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fawniswriting · 4 days ago

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𝐝𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐟𝐚𝐫𝐞

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Synopsis: After a mission filled with close calls and bad decisions, the team comes home to find an even bigger threat waiting at the door—your wrath.

Warning(s): THUNDERBOLTS SPOILERS!!! platonic!thunderbolts x reader. no use of y/n. use of the nicknames doll, honey, and pretty girl. canon typical violence. descriptions of injuries. descriptions of explosion, gun use, etc. established relationship. profanities. kissing. VERY suggestive content (minors be advised). talks of having a baby. bucky being a little feral (very briefly). slightly hurt/comfort. basically bucky and reader being the parents of the group.

Word Count: 3.6k-ish

Author's Note: GUYS I saw this fanart on instagram and instantly knew that I had to write something inspired by it!!! I've been itching to post a thunderbolts fic since last week 😭 welcome back 2012-2014 era of avengers' tower fanfics ✨️ anyway I hope they're keeping the revolution hair for bucky in doomsday or else I swear I'm gonna RIOT!!! (I know seb's head is shaved rn but wigs exist yk 😔) don't forget to comment, like, and reblog loveliesss 🩷

Bucky Barnes Masterlist

Bucky Barnes doesn't understand a lot of things since he returned to society.

Cryptocurrency is one of them. Social media is another. Anything that involves more acronyms than actual words is an immediate no on his list.

Above all else, Bucky Barnes struggles to comprehend how exactly he became responsible for the group of walking disasters now hailed as earth's newest, mightiest heroes.

Looking at the pack of hellions in front of him, Bucky has serious doubts about that title.

Right in the middle of the tower's lobby, the Thunderbolts—the New Avengers now, apparently—are scattered like barbie dolls in the aftermath of a toddler's tantrum. John is standing against a column with a tight jaw, his left leg lifted gingerly, wrapped in a makeshift splint that looks suspiciously like someone's utility belt. Beside him, Yelena sits on the ground, legs sprawled in front of her as she cradles a bruised shoulder with an equally bruised hand. Alexei leans atop the front desk with a dried blood streaking down his temple, the young receptionist gone in fright the moment the team walked through the tower's entrance. Even Ava, usually one to disappear before debriefs, is visible for once, propped against the wall with her suit half-glitched and her expression blank.

Everyone is accounted for. Everyone is breathing.

But they all look like they rolled down a hill of bad choices where they banged their heads at every rock.

The mission was supposed to be a quiet recon, a simple surveillance on a rumored underground tech sale in an abandoned shipyard, low risk with minimal engagement. But then someone—Bucky still doesn’t know who—decided that they could handle it.

No heads-up. No plan.

Just four impulsive thrill-seekers interrupting a high-stakes black market deal involving high-tech plasma rifles and an offended buyer with too many goons.

By the time Bucky caught wind of what was happening, it was already chaos. He had to go in solo, extract the squad under heavy fire, disrupt the shipment, and reroute an entire response team of hostiles to avoid further catastrophe. They got out—just barely—and none of them seemed particularly eager to look him in the eye about it, especially after the thirty-minute tirade he launched into somewhere between fourth gear and a traffic jam.

From his place in front of the elevator, Bucky crosses his arms. “If any of you pull something like that again, you're all getting benched. Indefinitely.”

“What?!” Alexei roars.

Yelena scowls. “That’s ridiculous.”

“You don't get to make that call, Bucky,” John protests.

Ava nods. “We're not children. You can't just ground us whenever you feel like it.”

“Yeah?” Bucky laughs. Sarcastically. “Watch me, kid.”

As if on cue, the elevator arrives with a ding. Bucky gestures curtly towards the opening metal door. “Inside. Now.”

Reluctantly, the team shuffles in like a group of sheep being herded back into their pen for a much-needed nap time.

For a beat, the only sound that settles inside the cramped space is the low mechanical hum of the elevator ascending.

That is until Ava decides to speak up.

“I’m just saying,” she begins, “it wasn’t like we meant to crash the deal. We were just improvising.”

“Improvising?” Bucky exclaims, glaring at her. “You call tossing a grenade into an active negotiation improvising?”

“It worked, didn’t it?” Yelena argues, crossing her arms. “Sort of.”

“Sort of?” Bucky screeches, his tone rising. “Walker nearly lost a leg!”

“It's just a sprain,” John clarifies. “Probably.”

“See? It's just a sprain!” Yelena repeats a little too cheerfully. “He'll be good as new in no time. Right, John?”

John nods, failing to conceal his wince when Yelena bumps her unharmed shoulder to his.

Bucky rubs his temples. “I can’t believe I’m in charge of you people.”

The elevator dings again at the top floor.

“You know,” Yelena says as the team stumbles out of the metal trapbox, “we technically stopped the deal. You're not giving us credit for that.”

“That’s because you weren't supposed to stop the deal. You were supposed to observe.”

“Back in my day, observe meant punch first, ask questions later,” Alexei quips.

Bucky lets out a scathing scoff that echoes through the air. “Right. Remind me again how many years you spent rotting in that Siberian prison, Alexei?”

“Well, that's not very nice,” John mutters.

“You know what else isn't nice, Walker?” Bucky growls. “Getting your asses lit up by dozens of machine guns because none of you seem to grasp the basic concept of following orders.”

The group swelters in a momentary silence.

“I mean, in our defense,” says Ava, “none of us actually got shot.”

Before Bucky can tell her off even further, a voice suddenly intercepts, “How fabulous! You guys didn't get shot? Geez, someone really should give you all a medal for that.”

The whole team stops in their tracks.

One by one, everyone turns their head towards the direction from which the voice has come. The view that greets them could probably send a perfectly healthy man straight into an early grave.

On the platform floor a few paces away, they find you standing with arms folded across your chest. Despite the bright lilt of your voice, your eyes are cutting as they assess the entire team with the judgement of a juror who has already decided on a guilty verdict. It's clear from your attire that you were freshly off work before going straight to the tower, and since everyone knows that you were supposed to be on a work trip to Philadelphia for at least another two days, it’s safe to assume that your ticket back was booked right around the time someone shouted “mission compromised!”.

It's a full ten seconds of shared disgrace before Yelena finally breaks the silence.

“You called her?” she hisses, landing an accusatory glare in Bucky’s direction.

“I did not.” Bucky scoffs. “And why does it matter if I did?”

“Bucky didn't call me,” you interject, your posture still rigid, your gaze still icy.

“Then who—no.” Yelena's eyes drift towards the kitchen, squinting as she takes in the figure trying to hide behind the doorway. “Bob.”

Ava snaps her head up. “Bob, you little shi—”

“That’s enough,” you jump in, moving sideways to conceal Bob from Ava's murderous line of sight. “He's got nothing to do with this. This is about you��all of you—and what a stupid, reckless, dangerous thing you just did.”

Under your scrutiny, the whole squad shifts like a pack of raccoons caught rummaging through the kitchen trash. The weight of your stare seems to age them all by a decade.

“I'm gonna give all of you two minutes to explain yourselves,” you declare, the authority in your tone indisputable. “And I already know what happened, so don't even think about trying to trick me.”

There is a lull in the air where everyone seemingly tries to process your demand.

When their mouths open again, what follows is not so much an explanation as it is a verbal dogpile. Everyone starts talking all at once—too loud, too fast, and entirely contradictory. John tries to lead with the logistics, only to be steamrolled by Alexei shouting something about creative liberty. Ava attempts to downplay the situation with a jovial “it was barely an explosion!” while Yelena throws her under the bus with a hasty “she started it!”.

Bucky—standing to the side with the posture of a man watching his funeral getting turned into a Dollar Store circus—doesn’t even bother stepping in. He knows better.

You hold up a single finger and the room quiets instantly, like someone pressing mute on a trashy sitcom argument. The stillness that follows is so heavy, even the lights begin to flicker in anticipation.

“But we got out fine!” Ava sputters, desperate to fill in the quietness, though her voice immediately thins when she adds, “Mostly.”

“Yeah! I mean, it's just a bruise here, a bruise there—everything's great.” Yelena grins.

Your sharp stare slides towards John, the lines between your eyebrows tightening as you take in the awkward angle of his injured leg. John nearly cowers under your piercing gaze.

“How bad is the damage?” you question, your voice booming throughout the surrounding space.

“What, this? Oh, it's not that bad. Probably just need to ice it then I'll be good as new—”

“Walker.”

It's hardly a secret that John is perhaps your least favorite person in that room, with you still clearly holding a grudge towards him for what happened with the Flag Smashers. The man is used to your constant cold shoulder by now. He expects it, even. More often than not, John finds himself wondering if you would ever warm up to him the way you have with the rest of the team.

And yet, as he now stands at the end of your long stare, John can't help but think that perhaps your silent treatment isn't really that bad. Especially if it means he doesn't have to be on the receiving end of the critical scrutiny you're currently aiming towards him.

The blond gulps.

“There's a forty percent chance it might be broken,” John admits. “But it's likely just dislocated. No big deal.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose.

“Get to the medbay and tell them to run a scan,” you command. “Alexei, go with him.”

“That's not necessa—”

The sharp glare you're sending him causes John's words to lodge in his throat.

Alexei springs right into action, steering John away from your ferocious perusal and back towards the elevator.

“C'mon, big guy,” Alexei bellows. “Let's go pay a visit to our doctor friends.”

As soon as the two men disappear into the elevator, your glower shifts towards the remaining two people standing behind Bucky. Yelena pretends to check her nails while Ava's eyes are roaming the ceiling with faux nonchalance, both a pathetic attempt to avoid the clear daggers in your stare. The ridiculousness would've made you chortle were you not livid beyond salvation right now.

“I want you two to go back to your rooms, clean yourselves up, and be back here in no more than thirty minutes,” you proclaim. “We'll continue our discussion after dinner.”

“Wait, hold on—”

“That's not—”

“Just go, you two,” Bucky interrupts, the blue in his eyes colder than the Arctic ocean. “That wasn't a request.”

The two figures slump in defeat, teetering towards the staircase with the speed of a turtle in a morning rush hour. You hear Yelena grumbling something in Russian under her breath, and you force yourself not to think about what the phrase might mean lest you want your skin to crawl in an even higher degree of vexation.

“Good gracious.” Bucky shakes his head.

Behind you, Bob emerges out of the kitchen, his shoulders drooping ever so slightly as he approaches you like a wounded kitten.

“They're mad at me, aren't they?” Bob murmurs. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you guys fight with each other.”

“It's not your fault, sweetie,” you assure him, extending your hand and offering a comforting squeeze around his palm. “They're just being idiots right now. You did good, okay? Give it a few hours and I promise you, they'll forget about this already.”

Bob nods solemnly, his voice quiet as he excuses himself and trudges towards the common area. You release a breath as you observe him diving head first onto the sofa, burying his face in the cushion like a Victorian widow fainting onto her chaise.

Turning around, your eyes lock with another pair in blue. The smile on Bucky's face grows as he takes you in, his arms opening with all the intention to collect you in his embrace.

“Hey, doll. I've missed—”

“No. Stay right there.” You raise your palm, taking a step back. “I'm mad at you, too.”

Bucky blinks.

He watches you turn around and walk away from him, his arms coming down limp by his sides before he scutters after your retreating form. Bucky lingers in the doorway as you move about the kitchen, taking out pots, knives, and pans while slamming the cabinet doors shut in the process. You don't even spare him a glance as you start retrieving fresh ingredients from the fridge.

“Honey?” he calls out, voice meek beneath the echo of your knife slicing through onions on the counter. “C'mon, doll, you're really not gonna talk to me?”

“No.”

The chopping continues.

Bucky rubs his face.

“You know I'm just as disappointed in them as you are, right?” he begins. “Swear to God, doll, I had nothing to do with this. Didn't even know what those rascals were planning ‘till I got the call from Alexei. Told ‘em off as soon as I extracted them outta there.”

“Hm.”

Sighing, Bucky takes a tentative step forward, then another, finally closing the distance when he's sure you wouldn't smack him across the head with the chopping board in your hand. His fingers find purchase around your elbow, halting your movements, the gentleness aching as he spins you around to face him. The knife and half-sliced onion lie dormant on the counter.

“Hey,” Bucky utters, so softly that the air nearly swallows the word whole. “Talk to me?”

You heave in a shaky breath, evading his eyes. “What's there to talk about? I told you I'm pissed.”

“Okay, that part I already got.” Bucky chuckles, brushing the back of his palm on your cheek. “Help me understand why? At least tell me how I can fix it, pretty girl. Hm?”

Your silence quivers at the edges, growing more brittle with each swipe of Bucky’s touch on your skin. The walls around your heart crumble under his infuriating tenderness.

“When Bob called and said the team had gone radio silent, I—” you pause, swallowing hard, “—I thought something terrible happened. I booked the first train out of Philly before I even hung up.”

Bucky stays quiet, watching you with careful eyes.

“I couldn’t reach anyone. Not John, not Yelena, not Ava, not Alexei—not you. And the longer I waited, the worse it got in my head. I pictured the mission going sideways. All of you gone.” You inhale sharply. “I pictured all of you coming home in body bags.”

Bucky's heart breaks at the shudder he feels running through your back. His soul is already mourning over the loss of light he would usually find shining so brightly out of your eyes. It makes him cling to you just a tad bit tighter.

“Bob finally called me again to tell me that you're all fine. That you're on your way back. But that's not the point, Bucky.” You look at him then, your fingers flexing. “The point is, I should've never heard about all of this from Bob in the first place. I should've heard it from you.”

Bucky's shoulders sink. “I didn't want you to worry.”

You shake your head, eyes burning with the threat of unshed tears. “But I do worry, Bucky! That’s the point. I worry every single time. The moment all of you step out of this building, I'm counting down the minutes until you guys return to me again. You can't shield me away from that.”

He steps closer, removing what little bit of distance between the two of you until all of your atoms are nearly merged as one. “You're right. You are. I should’ve called. Should've trusted that you'd want to know, even if it might scare you.”

“It did scare me,” you whisper. “And I didn’t want Bob’s voice telling me everything was okay. I wanted yours.”

“I’m sorry,” Bucky murmurs, his arms pulling you nearer. “No more leaving you out. I promise it’ll be me from now on. I'll tell you everything, doll. Always.”

A shuddering breath leaves your lungs, and just like that, you completely melt away under Bucky's touch. Your forehead drops against the line between his shoulder and chest, your fingers gripping his sides as though he was the very force keeping you tethered to earth. Meanwhile, Bucky's lips ghost over the top of your head, whispering sweet nothings, the contrasting temperature of his palms appeasing you with random patterns against your back.

“I don't know how this all started,” you confess. “I'm not sure when I began caring this much about those idiots, but I do. The thought of something happening to them—to you—to all of you…”

Bucky's arms tighten around your frame. “I know, honey. I feel the same way.”

“This is not what I had in mind, you know?”

You tilt your head back to stare at his face, your fingers tangling themselves in the soft waves that Bucky has been growing out over the past few weeks. He almost cut them all off several days ago, but after some convincing on your end—which may have included activities that found your fingers buried in the soft tendrils and his face buried somewhere else—you managed to talk him out of it.

Bucky's eyebrows lift. “What do you mean?”

“Well… when you said that you were joining this team, I thought I'd never seen a more dysfunctional group of people in my entire life. I figured it'd be a miracle if all of you last a whole month without someone quitting or accidentally blowing each other up.” You chuckle, your eyes softening. “I didn't think I'd end up pacing the hallway every time you guys went out, worrying like some overworked mother of five.”

Bucky huffs out a laugh, his forehead falling onto your own. “I get it. This wasn’t exactly how I imagined myself stepping into the dad role either, but… here I am.”

“Yeah?” Your lips quirk up. “How did you imagine it then?”

“Well—” Bucky's voice drops, his breath warm where it fans against your skin, “—I figured it’d start with a little house, somewhere quiet. Nothing fancy. Just enough for us to start building a life in. I’d fix the place up real proper. You’d hum to yourself as you whip up one of those famous pies of yours, and I’d pretend not to stare.”

The cheeky grin on Bucky's face grows, prompting a laugh out of your chest. His thumb continues to trace idle circles upon your waist.

“Then, when you feel the time's right, we’d try for a baby. The old-fashioned way. Real slow, real sweet. I’d kiss you like I got all the time in the world, and make love to you like I didn’t.”

Something flutters inside your chest, like stardust stirring in a forgotten corner of the galaxy. The way Bucky is looking at you makes you feel as if you were the first breath of the universe itself.

“That's how I pictured us becoming parents,” Bucky adds, brushing his lips along your jaw. “Not… this. Whatever this is.”

You smile at the graze of his beard on your cheek, angling your head to capture him in a brief kiss.

“You know what I think this is, Buck?” you ask, teasing your lips against his own. “I think we should view this as a practice run. After all, how hard can it be to parent our own kid if we can do it to a group of five ridiculous, chaotic misfits, right?”

“Doll.” He sighs. “Are you saying what I think you're saying?”

“Depends.” You hum, your lips twitching in feigned innocence. “If you think I'm imagining you putting a baby in me… then yeah, you're absolutely right.”

Bucky swallows your cheeky grin with a kiss, grunting against your mouth as he presses you back against the counter. The muffled moans you let out are music to his ears, a lascivious melody that rushes straight towards places he reserves explicitly for you. His hands slip under your blouse, roaming the expanse of skin, drifting lower and lower in search for the one place that could send him straight to heaven and—

“Yelena! Give it back to me!”

“I told you it wasn't me!”

Bucky groans.

The shrill voices resonate all the way down to the kitchen, followed by the unmistakable echoes of footsteps thundering down the staircase. Bucky makes a guttural noise of frustration as his face slumps into the crook of your neck.

“I swear to God, I’m gonna ship them to Asgard one of these days,” he mutters.

You snort, brushing your fingers through his hair and pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his lips.

“Let's put a raincheck on the baby-making, soldier,” you purr, smirking when it spurs on a rumble from Bucky's chest. “Looks like I've got a fight to break up before we have two dead superheroes on our hands.”

He groans again, this time at the loss of your warmth as you slip out of his arms. From the kitchen's doorway, you raise an eyebrow towards the common area, perching your palms on either side of your hips as you take in the havoc ahead.

“What the hell is going on here?” you snarl.

“She stole my snacks!” accuses Ava.

“I don't even like Jammie Dodgers, you lunatic!”

“What a lot of crap. We all know you'd even eat chicken off the ground given the chance, you pig!”

“Fucking asshole—”

“Hey!” you interrupt, your voice sharp as you march towards the two fuming Avengers. “You call each other any more names, then I promise you, you're gonna wish you got shot on that mission today.”

Bucky watches the whole interaction from the kitchen with his arms crossed and a slow grin spreading across his face. He leans against the counter, studying you with the quiet reverence of a man who has found the meaning of home after decades of searching. Even in the midst of this domestic madness, even with the team’s antics grinding on his last nerve, he wouldn't trade a single thing in his life for anything else.

There are still a lot of things in this world that Bucky struggles to understand.

But with you by his side, and his entire team watching his six, he knows that he's got nothing to worry about.

2K notes · View notes

grugruel · 5 months ago

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Sleeping With the Enemy

Pairings: Silco x f!reader

MDNI/NSFW

Masterlist

Summary: You're a councillors daughter secretly working with the Eye of Zaun, fulfilling each other's needs.

Political needs, of course. It's purely business. They would never be stupid enough to start an affair . . . Unless?

Wordcount: ca 3.5k

Warnings: enemies AND lovers, hate-fucking, toxic, Silco being evil, angsty, pinv sex, rough sex, power imbalance, fighting for control, complicated feelings, twisted love, forbidden relationship, dacryphilia ish, cockwarming, blowjob, fingering, edging, overstimulation, choking, cum eating, creampie, petnames (girl, princess, devil, Sil)

AN: yet to be proofread. This might be one of my favourite works, he's insane . . . I need him.

"Let go off me," she snarls, yanking mirthlessly against the strong womans grip. "Release me Sevika, or-"

"Or what?" She cuts the girl off with a sneer, metallic fingers sinching around her bicep. Sevika holds her close enough to force the girl to stare up through her eyebrows if she wants to achieve any semblance of eye contact.

"Or she tells her precious father," the man cuts in, a nonchalant smile to his tone.

"He doesn't know I'm here," the girl snaps, defiantly locking eyes with the industrialist. Clad in shadow, he's a mere silhouette backlit by Zaun's streets. "He doesn't know anything."

Picking up a brand new cigar, he clips the end and flicks a lighter open, toying with the flame. All in due time, he's not rushing to spoil such a favored treat.

"Good," he says and gestures dismissively, signaling his trusty henchman to leave.

Sevika releases the girl with a displeased huff and slams the door behind her. The only thing she likes less than piltovians, is them wandering too far from their fabricated safety and ending up on her doorstep.

She watches the muscular woman leave, staring at the closed door in contemplation as she once again finds herself alone with the eye of Zaun.

Something clatters behind her, a lighter discarded on a desk. "You're late," he mutters, bringing the smoking cigar to his lips.

Anger begins to blaze inside her. That's it? That's all he has to say? "Six enforcers are dead," she snaps, nose scrunching. Disgusted by the mere thought of that demon's violence. "She's a loose canon, Silco. She blew them up for the hell of it."

From the dark, a red orb slips her way. He leans forward, having the rooms gloomy light illuminate his face only to throw the girl a disapproving look, barely deeming it worthy to look her in the eyes. "You forget yourself, girl."

Swallowing, she forces herself to calm down. Aggrivating such a volatile man never proved a good idea, and displaying anger against his daughter proved even worse.

Carefully, she ventures closer. Testing the waters and finding them thick as mud. The very air around him emenates danger, and her body slows down, relucant to put itself in such unpredictable environments. "You broke our deal," she announciates, finding it safer to put the blame on him rather than the blue haired demon he protects so ferociously.

"You disrupted our shipment," he repeats her ridiculous attempt. "It's simple business. Collateral," he shrugs and gestures toward her, vaguely implying the deaths should be on the girls consience. He doesn't say it outright because he doesn't need to, because he doesn't care if it hurts her feelings. Because, he doesn't care about the lost lives of a few topsiders, lives of enforcers even less. In true rebel spirit.

Massively unimpressed, he sizes her up when she places herself on the other side of the desk. Gripping the edge, the wood is tough beneath her fingers as she strains to keep herself in check. Blue and green light his back, lining the countours around his body. It softens him in some ways, as if the light hasn't completely shunned him yet.

Suddenly smirking, Silco's gaze drifts over her. Studying her tense disposition with spiteful glee as he enjoys the irony of a murderous piltovian. "Contemplating violence wont relieve you of this predicament."

"Killing you would."

"Threatening me so early in the morning?" He tsks, taking a deep drag of the cigar to then blow a ring of smoke in her direction. "Perhaps I should have approached your father instead, the councillor would've been easier to handle . . . More willing to please."

Keeping eye contact, she doesn't react, and a glint of cuiosity to sparks in his gaze. "He has nothing to do with this, and you know it," she tries again. "But Jin-"

Silco's smirk falls. "Hold your tongue, girl." Pinching the bridge of his tall nose, he releases a heavy sigh. "Lock the door," he orders, looking at her through his eyebrows.

Menacing, haunting. She could describe him with a hundred different horrific words. Yet, he doesn't scare her. They both know she's right.

Breathing relief, she does as she's told. When asking her to create a boundary between the world and this room, he shows her nothing has changed. Whatever they have remains within the confines of his office and her bedroom. It takes the edge off, and she lets the inhabiting worry slip away.

Upon her return, she softly stalks around the desk until sidled up against the short side. "Shoving clever words down my throat won't shut me up, Sil."

Rubbing his face, he looks at her through his fingers. Heavily disapproving of the nickname. "Dont tempt me," he warns. "I'll find other ways to shut you up."

She swallows, a single pulse throbs in her core. Moving around the desk, she slides a finger along it's edge and places herself infront of him, bathing her in the very same darkness that Silco finds himself in.

A small smirk flicker on his lips. But even though it dissolves, turning back into its usual serious mask, the satisfaction of the expression linger on his features.

"It cant happen again," he warns a third time, he must going soft on her. His hands move, trading the cigar for the the ability to touch her. One hand reaches for her thigh, sliding beneath her skirt. While the other reaches up, grabbing her chin to stare into her eyes. "The shipments are important." Silco applies just enough pressure on her chin to keep it stinging, just enough to understand that he didn't take the loss lightly. While the thumb beneath her skirt brushes lightly over her hipbone.

Inspite their predicaments, their relationship was business from the beginning and the majority still is. He tells her this through the contrasting touches.

She nods.

"Use your words, girl. Tell me you understand. This cant happen again."

But she won't concede, not yet. "No more attacks," she murmurs, placing her hands on his thighs. "No more deaths." The girl sinks to her knees, slowly, and making sure he keeps his gaze glued to hers. Being so close to him, she gets a whiff of his cologne. He smells of musk and wood, Smoke and whiskey. He smells of man.

They know what buttons to press when it comes to one another, and right now, she needs safety for her people in much the same way he needs independence for his. The difference laying within their methods of accomplishment. But looking at them now, it's clear they've got more in common than she's previously thought.

Silco spreads his legs further apart, welcoming her advancements. "I wonder what daddy dearest would say if he saw you now; that pretty princess of his . . . Negotiating on her knees." He slides a hand beneath hers, lacing their fingers together before leaning back in his chair to enjoy the show.

It's a small sign of fondness, one he confidently gives. Showing his inclination toward her means little, for they already know where they have each other. Unwilling to put it into words, they feel them silently.

Truth is, they enjoy the power imbalance, they enjoy the hatred their respective people share. Peculiarly, it unites them, and simultaneously fuel their polarity. They're a strange equation, two variables with a common sum.

Helping each other with free hands, they unbutton his pants. "Im sure he'd be proud of your devotion," he mocks, exhaling that infamous low chuckle.

Spitting into her hand, she reaches into his pants. "He'd share the pride with your people," she smiles and looks up at him innocently, pulling his member out. "–when they find out you're working with a councillor's daughter . . . Fucking her no less." She leans in, teasing his tip with a slow circling lick, gathering the pre-cum on her tongue. With a corner curving upward, his lips part, and there's a silent intake of breath. Brushing his hand along her cheek, he collects stray hair covering her face and gathers it at her neck, twirling it around his fingers. "Go on," he urges.

And so, she finally closes the distance and takes him in her mouth.

With a hiss, he squeezes the hand laced with his. Slender fingertips dig into the back of her hand. "Little devil," he groans, hand burrying deeper into her hair and balling into a fist, coincidentally pulling on her scalp.

Clasping her still spit-wet hand around his shaft, she strokes him, adding on to the bobbing of her head.

"Yes," he moans, reclining his head against the back of the chair. "Carry on, girl."

Im sync with her hand, she works him until he's close to squirming, trying his very best to keep a semblance of composure. Never did she think such a powerful man would tremble beneath her touch or the pressure of her lips. But here he was, his usual neat combed back hair fallen over his forehead, beads of sweat gathering on his temples.

He'd started using his hand to guide her head, helping her find the perfect path toward his climax. Chest heaving and teeth bared, he chuckles breathlessly as the squelching of their actions reach his ears. Pushing her too far, she makes half-choking noises when she takes his entire length down her throat. Causing saliva to spill out of her mouth and roll down his length.

"Sloppy," he snarls, manicured nails digging into her hand. "-used to sucking cock."

She whines from the rare usage of crude words, making her core purr. His inches twitch in her mouth, sensing how close he is. "Please me," he supresses a groan, calling her name. "Swallow."

It happens quickly. His breathing turns rapid, his hips arching as he spills into her mouth. Tasting of rich salt as she swallows.

Smirking devilishly, he catches his breath. "Thats it . . . Well done." He brushes his thumb along her index finger.

Joy trickles into her heart at the praise, but there is little room as her body is already filled to the brim by need. With heavy eyes and glistening lips, she stands up on her knees. "Kiss me," she whispers.

Unlacing their fingers, he moves to slide a thumb across her lips, gathering some of the milky seed she'd yet to swallow. "Open up, princess." He pulls on her hair to tilt her head back.

Her lips part automatically, a knife slicing through her pride at the irony of the name. Silco slips his thumb into her mouth and wipes it clean on her tongue. He watches with fascination as her lips close around the digit, volunteering to suck it off as he pulls it out. "Kiss me," she repeats.

The fingers still burried in her hair twitches at the sight. Acting on impulse, they bunch her waves, pulling her close enough for their lips to play ghost. He tilts his head to the side, bringing them impossibly closer. "Tell me you understand," he murmurs, watching her reaction as the featherlight touch tickles her lips.

Her expectations for the night and the soft shell of intimacy around them shatters, but she'll never give him the satisfaction. The kiss was a wish from her own selfish needs, but giving him what he wants without the safety she require for her people is not. "No."

With a harrowing glance, he releases her. "I have work to do, you know where the door is," Silco says, nodding toward the exit. He then runs his hand through his hair, combing it back into place.

So quickly is the mood ruined and the rush of lust diminishes, settling her nerves. Instead it is the annoyance and the anger she arrived with that begins to rebuild.

The girl scoffs. "Petty, man-child," she mumbles, keeping her voice beneath her breath. But she wants something from him too, anything. She's derserves it, it just the matter of taking it.

Then, something just clicks in her mind and an irruption takes control of her body. Narrowing her eyes in quick to non-existent contemplation, she grabs his collar and pulls him in for a kiss. It only lasts for a second before she pushes herself away and stands up, not planning to stick around to deal with the consequences.

But before she gets a chance to move too far, a hand grabs her forearm and yanks her back. "You stubborn girl," he whispers in her ear, an arm slung around her torso as Silco holds her against his chest. She feels her panties being pulled to the side, and the head of his member lining up with her core. "Bleeding your integrity dry for those imperious, self-important cretins." He teases her entrance, sliding the tip up and down her folds.

"I am one of them, or do you forget?" She snaps.

Without warning, he lowers her onto his inches, fitting them inside her like they've been molded. The girl gasps at the feeling and Silco's fingers curl, releasing a groan as his fingers rouch the fabric at her ribs. "Even now?" He adjusts the girl in his lap. "Would they deign to descend from their thrones as you? Stooping to my level, manipulating on a whim to fullfill your needs." He pulls her closer, nudging her profile with his. All the while he's got his still hard member pushed up inside her, soft walls of flesh welcoming him eagerly. "Would they still accept you when found-out, or will they throw you to the wolves as the rumours spread? When they find out Zaun's villainous crime lord is fucking Piltover's princess," he laces the words with venom, hands slipping upward. One stops at her breast to squeeze while the other clasps around her throat. "When they whisper of the ways he uses her. How he puts her on her back, makes her kneel . . . How he bends her over," he murmurs, sending shivers down her spine.

She grows dizzy, a mix of worry and pleasure clouding her senses. His words hit home, drawing her lips into a thin line. "They are still my people," she breathes, voice close to breaking, sunding more like she's trying to convince herself.

"They will be your downfall." He puts pressure on her throat. "We've made sure of that, you and I."

"No . . . Silco, that's not true."

The hand holding her breast slips beneath her skirt. "We've made our beds-" slender fingers find her clit. "And we will sleep with the consequences."

Head lulling back against his shoulder, back arching, pleasure spikes as he stimulates her thrice fold. Circling her clit while throbbing inside her, and acting catalyst is the experienced hand around her throat. It limits the bloodflow and multiplies her pleasure. "Fuck," she whimpers, hips squirming, flesh randomly spasming around him.

Silco groans at the sensation, gaining his own pleasure from the whole ordeal. But that is not his goal. "Be still," he warns.

The collossall amounts of pleasure blinds her, it grabs hold of her senses and refuses to let go. Her nerves burn and fingers curl. Its all too much, yet not enough. Tears of gather in her eyes, slowly spilling over to roll down her face. "A-almost . . ."

Silco adjusts his grip around her throat so uses his thumb to tilt her face toward him, then watches how the tears streak her makeup, leaving watered down mascara in their wake. He places his lips on her skin, kissing the tears away while enjoying their salty taste. He studies her rosy cheeks and knitted expression, memorising the small whimpers she breathes.

The girl can no longer keep still and her back prepares to arch, limbs preparing to surge with blinding hot pleasure. "Im-- mhh, I-" She mewls, and the knot releases.

. . .

Until it isn't. She feels Silco retract his hands, causing oxygen flood her brain and irritation to anchor her mind. The knot in her stumach re-ties, loosely adjusting until the pressure completely dies down. "I see callousness runs in the family," she complains, almost in pain from the sudden lack of stimulation.

Silco circles an arm around her waist. "It's essential to survive," he says and stands up, still swollen member slipping out of her. Supporting the girl as her knees wobble, she's unable to stand on her own due to the afflictions he's caused her. Turning her around, he helps her onto the desk. Chest to chest, he braces against the wood, one hand on either side of her, effectively boxing her in.

She lays a finger beneath his chin, and he looks up at her through his eyebrows. Exhaling, he moves between her thighs. Silco reaches out to her, loosely cupping her face as his thumb smears the streaked mascara. "There is no white knight," he says, pushing reality on her, weather she's willing to listen or not.

She nods. "I know." Tainted by the impure air of Zaun, branded by the touch of it's Eye. If she ever is to be saved, it must be by her own hand. Her smile is faint as her eyes fall from his.

He grabs her face and squeezes her cheeks. "Look at me," he tells her with a gravely tone. Their eyes lock. Dissappering between them, his other hand lines himself up with her core.

Taking a gamble, she grabs his tie and pulls him in, properly locking lips for the first time. Because he doesn't pull away, and neither does she. Her bottom lips begins to tremble, surprised he ever let it go this far. Their initial moment passes, evolving into seconds until they realise neither is breathing and they tear apart for much needed air, not straying far. Their lips hover, ghosting as previously. "You steal whats not your's to take."

She nudged his nose with her own. "Does survival not apply here? I never took you for a hypocrite."

His top lip twitches, and she feels him bare his teeth in a silent snarl as his fingers apply pressure to her cheeks. "How clever," he murmurs, and pushes inside her once again, catching her off guard.

They share a reflexive gasp, and as he starts to move, every thrust exchanges breaths between them. The girl's lips curve, heavily enjoying the tiny sliver of emotional intimacy he's finally giving her.

Her legs circle around his hips as he grabs her waist one handed, adding further levrage as his fingers dent her flesh. Silco starts a heavy pace and their lips reconnect, mirroring their bodies, it reflects their feelings. The kiss growing needy and rough.

"Get on your back for me," he mocks and releases her face. "Prove them right."

She bites his lip, tugging on it as she lies back against the desk and pulls him with her.

Hand suddenly free, he hooks it beneath her knee and pulls it up against his side to gai better access. Slowing down the pace, he manages to take her deeper, harder. She groans, head lulling to the side as her climax begins to build. "Dont stop." Not again.

"Look at me," he breathes, warning in his tone as he's inclined to watch her topple over the edge. Her brows knit together, but her gaze finds his. The knot closing as his thrusts begin to grow erratic.

Pleasure burns her fingers and quickens her pulse. "Close, c-" she begins, but he cuts her off with another kiss, tongue slipping between their lips to explore her mouth.

And just like that, she bursts. Traveling through her from top to toe. Silco following short thereafter. "It's alright . . . Good, girl," he whispers.

Once they've caught up with their breaths, Silco straightens out, and rearranges his clothes before helping her to her feet.

"I understand," she says, halting by the door.

He looks up from his seat but is quick to stand, slowly stalking toward her. Stopping just short of her smaller frame, he reaches behind her back to grab the door handle. "I don't control her. She is my daughter like you are your father's," he says and meets her eyes. "But I will speak to Jinx." Leaning down, he kisses her cheek, catching her off guard. Affection is newly discovered territory between them, but from him to give it so freely after battling it out is a very big surprise. But as quick as ot started, it's over. His soft expression morphing into his usual stern disposition. "Dont be late again girl," he says and opens the door.

Somehow, they've become entangled. Silently sharing affection their respective people would deem unfit. Silco wont hurt her, if he can help it. But such is nature. They'll stand on opposite sides, prioritising their own families, cities. But not without a thought of the other, wishing it could be different. It probably never will be, for such is faith and such is time. If only it could rewind.

#silco #silco arcane #silco smut #silco x reader #silco x you #silco x female reader #arcane smut #silco imagine #silco fanfiction #arcane x reader #silco fanfic

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charliedawn · 26 days ago

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A SERVANT’S DUTY Part V Emperor Geta x Reader

(A good dose of angst and also very emotional moments. Enjoy.)

The Senate chamber looked different that morning. The columns were still the same marble white. The banners still hung in deep crimson folds. But there was a feeling in the air—a taut string pulled tight between old stone and fresh breath. You stood near Geta as the new representatives entered—each wearing the formal robes gifted to them, a blend of their social standing and the Senate’s tradition. The farmer’s boots echoed against the floor beside the polished sandals of a merchant. The blacksmith’s calloused hands brushed against the silk sleeve of a minor scholar. And at the far end, seated with a soldier’s silent posture, was Marcus Acacius—out of chains, but not free.

Several seats were conspicuously empty.

The old senators had made their decision—boycott in protest. The chamber was a quieter place without their scoffs and grandstanding.

Emperor Geta didn’t seem troubled.

In fact, he stood before the chamber and looked across the half-filled circle. He turned slightly to you, a barely-there smile on his lips, and then to the assembly.

"Well," he said, his voice smooth and clear. "It seems that new seats just opened ?"

A few chuckles rippled through the new representatives.

He walked to the center. "This Senate was never meant to be a mausoleum. And if anyone wishes to stay locked in the past, they may. But we—we will build forward."

He paused. Looked around the room. Then straight at you.

"Let us begin."

And just like that, the balance of power shifted. Not with blood. Not with war. But with chairs—empty ones—and the courage to fill them. You exhaled slowly, your fingers curled around the edge of your scroll. The work had only just begun.

The chamber was alive—not with scheming whispers or power-posturing, but with something rarer. Genuine dialogue.

You sat quietly in your newly appointed seat, taking in every voice, every posture, every shift of tone. The representatives, though lacking in the polished airs of the old guard, brought with them something much more vital—experience. Grit. Truth.

The farmer representative—a weathered woman with sunburnt cheeks and broad shoulders—stood first. Her voice carried without needing to shout.

"Your Highness," she said, bowing her head slightly toward Geta, "the grain shipments you’ve allowed…they came just in time. You saved our children’s winter."

A murmur of agreement passed through the chamber. The merchant, dressed in soft layers of blue and gold, nodded eagerly when she finished.

"I never thought I’d be seated in this hall," he said, smoothing his beard, "let alone welcomed. My thanks, Emperor, and to your senator." He gestured subtly towards you. "To be asked what the market needs, rather than ordered…that is a change long overdue."

One by one, they stood. The artisan with ink-stained hands and clever fingers. The physician with eyes that had seen far too much sickness and not enough funding. The artist, younger than the rest, but with words like knives carved from silk. Each gave thanks, brief or poetic, and then offered suggestions—requests for fairer pay, safer roads, medical access in the border provinces, restored theaters.

And then silence.

You glanced toward Marcus Acacius.

He hadn’t moved once. His posture was straight, military. His hands rested calmly on his knees. But his eyes—they were alert, watching every speaker, every shift of expression from Emperor Geta. You’d half expected him to interject or disrupt.

But he said nothing.

Even now, as all eyes turned to him with anticipation—no one daring to ask but many silently wondering—he did not rise.

Not yet.

You narrowed your eyes. There was no defiance in his stillness. No bitterness. Just restraint. Calculation. And, perhaps, patience. The silence he carried felt like it had weight.

Emperor Geta noticed too. The Emperor leaned forward just slightly, curiosity edging his expression—but he said nothing. He would not press. Not yet.

You folded your hands in your lap, gaze flicking between the others, but returning always to Marcus.

The meeting continued.

But the silence at Marcus’s seat rang louder than any of the voices that filled the chamber.

Finally, he spoke up.

"Where is Emperor Caracalla ?"

The room fell into a deep silence, the kind that felt like the air itself was holding its breath.

Marcus Acacius’s question had cut through the fabric of the meeting like a blade. Where was Emperor Caracalla ? It was the unspoken truth that everyone had danced around, a question no one dared utter aloud. Emperor Geta’s gaze briefly flickered toward you, his expression unreadable, and for a moment, you wondered if he was about to slip. But he recovered, his face hardening as he spoke.

"My brother was called away," he informed them, his voice even, but his eyes were dark with silent rage at Marcus’s question. "More pressing matters. He won’t be joining us."

There was a shift in the air—subtle, but undeniable. You could feel it, a change in the dynamics of the room. The senators had already heard whispers—of course. Caracalla’s temper had always been notorious, and the rumors of his more…violent tendencies had long reached every corner of the Empire. No one truly believed that a man so driven by his lust for power would simply disappear without consequence. And yet, no one dared speak it openly. Marcus Acacius, however, was not like the others. His voice, when it came again, was calm, but laced with something sharp—something probing.

"More pressing matters, Emperor Geta ?" His eyes narrowed slightly as he studied the young man intently. "Is this a matter of health or of…something else ?" He paused, letting the unspoken question hang in the air. "It is rather strange to see an emperor, one so committed to his seat, disappear without warning. One might wonder if he was forced to…step aside."

Your eyes widened. What was this imbecile doing ?! Asking such a question ? The entire room leaned forward, eyes shifting between Geta and Marcus. You could see the flicker of discomfort in Geta’s posture, a tightening of his jaw, but his voice remained steady.

"That is no concern of yours, Acacius," he finally replied, the tone firm, though a flicker of something darker crept into his words. A warning.

Marcus’s lips curled slightly—whether it was a smirk or a silent acknowledgment, it was hard to tell. But there was no question in his eyes now; he knew something more was at play here. And so did the room.

You could almost feel the collective breath held by the senators. They had all been waiting for a crack, a moment of weakness from either Geta or Caracalla. They’d expected it, perhaps even hoped for it. It was clear now that something had shifted, something far deeper than a mere absence.

Geta’s gaze flicked to you once more, but this time, the look was unreadable. You looked away…Perhaps allowing Marcus Acacius to step inside the Senate so soon had been a slight mistake on your behalf.

You cleared your throat, breaking the silence. "Perhaps now is not the time to speculate on absent matters, Representative Acacius. There is much work to be done here after all."

The representatives of the various classes understood the message and continued to speak their piece, but there was an undercurrent of unease in the room now, as though everyone had suddenly realised how precarious things truly were. The question of Caracalla’s absence still lingered like a shadow in the corners of the room.

Then, as you interrupted the flow of the discussion to steer it back to a practical issue, Marcus Acacius, who had been watching the exchange between you and Geta with much interest, turned his attention to you.

"And where did you come from ?" he asked, his voice cool but edged with suspicion.

The room fell silent again, all eyes shifting toward you. You could feel the weight of his gaze, sharp and calculating. Marcus had always been known for his insight—an intellect as dangerous as his military strategy. He had not missed a single detail, and the way he’d scrutinized every word of the exchange had left him with one lingering question.

You met his gaze without hesitation, your expression unreadable, the silence stretching just long enough for the tension to grow thick.

"Does it matter, General Acacius ?" you asked calmly, your voice cutting through the silence. "Some things are best left unspoken, no ?"

The room seemed to hold its breath again, as Marcus’s sharp eyes flicked to Geta, and then back to you. He didn’t speak immediately, but his lips twitched, as though considering his next words carefully.

"Is that so ?" Marcus replied finally, his voice now tinged with amusement, but the glint of suspicion never left his eyes. "Interesting. The Emperor’s closest advisor…or should I say, friend…suddenly appears from nowhere to direct the course of this Senate ? And I thought this council was made to share the truth and nothing but the truth. What is your truth, Senator Y/N ?"

You raised an eyebrow, and before you could speak again, Emperor Geta stood, his presence commanding the attention of the room once more.

"Enough, Acacius," he seethed. "No more questions about the past. We move forward from here."

Marcus glanced at Geta, sizing him up for a brief moment before finally nodding, though his eyes still lingered on you, calculating. He had said his piece, but the question had been planted—and with it, the seeds of suspicion were sown. You, however, remained unfazed, the mask of composure never faltering. You could see the wheels turning in Marcus’s mind, but for now, you knew that all you needed to do was play your part—and let the Empire continue its slow transformation.

A few hours later

The room was emptying quickly, the clattering of armor and boots echoing down the marble halls as the Senators and Representatives alike filed out. The low hum of murmurs from the remaining representatives faded as the doors to the chamber shut behind them. Emperor Geta, in a rare display of discomfort, left in a hurried exit, his face a mask of unease after the mention of his brother’s absence. His departure felt rushed, an abrupt shift in the atmosphere.

You watched him go, but your attention was quickly drawn back to the man who had yet to leave the room: Marcus Acacius.

The guards were about to escort him back to his cell when you raised a hand, signaling them to stop. The clank of armor halted, and their gazes shifted between you and the ex-general. With a brief glance, they gave a silent nod and stepped back, leaving you and Marcus Acacius in the large, echoing Senate hall. Marcus stood at the far end of the room, arms folded, his face still hard and unreadable. But his eyes, those sharp eyes that had seen so much, had not softened.

You moved closer, the silence stretching between you as you considered him.

"I thought we might speak."

He looked at you, his posture shifting slightly, though he didn’t take a step closer. "Speak ?" he asked, his voice laced with a quiet amusement, but there was an edge there. "What could you possibly want to speak to me about ?"

You met his gaze firmly, not backing down from the challenge in his eyes. "Your question, General Acacius," you reminded him, taking a half-step forward, "about where I came from. I could ask you the same, you know. Not because I doubt your skill—you earned your rank with blood and strategy, with victories that sing your name across provinces. Conquest after conquest, blood earned and battles won. You did betray your Emperors, but I will not ask about your reasons. Because we both know…the past is only useful when it serves the future."

A flicker of something passed through his eyes—anger, perhaps, or even a spark of respect—but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. "A fair point," he conceded, though his tone was still cool, indifferent. "But I asked the question because I have my suspicions. I have been around power long enough to know when it is being manipulated."

"And you think I am manipulating things ?" You raised an eyebrow, the corner of your lips curling slightly. "Do you think I am playing some game with Emperor Geta ?"

Marcus studied you for a long moment, weighing his words carefully. "Not with him. No," he finally said, his voice quieter now, thoughtful. "But there’s something about you—something that doesn’t quite fit. You’ve saved him, and now, here you are, guiding the Empire’s future. It’s too much, too quickly. And that raises a question I’m sure others will ask soon enough: what is your endgame, Senator Y/N ?"

You could feel the tension in the air shift as his words hit their mark. He was waiting, expecting you to flinch, to reveal something of your true intentions. But you didn’t.

"I’m here to build, General Acacius," you told him with a smile. "Not to tear down. Geta is the Emperor. But he needs guidance, just as this Empire needs rebuilding. No one is perfect—not even him. And I think you, of all people, understand what it means to stand in the shadow of someone powerful."

Marcus’s gaze didn’t waver as he absorbed your words, his lips pressing into a thin line. "Perhaps," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "But no matter how much we build, the shadows always remain."

There was silence before he sighed.

"Do you really trust Geta ?" Marcus suddenly asked and your eyes widened slightly before you smiled again.

You didn’t hesitate. "I trust him with my life. And I trust him to change the Empire."

He narrowed his eyes at you and nodded slowly, though his expression remained guarded. "Then I suppose it is not my place to stop you. Just remember, even the best foundations can crack."

You held his gaze, knowing full well that he wasn’t just talking about stone and mortar, but the very heart of this Empire. You nodded.

"I’ll keep that in mind," you said quietly. "And as for you…you’re free to do as you will. But know this: you will do best to try apologising to Emperor Geta. Or you won’t live long enough to see this Empire we seek to build."

He looked at you for a moment longer, the weight of his years of service and betrayal hanging in his eyes, before he gave a barely perceptible nod. He knew your words were not a threat—but a reasonable advice.

"I will think about it. Let’s see how this plays out then," he murmured.

As the guards came back into the room to escort him out, you stayed silent, watching him leave the Senate chamber. Marcus Acacius might have been a traitor, but there was still something about him that demanded respect—something you couldn’t quite place.

…

The room was quiet, save for the faint rustle of the wind that slipped through the cracks of the ancient stone walls. The palace felt different now. The air felt heavier, as if every step taken within its halls echoed louder than it ever had before. You stood at the window, your hands resting lightly against the stone sill, gazing out into the courtyard below.

The memories of that day, so long ago, came rushing back with startling clarity. The image of you, scrubbing the floors—bare hands raw from the constant work, the dirt and grime of the palace now a distant echo in your mind. The fear in Geta’s eyes as he looked down at the angry mob outside, their roars deafening, their fury directed solely at him.

You remembered the dagger, its blade glinting as it had been thrust toward Geta, by his own brother Caracalla no less. You could still hear the words of Macrinus, offering you a bribe, promising you riches in exchange for your silence, a silence you had refused to give.

Now, the angry mob was gone. The palace was silent again, and so much had changed in the wake of those events. You had changed. You had risen from that moment, from the floor you had scrubbed with your hands, to where you stood now.

You unconsciously started rubbing the scar on your palm—the only proof you had left of the events that had occurred that day…

The wind blew gently, but you didn’t hear the footsteps that followed you. They were silent, deliberate. Only when Geta’s shadow fell across the window, casting a long silhouette behind you, did you finally feel the weight of his presence. He stood just behind you, yet he remained silent, watching you with a careful gaze.

You didn’t turn to face him immediately. Instead, you let the silence stretch for a moment, your thoughts still lingering on the memories of that day, of where it all began.

"It’s strange, isn’t it ?" you whispered. To yourself or to him ? You weren’t sure. "How things changed so much so quickly."

The breeze ruffled the strands/curls of your hair as you stood there, lost in the reflection of the past. You felt Geta move behind you as he followed your gaze and clasped his hands behind his back. There was something in the way he carried himself now—something that had shifted since you first met him…

Finally, his voice broke the silence. "I never thought I would be here," he confessed. "I never thought I would be the one to guide Rome on my own. To make decisions that affect the lives of so many. It was always meant to be me and my brother. But then…the disease touched him and…here I am."

You turned your head slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of him. The same man who had once stood before an angry mob, terrified for his life. The same man who had taken everything he could from those who tried to overthrow him. Now, he stood behind you—stronger, different.

But perhaps, still just as lost.

You smiled faintly, unable to hold back the thought. "I think you were always meant for the throne, Emperor Geta. You just didn’t know it yet."

He didn’t respond immediately, his gaze still fixed on you. But his silence said enough.

"I remember the day you were almost killed," you continued, still looking out the window, "and how you looked at me. It wasn’t fear of the mob—or even of the blade. It was fear of what came after." You paused for a moment, allowing the weight of your words to settle. "You had no one left, and you thought you would never have anyone to trust again."

Geta stepped closer, his breath warm against your neck as he leaned in. "And now ?"

You turned to face him fully now. "Now," you said, your smile faint but genuine, "you have me."

There was a quiet intensity in his eyes that made your breath hitch, you felt something unspoken between the two of you. It wasn’t the kind of power or control you both wielded now; it wasn’t about the Empire. It was something deeper, something born from the shared history, from what had been built from the ruins of what once was. For a moment, you both stood there, the quiet settling around you like a familiar comfort. The Empire, the Senate, all of it would continue, but this moment—this brief, fleeting second—belonged only to the two of you.

The silence between you deepened, and for a moment, time seemed to still in the presence of his words. The weight of the moment settled in, thick with meaning and unspoken truths. You felt the intensity of his gaze, the subtle but undeniable pull of the connection between you. Then, slowly, as if drawn by some invisible force, Geta reached for your arm. His fingertips brushed lightly against your skin, sending a ripple of warmth up your arm. His touch was gentle, almost hesitant, as if he were testing the waters, unsure of how his actions might be received. Yet, there was something undeniably intimate in his movements—deliberate and tender. With a soft, almost imperceptible smile, he guided your hand into his, the warmth of his fingers enveloping yours. Slowly, reverently, he lifted your hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of your knuckles.

He let your hand linger there for a moment, before pulling back slightly, his eyes never leaving yours.

"So far," he murmured, his eyes creasing a little as he smiled, "keeping you by my side was one of the best decisions I ever made."

The words hung in the air, their weight more profound than any political declaration, any law passed, or decision made in the Senate. They were a simple truth, quietly spoken but deeply felt. And for a moment, the Empire, the Senators, the struggles—they all seemed distant, irrelevant in comparison to the two of you, standing there in the quiet of the palace.

You smiled at him and he smiled back.

You then walked away together…his knuckles brushing against yours with each step you took. He would not take your hand—but it would always remain open for you.

…

A few days later

The warmth of a fever clung to you as you lay in your quarters, the usual sharpness in your thoughts dulled by the faint haze of illness. The bed felt unusually heavy, and even the lightest of movements seemed to drain more energy from you than you had expected. You had already sent a message to the council excusing your absence.

The hours passed slowly, and the gentle rustle of the wind through the curtains was the only sound accompanying your restless thoughts. You perhaps half-expected a brief acknowledgment from Geta, but not much else. After all, his duties as Emperor were demanding, and you were sure he wouldn’t have time for such a minor issue as your health.

That was, until you heard a knock on the door.

It was unexpected—no servant or messenger, but the familiar sound of someone who didn’t need to announce their presence.

You sat up in your bed to face the door just as it opened, and Emperor Geta entered. His usual imperial attire was absent, replaced by something simpler, more relaxed, as though he had abandoned his duties entirely to come to you.

"Emperor Geta ?" you murmured before rubbing your tired eyes, your voice weak, yet the sight of him brought a sense of comfort, despite the fever that had begun to make your skin burn. He stepped inside without a word, his gaze soft yet intense as it swept over you, taking in the sight of you in bed, looking less than your usual self. His brow furrowed, and without asking permission, he moved toward the bedside.

"You should have told me," he said quietly, though there was no anger in his tone—only a trace of concern that he couldn’t mask. He gently placed a hand on your forehead, testing the warmth of your fever. "This is serious. Why didn’t you send for me ?"

You swallowed, surprised by his genuine concern, unsure how to respond. "It’s nothing," you mumbled, though even you didn’t believe it. "Just a little fever. I didn’t want to disturb your day."

His lips tightened slightly, and without another word, he called for the healer who had been attending the palace. It was clear that his decision to cancel the meeting was final—his priority was here, with you, despite the weight of his responsibilities. As he waited for the healer, his eyes never left you, scanning your face for any sign of discomfort or pain.

"Rest," he commanded you with a soft sigh and started gently caressing your head. "I am not leaving until you feel better."

The words carried with them more than just a promise. It was a reassurance—one that settled in your chest. For the first time, the Emperor wasn’t just ruling the empire—he was taking care of someone he valued, and in his eyes, that was just as important. And as the healer arrived, Geta stayed by your side, the faint brush of his hand against yours comforted you.

The night was colder than usual, and when the healer left the fever that had been burning through your body left you shivering uncontrollably beneath the blankets. The chill in your limbs seemed to pierce deeper with every tremor, and you could feel the weight of exhaustion threatening to pull you under. Despite the warmth of the bed, it wasn’t enough to stave off the cold creeping through your skin. Your thoughts were foggy, and you tried to concentrate, but the fever seemed to cloud everything.

The door creaked softly, and you barely registered the figure that entered until you saw the silhouette of Emperor Geta in the doorway with a soup of some kind in his hand. His usual composure was replaced by a visible concern, his brow furrowed and his movements slow as he approached the bed. The soft glow from the candlelight highlighted the tiredness in his eyes, but also his concern.

"Emperor Geta," you whispered weakly, your voice still hoarse, "Please, do not come any closer. You will get sick."

You tried to push yourself further back against the bed, but the chill made it hard to move. You wanted to reassure him, but it seemed pointless. You had already seen the worry in his face, the way he was struggling to find the right words or the right thing to do in that moment. But instead of heeding your plea, he simply stepped closer and set down the soup. You thought he would leave then, but were surprised when he reached for the blanket, pulling it aside before sitting next to you on the bed. His gaze was steady and focused, he was clearly making a decision in his mind. Without a word, he finally moved to lie beside you, his body pressing gently against yours to share warmth, offering more comfort than words could.

You flinched slightly at the sudden closeness, trying to resist, but he was already there, wrapping his arm around you, pulling you back towards him. His warmth enveloped you, melting away the chill that had taken over your body. The heat of his skin was pure bliss, spreading through you with each passing second…

"I am not leaving," Geta muttered softly, a vow he uttered in the dead of night. His breath brushed against your ear, sending chills down your spine. "You are not alone. You never will be. I will stay by you—in sickness or in health. Always."

Your heart raced slightly in your chest, partly from the fever, but also from the intensity of his words. There was no room for argument; the way he held you told you that he wasn’t just staying because he was Emperor. He was staying because, despite the vast responsibilities that weighed on him, you mattered to him more than anything else at that moment.

You finally relaxed into his embrace, your body warming under the heat of his touch. The fever still burned in your veins, but somehow, with him beside you, it felt bearable. The cold tremors slowly began to subside, and you found yourself drifting, no longer fighting the fatigue. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat, the warmth of his body against yours, and the steady comfort he provided became a lullaby that soothed you into a light sleep…

…

The morning light filtered softly through the window, casting a gentle glow across the room. You stirred slightly, the remnants of the fever gone, but still wrapped in the comforting warmth that lingered. You didn’t remember falling asleep in Emperor Geta’s arms, nor did you remember him staying beside you throughout the night. Your mind was foggy, still caught between sleep and wakefulness.

In your drowsy state, you unconsciously snuggled closer, the warmth of his body feeling so natural, so comforting. His presence, though unusual, had become a source of solace, and in your half-consciousness, you allowed yourself to sink into that feeling without thinking. His steady breathing against your ear was reassuring, like a heartbeat that seemed to sync with your own.

You shifted slightly, your face pressing against the warmth of his chest, the sound of his heartbeat soft and steady beneath your ear.

But as your mind slowly cleared and your senses sharpened, something in the air shifted. You felt his presence more keenly now—felt the solid weight of his arm around your waist, his breath that brushed against your skin. It dawned on you with a jolt, like a sudden realization that had been lingering in the background.

Emperor Geta had stayed with you all night. The thought startled you for a moment, and your eyes fluttered open, now fully aware of the position you were in.

For a moment, there was an awkward stillness between you. Your heart skipped, your mind racing as you tried to process the closeness. Slowly, you looked up to see him lying there beside you, still asleep, his expression soft in the morning light. His features were no longer tense from worry or concern but relaxed, as if he had found some peace during the night. His arm remained loosely around you, holding you close. A part of you wanted to pull away, to put space between you both, but another part of you—the part that had learned to trust him—was content. You felt cared for in a way you hadn’t anticipated, and the comfort of that feeling outweighed any lingering embarrassment.

You let out a soft sigh, pressing your face back into his chest for a moment, briefly letting yourself forget the weight of the world outside the room.

After a moment however, you disentangled yourself slowly from his side, careful not to disturb his peaceful slumber. The gentle warmth of the night still clung to you as you rose and gathered your thoughts. Your mind churned with uncertainty: you had given so much of yourself to help him—guided him, supported him, stood by him in both triumph and turmoil—but deep down, you wondered if the man who had once needed you so desperately might finally grow independent. What if, in time, he no longer needed the steady presence you provided ?

Unable to shake the gnawing doubt, you wrapped yourself in a cloak and slipped away before the light of dawn could reveal your departure. You made your way through the quiet corridors of the palace, your footsteps echoing softly as you left behind the warm intimacy of your quarters.

Outside, the chill of early morning reminded you that change was in the air. You headed towards the temple of Hera—a sacred space that had always lent its quiet strength and wisdom to those in need of guidance. The temple, perched on a gentle hill overlooking the city, was renowned for its serene beauty. Carved from white marble and adorned with ivy and fragrant blossoms, it offered a haven from the clamor of politics and power.

Inside the temple’s cool, shadowed sanctuary, incense curled through the air like whispered prayers. Statues of Hera, the goddess of marriage and commitment, watched over you with solemn, compassionate eyes. Kneeling before the altar, you closed your eyes and let your thoughts spill out, all the doubts and unasked questions.

"I have given my all," you murmured softly, your voice echoing off the stone walls. "I have stood beside my Emperor…But what if my place, once indispensable, is no longer required ? What if he no longer needs me ?"

For long moments, only the soft sound of your breathing and the distant rustle of leaves accompanied your confession. You reached out and traced the smooth surface of the altar, as if seeking an answer through touch. You also left an offering on the pile that had accumulated over the years. In that silence, you felt the gentle pulse of the temple—a quiet reminder that even in times of uncertainty, the divine offered solace. Though no voice answered you aloud, you sensed that Hera’s presence was not indifferent. She embodied the strength of unions—both forged in love and in duty—and the wisdom to understand that every bond has its own pace of evolution.

A single beam of light broke through a high window, illuminating a carved inscription on the wall: In trust and time, all souls find their rightful place.

Your eyes widened at the cryptic message and your heart hammered in your chest. Perhaps what had started as necessity would transform into a deeper bond, or perhaps it would eventually fade into memory, replaced by new alliances. But for now, you had to believe that your worth was not measured by his need alone. It was in the strength of your conviction, in the power of your own light that you shone so brightly amidst the darkness.

You rose slowly, your heart steadied by this quiet epiphany.

You then promptly left the temple of Hera, a gentle smile on your lips—a silent promise to yourself that you would continue to build not only for the Empire but for the life you were forging, step by step, day by day. You returned to the palace, only to hear Emperor Geta enraged:

"WHERE IS SHE ?!"

You froze as you heard the sharp, unmistakable sound of Emperor Geta’s voice. You hurried back to the palace, stepping swiftly through the ornate halls, each step increasing the pounding of your heart. What could have happened to make him so angry ? You hadn’t been gone long—just a brief visit to the temple to clear your mind. Surely, it wouldn’t be for that reason that his voice raised so loud as to reach outside the palace’s walls…As you rounded the corner, you saw Emperor Geta standing in the middle of the hallway, his normally composed features twisted with agitation. Scared servants had their head down and were shaking as shards of broken vases covered the floor. His eyes locked on you, and the moment he saw you, his expression darkened further.

"Where have you been ?!" His voice was strained and his eyes glassy. "Do you have any idea what’s been going on in the palace ? I’ve had every guard looking for you. I’ve had people sent to every corner of the city. You just disappear without a word, and leave me to wonder—"

You stepped forward, trying to find the right words to calm him, to explain. But before you could speak, his eyes softened for just a brief moment, the anger in them fading, replaced by an unmistakable sense of relief.

"Where did you go ?" he repeated, quieter this time, though still on edge.

"I—I needed to think," you explained, your voice gentle, attempting to calm him down. "I went to the Hera’s temple to ask for guidance. Forgive me, my Emperor. I did not mean to worry you."

There was a long pause as Geta looked at you, his gaze searching, as though he were trying to understand—or perhaps find a lie in your eyes. Then, with a suddenness that startled you, he stepped toward you and reached for your arms, his fingers curling around your wrists as if afraid you might slip away again.

"Do not do that again," he told you and you could see how concerned he truly was as his hands were trembling. His eyes were full of emotion—concern, frustration, and something deeper that you hadn’t expected. "You think I do not care ? That I wouldn’t notice your absence ?"

You felt a pang in your chest, unsure of how to respond. You’d known him as a ruler, a man of authority, but never like this. This was the Emperor you had helped to shape, the one who had relied on you, who had entrusted you with his future. And now…he was afraid of losing you. You met his gaze, your heart racing as you gently pulled your wrists free from his grasp, taking a step back to create space between you.

"I am sorry, Emperor Geta," you apologised sincerely and raised a hand to your chest. "I truly did not mean to make you worry. I just wished to go pray at the temple. But I am here now, and I am fine."

His eyes searched yours, his expression torn between anger and the relief of finding you safe and sound. He took a deep breath, trying to regain some control over his emotions, but his hand remained stretched toward you.

"You belong here," he told you, or to himself. "Do not leave me…I will not allow it."

Your eyes widened as he suddenly marched towards you to embrace you tightly. You were clearly taken aback and it took a moment before returning his hug.

"I won’t leave," you promised, your voice steady and reassuring. "Not unless you want me to."

The anger melted away and after a few seconds, he stepped back and quickly turned away from you to discreetly wipe away a few tears.

"You do not know what you mean to me," he whispered and turned back towards you. His gaze softened, his lips parting slightly as he was searching for the right words. Finally, he exhaled slowly, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. "You mean everything, Y/N."

Your breath caught in your throat.

No title. No formalities. Just your name, bare and reverent on his lips.

He stepped toward you once more—slower this time, hesitant, as though he feared you might vanish again if he moved too quickly. His hand reached out, hovering near yours, before brushing his fingers against your knuckles.

"I thought I could control it," he admitted quietly. "This thing inside me—this rage, this fear. But I cannot. Not when it comes to you. You…contain my rage, you make me feel safe, you…complete me."

You watched him, stunned into silence. His shoulders, always so square and commanding, seemed to sag under the weight of the words he had long kept buried. The Emperor of Rome, ruler of legions, shaper of empires—was now just a man before you, desperate not to lose the one person who made him feel like something more than a crown and sword.

"I have faced betrayal," he murmured and closed his eyes, "treachery from my blood, from men who swore oaths to me…but none of it hurt like the thought of you disappearing from my side."

He paused.

"Tell me," he whispered, "Will you betray me too ?"

Your heart thundered in your chest, unsure whether it was the rawness of his confession or the fragile crack in his voice that unraveled you most. Slowly, gently, you reached up and cupped his face, your thumb brushing the dampness beneath his eye.

"No," you breathed. "Never, my Emperor."

He closed his eyes at your touch, exhaling as though he hadn’t allowed himself to breathe since you left. His hands came up to rest over yours.

"I do not want to be alone anymore," he confessed, a whisper against your fingertips. "I am tired of this weighing loneliness, my friend. I cannot handle another betrayal or treason. It would be too much. Too much…"

He opened his eyes again, locking them with yours.

"Stay with me, Y/N. I beg of you."

His thumb trembled slightly against your wrist, still waiting.

You didn’t answer right away. How could you, when the world had just narrowed down to the space between your two hearts? His gaze was still locked with yours, fierce and full of pain—of longing—and for a moment, the great palace around you fell silent, the weight of Rome itself waiting on your next breath.

You nodded, your voice trembling just beneath the surface of your throat. "I will stay. For as long as you need me, I will be there, my Emperor."

For a moment, the words hung there, suspended between you, fragile and sacred. You watched his expression shift—like stone thawing into flesh—as the tension in his shoulders slowly unraveled.

His brow furrowed, not with anger now, but with emotion he no longer tried to hide. And then—almost cautiously—he leaned forward, resting his forehead gently against yours. His breath mingled with yours, warm and uneven.

"You give me peace," he whispered, "in a world where peace is a stranger."

His voice trembled, and you weren’t sure if he was holding back tears or simply trying to not break in your arms. You felt his fingers tighten gently around your wrists.

"I do not want a throne if it means ruling alone. So stay," he repeated. "Not because I command it. But because I need you here—with me."

A single heartbeat passed.

Then another.

And you leaned into him, whispering, "I will, my Emperor. And not only because you need me, but because I want to."

His breath hitched, and his hand moved from your wrist to your waist, holding you like a man who had lost everything and finally found the one thing he could not afford to lose.

No more words passed between you after that. They weren’t needed. Not when his embrace said everything. But then, he sniffled and forced himself out of your arms.

"G-Get back to work. We have much to do. Come." He walked away promptly and…you didn’t dare question or deny him.

…

At the end of the day…

You sat quietly on the edge of your bed, the soft flicker of candlelight casting long shadows on the walls. Your fingers traced absentmindedly along the fabric of your sheets as you replayed Geta’s words from this morning over and over in your mind.

You mean everything.

What did that mean exactly ? You had spent so long by his side, watching him grow into the Emperor he was today. You had helped him rise into a greater emperor than anyone could have ever imagined, but this—this was different. The Emperor had always been composed, controlled, and distant. But today, there had been a rawness in his words, something profound that you hadn’t expected.

The weight of his admission settled heavily in the pit of your stomach. Did he truly mean it ? Could he have meant it the way you were starting to think ? As a ruler, he needed you—of course, that was clear. But as a man ? Did he need you in a way that went beyond the Empire ? Did he care for you in a way that transcended political necessity or gratitude for a life saved ?

You couldn’t deny the pull between you two. His touch had been tentative, yet full of yearning when he had held your wrist, his voice softer than usual when he had said those words.

You mean everything.

Those words hadn’t been like any other command or declaration you had heard from him. But what did it mean ? Was it a confession of love ? A plea for reassurance ? Or simply an acknowledgment of your importance to his reign ?

You let out a deep sigh and leaned back against the headboard, staring up at the ceiling. The room seemed to close in around you, the silence pressing down with the weight of the unanswered question. You had told yourself that your place was beside him—supporting him, guiding him. But now, the lines between loyalty and something deeper had blurred. The uncertainty gnawed at you.

You wanted to believe him, wanted to believe that he saw you as more than a tool, more than a pawn in his game of power. But after everything, could you trust that what you shared went beyond strategy and ambition ?

You rolled onto your side, curling up into the blankets. As you closed your eyes, the words echoed in your mind once more.

You mean everything.

But what did that really mean for you ? What did it mean for him ?

#fandoms #imagine #fanfic #emperor geta x reader #emperor geta #gladiator 2

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juniper-sunny · 6 months ago

Text

The Art in the Heart* - Chapter 6

It's Silco's turn to give you an invitation, and you're not quite sure what answer to give him. Then something chases you through the dark corners of the Undercity—and you end up somewhere unexpected...

Happy Ending AU | Silco x Reader | Young!Silco | F!Reader | No [Y/N] | Slow Burn | Romance | Eventual Smut | Fluff | Angst | Hurt/Comfort | Fix-It || SFW | TW: Stalking | WC: 4.1k

beta reader: @silcoitus <333

ao3 || Masterlist || Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5

───────────────── ●◉◎◈◎◉● ─────────────────

Even though you told Silco you’re not painting today, you still have to check on the mural. When you arrive at your worksite, you lift the plastic sheeting and rest your palm gingerly against the wall; the rough stone is cool but dry to the touch. The colors seem a bit dim in the overcast weather, but the paint is still intact. It looks like your protective measures were successful.

The desire to linger persists, though. You extend the scissor lift higher to reach the rooftop, climbing up onto the ledge. You lean forward, kicking your feet against the wall. Staring out into nothing and shivering at the cold air that blows through your clothes.

Silco’s sleepover was already a significant disruption to your usual routine, but that’s not the only reason you feel disoriented. It’s been a while since you’ve made a new friend, and the buzzing excitement is enhanced by how much you have in common with him.

Unfortunately, it’s tainted by anxiety about the heist. According to the papers, the shipment will be arriving in two weeks. It seems unlikely that you’ll see Silco before then.

Still, you can’t help but wonder. Should you go looking for him? It would be a change of pace if you were the one to initiate contact for once. Would he find that refreshing? Or would he think you’re coming on too strong?

Something tells you he wouldn’t want to be disturbed during the planning phase of the raid. It’s an important mission, but he doesn’t have a lot of time to prepare for it. Maybe it’s better to leave him alone for now; he knows where to find you if he can make time for a visit.

These thoughts and more circle your mind like Poros chasing each other. You probably would have sat there for even longer, but a light raindrop taps your cheek. When you look up to the sky, the clouds are blotting out the sky, heavy trails of dark blue and gray ink swirling above your head.

As you wipe your face, the back of your neck tingles, goosebumps rising as your hair stands on end. The chill at the base of your skull isn’t caused by the weather.

Someone is standing behind you.

“Silco?” you call out, turning around in surprise.

You almost don’t hear it over your own voice and the rumble of thunder: a mechanical click and whirring, low like a buzzing insect. Simultaneously, a blinding, white flash bursts in your face, burning into your retinas.

As you squeeze your eyes shut, footsteps patter away; metal clanking echoes in the distance as something jumps onto rooftops. When your eyes readjust, you carefully jump off the ledge onto the roof.

“Who’s there?” you say in a small, quivering voice.

But you’re all alone. Whoever that person was, they’re long gone by now. You pull your jacket tighter around you. You’re just about to leave when you spot something small floating to the ground.

Curiosity gets the better of you, and you walk over to the thing and pick it up. It’s thin, glossy, and square, artificially smooth and warm to the touch. There are undefined shapes on it, blurred edges slowly sharpening into focus as the dull gray smears become stained with color.

The shock of what you’re looking at almost makes you drop it.

It’s a picture of you, your face blurred as you’re turning to look over your shoulder. But it has your clothes and your hair color, framed by a cloudy sky.

On instinct, you crumple the picture and stuff it into your pocket. Your body moves on its own, climbing onto the scissor lift and running away.

Stalkers aren’t unusual in Zaun, but their presence is still unnerving. No one’s ever followed you this closely before, and the picture proves that their issue with you is personal.

Instead of heading home, you make your way Topside. You had meant to go shopping for new art supplies, and now seems as good a time as any. Hopefully you’ll be able to lose them in the streets of Piltover, where there’ll be more scrutinizing eyes.

This one time, you’re grateful that Pilties are so judgmental of people from the Undercity; if you’re being watched like a hawk, they’ll be able to spot whoever’s stalking you. So you take your time browsing in an art store, not bothering to step away from the shop attendants that shadow your every footstep. It's late and raining hard by the time you finally leave. When you step out and take several careful, cautious steps, the tingling sensation doesn’t come back. You start walking faster to take advantage of your pursuer’s absence.

On the second full day without rain, you return to the mural. But just as you pry open a can of paint, the feeling strikes you again. This time, your scalp tingles and stings painfully, as the stalker seemingly observes you from the rooftops. You jam the can’s lid back in place and run away again.

For days after, they don’t come back. But those close calls are enough to make you dread going to work. You keep your sessions short just in case you need to flee. The shorter workdays aren’t a problem for now, as you’re still laying down the base coat for the mural. However, longer sessions can’t be avoided when painting the finer details, as they’ll require focus and precision.

The fear of being stalked embeds itself into the very air around you, making you hyperaware of your surroundings. It doesn’t help that your nights have become restless, disturbed by nightmares of faceless figures towering over you and footsteps growing louder and louder as they approach you.

Still, you’re determined to not let your newfound paranoia get the best of you, especially on the day after the raid. Silco had promised that he would find you, after all, so you steel yourself and head out to the mural.

To your immense relief, Silco is already there waiting for you, a triumphant grin on his face blazing like the sun. All your worries fall away as you rush to the scissor lift, impatiently slamming the button that extends it to the roof. During the ascent, you take a deep breath to calm your hammering heartbeat, hoping to regain some semblance of dignity.

As you pull yourself up and over the ledge, Silco extends a hand out to you. You take it, savoring the feel of his calluses and scars, solid and rough as you find your footing. He lets go of you all too soon to rummage in his backpack. You shove your own hand in your pocket, squeezing reflexively.

“We were right about the shipment,” he says excitedly, pulling a bottle of wine out of his backpack. “Noxian goods were just some of the many illegal imports we found last night. The councilor’s in trouble.”

“Hello to you too, Silco,” you say, laughing with relief. “Are you okay?”

The fire in his eyes diminishes to something softer, a warm hearth as he looks at you properly now with appreciation. But his smile widens as he holds out the wine to you.

“We prevailed thanks to you,” he says proudly. “It isn’t much, but we wanted you to enjoy your share of the spoils.”

“Oh—” you say, surprised. “You didn’t have to—”

“Is this not enough? We have much more stashed away—” he asks.

“No, no,” you shake your head, hesitating. “I—I just need to hear you say that you’re okay.”

He doesn’t tell you those exact words, but instead launches into a grand retelling of last night’s events: staking out the warehouse for hours, bribing some of the less disciplined guards, knocking the rest of them out, hurrying away with as much cargo as they could carry, and dumping the rest of it in the harbor. He puts down the wine bottle and pulls a flask out from his pockets, toasting to the Children’s victory.

His tale is probably a very thrilling one, and you’ll have to ask Silco to tell it again someday.

But right now, your attention is focused on his sleeves; despite the warm weather, he has them pulled almost all the way down to his wrist, bandaging peeking out like a dog sneaking into a dining room for table scraps.

When he holds the flask out for you to take, you instead seize his left wrist, shoving the sleeve up as high as you can. His entire forearm is bandaged past his elbow; it’s not unusual for him to accessorize with unnecessary bindings, but he hisses in pain from your manhandling.

You handle him more carefully now, fingers lightly grazing over the makeshift wrapping. The cloth is gray and dirty, smeared with dirt and coal dust. A tight, stubborn knot in the crook of his elbow refuses to untangle despite your best attempts to press your thumbs into its crevices.

“Dummy,” you say, exasperated. When you let go of him, he pulls his forearm close, rubbing it gingerly. “You broke your promise.”

“What do you mean?” he asks defiantly.

You climb over to your scissor lift and grab your bag, placing it carefully on the ledge. After pulling out a first-aid kit, you wave at him to come closer, scolding him gently, “You promised you’d stay safe.”

“There are always mishaps in battle,” he fires back, but there’s no malice in his voice. “And I’m here in one piece, aren’t I?”

“I’ll be more specific next time.” You roll your eyes and gesture again. “Besides, if you die of infection then that will count as you breaking your promise.”

“My own well-being is of no importance—” he protests.

“Silco…” You glare at him. “Don’t you ever say that again.”

His eyes widen in surprise at the anger in your voice. He’s almost meek when he finally steps forward, extending his forearm out to you. You take the flask from him and put it on the ledge next to your kit.

“What happened?” you ask, pulling out a pair of scissors to cut off the knot. You unwrap the dressing slowly, peeling it away layer by layer. On his arm is a long, jagged cut, almost spanning the entire length of his forearm. Another shorter cut closer to his wrist runs parallel to the first one. Neither are very deep, with dried flecks of blood already crusting at the edges of the wounds. His fingers are cut up as well, with tiny nicks at the joints that have already scabbed over.

“Climbed out of a broken window,” he says dismissively. When you narrow your eyes at him, he says defensively. “Time was of the essence—”

You sigh. “I know.”

Your first-aid kit is an expensive, deluxe product from a Topside pharmacy, stocked for almost every kind of emergency. First, you use a sanitizer on your own hands, making sure to meticulously scrub underneath your fingernails. Then, you carefully pour clean water onto a sterile cloth, just enough to dampen it but not soak it.

You look up at Silco apologetically. “Sorry, this might hurt a little.”

Carefully, carefully, you dab away at the caked dirt and blood on Silco’s arm and fingers. To his credit, he’s a good patient, enduring your administrations without complaint. He winces when a particularly stubborn scab refuses to chip away, his tendons flexing involuntarily. When it finally does, a tiny droplet of blood oozes out.

“It’s a good thing you don’t need stitches,” you remark as you finish wiping up. You pull out a fresh roll of bandaging and start wrapping his forearm securely, but not too tightly. The cuts on his fingers have healed enough that they don’t need to be covered.

“That’s quite a shame; I would have welcomed the scars,” he jokes.

When you secure the wrapping at his elbow, you slide your hand down his arm, assessing your handiwork. The dressing’s grainy bumpiness gives way to Silco’s rough skin as your hand reaches his palm.

Reluctantly, you start to pull away, but he squeezes your hand appreciatively, his thumb sweeping across the back of your hand.

You can’t help but squeeze him back. His palm feels warm against yours, your own skin molding against his calluses.

“I missed you,” he says lightly. But when you look up, his eyes are sincere, turquoise waters as clear as a fountain. “I’m sorry I couldn’t meet you before the raid. But I would like to ask: did you make any effort to find me?”

You look away, mouth suddenly dry. His intense and earnest gaze has your legs feeling unsteady. “I didn’t want to bother you.”

(Also, you weren’t sure how closely your stalker was following you. You would never forgive yourself if they followed you straight to his doorstep.)

“I appreciate your thoughtfulness,” he chuckles.

You purse your lips at him, annoyed; he didn’t deny that a visit from you would be bothersome. You open your mouth to tease him, trying too late to stave off your rising embarrassment.

But before you can speak, he reaches out with his free hand to tuck a lock of your hair behind your ear. His fingertips linger on the shell, tracing the shape of it all the way down to your lobe. His touch is gentle, a soft and tender caress.

Wild heat blooms under your skin at his touch, no doubt spreading across the rest of your face and neck.

You yank your hand out of his grasp and jerk back, hitting your first-aid kid with your elbow. It falls sideways off the ledge and you catch it just before it hits the ground. Some of the supplies within tumble out, rolling across the roof.

“You’ll—uh—you’ll probably need painkillers for those cuts—I’ll get you some—uh—some pills and stuff later,” you stammer out. You seize the opportunity to look away from him, leaning over the ground to pick up the fallen items. “What about your friends? Are they okay?”

“They’re alright, thank you for asking.” He crouches down to help you pick up a roll of gauze. When he holds it out to you, you swipe it from him, careful to avoid touching him directly. He frowns, a little notch sinking between his eyebrows, but he doesn’t remark on your sudden skittishness. “In fact, they’ve expressed interest in making your acquaintance.”

“Huh?” You were about to grab a container of sterile water when you stop, hand still outstretched in midair.

Silco picks it up for you and puts it away in your kit. “They wish to express their gratitude, as I have mine. Your aid was a monumental factor in the raid’s success.”

After craning his neck around you to look for more medical supplies, he stands up. With the kit fully reassembled, he zips it shut, putting it back inside your bag. You get to your own feet as he turns to face you, leaning casually against the ledge.

“Our preparations were more than adequate due to your intelligence,” he says solemnly, looking straight at you. “I do not mean it lightly when I say you helped save many lives that night.”

“Oh…” You fold your arms, hugging yourself against a sudden breeze. It ruffles Silco’s hair, and he pushes his bangs out of his face. “I just took some pictures, that’s all.”

“All it takes to set off an avalanche is a pebble,” he says. “We struck a single blow against Topside last night. And we’re going to do it again and again until they finally fall at our feet.”

“Don’t call me a pebble just because I’m shorter than you,” you joke.

“We’re all ‘dirty little animals’ living in Topside’s shadow,” he smiles ironically at you. “We ought to stand united because of that. If you ever find yourself at our doors, they will always be open to you.”

“Hmm… The Last Drop is in the Lanes, right?” you ask. The name of the Children’s headquarters is common knowledge, but you’ve never been there yourself.

He nods. “I could lead you there, if you like.”

“I’m good, thanks,” you say quickly. “I’ll think about it.”

Silco grins at your answer. You bite your tongue, unwilling to dampen his mood by voicing your reservations.

So far, you have no regrets in helping Silco, but opening yourself up to an organization of strangers is a different story. If they learn about your connections to the Council, the other Children might want to exploit them.

What would Silco do in that instance? Would he stand by your choice to remain uninvolved? Or would he also pressure you to officially join their cause? He seemed respectful enough of your decision during the sleepover, but you wonder if his friends would change his mind.

Silco picks up his flask again and unscrews it open. When he offers it to you, you take it automatically, still lost in your own thoughts as you take a sip. Instead of water, the tart taste of the Noxian wine floods your mouth. Caught off-guard by the alcohol, you cough and choke. He laughs and thumps you on the back.

You don’t get any painting done at all today. Instead, you both relax, talking about everything and nothing. Silco shows you some knife tricks, his own smile as sharp and shiny as the blade dancing through the air. You make up more stories about the dark-haired woman you’re painting.

He visits you at least once a week after that. Each time he does, the fear of being stalked fades away. Maybe it’s because the harasser is scared off by his presence, or you just feel safe around Silco. Either way, his visits never fail to cheer you up. You enjoy his company, and you pay polite attention every time he launches into a monologue about the Undercity’s future. His seemingly endless well of ambition means that he always has some new insights to share. At least these conversations distract you from darker thoughts about your stalker.

One day, you tell him that you have errands to run in the Undercity. You try to ask him as casually as possible if he wants to accompany you; you’re just interested in hanging out again later, nothing more and nothing less. When he declines, you let some lighthearted disappointment show, but hide the sinking dread that sinks through your chest and into your stomach.

But maybe you’ll get lucky. After all, the underground never sleeps, its children traversing the alleys at all hours of the night. They might provide enough cover for you to slip undetected to your destination.

________________________________________

You should have known better than to be optimistic.

It might be easier to lose your stalker in the crowded streets, but that also means it’s harder to pinpoint what direction they’re coming from.

Every conversation you overhear seems to be about you.

When you sidestep a pair of men wearing long capes and pointy Ionian hats, their sideways glance at you seems to linger unnervingly.

A weapons vendor catches your eye and he smirks at you, licking one of his knives before he stabs his table with it.

Silhouettes in windows point at you before disappearing from view.

As much as you dodge and sneak through the lanes, you can’t outrun the sense of impending doom that chases you.

Your palms are sweaty.

Your breath is loud and fast in your ears.

Blood drains from your veins to be replaced by a howling anxiety.

Your heart beats a rapid and running pace that the whole of the Lanes can hear.

Colors and noises swirl together in a dizzying and incomprehensible spiral.

When you sidestep into an alleyway around the corner from a fruit stall to catch your breath, you review your options. You could head straight to the elevators, but that still runs the risk of the stalker following you home. If you wait it out at Babette’s, they might charge you a premium for a room, especially if you have no intention of spending time with any of her employees.

You’re forced back onto the streets when the stall’s vendor yells at you to get away from his merchandise unless you’re buying. You swiftly step around him, keeping your gaze locked forward. Even in your compromised state, you can’t afford to look weak.

An unmarked, large, multi-story building at the end of the street seems safe enough. It lies at the junction of three different avenues, and you speedwalk through the open courtyard as fast as you can. The edifice is painted over in flaking shades of orange and brown, revealing rusted gray and turquoise steel underneath. Curlicues of metal pipes encircle the front door artistically, iron vines crawling up the walls reaching up towards the sky.

The establishment seems to be a pub of some kind. Most of the chairs are filled, patrons drinking or lounging at tables and booths. You sidestep a tall woman dragging a babbling man out by the collar. From the muted smack of flesh on steel and squeals of pain, the woman used the man’s face to push open the door. You can’t help but chuckle under your breath as you make a beeline for her recently vacated booth, enticing worn red fabric welcoming you as you scoot in to observe the other customers.

Low music leaks out of a brightly lit jukebox by the entrance. The furniture looks handmade, all made of sturdy wood with metal trimmings at the joints. Tables of mismatched sizes and shapes are spread unevenly throughout the room, seemingly moved around at the patrons’ whims. Exposed lightbulbs cast warm, yellow light, illuminating assorted portraits and posters on the walls. Worn brick peeks out from underneath peeling wallpaper. Wooden barrels sit in quiet corners.

A tall, burly man stands behind a counter, wiping it down. A wide selection of various alcoholic drinks occupies a glass shelf above him.

In a more peaceful world, this place could be… cozy. Some patrons allow themselves to slouch in their chairs, even though their hands never stray too far from belted knives. One man has fallen asleep in his cups, but nobody bothers him or his pockets. A group of rowdy friends laugh and encourage each other at one of the pool tables.

“Hey.” The tall woman you walked past steps in front of you, blocking your view of the bar. She’s muscular and tough, a bright red poncho draped proudly around her shoulders. Her short dark hair is tied neatly back in a half up-do, almost girlish except for the dark scowl carved into her face. “You’re in my seat.”

You finally glance down at the table, only just now noticing an almost-empty glass of orange alcohol and a half-full ashtray in front of you, still warm from recent use.

“Sorry,” you say hastily.

You slide out of the booth as quickly as you can, scanning for an empty table. The woman’s energy tells you that she could have just as easily picked you up and thrown you to the floor, and you’re thankful that she opted to evict you more politely.

She raises an appraising eyebrow at you. You draw your hood lower over your eyes, avoiding her gaze.

“If you grab me a drink, I’ll let you sit here.” She takes a seat in the booth, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of her pocket, still staring at you. “You look like you need it.”

“Thanks,” you say quietly, relieved.

“Tell him Sevika wants her usual,” the woman says, jerking her head at the barman.

You make your way to the counter, leaning against it. When you place your hands on its edge, it’s cool to the touch, polished to a brilliant shine. You crane your neck to look for the bartender; he’s at the far end of the counter, finishing up with another customer.

Just as you raise your hand to catch his attention, he spots you. He slaps a towel over his shoulder and saunters over to you.

“Never seen you ‘round here before, miss,” he says, curious. The glass he picks up looks tiny in his massive, boulder-like hands. He holds it out to you flirtatiously, his wink as shiny as the spotless glassware.

“It’s my first time here,” you say politely, taking the glass from him. You put it down carefully in front of you. “Can I get Sevika’s usual, please?”

He nods, a slow grin spreading across his wide cheeks. He pushes his short brown hair out of his face before he grabs a second cup. When he grabs a bottle of orange liquor from a shelf, you belatedly realize that you have no idea how much drinks cost here.

“Does she have a tab?” You pat down your pockets, groaning internally at your carelessness.

The bartender ignores your question, instead pouring both glasses half-full with a flourish.

“Oh, nothing for me, thanks,” you protest.

“It’s on the house, sweetheart,” he says cheerfully. “Welcome to The Last Drop.”

───────────────── ●◉◎◈◎◉● ─────────────────

If you liked this fic, please reblog and/or leave a comment! <3

Chapter 7

#Arcane #Arcane fanfic #Silco #Arcane Silco #Silco Arcane #Silco x Reader #my writing #The Art in the Heart #TAITH #tw stalking #stalking tw

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multiheadcanons · 3 months ago

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MERC’S DREAM DATES. HAPPY VALENTINES DAY

scout: he has dreamed about a picnic date since he was young. he understands that realistically, they’re not practical. if you go when the weather’s too hot, you have to deal with the bugs, but if you go in the winter, it’s freezing outside. but still, there are days he walks outside and thinks “man… today would be a good day for a picnic.” he just thinks about having a picnic with a various assortment of little sandwiches, and some wine with someone he really likes. it’s just a nice thought for him.

soldier: he doesn’t dream about dates. any time spent together exclusively is a date. anything you both enjoy doing is a good time. hell, you could join him on the battlefield and he’ll be so happy to see you that it’ll be a great time for him regardless. soldier is a big quality time guy. and he will take quantity over quality. if you go shopping with him and him alone at the grocery store that’s a date to him. did you like it? he did.

pyro: pyro has grand dreams. pyro would like to wake up to a note saying to get dressed and look pretty by 10:30. pyro will put on the newest flame retardant suit they have and their newest gloves. maybe put a hat on. they’ll step outside at 10:25 and a car, driven by you, will be waiting. you’ll start at the zoo. they’ll try not to set it on fire. they love the animals. they will chat excitedly about the animals for as long as you let them, well into lunch at a window seat in a sunny cafe. at this point, if pyro isn’t called away for work, and you’re not having to hightail them back to the base, then they might ask for a pit stop at a park, or a botanical garden before you take them home, and you’ll kiss their hand as they leave. they like to be home before nightfall, because they like to be able to think about it all day and try to get it off their mind to sleep.

demo: demo loves the jazz clubs, so if he wants to take you anywhere where he’s fairly certain you’ll both have a good time he’s taking you to the jazz club. the only time he’ll actually pay for drinks there. intimate conversation in dim lighting, the dulcet tones of the horn with the dull burn of the liquor… it’s smooth, it’s refined, and it’s a surefire way to wrap him around your finger.

heavy: another guy who thinks that you two spending time together without anyone disrupting it is a date. his favorites are the ones where you sit together and read and don’t say anything. get close to him! lean against him while you read, he’ll get a little flustered, but it’ll warm his heart, truly. if he’s really confident he’ll pull you closer himself. give your shoulder a little rub, and go back to his book. it’s just a moment that he feels at peace. just him, you, and a book. it’s lovely. he wouldn’t mind doing this again.

engineer: engie never gets to go out and actually do the weird specific things that he enjoys himself. just get in the car and ask where he wants to go, he’ll just start taking you places. a sandwich shop he hasn’t been to in years, a very specific hardware store that got a new shipment of bolts in that are supposed to be ionized specifically so that the heat that comes from intense manual radiation doesn’t melt it down, a stop at a shitty dive bar in an alley that is by all means not transverseable, but he’s happy to give you a boost over the fence. he might get a little too toasty to get you back over the fence, but he’ll figure it out if you can’t. you’re not gonna get left behind! and everywhere he goes, everyone knows his name. can’t make it more than twenty feet without someone stopping him for a quick chat.

medic: bring a bottle of wine and a body part generator and let him go crazy. he’s gonna spin a wheel and then you’re gonna get on that table and he’s gonna start cutting until he finds something interesting he wants to pull out of you. and he’ll chat the entire time. there’s something about him bringing a blood stained wine glass, or a wine stained blood glass depending on how long you’ve been on the table, to his lips and watching him wipe off some kind of red liquid from his mouth that’s quite cute, particularly if he’s been nice and let you have a few sips here and there. once he’s about three glasses in you might want to get him out of your cavities, though. from there he’s drunk and he’s just digging around. there’s not even a scalpel in his hand, he’s just literally rearranging your organs to see if there’s a better way to fit it all inside. spoiler alert, there isn’t, you are not the first patient he’s tried this on.

sniper: snipes doesn’t want a date. snipes wants a honeymoon. he wants to be flown out somewhere, anywhere that is not the americas, and he wants to go wander until he feels less lost in strange lands. he would consider an episode of naked and afraid proposal worthy. being under the sun all day, and the stars all night. it’s where he feels comfortable. and to be out there with someone else is always nice. even if he has to carry you through it sometimes. he still enjoys it. enjoys hunting for two. he likes feeling that level of responsibility on his shoulders sometimes. not all the time, he’d be even happier if you weren’t too bad at butchering. the only thing he likes more than the feeling of sole responsibility is the feeling of shared responsibility for survival. you might be exhausted by the end of it, but he will never look better.

spy: spy’s dream date is you both laying in bed. spy doesn’t really allow himself to laze a day away. he always will find something to do. so the idea of him being told no, stay in bed and relax today, there’s nothing he’s absolutely needed for, he gets incredibly tickled. bored, but thoroughly satisfied. the day is filled with idle chatter and bedside cigarettes and the fickle dreams of sunlight bathed sleep. it’s not an exciting time by any means, but it’s one of the best times he can think of. just a day of peace and serenity in the years of chaos to come.

#i took myself out and they have the HORNIEST playlist on at the sushi place rn #team fortress 2 #team fortress two #tf2 sniper #tf2 medic #tf2 heavy #tf2 scout #tf2 soldier #tf2 spy #tf2 engineer #tf2 demo #tf2 pyro #tf2 demoman

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northern-passage · 1 year ago

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Read the full call to action here.

Tomorrow, November 29th, the International Day of Solidarity with the Palestinian People, the #BDS movement is calling for an all day social media storm. Our physical and digital actions can be used together to strengthen our demands: Permanent ceasefire and lifting the siege to stop Israel’s genocide in Gaza. Lawful sanctions on Israel, including a #MilitaryEmbargo. Pressure on the International Criminal Court (ICC) to issue arrest warrants for Israeli leaders. Click here for prepared messages and images to use for the social media storm. Over the last 7 weeks, millions of you have taken to the streets for the largest protests the world has seen in the last 20 years! We are grateful to each one of you who, through your voices and creative actions, have built up unprecedented grassroots power to end Israel’s genocidal war against 2.3 million Palestinians in Gaza. Yet, Western governments are continuing to arm, fund and provide political cover for Israel’s genocide. We must act urgently to end all state, corporate and institutional complicity with Israel’s genocidal apartheid regime. Palestinian lives and livelihoods literally depend on it. To this end, and as time has shown, BDS is the most effective form of solidarity with the Palestinian liberation struggle. Tomorrow, we call for escalating worldwide peaceful mobilizations and expressions of meaningful solidarity to stop the genocide including: 1. Whenever feasible, organizing peaceful disruptions, sit-ins, occupations, etc. targeting policymakers, as well as the corporate enablers of genocide and apartheid (arms manufacturers, investment firms), and institutions (media, universities, cultural spaces, etc.). 2. Disrupting the transport of weapons, or weapon parts, to Israel, including in transit states, by supporting trade unions refusing to handle such shipments, as has been done in Belgium, US, and the Spanish State, and as expressed by trade unions in India, Turkey, Italy and Greece. 3. Pressuring parliaments and governments to cancel existing military contracts and agreements with Israel, as Colombia’s president publicly espoused, and as demanded by the BDS movement in Brazil, a demand supported by civil society and more than 60 parliamentarians in the country. 4. Intensifying all strategic economic boycott and divestment campaigns against complicit corporations, and escalating campaigns to cut all ties to apartheid Israel and its complicit academic and cultural institutions as well as sports teams. Mobilizing your community, trade union, association, church, social network, student government/union, city council, cultural center, or other organization to declare itself an Apartheid Free Zone (AFZ) on November 29th, if it hasn’t already, and organize a solidarity event or action on November 29th. 5. Pressuring your elected officials, where relevant, through direct communication or collective direct action, to demand real pressure on the International Criminal Court (ICC) to urgently prosecute Netanyahu and all other Israeli officials responsible for genocide, apartheid, and war crimes. If not now, when? In solidarity, The Palestinian BDS National Committee (BNC)

ABOUT THE BDS MOVEMENT

Cultural boycott guidelines

Economic boycott for consumers

#figured i'd post this after the last one #this is directly copy pasted from the email they sent out including the bolding it's all theirs

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speaknow-sw · 4 months ago

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THE POET AND THE ROSE

Content : kissing, deaths, injuries, stitching, descriptions of battle, stabbing, fluff.

A/N : 7.1k words damn I can’t get enough of these two and it’s only chapter 5 💀. Anyway y’all are thirsty asf for this fic so here’s chapter 5 that I sprinkled with some ✨DRAMA✨ to sent y’all into orbit. MAMA IS FEEDING YOU TODAY !!!

꧁ Chapter 5 : The Enemy Hides in Lies ꧂

From the Lays of General Anakin Skywalker, XIII century

The dawn breaks soft on battered lands,

A fleeting peace in trembling hands.

Yet love, like spring, begins to grow,

A fragile bloom through frost and woe.

The great hall was a theater of shadows, the flickering torchlight casting distorted shapes along the walls as nobles gathered around the grand oak table. The air was heavy with the scent of wax and wine, but beneath the surface, an invisible current of tension rippled through the room. Anakin stood at the head of the table, his posture commanding, his eyes sharp. Every face he looked upon was a puzzle to be solved—a potential piece in a game of betrayal he was only beginning to decipher.

Count Aulbry was the first to speak, as Anakin expected. The man always seized the moment, his voice a blend of false concern and barely veiled condescension. "My lord, your victories on the northern front are, of course, commendable. Few could have led our armies with such skill against Wallace and his men."

There was a pause, artfully calculated.

"But it does leave me wondering… Has our focus on the Scots left the kingdom vulnerable to other threats? A prolonged absence of leadership often invites… instability."

Anakin’s expression remained stony, though his grip tightened ever so slightly on the armrest of his chair. "Instability arises when men forget where their loyalties lie, Count," he said, his voice low but cutting. "Is there something specific you fear, or are these merely idle musings?"

Aulbry smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. "Idle musings, perhaps. One cannot help but notice certain… tensions in the southern provinces. Grain shipments have been delayed, and a few towns have reported unrest. A minor matter, I’m sure, but in times of peace, even minor matters deserve attention."

The mention of the grain shipments was not new to Anakin—he had already received reports from his stewards—but hearing it from Aulbry made the matter feel calculated, as if the Count was laying a trap with his words. Anakin’s gaze swept the room, noting the subtle shifts in posture among the other nobles. Whispers had begun to circulate in court—whispers that spoke of dissatisfaction, of plots brewing in the shadows.

"Minor matters, indeed," Anakin replied, his voice measured. "Rest assured, I have already taken steps to address them. The people will not starve under my watch."

"And yet," Aulbry pressed, "it is curious that such disruptions would occur now, so soon after your triumphant return. It almost seems as if—"

"Almost seems as if what, Count?" Anakin interrupted, his tone cold and final.

Aulbry hesitated, his smile faltering for the briefest moment. "Only that perhaps certain… elements may be testing the limits of this fragile peace. We must all remain vigilant, my lord. Especially you."

The words hung in the air like smoke. Anakin held Aulbry’s gaze, his silence more oppressive than any retort. When he finally spoke, his words were deliberate. "Vigilance is a duty I take seriously, Count. Perhaps you should do the same."

Aulbry bowed his head slightly, but Anakin saw the flicker of frustration in his eyes. The Count was testing boundaries, pushing at the edges of loyalty and decorum. And he was not alone.

The meeting concluded with the scrape of chairs and murmured pleasantries as the nobles filtered out. Anakin remained seated, his eyes following each man and woman as they departed. Only Aulbry lingered, his steps slow and deliberate as he approached the head of the table.

"My lord," the Count said, his tone dripping with false sincerity. "I hope you do not take my concerns as criticism. I only wish to see the kingdom prosper under your leadership."

"Prosperity does not grow from doubt, Count," Anakin replied, standing to his full height. "If you truly wish to see the kingdom flourish, you might begin by trusting the men who fight to protect it."

Aulbry’s lips twitched into a tight smile. "Wise words, my lord. I shall take them to heart."

Anakin watched as the Count left, the tension in the room finally breaking with his departure. But the unease in Anakin’s chest did not fade.

Later that night, Anakin stood on the battlements, the cold wind tugging at his cloak. Below, the village was a patchwork of flickering lights, its quiet hum a stark contrast to the silent storm raging in his mind. He could feel it—an undercurrent of unrest threading its way through the kingdom, subtle but insistent. The signs were everywhere: delays in supplies, vague reports of unrest, the growing boldness of men like Aulbry.

War had taught him to trust his instincts, and they were screaming now. He did not yet have proof, but he knew—knew—that something was amiss.

The crown weighed heavier on him with each passing day. He had fought for peace, had bled for it, but peace was proving to be a battlefield of its own. The enemy was not an army but a shadow, shifting and elusive. And shadows, he knew, could only be banished by light.

He rested a hand on the hilt of his sword, its familiar weight grounding him. He would find the truth, and when he did, there would be no room for mercy. For now, he would play their game, but he would play to win.

The castle felt colder tonight, the stone walls seeming to echo every hesitant footstep you took. A fire crackled in the hearth of your chambers, but its warmth did little to ease the chill that had settled deep within you. You sat at your desk, a blank sheet of parchment before you, the quill in your hand trembling as you contemplated what you were about to do.

How much could you tell him? How much should you tell him?

The betrayal weighed heavily on your chest, a burden you could no longer ignore. Your father’s plans had become clearer with each passing day, his letters to Count Aulbry a chilling reminder that you were nothing more than a pawn in a game of power. And yet, to expose him would mean condemning your family—your blood.

But Anakin...

Anakin, with his unyielding strength and sharp mind, had become more than just a reluctant husband. He was your partner, your protector, your anchor in a world that seemed to shift beneath your feet. The thought of betraying him, even through silence, filled you with a guilt so fierce it was almost unbearable.

You dipped the quill into the ink and began to write, the words flowing out in a code you hoped he would understand.

"Beware the hand that offers peace but hides a dagger. Trust not the smile that does not reach the eyes. The enemy within wears the guise of a friend."

You hesitated, then folded the parchment carefully, sealing it with wax. The message was cryptic enough to avoid suspicion should it fall into the wrong hands, but you prayed Anakin’s sharp mind would unravel its meaning.

The castle’s long corridors seemed quieter than ever that morning, the weight of your secrets pressing down on every step you took. You carried a tray of tea in your hands, the porcelain rattling faintly against the silver as your fingers trembled.

Anakin had returned just days ago, his presence both a comfort and a torment. He was closer now than ever before, yet the chasm between your love and the truths you withheld felt insurmountable. Every glance, every touch, every whispered word only deepened the ache inside you.

You paused outside his study, steadying yourself before entering. The door creaked softly as you pushed it open, revealing him hunched over the table, his broad shoulders tense as he studied the maps and reports before him. Sunlight filtered through the tall windows, casting golden highlights in his dark hair.

When he looked up, the weariness in his expression softened instantly, replaced by something warmer. Something reserved for you.

“You shouldn’t carry such things yourself,” he said, standing quickly to meet you. His voice was firm, but the faint curve of a smile betrayed his gratitude.

“And yet I wished to,” you replied with a small smile of your own.

You crossed the room to set the tray on the table, your movements deliberate, though your heart raced with the anticipation of what you were about to do. As you placed the tea before him, your fingers brushed his—just a fleeting touch, but one that sent warmth spiraling through you.

“You spoil me,” he said, his tone quiet but tinged with humor.

“You deserve spoiling,” you replied, your words light but sincere.

His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer than necessary, and you could feel the weight of his attention. Your breath hitched as you stepped back, sliding the folded note beneath one of the maps. Your hand hovered for a moment, but then you turned, ready to leave before your courage faltered.

But Anakin’s hand caught yours, his grip firm yet tender, halting you in your tracks.

“Stay,” he said, his voice low, but with a quiet insistence that left no room for refusal.

You hesitated only a moment before nodding, allowing him to guide you to a seat beside him. The distance between you closed, and suddenly the room felt smaller, the world beyond the study’s walls forgotten.

For a time, there was only silence between you, save for the soft crackle of the fire in the hearth. You could feel his presence beside you, solid and grounding, yet there was an unspoken tension in the air—a weight neither of you could name.

Finally, he broke the quiet.

“I’ve missed you,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, as though confessing a forbidden truth. “More than I realized I could.”

The words struck something deep within you, and you turned to face him fully, searching his face for any trace of doubt. There was none—only sincerity, tinged with a vulnerability you had rarely seen in him.

“I missed you too,” you admitted, your voice trembling. It was the truth, but it felt inadequate to capture the depth of your longing.

Anakin reached out then, his hand brushing against your cheek, his touch achingly gentle. The callouses on his fingers spoke of battles and hardships, yet his touch was softer than anything you had ever known. You leaned into his hand, your eyes fluttering closed as you allowed yourself a moment of reprieve.

When his lips met yours, it was slow, almost hesitant, as though testing the fragile bond that had formed between you. The kiss deepened, carrying with it an unspoken promise—a vow neither of you could yet put into words.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the quiet intimacy of the moment.

“There’s so much I don’t say,” he murmured, his voice raw with emotion. “But you have to know—”

“I do,” you interrupted, placing a hand on his chest. Beneath your palm, you felt the steady beat of his heart—a reminder of his strength, his humanity. “I know.”

For a long moment, the two of you simply sat there, the world outside the study forgotten. You wanted to tell him everything, to unburden yourself of the secrets that threatened to consume you. But fear held you back—fear of what your revelations might do to the fragile trust you had built.

Later, as he returned to his work, his attention fell on the maps and reports scattered across the table. His sharp eyes caught the folded parchment tucked beneath the edges of the papers, and his brow furrowed as he reached for it.

From the doorway, you watched as he unfolded the note, his gaze scanning the words you had written. His expression darkened slightly, his fingers tightening around the parchment.

He looked up then, his eyes meeting yours across the room. There was no accusation in his gaze, only a quiet question—a plea for understanding.

You offered him a faint smile before slipping away, your heart heavy with the weight of what you had done. You prayed he would understand the warning you had left for him.

And you prayed, too, that the love you had begun to share would be strong enough to weather the storms that lay ahead.

The midday sun cast golden light through the stained-glass windows of your chamber as you sat by the desk, attempting to focus on a new canvas. But the brush in your hand felt heavier than usual, and the colors blurred together, your thoughts elsewhere.

Anakin had left at dawn for a hunt, his absence stretching like a shadow over the castle. You found yourself restless, unsettled by a creeping sense of unease that had lingered since his departure.

A sharp knock at the door interrupted your thoughts. One of the castle’s attendants entered, carrying a folded piece of parchment sealed with no crest. The lack of identification immediately caught your attention.

“This arrived for you, my lady,” the attendant said, bowing as they set the letter on your desk.

“Who delivered it?” you asked, but the attendant only shook their head.

“It was left with the guards at the gate, my lady. No messenger lingered.”

Your fingers trembled as you reached for the parchment, the faint scent of ash and wax clinging to it. Unfolding the letter, you read the hurried scrawl within:

“Beware the serpent that coils close to the lion. Tonight, blades will be drawn in shadows, and blood will stain the throne. Protect him, or all will be lost.”

Your breath caught. The words were cryptic yet chillingly clear—a warning of betrayal, danger aimed at Anakin, and treachery from someone within the castle walls.

The sound of boots echoed in the corridor outside, and you quickly folded the letter, tucking it beneath the edge of your desk. A moment later, Obi-Wan Kenobi stepped into the room.

He had returned to the castle only days before, bringing with him reports of the Scots' retreat. His presence had initially been a comfort, his calm demeanor reassuring amid the chaos of court politics. But as Anakin’s trusted right-hand man, his arrival had also coincided with a strange tension.

“My lady,” Obi-Wan said, inclining his head. “I trust the day finds you well?”

“Well enough,” you replied, though your voice betrayed the unease tightening your chest.

He stepped closer, his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze steady but unreadable. “Anakin will return soon, I presume?”

You nodded, forcing a smile. “He should be back before nightfall.”

“And yet, you seem troubled,” Obi-Wan observed, his tone casual but sharp. “Is there something amiss?”

You hesitated, your mind racing. Could Obi-Wan be the serpent the letter warned of? Or was this paranoia taking root, fed by the growing web of deceit surrounding you?

“I have much on my mind,” you said carefully. “The court’s whispers, the growing unrest. Surely you’ve noticed it too.”

Obi-Wan’s expression softened, and he took a step closer, his voice lowering. “The court is always restless. But if there is something specific troubling you, you need only say the word. Anakin would want me to protect you in his absence.”

The sincerity in his voice sent a pang of guilt through you, but the memory of the letter’s warning gnawed at your resolve.

“I’ll manage,” you said, your tone firmer. “Thank you, Sir Kenobi.”

Obi-Wan hesitated for a moment, as though weighing your words, before nodding and stepping back. “As you wish, my lady. But do not hesitate to summon me if you need anything.”

With that, he left the room, the door closing softly behind him.

You had just resolved to wait for Anakin’s return when a knock at the door startled you. It was one of the chambermaids, her face pale and her hands wringing nervously.

“My lady,” she said, “I thought you should know... Sir Kenobi and Count Aulbry were seen riding out together just now. They seemed... urgent.”

The words sent a chill through you. “Did they say where they were going?”

The maid shook her head. “No, my lady. But they rode toward the northern woods.”

Toward the royal hunting grounds.

Panic gripped you. Anakin had ridden there with the king this morning, and now his supposed ally and his most vocal opponent had followed, shrouded in secrecy.

You clenched your hands into fists, your mind racing. The letter’s warning, Obi-Wan’s strange behavior, Aulbry’s open hostility—it all aligned too perfectly. If they meant to harm Anakin, you couldn’t sit idly by.

The stable smelled of hay and cold earth as you approached, your breath visible in the crisp air. The stable master startled at the sight of you, his eyes wide with alarm as you strode toward the nearest horse.

“My lady, what are you—”

“Prepare her,” you interrupted, your voice steady despite the chaos inside you. “The mare, now.”

He hesitated, hands trembling as he fumbled with the tack. “It isn’t safe, my lady. You can’t ride alone.”

“Safe?” The word cracked from your lips, harsh and bitter. “Safe is a word I can no longer afford. Saddle her, or I’ll do it myself.”

His protests faltered as he moved quickly, his fear of disobedience outweighing his confusion. The mare was readied within minutes, her dark eyes reflecting your own urgency.

Your skirts snagged as you mounted, but you paid it no mind, gripping the reins and spurring the horse forward before the stable master could voice another word.

The wind sliced through you as the mare thundered over the frost-covered earth. Each hoofbeat echoed like the drum of war, steady and relentless, driving you closer to the woods. The trees loomed ahead, their bare branches clawing at the sky, and with them came the weight of your growing dread.

Anakin. His name was a heartbeat in your mind, a mantra that propelled you forward. You could see him in your mind’s eye—strong, resolute, his brow furrowed in thought as he stood apart from the world, carrying its burdens alone.

Would he believe you?

The question clawed at you as you rode, your fingers trembling against the reins. Would he see your desperation as weakness? Would he blame you for suspecting Obi-Wan, the man who had fought beside him in countless battles?

Or worse—what if you were wrong?

The thought was unbearable, but the image of the letter was sharper still. Its words were a call to action, and inaction felt like betrayal.

You pushed the mare harder, her breaths coming in sharp bursts as you entered the woods. The hunting party’s distant voices reached your ears, their tones hushed but unmistakable.

“Almost there,” you whispered, your words carried away by the wind.

The mare slowed as you approached the clearing, and you dismounted swiftly, your boots crunching against the frosted ground. The shadows of men and horses flickered through the trees, their forms half-obscured by the fading light.

You hesitated, your pulse quickening as you moved closer, the forest around you suddenly heavy with silence.

The words from the letter echoed in your mind, louder than ever. “Blades will be drawn in shadows...”

You glanced over your shoulder at the mare, now tethered to a low-hanging branch, and took a deep breath. The weight of what you had to do pressed against your chest like armor.

Somewhere in this forest, Anakin was unaware of the knife poised at his back. And you would move heaven and earth to ensure it never reached him.

From the Lays of General Anakin Skywalker, XIII century

The foe you see is not the hand,

That strikes unseen, or makes its stand.

Deceit is woven through their guise,

The truest battle hides in lies.

The early morning fog clung to the trees like a damp veil, shrouding the forest in an eerie stillness. Anakin’s boots sank into the earth with each step of his horse, the rhythmic clip-clop of hooves resonating beneath the thick canopy. His mind wasn’t on the hunt, not really. He had ridden out on the king’s orders, ostensibly to track game through the thick woods, but every instinct in his body told him something was wrong. A nagging feeling of unease gnawed at the edge of his thoughts.

The cold air cut through his cloak, yet the discomfort of the chill was nothing compared to the unease stirring deep within him. He had tried to ignore it—after all, he had faced far worse than a simple hunting expedition. But it was there, a persistent presence, an itch under the skin that he couldn’t shake.

"Stay alert, Anakin," he muttered to himself, his breath misting in the cold morning air. His instincts had never been wrong before.

Suddenly, there was a rustling in the underbrush. Anakin’s hand immediately went to the hilt of his sword, his gaze scanning the surroundings. The forest was quiet again, unnervingly so. He heard the faintest snap of a twig, too far to his left to be a deer. His eyes narrowed, and his breath held as he dismounted silently, glancing at the trees above for any sign of movement.

The shadows were his enemies now. He couldn’t risk being ambushed.

He was barely aware of the first movement—a swift motion to his right, a shadow crossing his line of vision—before he heard the unmistakable sound of steel scraping against leather. A flash of cold metal, a blur of movement, and then—nothing.

It all happened so fast. He had learned long ago that the most dangerous threats were often the ones you couldn’t see until it was too late.

From the corner of his eye, he saw the blur of a figure darting toward him, and without hesitation, Anakin spun around, drawing his sword in one fluid motion. A man lunged at him from the trees, the assassin’s blade aimed at his side, but Anakin deflected it with a practiced swing, their swords clashing with a ringing sound that reverberated through the dense woods.

But then, as if from every direction, more figures emerged—six, no, eight men surrounding him. They were silent, fast, moving with the precision of a well-coordinated attack. His heart pounded in his chest, the adrenaline surging as the battle instincts kicked in. Anakin’s eyes scanned the men, calculating, assessing, his hand moving as if it had a life of its own. His sword met the blade of another attacker, their weapons locked in a deadly struggle.

The noise of the fight was deafening—the clash of steel, the grunts of exertion, the sharp cries of men falling as they tried to overcome him. But there was something different about this attack. The men didn’t move like mercenaries; they moved with the fluidity of soldiers trained in the art of war, and they seemed to have been waiting for him. The very ground beneath him seemed to tremble with their numbers.

His breath came ragged, his eyes darting between enemies, trying to predict the next move. He didn’t have much time. The trees provided little cover, and every swing of his sword was an invitation for another blow. He gritted his teeth and blocked another strike, parrying to the side before slashing his blade through the chest of one man. His breath was heavy now, the sweat dripping down his brow despite the cold.

But then the realization hit him, cold as ice.

They weren’t after the hunt.

They were after him.

The words echoed in his mind, but he didn’t have time to process them. A sword sliced across his chest, just missing his vital organs. He staggered back, breath stolen for a moment, his blood staining his tunic. The rush of pain barely registered as his instincts kicked in, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword as he batted another attack aside.

One man dropped to the ground with a grunt, but that didn’t matter. There were still too many, and they were closing in, pushing him toward the dense underbrush. A few were already injured, but not enough to halt their assault.

The moon hung high in the sky, barely visible through the dense canopy of trees as the darkness swallowed Anakin whole. He had been fighting for hours now—bloodied, exhausted, but resolute. The twelve men who had attacked him had already taken down several of his own, and the forest felt like a battleground in hell. The night air was thick with the smell of blood and smoke. The forest echoed with the sound of sword clashing, of desperate men shouting orders.

But it was still quiet. Too quiet.

Anakin felt the familiar presence of danger creeping closer, but it wasn’t just the attackers that gnawed at him. His heart was pounding in his chest as he thought of you. His thoughts were filled with the images of your face, your soft voice calling his name, and he feared for you. He had never been afraid in a fight, not in all the battles he had seen—but this was different. He feared for your safety.

Where are you?

He couldn’t shake the thought. He tried to push it away, tried to concentrate on the men surrounding him, but it wasn’t easy. His body was aching, blood flowing freely from the multiple cuts across his torso. He had barely managed to keep the attackers at bay, and now, with each passing second, they grew closer. They had surrounded him.

With a burst of adrenaline, Anakin swung his sword again, cutting through another man, but his vision was starting to blur. His grip on his sword was weakening, but he could feel his determination growing stronger. I must survive, for her.

That’s when he heard it.

The sound of hooves, distant at first, but growing louder, faster. The unmistakable sound of a rider galloping in the woods.

No, not you. His heart raced even faster. He could feel your presence getting closer, but he had no way of stopping you.

He couldn’t keep fighting and get to you in time. But you were so close now, he couldn’t wait.

Meanwhile, you had galloped through the woods, panic clawing at your chest with every thundering beat of the horse’s hooves beneath you. You could hear the faint echoes of battle in the distance—the clash of swords, the guttural cries of men. Your blood ran cold. You urged the horse onward, desperate to reach him, to stop whatever this madness was before it consumed him.

The woods were a maze of shadow and mist. You couldn’t see through the trees, couldn’t hear over the thundering of the horse’s hooves beneath you. It felt like you were racing against time, but what was worse was the gnawing, suffocating fear in your chest.

Please, Anakin, please be safe.

As the sounds of the battle grew louder, you felt your heartbeat in your throat. You could hear the shouts of soldiers. Then, without warning, a shadow leapt out from the trees.

Before you could react, a man grabbed your reins, yanking your horse’s head sharply to the side. He lunged at you, sword raised high.

Your heart froze. You reached up instinctively, fingers fumbling for the tiny dagger you had tucked in your hair for moments like this. The cold metal of the dagger was a comfort in your hand, but it was nothing compared to the weight of the situation. The man’s face was twisted in anger as he raised the sword, preparing to strike.

Fear clawed at you, but you refused to let it control you. You slashed the dagger across the man’s arm, but he hardly flinched. The blow wasn’t enough to stop him, and the sword came down at you again, too fast for you to dodge.

But before the blade could reach you, a roar split the air.

“DON’T TOUCH MY WIFE!” Anakin’s voice thundered through the trees, furious and primal.

You barely had time to register his words before his form appeared in front of you, bloodied and furious. His sword cut through the air in a flash, knocking the would-be attacker aside with a force that left no room for mercy.

You didn’t have time to breathe, didn’t have time to think. Anakin’s eyes were locked on you, fierce and protective, but his face was pale, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His chest was covered in blood, and yet his gaze never left you.

He turned back to face the remaining attackers, his anger and pain mingling in a way that made your heart ache. You reached out, desperate to touch him, but as your hand brushed against his, he pushed you back.

“I said stay back!” His voice was hoarse, but filled with a raw, desperate need to protect you. “It’s not over.”

You watched helplessly as Anakin stepped forward, meeting the four men who had remained hidden in the shadows. Each strike was met with a new burst of agony, a struggle against the men who relentlessly attacked him. His movements were slower now, each swing of his sword weaker than the last. But even as his body betrayed him, his will never faltered.

The battle felt like it went on for an eternity, each second stretched thin by the raw tension and fear that swelled inside of you. You couldn’t watch any longer. It felt like you were suffocating under the weight of the moment. But even then, you saw him—he was still fighting.

And then, the final blow came.

One of the men drew his bow and released an arrow with deadly accuracy. You saw it happen in slow motion. The arrow soared through the air, and for a brief, horrified second, you knew what was about to happen.

It struck Anakin in the chest.

The sound that escaped his mouth was one of pure agony as the arrow buried deep into his lung. He staggered back, his sword faltering in his hand as he fought for balance.

“No!” you cried, rushing toward him despite the danger. But as you approached, you saw him fall to his knees, blood pouring from the wound. His face was pale, his lips already tinged with the blue of a wound too deep to ignore.

But even then, he didn’t give in.

“Anakin…” you whispered, dropping to your knees beside him. Your hands shook as you pressed against his chest, trying desperately to stop the bleeding.

He looked up at you, eyes filled with pain but a fierce determination still burning behind them.

“I’m not dying,” he whispered between labored breaths, the words strained and weak. “I won’t leave you.”

Tears welled in your eyes as you tore at the hem of your dress, ripping it to pieces to use as a makeshift bandage. Your hands were trembling, but you pressed the fabric to his chest, trying to staunch the flow of blood.

“I won’t let you die,” you said through clenched teeth, your voice trembling.

He took your hand then, squeezing it gently despite the agony that wracked his body.

“You’re all that matters,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “I’ll live… because of you.”

His words, though weak, fueled your resolve. You kept applying pressure to his chest, watching as his color slowly returned, watching as he breathed deeply again, fighting the weariness in his limbs.

It was then that he finally stirred, groaning as he attempted to rise. He pushed himself to his feet with your help, his body shaking with the effort. Despite the pain, despite everything, he managed to stand tall.

“We need to get back to the king,” he said, his voice hoarse but filled with purpose. His gaze locked onto you, and for a moment, you could see nothing but the depth of his devotion in his eyes.

The two of you walked—no, staggered—back toward the camp, where the king’s men were gathered in stunned silence. As Anakin limped toward the center of the camp, still holding your hand, he confronted Count Aulbry. The nobleman, who had been so sly and quiet up until now, stood with a calm demeanor, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of doubt.

Anakin’s voice rang out, cutting through the air like steel.

“Did you think you could hide your treachery?” he demanded. “Did you think this would break me? You were wrong.”

Count Aulbry’s face remained impassive, but his jaw tightened as he denied any involvement. Yet the doubt lingered in his eyes, a dangerous sign that made Anakin even more resolute.

“I will uncover the truth,” Anakin declared, blood still soaking his chest as he glared at Aulbry with unyielding determination.

The confrontation had only just begun, and Anakin was more resolved than ever to expose the traitor for what he truly was.

The dim glow of the campfire flickered through the canvas of the tent, casting soft shadows that danced against the fabric walls. You sat next to Anakin, the firelight tracing the contours of his tired face, his features drawn with pain yet softened by the intimate stillness that surrounded you both. His chest heaved with each breath, though you could see the slow but steady recovery beginning as you gently unwound the bandage around his chest.

His wound, though grave, had been patched up. The bleeding had stopped, but the pain in his eyes lingered. You had tried to banish the worst of it by offering whatever comfort you could, but you knew that a part of him—one that he would never fully reveal—was still at war within.

"You’re relentless," you whispered softly, carefully peeling back the fabric of his shirt. “These arrows... They always manage to find your most vital points.”

Anakin looked down at the wound, his gaze thoughtful but distant. He gave a half-hearted chuckle, though it was edged with a touch of bitterness. "It's almost as if they know where to strike, isn't it?" His voice was rough, with a quiet humor trying to mask the ache that still lingered in him. His hand gripped the edge of the cot, and you could see the tension in his posture, a mixture of exhaustion and frustration.

“Or maybe it’s that you’re too quick to put yourself in harm’s way," you said with a teasing smile, the movement of your hands steady and sure as you replaced his bloodied bandage with fresh linen.

He chuckled softly, but his expression grew more serious as he leaned back against the pillows, his gaze never leaving yours. There was a weight to the silence that hung between you now, a heaviness that pulled at the edges of his soul. And you could feel it too—the depth of everything unspoken, the fragile trust between you now intertwined with something far deeper.

“You know, I’ve always thought I could protect myself,” Anakin began, his voice quiet, the words coming with a painful honesty that you hadn’t heard from him before. “But now… Now, I can’t help but wonder if I’ve been so focused on fighting everyone else that I’ve missed something closer to home.”

Your hands stilled as you finished tying off the bandage. You looked up at him, meeting his gaze. He looked vulnerable, even though he would never fully allow anyone to see it. The man who had always been a soldier, a leader, was now confiding in you—not just as a lover but as someone he trusted more than anyone else.

“What do you mean?” you asked, your voice soft, inviting him to share the heavy burden he was carrying.

His lips pressed together for a moment, and when he spoke again, it was with the weight of his suspicions, the quiet recognition that something was wrong—something much bigger than the battle they had fought.

“I think Count Aulbry... I think he’s behind all of this. I can feel it. Something about him doesn’t sit right with me.” His voice was low, almost hesitant, as though sharing this part of himself made him more vulnerable than any of the cuts that marred his skin.

Your heart ached for him. You could see the conflict in his eyes—the sharp intelligence that had always served him so well in battle was now clouded with doubt. It wasn’t just the wound that pained him. It was the fear that he was no longer in control, no longer able to protect those he loved, especially you.

“Anakin,” you whispered, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You don’t always have to carry the weight alone.”

He looked at you, his dark eyes searching yours as if looking for something—something that he needed but wasn’t sure how to ask for. His lips parted, but before he could speak, the silence between you was filled with the quiet rustle of the forest, the distant cry of a bird in the dark, the pounding of his own pulse in his ears.

“I’ve seen too many men lose themselves,” Anakin began, his voice distant. “Too many battles where it wasn’t the enemy I was fighting—it was what I had to give up to win.” He hesitated, as if weighing the significance of his words, before adding, “I’m beginning to wonder if the price of victory is too high.”

His words hung in the air between you like an unspoken truth, an ache that neither of you could escape. You knew what he meant. You understood the weight of his soul, the endless struggle of a man who had given everything—too much—and still couldn’t find peace.

“The price... is never too high,” you said softly, your voice thick with emotion. You leaned closer, your fingers brushing against his as you steadied his hand. “As long as we face it together.”

He swallowed hard, his gaze never leaving yours. It was as though, in that moment, he finally allowed himself to breathe, to let the walls around him fall just a little. His eyes softened, a rawness there that hadn’t been present before, and it struck you like a physical blow. The tenderness in him, buried beneath so many layers of strength and duty, was finally being revealed.

Without a word, his hand slid to your cheek, the touch tender and intimate. The contact was slow, deliberate, as if he were memorizing the feel of your skin against his. He leaned in, and for a moment, you were suspended in the space between you, where the world seemed to hold its breath.

And in that moment, with the weight of the world hanging over them, the kiss came—gentle at first, as if testing the waters, as if seeking permission to finally release all that had been held in for so long. His lips brushed against yours, soft and tentative, the tenderness of it shocking in its simplicity. But that kiss was enough to set your heart on fire.

You responded without hesitation, pulling him closer, letting your lips meet his with a desperate kind of sweetness, as if you were both trying to breathe life back into one another. His hand slid to the back of your neck, gently urging you closer, the firelight dancing across his face as you kissed him deeply.

The world around you fell away as his warmth enveloped you. His lips were insistent, demanding now, as if every kiss was a promise, every touch a vow that he would never let go of you. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging him closer as if to reassure yourself that this moment, this love, was real.

You broke away for a moment, both of you breathless, gazing at each other with an intensity that made your heart ache. His forehead rested against yours, his breath mingling with yours as the world outside ceased to matter.

“I never wanted to pull you into this,” Anakin murmured, his voice hoarse, a quiet confession. “This war... it’s not something I can protect you from. Although, I would fight in a dozen wars to shield you, my rose. In a dozen liftetimes… if I ever fail to protect you…I… I could not live with it. If you fall I fall, I swear it on my honor, on my blood and on the gods.”

You smiled softly, running your hand through his hair, feeling the dampness of sweat and blood still clinging to his skin. “You don’t have to protect me, Anakin,” you whispered, your voice thick with a tenderness that threatened to break you. “We protect each other. That’s what this is.”

His eyes searched yours, his lips parting as if to speak, but he hesitated. Instead, he pulled you closer, holding you tight against him, and for a long moment, neither of you spoke. It was as though the world had stopped moving, leaving only the two of you in this space—this fragile, intimate moment where everything else faded into the background.

“I don’t deserve you,” he murmured, his voice barely audible.

You closed your eyes, resting your head against his chest. “You deserve everything, Anakin. Everything I can give.”

And in that moment, something shifted between you both. It wasn’t just love—it was trust. A promise that no matter how dark the days ahead might get, you would face them together. There was no fear, no hesitation now. Just the two of you, bound in this shared understanding.

You kissed him again, this time with the weight of everything you both held. The world outside could burn, and it wouldn’t matter. All that mattered was this—this connection, this bond that neither of you could name, but both of you knew would endure.

As you pulled away, Anakin’s eyes softened, a small but meaningful smile pulling at his lips. “I’ll face whatever comes, for you.” he whispered, his voice steady, yet filled with a quiet certainty.

And with that promise, you knew that no matter what storm might come, you would stand together, unwavering, your love a flame that could never be extinguished.

From the Lays of General Anakin Skywalker, XIII century

In the silence, my heart stopped to bleed,

For her breath was the air that I’d need.

If she fell, the world would cease its song,

For in her death, my life would be gone.

#hayden christensen #anakin skywalker #anakin skywalker x female reader #anakin skywalker x you #anakin x reader #anakin skywalker x reader #evie writes

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lulublack90 · 2 months ago

Text

Prompt 18 - Workout

@wolfstarmicrofic March 18, word count 295

Sirius was on guard duty for the order. They’d got a tip-off that the next shipment of Dittany was going to be disrupted. So far, nothing had happened. Mad-eye had warned him to be on alert, but his mind kept wandering. This morning, Remus had been called away, but he wouldn’t tell Sirius who he was meeting or why. It wasn’t the first time Remus had been so secretive. It had been happening more and more over the last few months. He’d be called away at all hours, collecting pieces of parchment that he’d charmed so Sirius couldn’t read them and disappear, sometimes for days. They kept being warned that there was a spy in the order and Sirius was beginning to think… His thoughts were cut off when ten death eaters appeared in front of him. He drew his wand and started firing off spell after spell while flinging up a shield. This was going to be a major workout, he thought as he danced, his body in constant fluid motion as he took out enemy after enemy. Voldemort would not win today.

When the last death eater fell, he sent off a patronus calling for Moody. He wiped the sweat from his brow and began ripping masks off faces. Rowle, Wilkes, Avery, Mulciber and a load of underlings that hadn’t been in Sirius’s league.

“Go home, Black,” Moody barked in his gruff voice once the death eaters had been collected and Sirius had been debriefed. Sirius gave him a curt nod and apparated back to the flat.

He paused with his hand on the door handle, wondering if Remus would be behind it or not. He took a deep, steadying breath and let it out as he pushed down and opened the door.

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j0kers-light · 5 months ago

Note

Chaos, I beg you, for my mental health, you NEED to write something about J with a suit like this

https://www.tumblr.com/dollshobby/756250101826142208?source=share

It's not a whim, it's a necessity

His Lighthouse: Friendly Fire (LedgerJoker x f!reader)

Friendly Fire - Oneshot

KEEP IN MIND THIS IS NOT A CHAPTER UPDATE!

Hey hi my beloved anon!!! I heard your cries, albeit was several months too late. Your patience is impeccable because JULY? 😫😫 ma’am. You can sue me at this point.

Anyhoo...

I NEEDED TO WRITE THIS or risk being haunted for the rest of my days *activates my inner slut* Here's the action figure in question. I would fall to the floor with my legs spread open if J came home in this suit. Like, look at him. He’s a slut! How dare he put this on!? How do I take it off? 🤔 I indulged wayyy too much writing this. 🖤✨

Let me know if you wish to be added to the official His Lighthouse taglist! Be alerted with any oneshots and the main story updates!

The entire purpose of living on the top floor was the added layer of security it created. No one could suddenly pop in and disrupt your peace without you knowing about it beforehand.

You kept the balcony doors locked this late at night and no one knew about the secret access point in your storage room. The only logical way into your apartment was through the front door. You didn’t want to jinx yourself; this was Gotham City after all.

If a criminal wanted to scale the steep twelve stories up to your apartment, you couldn’t stop them per se. Perhaps just question if they were superhuman and look at them sideways.

As it stood, you were relatively safe in your glass tower just the way you liked it.

Joker left earlier in the day, gushing about some special shipment being delivered that he needed to sign off on, so you had the penthouse to yourself for a change. You didn’t mind whenever your lover was around, (there was never a dull moment with Joker), but nothing beat solitude.

Solitude helped shape you into the woman you were today. You thrived in it. With your favorite snacks and drinks in hand, you snuggled up on the couch to catch up on some reality tv.

And that’s how your day turned into night lasted.

Halfway through the evening, you got up to fix dinner for yourself, and despite being alone, you instinctively made double servings. Old habits truly die hard it seemed. You sighed and put Joker’s portion up for him to eat whenever he came home.

Who knows when that would be.

The news didn’t report anything alarming to raise your anxiety levels nor did they give any hints to his whereabouts. It must’ve been a relatively quiet night of crime and you hoped that Joker didn’t cause too much chaos while he was out. He didn’t mention any big plans of his—not like he ever would.

The less you knew, the better Joker always said. Sometimes you wished to knew something so you weren’t completely blind to his world.

If he got arrested and sent back to Arkham, you’d be the last to know and that left a sour taste in your mouth. Your anxiety wouldn’t quell so you left the tv on the news channel should any breaking news segment regarding Joker come on.

You were fighting back sleep when you spotted a shadow moving on your glass roof. You rubbed your eyes, thinking you were seeing things from being drowsy but no... you definitely saw a silhouette of a man crawling on your roof, headed towards your spacious balcony.

You weren’t expecting Joker till sunrise, and no one had any business on your roof, so you automatically entered into survival mode.

Every single last safety precaution Joker drilled into your brain kicked in—starting with some common sense.

“Nope nope nopeity nope. I am not dying tonight.” you mumbled. You flung the couch blanket off of you to stand. “Not today, Satan.”

You remembered where Joker hid the nearest weapon cache in the room and quickly pulled out a gun, double checking that it was loaded.

You were glad that Joker was so paranoid about your safety and set up necessary countermeasures all over the penthouse. At first you were against all the clown themed booby traps concealed in your home but J ultimately won you over with a single glare.

He did not play about his Bunny’s safety. The weapons stayed.

Since he wasn’t home, you had to protect yourself until you were able to sound an alarm. Joker promised that he would rush back no matter how far to protect you, but you knew it would take him a while to get here, and that meant you were on your own.

With an unknown stranger crawling on your roof. This information did little to calm your bundle of nerves.

You could still see the figure spider crawling on the roof, getting closer and closer to landing on the balcony.

A horrid sight for your quiet night home alone and right when you were thinking of starting a new season of your favorite show. Why did weird stuff always happen to you? The city you moved to...

The soft glow from the tv was the only light in the apartment and you wanted to use that darkness to your advantage.

This intruder (fingers crossed) didn’t know the layout of your home. Unfortunately, they were male and able to overpower you. That was all fine and dandy. The loaded gun in your hand would even the score on your behalf.

You watched in trepidation as the shadow toppled over the glass sunroof, landing headfirst onto the balcony. It was not a soft landing if their audible curses floating in the air was any indication. A shame they didn’t knock themselves unconscious with the fall. That could’ve saved you a world of trouble.

You watched from your hiding spot behind the couch as they picked (or did they use a key?) open both the outdoor balcony and the indoor sunroom’s sliding doors.

Their footsteps were light as they walked through your living room with ease. Okay, maybe they did know your home’s layout. This wasn’t good. Was this a planned hit?

Of all the nights Joker decided to step out, you have a home invasion. Why didn’t you grab your phone before you hid?!

You held your breath, counting down for the right moment to open fire.

You still had the element of surprise, especially when the intruder tripped up on your colorful ottoman—the same one that Joker always bumped into when coming home late�� The similarities didn’t register in your panic induced brain. You just stood up and unloaded the clip.

The sharp crackle of gunfire echoed off the vaulted ceilings yet you still heard that familiar sound over the din. It made you immediately stop firing and gasp, “J-Joker?!”

Your annoying clown was doubled over laughing.

Never mind the fact you shot him at point blank range, why he was laughing? You knew he was insane, but this was a new level of concern.

You tossed the gun onto the couch and rushed over to check on J. “Oh my God, Joker! Are you alright?! I didn’t know it was you!!! Please don’t die!”

He wasn’t helping in your search for his wounds. J was still rolling on the floor, laughing at something you currently didn’t have the patience to find amusing.

Joker and his low tolerance for pain probably didn’t acknowledge the bullets. That didn’t ignore the fact you literally opened fire on him. That is, until your hands brushed over something metal where his formal suit and tie should have been.

You jerked back and scrambled to flick on the nearest lamp.

Joker was perfectly fine but you weren’t. Your brain flew south for the winter at the sight of Joker.

He had no business looking so good in a mock Batsuit. Joker’s was green in color with purple splotched accents and what suspiciously looked like blood splatter. You seriously hoped it wasn’t. Either way, J’s sleeper build was encased in full armor with a shiny gold belt to finish off the look. He looked good enough to eat.

You were biting your lip in horny silence when Joker finally lifted himself off the floor.

He flicked his tattered cape behind his back and struck a pose. “Well, well doll! I uhh didn’t know you were a straight shot! I would have pre-ferrred a welcome home kiss, not.. ya know..” he gestured to the bullet holes you placed in his armor.

A shame he just got this suit today and it was already ruined. But the way you were staring at him; his suit wouldn’t be the only thing ruined tonight.

Joker stalked his way closer to you, “Whatcha thinkin’—”

“Take it off.” you spoke over Joker.

You huffed when he didn’t comply so you set about doing it yourself. He blinked in shock as you fumbled with his utility belt, acting like a kid tearing into a Christmas present.

“Woah! Easy Bunny!” Joker blushed at your eager hands practically groping his cock. “Heh, slow down doll.”

You didn’t. You whined the longer it took you to fail at removing his armor.

When you broke a nail scratching at his chest plate, you caved. “Don’t just stand there, J! Take it off!” you shoved him, knowing that acting up would get his attention quicker.

“Y/n? What’s gotten into ya?”

“Preferably you if you would cooperate..” you snapped back. Oh. He knew that tone of yours all too well.

“Ahhhhh. I see.” Joker chuckled and pressed a button to release the hinges that covered his crotch. You didn’t waste another second. You shoved a surprised Joker back onto the couch and sank to your knees in the same motion.

Joker was speechless with the way you manhandled him although he didn’t say anything to see where you would take things. Your hands traced his hips, like a sculptor would their final work of art. You’d seen Joker way too many times to know there were no imperfections.

How was he so perfect, like your own personal Michelangelo?

“Look at this slutty little waist. How dare you walk around Gotham like a whore?!” You shook your head in disbelief until you eyed his dick standing at attention.

Without warning, you took Joker’s cock into your hands and gave it a nice long lick, from the base to tip that you kissed gently.

“F__k Bunny!” Joker shouted. You peppered kisses all over J’s dick and you were rewarded with a bead of precum spurting from his reddening tip.

“Aww ya got a nice lit-le treat, why don’tcha...”

You groaned, “shut up, J” right before you swallowed inch after inch of his dick.

Your throat burned at the stretch, but it was oh so worth it. You didn’t stop until your nose bumped into his armor. Then you rested for a count of five before pulled up to take gulps of precious air and to lock eyes with J.

He was breathing heavily too—and parting his lips to speak. You did not want that.

You pushed his chest and started bobbing your head at a rapid pace. Very soon, the sound of you gagging and the obscene wet plops of your mouth around Joker’s dick was the only noise in the room, save for Joker’s groans drowning out the tv.

GCN could be broadcasting the zombie apocalypse and neither of you would care.

You felt amazing sucking him off. He needed this after the wild night he had. Coming home to his Bunny in this bizarre horny mood, it was the perfect nightcap.

You were perfect and Joker whispered your name to try and let you know that, but you squeezed his shaft in warning and quickened your pace. He got the message. No talking. Just feel.

He could do that especially when you took him balls deep and hummed so prettily. The vibrations went straight to his brain, unplugging all vital systems.

You did need to breath so you regrettably pulled away, moaning like a slut. “I can’t believe you h-hid this from me.” you panted.

“Heh, I knew ya act like—awww fuu.. M’sorry! I ngh, n-no talkin’.. I knooow but it’s so warm Bun!”

You rolled your eyes. Joker just couldn’t keep his mouth shut to save his life.

You grabbed his gloved hands fisting your upholstery and moved them to tangle in your hair. That got his attention. “Huh? Ohhhhh I couldn’t. Messin’ up my pretty girl’s hair? She’d kill me for sureee.”

He toyed with a wayward curl knowing deep down he loved wrecking your hair.

Joker respected your tedious hair routine and the strict no-touching policy to maintain its upkeep, but during sex, he just couldn’t resist. He’d pay however much for you to fix it back, he really wanted to bury his fingers into your luscious strands and tug.

You squeezed his hand. It was the green light for what he’d been dying to do. Joker grabbed a handful of your curls when you did that thing with your tongue he liked and his hips bucked up to chase after the feeling. You gagged at the unexpected thrust and it got J to thinking.

Joker caught your teary eyes staring up at him as well as your subtle nod. He loved how you were always on the same wavelength as him.

He groaned as he spread his legs wider. “Oh, thank ya Princess! Ahhh thank ya. Soooo. Very. Much!” He emphasized each word with thrust into your throat as his strong hands held your head still.

Your poor curls were Joker’s handlebars as he throat f__ked you.

A mixture of cum and spit dripped down your chin and landed on Joker’s armored thighs making the splatter painted surface shiny. You could always clean it up later.

Right now, you relaxed and let Joker use your throat for his pleasure.

It was sloppy and messy, just the way he liked it, although your pussy throbbed with neglect. She would just have to wait. You needed this and so did J.

He was talking gibberish with his head thrown back on the couch. Ugh, he looked so fine even with his greasy hair hiding his handsome features. You saw his Adam’s Apple move as he choked back a moan. Almost as if he felt your gaze, intense jade pierced your soul.

You were caught under his spell or was it the other way round?

Whether your name was uttered as a prayer or more as a warning, it didn’t matter.

Joker’s feral groan bounced off the walls as he filled your mouth with his thick load. He’d been backed up for days working on a big heist and now all of his stress was being emptied down your throat. You blinked back the ache in your jaw; your discomfort was irreverent. You would rest after Joker was satisfied.

J hissed when his dick slipped out your mouth and he was quick to bark out a “Swallow.”

You already had and was sticking your tongue out obediently for him to inspect.

Joker hummed his approval as his thumb rubbed your sore jaw. “Goooo~ooood girl.” He knew you could take it all. You hadn’t failed him yet.

You smiled and crawled your way up onto Joker’s lap.

It was a bit uncomfortable with his suit still on but he cradled you like fine China in his arms. You always felt the safest in his hold. He rubbed your back while you traced the red ha ha ha painted on his chest.

A local commercial aired on the tv as the intense moment idled back down to tranquil levels. It was Joker who broke the silence with his raspy voice.

“Mind uhh, telling me what broughT that on?” he asked.

You glanced up at Joker’s closed eyelids. You sucked the soul out of him and it was taking him longer than usual to float back down to Earth. Times like this when the moonlight poured in through the windows and hit him just right, it made you wonder.

How did you get so lucky to have this man in your life?

He cracked an eye open with a knowing gleam swirling in the green hue. Caught ya.

It made your ears bloom red in embarrassment. You genuinely did not know what came over you just now. You saw Joker in an imposter Batman suit and became feral. There was no further explanation needed.

Your mind completely forgot that you shot Joker multiple times in self defense, that’s how powerful the whore in you jumped out. Mo’Nique would be ashamed.

You buried your face in J’s chest, whining. “I dunno. You ain’t complaining.”

He loved when you got nervous; your proper grammar became non-existent. Your nose bumped against a bullet hole and it caused your guilt to come flooding back. “You sure you’re okay?” you asked.

You tapped the small indentation on his chest for context.

“Hm? Oh yeah. Didn’t even feel 'em, Light. I guess.. I should uhh a-polo-gize for scaring ya. I didn’t mean to.” He kissed your forehead before snuggling you closer to his chest.

It probably wasn’t the smartest idea to come home by crawling on the roof and whatnot, but Joker wanted to test out all the cool features his new suit had. So far, it was a sound purchase and bonus points, his Light love it. Perhaps a bit too much.

You were just full of surprises. Nothing like friendly fire between lovers and a blowjob for a Friday night in.

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cal-flakes · 2 years ago

Note

dealer!rafe spanking reader for interrupting an important phonecall with a buyer

╰┈➤ spanked by dealer!rafe (blurb)

warnings: degradation, spanking, slapping, very nsfw.

summary: see above.

“come here” he ordered, leaning against the doorway. his once freshly-ironed suit was now disheveled and untucked after a stressful morning, meetings and phone calls regarding shipments were not his favourite thing to do, but someone had to do them.

and y/n’s incessant interruptions certainly didn’t bode well, to say the least.

she cowered against the bed, shrinking into the pillows as much as possible. she was somewhat oblivious to the extra hassle she’d been causing him all morning, however it was becoming a bit more clear.

“rafe, i-im-” she stuttered, avoiding his gaze. “y/n i said come here, i won’t tell you again” he growled, swiping a clammy palm across his flushed face.

her heart jumped in her chest at the demand, yet she was surprised by the sudden pool forming in her panties.

slowly, she threw her legs off the bed, shuffling towards him anxiously. “why’re you nervous angel?” he soothed, cupping her cheeks with his vascular hands, clouding her thoughts with a false sense of security.

he huffed at her lack of response, instead struggling to get her words out. “what did you do wrong baby? can you tell me that?” rafe cooed, stroking her cheek gently with his thumbs as her glassy eyes stared up at him.

losing patience, he moved a hand to hold the back of her head, the other finding itself gripping her chin.

her chest heaved as a sudden sting spread across her cheek, wincing as the slight pain dissipated slowly. “i said, what did you do wrong?” he snapped, seething.

“i, i interrupted..y-your phone call..” she whispered breathlessly as his other hand danced around her waist, still keeping his grip on her chin.

“uh-huh, how many times?” he asked, patronising her as he towered over her small frame. “um…”

“seven. seven times, you interrupted me, and i think that classifies you as a bad girl, yeah?” he snarled, squishing her cheeks.

tears brimmed along her waterline at the words as they circled her mind. her gaze fell to his feet, now embarrassed by her actions. “im sorry rafe, i didn’t mean to..” she croaked.

letting go forcefully, he shoved her back slightly before moving to perch on the edge of the bed. “bend over my knee”

y/n bowed her head, taking cautious steps towards him. “the quicker you do it, the quicker it’s over princess, you know the deal” he smirked, gesturing towards his lap.

she squeezed her thighs together before lifting herself back onto the bed, settling over him as she arched her back.

“that’s a good girl, see? you do know how to behave..” he chuckled, lifting up her already short dress, revealing her behind.

craning his neck to inspect her hungrily, the wet patch on her panties, just about covering her wet folds, caught his eyes. humming in response, he grazed his thumb gently against her clothed core, earning a jolt from her.

“seven disruptions…i’d say seven’s fair?” he smirked, a sly tone lingering on his tongue.

before she could submit to him and agree, he cracked his palm against her ass cheek, inciting a quiet whimper from her. “o-one” she whispered, involuntarily pushing back into his hand as he rubbed smooth circles into the hand print.

“good girl, six more to go angel..”

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mariacallous · 2 months ago

Text

Last month, the Trump administration placed a $1 spending limit on most government-issued credit cards that federal employees use to cover travel and work expenses. The impacts are already widely felt.

At the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, scientists aren’t able to order equipment used to repair ships and radars. At the Food and Drug Administration, laboratories are experiencing delays in ordering basic supplies. At the National Park Service, employees are canceling trips to oversee crucial maintenance work. And at the Department of Agriculture and the Federal Aviation Administration, employees worry that mission-critical projects could be stalled. In many cases, employees are already unable to carry out the basic functions of their job.

“The longer this disruption lasts, the more the system will break,” says a USDA official who was granted anonymity because they aren’t authorized to speak to the media about the looming crisis.

A researcher at the National Institutes of Health who tests new vaccines and treatments in rodents says he has had to put experiments on hold; his lab is not able to get certain necessary materials, such as antibodies, which are needed to assess immune response. “We have animals here that are aging that will pretty soon be too old to work with,” says the researcher, who requested anonymity as they aren’t authorized to speak publicly about the agency. Young mice and rats that are 6 to 8 weeks old are typically used for drug and vaccine studies, but some of the animals in their lab have now aged out of that window and may have to be euthanized.

They say NIH workers have been using internal listservs to ask for reagents and lab equipment from other buildings or institutions to try to compensate for shortages, but they’re not always able to track down what they need. The NIH is made up of 27 institutes and centers, and its Bethesda, Maryland, campus is spread across more than 75 buildings. “Sometimes you need something that's really niche, and you're just not going to find it from someone else on campus,” they say.

The change comes as Elon Musk’s so-called Department of Government Efficiency continues to hunt for alleged examples of waste across the federal government. Late last month, DOGE announced that it was working to “simplify” the government’s largest credit card program, which issues GSA SmartPay travel and purchase cards for federal employees. Last Wednesday, the agency claimed 24,000 cards had been deactivated.

The credit card program allows federal workers to bypass the typical procurement process required to buy goods and services. A 2002 report from the Department of Commerce said that, “by avoiding the formal procurement process, GSA estimates the annual savings to be $1.2 billion.” It also enables federal employees to avoid paying sales tax on expenses that the government is exempt from.

At the FDA, labs that analyze samples to ensure that food, drugs, medical devices, and cosmetics are safe and meet regulatory standards are already facing shortages. "While we are always acutely aware of when Congress’ funding is going to run out, we are able to order supplies to keep things going in the lab. This abrupt ending felt like the rug was being pulled out from under us," says an employee at the FDA who requested anonymity because they aren't authorized to speak with the media.

The employee recently placed an order for pipette tips, an essential laboratory supply, but found that order was put on hold. "Now we are running out, asking colleagues at other offices to share what they might not be using,” they told WIRED.

In addition, workers say FDA labs now have to go through a lengthy process to order liquid nitrogen, which is used to keep ultra-cold freezers running. These freezers preserve samples of cells and other biological material that reflect years, and sometimes decades, of research. Delays in getting liquid nitrogen tanks could destroy that material. Previously, new tanks could usually be acquired the same day as putting in a request. Now, it takes a week or so to receive a tank after initiating a request.

An employee at the Environmental Protection Agency says her facility is not able to place regular orders of liquid nitrogen at the moment. “We have dozens of these freezers full of important environmental samples that are imminently at risk of being lost because we can no longer get our regular shipments of liquid nitrogen,” says the employee, who requested anonymity. These samples are used as part of research on detection and remediation methods for chemicals such as PFAS, which are found in many products and break down very slowly over time.

“Scientists are being forced to jerry-rig the connection points on these freezers to accept pressures of liquid nitrogen they were not designed to handle,” the employee says. “Divisions are resorting to bartering with each other to obtain needed items.”

The FDA and EPA did not immediately respond to a request for comment from WIRED.

The credit card freeze also means that federal researchers who were working on scientific manuscripts can’t pay journal fees, meaning they can’t submit their work to certain journals for publication.

An employee at a federal forensics lab told WIRED that spending limits mean the lab is no longer able to pay to ship evidence back to agents, effectively halting its ability to do casework. Before a case goes to trial, defendants have the right to access and review evidence that the prosecution intends to use against them, which includes access to the evidence in their case. Defendants are able to send that evidence to an outside lab for analysis if they choose. “Cases can’t progress until we return the evidence,” says the forensics lab worker, who asked to remain anonymous. “I basically can’t do my job right now.”

NIH employees were told that travel cards could not be used at all for 30 days, forcing scientists to cancel plans to attend a major infectious disease conference next week. USDA employees at the Pest Identification Technology Laboratory have stockpiled reagents used for molecular tests in advance of the spending limits, according to the USDA official.

FAA employees who travel to work on and test aviation systems worry the credit card freeze will prevent them from completing their projects. “We are allowed to use our personal cards in emergencies but none of us trust them to pay us back now,” says one employee.

The impacts have hit the National Park Service as well. One employee was poised to go on a trip to oversee road maintenance at a national monument when the change went into effect on February 20. “Unless I want to pay for it myself, I can’t go. I can’t pay for my hotel, my rental car, fuel for the car. Now I can’t carry out the mission,” the employee says. “Today, instead of focusing on other work, I’m focused on three different contingencies on how to handle this. Do I go? Do I call my engineering team and tell them to reschedule? And if so, when? The project is on an indefinite hold.”

A memo written to staff at the National Park Service specified that “all travel that is NOT related to national security, public safety, or immigration enforcement should be canceled if it begins on Wednesday, February 26, through the end of March 2025.” A long-term decision on the travel policy, it said, will come “at a later date.” Some NPS staffers were able to travel in February despite not getting official clearance. They have now been told no travel will be allowed in March. To date, roughly 75 trips have been canceled or rescheduled, according to a source familiar with the situation.

The National Park Service did not respond to a request for comment from WIRED.

Some government employees say they were given a warning prior to the change being announced on February 20. “We went out and bought cases and cases of toilet paper the night before,” another current employee at the National Park Service says. “There’s a general acknowledgement that things are going to break.”

That employee works in the Pacific West Region, which manages federal land in California, Hawaii, Oregon, Washington, Idaho, and Nevada, as well as parks in Arizona, Montana, Guam, and American Samoa. While the GSA did allow for the possibility of exceptions to the clamp-down, the employee claims there are only four purchase cards with spending limits above $1 available for the entire region.

Some of these parks pay for services like internet and wireless on purchase cards—leaving staffers wondering if their work devices could soon be cut off. “Before someone can fix a bathroom a work order has to be issued,” the current employee explains. “That happens electronically. Like any business, we rely on email, Teams, and chat to get things done.”

The spending limits reflect Musk’s belief in zero-based budgeting. After he purchased Twitter, he slashed the budget to zero and forced employees to justify every expense. He also froze people’s corporate credit cards.

“With the Twitter pausing of payments, at some point we were in a meeting at 1 am on a Saturday, and it was like, ‘Hey, let's turn the credit cards off to see what bounces, and what happens,’" explained angel investor Jason Calacanis on the All In podcast in February. (Calacanis was part of Musk’s transition team at Twitter.) “And of course, we started getting calls ... The people who come first, they're probably the ones who are in on the biggest grift.”

Employees see it a different way. “There are so many controls in place to make sure fraud doesn’t happen,” alleges the current NPS staffer. “I honestly believe the only fraud occurring is being committed by Musk, [Russell] Vought, and [Donald] Trump.”

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victusinveritas · 14 days ago

Text

Comment from a friend on Facebook:

Now I’m not saying that trade with China is right. But these seemingly meaningless tariffs are disrupting world trade and will only come back to bite us. The port here in Tacoma is empty. This is concrete evidence that this will not benefit us or anyone else.

Not a single international cargo ship at the Port of Seattle. The port is effectively dead. The last ship from China will dock at a West coast port on the 29th, and the last Chinese ship will dock on the East coast around May 10th. After that, there will be no more shipments arriving from China. We're about to hit a level of scarcity at retailers nationwide that will make covid seem like child's play.

Don't believe me? Just take a ride on the ferry to Seattle and look south. The port is a ghost town.

Edit: for some reason this post has taken off, if you like talking about macroeconomics and current events check out my YouTube channel and join us live Mon-Fri 5:30pm eastern/2:30 Pacific https://youtube.com/@houstonwade

#trump tariffs #merchant ships #international trade #merchant marine #maritime trade #trade war #us economy #tariffs #trump regime #cargo shipping

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hollyhomburg · 3 months ago

Text

Prey Animals (11)

— Pairing: Yoongi x reader, Bts x reader

— Genre: Omegaverse, Mafia au, Polyamory au, Found family, Suspense, Eventual Smut, enemies to friends to lovers, Healing & Themes of trauma,

— Summary: In a world where Beta's are rare, valuable, and often have more than one pack; Beta Min Yoongi does everything he can to keep his mafia heritage a secret from his primary pack. Little does he know he's not the only one who's living a double life.

— Words: 8.6k

— Warnings: Physical abuse, sexual abuse, psychological abuse, trauma, violence, abduction, blood, hurt/comfort, tenderness, patching up wounds.

— Check in at the end for my notes on this chapter! —

(92 days before, Yoongi)

Yoongi can’t see you as much as he’d like.

There are just too many things to do, family factions to check up on, disputes to settle that almost devolve into blows or burials. Headache after headache and bruised knuckles that Yoongi tries to hide from you.

He doesn’t want you to think he’s like them.

He wonders when what you think of him started to matter. Unable to place the exact moment or thing that makes him even care. He imagines Seokjin tapping the space over his heart, ‘not empty yet?’ A dizzying daydream and a sweet one.

The only sweet reprieve he finds these days are either his dreams or the afternoons he slips away to you. Only when Geumjae’s not there, only when you won’t be seen together, and his presence won’t be suspicious. Yoongi is allowed to move about as he wants, you on the other hand are not. Kept under lock and key.

“Geumjae doesn’t let me leave. He’s worried that I’ll- he’s just protective- and-”

“And possessive?”

“And possessive.” You agree, tipping your head to Yoongi in deference. “You know how alpha’s get.”

Yoongi doesn’t mind coming to you.

Monday and Wednesday afternoons are reserved solely for you. Mostly because those are the days that Geumjae regularly steps out to handle the family business. The Min’s have always been in charge of guns, ghost and stollen, distribution and protection, everything else is just background noise, though occasionally Yoongi knows Geumjae trades in bodies and blunts. Nothing he can’t move quickly, nothing that sticks around.

Wednesdays are the day that Geumjae checks in with his men, checks who’s paid their ‘rent’ this month and who hasn’t. Yoongi knows Geumjae checks over the shipments personally and those come in on Monday.

Usually, you have a good block of time to spend with Yoongi. And he can reassure himself you’re not hurt. Even if that double checking starts to feel more complacent as the weeks drag on.

Smuggling and secrets, hidden hurts and bruises. Yoongi doesn’t know when he started to sort of plan it in his head, all the way’s he might be able to convince Geumjae to let you go and the ways he could get you out.

He doesn’t brotch the topic with you, that’s too risky. But when he’s not with you Yoongi’s planning. It’s one of a dozen goals he has at this point to disrupt the movements of the family and dismantling the empire.

But that’s a pipe dream, they’re too well organized, you could never take it down from the top or the bottom, it would have to be unilateral. Yoongi has thought about how he’d do it time and time again and every time he tries to think through it he runs into the same road blocks.

There is too much loyalty, too much mutually assured destruction. One house falls and another would take its place and absorb their business. You couldn’t go house by house without the others becoming too strong.

And no one can second guess Yoongi’s motives. To cause even the slightest suspicion would be a death warrant, it has to look like he’s helpful and incompetent even if he aims to be anything but.

Helping a head’s wife escape her husband would certainly be cause for suspicion. Not enough to kill Yoongi outright, but probably enough that all of his actions, including returning to the pack would gain further scrutiny. Yoongi doesn’t want to think about what would happen if the family took a closer look. The pack must stay uncontacted. Yoongi will not drag them into this.

One life does not equal six. But Yoongi has to try.

Faking your death is an easy option. Yoongi could easily say you couldn’t be trusted and procure a body that looks like yours and plant it. Fire could take care of DNA and dental records. No one would question it if Yoongi was at the helm of the operation. No one would question if Yoongi made it look like it was him who killed you.

That way- you might be able to slip away unscathed.

He’s got a fair bit of money set aside that he could give you. Not enough to buy you a new life but certainly enough to start. He could make sure you disappear into the hazy backdrop of the world. To some faraway seaside cottage that he could come and visit. He could fix it up maybe. Live in it possibly. If the pack doesn’t take him back.

There are a lot of ‘ifs’ in all this.

The rest of the houses jostling for power gets worse as the days count down, and they grow restless. The Callender trudges closer to the 120-day mark. The gala planned at end of the season is for the lunar new year but also for the new Don. It will be the last official family gathering and once the clock strikes midnight, Yoongi will make his choice on who will rule. It has more than one grandma in a tizzy- there’s a lot of planning that goes into it.

“It’s the year of the rabbit,” someone whispers,

“Not a good year, a year for prey animals.”

“Surely it’s bad luck.”

Yoongi grows antsy too. Too often the business of the family drags him away from you.

He helps the Ahn's carry out a deal that almost goes south and misses two meetings with you in a row. You do send some pastries to the cottage, chocolate ginger cookies with powdered sugar tops- but they’re cold and a little mushy by the time Yoongi gets to them. The cinnamon still reminds him of Tae. It seems like you’re trying to make one pastry for each of them, if the coffee cake and vanilla bean scones are anything to go by.

When he can’t get to you, your text messages are his constant companion.

Mrs.Min (1:26am): if you have a sweet tooth like me, I don’t know why you’ve never learned to bake.

--- (1:31am): Seokjin bakes bread sometimes but anything with a filling he kind of fails at.

--- (1:31am): We tried to make hot pockets once.

Yoongi swears he can year you stifle a laugh over the phone. Across the city sitting downstairs because you didn’t want to fall asleep next to Geumjae upstairs. Happy to have a rare evening where he doesn’t…require you.

You feel like you sort of know his pack already. It’s nice to talk about them. You’re the only person who Yoongi can talk to about them. The only person who doesn’t make talking feel scary.

Yoongi changes your contact in his phone.

--- (1:32am): could you teach me how to cook shit like this?

Her (1:32am): Don’t call my cookies shit

Yoongi sends a selfie of himself eating one, face dotted with powdered sugar like snow.

--- (1:32am): they sort of look like shit.

Her (1:33am): they’re double chocolate caramel!!!!

Her (1:33am): …

Her (1:33am): Alright fine, I’ll admit they’re not visually appealing.

Yoongi laughs curling over the plate of cookies. It’s the first time he’s laughed in weeks, the first laugh that he’s had here that wasn’t fake. Yoongi looks at his phone and feels such a pang in his chest it winds him. Tae's voice whispers in his ear.

You’re going to miss her, aren’t you? If this goes south, you’d miss her.

Yoongi’s heart is in his throat when he reads your text message.

Her (1:34am): We might not have a lot of time until new years, but I can probably teach you a few recipes before then.

~-~

(87 days before, Yoongi)

More and more of the families want to have Yoongi supervise, want him to see how each of their candidates behave in hopes of swaying him in their direction. But a good portion of them are either too young, too stupid, or too disinterested in actually leading. Guided to Yoongi’s quiver by their parents and heads of house.

The Ahn’s are in charge of weed and meth, the Miyazato’s cocaine and heroin, the Jijon’s prescription drugs and organs (kidneys mostly, but there is the rare lung transplant and the even rarer hearts), the Lucchese’s for smuggling and laundering, the Moon’s diamonds, the Camorra’s prostitution, Another for cybercrimes and counterfeiting, on and on again until Yoongi’s mind is dizzy with keeping track of who works for who.

12 families in total. A few of them have intermingled enough that there are blood relations on both sides. Yoongi’s mother was a Moon before she married his father. The title of ‘cousin’ for Moonbyul’s isn’t just that. The blood mixing is kept track of carefully, with no need for unintended incest, it’s a hobby of the auntie and uncle omega’s. There is a dating pool of eligible young omegas and alphas. The more they intermarry the stronger the bond between houses grow.

Yoongi doesn’t know what he’d rather do, play kingpin or matchmaker.

There are a few arranged marriages each year. One gets announced at a family dinner almost halfway through Yoongi’s stay. The Ahn head of house and the Luchese head of house shake hands, the perfect picture of a business deal. Both of them wishing for more grandchildren.

Which is probably why most of the grannies don’t like you.

Yoongi see’s you sneered at and tripped, notes when the houses switch to their native tongues, more often than not Korean, when you come close to hide their words from you. You’ve squashed their plans of having their third or fourth in line omega grandchild marry a head of house. Yoongi doesn’t have to ask himself why Geumjae chose you. It’s clear.

You’re as beautiful as you are easy to get along with, more than one man has been tempted to possessive anger by a countenance as graceful as yours. When Yoongi comes to check on you you’ve always got something prepared.

You need too, because that’s the only sure-fire way you’ve ever found that made Geumjae’s anger immediately subside. A way to a man’s heart is through his stomach (and between his legs) and it’s your only way to safety.

Geumjae doesn’t eat your sweets anymore. He hasn’t since the Don and Beta died. But Yoongi eats them and that’s enough to encourage your shy smile.

You learned after the first day you don’t have something prepared, that Yoongi doesn’t mind if you don’t have the food ready when he walks in. “I-I’m sorry- they’re taking too long to cook- they don’t look pretty, and I haven’t even made the ganache yet- I don’t know what went wrong and-”

Yoongi’s presence is so soothing, like a fresh breath of air as he swoops into your kitchen, opening the oven and checking it while you watch anxiously. Ready to be scolded.

“It looks like it needs a minute, do you want to teach me how to make frosting? It can’t be that hard to make ganache.” His casual tone leaves you spluttering.

“Gnash and frosting are like so not the same thing.”

It’s the first time anyone cooked with you in years, and Yoongi dons your apron so easily. There are little strawberries embroidered along the hem, and it contrasts with the dark silk of his button-down. He lets you tie it behind his back. He always wears the scarf when he comes to see you, it’s like your little secret. Sometimes, at the family dinners on the weekend you see it tied to his wrist, the hint of red peeking out from his suit jacket.

Some days Yoongi doesn’t take it off.

“Is there anything you don’t like? Any desert I shouldn’t make?”

Yoongi thinks for a moment, humming, turning away to tap at his phone, sitting on the countertop. Someone is calling him, but he taps away the contact the second it appears. “I guess the only thing I don’t really like is pumpkin pie.”

You lift your lip, nodding in agreement, “so mushy.” You show him how to chop the chocolate, putting it in the double boiler, watching him while he stirs it, giving him instructions that he follows obediently.

A man, obedient for you. How strange.

He’s got nice shoulders, you realize. They’re wider than you first thought. A warm vision pops into your head; more of a string of images than a daydream. Your arms around his waist, a hug from behind. Your front pressed to his warm back, burying your face in his shoulders and rubbing your nose along his spine.

It’s brief even if it is sweet, you shake it off before it has the power to make your scent sweet. Narrowly stopping the chocolate from burning with a hand on his wrist. His scent sweetens. Like the chocolate on the air. You avoid touching Yoongi for the rest of the day. When Yoongi’s not looking you press your cold hands to your cheeks to try and calm down.

~-~

(70 days before, Yoongi)

It’s the 6th Wednesday that Yoongi has gone over to your house, and when he checks his phone for a text from you, he finds nothing.

It's not all that abnormal. Two Mondays ago Yoongi hadn't gotten a text at all until nearly 4 o'clock. You'd apologized and told him that he should just come over if it happened again. So he heads over, hood up in disguise and to protect his face from the wind. A gnawing feeling in his chest that feels an awful lot like worry.

There are no staff here today, none. Not a single car in your modest wrap-around driveway or 3-car garage. Yoongi knows Geumjae has a collection of supercars somewhere across the city, but knows better than to suspect he’s home. He always parks out front and leaves either the red Lamborghini or the black Spider where anyone can see and envy it. Geumjae never misses an opportunity to show off.

Yoongi lingers outside, the windows are dark, but he can see a light just on, not in the entranceway but further inside. He sends you a text, tries to call you, and even knocks on the front door, only for it to go unanswered. He hesitates just briefly before he lets himself in.

He doesn't have to go far to find you. You are in the powder room just off the foyer. The only lit-up space in the whole house, you are slumped over the sink, hardly able to hold yourself up. You look up in the mirror the second you hear someone behind you.

You flinch, face turning, bloody cheek catching the light.

“Holy shit.”

He hasn’t taken off his jacket or his shoes, he hasn’t even bothered to make sure you’re not being watched as he crosses the short distance. You flinch back again, backing up against the door.

Your face is...a mess, a bruised cheek, the corner of your lip split, and the top of your cupid's bow swollen. There is blood on your lips, the inside of your mouth when you open it. Your chin is speckled with it as is the side of your face.

Your shoulders go down, and you speak, words muffled from the blood in your mouth. The sink is soaked in it from wall to wall. A bit drips out.

“I thought you were Geumjae.”

Yoongi bristles, but rage makes him quiet. You pause, spitting blood into the sink. “Bit my cheek when he slapped me. It’s alright, it's fine, I'm-” you sway, teeter there and Yoongi stops you from falling over. Woozy from blood loss? From a minor concussion?

It’s anything but alright, and it’s anything but fine. Yoongi knows. Feels it in his hands, shaking with rage. He lifts his hands, hesitating before he touches you. He lowers his hand and settles for grabbing yours, tugging you through the house to the kitchen.

Yoongi does not like touching you when he's angry. It doesn't feel good. It doesn't feel right, even if it's not you he's angry at.

Face wounds have a habit of bleeding a lot, and mouth wounds even more so. There is a trail of blood from the bathroom to the kitchen speckling the black and white checked floor.

It’s no better there. In the kitchen, there’s a small pool of blood on the floor. Smudged like something- your cheek maybe- had been pressed into it and dragged or pushed through it. Dried and dark.

A bowl of flour sits upturned, dotting the counter like snow and turning everything dusty. Yoongi wonders what you’d been making, what you’d almost tried to bake before your interruption.

It had been for him; you'd been baking for him and Geumjae had been there and he'd-

Yoongi picks you up at your waist and sits you on the countertop. So angry he can hardly speak. The touch is brief, only a few seconds on your waist. But you make a small noise in surprise. “Sit.” He commands, and you follow, perfectly obedient.

Blood dribbles out of your lips. Onto your lap. You're in your pajamas, matching blue and grey silk toile. There's blood on your collar too.

He wets a cloth underneath the faucet and dabs it against your cheek, round and swollen, ever so gently to wipe at the blood on your cheek, holding his hand under your chin to catch the blood. Your split lip. Until your skin is mostly clear. You wince and Yoongi gently cajoles you. “There you go- I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Yoongi leaves you with the cloth and goes to get cotton rounds and raid the bathroom. There is hydrogen peroxide and Vaseline, it’s not ideal, and it's not a trip to urgent care or a call from a family doctor but it’s all Yoongi can do.

"I'm going to fix your mouth, but I have to put my fingers in there. Is that okay? Is that alright?" you nod, mouth too full of blood to speak.

Yoongi washes his hands before he grabs the Vaseline. He hooks his finger into it grabbing a glob on his index before he holds his other hand out for the cloth. "Spit" You spit into the cloth. "Open" you open your mouth.

Yoongi finds the interior gash warm, Warm and wet and hot to the touch. He swipes the Vaseline over it as gently as he can but you still wince. Breath hot around his knuckles. Yoongi does not keep his fingers in your mouth longer than necessary. Taking it out and whipping the blood and Vaseline on another cloth. "There you go, good, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. Try to speak with your lips more, I know it hurts, but this will help it clot and stop bleeding. Leave it in for an hour and then you'll be good."

The Vaseline tastes gross. Leaves oil on your tongue, but your mouth immediately stops filling with blood. Yoongi's fingers are out of your mouth as quick as he puts them in. You nod, eyes downturned.

Yoongi takes the cloth from you and continues to clean. It's the softest anyone's touched you in a long time. You're selfish enough to let him do it. Is it affection or selfishness? Wanting or guilt? You can't read Yoongi's expression. Can’t read his eyes at all.

You’re wearing makeup to cover other bruises, this close, standing between your legs, he can see the spots where your skin turns gummy. He continues to wipe it away. Going farther than the blood. Down to your chin, your shoulder. Your neck, Your fingers. Your wrists. More and more horrified the more he uncovers.

You don't stop him. You could stop him. You should. But being touched like this. The cold cloth feels so pleasant against your bruised skin. It feels a bit too good to be safe.

You have fingerprints, hand marks, whatever you want to call them. Around your neck. Big finger-shaped bruises. More around your wrists like someone has been holding you down. Your eyes are screwed shut tight like you can’t bear to keep your eyes open. Yoongi’s rag is a mess of makeup and blood.

An uncharacteristic growl builds in his chest because- because-

He can tell that the bruises aren’t fresh. You have to have been hiding them for days or maybe weeks because they’re already yellowing. Yoongi didn't notice them. Geumjae had tried to strangle you. To kill you. He could have, he could have done it, with his hands around your throat.

Yoongi wonders If the abuse started before or after your marriage. Knowing Geumjae- he probably waited to show you his true colors. Married, locked in, and trapped. He must have waited until you knew too much, until you didn’t have a hope of leaving without losing your life.

The family doesn’t allow divorces.

You immediately go into damage control. Yoongi doesn’t even have to ask where you got them before you’re defending your husband. “There are worse things. He wasn’t trying to kill me this time. He was just so angry.” Looking at them all Yoongi can think is that Namjoon would sooner cut off his own hands than lay one finger on Jin in anger. “-and you know how alpha’s are, it’s my fault, I make him angry.”

You keep saying that and Yoongi’s starting to hate it.

Yoongi can barely hear you over the roar of his own heartbeat in his ears. He knows he probably smells like the ocean right now. That he should be putting more effort into smelling gentler so that he doesn’t spook you but-

“This time?”

If he smells like the ocean when he’s sad or upset, then you smell like rain. Together you are a typhoon, a hurricane. Wind whipping, cold and fridged. The type of storm that melts cities and peels off warmth like nothing. The kitchen is full of that smell, rain, salt, and bloody brine.

You shake your head at him, looking away. You take the cold cloth from him. All but wrench it from his fingers. “Don’t, just don’t alright.”

Yoongi pushes back from the countertop and Yoongi raises his hand to run a hand over his face, realizing what he’s done wrong seconds later. His words of ‘don’t defend him’ die in his throat when he sees you prepare to be hit. Flinching and closing your eyes again.

If you’re getting abused by your husband, it stands to reason that his brother will do the same. No matter the kindness that you’ve come to expect from Yoongi, no matter the gentleness you’ve seen. He could always change. People can always change. No good will is guaranteed and no safety is forever.

His touch on your chin is gentle but you still recoil from it. Opening your eyes looking up at him. Eyes wide in surprise.

You’re beginning to realize that Yoongi is nothing like his brother. You feel like you’re always expecting him to do one thing, only for him to say and do the opposite. You wait for him to shame you when he teases you, wait for him to lie to you when he tells you the truth. He’s a man of contradictions.

You’ve never known a beta before.

You’ve seen the way he acts around the others in the family, watching, always ready to offer an encouraging touch to the young pups or a helpful hand to the old grannies. He might complain and bitch and moan, but behind closed doors, Yoongi is as intense of a man as he is kind.

You think that out of all of them, he’s the only member of the family that you could ever learn to genuinely like.

Not love, because love isn’t something you’d ever get. Not without paying for it.

Geumjae is always careful to remind you of an omega’s place in society, especially one like you who came from nothing and is worth comparatively little. How many times has he reminded you that you’re not worth the money it takes to house and clothe you? That you are more of a bother than you’re worth.

You need to fit the part assigned to you. The wife, pretty and young and doting.

Your husband likes it when you’re dressed to impress, in Burberry and Balenciaga. It sends a pointed message to the other families, even if it makes you feel like an accessory.

Feeling like an accessory is better than feeling like a nuisance, like the dirt under his shoes- like earlier, your nose shoved into your blood like a pet would be shown a mess. Geumjae's boot on the side of your face, pressing you into the floor so hard you felt your jaw creek. You take what you can get. You have been trained to accept violence where there should be love. It’s your job to look and act a certain way. It's your job to take it.

But it’s harder with Yoongi, harder when he doesn’t seem to expect anything from you at all beyond the conversation. But maybe you’re just naive.

He’s still a man after all.

You know best what men are truly like. How many times has Geumjae told you your only value is between your legs? The other slight comforts you provide are simply nominal. You’re as much for decoration as the fancy designer couch or the crystal chandelier. You complete the picture of the perfect life. Powerful men like Geumjae should have pretty young wives, demure and obedient.

You don’t know when you started to believe the horse shit that Geumjae shoves down your throat. That you were lucky he didn’t treat you worse. That his job is stressful enough to make the abuse justified.

That you deserve it.

But Yoongi makes it hard to believe Geumjae’s lies. Especially when he talks about his pack, especially when he reacts to your bruises. You bruise easily, it’s not Geumjae’s fault he leaves marks on you.

Yoongi cradles your face in his hand, thumb on your bruised chin. So, light it doesn’t hurt. It’s dangerous. If Geumjae saw the two of you right now, standing closer like this, Yoongi standing between your parted thighs he might-

“I will never hurt you; you don’t have to be afraid of me.” You stare at him, keenly aware that no matter the empty this house is there could always be eyes.

You could never call the brownstone home. No matter that you sleep and eat and shit here. This house is not a home, that you are sure of. It is never truly safe and there could always be someone watching. Someone who could tell Geumjae that Yoongi had put his hands on you. However gently. it doesn’t matter when it comes to your husband.

His promise tastes rotten. It's not safe for him to be around you. And yet, he holds your face so gently, that you cannot help but lean into his touch.

His hair brushes your brow, long, in your face. “I’m never going to hurt you. I promise.”

Your skin belongs to Geumjae; your body belongs to Geumjae. Every molecule in you promised from the ring on your finger and the bracelets on your wrist. When you find time to feel something other than fear- you hate it. That he’s made you into this thing. This object. You hate the man you once said you loved. No matter what your family and friends had told you about your boyfriend, then fiancé, and now your demon.

Your family and friends have long stopped asking after you. They don't come around anymore; you haven’t spoken to them in years. Whenever they call, Geumjae gets a notification on his phone. You know he has it tracked as well to keep an eye on you. And it’s easier to just not pick up than have him question you and demand you turn over your phone. Even if nothing is telling in your text messages, he’ll find something to be mad about.

Why are you downloading Instagram again? I told you I wasn’t comfortable with you downloading it, people only use it to cheat and look at pictures of other alpha’s. Why did you delete this photo from your camera roll? Did you send this selfie to someone else? See this is why I can’t trust you- you’re so fucking Nieve it blows my mind sometimes. Why would anyone be interested in you if they weren’t going to fuck you? You think she really just wants to be your friend? You’re so fucking boring baby. She’s an alpha. You know alpha’s only want one thing.

Your husband is as possessive of you as he is violent. The first time another man had touched you- just a hand on the small of your back- Geumjae had carved the skin away and cut off the other man’s hand. One finger for every second spent touching something that was his.

That is what we do with filth. We cut it out. He’d said, trailing the knife up the inseam of your tights. You should be careful you don’t dirty yourself. He’s done a lot to you over the years, made you stand under cold water until your lips where purple and the water felt like fire, made you kneel, kept you awake until you were worried about passing out, forced you to crawl, forced you to be sick. Forced you to do a lot of things you’re not proud of, that make you feel dirty.

Yoongi cradles your face so delicately, like he’s not worried about getting his hands dirty.

The scars would have stuck if you hadn’t used scar cream, and really- it wasn’t that deep or that bad, you hadn’t even needed stitches. If he’d been truly angry, he would have cut you deeper. Even in your own mind, you make it out as less bad than it is.

There are other things that are worse than the scars. You hate the way that your husband watches you, the way that his eyes roam. You feel like he's cutting your skin off, fileting you alive with every spot his eyes touch. You would cut it out if you could- whatever makes him stare so long. You’d cut your hair and scar your face; you’d smash all your makeup if only he would stop looking at you.

But beauty is currency. Would Yoongi be helping you right now if you weren't beautiful? You’re not sure you want to know the answer to that question.

(Yes…he would.)

You’ll get nowhere with that line of questioning. As much for your safety as for Yoongi’s- He can’t get close to you or else risk Geumjae’s wrath. You step away from him and his touch. Returning to the floor and stepping out of his grasp. Yoongi has his blood on your fingers when he takes them away, rusty and diluted from water.

It won’t be the last time he has your blood on his hands.

“Yoongi,” you say his name chiding, like you’re scolding a small child. “Don’t you know better than to make promises you can’t keep?”

~-~

(68 days before, Yoongi)

Group dinners are routine, and while Yoongi could find an excuse to see you during the day, he’s also often pulled in 50 different directions by the expectations of his family.

He finds himself readying for dinner in a hurry most nights, eager or maybe a little panicked to check in with you. The family dinners are tense between the two of you. You maintain none of the easy friendships you've cultivated in private. You avoid him like the plague and his eyes never hover on you even once.

Both of you are good at pretending.

Geumjae sticks to your side like glue too. A hand that probably looks protective to anyone else but looks possessive to Yoongi slung around your waist constantly. Yoongi sees the harshness and pain in your body when Geumjae’s hand tightens digging into the swell of your hip. You're plush in the way that all omega's are plush, as pretty as it is distracting.

Yoongi does not let himself look distracted. Not yet. There are too many maneuvers to make, too many decisions and plays, and each of you is like a piece of a chess board.

Yoongi eats his food and quietly begins to plan Geumjae’s murder.

Knight to A1, Rook to A3, (Queen to E4, Pawn to D5).

Sometimes when you stand close Yoongi lets his fingers brush yours. Sometimes you even brush back.

~-~

(64 days before, Yoongi)

Checking up on everyone in the family during mourning times and making sure they’re all obeying the rules is one of his responsibilities as beta but fuck if it’s not annoying.

Yoongi is a different person when he's around them. He has to be.

He doesn’t know how many more aunties or grannies or omegan uncles he can handle crying into his shoulder about how the last Don was so and so, did such and such great thing, or was remarkable in this way. Only to have them compare the late Don to their grandchild or husband, conveniently eligible for the throne.

Everything is a tool. Even mourning. Even misery.

Yoongi's glad you don't try anything, not that he thinks you would, not that you'd ever defend Geumjae. Regardless of where you stand with your husband. His presence in your house will always be easy to excuse an account of how suspicious the others are of you.

He just wants to make sure the newest member of the family isn’t a mole. That excuse satisfies everyone.

Even Geumjae.

None of them suspect what he’s planning, Yoongi isn’t just a good manipulator, he’s the best.

He makes a show of it, and it has the double purpose of undermining Geumjae’s position in the family when they have a meeting. Only the heads of house and him. 13 people sat around the big table. Moonbyul has her Chelsea boots propped up on the edge of the table. Yoongi standing at the head. He infuses his words with more venom than a rattlesnake.

“I cannot believe you’re foolish enough to bring in someone as incompetent and as stupid as you did brother,” Yoongi lies. They’re all lies lies lies- “You clearly haven’t been making decisions with the family's best interest in mind, I expected better from you.”

5 out of the 12 heads nod at Yoongi’s words. Moonbyul levels him with a cool look. Calculating. "It would have been safer for a head of household to pursue someone from within the family, let alone an outsider who had a clear lack of money or relevant connections." That much is true. “She has no use to us. It’s clear that this matter requires my personal involvement.” Geumjae won’t contradict Yoongi in front of the other heads of household. He merely nods at Yoongi somberly, accepting his criticism.

It’s not the last criticism that Yoongi has for them. Not by far. Yoongi was taught to do this job and damn it if he's not fucking good at spotting their weaknesses from a mile away.

“The sector by the docks is so leaky it couldn’t hold a fucking cup of water. You cannot be moving products in the light of day. I get that you're fucking ancient Mr. Choi and that you're grieving but switch your schedules over before you get all of us fucking caught. You won't last in jail, and that’s a promise."

“Are you thinking with your dick or your brain Meimei? Or do you just scoop anyone off the street these days without bothering to check if they’re the cousin of the fucking mayor? It’s a good thing your son realized who she was, or else that might have made a mess that not even I can clean up. How is the donation to his next campaign coming? Is there anything else we know that we can use against him? If he asks for more than a million it's coming out of your coiffeurs not the rest of ours. I don't care if you have to sell your house in Aspen or your own fucking omega, get it done.”

He tosses insults like they're change, and the sneer on his face is not fake. “Bury your bodies, don’t prop them up at your dinner table and make them a plate. Get rid of this or I swear to God you’ll be next on my chopping block.”

And if someone dares to ask him if he's made his choice yet, he all but bites their head off. "In the last 70 days, I've witnessed nothing but profound mediocrity from you and everyone else in your line. If you have any more stupid questions, I'll gladly replace you as head of house, maybe the next one won't make me feel like I'm blowing my fucking brains out while I'm holding their goddamn hand."

Yoongi is a good actor, he wonders what they think he’s going to do with you, maybe interrogate, maybe torture, whatever it is- it’s a far cry from his twice-weekly visits to you. Knocking on the door before he lets himself in. Wiping his hands through his hair. Making himself presentable before there’s that pitter patter of socked feet towards the door. His heart beating in time with the quick steps.

You’re already pink-cheeked and smiling shyly, ready to take his coat. “I’ve got it- I’ve got it” he tries to insist. But he suspects it has more to do with your trained countenance than any real want to take care of him. He lets you hang up his coat.

The scarf on his wrist remains tied. Your fingers skim it when you help him take off his gloves.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t come sooner- grannie was a little distraught” In truth- the old woman had cried into Yoongi’s arms for a good two hours; it had eaten up most of his morning. You never fail to smile at Yoongi when he appears in your kitchen. Practically bouncing on your heels.

Maybe he can give you this, just this.

Your house always smells sweet. With vanilla, with melted sugar, with milk. Scents that make Yoongi ache. You bake every day, unaware of the fact that the scents you conjure with your hobby make Yoongi think of people he loves and misses daily.

He doesn’t know what his family thinks he’s doing with you, but letting you chide him gently over the way he's folding the egg whites probably isn't it. "They're so fluffy, are you sure they're not like whipped cream." Yoongi slides his finger through them.

"Don't. Trust me, egg whites are yucky."

He spends his afternoons with you munching on the sweets you’ve created and tea and coffee, once you learn that’s what Yoongi likes- you always have a pot ready when he comes knocking. Warm and thick on the air like Namjoon's scent. Imported beans from Taiwan, Thailand, and everywhere until you find the one that Yoongi likes best.

And on the days where it doesn’t hurt as much- when you don't feel prone to jealousy or worry or when you need a bit of hope, you ask Yoongi about his pack.

It's always small questions. Idle and not too deep. It’s not exactly a safe topic and you try not to get into scary territory. Tip-toeing here and there around things that you really want to say, really want to know, filling up on lemon tarts and custard-filled pastries, on cranberry orange biscuits and jammy cookies.

You know them by name and by scent. And Yoongi only brings them up when he feels like he can handle the pain. Or when you bake things that smell particularly like home, like the den, like them.

It helps that with every day away he makes them safer. With every day gone he brings more distance between them and him and the possibility of the pack getting wrapped up in this gets slimmer and slimmer. The odds are never non-existent, but they are better. He’s a dangerous man to love and Yoongi knows that. He was always on borrowed time. He knows they probably don’t see it that way, but it makes Yoongi feel better about leaving them.

He’s going to have a lot to explain to them if he ever makes it back. Yoongi puts his odds at 20- Maybe 10%.

“The one who smells like honey?” You clarify, “Your honey? Jimin.”

“Jungkook," he corrects easily, Yoongi tips his head good-naturedly. "Jimin smells like vanilla, Jungkook's honey.” The sweetness coats his tongue, almost conjuring Jungkook in thin air by how much Yoongi yearns.

"Your honey?"

"Yes, my honey." Your fingers are sticky, your smile too. Yoongi reaches up to wipe your cheek. “He would love stuff like this, he’s a total muscle pig but he only really works out so that he can eat as much food as he wants,” Yoongi says the words hushed. Like they’re a secret. He doesn’t mention anything about Jungkook’s seizures.

You hide your smile in the lip of a teacup. “I’ll have to make it for him one day then.”

It’s a soft sentiment even if it’s another impossibility. The promises are just another way that you and Yoongi play pretend.

~-~

(57 days before, Yoongi)

Regardless of the Don’s position remaining unfilled and the rules imposed, bloodshed can’t always be avoided. It's always something, a gun that accidentally goes off at the wrong moment, some bad product that finds its way onto the streets and sends the media into a tizzy. Today it's a dock worker who doesn't want to pay the usual fee, who foolishly thinks that things will change now that there isn’t a sole person in control.

But he's wrong, Yoongi is in control.

He's called in to help, and he’d had to leave the man in a bloody heap, barely breathing. He'd heard more screams while he was leaving. Yoongi doesn’t want to think about how painful it must have been. Walking away with heavy footsteps.

He’d made sure to wash the blood off of his hands and change his clothes before coming over, but he’d forgotten about the bottoms of his shoes, walking all over your rug and tracking blood into the house. You don’t level it or him with any distaste, no matter how much he apologizes. He can tell you don’t really mind.

He wonders how many times you’ve had to clean up blood in this house and how many times that blood has been your own. You have the cleaning ladies who move through the house like wraiths’. But they're in your husband's pocket. You clean it up before they have a chance too.

Yoongi gets on his hands and knees with you, no matter that you tell him he shouldn't.

"I'm your equal when it's just the two of us, you don't have to act like that- subservient," he says, "I'm not Geumjae."

Oh, if only Yoongi knew how painfully aware you are of that.

Both of you scrub the floor in companionable silence. Not too worried about leaving evidence that anyone with more than a wandering eye would find. The quiet seeps in until you ask him.

“Did you kill him?” Yoongi can’t breathe around the tension in his chest. You touch his hands, and somehow- you don’t expect them to be as warm as they are.

Warm monsters cannot survive the coldness of hell.

“No. But I could have.” He closes his eyes, admitting it after a moment. “I left that for someone else but I probably shouldn't have, they-” he breaks off, hums, “I doubt they made it quick."

You trace along with one of the bruised knuckles delicately, making a small noise in the back of your throat.

It feels too close to forgiveness, but Yoongi cannot move his hand away.

~-~

(49 days before, Yoongi)

It’s an uncommonly warm day for December, uncommonly sunny outside too, as the light cuts through the barren trees. He can’t help by notice the way that you look towards the open windows, cracked to let some of the stale air out by the cleaning ladies who left before Yoongi arrived. Letting in the distant sounds of the city.

A car horn blares and slips over the stone wall like a tantalizing promise, the sound of people on the sidewalk talking is gentle and sweet. Your house is big, but there’s no real distance that separates you from them here. Maybe 10 feet of driveway and another 10 feet of garden.

Yoongi wonders, not for the first time, if the walls are to keep the world out or to keep you in.

He sees you lean your cheek against the side of the couch and stare over the edge of it, a empty teacup abandoned in your lap. Eyes closed against the tantalizing breeze that slips through the open window.

“We should get out of the house, go somewhere.”

Your eyes open, and you blink, sleepy. You must have a nest upstairs, Yoongi is struck all of a sudden, by how he’s never seen it. Omega’s nest to feel comfort. Collect blankets and soft things and pillows. He imagines you must need a great deal of that- comfort and rest. He’d like to see it, if you’d let him. But it’s an intimate thing to ask, an even more intimate thing to see. If Yoongi where an alpha, the question would be akin to asking for nudes.

But Yoongi isn’t an alpha. He puts his coffee cup down.

“Geumjae doesn’t like it when I leave the house without him, he’ll be angry.”

Yoongi stands up from the settee and holds out his hand for you.

“If he finds out, we can tell I made you.”

You hesitate, staring at his open palm before you take it and let him pull you to your feet.

The two of you raid the coat closet for mittens and scarves and dash out onto the city streets with a breathless giggle. Dodging passersby and pressing close in your own little bubble. Your hand isn’t in his yet, but it brushes his often.

It feels stolen, savored, like a penny that you find on the sidewalk, round and coppery golden.

He drags you through the narrow city streets, treating you to gelato at Venchi. He gets pistachio and you get strawberry. Even though it’s winter, the hot cocoa he gets you warms you up enough that you hardly even feel it. Yoongi’s smile makes you feel like it's summer. You sit at the back of the shop and talk about everything. You talk about the wedding he missed, about the family, about anything but your husband.

You rarely meet eye contact but you’re both good at steering the conversation into safe territory. You like a lot of the same music- and once Yoongi gets started talking about it, he really can’t shut up. You’re a fan of the same drama that Tae and Seokjin like to watch. That’s the first time Yoongi sees your face light up.

You don’t have great proprioception. You’re always reaching for something, always hitting your hip on the table as you walk by. You almost step into the street at one point, teetering off the edge of the sidewalk so close that he has to grab you back from the edge.

You lean into his space a little, blinking at the sudden loud noise, the car speeding past and honking at you to get out of the way. His hand is a vice around your upper arm pulls you in closer than should be proper. You whisper a small thank you with wide eyes that look up at him like you’re surprised that he thought to make sure you weren’t in harm’s way. Yoongi doesn’t know how you almost walked out into traffic, how you didn’t see the car coming.

“Are you dizzy or something?”

“A little,” You confess.

You remind Yoongi of a clumsy baby kitten or maybe like an alley cat that hasn’t yet committed to a life of kibble and wet food. Like you want to trust him but can’t. You look at Yoongi like you’re half scared of him and half hopeful. He remembers feeling that way, so desperate for something good to hold onto but so conscious of the fact that to hope means to invite disappointment. That to trust is to be betrayed. That anything good, cannot possibly stay for long.

He understands it. Yoongi is a patient man.

(He thinks of trying to make up for the bloodshed he’s caused. Life by life. Yoongi is not absent of blame. Yoongi is still a cog in this machine that helps it run. He’s at least partially responsible for all the carnage the family has caused. At the end of the day, he only tries so hard to limit their destruction.

But if he was going to make amends in some small way, you'd be a good place to start.)

Yoongi actually does manage to find a small gift for Seokjin. Delicate gold rings that should fit the omega's hands. At a little shop that you find tucked between the eyes of a bougie bakery and a store that sells designer lampshades (if you can believe that there is a market for such a thing).

“You know his ring size?” You tease, Yoongi nods. Blushing. Yoongi has known Seokjin’s ring size since the second month he knew him. Has kept that information in his back pocket. Somewhere in his things back home there is a wedding ring that he’d never given Seokjin, a cheap diamond, small, just a singular star in the center of a thin band. It's all that Yoongi could afford at the time.

He'd always had it in the back of his mind, Proposing. Marrying Seokjin. But then Seokjin met Namjoon and then Yoongi fell in love with him and really, alpha's and Omegas belong together. Mating isn't the same as marriage.

Maybe, when he gets back- if he gets to go back, they can talk about it. If Seokjin even wants him anymore.

“Must be one lucky omega then.” Yoongi blushes and you smile. Yoongi pulls you closer under the guise of staying warm. It's a cold night, the sky is bright and clear.

"You'd like him, I think he'd really really like you too."

“Tell me about Seokjin again.” Yoongi happily obliges.

The two of you walk home, the nighttime darkening and sweetening as you stand close. Yoongi holds the bag to his chest. Neither of you looks up, but above you in the night sky, there are twice as many stars as usual.

~-~

Yoongi walks you home and then heads back to the cottage, a pip in his step. A lighter feeling than any he’s had in months fills his heart till it swells too full. Halfway to happy. He walks up to the front of the cottage, thinking of what to text you.

What’s your favorite song? Do you have a favorite food I could teach you how to make? How about tomorrow? What are you doing tomorrow? Can I steal you away again? Can I steal you away for good maybe? Would you let me?

Yoongi texts you, and you text back. He's got his keys in his hand. Fingering the scarf tied to his wrist. Smiling softly to himself. Completely unaware of the danger that lurks just beyond the edge of the shadows.

Yoongi is just getting his keys out when he feels the gun press to the back of his head.

Yoongi turns, training kicking in, but before he can see who it is the person hits him in the back of the head. A pistol whip. Brutal but effective. He hits the concrete, and a sweet-smelling rag gets pressed over his mouth. Knees pressed to either side of his hips to keep him down.

Everything goes dark.

~-~

(Read the first Version of this story Here)

Notes:

-The part where Yoongi’s talking about how he’d take down the family if he could reminds me that in the version of the story where the m/c stayed with Moonbyul- she’d have managed to take everything down on her own. She would have managed to do what Yoongi couldn’t.

- I am very very heavily considering renaming the first arc of bily when it does get put into print. I think the story (chapters 1-11 in the og version) would be called ‘prey animals’ but idk yet. Let me know what you think of this name.

- Yoongi calling the m/c ‘her’ is like…ugh I kind of love it. It’s so simple but so like- romantic. Like if you asked him “do you love her” at this point he’d be like no, but he’d know exactly who you were asking about. It’s just an itty-bitty crush at this point. I don’t think he truly realizes he has feelings for her until after two chapters from now.

- The red Lamborghini that Yoongi mentions is actually the same car that the m/c gives Hobi later in the story just fyi,

- Okay so I know that like- mma fighters seal up wounds with Vaseline and I’ve had to do it on occasion too, but I’m not exactly sure if they can be used on interior mout wounds. Honestly in the office where I work, we just pack it with gauze so! Maybe this is a big fanciful but it is indulgent to me and I like the scene so I’m not changing it.

- Ah reading these parts where the m/c talks about herself and thinking of how the pack and Tae in particular start to love her is so <3 I’m so sad for her I just want her to be there already.

- (trigger warning; sexual abuse.) tbh, I think that the m/c’s ed started when Geumjae used to make her vomit on his dick after she at too much. He’d purposefully wait until just after she’d eaten. And he started to shame her for eating a lot and not being able to put out. So, she’d stop eating so that he wouldn’t make her vomit and then maybe a few times- he’d praise her for getting smaller and it was a vicious cycle. I also think that occasionally he probably fucked her very very gently, almost lovingly and normally, just to fuck with her head. It was still rape, she still wouldn’t have consented to it if she’d had a choice. But Geumjae was really one fucked up motherfucker, he really did her in. I could go into further detail about all of it, because a lot of what the m/c went through is also what I went through, but I think I can leave it at that. You should know I’m doing okay, that no one’s touched me in 6 years and that is so good! Other people view celibacy as a bad thing but tbh, I’m so happy that my body has been mine for so long. I’m so happy that when I want pleasure it’s my choice and my choice only. Wow this note turned into more of a diary entry lol but what else is new.

- OH I TOTALLY FORGOT ABOUT IT BUT- meimei is actually my older brothers nickname. It’s relevant to this that you understand that my whole family speaks Chinese but me, like- both my siblings and my mom are fluent but I never learned. And meimei or 妹妹 means ‘little sister’ in mandarin- ie what my older brother would call me. And ofc I didn’t know it meant little sister so I called him that back, like I still call him that more than his real name. And it wasn’t until years later when he moved to China and I went to visit and called him that in public and at a very fancy meeting with all his bosses and coworkers and they absolutely died laughing. From what I understand that was his nickname for the rest of his time working for that company. it was a very funny ‘Li is not bilingual’ moment in my life, he’ll always be Meimei to me though. I wrote it in as a little tidbit here. My brother might be a bit of an asshole sometimes, But he’s never corrected me and has never asked me to stop calling him that.

- The line ‘twice as many stars as usual’ is a reference to the poem the two headed calf- If you haven’t read it already I very much encourage you to seek it out. It makes its rounds on the internet every few months but sometimes I feel like a two headed calf. I may not be around for long, I may be a freak of nature, but that which makes me different makes me see the world in a fantastic way. There are twice as many stars for me. Twice as many reasons to hope. I know love exists because I can write about it.

- Ooh did you like the new plot twist? This wasn’t in the first version of the story.

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