once both slaves, you were now free.

[mariasont]

can you please write Spencer and shy!reader for valentine's day? 💕💝💖💖💞💝💖 I love them so much and I love you more

Lover Girl - S.R

summary: spencer has a hypothesis about love on vday & it’s not something you agree on pairing: post!prison!reid x shy!medialiaison!reader warnings: r going crazy over something spencer said hours ago (get a grip girl), r kinda goes out of character, spencer being the sassiest human alive wc: 1.9k a/n: thank u sm for requesting i love this and i love you even more ✨💖

The draft on your laptop was starting to look less like a press release and more and more like a psychological cry for help. Words sprawled like abandoned thoughts, entire sentences had been brutally sacrificed to the backspace key, and you'd rewritten the same transition phrase so many times it no longer felt like a real word. The whole thing read like the work of someone who had just sustained a minor head injury.

Objectively? It was bad.

Subjectively? It was an unmitigated disaster.

You blamed Spencer. Or maybe you blamed yourself for still thinking about it, for letting his words linger in your head like an incorrectly formatted footnote that you couldn't stop rereading.

You had never been a hopeless romantic, exactly, but you liked the idea of it, the structure of it. Believed it was more than a sum of its parts. More than just wires crossing in the brain and pattern recognition.

And yet, he had discarded the notion so easily, reducing love to a series of neurochemical reactions misinterpreted as emotional depth, something logical and completely stripped of any sort of real feeling.

He hadn't meant it cruelly, but his voice carried a kind of detachment that made you want to launch your coffee at his ridiculously well-structured face. It shouldn't bother you.

It really, genuinely, in no universe, should not bother you. It wasn't like you had a chance with him, so why did it matter what Spencer Reid, certified romance cynic, destroyer of sentimental ideals, and casual heartbreaker, thought about love?

If anything, his lack of belief should make it easier to kill this absurd crush before it spiraled into something unmanageable.

You squared your shoulders and looked back to the screen, back to the carefully worded Bureau-approved phrases meant to sound polished and agreeable.

Strengthening community trust. Bridging the gap between law enforcement and the public.

Meaningless, hollow, designed to be palatable without saying anything real. Blah. Blah.

I mean, did he really think that love was like an outdated scientific theory? It was Valentine's Day, for crying out loud—if nothing else, wasn't that proof of its existence?

You had considered the possibility that he had stopped believing because he had to. That prison had stripped the softness of him, turned love into just another abstract concept that didn't hold up under scrutiny, like time, like trust, like freedom.

Or maybe (and this was the more infuriating possibility) he had always been like this, too pragmatic to believe in something he couldn't technically hold in his hands.

You groaned under your breath, rubbing at your temple like you could physically press the words out of your skull, like they were just another headache waiting to pass. Why were you still thinking about this? It was stupid. He was stupid. You were stupid of caring.

Except he wasn't stupid. He was obnoxiously brilliant, the kind of smart that made other geniuses insecure, and that was the problem. Because if someone that intelligent didn't believe in love the way you did.... did that mean you were in the wrong? Had you been naive this whole time, blindly buying into a romanticized fantasy while Spencer had long dissected it and found it lacking?

The knock on your office doorframe startled you so badly that your entire skeletal structure attempted to evacuate your body, knee jerking up, colliding with the underside of the desk with an unforgiving whack.

You barely had time to wonder if you'd just concussed your kneecap before you looked up and—Spencer. Standing in the doorway like some cosmic punishment for thinking about him too hard.

Heat flooded your face like an admission of guilt, because why—why—did it suddenly feel like you'd been caught red-handed?

"Hey," he said, tilting his head. "You okay?"

No, you wanted to say. Not at all. Because what were you supposed to do when they very subject of your over analysis materialized in your doorway, looking at you like he could see every freaking unspoken thought folded between your ribs?

You swallowed, forced yourself to look anywhere but directly at him, because everything about this, about him, felt like some kind of cruel irony.

"Uh, yeah," you croaked, voice pitching embarrassingly high. Great. Perfect. Totally normal human behavior.

Spencer's brow furrowed, his head doing that thing he did when something wasn't quite right. But miraculously, he didn't say anything about it.

"I was just...," You gestured to your laptop.

Spencer nodded slowly, either accepting your excuse at face value or deciding it wasn't worth the effort to call you out.

"Right. I was just going to ask if you had finalized the press release for me to proof."

Your stomach lurched, a sharp drop like missing a step in the dark. Finalized. Bold of him to assume you'd done anything besides stare blankly at your screen for the past fifteen minutes.

"Oh! Yeah, of course," you said, throwing out the words with a half-hearted smile as if that would seal the lie. "Almost done. Just... you know, making sure it's perfect."

Spencer stepped inside, moving just past the threshold. His expression changed. Less neutral. More aware.

"You're acting strange."

Which was unacceptable, because if anyone in this scenario should be acting strange, it was him, standing there like a walking contradiction.

"I—what?" The laugh escaped before you could trap it behind your teeth, jagged and surely unnatural.

"You're tense. And you don't usually second-guess yourself this much. If it was almost done, you'd just say so." His eyes flicked to the laptop. "Did something happen?"

Your face went nuclear, looking away, hyper focused on the edge of the desk like it was the most fascinating thing you'd ever seen. "I don't know what you mean. I'm acting normal."

Spencer made a thoughtful noise. "Denial first. Then contradiction."

"I—"

"Oh, and there's the hesitation. That usually happens when you're trying to figure out how to backpedal without making it obvious."

"Do you always do this?"

"Only when people are lying about something." He squinted at you. "And you're a very bad liar."

He tapped a finger a finger against his arm in a way that made your nerves itch, before stepping forward and sinking into the chair across from your desk.

"Huh."

You frowned. "What?"

"You're doing the same thing you did earlier," he said matter-of-factly. "Avoiding direct responses, looking everywhere but me, shifting in your seat."

His gaze lingered, and then—Gods, help you—his lips curved, just slightly.

"Almost like the conversation was bothering you then, too."

Oh. Oh, this was bad. He was trying to talk about the one topic you'd spent the last twenty minutes trying to erase from your brain.

"I just, well, it's not that I had thoughts or feelings on it or anything, I just didn't, well, I mean, I just didn't want to be in that conversation, you know? Not that it was bad. Just—not my thing."

Spencer's eyebrows lifted. "So you disagreed with me?"

"I—I did not say that."

"No, but you just said everything but that." He leaned forward. "So tell me. What was it?"

You finally look at him, actually looked at him, and immediately regretted it.

You tried to gauge if there was any chance you could turn this conversation in your favor.

Nope.

"I mean, I wouldn't say disagreed, per se, I just... thought maybe your take was a little—," you sighed, "dismissive."

"Oh? And what exactly am I dismissing?"

You hesitated. Not because you didn't have an answer—because you had too many. Love wasn't just science, romance wasn't just a byproduct of biology, that it meant something. It's real. It matters. It's— "You're dismissing everything beyond your own reasoning."

You waited. For the rebuttal, the deconstruction, the inevitable moment Spencer laid your words bare and left you scrambling to rebuild them. But this time there was nothing. He just sat there. Looking at you. Like he was waiting for something else.

You fidgeted. Crossed your arms. Uncrossed them. "What?"

"Nothing. Just... thinking." A pause. "You clearly have an opinion on this, just trying to figure out what it is."

Your lips pressed together, your brain begging you to let it go, to shut up before you started. But the words were already forming, bubbling up too fast to stop.

"Okay, look. I get it. I get the science. I get that love can be explained in chemical terms."

Spencer nodded, like you were finally seeing his point.

"But that doesn't mean that's all it is," you said, sitting up straighter. "Love isn't just an instinct. If it was then why do people stay in love when it doesn't make sense? Why do people wait years for someone who might never come back? Why do people hold on to feelings they know won't be returned?"

You inhaled sharply, only to realize what you had said felt a little too personal. Heat flared to your toes. "I just, uh, you're looking at it like it's an equation when it's more like—like art. You can break down why a painting is visually appealing, but that doesn't explain why it moves people."

"So love is art then?" A small smirk tugged at his lips. "That would mean it's subjective. That one person's version of it isn't the same as another's."

"Well, yeah, that's my point." You nodded. "Everyone experiences it differently. That's why it can't be reduced to formulas. You can recreate the exact conditions of a moment, use the same words, set the same scene but it won't feel the same to someone else. Because love isn't about external factors, it's about who you're with, how they make you feel."

"That sounds dangerously close to saying it's entirely irrational."

You exhaled. "If it is, then I guess that means you'll never understand it."

Spencer pushed himself to his feet, adjusting his cuff like this was just another conversation and not something that had you actively fighting for oxygen.

Then, with an infuriating self-satisfied smile, he murmured, "Well, maybe I just need the right person to teach me."

You nearly choked on air.

And with one last glance, he grinned and said, "Happy Valentine's Day, lover girl."

taglist has been disbanned! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

[beckwritesif]

The vast stretches of lone trees and wild grass of the rural countryside lures the ego overboard, pulling consciousness off course into addiction, delusion and seduction’s disintegrating madness. You barely pull yourself home from there every evening, the sun telling your time, the birds your weather forecast. One day you might not return home at all.

From the Mud is a Midwest gothic inspired horror set in a solitary countryside occupied only by two small towns and stretches of untamed nature. You play a troubled cowboy/girl/puncher who‘s ground deep into a maddening, repetitive routine that a string of deaths suddenly upends. The sheriff of the neighboring town along with a driven journalist and an old friend whose bridge you’ve long since burnt comes to town having heard the news. As you’re hunting for the culprit and running from yourself, your quiet life on the ranch is disturbed, forcing you to keep your cards close and choose your company carefully. But the most pressing matter proves to be whether you can trust your own mind.

From the Mud

☆ Interactive fictional psychological horror written in choice script

Features

Play as either a man, woman, or other

Choose your appearance from overall features to minor details

Experience nuanced romance as either straight, gay, or bi, or forgo romance altogether

Choose whether you’re religious or not in an overly christian rural town

Experience the world react differently towards you depending on who you identify as

Get wrapped up in the chaos to solve the mystery of several murders

Lose touch with reality and slowly question everything around you

Remember: you have to choose to get better

Reject the possibility of unnatural forces at play, or believe

Rot in a jail cell

Ride a horse!

Play a game mostly not driven by numbered stats but meaningful actions and a fuck ton of trackers

Demo! | pinterest

Advisory for the story so far: death, gore, profanity

Basics about some of the important RO characters and other below

The Sheriff ☆ Zachariah “Zach” Mallory ☆ a man in his mid thirties

Sheriff Mallory works from his office in Two Rocks, and though his occupation means working closely with other people and seeing to their needs, it would be indolent to describe him as being good with people. At all. Being abrasive and ill-natured, the man does, however, suit the role of authority well. When the angry crease on his forehead soften, you might find there is something else within his tired eyes.

The sheriff has dark brown, chin-length hair and a matching little effort short beard. His sand-colored skin is sun-kissed from being outside, the circles under his eyes almost a purple kind of shade. Under a heavy set of brows sits a pair of dark blue, almost stormy gray eyes. Standing at an imposing height, Mallory is nigh refused anything, and can’t be forced to wear the ugly uniform his rank requires. Instead, he sports a simple white fitted t-shirt and a pair of well-loved denim jeans.

The Journalist ☆ Candy Tillman ☆ a woman in her early thirties

Working for the local news station in Two Rocks, Ms. Tillman has through work experience and excellent mentoring from her predessessor become a hound chasing stories and truths. She is both idealistic and romanticizing (that which shouldn’t), and yet entirely unsusceptable to bullshit. When her facade falters who will accept her then?

The woman with the sweetest name has blonde hair that falls to the middle of her shoulder blades, which she loves to blowout. Her tan skin is contoured by a natural style of makeup, her small, light blue eyes painted. Candy is average height, reaching taller stature with her go-to minimalist pumps. The journalist prefers simple, feminine silhouttes of clothing, keeping up with the times.

The Best Friend ☆ Blythe Abel Goodwin ☆ a woman in her mid twenties

Blythe is your best friend who you grew up with in Ashley and who stuck around when everyone left, though you know she would’ve loved to leave just as much as you once did. In response to the death of her dreams and the narrow-minded opinions of the general inhabitation of the area, she has defiantly become a person of unique and unpredictable character. You’ve known each other through thick and thin, but is there a side to her yet to be discovered?

Your childhood friend is a contrast-filled woman just under average height. Long, black, cascading hair falls from her head down to her mid-back. Choppily home-cut bangs frame her small face. Her fair skin turns rosy in the cold. Blythe’s almond eyes that are sometimes obscured by a pair of reading glasses, are hazel. She wears whatever the fuck she wants.

The Colleague ☆ Ford Wiley Mallory ☆ a man in his early twenties

Ford Wiley is the younger half-brother of Sheriff Mallory and your colleague on the ranch. Working there only half-time, the younger Mallory is dedicated and driven only in the field of his passion; music. His band has only ever played at the local bar, though. Reserved and perhaps somewhat more thin-skinned than most living out on the countryside, Wiley makes do with refreshing optimism. Whether this optimism is genuine or fabricated is yet to be revealed.

Your part-time cowboy coworker has long, wavy brown hair that he sometimes makes an effort to style, and otherwise lets it live its own life. He and his half-brother have little in common, appearance included; Wiley has olive skin covered in freckles. His eyes are dark brown, and he is of average height. The musician’s clothes consist of unwanted (by himself) hand-me-downs from Zachariah and ill-gotten items.

The Old Friend ☆ Sawyer “Saw” Brennan ☆ a gender selectable person in their late twenties (m/f)

You grew up with Sawyer along with Blythe, and the three of you braved your childhood and youth in this godforsaken place for years. But they left when things got hardest, and you haven’t been able to get past it even after all these years. Over the years Sawyer has been away they’ve grown into a person you barely know anymore, and you struggle with their sudden return. Will you be able to understand and forgive them for leaving?

Sawyer has inky brown curly hair, worn long (f) or short (m) and loose, carefully taken care of and styled. They have warm brown skin and sharp eyes to match. Your old friend is tall, fitting their frame into oversized graphic t-shirts and either color matched sweats or baggy jeans.

My intentions with this game: It is not supposed to be a beautiful story, it is supposed to be ugly. Writing this game in the way I am is my taking a step away from perfection and seeing where my unpolished writing takes the story. I have been ruled by fear of inadequacy and a desire for ‘perfect timing’ long enough. If I continue to wait for the ‘right moment’ to create, I will end up not creating at all. My only desire now is to simply create, and continue doing so until I have something to show for it.

Story is written and coded by me

Credits to Cole Meanor for the beautiful photography done for the headers!

[munson-blurbs]

Hi bug! I’m asking in anon bc it’s a bit of a sensitive subject for me to discuss but could you possibly write something about Eddie and reader being close(hopefully turning into lovers) and he sees her self harm scars for the first time and she is really embarrassed and tries to just stop speaking to him but he finally catches her alone and it turns into soft smut? I feel like your writing would do a story like this justice, but if it’s a heavy subject and you don’t want to write about it I understand ❤️

Hi! I kept the premise but changed a few details. I hope that's okay.

Warnings: smut (18+ only, minors DNI), fingering, unprotected p in v, mentions of self-harm (cutting) but no descriptions of blood or the act itself, parental conflict, Reader celebrates Christmas, angst to fluffy smut WC: 2.5k A/N: This fic is not meant to romanticize or promote self-harm of any kind. This is a comfort fic where the reader-insert character has a history of self-harm. That being said, if this subject matter is triggering for you, please keep scrolling. Sending all of you love, always.

Divider credit to @strangergraphics

“Okay, first we need two and a half cups of flour.”

Eddie wrinkled his nose when you handed him the measuring cup and a butter knife. 

“So you can scrape off the excess,” you explained. 

Your boyfriend scoffed and plunked the knife onto the countertop. “Have you ever heard of guesstimating, Sweetheart?”

“There’s no guesstimating in baking, Eds.” You dragged the bag of all-purpose flour away from him before he could ruin the recipe. “Everything has to be precise.”

He rolled his eyes. “Yes, dear,” he grumbled. But there was no missing the smile playing on his lips. 

Spending time with Eddie wasn’t new; you’d known each other since he’d moved to Hawkins as a kid. The friendship had survived the ups and downs of junior high and high school, not to mention the years you were away at college. 

What was new was the romantic relationship that had only developed six months ago. Now, Eddie was your boyfriend. Your regular movie nights ended in heated make-out sessions rather than nervous hugs goodbye. Eddie held your hand while you walked rather than playing air guitar. And your sleepovers often involve much less clothing than before. 

It was different, but it was nice. 

“Can you hand me the cream of tartar?” You asked him, holding out your palm. 

“The what?” Eddie’s eyes widened. “Isn’t that the stuff you dip fish sticks in?”

You snorted. “No, that’s tartar sauce. Cream of tartar is a spice that will give the snickerdoodles a little tang.”

Strong, tattooed arms wrapped around you and pulled you toward him, his lips finding the crook of your neck in an instant, sending a shiver of pleasure down your spine. 

“How about I give you a little tang?” Eddie’s words vibrated against your skin. 

It took all of your willpower to focus on the task at hand and not give in. “I’m about to ban you from my kitchen.” You pinched some flour between your fingers and flicked it at him. It dusted his chin and the U-neck collar of his Metallica t-shirt. 

Eddie gasped in mock-offense, reaching over and taking a handful of flour. Before you could protest, he opened his fist just above your head. The powder plopped onto your scalp and cascaded down your cheeks. 

“Gotta go!” He bolted from the kitchen, nearly flinging himself up and over the counter. 

You were fast on his trail, knocking over the yellow-and-white box of granulated sugar. It toppled off of the counter and landed on its side with a thud, leaving a crystalline trail in its wake. 

“Dammit.” With an exasperated sigh, you rolled up your sleeves and cupped your hand, brushing the spilled sugar into your other palm. 

It was suddenly too quiet—and not the kind of quiet that preceded a prank. The only sound came from the thunk of the trash can lid as you dumped the wasted sugar into the bag.

Eddie froze, his widening eyes the sole movement across his lithe body. 

“Sweetheart…are those…?” 

You follow his gaze to the thin lines along your wrist. Most had faded over time and were ones he had seen before, but there were a few new scars that you’d forgotten about.

“You’re…you’re still doing…that?” Eddie’s voice was laced with palpable nervousness, but there wasn’t an ounce of disgust. It might have been easier if there was; you were disgusted that you’d relapsed into self-harm, even if it was just once. 

No, this was genuine concern and love. 

“I…” You struggled to find the words, feeling like the teenager you were when you’d first cut yourself. Now you’re an adult–an adult who’s supposed to have better, healthier coping mechanisms–yet after a conversation with your mother led to an argument, you’d turned back to old habits.

Eddie took your hands in his. The slight tremble broke your heart into a million pieces and filled each crack with shame.

His thumb grazed over the new marks, careful not to reopen the wound. “When did you do this? W-Why did you…?”

“I don’t know.” 

A flicker of frustration sparked in his deep brown eyes at your lie, a silent plea for your honesty.

And so you shoved that shame aside, your body caving into his as you told him everything, starting with the phone call from your mother. 

You’d tried to explain that you were splitting Christmas between their place and Wayne’s, and since Eddie’s uncle worked the night shift, you’d go over to his trailer in the morning and your parents’ house in the evening. 

A solid compromise as you navigated the balance of your relationship with Eddie. 

Or so you thought. 

Because the moment you laid out your plans, Mom was blubbering about the family tradition of opening presents on Christmas morning and how it won’t be the same and why is Wayne working on Christmas, anyway?

You didn’t have the energy to break down the older man’s finances—not that it was her business—but it didn’t matter. Mom already began tossing around terms like ungrateful and disrespectful. 

Suddenly, you were no longer an adult in an apartment of your own. You were a teenager trapped under your parents’ roof with nowhere to go, no way to escape the chaos. 

You couldn’t stop apologizing—to your mom then, and to Eddie now. Tears streamed down your cheeks, drawing hot rivulets over your skin. 

But with Eddie, there was no disgruntled huff and abrupt end to the conversation. He grabbed a tissue, wiping at your eyes and beneath your nose.

“You could’ve called me,” he said. “I would’ve been over in a heartbeat. You didn’t need to do this.”

You shook your head. This was beyond him, and he knew it, too. 

You didn’t realize that your eyes had glazed over, that your rumination had taken hold and kept you locked inside your brain, until Eddie spoke again. 

“Look at me.” 

You blinked, allowing yourself to re-enter the space. When the haze of anxiety began to clear, you felt his touch before you saw his face. His hand was noticeably warm and sweat-slicked, forefinger tucked up under your chin as he lifted it. Whatever stray tears remained on your face trickled down, sneaking into the crevices of his rings.

“Please don’t hurt yourself anymore.” The tip of his tongue swiped over his lower lip. With utmost tenderness, he leaned his forehead against yours. His exhale tickled your own nose. “Please just tell me when you’re sad or mad or…or anything.”

And then you were fourteen once again, confessing to Eddie the real reason why you only wore long-sleeved shirts while he stood there helplessly, nearly dropping the can of Chef Boyardee in the middle of Wayne’s kitchen. Though you were a decade older now, Eddie’s face fell the same way it had in 1980. Confusion and defeat warred for prominence, his brows knit together and his shoulders slumped. 

“You can’t fix me,” you said finally. 

“I know. Because you’re not broken.” Eddie’s hands fell to your wrists, gingerly clutching them. “A little battered, but not broken.”

He meant it, though you didn’t know how. Besides the physical scars on your wrists, you carried a world of pain on your shoulders. You were buried in the weight of inferiority and the inability to measure up to expectations. 

Eddie sensed your hesitation to believe him. “I love you,” he said softly. “I loved you when we were seven and you gave me a Band-Aid after I fell off of my bike. I loved you when we were thirteen and you used the peanut butter from your sandwich to get Tommy Hagan’s gum out of my hair. 

“I loved you when we were eighteen and you went off to college, but you still called me every Thursday night. I loved you when we were twenty-four and I finally asked you out, and you kissed me before I could finish my sentence.” He took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling through his t-shirt. “And I’ll never stop loving you. So, please…please don’t hurt yourself again.”

You nodded, hoping it was a promise you could keep. Hoping that this was just a slip-up and not the beginning of a full-blown relapse. 

Exhaustion fell over you as your tears slowed. “I should probably clean myself off.” You shook your head for emphasis, some of the remaining flour clouding as it fell. 

“Let me help.”

Eddie followed behind you, just watching as you picked out the residue over the bathroom sink. The yellow-tinged vanity lighting emphasized the worry that he wore like a mask. 

You turned to him. “I’m okay,” you said with a timid smile. “It was just a one-time thing. I swear.”

His tone was firm when he spoke. “But if it isn’t—if you want to do it again or think about doing it again—you need to tell me.” He pressed a gentle kiss to your lips. “I won’t run away. I’m right here.”

You melted into him, flour-coated scalp be damned, and wrapped your arms around him. “I promise.”

“Good.” A small relief, but relief nonetheless. 

Your fingers tangled in the soft cotton of his t-shirt. “It’s like my brain gets too loud, and I can’t shut it off sometimes.” You swallowed, not able to look at him yet. “But sometimes it helps when I…when I think about you. About how safe I feel with you.”

He brushed flour from your shirt collar. You could tell that he wanted to say something despite the ensuing quiet. Yet he just shoved his hands into his pockets and walked back out to the kitchen wordlessly. 

It wasn’t until that evening, laying in bed with one tattooed arm wrapped around your waist, that Eddie posed the question that had been sitting on his lips since the afternoon. 

“You feel safe with me?”

You rolled over to face him. “Of course. You’re, like, my safe place.”

Eddie held you tighter. “You’re my safe place, too.” He pressed a soft kiss to your nose. “And maybe I’m a little selfish because of it, but I really need you around. Okay?”

Even in the darkness, you could see his eyes shining with worry and fear. That he would wake up without you. That you’d be gone when he least expected it. 

“I never meant to scare you,” you promised, your voice a whisper even though it was only the two of you. “I wasn’t…”

I wasn’t thinking about you, you almost said. Not that you didn’t care about him—your mind was too occupied with Mom’s stinging words to think of anything else. Of anyone else—including Eddie. 

His reassurance came swiftly. “I know,” he said. “And I want you to know that you deserve to be happy. You deserve not to worry about anyone else’s bullshit. Even your mom’s.”

Eddie took your hand, lifted one scarred wrist to his lips, and kissed it. There was a slight sting from the newer cut, but it disappeared as quickly as it presented. 

“You deserve to be happy,” he continued, kissing another scar. “You deserve to live a life where you know that no one is worth hurting yourself over.”

You brought your arm back to your side and shifted even closer to him. Your nose bumped his when you leaned in to kiss him, eliciting a giggle from both you and Eddie. 

“Sorry—” You started to apologize, but his hands flew to your cheeks as he kissed you harder. His tongue flicked over the seam of your lips, asking for entry that you granted without a second thought. 

“God, I fuckin’ love your laugh.” Eddie shook a rogue curl from his eyes. Instinctively, his leg slotted between yours. It was only when you ground your core against his flannel-clad thigh that he realized what he’d done. 

He moved back an inch, though that one leg stayed in place. “Baby, we don’t—I know today’s been a lot. I’m fine kissing you, y’know?”

“I know.”

“You don’t have to do anything for me. I’m a big boy; I can jerk off in the bathroom if you’re not in the mood—”

You were tired, but an invisible thread inside you had been tugged, awakening an ache that only Eddie could quell. 

“I know,” you repeated. “I want this, too. I…I need it, Eddie.”

His teeth grazed your neck. “What do you need?” He growled, a primal edge in his tone. 

“I need you to show me I’m safe.” 

With those words, you let go of the control you clutched like a precious stone. The relief would be temporary—everything in this world was—but you felt the burden ease with each article of your clothing that Eddie removed. You could have floated, your body weightless, when he kissed each millimeter of your skin. Even the parts you preferred to keep hidden. 

His middle finger was what anchored you to reality. It found your clit, rubbing circles on it while his other hand gripped your hip. 

Slowly, torturously, his finger inched inside you, drawing a shuddering breath from your lips. 

“S’good?” He looked down at you, waiting for confirmation. “Do you need more?”

More. More sounded perfect, and you told him so. 

There’s no teasing tonight. Eddie didn’t make you beg before he slipped his ring finger inside you, curling both fingers to stroke that sweet spot. 

Your back arched, taking him in deeper. He obliged, murmuring your name and sweet praises as he touched you. 

“There you go.”

“So good for me.”

“That’s it.”

“You’re gorgeous like this.”

Wetness slickened his fingers and dripped down onto the bedsheet. He let go of your hip for a second to palm himself over his pajama pants, stopping only when you reach for him. 

“Eds.” You tried not to pout when he paused his ministrations. “Y-You can…”

With a quick nod, Eddie shucked off his clothes and tossed them to the carpeted floor. They landed with a plop, a noise drowned out by his moan when he pressed his erection against you. 

Safe. With Eddie, you were safe. 

Your breath hitched as he entered you; it was a fullness that felt so natural yet like each time was the first. 

Eddie groaned as your fingers dug into his back, reveling in the mutual desire. He braced his forearms on either side of you, caging in your head.

“Eyes on me,” he ordered. “There’s nothing else. Just us, okay?”

“‘Kay.” There was no time to say anything else; he leaned down and kissed you, moaning into it with unbridled need. 

If the alarm clock on your nightstand wasn’t counting the minutes, you would have sworn that time was suspended. Each thrust, each kiss, each murmur of your name was a second and a day. 

Eddie’s lips brushed your ear. He whispered, “you’re so beautiful,” sending an arrow of need straight to your core. “My sweet, beautiful girl.”

“Yours,” you agreed in a whimper. You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him in further, as pleasure washed over you. It claimed him a moment later, his face buried in your neck. 

When the sun rises, your scars will once again be visible. And the lingering sadness and frustration won’t have completely dissipated. 

But you’ll handle it. With Eddie by your side, you’ll power through until getting through each day is no longer a chore. 

You’re safe. 

--

[rainrot4me]

Jeff the Killer General Headcannons

Summary: Basic, SFW, and NSFW head-cannons. My personal thoughts, feelings, and opinions about Jeff as a character.

TW: NSFW below the cut, minors dni! Above the cut is sfw!

Words: 2.6k

A/N: NSFW is reader with female anatomy.

Basic:

- Big isolation guy. He enjoys pestering people or hanging out, but when it comes to personal things like missions or killing sprees, he prefers to be alone. His head’s already loud enough that he doesn’t need to add to it when he’s trying to focus.

- Blunt. Like to the point it’s a drag to even talk to him sometimes. He doesn’t really give a shit about anyone or anything besides himself, so why would he need to hide what he actually wants to say?

- Dangerously short temper. It barely takes one nasty remark or even a hint that you have ill intent towards him before the killer is on your ass. Would rather beat the shit out of you than take the time to reconcile.

- A STARER. Has absolutely no remorse when just boring his eyes into someone, eyes wide and horrifying. He loves to watch every expression as he’s ending someone’s life, every bit of anger or fear, but especially the blank stare in their eyes afterward. You catch his glance all the time, and instead of looking away politely like a normal person would, he just smiles as he glares even harder.

- Loves story based video games that Ben shows him. Life is Strange, Night in the Woods, and What Remains of Edith Finch. Has to play them all in their entirety before he can do anything else, so he’ll be glued to the couch for days.

- Has a difficult time with names, so he comes up with nicknames or terms to make it easier. “Twitch” - Toby, “Sockets” - Jack, or “Glitch” - Ben. Don’t worry, he’ll give you one, too.

- A laugher. When he’s in pain, when he’s sad, when he’s happy, that man is laughing. Choked out dry heaving chuckles or tipsy short airheaded giggles, it doesn’t matter, he will be laughing.

- Terrible sleep paralysis and nightmares keep him up during the night, the most sleep this man will ever get is a little over 3 hours. It really doesn’t help his mood, either.

- The scars on his cheeks used to bleed and get infected so bad he could barely shut his mouth due to the swelling. He would numb it down with pain killers and anything he could find, but it wasn’t until Slender tried to make him into a proxy that they eventually sealed and scarred over, creating wide gashes (weird cryptid powers).

- Thinks about his brother every waking moment. He feels so much pent up regret and sadness concerning Liu, but refuses to search for him or even shed a tear. This sends him into mental breakdown episodes, and sadly, the only relief is just to create more carnage.

- Actually really hates violence unless he’s the one delivering it. Doesn’t like violent movies or music because they romanticize everything he hates about himself. Any media he enjoys is either really bland or really toned down, stuff that won’t trigger him.

- Cuts his own hair, and yes, he’s horrible at it.

- Messed up his appearance to make himself ‘beautiful’, but just ended up so disgusted and ashamed of himself in the long run. When his mental fog gets bad, he’ll just stand in front of the mirror and stare at himself, letting every negative thought wash over. Outside, he’ll brandish it like a weapon, something to get victims to submit. But on the inside, it’s just a nasty reminder.

- Showers only when it gets to the uncomfortable point. He doesn’t have the time or energy or wash himself every day, but when it gets to the point he feels the blood and grime subconsciously, he’ll get over it. Even if he does wash himself, half the time actually in the shower is just letting the water run over him and staring at the tile wall.

- Gets all of his money and random trinkets from victims. Proceeds to spend all that money almost immediately after on a pack of Blue Moons. No orange slice, either.

- Messy, disgusting room. Has no healthy habits of keeping him or his space tidy, so it’s always near disastrous.

- Even though the media and lots of outlets perceive him as this insane maniac killer, those were all big stories from his teenage years. Even though he doesn’t feel like he’s matured, he’s definitely found a happy medium away from spree after spree of slaughter. He still itches to take down a whole neighborhood, but he’s found his ways to cope.

- Very good at hand-to-hand combat. He wields a knife if things get a little rough, but prefers to use his hands to do the dirty work. Makes it feel more personal to him.

- Late-night kitchen demon. You’ll find him rummaging the fridge or making a bowl of cereal in the complete darkness, but he’ll swear up and down it wasn’t him.

- Annoying, painfully so. Hell wrack EJ’s ear off or pester Toby about little things, but he can’t help but get giddy when he sees he’s ticked them off just enough.

- Really agile. Had a thinner build, but muscle definition and tension really adds to the aesthetic. Really defined v-line and hips bones, as well as carved out shoulders and collarbones. Looks like a beefier skeleton, but hot.

- Lip piercings. Snake bites. They’re not healed and they’re not pretty, but he thinks they look badass.

- Scars and jagged pieces of flesh everywhere on his body. They’re either from mission aftermaths, rough targets, or his own doing, but they’re all gnarly and barely healed half of the time. They hurt terribly, but he’s constantly cracked out on painkillers that he doesn’t even care anymore.

- Enjoys the shoegaze music genre. Aldn, Wisp, Elita, Deftones, and surprisingly, The Cardigans and The Cranberries. They remind him of his childhood.

Dating Him/SFW:

- “Baby” “Babe” “Cunt”

- Big words of affirmation guy. He’ll act disgusted and shove you off, rolling his eyes about your sweet words- but in reality, he’s gushing so hard he can’t stand it. Reassurance makes him feel more loved than anything.

- The fastest ‘enemies or lovers’ troupe you’ll ever experience. It’ll only take one face-to-face argument before you both get too close and he’s pulling you in for a rough make out. He’s bad with emotions, what makes you think he wouldn't be bad at reading love/hate signals too.

- HATES to show any sign of weakness or adoration. If you’re laying with him or holding his hand, as soon as someone enters the room he’s shoving you off. It’s not that he doesn’t love you, it’s a deep-rooted fear that someone will use you against him.

- If he’s spent the night in your bed, he will always be gone by the time you’ve woken up. Out of fear of vulnerability, he will only fall asleep after you and wake up before you, otherwise he just won’t stay with you at all.

- He’s like dealing with a little kid. Yes, he’s been through heaps of mental anguish and trauma, but he’s gone through all of that without a hand to hold. In some sad way, he sees something motherly and comforting in you which drives him to latch on and become dependent. It's weird, but so is he.

- Jealousy problems. Big time.

- “He touched you. So I cut his arm off. What is so hard to understand here?”

- Needs to be bossed around. He can and will rot in his bed all day unless you tell him to get up and do something.

- Absolutely melts when you kiss him unprovoked. When he doesn’t force you or tease you into one, but when you decide to kiss his face or hands on your own terms. It’s his favorite thing.

- In his manic brain, he wants something calm, someone who can settle him out. You offer him stability and a chance to unwind and that’s really all he needs.

- As a nervous response, he’ll intentionally push you away if he knows you like him. He holds a lot of regret, so he doesn’t want to drag you along with the rest of his baggage. Will say and do things he knows will hurt your feelings so you leave on your own.

- “And what made you think I’d want you? Because we kissed? Hah! How cute.” Meanwhile, he’s in his room pining himself to shreds.

- Watches you sleep constantly. Doesn’t matter where you are or how far, he will trek through your window or into your bed to watch you snore quietly against your pillow. He likes the vulnerability of it and acting as your ‘protector’, like you have no choice but to rely on him in this state.

- You are the last person Jeff wants to break down in front of, but when it eventually happens, and you’re there with open arms- the killer can barely breathe from how full his heart feels. The feeling of just being able to sob and bury into your shoulder while you rub his back is incomparable.

- Possessive AND protective to a fault. Wants everyone to know you’re his, but at the same time, really enjoys when you flaunt yourself so he can stare down the wandering eyes and really show them who they’d be messing with. Either way, eats it up when you feel good about yourself and safe in him.

- Nasty, terribly toxic relationship. You both bounce off of each other and are constantly arguing, but you both get over it because you’ve grown codependent. There’s nothing ‘casual’ about the two of you, you’re either fuck buddies or desperately clawing at each other for survival. Jeff is an obsessive guy, he either wants everything to do with you or he’ll hide away and tear himself apart over you.

- Jewelry is such a yes for him. If you’re wearing thick earrings or chunky necklaces that brighten your face, he eats it up. He’s such a sucker for silver.

- Does not ask for kisses, he takes them.

- “C’mon baby, I can’t help it. You’re just so fun to mess with.”

- Since he doesn’t sleep much, likes to lay on his back while your head rests on his chest/shoulder. He’ll tangle his fingers through your hair or brush your cheek with his thumb while he stares at you or the ceiling. Even when he has doubts about you loving him, your body always subconsciously shifts towards him while you’re snoozing, and it makes him feel just a little better.

- Fake punches/hits you when he’s bored. Will hold his hands up and box at your face but never making contact, just enough to have you side-eye him. He thinks it’s funny.

- Shoulder kisses.

Dating Him/NSFW:

- Can and will touch you inappropriately no matter the circumstances. His rough hands groping your ass or shoving between your thighs to give flirty little touches in front of everyone, his shit-eating grin when you get embarrassed.

- “Stop glaring, sweet cheeks. I know you want me.”

- Will fight to his dying day that he’s a top, but as soon as you even give him a glint of dominance or snap at him, he’s folding so fast. Dominant person, submissive lover.

- Killing machine on the field, pathetic ass bottom in bed. It takes forever to get to that point, but once he’s mentally checked out and half-drooling on the mattress, he’s so pliable and lightheaded he’ll take it with ease. You have to really work for it, but Jeff trusts you/wants it bad enough subconsciously that he’ll force himself to go into a subspace.

- All-time favorite position is laying you out on your back, one leg up on his shoulder while the other is being held down at your side. It really opens you up and gives the nastiest, most lewd noises that have him pussydrunk. Bonus points for reaching a hand in to choke you.

- “And to think you were beggin’ me to stop while your pussy is soaked. I mean, look at you, babe. You’re suckin’ me in somethin’ awful.”

- CHOKING. Either you or him, he gets off on it so bad. Choking you is so satisfying, he loves the resistance and struggle as you gasp for air, face flushed and eyes rolling with his fist around your throat. Meanwhile, if you’re choking him, his body nearly convulses from the pleasure. He loves the lightheadedness and pressure of it, hoarse chuckles as both of your hands grip around his neck and just squeeze. He thinks he could cum just from being strangled.

- “What’s wrong, baby? Lil’ too much? Ah- You’ll get over it, just open up f’me.”

- Hair pulling, strangling, biting, smacking—really anything that’ll cause pain.

- Standing side-by-side in the mirror, his body is littered with nasty cuts and scars while yours is littered with pretty bite marks and hickeys. He loves it.

- Eating you out is so tiring, but it’s all worth it to look up and see your heavy, glassed-over eyes beaming down at him, lips parted as you’re gasping.

- Hard, quick thrusts that have you gasping and yelping. His hips snap against yours rhythmically until you throw your head back, then he leans in close and shifts his knees closer to really speed up. He never has a set pace, but prefers always adjusting to whatever has you making the most noise.

- “C’mon… Louder- Hah- I’m not stoppin’ till you’re cryin’ for it.”

- A bitch fight every time you two get together. Bickering with the other about ‘who can last longer’ or ‘going until you beg for it’ and it irritates the shit out of both of you. Gets you both riled up that you’re more fighting than fucking, but by the end, you’re both dead exhausted and reduced to panting messed laid out on top of each other.

- Refuses to pull out. He can’t get you pregnant, Slender made sure of that (God help if this heathen was allowed to procreate), so it’s either in your cunt, ass, or mouth, nowhere else. Even if he’s jerking himself off, he’ll wait to cum until he can get to you and finish himself out.

- Stands over you and stares hard enough until you’re reduced to your knees, words never even leaving his lips before you’re unbuckling his belt and shifting his jeans down. He’s fought you enough, sometimes you like to just be good for him.

- Pulling him in by his belt >>>>>>>>>

- Eating you out or sucking you off so much that drool leaks from his scars, eyes so hazed and soft as he hums and moans against you.

- “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

- Fucked you with the handle of his knife because you read something about it in a book and wanted to see if it actually felt good. He was weirded out at first, but when he watched you jerking your hips and mumbling for him to fuck you, he’s never fucked his cock in faster while rubbing the blunt of the handle against your drooling clit. Same thing with running the blade against your skin. It just elicits some reaction out of you that he can’t understand, but it turns him on terribly.

- Has a big thing for cop x prisoner roleplay actually.

- “What? Officer, how am I supposed to finger you with these handcuffs, hm? I guess you’ll just have to let me go, yeah? Or do you not want it as bad as your pussy leads me to believe?”

- Really loves fingering you while he’s buried in your ass. Curling his fingers up to make you arch your back just a little more, having your head spinning from the overstimulation… yeah.

- A 2-3 round champion. He’ll never be able to just cum once and be satisfied, regardless if you’re ready to stop or not, he’s forcing his cock back into wherever it was or in a completely different hole and riding himself out to his next orgasm. If he’s not shaking and on the verge of passing out after sex, it wasn’t good enough for him.

- “Jeff, stop! We could get caught!” “Or you could just shut up and take your panties off. You’re soaked, there’s no point in fighting me when I’m already this hard… C’mon, baby, give me your hand or something…”

Thanks for reading!

Comments and reblogs are appreciated!

[pupkashi]

boyfriend!jinwoo headcanons

a/n: hi hi friends !! I’ve become reobsessed with solo as season 2 comes out + i started the manhwa and i have fallen head over heels for jinwoo so enjoy ! i am so sorry if it’s ooc im still trying to get a feel for his character </3 this got really messy and all over the place my bad yall i have alot of thoughts okay that’s all bye :3

warnings: maybe minor manhwa spoilers ?? that’s about all :P

- if jinwoo met you before his reawakening he definitely did not make the first move, instead opting to try and spend time around you without making things too obvious

- to say you weren’t charmed by the hunter would be a lie, you were absolutely smitten with him, stomach in knots everytime you saw him, giving him care packages after any missions and trying to warn him to take it easy

- your words and actions would always make him flush, “i promise I’ll be more careful” he’d smile, holding a bag of frozen peas to the side of his head

- he was the best boyfriend he could be, always getting you little things when he could, even finding wildflowers to make a bouquet for you when he couldn’t afford store bought ones

- he would take you out to picnics and any little date that he could afford anytime he could, romanticizing every moment with you and making you fall for him more and more

- he would save up anything he could to buy you jewelry or clothes or something you’d mentioned wanting in passing, surprising you with it with a goofy grin

- you’d tell him constantly he didn’t have to worry about buying you fancy things or spending money on you, but he would have none of it, assuring you his other expenses were handled and his sister was well taken care of

- jinwoo is the most supportive boyfriend in the world, if you were awakened and decided to become a hunter he would be your biggest cheerleader

- he wouldn’t have a bruised ego if you were a couple ranks higher than he was, instead he’d be incredibly proud of you, boasting to everyone “that’s my partner by the way”

- if you were a regular civilian he would support whatever career path you wanted to take, going to college? jinwoo is helping you study late at night and wishing you luck on exams. wanting to be a baker? jinwoo is there trying all your recipes and giving you honest feedback (and taking home test batches)

- you awaken as a hunter but don’t want to be a hunter? jinwoo is there to reassure you to live your life how you wanna, not once judging you

- reawakened jinwoo ,,, strap in yall

- the first time he sees you he feels like he’s an e rank hunter again the way he’s blushing and his heart racing, when was the last time he felt this nervous?

- he can barely get out a ‘hello’ as you’re smiling softly at him, he isn’t sure if you recognize him, you giggle softly and shove your friend slightly, eyes darting to him before catching his gaze, embarrassed and looking away quickly

- beru is quick to encourage his master, “his majesty is worthy of any he may choose” he reassures jinwoo, making the hunter flush and dismiss him quickly

- jinwoo finally works up the courage to talk to you, turning on his charm, he fought insanely strong enemies all by himself, he can ask you out on a date, right?

- he stumbles over his words, sentence jumbled up and you can help but smile at him and nod, “I’d love to get dinner sometime” you reply, exchanging phone numbers before excusing yourself and catching up with your friend group

- at first jinwoo is skeptic once he gets home, what if you were just using him because you knew he was the tenth S rank hunter? were you in it for money? fame?

- after your first date together jinwoo is weak at the knees and ready to give you the world, he’s already assigned one of his soldiers to your shadow

- one month after your first date he’s asking you to be his, a bouquet of your favorite flowers in his hands and a picnic spread behind him as the sun set

- calls you a handful of pet names mainly baby, doll, my love and sweetheart

- you call him honey, lover, baby, handsome and any other silly thing you can think of to make him roll his eyes; a lot of times you’ll just shorten his name, calling him jin, jinny or just woo (you once called him your woo woo bear and he was so flustered you decided to reserve it for only certain occasions)

- jinwoo was not one to cheap out on things when it came to you, if you mentioned wanting something you’d get it as soon as possible

- he’d buy you expensive jewelry and any clothing you’d like, even paying your rent and bills behind your back, a sheepish smile on his face when you confront him about it

- “doll you spend most of your time at mine anyway, how about we just move in together hm?” easily persuades you with the promise of letting you decorate the whole place, giving you his credit card to buy whatever you wanted

- jinwoo wouldn’t say he’s a jealous boyfriend,, you however would say he definitely is ! he’s also very possessive and protective when it comes to you

- if he even senses that someone else is looking at you he’s quick to flash his eyes blue, shadows whipping around him and scaring off anyone even thinking of looking at you

- if anyone is stupid enough to actually flirt with you he will not shy away from intimidating them, eyes glowing as he stares down the person, practically snarling at them until they’re running with their tail between their legs

- “alright tough guy let’s tone it down a bit” you chuckle, letting your arms slide around his waist and pulling him close to you, jinwoo just scoffs, melting into your touch and turning to face you, pulling you by the waist and kissing your lips

- “all mine” he whispers against your lips, you smile and press another kiss to his lips, “all yours” you assure him

- he goes INSANE if anyone hurts you omg like next level crashing out he’s demolishing them into oblivion if they lay a finger on you

- “who did this to you?” his voice is deeper than you’d ever heard it, a wobble in it from the pure rage coursing through his veins, his knuckles are white and his eyes don’t have the usual warmth and love they usually do

- he can barely control his ragged breathing absolutely pummeling them into the ground, his whole body glowing and shadows crackling around him

- it’s a sight to behold, his gaze and demeanor switching in an instant when he turns to you, “let’s get you home sweetheart”

- he’s very silly when it’s just you or his family around, cracking stupid jokes and being absolutely terrible at video games during any game nights

- jinwoo is absolutely a clingy and touchy boyfriend in private, the most PDA he’d show is holding your hand or an arm around your waist (unless he’s jealous then he’d full on just make out with you to prove a point)

- im talking he wants to be IN ur skin, as close as he can be; he’d nuzzle his face into the crook of your neck, wrap his arms around you and pull you into him, he’d place a flurry of kisses on your face and any exposed skin, soft giggles filling the air

- he giggles SO much with you, any compliment you give him or joke you make he’s giggling and giving you the softest look you’d ever seen on the man

- he isn’t stoic at all, eyes always bright and attentive anytime you’re talking to him

- he often leaves multiple shadow soldiers with you, having very rotate between you and his sister and mom to keep tabs on the three of you

- jinwoo falls deeper in love with you when he sees how much his sister and mom like you, with his mom teasing him and asking when he was gonna marry you after the second time he brought you to dinner with them

- even though he’s a busy man, he will always make sure he makes time for you, reassuring you that you’re a priority in his life and giving you any quality time you need

- he plans at least one date every two weeks, spending as many nights or afternoons he can with you, making sure he’s home for dinner if you were cooking and watching shows together on the couch

- jinwoo is VERY in tune with your emotions, catching on to the slightest shift in your tone or actions, he’s always quick to address anything bothering you and doing anything in his power to make you feel better

- he gives you all the reassurance you need and then some anytime you feel insecure, never making you embarrassed for how you feel, instead making sure you know how much he loves and cares for you

- boyfriend!jinwoo who is always helping you with anything you need, wether it be studying or cleaning or running errands, if he’s free he’s helping you with it; even if he’s busy if his soldiers can help you then you’ve got them at your disposal 24/7

- he is just such a good boyfriend i need him so bad

[aeliuss]

🔷 say she wanna fuck me later; girl im into it

(teaser)

featuring: aussie singer christopher bahng x afab reader

genre: smut with plot

warnings: toxic relationship. semi-public sex. illegal drug use, alcohol use. extremely concerning behavior from ALL characters. i am in no way condoning or romanticizing any of these actions, it's just a work of fiction. DO NOT TAKE DRUGS. if you, or any of your loved ones suffer with addiction please click here. minors do not interact.

notes: part one of my new series. chase atlantic songs X Skz. this one is inspired by the song into it. i highly suggest listening to it as you read. also, i have no idea how drugs work guys, so im just making shit up, don't judge me. as usual, feedback is always appreciated! or you can hit me up and we can squeal together lmao

The first time, it was a mistake.

That’s what he told you, breathless and wrecked, his forehead pressed against yours in the dim light of a hotel room neither of you belonged in. But mistakes don’t happen twice. They don’t happen over and over, city after city, his voice hoarse from performing, his hands shaking from whatever he took before he found his way back to you.

Mistakes don’t leave bruises in the shape of his fingers on your hips. They don’t make you crave the taste of smoke and liquor on his lips, don’t have you counting the hours until he stumbles back into your orbit, drenched in sweat and sin.

But here you are, again.

The hotel is different this time—different city, different skyline, same story. The sheets smell like someone else’s perfume, and his shirt is wrinkled like it’s been pulled off and put back on in a hurry. You don’t ask, and he doesn’t offer. He just stands there, framed by the glow of the streetlights bleeding through the window, looking at you like you’re something inevitable.

He swipes a hand over his face, exhales slow. “You shouldn't pick up when I call.”

“Don't call then.”

His lips twitch, the ghost of a smile, but there’s no humor in it. He unbuttons his shirt with one hand, the other spilling the contents of his little plastic bag on the nightstand by the bed. You watch from across the room, in that little black dress you know he likes.

He presses his fingers against his own tongue, wetting it, before pressing it against the white powder, hard enough for it to stick, then sucks on his finger.

You watch as his lips part, as his pupils darken, as his shoulders drop just a little like the weight of the world isn’t so heavy when he does this. He tilts his head back, eyes slipping shut, and you recognize the look that crosses his face—devotion. The kind of surrender that people spend their whole lives chasing.

He only ever looks like that for two things.

Drugs.

And you.

The thought makes your stomach twist, but you don’t dwell on it. Because he’s looking at you now, licking his lips, reaching out a hand. “C’mere,” he murmurs, voice thick, lazy.

And you go. Of course you do.

His fingers trail up the hem of your dress, slow, deliberate, as he tugs you between his legs. “You hate this, don’t you?” he muses, hands skimming your thighs, breath warm against your skin.

You don't answer, instead opening your mouth and lolling out your tongue, asking.

His gaze flickers, dark amusement curling at the edges of something deeper, something neither of you are willing to name.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, tapping his finger against your tongue, smearing the remnants of his high onto your taste buds. “That desperate for a taste?”

You close your lips around his finger, suck slow, let your teeth graze his skin just to watch his jaw tighten. Just to remind him that you know how to play this game, too.

He exhales sharply, tilting his head as he watches you, watches the way your lips part when he pulls his hand away. “Fuck,” he breathes, almost reverent.

He presses his finger back against the powder, and onto his own tongue, before he's sitting up and kissing you before it dissolves, pressing it against your tongue.

The bitterness coats your tongue, mixing with the taste of him, and for a second, it makes your head spin—not just the drugs, but the way he kisses you, slow and deep, like he’s trying to crawl inside your lungs. Like he wants to ruin you in a way that sticks.

His hands are on you now, gripping your hips, tugging you closer until you’re straddling his lap, the fabric of your dress riding up your thighs. His fingers dig into your skin like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold on tight enough. Like maybe this—whatever this is—grounds him in a way nothing else does.

“You drive me fucking insane,” he mutters against your lips, the words slurred, smudged with exhaustion and chemicals. His hands slide up, tracing the curve of your spine, fingers ghosting over the back of your neck. His breath hitches when you shift against him, when you bite down on his bottom lip just hard enough to make him groan.

“But you keep calling,” you whisper, pulling back just enough to look at him, to see the way his pupils are blown wide, his lips parted. 

A sharp exhale, his fingers tangling in your hair, tugging just enough to make you tilt your head back. “You like it,” he says, and it’s not a question.

You don’t answer. You don’t have to. The truth is already there, thick in the air between you, tangled up in the way you keep coming back to this—to him.

His grip tightens, his fingers threading deeper into your hair, and when he tugs, your breath stutters. He watches you, eyes dark and heavy-lidded, like he’s memorizing the way you react to him. Like it matters.

Maybe it does. Maybe that’s the worst part.

His lips ghost over yours, a breath away, teasing. “Say it,” he murmurs.

You swallow, pulse hammering, his breath hot against your lips. His words linger between you, thick and taunting, daring you to deny it.

But you don’t.

Instead, you let your fingers slide up his chest, nails scratching lightly over his skin, just to feel the way his muscles tense beneath your touch. You tilt your head, lips brushing against his.

“I’m into it.”

“Yeah?” he breathes, his grip tightening on your thighs, dragging you impossibly closer. “Show me.”

Your hands trail down his chest, slow, deliberate, like you’re mapping out all the places you’ve already claimed.He watches you, his breath shallow, his pupils' dark pools swallowing up what little light remains in the room. You know he’d been smoking before you got there. The drugs have hit by now—he’s drifting, untethered—but you know he sees you. Feels you.

His hands roam, greedy and desperate, slipping under the hem of your dress, gripping you like this is the only thing keeping him from spinning out.

Your lips hover over his, teasing. “Is this what you want?”

His breath stutters, a sharp inhale through his teeth. His fingers tighten on your thighs, his body coiled so tight you almost expect him to snap. His lips part, but he doesn’t answer, just watches you, pupils wide and dark, pulse thrumming beneath your fingertips. It’s fascinating to see–the way his entire body is covered in goosebumps and you’ve barely even touched him, pupils blown wide, following your every move.

“I want you on it,” He breathes, practically whines.

You smirk, rolling your hips once, your panties against the bulge straining against his jeans, slow, deliberate, just to watch the way his jaw clenches, the way his breath shudders out of him like you’ve knocked the air from his lungs. “On what?” you murmur, teasing, even though you already know exactly what he means.

“Don’t start,” he warns, voice low, wrecked. His head falls back against the headboard, eyes locked on you, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. “Don’t act like we haven’t done this before.”

You drag your nails down his bare chest, roll your hips again, slower this time, watching the way his fingers twitch against your thighs, the way his breath comes out in a ragged, uneven exhale. His chest rises and falls erratically, his shirt slipping from his shoulders, exposing more of his skin to your wandering touch.

His patience is hanging by a thread—you can feel it, see it in the way his jaw clenches, in the way his grip on you tightens. You could push him, keep teasing, but there’s something intoxicating about having him like this—already undone before you’ve even really started.

Chris’s hands slide up, bunching up your short dress so that his fingers splayed wide over your bare ribs. “I swear to fucking God,” he breathes, voice strained, almost desperate. His hands slide down your body to unbuckle his belt, but his hands are shaking so badly, all he does is fumble.

You catch his hands, stilling them, and he looks up at you, dazed. “Relax,” you whisper, teasing.

His hands flex against your thighs, a sharp inhale cutting through the thick air between you. “I can’t.”

You make quick work of his belt, undoing the buckle with deft fingers, sliding the leather free before tossing it to the floor. His breath hitches when your hands move lower, when you palm him through his jeans, feeling the heat of him through the fabric.

His head falls back against the headboard with a muted thud, his hands gripping your hips, bruising. “Fuck,” he exhales, voice barely more than a breath.

Your gaze flickers over his shoulder, to the sheets that don’t smell like you. The perfume clings to the air, sweet and sickly, a reminder of whoever warmed his bed before you got here. A lesser woman might bite her tongue, pretend not to notice. But you aren’t her, and he sure as hell isn’t the kind of man who deserves the courtesy of silence.

“Guess she wasn’t enough for you, huh?” you murmur, voice dripping with something venomous, something possessive. You cock your head, smirking as you press your palm against the bulge in his jeans. “Didn’t scratch the itch?”

Chris’s jaw flexes, his fingers tightening on your hips. “Don’t,” he warns, voice low, frayed at the edges.

But you’re not in the mood to play nice. Not when he keeps coming back to you like this. Not when he acts like you’re some bad habit he can’t quit, even with other girls in his bed, on his lap, under his hands.

You lean in, lips grazing his ear. “Maybe she didn’t let you fuck her like she hated you,” you whisper, rolling your hips against him. “Maybe she didn’t make you work for it.”

Chris exhales sharply, nostrils flaring, eyes blown wide with something feral. His grip on your hips tightens, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. For a second, he just stares at you, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths. And then—

You barely have time to react before he shoves you onto your back, your head hitting the pillows as he looms over you, the air between you charged, electric. His hand wraps around your throat—not squeezing, just holding, like he needs to feel your pulse beneath his fingers. Feel how it hammers against your throat, just for him.

Chris laughs, breathless, humorless. “You talk shit like this,” he mutters, shaking his head. “But you keep coming back.”

“So do you.”

His hand tightens around your throat, just enough to make your breath stutter, just enough to remind you who’s in control. His grip is firm, possessive, like he owns you, like he's daring you to fight him on it.

"You always run your fucking mouth," Chris mutters, voice dripping with venom, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded. "But you always end up right here, legs open, dripping for me."

You glare up at him, nails digging into his forearm, but you don’t deny it. You can’t. The proof is slick between your thighs, your body betraying you like it always does when it comes to him.

He tilts his head, watching you like he’s amused. "What’s wrong, baby? Nothing smart to say now?" His fingers flex around your throat, a silent warning. "Yeah, that’s what I fucking thought."

You swallow, the movement pressing your throat against his palm. You refuse to break first.

His grip slides down, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw before gripping your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip, slow, teasing. “You wanna act like this doesn’t get you off?” He tilts his head, smirking. “That’s cute.”

His other hand trails lower, dragging up the hem of your dress, the rough pads of his fingers grazing over your bare thighs. The anticipation coils in your stomach, tightening with every second he takes his time.

“Bet you’re already soaked for me,” he muses, voice dipping lower, darker. “Bet you’ve been waiting for this.”

You glare up at him, defiant, but the moment his fingers press against the damp fabric between your legs, your breath stutters. He hums, smug. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

His fingers move slowly, a light, teasing touch that makes your hips jerk forward instinctively, chasing more. Chris watches, amused, eyes flickering between your face and where his hand disappears under your dress. “You say my name when you get yourself off?” he asks, voice thick with arrogance, fingers pressing harder, rubbing slow, torturous circles over your panties. “Or do you pretend I’m not the only one who gets you like this?”

You don’t answer, but you can’t stop the way your body responds to him, the way your thighs tremble as he keeps working you open.

Chris exhales sharply, dragging your panties aside, his fingers slipping through your slick folds. “Fuck,” he mutters under his breath. “Dripping for me, baby.”

His fingers leave you for only a moment, just long enough to reach for the small mirror on the nightstand, the neat white lines already waiting for him. You watch as he rolls up a bill with practiced ease, bringing it to his nose. He inhales sharply, the sound cutting through the thick silence between you, head tilting back as the high crashes through his system.

Chris exhales slow, blinking up at the ceiling, and for a second, he looks completely weightless—like the chaos in his head has stilled, if only for a moment. Then his gaze drops back to you, pupils blown wide, lips curling into something dark and satisfied.

“You love this shit,” he mutters, voice heavy, thick with the rush of chemicals and lust. His fingers tease you, slick and lazy, dragging through your folds with just enough pressure to make you squirm. “Love letting me fuck you up, huh?”

His fingers push inside, slow, lazy, and your nails dig into his forearm, grounding yourself in the press of his body against yours. He watches, lips parting slightly, mimicking yours, as he curls his fingers, dragging them along that spot that makes your back arch and your thighs shake. The smirk that pulls at his lips is nearly smug.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice thick with amusement and something darker. “You act like you don’t fucking need this.”

Your body betrays you, hips rocking forward, seeking more. Chris laughs, low and dark, withdrawing his fingers completely just to hear you whimper. He watches the way your lips part, the way your chest heaves, taking in every twitch, every shift. You can feel his breath ghost over your lips when he leans down, his nose brushing yours.

“You love letting me wreck you, don’t you?” he muses, his voice soft, taunting. His fingers trail up your inner thigh, featherlight, so close to where you want him but refusing to give in just yet. “Love knowing that no matter how many times I walk away, you’ll let me crawl back inside you like I fucking belong there.”

You breathe out a shaky laugh, tipping your chin up in defiance even as your body betrays you, rocking toward him, silently begging for more. “Fuck you,” you mutter, voice thinner than you’d like.

Chris grins, all teeth, his fingers still teasing, still hovering just shy of where you need him. “That’s the plan, sweetheart.”

You shift beneath him, pushing up just enough to press your lips against his, to feel the remnants of the drugs on his tongue, the taste of chemicals and sin coating his mouth. He groans, low and guttural, his control slipping just a little when your teeth graze his bottom lip. His grip on your thighs tightens, and then suddenly, he’s pushing you back down against the mattress, pinning you beneath him with his weight.

“Fuck,” he mutters, his forehead dropping against yours, his breath uneven. His fingers flex against your thigh, like he’s trying to anchor himself. “You make me so fucking stupid.”

Your body arches into him, aching, pleading, but he’s already there, already lining himself up, already sinking inside with a ragged exhale that sounds like relief.

It’s fast, brutal, nothing soft about it. He fucks you like he needs it, like this is the only way he knows how to breathe. His hands grip your thighs, holding you open, keeping you where he wants, where he needs.

Every thrust knocks the air from your lungs, steals the words from your lips until all that’s left is the sound of skin on skin, his low, filthy groans, the way your name drags from his throat like a prayer he doesn’t believe in.

Chris doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow. He’s chasing his own high, using you for it, taking what he wants, what he needs. And you let him. You take it, every rough thrust, every bruising grip, every desperate, needy sound that falls from his lips.

Because this is what you both do.

Use. Ruin. Destroy.

______________________________________________________________________

The dressing room is small, barely more than a closet, the air thick with sweat and the lingering hum of the crowd just beyond the walls. Chris is still pulsing with the energy of the stage, his body electric, his skin glowing under the dim bulbs. He tastes like salt and heat, his chest still rising and falling too fast, adrenaline keeping his limbs loose and restless.

"You—" The word barely leaves him before you're on him, pushing him back against the counter, fingers yanking at his belt, fumbling, rushed. He helps, sort of—hands unsteady, shoving his jeans down just enough, breath coming fast and uneven.

No time for teasing. No time for anything.

You drop to your knees, and he lets out this ragged sound, half-laugh, half-moan, his fingers finding your hair, gripping tight when your mouth wraps around him. He’s already hard, already twitching, already a fucking mess, and the second your tongue drags over him, his hips jerk forward like he can’t control it. You lean in and drag your tongue along the underside of his cock, slow and wet, feeling him throb against your lips before you take him fully into your mouth.

"Shit—" His hand tightens, a sharp pull against your scalp. "Yeah, just like that—"

The door isn’t locked. Anyone could walk in. His name is being screamed just outside this room, time ticking down, the show waiting. It makes it worse. It makes it better.

The heat of his skin, the weight of him in your mouth, the way he twitches every time your tongue drags along a sensitive spot—it’s overwhelming. It’s intoxicating. You press your hands against his thighs to steady yourself, taking him in deeper, swallowing around him until the tip brushes the back of your throat.

Chris groans, a wrecked, guttural sound, his grip in your hair tightening as his hips twitch forward, the edge of desperation creeping in. "Fuck, I–" He barely gets the words out before his breath shudders, thighs trembling under your touch.

Someone knocks at the door.

"Chris! Two minutes!"

His whole body stiffens, a sharp inhale punched out of his chest, but he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even pull away. If anything, the urgency makes him more reckless, more desperate. His abs clench as you suck him harder, faster, messy and wet, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth, dripping down your chin.

He’s so fucking close. You can feel it in the way his thighs tighten, in the way his breath comes sharp and shallow, his cock pulsing against your tongue. His grip in your hair turns bruising as he grits out, "M’gonna—"

And then he’s spilling down your throat, his whole body shuddering, hips stuttering against your lips as he moans—deep, broken, lost in it. You swallow everything, letting him ride it out, your tongue flicking over him until he’s too sensitive, his body twitching as he groans low and shaky.

For a moment, all he does is breathe. Ragged, uneven. His chest rising and falling too fast, his fingers still tangled in your hair like he doesn’t want to let go. Chris exhales sharply, running a hand over his face, still catching his breath. 

A thumb swipes over your bottom lip, smearing the mess, his half-lidded gaze burning into you, still glazed, still wrecked.  But then, for a heartbeat, something shifts.

His eyes, usually dark with unrestrained hunger and desperation, flicker with an unfamiliar softness. The relentless, feverish rhythm of his touches falters, and he hesitates. Instead of reaching to claim you with the same raw urgency, his hand lingers on your cheek. His rough grip slackens, and his expression—so often a mask of relentless need—betrays a flicker of something else: tenderness.

Then he’s pulling you up by your jaw, meeting you halfway to kiss you. It’s a quiet, gentle kiss—a soft caress that speaks of apologies and longing rather than conquest. His lips, warm and unexpectedly tender, press against yours with a delicate insistence that makes your heart both ache and flutter. It leaves you gasping for breath in a way he’s never left you before.

There's a banging at the door. “Chris! We need you out here, now!”

The spell is broken. He’s stepping away, and you’re stepping forward, reaching for him,

“Chris–”

But he’s shaking out his wrists, already turning toward the door.

He doesn’t look back before he leaves.

______________________________________________________________________

It’s the last time you see him. Or even hear from him. Every text goes unanswered, every call, straight to voicemail. You wait–wait like the pathetic dreamer you are, hoping that that kiss meant something to him, falling deeper into the void of delusion you’ve built with your own two hands. You devour any information about him you can find on the internet, anything, knowing full well how much of a desperate bitch you’re being.

But you can’t bring yourself to care. Not with that last kiss lingering on your tongue, not with the curse of knowing you almost had him, almost had him in the way you wanted—completely, irrevocably, beyond just the heat and the ruin.

Almost.

The days stretch into weeks, and then months. Every night, you tell yourself this is the last time you'll check his socials, the last time you'll search his name, the last time you'll replay every second of that final night over in your head like a fucking broken record. 

But you do it anyway. 

Over and over.

______________________________________________________________________

It’s been a year; you're over it. You swear you are.

The afternoon sun spills lazily over campus, warming the stone pathways as you stand in a loose circle with your friends, conversation drifting easily between topics. Laughter hums around you, light and unbothered.

“I swear to God,” Yeji groans, tossing her head back dramatically, “if Professor Allen assigns one more article, I’m gonna start sending him readings. See how he likes it.”

Hyunjin snorts. “You’re acting like you even do the readings.”

Yeji glares. “First of all, rude. Second of all, I skim—”

“—the first paragraph and call it a day,” you finish for her, smirking.

She gasps, clutching her chest. “Et tu?”

You laugh, about to respond, but stop dead when someone brushes past you. You don’t recognize him, not at first, with his hood up, jacket zipped, his face mostly obscured. But that scent. You would recognize it anywhere.

Something deep and familiar, the mix of his cologne and skin, a warmth that lingers even after he’s passed. Your throat goes tight. Your breath stumbles.

No.

He wouldn’t. He knows better.

You force yourself to keep talking, to keep nodding, to not turn around. But your pulse is already thrumming, a slow-building panic mixed with something darker. Because he’s close. He was right there. And when you finally allow yourself to glance sideways, just for a second, you see him.

Not fully—just the slant of his jaw under the hood, the way his fingers flex at his sides like he’s holding himself back. He doesn’t stop walking, doesn’t say a word. But when he reaches the library steps, he slows.

Waits.

Your stomach tightens.

No.

No, no, no.

Your fingers clench around the strap of your bag.

Before you know it, can register what the hell you're doing, an excuse is falling from your lips and you’re turning on your heel and following him.

The moment you step inside the library, you spot him.

Chris stands tucked between the bookshelves, hood drawn low over his face, but it does nothing to hide him—not from you. You know the way he holds himself, the way his fingers twitch at his sides like he’s fighting the urge to reach for something—someone.

Your blood is already simmering as you make your way toward him, each step measured, controlled. You don’t rush. You don’t let yourself look panicked. Because if you do—if anyone sees—this could all go to hell.

Chris notices you immediately, his shoulders dropping like he’s relieved, like he actually thought you wouldn’t come. And for a split second, his expression is almost soft—almost. But then he sees the fury in your eyes, the tension in your frame, and that softness vanishes.

The moment you see him, you know.

Not just because of the scent—familiar, overwhelming, still burned into your memory after all this time—but because of the way he moves. Too jittery, too restless, like his own skin is too tight, like the air around him is pressing in from all sides.

Chris is high.

You can see it in his pupils, blown wide and glassy, in the way he can’t stay still, shifting from foot to foot, running a hand through his already-messy hair. He looks wired, strung out on something more than just adrenaline.

His tongue darts out, wetting his lips, and for a moment, you think he might actually speak first. But then his mouth snaps shut, jaw clenching as he exhales sharply through his nose.

You don’t ask him why he’s here. You don’t ask him where the fuck he’s been.

Instead, you step closer—just enough for the scent of him to hit you full force, for his breath to mix with yours in the sliver of space between you. His pupils track the movement, slow and deliberate, and for the first time in a year, you feel the weight of his presence again, pressing down on you like a vice.

And you fucking hate it.

"You're out of your mind," you whisper, voice cold and sharp. "Do you even know where you are?"

It clings to him, thick and suffocating—the way his pupils swallow the color of his eyes, the way his hands twitch like he can’t quite keep them steady. He’s a mess of shallow breaths and restless energy, swaying just slightly on his feet, like the weight of the world is finally crushing him.

And maybe it is.

“I need your help,” he rasps, voice raw, broken.

The words slam into you, knocking the air from your lungs. A year. A whole fucking year of nothing—no calls, no texts, no explanations. You grieved him like a ghost, hated him like a curse. And now he’s just here, standing in front of you, looking at you like you’re the only person in the world who can save him.

Your stomach twists violently, rage and disbelief clawing their way up your throat. “You have to be kidding me.”

Chris drags a shaky hand through his hair, pacing, restless. “I don’t have time for this.” His voice is fraying at the edges, unraveling. “One of my own friends—someone I trusted—sold me out. They tipped off the cops. If they find my stash, I’m done. My career, my future—it’s over.” His breath shudders. “I need you to hide it.”

Silence. Heavy. Suffocating.

You take a step closer, your breath shallow, your voice steady even as your hands tremble at your sides. “You don’t get to do this, Chris.”

His jaw tenses, and for the first time, his mask slips. Just enough for you to see the exhaustion, the weight pressing down on him. His fingers twitch again, like he wants to reach for you but knows he shouldn’t.

“I didn’t mean to—” His voice cracks, and he swallows hard. “I fucked up.”

You laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Which time?”

Chris exhales through his nose, his gaze flicking to the ground, then back up to you. He looks like he wants to argue, but he doesn’t.

Instead, he finally, finally, takes a step forward. Just enough that the space between you shrinks, the scent of him clouding your senses. Just enough that you can feel the heat of him, the way he’s barely holding himself together.

“I need you,” he says, barely more than a whisper. “I don’t have anyone else.”

Your breath hitches. Your resolve wavers.

Chris notices. Of course he does.

His fingers ghost over your wrist, just a brush, just a test.

And when you don’t pull away—when you don’t slap his hand, don’t shove him back—he exhales, like he’s been holding it in for a year.

“Please,” he murmurs.

Your hands clench at your sides.

You should say no. You want to say no. Every part of you is screaming at you to walk away, to let him deal with the mess he made, to let the consequences finally catch up to him.

But then you look at him. Really look at him.

Chris isn’t just high—he’s unraveling. His fingers won’t stay still, his shoulders are too tight, his breath too ragged. And his eyes—fuck, his eyes. Wide and bloodshot and filled with something you can’t name, something that makes your chest ache even as your fists clench. He looks like a man on the edge of a cliff, teetering too far forward. Like he’s one wrong move away from falling.

And somehow, against all logic, he’s decided you are the thing that might keep him from going over.

Your stomach twists violently.

"You can’t ask me for this," you say, voice barely above a whisper.

Chris swallows, his throat working around something thick. "I know."

But he’s still looking at you like you’re the only thing tethering him to the ground, like without you, he might just come apart completely. And it makes you feel sick. Because part of you—some deep, fractured part of you that never really stopped wanting him—wants to be that for him.

 You drag in a slow breath, clenching your jaw so hard it aches. “One week.”

Chris blinks. “What?”

“You get one week,” you repeat, voice sharper now, cutting through whatever fog is clouding his head. “You figure your shit out, and then you come take this garbage back because I’m not—” Your voice wavers, and you hate it. You steel yourself. “I’m not getting caught up in this, Chris.”

His eyes flicker, just for a moment, a sharp flash of something like hope, but the remnants of desperation still cling to his expression. “One week,” he repeats, voice barely above a breath, like he’s testing it out, like he doesn’t believe it. But you can see it in him—he’ll take whatever you’re willing to give, no matter how little, no matter how broken it might be.

You exhale sharply, stepping back a fraction, distancing yourself, even though every fiber of your body wants to close that space. The library feels too small now, too suffocating. Chris remains still, his presence like a weight pressing down on you, but you refuse to move closer, refuse to let him drag you back into his chaos.

Chris nods once, sharp and small. “One week,” he repeats, and the words should sound like a deal, an agreement, but instead, they land like a promise. Or maybe a plea.

You holds his gaze for one more second, then turn before you can second-guess herself. Chris stays where he is, rooted to the floor, watching you walk away. His jaw tenses, his breath shudders, but he doesn’t move.

Because if he moves, he might follow her.

And if he follows, he might never let you go again.

______________________________________________________________

The week crawls by, each day stretching longer than the last. You try to focus—on classes, on assignments, on anything that isn’t him—but it’s useless. His voice lingers in the back of your mind, his eyes, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

You tell yourself you won’t wait. You won’t check your phone every time it vibrates. You won’t wonder if he’s going to show.

But when it finally rings—his name glowing on the screen—you answer before you can think twice.

"Hey."

Silence. A hesitation, just long enough for doubt to creep in. Then, his voice—soft, uncertain.

"I'm outside." A beat. "If… if that's still okay."

Something tightens in your chest. You glance out the window, at his car lingering just outside your building, forcing your grip to loosen around your phone.

“Are you going to come up?” You ask, trying to sound nonchalant, fingers toying with the hem of your t-shirt. You’re just in that simple tee and sweatpants, your face bare. It’s the first time you haven’t dressed up to see him.

You can hear him inhale, imagine him bouncing his knee from where he sits in his car. “I didn’t think you’d want your roommate to see me.”

You brush your hair out of your face, eyes locked on the car outside. “She’s not here. Visiting her parents for the weekend.”

Chris is quiet for a second too long, like he’s weighing the invitation, considering if he should take the step over the line he’s already toeing. Then you hear the jingle of his keys as he pulls it from the engine. “Give me a sec.”

Your stomach tightens as you hang up, fingers gripping your phone a little too hard. You don’t know why you said that. Why you gave him the chance to be close again. You should’ve told him to stay in the car, should’ve just handed him his shit and sent him on his way.

But instead, you stand there, frozen, pulse hammering in your throat as you listen for the sound of his footsteps in the hall.

A knock. Soft. Hesitant. Not the way he used to knock, not the way he used to waltz into your space like he belonged there.

You exhale, slow and measured, before unlocking the door.

And there he is.

Chris stands in the dim glow of the hallway light, hood still up, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He looks… tired. Not just in the way his eyes are rimmed red, the slight tremor in his fingers, but deeper than that. Like he hasn’t slept right in months. Like the weight of whatever’s been chasing him is finally catching up.

He exhales when he sees you. “Hey.”

He’s sober. Exhausted, his hair standing in a hundred different directions like he ran his hands through it a million times, but sober. 

“You look like shit,” you say finally, your voice quieter than you intended.

Chris huffs out a breath, not quite a laugh. “Yeah. Feels about right.” He ducks his head, his hair in his eyes. “You look beautiful.”

You swallow hard, fingers tightening around the edge of the door. You don’t move. Don’t speak. Don’t let the way his words settle in your chest distract you from the fact that he shouldn’t be here—that this shouldn’t be happening.

Chris shifts on his feet, glancing past you, toward the inside of your apartment. He doesn’t step forward, doesn’t push. Just waits.

You should tell him to leave. Tell him to take his shit and go.

Instead, you step back. Just enough.

Chris exhales, something flickering in his expression—something like relief, like gratitude, like he wasn’t sure you’d let him in. He hesitates for only a second before crossing the threshold.

The door clicks shut behind him, and suddenly, the air in the room is heavier. You can feel him everywhere. The scent of his cologne, the warmth radiating off him. It’s suffocating and familiar and everything you swore you wouldn’t let yourself want again.

He doesn’t belong here. Not in the soft glow of your apartment, not in the quiet hum of your space that’s been untouched by him for over a year. But he’s here anyway, and you can feel it in your bones, the way he fills the room, the way the air thickens just by his presence.

You close the door. Neither of you speak.

Chris drags a hand through his hair, finally pushing his hood down. His dark eyes flick around the room, taking in everything—the textbooks on your desk, the half-empty cup of tea on the counter, the blanket thrown haphazardly over the arm of the couch. Domestic. Normal. Everything he isn’t.

His gaze settles back on you, his throat working like he wants to say something, but the words don’t come.

So you speak first.

“Do you want something to drink?”

He clears his throat, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “I–yeah. Just..just water.”

You nod, turning toward the kitchen. Your movements are steady, controlled, but your heart is hammering in your chest, every nerve hyper-aware of the man standing behind you.

When you turn back to him, glass in hand, he’s watching you. Not in the way he used to—not with hunger, not with heat—but with something you can’t quite place. His fingers twitch at his sides, and when he finally reaches out to take the glass, his touch lingers. Barely. Just long enough to send a shiver up your spine.

He drinks, slow, deliberate. Like he’s using it as an excuse to keep from speaking. His throat bobs, his lips parting around the rim of the glass, and you hate that you notice, hate that you remember what those lips felt like against yours, what they tasted like when he kissed you that last time—soft and lingering, like an apology, like a goodbye.

But he’s here now.

And you don’t know what the fuck that means.

Chris exhales as he sets the glass down, raking a hand through his hair. His shoulders slump, his body finally stilling in a way it hasn’t all night. He looks wrecked. He looks lost.

And then, finally, he speaks.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” he says, voice hoarse, barely above a whisper. His gaze flickers to you, raw, exposed. “I don’t know if I even can.”

You lean back against the wall, arms cross across your chest. “Fix what?”

He leans his head back opposite you, exhaling. “I don’t know. Everything. Myself.” He glances down at her through the hair over his eyes. “Us.”

Your chest tightens but you purse your lips, unwilling to say anything. His expression softens. 

“I’m sorry.”

Two words. Small. Insufficient. But the weight of them still lands heavy in the space between you.

You fold your arms over your chest. “For what?”

He looks at you then, really looks at you, and you know he understands the real question beneath your words. Which thing, Chris? Which fucking thing are you apologizing for?

His jaw tenses. “For all of it.”

You let out a breath that feels like it’s been sitting in your lungs for a year. You don’t know what to do with this—this version of him, the one who looks at you like he regrets everything, the one whose voice doesn’t hold the usual bravado but something closer to guilt.

It would be so much easier if he came back the way he left. If he was still that same reckless, selfish, untouchable version of himself. You could hate that version. You could send him away without hesitation.

But this? This is harder.

Chris shifts on his feet, rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean to disappear like that.”

“You did, though.” The words come out flat. “You knew exactly what you were doing.”

He flinches. “I thought it was better that way.”

“For who?”

Chris doesn’t answer right away. His eyes drop to the floor, his fingers flex at his sides. “For you.”

A bitter laugh pushes past your lips before you can stop it. “Bullshit.”

His gaze snaps back up. You shake your head, unable to keep the anger from bleeding into your voice.

“You don’t get to come back after a year and act like you did this for me, Chris. You left. You fucking ghosted me like I was nothing. And now, what? You suddenly need something, so I matter again?”

“No.” His voice is sharp, urgent. “That’s not—fuck.” He drags a hand down his face. “I never stopped thinking about you.”

Your stomach clenches. You hate how badly you want to believe him.

You look away, focusing on the wall, the floor, anywhere but his face. “Then why did you leave?”

Silence. Heavy. Suffocating.

Chris exhales, and when he speaks again, his voice is lower. Rougher. “Because I was fucked up. Because I thought I was protecting you. Because I didn’t know how to be around you without wanting more than I should.”

Your breath stumbles.

Chris steps forward—just half a step, just enough that you can feel the warmth of him again. He hesitates, fingers twitching at his sides, like he wants to touch you but doesn’t know if he’s allowed.

“I wasn’t good for you,” he murmurs. “I’m still not.”

Chris is standing close now, too close, his presence like gravity, pulling you in even when you know you shouldn’t let it. His breath is shallow, his fingers still twitching like he doesn’t know what to do with them. And his eyes—fuck, his eyes. Dark, wide, searching.

You take a slow breath, steadying yourself. "Then why are you here?"

Chris exhales sharply, his gaze flickering away for just a second before locking onto yours again. “Because I didn’t know where else to go.”

The words settle between you like a confession, and something in your chest twists painfully.

You should be angry. You are angry. But anger is easy. Anger is safe. What scares you is the part of you that still wants to reach for him, to pull him in, to fix the cracks in him even though you know you’ll only end up breaking yourself in the process.

Your fingers curl into fists at your sides. "You don’t get to do that, Chris. You don’t get to leave me for a year and then show up and say that."

“I know.” His voice is quiet, raw. “But I’m here anyway.”

Chris is still waiting, still watching you like he’s bracing for you to tell him to go. And you should. You should slam the door on this before it’s too late, before you let yourself believe that this time will be different.

But then Chris reaches out.

It’s hesitant, like he expects you to flinch away, but you don’t. His fingers barely skim yours, a whisper of a touch, but it’s enough. It sends something electric skittering through your veins, something familiar and dangerous and impossible to ignore.

Your breath catches.

Chris notices. Of course he does.

“I fucked up,” he says again, softer this time. “I don’t know how to make it right.”

You shake your head, exhaling a laugh that isn’t really a laugh at all. “You think you can just show up here and apologize and everything will be fine?”

“No,” he says. “I think I can show up here and tell you the truth for once.”

You stare at Chris, searching his face for any sign that this is just another one of his half-truths, another attempt to say just enough to keep you from slamming the door in his face. But there’s something different in the way he’s looking at you now—something raw, something stripped down to the bone.

And that’s almost worse.

Because if he’s telling the truth, then you don’t know what to do with it.

Your voice is quieter this time, not as sharp, not as sure. “Then say it. Say whatever it is you came here to say.”

Chris swallows hard, his fingers flexing at his sides like he’s physically holding himself back. Then he exhales, his breath shaky, his whole body tense like he’s about to step off the edge of something.

“I left because I was scared,” he says finally. “Scared of what I felt. Scared of what it meant.”

Your stomach tightens, a sharp pull of something between anger and heartbreak. “Scared of what?”

He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Of you.” His gaze flickers away for half a second before he forces it back to yours. “Of how much I—” He stops, his jaw clenching. “Of how much I fucking needed you.”

The confession knocks the breath from your lungs.

Chris drags a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding into his features. “I didn’t know how to handle it. You were—” He stops again, shaking his head like the words won’t come out right. “You made me feel things I didn’t know how to deal with. And instead of facing it, I ran.”

You inhale sharply, something breaking open in your chest. “And now?”

Chris takes a step closer.

You don’t step back.

“Now I know that running didn’t change anything,” he says. His voice is rough, almost desperate. “I still need you. I still—” He swallows. “I never stopped.”

Chris shifts, hesitating like he’s afraid any sudden movement will make you disappear. His voice is softer now, barely above a whisper. “Say something.”

You wet your lips, forcing yourself to breathe. “What do you want me to say, Chris?”

He flinches, just a little. Like he wasn’t expecting that. Like he thought you’d have some kind of answer, when the truth is, you don’t.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “That you understand? That you—” He exhales sharply, his hands curling into fists before he relaxes them again. “That you still—”

“Don’t.” The word is sharp, cutting through whatever he was about to say. “You don’t get to ask me that.”

Chris swallows hard, nodding once. Like he gets it. Like he deserves it.

The night hums around you—distant traffic, the whisper of wind through the trees—but all you can hear is the quiet sound of Chris breathing, the weight of everything he isn’t saying pressing between you.

You sigh, softer this time. “Chris.”

His gaze snaps to yours, desperate, waiting.

“I can’t be the reason you stay,” you say, your voice steady but gentle. “And I won’t be the reason you break yourself trying.”

His brows draw together, a flicker of something like panic flashing across his face. “That’s not—” He stops, jaw tightening. “That’s not what this is.”

“Isn’t it?” You tilt your head, studying him. “You show up here, after a year, after leaving me behind, and suddenly you want another chance?” You shake your head, not in anger, but in something softer. Sadder. “You’re still searching, Chris. Still trying to find something to hold onto. And I won’t be that. Not like this.”

Chris runs a hand over his face, his shoulders tense. “I’m not asking you to fix me.”

“No,” you say quietly. “But you want me to be the thing that makes this easier.”

He flinches.

You don’t push, don’t press where it hurts, but you hold your ground.

“I loved you,” you admit, and the words feel like pulling stitches from an old wound. “Maybe I still do. But I won’t have you in pieces.”

Chris stands there, his breath uneven, his whole body trembling like he’s barely holding himself together. Then, barely louder than a whisper— “I don’t know how.” 

His voice cracks, and the sound of it—God, the sound of it—splinters something inside you. His eyes are wet, his throat working as he tries to swallow down the weight of his own admission.

Your fingers twitch at your sides. It would be so easy to reach for him, to pull him in, to tell him you’ll help him figure it out. But that’s not your place. Not anymore. Chris drags a shaky hand through his hair, his breaths uneven. 

“I don’t—I don’t know how to fix myself.” His voice is thick with tears, his body tensed like he’s waiting for you to turn away, to give up on him entirely. “I don’t even know where to start.” You exhale slowly, steadying yourself before you speak. “Then start small.” 

Chris blinks at you, like he wasn’t expecting that. You keep your voice soft but sure. “Find a rehab center. Talk to a therapist. You’ve been carrying all of this alone, and it’s too heavy. You need help, Chris.”

 His jaw tightens, his hands clenching into fists before he releases them. He nods once, barely there, like he’s trying to take in your words but isn’t sure how. 

“Figure out what’s hurting,” you continue, gentler now. “And then work on healing it. Not for me. Not for anyone else. For you.” 

Chris exhales sharply, dragging his sleeve across his face, but the tears keep coming. “I don’t want to do this without you,” he whispers. “I don’t want—” His voice catches, and he shakes his head. “I don’t want to lose you.” 

You swallow against the lump in your throat. “I don’t want to lose you either,” you admit, the words quiet but honest. “But if I hold on to you like this, we’ll both drown.

He doesn’t move when you reach for him, cupping his cheek softly, thumb brushing away the stray tears. You pull him toward you, resting your forehead against his.

Chris squeezes his eyes shut, his breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts. For a moment, you think he might argue, might fight against the truth of your words like he always does. But when he opens his eyes again, there’s something different there—something breaking, something shifting.

“I don’t know if I can do it,” he admits, voice so quiet it almost gets lost in the night air. “What if I—I don’t know how to be without you.”

You step forward, just a little, just enough to be close but not close enough to fall. “You won’t be without me,” you say, gentle but firm. “I’ll be hoping for you. I’ll be rooting for you. But I can’t be with you—not like this.”

Chris nods, but it’s shaky, uncertain, like he’s trying to make himself believe it. “And if I get better?” His voice is raw, desperate in a way that tugs at something deep inside you. “If I—if I figure it out?”

You inhale, the ache in your chest tightening. “Then maybe you come find me.”

Chris’ breath stutters. His eyes flick across your face like he’s memorizing every part of you, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he blinks.His hand reaches for your face, shaking, hesitant, fingers threading through your hair.

You let him touch you, just this once. Just for a moment.

His fingers tremble against your skin, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he doesn’t hold on tight enough. But you won’t let him make this harder than it already is. You bring your hand up, gently wrapping around his wrist, grounding him.

“Chris,” you whisper, and the way his eyes snap to yours—like your voice is the only thing tethering him to the earth—almost undoes you.

He swallows hard, blinking rapidly against the tears still threatening to fall. His thumb ghosts over your cheek, the touch so heartbreakingly familiar it makes your chest tighten. “I don’t want to go.”

“I know,” you say softly. “But you have to.”

His breath shudders as he exhales. “And if I’m not strong enough?”

“You are.” Your fingers tighten around his wrist, steady, certain. “You just have to believe it, too.”

Chris lets out a broken sound—something between a laugh and a sob. He presses his forehead to yours, his body trembling. “I don’t know how to say goodbye to you.”

You close your eyes for a brief second, letting yourself feel it. The weight of him, the warmth, the way his presence has always felt too much and not enough all at once.

Then, you pull back. Not much, but enough. Enough to be clear.

“This isn’t goodbye,” you murmur. “This is me giving you the chance to come back as the version of yourself you’re meant to be.”

Chris’ breath catches. He nods, but it’s slow, reluctant. Like a part of him is still holding on, still hoping there’s another way. But there isn’t.

You step back, and Chris’ hand falls away from your face.

The night air feels colder without his warmth so close.

He stares at you for a long moment, his eyes searching yours, like he’s trying to find something—maybe a reason to stay, maybe a reason to believe he can do this.

Then, finally, he takes a step back.

And then another.

His hands shake, his breath still uneven, but this time, he doesn’t fight it. He just looks at you, memorizing, holding on to whatever piece of you he can before he turns to go.

He pauses for a moment, glancing back at you. "What did you do with it?"

You know what he's asking. You smile slightly. "Threw it in the river the same day I got it."

Chris stares at you, something flickering in his eyes—something like understanding, something like devastation. His throat bobs as he swallows hard, his hands clenching at his sides.

He exhales a shaky breath, glancing away for a moment before looking back at you. "Good," he says, but it sounds like it hurts to say it.

You nod, the ghost of a smile still lingering on your lips. "Good," you echo, softer.

Silence stretches between you, heavy but not unbearable. It feels like an ending. A real one.

Chris drags a hand through his hair, eyes flicking over you one last time, like he's trying to commit you to memory. And then, finally, he turns.

You watch him go.

His shoulders are hunched, his steps slow, hesitant, like he's still fighting every instinct that tells him to stay. But he doesn’t.

This time, he leaves.

And this time, you let him.

The night is quiet when he's gone, the absence of him settling over you like a sigh, like the closing of a book you thought you might never put down.

You inhale deeply, closing your eyes for just a moment.

Then you turn, stepping back into the light, and walk away.

______________________________________________________________

Two years have passed.

You know this not just by the changing seasons or the inevitable countdown to graduation but by the world itself shifting, reshaping in ways you never expected.

Chris went on an indefinite hiatus from music nearly a year ago. The headlines had been relentless—speculation, concern, theories spun out of control. But the truth, the quiet truth buried beneath the noise, was that he had admitted himself into rehab.

You remember staring at the news article, your coffee growing cold between your hands. There had been no fanfare, no dramatic statement—just a quiet, honest confession in an interview months later: I needed help. So I got it.

You never reached out. And he never did either.

Now, you’re here—twenty-two, a senior in college, balancing coursework and a part-time job at a café that smells like burnt espresso and exhaustion.

And right now, you’re pissed.

Rush hour has turned the place into chaos, your boss is breathing down your neck about an order that isn’t even yours, and someone just knocked over an entire tray of drinks, leaving you to mop up a mess that isn’t your fault.

You exhale sharply, pushing stray hair from your face as you grab your notepad and make your way to the next table, your voice tight with forced patience.

“What can I get you?”

There’s a pause.

Then—

“How about five minutes of your time?”

The voice stops you in your tracks.

Deeper. Steadier. But still him.

Your grip tightens on the notepad as you finally look up.

Chris leans back in his chair, watching you with that same quiet intensity that always made you feel like the only person in the room. You don’t give him the satisfaction of reacting. You just stare back, unimpressed. 

“Five minutes,” you say flatly. 

His lips twitch. “Generous.” You arch a brow. 

“I can make it three.” 

Chris huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “I think I’ll behave.” 

You tap your notepad against the table, tilting your head. “So? Is this where you tell me you’ve spent the last two years soul-searching in the mountains, learning inner peace from a wise old man with a beard down to his knees?” 

Chris grins, quick and easy, like muscle memory. “Close. The wise old man was my therapist, and his beard was more mildly unkempt than knee-length.” 

A snort escapes you before you can stop it. Chris’ smile softens at the sound, like he’s been waiting for it. You shut it down quickly, clearing your throat. 

“So, you actually did it.” 

His expression turns serious, just a little. “Yeah. I did.” 

You hold his gaze. “Good.” 

Something flickers in his eyes, something unreadable. Then, casually, “You still throw things in rivers when you don’t know what to do with them?” 

Your stomach tightens at the memory. You should’ve known he’d bring it up “Depends. Planning to give me something else to get rid of?” 

Chris hums, considering. “I did have a mix tape ready. Very moody. Lots of self-pity.” 

You roll your eyes. “Tragic that I’ll never hear it.” 

“Truly.” He pauses, watching you again. “You look good.” 

You hesitate for half a second before responding, keeping your voice light. “I get a lot of fresh air.” 

Chris smirks. “Ah, yes. The glamorous café life.” “

You joke, but I will make you pay for a coffee if you keep sitting here.” 

He presses a hand to his chest, mock-offended. “You wouldn’t.” 

“Try me.” 

Chris laughs again, but this time, it’s quieter. Realer. Silence settles between you, softer than before. 

Then, smoothly—too smoothly—he leans forward a fraction. “So… is there someone?”

You blink. “Someone what?”

He shrugs, all casual, like he’s not watching you too closely. “Someone who gets to bother you during your shifts without needing to buy coffee first?”

The question shouldn’t catch you off guard, but it does. You tilt your head, feigning thoughtfulness.“That’s what you’re asking with your last two minutes?”

Chris huffs a laugh, but his fingers tap restlessly against the table. “Just curious.”

 You hesitate, then shrug. “I’ve gone on dates.” 

His jaw flexes, just barely. “And?” 

You sigh, giving him a look. “And nothing.” 

Chris watches you for a second longer, then nods, like he’s filing the answer away. “Good.” You raise an eyebrow. 

“Good?” 

His lips twitch. “I’d hate to be competing with some six-foot-something finance bro.” 

You let out a short laugh, shaking your head. “I’d pay to see you go head-to-head with one.” 

Chris hums. “I’d win.” 

You scoff. “Bold assumption.” He grins. “I’ve been working out.” 

You roll your eyes but don’t fight the small smile tugging at your lips.. “And you?”

Chris hums, considering. “Well, my therapist and I had a very meaningful relationship for a while there.”

You snort. “That does not count.”

“I disagree. We had weekly dates. I overshared. He judged me just enough.” Chris grins, then shakes his head. “No. No one.”

Silence again.

Chris watches you, waiting. But he doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask for more than you’re willing to give.

You tap your pen against your notepad, weighing your next words carefully. Then, finally—soft, simple, certain—you say, “I’m glad you’re here.”

Something shifts in his expression, something that looks a little like relief. Like maybe, after all this time, he finally believes he deserves to be.

You nod toward his empty cup. “But if you’re planning to sit here all night, you’re gonna have to order a coffee.”

Chris grins, small but real. “Yeah?”

You shrug. “House rules.”

He leans back in his chair, considering. “Then I guess I’ll stay a little longer.”

The café hums around you, the rush of customers fading into background noise. You should be moving, taking orders, doing anything other than standing here, caught in the pull of something that still feels a little dangerous.

 But you don’t move. 

Chris studies you for a second longer, then exhales, slow and steady. “One coffee, then,” he says, tapping the table. “Surprise me.”

 You scribble something on your notepad. “You’re getting decaf.”

 He groans. “Cruel.”

Chris groans, but there’s no real frustration behind it—just something softer, something familiar.

As you turn to leave, he calls after you, voice quieter this time. “Hey.”

You glance back.

His fingers drum lightly against the table, hesitation flickering across his face before settling into something steadier. “It’s good to see you.”

The words land heavier than they should. You don’t let them show, just offer a small, knowing smile. “Yeah,” you say. “You too.”

Then, before the moment stretches too long, you slip back into the rush of the café—into the orders, the chaos, the normalcy of it all. But there’s a shift, small but undeniable, like something once left behind has found its way back.

And maybe this time it’s here to stay.

[l0velynalani]

Can we normalize NOT romaticizing noncon?

I keep seeing character x reader fics where character is LITERALLY HARASSING the reader and its automatically okay ebcause the character just so happens to be attractive?? How does that make it okay?

When I was growing up my elementary school was near my house so I was allowed to walk home and out of the blue this random middle aged man start following me as a kid I always gave him the benefit of the doubt since he left before I reached my house (becauses of police cars)until it happen three days in a row and I was getting scared and one day there was no police car and he kept following so I start running and he was CHASING AFTER ME and I was like 10 so I was crying home to my grandpa and the man was standing outside my house with his phone taking pictures of my address so my grandpa called the cops and the man had multiple restraining orders against him for stalking people.

That shit wasn't funny in anyway shape or form so when you romanticize it with different characters its fucking weird. "Oh I dont support this in real life!" clearly you do because your writing a fic about it?I was originally gonna ignore these posts but when I saw one of bsd x minor!reader it genuinly triggered me cause don't you have better shit to do in your freetime?

Stop romantizing traumatic events.It's weird,unbenefical and overall disgusting.

[the--queen-of--hell]

I don't know what to think about anti proshippers anymore.

Antishippers say "stop normalizing child x adult ships" "stop normalizing incest" "stop romanticizing child x adult ships" "stop romanticizing incest" while being okay with romanticizing murder in some shows/movies and romanticizing cannibalism in some shows/movies. I didn't see any antiship throw hands the moment someone said "I like Hannibal" although it romanticize cannibalism. It's weird, isn't it?

Antishippers say "shipping fictional minor x adult ships is gross and disgusting" "shipping fictional incest ships is gross and disgusting" and "shipping X is gross and digusting" while being okay with telling real people to kill themselves. While being okay with telling real people "you should be raped" "you should be tortured" "you should burn in hell" and more things. Do you even pay attention to your actions and the actions of other people? How shipping two characters is worse than telling a real person "kill yourself"????

Antishippers say "you are gross" "you need help" "you're insane" "you need therapy" while being the ones who tell proshippers "you deserve to have trauma" "you deserved to be raped" (for those proshippers who were raped and were told they deserved it by antis- I'm so sorry). I'm no therapist, but if I were I would honestly find more disturbing an anti saying "kys" to a real person than a proshipper liking problematic fictional content.

Antishippers say "protect the children" "children could see this and think it's okay" "victims of pedophiles/abuse don't deserve someone romanticizing their trauma". You have no right to claim you want to protect children when you're harassing or telling children to kill themselves. Because yes, in the proship community there are minors. And no, they haven't been groomed into being a proship. Actually, if anything, they would have been groomed into being an antiship because they're scared of people telling them "kys" "you're a pedo" "you're fucking disgusting". And what are children doing in Tumblr/AO3/Wattpad anyways? They're not supposed to be here. They're not supposed to see content not made for them. If they are in these websites, I'm worried about why their parents aren't there to tell them "this is not a safe place for you". And if people were hurt by real pedophiles or were abused, I'm sorry. I'm truly sorry for them. But why the hell they're seeing fictional content that triggers them? If it upsets them, then block the content, ignore its existence, and trust me, you will feel less upset and more happy.

Antishippers say "you deserve to be harassed" "if you don't want to be harassed then stop being weird" "if you don't want to be harassed then stop sharing that type of content". Do you realize you sound like those people who say "if you don't want to be harassed for being gay, then don't be gay" "if you don't want to be harassed for being trans, then don't be trans" "if you don't want to be bullied, then stop being a weirdo", right? Or you didn't realize that?

Antishippers say "this ship is fucking gross" "this ship is fucking disgusting". I'm sorry, didn't you see the thing that said "block button" "filter tags"? Because you can do that. If you don't like some kind of content, use the filter tags/block button. Watch the content you want to see. Use the block button and filter the tags. Search for the ships you like instead of the ships you don't like. I forgot something? Oh yeah. Use. the. block. button. and filter. the. tags.

Antishippers say "why there are so many fics of these ships on AO3?" "why people are so gross?" "why people have to write about this?". Bro- I'm sorry that you didn't realize before but- AO3. IS. A. FUCKING. WEBSITE. FOR. PROSHIPPERS. So don't start with the "Proship DNI" in your tags because AO3 is a PROSHIP web. If you don't like it, GET OUT of AO3 and go WATTPAD or FANFICTION. AO3 is for PROSHIPPERS and we're TIRED of your "Proship DNI" bullshit.

Antiship community is honestly one of the worst communities I've ever seen. There's no other community so inmoral, digusting, and horrible in the Internet.

To my proshippers fellows, if I forgot something antis say you're free to add it.

[kurishiri]

ikémen villains content warning list .ᐟ

this is a work-in-progress compilation of complete content warnings per route (because ikévil tends to underwarn a bit maybe to avoid spoilers) that will be updated as we go. please let me know if I missed anything, regardless if it says ‘work in progress’ or not, or pitch in with warnings. ♡ and ↻ are appreciated!

some of the ikévil routes contain sensitive themes that may be triggering. so please remember to take care of yourself while reading 🫶

GENERAL ༉‧₊˚. 🕊️

canon-typical violence, (minor but named) character death, depictions of murder.

────────────────────

WILLIAM REX ༉‧₊˚. 🍓

near death experience, drug abuse, sexual coercion (not by love interest), corruption, romanticization of death.

───────── 〔🌹〕 ─────────

HARRISON GRAY ༉‧₊˚. 🦊

corruption of the police and higher-ups, mentions of human trafficking, coercion to commit crimes, mentions of kidnapping.

───────── 〔🍧〕 ─────────

LIAM EVANS ༉‧₊˚. 🐈

attempted suicide, suicide and suicidal ideation, depression, anxiety, implied self-harm, mentions of child abuse (physical and emotional), fire, severe burn wounds, human trafficking, mental breakdowns.

───────── 〔🎟️〕 ─────────

ELBERT GREETIA ༉‧₊˚. 🍎

objectification both by and against love interest, mentions of sexual assault or rape (not by love interest), domestic abuse, attempted child sexual assault, pedophilia, obsessive and possessive behavior, stalkerish behavior, grooming, non-consensual touching, depicted suicide, self-harm, mental breakdowns, mentions of animal death, kidnapping, mentions of human trafficking.

───────── 〔🦋〕 ─────────

ALFONS SYLVATICA ༉‧₊˚. 🪞

description of children’s corpses, symptoms of depression, topics of mortality, attempted suicide, near death experience, self-harm, mental manipulation (?), dub-con: having sexual intercourse while one has “consented” in an intoxicated state or under the influence of a curse, (perceived) non-con, mentions of drug abuse and the effects of drugs, mentions of child abuse or labor, implied animal torture and death.

───────── 〔🐈‍⬛〕 ─────────

ELLIS TWILIGHT ༉‧₊˚. ⛓️ —— warnings provided by @myusuchaa !!

romanticization of murder and death, family murder and death, suppressed emotions, emotional disconnect, people pleasing, attempted kidnapping, negative treatment of disabilities, coercion, child trafficking, gang activity.

───────── 〔🥀〕 ─────────

ROGER BAREL ༉‧₊˚. 🍻

a loott of alcohol consumption, drug usage or abuse (recreational drug use), cult activity, near/death experience of a side character, dub-con, self-harm especially in the past.

───────── 〔🧪〕 ─────────

JUDE JAZZA ༉‧₊˚. ⌛️ —— warnings provided by @judesmoonbeauty !!

smoking, torture, mentions of drugs and human trafficking, neglect and child abuse, mentions of a child’s death and the death of a family member.

[koiiiji]

I would...you tenderly roughly

my favourite russian songs + lookism boys (pt.2)

тебя нежно грубо (by TARAS) = Gitae Kim

author's note ; i will never stop romanticizing bad boys. im not even gonna say that this is ooc bc we don't even know his character yet, but i feel that gitae that type of men who mercilessly outside, but in bedroom can be completely different. but yet having his... moments...

author’s note 2 ; for better immersion in the atmosphere try to search akuma_asmr on reddit [masked yan] (or just dm me, i’ll send you link)

pairing ; gitae kim x reader

tw ; gitae kim himself is an a threat, DNI IF YOU ARE MINOR, f!reader, angst, toxic, stalking, non con, slight knife play, pet names, sensual but rough sex. this fic contains non consensual sex, read on your own risk

summary ; reader being a model who came to Mexico on her indefinitely long vacation to reconnect with herself and find some peace from loud and bright paparazzi, only to catch some certain attention.

꒰꒰・┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄・♡・┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄・꒱꒱

00:00 - 00:30 "you're on repeat in my dreams who are you, my naked drug? and if you are my thrill, dissolve yourself in me up, up, up your hands, you raised your hands up"

the sun dipped low over the Mexican horizon, casting a warm, golden glow over the sprawling villa where you resided. villa, perched on a secluded beach, was meant to be a sanctuary for the weary, a place where the soul could find peace. a villa located on a secluded beach, surrounded by hills and rocks was supposed to become your shelter for about the next year, this place was supposed to become your healing, a place where you could hide from the stuffiness and dust of the big city from which you came, a place where your body finally then you could take a break from endless shows, filming, flashes of paparazzi cameras and the endless pursuit of fame and money, a place where your soul would find peace and solitude. this place was supposed to be a refuge… instead it became a gilded cage.

it’s not that you knew Gitae well - you were from different worlds - you are from the world of endless fabrics, chic, camera flashes, gloss, all kinds of bags, heels, suits and other rags, all this is your everyday life - shows, changes in looks, flights, new countries, jetlag and again and again. Gitae was from a world of violence, pain, blood, dirty money and endless fights. wars for territory and business, illegal deliveries and prohibited fraud, with everything that could be imagined were his daily routine, and this suited him quite well.

it seems one day, the owner of the agency - on behalf of which you worked, - threw a big party in honor of his birthday, just at one of the luxurious resorts in Mexico, and through Gitae’s people, various types of drugs and other illegal substances were delivered to that party. by this time, Gitae's business had grown so much that he rarely personally attended these types of transactions, but when did he refuse an invitation to secular parties? that's when he laid his eyes on you.

1:53 - 2:40 "i gently suffocate you i'll either choke you or you'll be mine and you put a knife to my throat - either i’ll stab you or will be yours i’ve never met anyone more cunning than you, but you’re making yourself look stupid but you know, it doesn’t matter much whether today you were voluntarily or by force i would take you gently, i would take you roughly i would...you gently-gently, i would...you roughly i would take you gently, i would take you roughly i would...you gently-gently, i would...you roughly" <...>

bare feet quietly padded on the white marble of your villa. the hem of a white, light silk robe silently trailed behind you as you got out of bed and headed towards the balcony. it's about three in the morning, and you still couldn't sleep. throwing the doors wide open as you step onto the terrace, the warm, gentle breeze from the ocean softly caresses your skin, carrying with it the faint scent of saltwater and tropical blooms. the night sky is filled with countless stars that twinkle like diamonds scattered across a velvet blanket. the Milky Way is clearly visible, its dense cluster of stars creating a shimmering river of light that stretches across the sky. the moon a glowing orb, casts a silvery reflection on the calm surface of the ocean, creating a path of light that seems to lead directly to the horizon.

quiet and solitude are rare and precious opportunity to reconnect with nature and yourself. as you breathe in the night air and gaze up at the star-studded sky, a profound sense of peace and contentment settles over you, until... '

"what are you doing here?" - your quiet voice cut through the distant noises of the night.

<...>

Gitae had eyes and ears everywhere. you have more than once noticed men in the crowd, - usually there are three of them - here and there, at the beginning of the street, from the other end of the market where you came for fresh fruit - a better choice than paraffined, plastic fruits in the supermarkets - and one is always in the car just few meters away, they were everywhere you went, keeping their distance, but making their presence known.

Gitae liked watching you, it was calming. there was so much lightness and calmness in your every movement and gesture that it seemed to him that you were producing the same effect on him… even from a distance. he liked to know where you were, who you were with - even if you spent almost all the time here alone or had small talk with lady from house keeping, who came a couple of times a week, and with the women at the market where you usually came to buy fruits or vegetables [the only thing you don’t know, is that this sweet woman was the mother of someone from the cortel, this small market was under their protection, and the fact that you periodically traveled several kilometers just to buy fruits from her honestly added adorability points to you in Gitae's eyes]- he liked control, and he knew that he was completely in control the situation is under control. although, to be honest, this could not be said about his… thoughts and desires, he would never admit that he felt anything other than desire towards you.

he would never admit to himself or anyone else about what emotions your sight awakens in him in the morning, when you, still half asleep, go out onto the terrace with a cup of tea clutched in your thin, slender fingers, or in the afternoon when you are basking in the rays of the sun, allowing fall asleep again while you are reading a book, or while you are sleeping. oh, this awakened in him the most familiar feelings for him, when he silently stood over you in your house, enjoying your sleeping look, your light, unobtrusive smell, looking at your cute face, looking at your things, maybe even taking that cute couple of lace panties with a bow for himself. at such moments blood rushed to his dick so much that it became painful.

<...>

it seemed to you that hours had already passed since he threw you onto the bed, bowing right in front of the bed and throwing your legs over his shoulders. contrary to the first impression that might have been formed about him, he was gentle… more precisely, his tongue on your pussy, but his hands roughly squeezed the skin on your thighs, rising higher, squeezing your waist, running along your ribs and going higher, to your chest, roughly kneading the delicate skin in his huge palms. Gitae wasn’t rough with you, kissing inner side of your thighs, your tummy, your clitor, but each of his touches felt like hot metal on thin, soft skin. maybe it was the huge knife with which a few minutes ago he, oh so carefully cut your panties and the cute little blouse in which you usually slept. oh, he said that if you turn away from him or fidget too much, he'll have to start using it.

but right now he was too busy with his tongue in your tight hole - “you like being humiliated like this, don’t you, bunny?” a deep growl vibration touched your bare pussy when he almost buried his nose in you. wet sounds filled the entire room, and you were embarrassed to admit to yourself that it was pretty hot. now one of his hands was squeezing both of your wrists on your tummy, while the other was caressing your thigh, moving his hand back and forth, not allowing you to twitch and sway your hips away from him, keeping you in place. Gitae is agonizingly slow, he likes to slowly coax your first orgasm out of you, lightly licking and teasing the tender bundle of nerves and the entrance to your tight slit. you are so pretty, lying on your huge bed, the sheets are rumpled, the blankets and pillows are scattered, half fell to the floor - the result of the little cute resistance that you tried to give to Gitae when he pushed you back into the room and threw you on the bed. even though he was now kneeling in front of your bed, burying his nose in your tight, sensetive cunny, you couldn’t help but feel the strength and dominance with which he was squeezing you, completely suppressing any attempts to resist. all that you could oppose to him was your sweet moans and quiet pleas for him to stop. he even liked it.

when the heat engulfed your entire body, trembling began to break through your legs and thighs, and without controlling yourself, you began to lean forward yourself, towards his tongue, searching for more friction. Gitae let out a low groan more like an animal growl, “there you are... good girl, now cum. cum on my tongue,” he growled protractedly letting go of your hands and cupping your ass cheeks with his huge, harsh palms, slightly lifting you above the bed, making you gasp, arching your back more and throwing your head back.

with a quiet hum, Gitae slowly licked the remains of your finish, teasing the sensitive, heated skin, allowing one finger to slip inside you, earning another pitiful moan.

“so sensitive and wet… and all mine…” his voice boomed somewhere above you as he stood up from his knees, his finger still inside you, probing the hot, gummy walls while your body instinctively tried to shrink into the fetal position and close yourself off from him. Gitae just grinned, leaning lower, crushing you under him, clinging to your plump pink lips, persistently sliding his tongue further, only to hiss a moment later and pull away from you, “fuck. did you just fucking bite me?” a loud slap rang out across the room and you yelped from the sharp, burning pain spreading across your butt cheek.

“come on, do it again,” he growled in your ear, slapping loudly again and pressing you harder into the mattress with his hips. his hands found yours again, grabbing your wrists and pressing them into the sheets above your head, pinning you completely to the bed. you felt your shoulder blades touching his bare chest, and something heavy was pressed into your ass and it clearly wasn't a knife in a sheath on his belt. “tell me, doll, you didn’t think that was all, yeah?” you felt his smirk on his lips and that mocking tone in his voice as he pinned you down on the bed with all his weight. “oh don’t worry bunny, i have so many plans for this night,” he purred in your ear, slightly biting your earlobe and slowly and persistently moving his hips, making you feel his boner in his jeans more strongly.

꒰꒰・┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄・♡・┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄・꒱꒱

it doesn’t matter to listen whole song just this part bc i got inspiration just from there🤟🏻🤌🏻

[snailsgoingdowntown]

Dion Agriche x fem! Reader.

Arranged marriage.

Out of character Dion, Maria being weird and lowkey a creep, implied yandere/slight yandere themes, toxic relationship/marriage, Dion is so fucking out of character here lmao, implied obsession and forming possessive thoughts, implied stalking, implied jealousy from Dion, thoughts of murder, the Reader is lowkey enjoying Dion's physical appearance.

Suggestive, sexual fantasies, implied creampie(?), literally everything that's sexual is just a fantasy, sexually frustrated Dion.

Disclaimer: I do NOT condone any of the harmful and dangerous behaviors and actions that may take place in this piece of FICTION. Such actions should not be romanticized nor normalized as they are both extremely toxic and dangerous.

MINORS/BLANK BLOGS/BLOGS THAT DO NOT REBLOG FANFICTION/FAN ART DNI. DO NOT SPAM LIKE MY POSTS OR YOU WILL BE BLOCKED.

No tag list.

I had to edit the dni hahahaha

---

I think Dion is the type of person who prefers affection over fear.

Yes, he's a sadist. Yes, he's a horrible person and maybe even a monster. Any and all types of relationship he may have - be it platonic, familial or romantic, will absolutely be toxic due to how he is as a person. He's traumatized which explains his actions and psyche but doesn't justify it. He doesn't even attempt to.

He's fine with it. He's used to it. It was how he was raised and what he had to become in order to survive in this family. Eventually it just became the norm before he stopped caring about nearly everything, sadistic tendencies that formed as maybe a means to cope.

To be honest, he's not sure how he would have turned out if he had a loving and healthy family. He doesn't even ponder it. After all, why mull over it when he doesn't even know how families are supposed to work?

So, he cut himself off mentally from anyone and everyone.

But then you showed up.

Granted, it was an arranged marriage. Neither of you wanted it and from your behavior and actions, you dreaded being his wife. Was it because of him? His family? Both?

Dion doesn't question it, at first. He just knows that you hate it and that you fear him. Maybe not hate him, he doesn't sense that from you. Doesn't see it in your eyes whenever he's forced to interact with you or whenever you try to play the part of being a wife.

His wife.

Not a loving wife nor a spiteful one. A fearful one, an act done out of obligation lest his father decides to dispose of you. And you have enough common sense to know it won't be painless, that it'll be inhumane and have you wishing you killed yourself before the engagement party.

But Dion doesn't care. Knowing Lant, he'll just force another wife on him, wanting to shape his favorite son into another him, a younger him. He has the looks, just not the personality.

But he's not as cruel as him and you take notice of this. Of course, it's a very slow process. You stay in his presence for a few seconds longer, especially after dinner. Usually, in the beginning, you would take off immediately, excusing yourself, saying that you needed to tend to one thing or other. Obviously it was a lie but he didn't care.

You just needed to produce an heir.

"Make sure she enjoys it - it'll help with speeding up the process." His mother told him out of the blue one day, a smile on her face as her colorful parasol shields her from the sun.

He doesn't know what to say at first - this was the reason she called him out here, right after he just returned from a mission? To be told, by his own mother, to make sure his wife, you, enjoys sexual intercourse? Does it even matter if you do or don't? It's not like the either of you have a choice in the matter.

It was an obligation. A duty as a husband and a wife. Lant wanted Dion married, to have a child, preferably a son, and as Lant's child, he needed to do so. He was trained to listen and obey his father.

When Maria hears no answer, she looks at him curiously.

"Oh my... I've never seen that look on your face in quite some time..."

"... What do you mean, mother?"

What expression was he wearing?

"Hm... Nothing," she answers, smiling so innocently he could almost forget her fucked up personality. Not that he would comment on it.

"Regardless, make sure she enjoys it - it'll have her seeking you out for more. And the more you do it, the faster you'll have a child. Oh, we already performed a fertility test on the girl. She's... Extremely fertile."

Supposedly, she mentally adds.

Should he thank her? Question her? Get annoyed or feel grateful? He's not sure.

Then, he realized something -

Aside from your wedding night, he's never made a move to sleep with you.

No, rather, the most he would do is sleep in the same bed, with his back turned towards you. Maybe a brush of the shoulders if he ran into you at the hallway. Or a graze of the fingers if you handed him something - never nothing more, nothing less.

The conversation has him thinking.

He's never spared you more than a seconds glance - or at least, he thought so.

When he returns to his - your - room later that night, you're already in your nightgown reading a book. On your side of the bed, the lamp lit, your attention is drawn to him once he shuts the door. Strange. He doesn't even remember walking here.

Actually, everything became a blur after his conversation with Maria.

"Oh," you say, "you're back."

He doesn't reply. Doesn't say anything, really, only taking in the sight of you.

Hair loose, nightgown a pretty pastel pink, you look almost at home. There's still a small look of fear in those eyes of yours. You're still jumpy when instead of talking he walks over to you, stopping just an inch shy of the bed.

He knows he's imposing, a giant compares to you - you remind him of a rabbit. A cute, defenseless rabbit.

But rabbits have sex like there's no tomorrow. You don't even hold his hand.

No.

He doesn't hold your hand.

Hm. A rabbit.

How affectionate are they?

Less then you? More than you?

When his eyes travel downwards to your cleavage that peeks through the collar of your gown, he realizes he's a hungry wolf.

Strange.

He's never lusted after you.

Your skin is too bare - not enough marks. Your neck also looks so easy to strangle. What type of expression would you make if he were to wrap his hands around that neck of yours?

He's heard that some are into it. Are you?

Your lips also look lonely. And cold. Colder than his?

His attention drifts to your hands. So small compared to his. Your wrists, too. He could easily hold both in one hand, while the other could grip your waist. Or maybe your chin, if he was feeling romantic.

No.

This isn't like him.

Dion shakes his head before leaving you, walking towards the closet as he strips himself down, getting ready for bed.

It's only when he lays down does he realize he was unable to meet your eyes.

Maybe he didn't want to see the curiosity. Or the fear. Or maybe he was holding back the urge to make them full of tears, or have them full of lust as you look up at him, chest heaving and hair a mess, lips kiss swollen as he marks up your neck. He didn't finish inside on your wedding night - should he tonight? Would your cunt gape as you catch your breath, his seed leaking out and making a mess on his bed? Would you ask for more? Would he give you more?

When he takes off his shirt, the frabic almost rips from his rough treatment. He refuses to look or talk to you for the rest of the night.

Everything returned to normal after that. You didn't ask questions, rather, you looked relieved he didn't do anything. And there's a small part of him that hates it.

As a matter of fact, he's starting to hate everything about you. Your presence is becoming a thorn in his side, useless and worthless. But he wants you to look his way all the same - he's always looking for you without your knowledge, or anyone else's. He refuses to acknowledge it, at first. It's just a coincidence, it happens by chance. He's a man with no need for affection, companionship, his goal to make Roxanna cry, not to pin after you, a stranger he was forced to marry.

Pinning wasn't in his dictionary.

But he starts to notice things about you that he never did before.

You liked pretty things, even if they were... Dangerous. Roxanna was a perfect example - with golden, soft wavy hair and ruby eyes that held both innocence and contempt, you looked on in awe whenever his sister would appear. But you kept your distance, knowing that no-one in this family could be trusted. Him included.

But it didn't stop you from interacting with her, despite your cautious behavior. Roxanna was never anything but nice to you. Maybe she pitted you and maybe she even planned on freeing you, if the opportunity arises.

The thought makes him upset.

But he also notices how you sneak glances at him, especially whenever his arms are showing. You prefer it when his sleeves are rolled up, showing off the muscle while teasing the rest. He does it to tease you sometimes, a habit that's out of character for him. But the fact you find him attractive eases some of this... Growing obsession with you.

You also liked the garden, spending most of your time in the hidden corners. You would sketch the butterflies, the flowers, research them and anything else they had in the library. That was another of your favorite spots. Also hidden in a corner, you would read romance stories if you weren't interested in a new plant you discovered.

Most of them was happy, fluffly with cliches you could see from miles away - he didn't even know they had those types of books. Someone probably snucked them in behind Lant's back and managed to keep them in the library. Then again, Lant was never one to visit it.

Barely anyone did.

You also liked sweets. The food in general, actually. You weren't a picky eater, and honestly, you only felt somewhat comfortable if it was only Dion or Roxanna in the dining room with you. Roxanna because she was nice to you, didn't threaten you.

And him because he left you alone. But again, you would still sneak a glance here and there and he would too, but was more subtle about it. You never noticed.

But that's all. He didn't speak to you on a regular basis.

But that started to change, without him realizing.

"I've notice your interest in the Foxgloves. It can be used in the medicine field but that doesn't mean you can eat them. " he doesn't know why he attempted to start a conversation, especially so late at night.

He also doesn't know why he can't turn around and face you, undressing himself as well.

He's seen you undress before, even seen you take a bath (in which you hid your chest with your arms the first time, despite the bubbles covering it. But the longer you were married the less guarded you became in terms of nudity - after all, he never made a move. But you didn't try to seduce him either, didn't wear the lingerie you were given by his own mother as a wedding gift. And truthfully, he'd rather you not, the fact that she was the one who had gifted it to you made his skin crawl. No, he'd rather you choose a pair by yourself or even asked him what he would like to see you in).

There's a pause before he resumes.

"However, one of my brothers is working on making an edible version... For what reason, I don't know."

Why is he even talking to you?

His ears perk when you reply and he doesn't know why. It makes him uncomfortable.

"Oh... I see. I mean, I have been wondering how they taste for a while now... Not that I would eat them, of course." You sounded awkward, stiff. Which makes sense, as your husband barely interacts with you. But you don't sound scared.

He's disgusted with himself once he realizes that he feels relieved by it.

Your nights continue on like that.

And he started to become desperate to hear your voice. He lied to himself, of course - this wasn't possible. This had to end. But it never did.

Small conversations he would start, short, brief and straight to the point. But you never ignored them, ignored him. Because you were his wife and as his wife, it was your duty to listen to him. Talk to him if he so wished for it. Or stay in the background if he commanded you to.

Then, one day, you started the conversation first.

"Would you like a bath?"

By now, it was routine to help him undress, taking his jacket or shirt and put it in the hamper. Attempt to carry his heavy sword only to struggle with placing it on its stand. Or bringing him a rag to wipe his face with.

Doing things that a servant should have.

He hates how he likes it. Your attention on him, caring for him, even if it was out of obligation. Fuck, he hates you so much. He should... Kill you.

Yes.

If you were out of the picture, then everything would return to normal. He glances at his sword resting on its stand. But then he focuses on undoing his pants.

"... Have you bathed?"

Of course you did - you're already in your night wear. Your hair was still slightly damp and out of the corner of his eye, he could see your maid look at him with both caution and curiosity.

And you did the same.

You don't react negatively.

"Ah... I did... But..." You meekly looked to the side, weighing whatever you're about to say.

"But what?" He knew what you were going to say before you could get the words out. It was obvious. However, he just hoped his true motive (as idiotic as it was - you were his wife, he didn't need your permission to see you naked be it for sexual reasons or otherwise. But he didn't want to force you and it makes him feel sick - he shouldn't care, in all honesty. He was trained not to, so why did he) wasn't as obvious.

But you weren't stupid. And he liked that about you.

... He should really, really kill you, and soon.

But... He supposes he could think about this later.

"If... If you wish, I could help."

If this was in the beginning of your marriage you would have apologized immediately for assuming he wanted anything to begin with. Instead, you seem meek, shy even. Maybe your cheeks were heating up.

You've seen him naked before, but never touched him. And he's never touched you since the wedding.

"... I'm sore, today."

What a stupid excuse. A stupid sentence. This wasn't like him, it was stupid. What was wrong with him? Was he a school boy? Was he an idiot? He was Dion Agriche, a man with no interest, a -

He can't help but enjoy the way your nails scratch his scalp as you wash his hair. Or how gently you wash his back and he hate it. He hates you. He despises you, especially when you look him like that, especially when you treat him so gently. He doesn't need affection.

There was no use nor need for it.

But when your thumbs dig into a sore spot between his shoulder blades, just this once, he falls into temptation for something so useless.

Yes.

He'll think of a way to kill you tomorrow. Since you've been so nice to him, maybe he'll make it painless, as a thanks.

He doesn't need you in his life.

You make him soft.

[noctiva]

Under Your Skin

Toby Rogers x F!Reader [NSFW!]

-

“You poor thing. Sweet mourning lamb. There’s nothing you can do, it’s already been done.”

-

WC: 4.1k

Summary: Before he has to skip town again, Toby grants you your one and only request of him.

CW: 18+ content, very graphic descriptions of gore and bodily harm, mutilation and murder, blood and guts, desecration of a corpse, major character death, you die in this, dead dove!!! I’m being so fr that’s the whole drabble, toby kills you bc you ask him to, suicide + suicidal thoughts, veryyyy toxic relationship, sexual content, self-destructive tendencies, mentions of bodily decomposition and rot, if ur squeamish stay away

This is a work of fiction!! None of the acts written here are meant to be endorsed or romanticized! Also if you don’t think you can handle any of the above warnings do not read! Stay safe!

-

NSFW under the cut! Minors do not interact!

-

How was it, that you were even more beautiful on the inside?

Warm, you were so warm still, even as your skin began to grow cold. So warm as his fingers dug in deep, slipping under skin and into your depths to curl around your entrails. He could feel them all, slippery and smooth, your intestines wrapping his hands in a sticky embrace.

It was so satisfying. So lovely. You were lovely. Always had been, but especially now.

Limp against the forest floor, eyes glassy as a pool of crimson grew and grew beneath you. Sinking into the earth, staining the dirt. It was just a taste, because at the end of this all, you’d be buried deep beneath the ground he was currently kneeled on - wide lifeless eyes unable to feel the sting of the soil pressing against them.

With a sickening squelch, he sinks his hand in deeper, clawing upwards into your rib cage. Elbow deep in everything you had to offer, his breathing quivering as he hovered above you. Fingers twitching inside you. Searching. Sliding against your bones. He found a lung and squished it, puncturing it with his nails and feeling as it deflated in his palm.

Your true last breath. The thought made him shiver. Feeling the last little bit of oxygen your body had preserved, turning to mush in his hands.

It was a beautiful feeling. You were beautiful.

That’s why he had done this, after all. He was a sucker for beautiful things.

Toby had met you on one of his missions. One that involved him going into town often, to stalk and gather intel on a soon-to-be target. He had to learn their routine, when they ate, when they got home, when they were alone. It was tough, time consuming work. And, so naturally, he needed a way to unwind.

The diner you had worked at was a shitty, rundown joint. Paint peeling off of the walls, grime caked so deep between floor tiles that no mop could ever scrub it clean. Posters on the walls from the eighties, sun bleached and faded to the point you could barely read them.

You, had stuck out like a sore thumb.

Young and pretty. You were far too much of each to be working there. Soft features with not a wrinkle in sight, nimble unblemished fingers tying an apron around your body.

He wasn’t one to get distracted, especially not on a mission, but you had gotten him. You had gotten him good.

He couldn’t remember much of your first encounter, and maybe there was a reason for that. Maybe the boss had caught wind of you, and was trying to scrub you away.

It was alright. You were safe now. He could never get you.

He did remember sliding into a barstool at the counter and looking up at you, to which you had returned his gaze with a disinterested frown.

You did that a lot, he would come to find out. You were always frowning, as if it were your default expression. When you did smile, it was fleeting, and it never reached your eyes.

Your eyes. Always so tired, like you never got a wink of sleep. Worn and hollow. Aged beyond your years. He remembered thinking they’d look so beautiful with a twinkle in them, but that had long been snuffed out. Long before you had met him.

“B-Boss not let you take breaks?” He had asked you, so stupidly forward. Always unapologetic in the way he spoke, even to strangers. “You look d-dead on your feet.”

And you had narrowed your eyes at him, your frown somehow deepening even further.

“I’m fine.” You had muttered. “Thanks though, mister. Can I take your order?”

You had probably just viewed him as another annoying patron. Some run of the mill chump who had come here to hit on you during your shift. He would bet you got a lot of that. The diner was mostly occupied by skeezy truckers and grumbling old men, and you… Well, you were a sight for sore eyes.

You had probably expected to serve him, entertain his annoying advances, then never see him again if you were lucky.

You weren’t.

Toby became a regular. Coming in every day, at the same time, even long after the mission was over and done with. He ordered the same thing every time. Black coffee with sugar on the side. Sugar that he never added, but always asked for anyway.

And as the days passed, you slowly began to warm up to him.

It was a drawn out process, but it was satisfying to him. Watching your irritated frowns morph into reluctantly amused little smiles. Seeing you let your guard down, come closer. Leaning against the counter to talk to him, fingers brushing his when you would take the empty mug from his hands.

He would learn a lot about you. How misfortune seemed to follow you everywhere you went. How life had been so cruel, to someone so lovely, leaving you to do nothing but waste your days away in this stupid diner - just so that you could pay for a bed to wallow in when your shift was over.

You didn’t have many hobbies. Had given up on them all. And you didn’t have many friends either. Just your coworkers, and him now, he supposed.

It was on the day when you had rounded the counter to sit next to him, that he knew he had really gotten you.

“What do you even do, Toby?” You had asked him curiously. “You’re here every day, same time on the dot. You coming home from work or school?”

“Nah, just… H-Hanging out.” He had shrugged. “Life’s boring. Need a l-little excitement.”

“You’re looking for that here?” You had snorted out a laugh. A lovely sound. “You’re not gonna find it.”

“Already did.” He hummed back to you, and met your eye.

You had tried to hide it, but he saw it when you melted.

It didn’t take long to for you to let him take you out. Even less time for you to take him home.

And he had been sweet on you. He had tried to be, at least. Was as gentle as he could be as his hands caressed your soft skin, smoothing over your curves, feeling every bump and ridge where your bones lay hidden. Resting his hand just under the swell of your breast, to hear the ‘thump, thump, thump’ of your heart beat - growing more and more rapid by the minute.

Sometimes, he would sink his fingers in too deep. Grip a little too hard and make you wince. But you’d never push him away. No, you always only pulled him closer.

You’d pull him close even when he sunk his teeth into your neck, even more so when he’d draw blood.

He almost felt bad about leaving his mark on you. This poor, sad girl, who was definitely only using him as an escape. As a way to forget for a little.

The key word there was ‘almost’. It was hard to truly feel bad when you fell apart so beautifully.

You would wrap your limbs around him like you were trying to suffocate him, claw at his back like you were trying to tear him to shreds. You would cry and whimper beneath him, mascara running down your cheeks as he took you apart over and over again. Sullying your sheets for the nth time that week.

And the way you kissed him. You kissed him like you were drowning, and the only available air had to be stolen from his lips. Even after he had taken his bandaging off, and showed you the nasty blight tearing through his cheek.

You didn’t mind. Of course you didn’t, because you were perfect for him.

As time went on though, it became harder to keep you in the dark.

“What do you really do, Toby?” You had asked him one night, sat at the edge of your bed with your skin still bare. You were swaddled in your comforter, hair a mess with a cigarette perched between your lips. One that you had snagged from the carton in the back pocket of his jeans, which lay crumpled on your floor.

Toby supposed he should’ve seen it coming, your curiosity. You had held it back, bit your tongue over so many questions he knew you had, and so it would only take time until you were unable to restrain yourself.

“Told you, I-I hunt.” He had muttered back to you, but it was becoming a lazier and lazier excuse as the days passed. Especially right then, as he lay on your bed in just his underwear - a myriad of scars littering his skin. Far too many to be excused by simply being a ‘hunter’.

You had told him once, that you were sure he was made up of more scar tissue than true skin.

“Yeah? What do you hunt?” You had questioned him, voice soft and hollow, as it always was. But something about the way you spoke then, with a slight tremble to your voice, had him knowing that you had figured him out.

If he was being honest, you probably knew it all for a while now. He hadn’t exactly been… careful. Showing up at odd hours of the night, sometimes stained with blood, sometimes not. On the nights when he was, your gaze would linger, but you’d never say anything.

You’d just tug the bloodied garments off of him the same as you always did, kissed him as you always did even thought you could taste copper on his lips.

He wonder why, sometimes. Why you didn’t care. Why, though you definitely knew there was something very wrong about him, you kept letting him in your home. In your body. Over and over again.

You couldn’t be ignorant to the danger, you were smarter than that. So were you just ignoring it? Or worse, were you just waiting?

Waiting for the day when he left your home bloodied instead.

“I th-think you already know.” He had spoken back to you softly, before standing up and rounding the bed - coming to stand before you. “Don’t you?”

You had looked up at him, bathed in the glow of the moonlight shining through your bedroom window, and he watched as your hand began to tremble.

“Yeah.” You whispered, breathing out the words in a cloud of smoke that washed over him. “I do.”

“And?” Toby reached down and cupped your jaw, squeezing the soft flesh gently. “Are you ss-scared?” He had known what your answer would be before he even asked, and so it was no surprise when you simply shook your head in response.

“No.”

“W-Why?”

“Because I know you can help me.”

Those words, were the clearest memory he had of you. He remembered you speaking them so vividly, could picture the exact expression you had when you said them. Somehow both resigned, and hopeful. A sad little smile tugging at your lips.

And he could remember how they had struck him. Because he had known what you meant, the second you had uttered them.

Still, he had asked;

“H-Help you… How?”

You had reached up, your fingers so cold as the wrapped around his wrist, gently grasping him as you leaned into his palm. You don’t answer directly, instead you say;

“You’ve thought about it, right? Killing me?”

Of course he had. How couldn’t he? It was like an itch he refused to scratch every time he was in your presence. He had thought about it all - the sound of your screams, how your face would contort in agony, what shade of blue your lips would turn when it was all over.

He thought about it often. Every time he laid his hands on you. Every time he curled his fingers around your throat, knowing that with one movement, he could end you with a ‘snap’.

Maybe you had seen it. The way his eyes darkened as he hovered above you, fingers pressing against your pulse point.

“Y-Yeah, I have.” He had muttered back to you. “I like you too much t-to really do it, though.”

“That’s a lie.” You had argued. “I’m just another person. You’d forget about me just like the rest of them.”

He didn’t want to agree with you, but he knew that you were right. Maybe that’s the real reason he hadn’t done it yet. Because he didn’t want to forget you, and if you weren’t at an arms reach at all times, he knew he would.

You’d just be another person. Another body he had to bury.

You’d lose your name. And your face would dissolve in his mind, faster than your real one would as the worms picked you apart.

But that was what you wanted.

To not be known. To be forgotten.

You were right. He could help you with that.

He had brushed your request off for a while after that. For weeks, actually, though he had never forgotten about it.

You never let him forget about it.

You’d guide his hand to your throat while he was inside you, curl his hand into a grasp and make him squeeze. He would. With enough strength to leave you wheezing beneath him, eyes fluttering as your cheeks started to go purple.

But he’d always let go, right before you went under.

Much to your dismay, though you’d never say it. Toby could tell though, from the look of disappointment that took over your expression as your lungs gasped for air greedily.

You wanted it, really wanted it, and it was getting harder to pretend that he didn’t want it too.

He got rougher with you. Drawing more blood. Leaving more bruises. Just to see how much you could take. If you really meant what you had said, or if you’d shy away from the pain out of fear.

You never did. Just letting him do whatever he pleased, to your poor mistreated body. Always reaching back out for him, begging for more.

And yet he still didn’t feel bad.

Did he even actually like you? Shouldn’t he feel at least a little guilty, if he did?

It didn’t take him long to realize the truth. He didn’t feel guilty, because he liked you. Because he wanted to give you what you wanted, to free you from the shackles of the life you lived. He was the only one who could. The only one willing.

The only one, who could make your dreams a reality.

It was two months after meeting you, that he decided he would.

It was a late Sunday evening, when Tim had informed him they’d be skipping town again. Moving far, to another state completely, because their mounting list of bodies was getting too large for the public to ignore.

It was a common thing for Toby nowadays. Hopping from state to state, leaving a blood trail in their wake. Normally, it wasn’t an issue, but this time - he had an attachment.

Unfinished business.

He had you.

And he couldn’t leave you here, with memories of him riddling your mind.

So, like he always did, he showed up to your front door unannounced - this time, for the first ever, with his two trusty hatchets hanging from the belt fastened around his hips.

You had known what he was there for, the moment you opened the door.

The look in his eyes, deader than you’d ever seen them. The glint of metal off the blades in his possession, rusty and already stained with what you knew was old blood.

You didn’t say anything. Didn’t usher him inside like you always did. Instead, you simply stepped out and closed the door behind you. Not bothering to lock it, and not bothering to take anything with you.

“C’mon.” Toby had told you, voice low, before he turned and started walking without another word. You followed him, feet clad in nothing but socks, the shorts and flimsy t-shirt you had been wearing doing nothing to protect you from the nippy fall wind.

He lead you out of your building, down the road, in silence and under the cover of darkness as he trudged down the town’s streets. With each step he took, you could hear the clink of his weapons knocking against one another.

He would swear he could hear your racing pulse from a few feet in front of you.

“Y-You sure you really want this?” He had asked you, not looking back as he walked further and further from your home - closer to his destination. “I could just t-take you with me, y’know. Away ff-from all this. I’d keep ya’ safe.”

The offer, was a genuine one, but he had known you would refuse it.

“I’m sure.” You had responded predictably.

“Thought so. H-Had to at least try though.”

He stopped once he reached the edge of the forest bordering your little town, before finally turning around to look at you. “I won’t b-be nice about it. If you were s-smart you’d just do it yourself.”

“That’s okay. I want it to be you.”

Of course you did. Because you were perfect for him.

So, he had taken your hand in his glove clad one, and let you into the darkness.

He could feel you shaking as he dragged you through the brush, bare legs snagging and skin tearing against sticks and thorns. You didn’t complain. Not once. Even as the journey dragged on and on, further away from civilization. Even as the wind bit at your skin, and caused your teeth to chatter. Even when rocks and fallen branches stabbed at your feet through the thin barrier of your socks.

You just followed, not making a peep. Like a lamb to the slaughter.

Toby could still remember how he felt when he finally stopped. How the silence hung so heavily in the air. Crisp, yet suffocating. An eeriness in the air, like the entire forest was holding its breath.

And then he had turned to you, and raised a hand, cupping your face with it. The other one, just out of your sight, reached down to curl around the handle or one of his hatchets.

“Y-You deserved a better ending, y’know?” He had muttered, his thumb brushing against your bottom lip. “Probably c-coulda been something, if you really t-tried.”

And you had smiled at him. The first, genuine smile he had ever seen you produce. Crinkling your eyes, forming dimples in your cheeks - a happiness taking over your irises that was so potent it nearly made him falter.

“I tried for a long time.” You had spoken back to him. “I’m tired of it.” As you leaned into his touch, he was pulling the hatchet from his belt loop.

“I’m s-sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

And he could tell that you meant it. That you really, truly, had no regrets even as you stood in front of this monster of man. You looked… Calm. Serene. Like he was bestowing a gift upon you, not offering a gruesome demise.

What a strange, strange girl.

It had to be fate, that he had met you.

He had leant forwards, giving you one last parting kiss. Pressing his lips to yours in a way that spoke volumes. A farewell, an apology, a congratulations, a ‘you’re welcome’.

And the way you had kissed him back, was the gentlest you had ever touched him.

If he had allowed himself to, he may have hesitated, just because of that alone.

But he didn’t, because this was what you wanted.

This was the one thing he could give you, before he left.

His memory was spotty for the next coming moments, a blur of red the moment his lips left yours. He did remember the way you had cried though, when his blade sliced into your shoulder.

You had stumbled back, trembling and gasping for breath, blood gushing from your wound and staining your clothes. The blade had sunk in deep, just like he had hoped. Probably hitting bone. Maybe even cracking through it.

He advanced on you when you backed up, but you didn’t retreat any further. It was so weird, having someone not fight back. Shaking and crying, but just standing there and taking it.

He swung again, blade already dripping with your blood. This time, he hit your arm. His hatchet embedded itself deep. Deep enough that he had felt it when he hit your humerus. Right into your bone it sunk, bringing with it a cascade of blood and a chorus of your screams.

You sounded pretty. He had thought absently, as he tore his blade from your skin - the gash it left behind so deep, that he was sure he could snap your arm clean off without much of an issue.

He had watched as you sunk to your knees, dizzy, crying, breathing ragged and frantic. You were gushing with blood, face contorted with agony - eyes squeezed shut as you sobbed and sobbed.

You had asked for this. Why were you crying?

“I-Is this not what you had expected?” He had asked, standing above you with a blade hovering over the crown of your head. You were swaying where you sat, skin already growing pale. Blood loss setting in rapidly. “I t-told you I wouldn’t be n-nice.”

“I-I know.” You had sputtered out, eyes shining with tears as you looked up to meet his gaze. “It’s- It’s alright. Just hurts.”

“Do you not w-want it to? I can end it right n-now.”

“No. Keep- Keep going. Do whatever you want.” You sounded woozy, eyes drooping as you took in shaky, shallow breaths. Your left arm hung limp at your side, mangled, still gushing blood onto the forest floor. You looked so pitiful.

So beautiful.

And so, he swung again.

And again, and again, and again.

Your chest, your neck, your thighs. Nothing was spared from the brutal onslaught he dealt upon you. Metal slicing through skin. Deeper, through fat. Deeper, meeting bone. He painted you red as you cried beneath him, turning you into nothing but a heap of blood and tears.

When you had fallen backwards, back hitting the dirt, he crawled on top of you.

“Still alive?” He had asked, eyeing your now mangled throat. Ribbons of skin and cartilage mostly disguised by the flood of blood pouring out of you.

You merely let out a little whimper. He supposed it made sense, if you couldn’t talk anymore. “You know, y-you’re pretty even like this.” He told you, watching your glassy eyes and how the life faded from them. How they went foggier and foggier as the seconds ticked by. He raised his arms up, both hands clutching the weapon he held over his head. “Maybe you’ll b-be a pretty ghost too.”

You sputtered, blood splattering against your lips and chin as you coughed it up. But you had also, by some miracle, managed a small, pained smile up at him. He deduced that sound would’ve been a laugh, if he hadn’t shredded your vocal cords. So he does as well. Lets out a bemused little chuckle, a warped grin on his face as he shook is head in disbelief. “Gonna miss you. You w-were a lot of fun.”

If you had something to say back to him, you couldn’t voice it. Reduced to just gargled whimpers, and pained whines. That was alright. He already knew everything. You didn’t need to tell him a thing.

He meets your eyes one last time, before bringing his hatchet down.

It tore through your abdomen, ripping through your clothes and skin in the same fluid motion. Tearing into your insides, puncturing organs and severing your intestines. He did it again, when his arms raised once more. Again, his blade met your your warmth within, widening the already gaping wound he had left upon your smooth skin.

The skin he had kissed, caressed. Loved, as best as he could.

This, was his final act of devotion.

He felt as the legs he straddled twitched beneath him. Watched as your eyes blew open wide, before they were rolling back. Tasted it, as stray droplets of your blood hit his lips.

Just as sweet as he remembered.

It was only once you stopped moving completely, did he relent. He dropped his hatchet down on the ground beside your head. Beside your face - the one attribute of you he had left untouched. Still contorted in agony, frozen in time, even though your breathing had ceased.

He was a mess. Coated in you. It was covering his whole body. Staining his clothes, seeping into his hair, dripping down his face and clinging to his eyelashes. You were everywhere. Just as you deserved to be.

You were much worse than he was though, obviously. Mutilated beyond all belief. Limbs barely hanging on. Cartilage and bone that should’ve never saw the light of day, basking in the moonlight. Your entrails had started to spill. Intestines slipping out like snakes that had been confined for far too long, bursting from you as if they had been waiting for this very moment.

And he thought to himself;

How was it, that you were even more beautiful on the inside?

—————————————————————————☆

trying my hand writing gore hmmm,,,

was it icky enough? yucky enough? I’m not sure

I promise also I’m working on asks this was just a short and easy lil thing to edit and post

thanks for reading! ♡