#side note he is everything i want to be god why are you so cruel

[tunababyyyy]

i've always thought jonathan bailey should play jonathan harker in a deeply homoerotic seven episode shot on film limited series dracula adaptation and now that i've seen him be the worlds most tragically beautiful catholic subby power bottom in fellow travelers i am only further vindicated in this notion. he was born to be that tormented real estate agent im telling you

[the-fiction-witch]

My King

Media - House Of The Dragon Character - Aegon Targaryen Couple - Aegon X Reader Reader - Y/n Targaryen (Aegons Wife) Rating - Sweet + Smut Word Count - 1330

Requested - I submitted a request/idea like this to another writer but I will not keep this like head canon idea type thing to myself........ Aegon is 100% the type to love his girl breastfeeding him... him being all stressed and angry or sad from the council not listening to him and Alicent being cruel and everything and he just wants to lay his head in her lap and latch his mouth onto her nipple and drink in her sweet milk... it makes him feel at peace... makes him feel wanted and loved and special

Writers Notes - I actually loved this idea so much I made two versions of it, cause I couldn't decide which angle I liked better so this is Version one a second will be coming soon.

Y/n sat in the royal chambers, perched softly on the ottoman beside the fire. Wearing her sweet soft green cotton gown with long off-shoulder sleeves. The twilight of the hour cascades purple and gold across the floor and tapestry-lined walls. Maids and guards long since sent away leaving only gentle sounds behind, The sound of the fire's soft crackles and pops, the sounds of gentle sucking, and of sweet heavenly humming.

Y/n hums softly to the baby in her arms, his little body cradled so sweetly and gently as the new prince feeds from his mother's breast.

“There we are, all done my little prince,” She cooed as she pulled the baby from her breast, wiped his lips, kissed his forehead and stroked her fingers softly over his Targaryen silver hair, She chuckled slightly at the baby's milk drunk little face, eyes droopy and sleepy.

“Fuck those cunts!” Erupted from the door as Aegon forced his way into the chamber throwing open the doors, letting them smack into the stone walls to their sides. He turned and slammed the doors in the faces of the guards who followed him, screaming to the ceiling like his own dragon,

Y/n, blinked a few times before she set the baby in the crib, “Is… everything alright my king?” She cooed,

He ran his hand through his silver hair and took a breath, “I wish to burn this infernal castle to the ground.”

“I see.” She nodded, “May I ask why?”

“Everything is why!” He yelled, “My mother is being a pretentious little bitch! Gives me all the power in the world and then forbids me to do anything! My brother is being a self-initiated little prick! Anyone think he thought he was king! This council constantly going round and round in bloody circles! Undermining My AUTHORITY!” He paced,

“I understand Aegon,” She nodded,

“W-what?” He froze up a moment,

“I understand, that must be very hard. Very conflicting emotionally and politically. I’m sorry you have to feel this way,” She cooed,

He scoffed a moment, “How is it… that you are… as angelic as you are?” he leaned his arms on the back of the chair, “You know just what I need.”

“Years of practice,” She chuckled,

He let a laugh slip, “I was expecting you to tell me how foolish I am, for feeling this way.”

“You are not foolish for feeling this way, your feelings are never foolish.” she affirmed, “It is a complicated time, but you have every right to feel disheartened and upset as everyone else does.”

“You’re too sweet. For a man like me.”

“Perhaps that's why you need me,”

“Perhaps it is,” He chuckled finally his eyes meeting his wife, He smiled at her a moment letting out a rather happy and content sigh, but his eyes flicked down to her bare breast and his teeth caught his bottom lip,

“Ohh! Forgive me, my king, I was feeding the prince.” She blushed pulling her dress back up and tying the small ribbon,

“You have no need to apologise Y/n,” He cooed, “How is he? Baby Baelor?” he asked coming to the crib to loom over his son,

“He’s fine, sleeping well.”

“Thank the gods,” He nodded, “And you?”

“I am very well my king,”

He chuckled and sat down in the chair beside her ottoman, “You have no need to still call me that,”

“I know, I just like to,” she smiled,

“You are far too sweet, for me, for Kings Landing … for Westeros,” He said pressing his forehead to hers and caressing her cheek, “Must you love me so strongly?”

“I must,” She nodded,

“Hum…” He smiled rubbing his thumb on her cheek before softly pressing his lips to capture her own,

The two shared a soft and loving kiss for a few moments before he pulled back,

“Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?” she asked,

His eyes trailed down from her lips, down her neck and lingered on her cleavage, he licked his lip and captured it once more in his teeth, “Mhm,” He growled,

Y/n blushed a moment, “Yes my king,” she nodded moving her hands to unlace the top of her dress tugging the dress down and holding it at her waist exposing both of her bare breasts to him,

He smirked a low growl in his throat as he took his time, looking at her. His eyes trail over every single inch of skin with a look of feist desire. After a while, he moves his hands to stroke her skin running his fingers gently across her, “what happened here?” He asked his thumb briefly brushing over the small mark on her tender breast just above her nipple,

“He bit me.”

“Bit you?” He rasied an eyebrow,

“It’s alright little guy just doesn’t know his strength yet,”

“You poor thing,” he cooed, “It’s a crime to bite something so beautiful,” He cooed fully cupping her breasts in his hands his thumbs softly circling her nipples watching with glee as they perked up and hardened for his attention, He gives her a few tender squeezes before his attention fully moves to her nipples brushing his thumbs over them in little clockwise circles around the pointed peak, only so often brushing the peak itself which always made her whimper, “May I, my queen?”

She blushed, “Of course my king,”

He smiled and moved to kneel on the floor his body between her legs, he laid his head softly on her thigh looking up at her with a joyful smile,

She smiled down at him and stroked his silver hair as he began to pepper her breast with kisses,

He made sure to kiss as much as he could before reaching her nipple, he slowly circled the hard peak with his tongue before lapping at the nipple with the side flat edge of his tounge, forcing a giggle from her, “So sensitive Y/n,” He cooed,

“Well they’ve been working hard feeding you both,” She chuckled,

“True,” He smirked, “Come here my angel,” He cooed taking her other breast in his hand and locking his lips around her nipple latching to it, he circled the nipple with his tounge a few more times before he began to gently and softly suckle,

“There we go, does this please you my king?” She cooed as she stroked his hair,

He nodded as he began to gently drink, making sure not to be too hard or too fast on her tender breast as he slowly suckled and drank her milk, as soon as the milk touched his tongue he began to moan and groan his eyes rolling back before squeezing shut completely, his other hand squeezes and rubs her nipple on the other breast while he enjoys her sweet milk.

“Not too much, or there’ll be none left for Baby Baelon,” She chuckled,

“Hummm” He nodded a little dismissively enjoying himself far too much to stop,

She chuckled and rolled her eyes a little petting his silver hair and caressing his cheek as she held him in her lap letting him drink and play for a good while until finally, he pulled back.

Ageon licked her nipple clean and wiped his mouth, “You make me feel… so peaceful my angel,”

“I’m glad I can, I’m just happy you feel better.”

“I feel much better now,” he cooed nuzzling into her lap, “I love you y/n,”

“I love you too Aegon,” She smiled giving his cheek a soft little kiss, 

[moonrisecoeur]

adoration — leon kennedy

author’s note: this is absolutely disgustingly horrifically soft. not my usual content but i hope you like it! also to anyone who doesn’t follow me i don’t usually write sub!reader so please don’t request it!

wc: 2.3k

content: leon x reader, fem!reader, not really sub or dom tho i guess it leans more towards dom!leon but it’s super soft, so many pet names, lots of praise, lots of compliments, possessiveness, leon’s down bad but we already knew that, work stress, a little bit of reader being insecure about her looks, riding, unwrapped p in v sex, boyfie leon !!

—

“there you are,” his voice is gentle just like him. he smiles as he embraces you in a sweet hug, wondering why the universe was so cruel as to pull you away from him for so long every single day. he wishes he could stay right next you, arms wrapped around you, head resting against yours, never letting you go.

he’s only a little possessive, in a cute way rather than a unnerving way. he just likes being with you too much to ever be content when you’re not around.

the best part, in his opinion, is how you hold him back. arms around his waist, mumbling to yourself more so than leon about how much you miss his hugs, “awh, it’s okay, honey. know you missed me,” he teases, and it’s so blatant that out of the two of you, he’s the one who’s down bad, absolutely gone. he’s lucky that you’re not super greedy because he would give you anything you asked for.

your face nuzzled into the crook of his neck is more than enough to make him adore you for the rest of eternity. he reaches a hand up to your face, and watching your head tilt up to sweetly meet his gaze has to be the most deadly thing you’ve ever done. he feels physically giddy as you look at him curiously, wondering if he has someone to say as his fingers caress your cheek and jawline. soft skin beneath his rough fingers. he adores you. endlessly.

“so pretty…” he mumbles, sweet nothings murmuring their way past his lips as his hands cup your cheeks so he can hold you and look at you head on, blue eyes taking in every feature on your sweet face. he can’t help but love it all. he loves your face, he would stare at you for hours if you wouldn’t think it’s weird. he breathes in, inhaling your scent, so recognizable it’s comforting, “my pretty girl, mine all mine.”

you sigh comfortably, melting into him and his touch. it’s alright; he’s got you. he always does.

he leans to press a kiss to your forehead, “all mine..” he whispers again, like he’s reassuring himself, “want you all to myself. hate it when you’re gone.”

you giggle, a little bit breathless. he can tell his own effect on you and it strokes his ego wildly. he knows you secretly love his more possessive side, enjoying that he can’t even be bothered to look at another woman without being reminded about how much he loves and adores you. you’re his baby! he couldn’t ever want someone else!

“can i have you all to myself?” he asks, lips trailing down to your ear.

“mhm,” you hum, nodding your head cutely, and he can’t help the way he absolutely crumbles. god he’s really losing it, you’re absolutely everything to him. you’re too precious for him to ever let go.

“i love you,” he whispers as he kiss your jaw, your face still cradled in his hands like you’re too fragile for him to ever let you go.

“i love you too,” you whisper back. that’s all he’d ever need from you: your love. he could want a million things, but this moment tells him the truth. he’s yours. completely, and helplessly yours.

one hand still steady on holding your face, smiling as you lean more into his touch, his other hand dips back down, over your waist and hips and between your thighs in a way that aches so pleasantly. it’s impossible to tell when exactly you got so wet from this completely normal interaction but he notices too and he’s already too confident. it’ll go to his head at this point. oh well. you’d get back at him another time to bring him back down to earth.

“oh, pretty girl, i can tell my words are affecting you…” he says softly. he says it like it’s a question but he already knows the answer, “but…. if you need something, you can tell me.”

his voice is the only thing you can sensibly hear right now, everything else drowned out with his strong arms holding you close. the way you pout makes his heart race because god you are so adorable that it kills him.

“baby, if you need me to do something, you gotta let me know. i’m not a mind reader,” his voice, thick and syrupy, seeps into your skin and drives you mad with a need to be his. in all ways humanly possible.

and for him to be yours too. you know that this is all an act, that every moment so far in this interaction has been real but with an undertone that you both can easily sense. you control leon in all the ways that matter. you mold him into exactly what you want, and he contorts himself willingly because he wants to be everything you want and need in a man. he’s yours just as much, if not infinitely more, as you’re his.

“can you praise me..?” you whisper, soft and timid. even if you’re not normally the shy type, it all seems to come crumbling down when leon holds you close.

“that’s my girl,” he smiles. sure, he could tease you more, especially with how nonspecific your request was. but you’re desperate and he’s too soft on you to make you wait any longer, “pretty and sweet and all mine.”

even as you huff, muttering something trying to push back against his words. i’m not actually that pretty, or something like that, leon’s shaking his head, in disbelief that a being as ethereal as his lover could ever, even for a moment, believe themselves to be unattractive.

but this isn’t the moment. he can tell you don’t want a lecture on self love or positive self talk right now. it wouldn’t do any good to tell you that he thinks you’re beautiful if you wouldn’t believe it, so he just does as you ask like the obedient boyfriend he is. he’ll tackle that beast another time.

“my pretty girl, my good girl…” he whispers, hands cradling your head against his chest, fingers tendering brushing against your skin as you close your eyes and just let leon speak to you. he’s never been good with words until he fell in love with you, “so proud of you, sweetheart. you worked so hard, even with everything you got going on. my baby’s so strong, isn’t she?”

you nod even as he holds you, maybe just a little too emotional to respond any other way.

“but you don’t always gotta be strong, you can let your walls down when it’s just me, baby. i promise i’ll take care of you,” he whispers, lips pressed against your forehead again. and once he thinks he’s buttered you up enough, he mumbles something like, “tell me what’s bugging you, princess.”

“i… i don’t wanna go to work anymore…” you mumble against his shirt, and he’s looking at you like you’re the cutest thing in the world, “i hate working. just wanna be with you.”

he laughs heartily, and you can feel the vibrations against his chest. his presence just entices comfort, one of his hands resting atop your head, “i know, baby. i wanna be with you always too,” he says.

“it’s not fair..”

he pouts when you pout, the world just had to be so unfair, “i know it’s not. if it were up to me, you’d never work a day in your life, but… you know, unfortunately i’m not that rich.”

you chuckle, and he’s relieved he at least got that out of you.

he can’t help getting distracted, “god you’re so fucking pretty,” he mumbles, hands dropping down to your waist, holding you close like he’s preparing to never let go, “so beautiful, baby. and you’re so perfect,” he tilts his head to look at you, making dangerous eye contact again, face just inches apart, “you’re so… lovely. i could stay here with you forever.”

you smile softly and it lights up the room and his entire life. you hold him close like you never want to let him go, and he feels pretty little butterflies in his stomach.

he leans in to kiss you, finally, and one arm stays wrapped possessively around your waist, as if to steal you away from the rest of the world, and one hand reaches back up to cup your cheek. he kisses you sweetly, not too rough or aggressive, just enough to make you want to drown in his touch, his scent, his presence.

“leon..!” you gasp between kisses, and he’s never liked his name as much as he likes it when your lips say it.

he pulls away to search for any hint that you need him to stop, that your breathless whisper of his name was a plea for escape, and he doesn’t seem to find any. his eyes trail down to your lips again, as if taunted by them, “what do you need, baby?”

“you,” you whisper, your lips finding his neck, kissing him softly. he’s not sure when you exactly decided you would try to kill him but the way your lips feel against him is lethal in its own way.

“yeah? my baby need me?”

“mhm,” you smile, he feels it against his skin, “your pretty girl needs to feel as pretty as you think she is.”

and something pulls at leon’s heart at that little statement. it’s not sad or pitiful, nor is it said with a sad tone, but he wonders what it means to you. do you believe him when he calls you that? god, you have to, he’s too obsessed with you for it to even be questionable if he thinks you’re pretty.

he practically drags you to bed, sits down on the edge and pulls you onto his lap, fingers immediately between your legs, feeling that familiar wetness that he loves, pressing down on your clit with his thumb.

“good girl, just like that… grind on my hand, let yourself feel good,” he murmurs, “this is about you, so be selfish, baby. take what you want from me.”

he likes how needy you get because maybe, just maybe, that means you need him just as badly as he needs you. it soothes him, in a way.

“i’ll fill you up nice and full later, but for now… just sit here with me… just let me touch you, pretty, i’ll make you feel good.”

and you just curl up into him, holding onto his shoulder for support as takes every whine and moan and absolutely devours them. his fingers have gotten rougher over the years, but that roughness feels good when he’s rubbing figure eights on your clit, fingers moving in circular motions inside your pretty pussy, bringing you to closer orgasm sooner than you thought. he’s just that good.

“there you go, princess. just feel it all. just close your eyes… and feel me against you,” he whispers, “you’re so cute when you’re feeling good. well, you’re always cute, but you know what i mean.”

“leon…” your whiny voice is met with a chuckle from him.

“hm?”

“i’m gonna cum…” you mumble, resting your head in the crook of his neck again, must be your favorite spot.

he likes that you don’t ask permission because why would you? he’d never deny you, not pleasure nor anything else you want in life. no, you say it like a warning, like a don’t you dare stop kind of warning. he wouldn’t dare.

“c’mon, pretty. let yourself have it,” he mumbles, lips almost touching your ear, that’s how close they are.

leon’s selfish, he can’t help it. he makes you orgasm because he wants to give you pleasure, sure, but he’s also doing it because he loves watching you cum. not so much right now, with your head buried away, but he likes seeing your orgasm face, he likes that you shut your eyes tightly and your eyebrows furrow and your mouth hangs open just slightly. you’re so pretty when you cum.

if he’s being honest, he should have made you look at him when you came, but he knows you were feeling a little shy today so he didn’t push.

and the feeling of your cunt clenching on his fingers turns him on beyond belief. he feels the pressure of the orgasm, and he knows it’s a big one, so of course he helps you through it, fucking his fingers as deep as possible, loving the achy moans that escape your throat. you’re not super loud but you’re also right by his ear so he hears every gasp and moan and whimper as you cum for him. he adores you so painfully.

“there you go, good girl…” he whispers, cradling you close as you both fall back against the bed, holding each other as the wetness on his hand starts to dry but your body still pulses with a reminder of how much pleasure just flooded through you.

it’s almost too paralyzing to speak, and you make pretty little sounds as you shift to get comfortable that make leon’s heart jump. he holds your waist as you lay half on top of him.

he looks at your face, radiant with a comfortable glow you’ve been missing this whole time. in his arms, in your shared bed, it’s safe and soft and leon holds you close with no intentions of letting go.

“should we…” he starts, and you lift your head slightly to look at him as he speaks, “cancel our dinner reservations? order in, we’ll get whatever my sweet lover wants, and we can just stay in bed all night?”

you can’t help but giggle, “yeah. i wanna keep kissing you for at least another hour.”

“yes, ma’am.”

[acupofinkedblood]

Icedagger and child reader who eventually grew up

Note: This is a new breeze because I want to give it a shot with Icedagger’s new potential personality because of his rewritten lore, maybe like a rant on this new side of his character in the tea itself (ᵕ—ᴗ—)

Note 2: I’m not exactly too proud of this (￣^￣ )ゞ

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝

• “Slumber, as the night shall be eternal when the sun has been casted away by the haze. The merciless cold shall wash away all the spouts of the upcoming spring, burying them under a blanket of everlasting snow in peace. Close your eyes, dear children of the cruel winter, embrace the blessing of your fate with no question. For he who has isolated himself in the icy heart of his own until the next lullaby of death. Sleep, with little care to the world,”…The lullaby itself has became a classic of old Blackrock based on its extreme weather’s conditions. But one thing that annoyed Icedagger until this day is how those mortals dare to include his personal matter inside their lyrics. Not calling his name out directly, but still. Out of everything they can add, they choose that. For a kid’s lullaby too, how ironic. Yet Icedagger can’t bring himself to even make a fuss of it, slumbering for too long has reduced his thirst of conflict at this point being

• How many millenniums have passed? How many times has the sun risen up after the curtain of the night? How many moment of silence had he realized after awakening from his slumber? How many blizzards have reflected his heart that caused nothing but misery to the mortals? Icedagger doesn’t know, nor does he care. After all, what even matters to him anymore? He simply can’t give a damn about such trivial matters that occur outside of his domain. If he doesn’t even bother to send his regards to his siblings to check up on them despite haven’t seen them since certain things have changed, why should he bother with anything else? All he has is his own company to be annoyed with, such a dull and monochromatic life of his that he has chosen for himself — O Icedagger, habringer of the cruel snowstorms born from his cold heart

• The snow has been nothing but a false glimpse of mercy, so pure and beautiful, how can such thing ever hurt anyone? That’s when you’re just judging a book based on its cover. Dear children of the land where the sun cradles your face with love, how foolish has you been. That snowflake which dances so graceful on your hands shall then melt into ice, and your smile shall quickly fades and you yelp when the frostbite has gotten through your skin. The children of Blackrock has soon grown accustomed to these harsh blessings their god has granted them with little complains. Yet, some of those children just can’t help themselves but adores the snow despite everything no matter what. How foolish. Icedagger has always found mortals to be beyond his understanding. Such distasteful creatures with unexplainable behaviors, one with such a small lifespan that is as insignificant as an ant that froze beneath his feet

• He will never understand the fascination that his sibling held so close to that annoyingly blazing heart of his with mortals. What is even the appeal of them when compared to the likes of him? They are ridiculously fragile, one small gust of chill is more than enough to send them shivering like crazy. Mortals have needs that they need to get access to, or else they might as well just bid life a goodbye and join hand with Ghostwalker himself. Always need to be handled as if they can melt away under stress at anytime, like a delicate ice sculpture that has to avoid the sun but still wants to be under it so they can shine. Icedagger has forgotten the last time he had ever interacted with mortals. Hell, should he even remember? He can barely remember how many ice sculptures he had, how can he just sit down and mourn the old times where everything was still right as it should be? But then again, for a deity that has lived for that long, he might need a better excuse to cover for the face that he just does not want to recall those time due to not feeling like it

• Icedagger can’t recall the exact period when he was still walking among mortals. Maybe when he was still around his siblings with their assigned duties, since he was less interested in sleeping his existence away in those times, a contrast to now. But maybe it wasn’t that long ago yet, maybe during when he accidentally sleepwalked out of his home which caused an unexpected snow showers to wherever he went? Though he wouldn’t say he was exactly “walking among mortals”, since he barely made an effort to even interact with them at the first place. Unlike Firebrand who is so insisting on meddling with mortals, Icedagger wants nothing to do with them, at least not every single time. To word it more correctly, he’d say it was those time that he still managed to get out of his domain for a walk during such wintry weather. Even when it was mainly to ensure that he can get some fresh air for once like how they insist him to do, Icedagger didn’t complain. It wasn’t like any mortals could recognize him anyway

• Out of the seven SFOTH siblings, Icedagger held an infamous record of isolating himself the most away from any living beings despite no matter how much the others tried to convince him to go out. Even the SFOTHs themselves found it to be a pretty big deal when it came to see Icedagger in his physical form for once, let alone mortals. He would find any excuses possible to ditch any event they held, only made an appearance briefly for pleasantries before got back to his place. Hell, Darkheart had soon given up on Icedagger’s stubbornness as he too couldn’t figure out a way to get Icedagger to be genuinely interested in doing something rather than just shutting himself off in his domain all by himself. He always had shown little consideration to matters that didn’t revolve around his own existence. Not mortals, not any trivial matter, not anything that doesn’t concern him directly. Not even his siblings’ lives. It was enough for mortals to forget that he exists in the first place and only briefly referred to him as a mysterious entity that was behind Blackrock’s constant blizzard without knowing his name. For someone, it was a curse. But Icedagger simply embraced his fate as he found it to be unnecessary to be remembered by those whose lives shall end before his own. Why would he care for mortals anyway?

• That is until the day he found something. The ‘something’ in saying that resembles a poor excuse of a small Inphernal almost buried alive beneath the pile of frosty snow outside of his domain while he was on a walk. Poor thing was all black and blue because of the ruthless cold, looking as if just by staying underneath the snow a bit more and this unfortunate soul shall be guided to the afterlife by Ghostwalker himself. It shouldn’t be Icedagger’s problem. He didn’t gain anything by meddling with mortals before, so why should he now? He could have left you and continued his walk without looking back, like how he did to the other creatures that had departed this physical plane by his power without acknowledgement of it. Icedagger could just walk away, yet something about you that made him halt his pace. No, he wouldn’t call it a glimpse of pity, maybe it was something else. Amusement? Curiosity? Or maybe it was simply mild annoyance out of the blue. Even Icedagger was a victim of his own swallow emotions, how laughable

• In the end, Icedagger surrendered. If any of his siblings ever dared to observed him from afar and witnessed the fact he just scooped up a mortal from the snow in his arms, he knew he would never hear the end of it. Honestly though, he gotta gave you a bare minimum of the credit. If his memory served him right, you were in his main territory — the entire region of Blackrock is his territory, but this specific part is the main one — which was probably far away from your original home, enough to make anyone wince. To what did you stumble into this place? Out of pure stupidity, or was there something else deeper? Damn him for being curious, yet he couldn’t help himself. He wasn’t born with a gift of a medic, so he did try his best to somewhat sustain your life. Trust him, he tried, somewhat

• The moment you woke up, you were still feeling the chill running down your spine, but seemed like your temperature had been moderated to a balanced point so that you wouldn’t die right away like earlier. And to top it up, you saw him. He hadn’t left just yet since the last bit of decent empathetic feeling was trying to ground himself down until he made sure you have been saved. And well, you definitely didn’t recognize the person in front of you to be one of the feared SFOTH deities. As annoying as that made Icedagger sulked, he had that coming. He had been isolated himself long enough for time to bury the last remain of his existence in the mortal’s mind after all, so he had expected your lack of manners as well as tried to excuse it. You were still young after all, and he wasn’t petty enough to hold it against the likes of you. At least you were able to stand up again without collapsing, a relief, he’d say if he had to

• Though he might just regret saving you. Because then all of the sudden you kept bugging him like you have no common sense when it comes to strangers. Sure, he helped you, and that was it. And now you expected him to stay? For what? Was this what Venomshank meant when he said that rescued animals will sometimes cling onto you like a tail? Are mortals always like this? How could his siblings even endure this nonsense? Icedagger genuinely wanted to brush you off and fly away. He wasn’t awakened enough to deal with this. But damn him for that too, because Icedagger was still rather somnolent to the point that he just didn’t have the strength to get himself out of this position with you holding onto his cloak. It was a weak grip, but hell, he didn’t even feel like struggling at that time. For the icy heart of his, what had he gotten himself into? Just treat it as another weird dream, as he would say to himself when finally agreed to entertain your childish behavior for a mere moment

• Icedagger didn’t know what to expect. He hadn’t interact with mortals before after this long, so he couldn’t really understand you. Deities and mortals are different in that aspect of unable to fully understand each other after all, and Icedagger himself fully committed to that fact. You just met him a few minutes ago, yet here you are, following him around while talking about something that he couldn’t hear fully due to his lack of interest for such trivial matters. And not to mention the question you had for him too: Who is he? Why is he here? Does he live here? What color does he like? Gosh, it was endless. Sometimes he would nod to play along to mask the fact that he was counting every minutes of nonexistent seconds in hope that you would stop soon. And even when you stopped, you still followed him like a lost puppy. You were definitely a lost case. If you were to be even more stubborn than you had already showed him, then Icedagger might actually have to pray under his own name for his sake

• He expected you to give up soon when he didn’t answer you for more than a couple of short sentences, most of those who had crossed paths with him always surrender their attempts to try to interest Icedagger in a conversation for more than five minutes anyway. To melt the sculpture of everlasting ice just by a little match within a day wasn’t a task someone would have the patience to do. But then if he was to comparing you to a tiny match, that wouldn’t do justice to the item itself. Hell, you were definitely a flamethrower, much to his annoyance. Icedagger wouldn’t be the type that you could call as kind or merciful, but he was like ice itself. To call someone who was just cold ‘cruel’ wasn’t doing their personality the justice it deserved. Ice was never cruel in nature to begin with, it is just cold. Just staying there, doing nothing while shooing people away by its coldness. Icedagger had successfully isolated himself from the rest his kin by that. And yet despite all of that, you just couldn’t seem to take the hint that he had given out which just screamed ‘Leave me alone’ in subtle. He was being somewhat nice, mind you

• He had intentionally shoo you away. But Icedagger had never shouted at you to get away from him with full volume like his sister. He lacked that intensity of raw emotions, as you mortals would call it as such. Still, Icedagger still tried to make an effort in a passive aggressive way. In which he complained to you directly on how you just bragged into his territory without a warning, and here you were. Did he tell you directly to leave him alone? Yes. Did you leave him like he wished? Sadly, no. He tried to drop you somewhere and just moved on with his monotonous life, yet you always managed to get on his nerves with your wailing, which dragged his attention to where he had left you all over again. Even Icedagger couldn’t even explain why couldn’t he just get away from this insufferable child even when the last thing he wanted was for someone to walk into his life and just stayed there. At this point, he wholeheartedly gave up

• Even when the night had fallen and he had made you to return to your home, even walked you out of his territory to your town to bid you a farewell message, the very next day you would still show up in the same place where he first saved you patiently. Icedagger’s stroll schedule was rather inconsistent due to how he would just lose all of his energy and slept for days, but when you found out what you were doing? Icedagger found a new motivation to snap out of his slumber to try to drag you out of his area. As comical as that sounded, please understand that even Darkheart’s pranks couldn’t get Icedagger out of his cave no matter how much he tried. That meant you were definitely special, in your own whimsical way. It even resulted in him chasing you around while you were laughing your heart out as if this was nothing but a fun game of catch for you. Yes, he could just ignore you and left you to freeze to death because of your stubbornness as a punishment, but something kept making him go all of his way to check up on you. Why was it that he had such interesting complications going on in his mind when he first met you? No one could answer that question, not even the physical manifestation of fate itself

• Days after days, hours after hours, Icedagger still tried to entertain you enough so you can just listen to him and go home, while you were still…well, you. Full of life, full of energy like the warm sunshine itself. And Icedagger didn’t even like the sun, yet he managed to stretch his patience out just so he could try and tolerate you. A game of chase like it was mentioned before, a snowball fight which Icedagger had to literally hold back the urge of digging the snow up to sleep there for the rest of the game, a couple rounds of hide and seek when Icedagger could just easily follow your footsteps on the snow to catch you. One game after another, and Icedagger had somehow gotten used to it to the point that if you were to sulk and wanted to play a completely new game rather than the old ones, he would bring his own ability to come up with something. Another door to your fascination that was his doom when you kept pestering him to get creative even more

• Iceskating was probably what he managed to keep you busy with most. He knew there was no way that someone could easily do it in the first attempt without hitting their butt against the icy surface, and that should include you too. The whole purpose of the games was to tire you out enough so you wouldn’t have enough strength to protest when he brought you back to your home, and this whole ice skating scheme was to make sure that you would be so occupied with this specific activity to the point that it would stop you from asking him to exhaust his mind with creativity again. It was two birds with one stone. The only downside of it was that you insisted on him teaching you from the baby steps even when he wasn’t really that enthusiastic about the whole thing. After all, he originally just wanted to sit on the sideline and relax while you do your own things. Between exercising physically or exercising creatively, both options didn’t really seem that inviting. But oh well, he had it coming from the start, might as well obliged so you wouldn’t make a fuss about it

• Another thing he had managed to distract your enthusiasm with was solitaire. No, not with cards, sure he was definitely not the most interesting deity to talk to, he wasn’t that basic at all. Icedagger was still a deity, mind you. You don’t really see a deity such as him going around and buy a box of card on his own, especially when he was living alone. One thing you might found to be pretty interesting about Icedagger was the fact that despite not having an intense interest with anything at all — excluding you, but it wasn’t really an ‘intense interest’ because he only found you to be annoyingly interesting for the very first time in his life, it wasn’t something too ‘intense’ in traditional words — he oddly had a fondness with ice sculpting. He would do so just to kill the time with all the sizes, though his preference was still the small ones so they wouldn’t take too much spaces of his living area. Each sculptures were handled with upmost care to make up for the fact he had procrastinated the process for who knows how long. A small bunny, a little dragon, a tiny moth…All originated from his everlasting glacier

• The sculptures would be replacing the cards in this game of solitaire. How so? Icedagger had this way to explain things to you later. After all, the more he made it pleasantly complicated for you to understand, the more he could get you to pipe down to stimulate your brain. It would be good for you too, since playing solitaire can offer mental benefits like improved memory or focus, while also providing a relaxing and enjoyable way to pass the time. Not to mention the strategic gameplay of it. Now that Icedagger had replaced the cards with his sculptures, it would make things even more fascinating for you to take part in. Icedagger had always played that game alone to pass the time, he didn’t expect to be the one who would watch another player play from an opposite side. He wouldn’t say he had expected this soon in the near millennia, but so far, Icedagger didn’t really hate the feeling of teaching someone else but him. Maybe you — a stubborn child — had managed to make it somewhat better, it seemed

• His idle monochromatic peace was definitely disturbed by your appearance in his life. Yet this disturbance wasn’t as bad as he thought it would be. Hell, you even considered him a ‘friend’. Icedagger had thought that word would never exist in his dictionary at the first place. Friend with a mortal, sounded like something Firebrand would say to him. It was less of a dramatic effect when Darkheart shared his own advice of him should befriend a slumbering snail instead, but still, those were equally absurd. A mortal who was barely an outstanding kid, there was nothing worth the gaze of a deity like him in the beginning of this whole thing between you and him. But maybe you were the slumbering snail that Darkheart had mentioned. It was an idiotic comparison, Icedagger was aware, yet that was the only explanation he had on how did you even manage to be this stubborn to be friend with him. For once he had gotten back his motivate to do something else rather than just sulked in the corner of his domain, all thanks to you, the stubborn child that was more of an enigma than he was

• There was time that Icedagger had asked you on that subject too. Surely there must be mortals your age that would be your friends, no? Yet you seemed to avoid his question at this specific topic of forming friendship with the Inphernals at your town. Icedagger could literally feel the mood shifting just by bringing that up. Of course, Icedagger wouldn’t really be the type to be fixated on getting an answer out of you for the sake of his low-functional curiosity. If you wanted to stay silence, then he respected your wish to not push any further. He could leave his territory to investigate the case himself, but then that wouldn’t be the Icedagger that you knew, but an imposter. He tried beyond his limits to get out of his self-isolation to hang out with you in his main territory, but to go out of it into a place with other living beings? You were definitely asking too much. This was the boundary that Icedagger shall not cross for the sake of his own comfort. You did mention just how it felt like you were stepping into a dream land to meet him, that this was like a fun dream to escape reality. Such interesting view for a kid, but you did have a point

• Whether it would take a while for you to gather up the effort of telling him of what had been troubling you or you would just spill the tea without a second thought, the decision to be made was purely yours. But in the end, you did tell him about your own situation within your own town. How you were being picked on by your peers to the point that you just ran away from them then got lost in his territory at the first place. The bullies were mean, saying all those rude things as well as made sure that you wouldn’t make any new friends as long as they were there. It was a natural circulation, if Icedagger had to admit. The strong shall rise while the weak somber, as such was how life itself worked. Though would he interfere? Not quite, it wasn’t really his thing to do all those heroic stuff. He would listen to you though, like always. Maybe gave you a few advice of trying to stand up for yourself while he was doing it. The weak couldn’t survive in this world by being weak, they had to find a solution to survive at all cost in any ways possible. He would encourage you to beat those kids back with a monotonous resting face, and somehow you knew he was actually serious about it. As long as you won or whatever, it was your attempt, not his

• Staying with Icedagger for long enough would grant you quite the great deal of philosophical viewpoints that you might have never heard before. Just judging on his character alone might stimulate your curiosity on how did he even become like that. Well, it was more of a natural thing since his existence as long ago as he could possibly remember, but if there was one thing that Icedagger would have said to back up this monochromatic personality of his was how he realized those lessons of himself and the world around him. Some might be too much for a kid like you to be able to understand, some could be explained in a less complicated manner if he made an effort. But overall, he would suggest you not to keep all of his lesson to heart and just treated it like story time for fun mostly. Icedagger had his reason, so you should just listen to him without question why in the first place

• A typical fact about Icedagger that you might have noticed was how he always carried a blanket outside whenever he went out on a walk to hang out with you. Based on how he looked sleepy for most of the time he was around you, you might guess that maybe he was like a bear that loved hibernation a bit too much. Honestly Icedagger would go on a rant to explain why was he like this to you, but he soon figured out that he should just let you keep that silly thought of yours rather than explaining in depths how sleeping was a good way to kill the time without the need to pay any effort to anything around him since he had lost all of the interest in reaching out for new connection on his own for the time being. He did try to be awake when you were there though. Sometimes he would give you the blanket if you were feeling too cold. Though you did have his blessing that allowed you to endure the cold better, you were still a mortal. As long as you didn’t tear his blanket in half or anything similar, you were good to pass

• With how you constantly talked about this new friends of yours after your adventure in the deep snowy wood at the outskirt of your town, the people that heard your stories might just assume that your vivid imagination had created this version of an imaginary friend with all these colorful details. No matter how much you tried to convince the folks that Icedagger was real, they didn’t really seem to take you seriously at all. Especially how Icedagger had made it clear that he wouldn’t leave his place at all, as he felt bounded there and had gotten used to it by now. It had definitely bothered you, that was for sure. But in Icedagger’s effort to keep a low profile, he suggested that it might be a good thing because if too many people know about his existence, it would be a hassle because then you would have to share you ‘best friend’ — your words, not his — to other people, and then he would be too busy to even pay attention to you. Safe to say that it did convince you. Children were easier to talk sense to than adults, Icedagger knew it mainly because of you

• All those times of spending most of your childhood with this mysterious yet magical friend of yours had definitely been a memorable experience. And even when Icedagger wouldn’t allow himself to say it directly in front of your face, he felt the same way too. He had been alone for if not most of his life after discovering just the philosophy of the world which he held against his frosty heart for dear life as he lived under it this entire time. You were definitely a flaw in his original calculation that had distorted the dull harmony he had tried to maintain this whole time. Who knew what he actually thought? Hell, even he couldn’t give you the clear answer. Yet one thing that Icedagger would say was how much you have been a good memory in his mind. All those games, all those silly little things you said or did, all those years of staying around him - even when to him, it was just a short period of time within a blink of an eye, you made it as if time had slowed down so the both of you could just live in the moment for once. And it meant quite a lot to him. But then Icedagger had noticed something out of the ordinary

• You were slowly, yet steadily, growing up. He had totally forgot the fact that you were a mortal, that this aging process was a normal thing to your kin. The unexpected realization hit when you suddenly gotten taller as time flew by. You were no longer the pipsqueak that was shorter than him, but then you started to grow taller like a spout climbing out of the snow for survival purposes. But he knew that it wasn’t how you were trying to adapt to whatever the environment you were residing at. His suspicion was confirmed even more as he noticed the naive tone of what was used to be a childish manner of yours was starting to become rather more responsible. Icedagger knew it. You were growing up. You were changing. He always reminded himself that nothing lasted forever, yet when it came to you, he almost forgot the entire thing - which explained why it had caught him so off guard. As if he could feel a major change approach. And changes had never really been his liking

• Yet Icedagger had mentally prepared himself before things would get too sudden. For a good while, he was preparing overnight for a gift dedicated to you, something that might be out of character for him to do especially when you had grown up beside him up until this point. Out of the blue, during that one time you two were still hanging out like usual, Icedagger suddenly gifted you a thing he called ‘lucky charm’ that was crafted from the same eternal glacier of his which he used to carve those sculptures. He knew you would like it, he knew you would wear it without a second thought. But he also knew that you didn’t know it was a parting gift that awaited for the unexpected future Icedagger had foreseen. During that time, he was still keeping that secret shut without mentioning it even once while you were still overjoyed with the gift he had made for you. At least then it would be a memento that would allow you to feel better during your hardship

• From a child to a teenager, you started to show up less to the meeting spot despite how it used to be a part of your daily schedule. Icedagger still made his effort to stay at the same place, waiting for you even when you were obviously absent that day. He did wait, until time was up, and he would return to his domain once again. He knew you were starting to forget about him. As much as the thought left a bitter taste on his tongue, he knew that this outcome was inevitable. Yet he still tried to fulfill this act of the play which would be served in your memory core as much as he could physically. From a teenager to an adolescence, Icedagger started to stop coming to the meeting spot as he did his calculations on how busy life must have gotten to you to the point that he barely saw you for weeks. When you came back to him, he could see the clear change in your expression. It was different than how he remembered you to look like. And he could definitely tell the confusion that presented on your face when sometimes you didn’t even know why did you come here in the first place. That marked the day Icedagger decided to retreat from your life as he had done his part. From an adolescence to an adult, you didn’t even come back at all

• You have completely grown up and moved on from your past memories of a mere imaginary friend that stepped out of your wild imagination. Most people could barely remember their childhood anyway, so you might just let it go like the rest of them so that you could walk your own path to see and experience the real world on your own. In another word, you had abandoned this piece of sweet dream and woke up to reality. Meanwhile, Icedagger had lost his motivation to go out again ever since you let your inner child go. He was back to where he was again, all alone with no actual interest in anything. Don’t think that he will recover quickly since in a deity’s eye, mortal is but a grain of sand in the eternal life of his. He will mourn you a little, but then he will discard the grief aside as he has always done to go back to that dull life of his like normal. The only difference is that now he has to live with the memory of a friendship who he might never get to experience again. Even when he is as cold as ice with barely any emotions to understand everything as it is, Icedagger can still be sentimental without showing it, even when he is now completely alone again

• They always left in the end, didn’t they? Nothing ever last forever, but the memories that have soon became a mere reflection of what he used to have shall stay in his cold embrace once more as he slumber himself to live in the past of somewhere no one knows. Icedagger has forgotten why did he feel so disconnected with his surroundings, even with his own peers, until now. Ice will melt when something warm comes into contact with it, but then what to do with the leftovers of said attempt of connection? It will take time before the puddle of water to be formed back into ice again, but things will never be the same. Nothing has ever stayed the same after all. The only comfort he can cling onto to soothe this unexplainable weight in his heart is the fact that you have fit into that definition of what he would call a ‘friend’. The first and maybe last friend he will ever have. A dear friend of his, who has woken up out of this melty wonderland to move forward to the unexpected future, while Icedagger is still there in the middle of nowhere. All by himself because of this act of self-isolation he has seek comfort in, all on his own as things have always been like such

• Mythology has it that when Blackrock is about to endure a sudden blizzard out of calculations, it is actually a reflection of a troubled supernatural force’s heart that is projected onto this land during their slumber. Some people is going to use science to get rid of that foolish myth, but some still firmly believes in that childish hope that maybe there existed someone who has the ability that is responsible to Blackrock’s current weather. And maybe, just maybe, you will still keep that little silly piece of ice he craved out for you. A keepsake, a lucky charm, or whatever you call it in the future. Even when you have forgotten him, calling him an ‘imaginary friend’ or never mention him again completely - that is fine too. Wherever you are, whoever you have become, he wishes you a life full of warmth, something he will never get to experience himself. Live with love, with empathy, live and know that you have been nothing but a memorable experience. And he regrets nothing, not at all, as this sweet dream shall live in his mind until time has stopped ticking

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝

[alittlegiraffe]

Title: "Shattered Glass"

The house had gotten quieter in a different kind of way.

Not heavy like before. Not sharp or cold. Just... softer.

You weren’t yourself. Not really. But you were present in a way you hadn’t been for a while. You ate dinner. You folded laundry. You let Whitney drag you into a two-hour tea party on the floor with mismatched dolls and glittery plastic cups.

You laughed once.

It scared you, how foreign the sound felt.

Hailie had picked up more of the slack than she should have — but never once with resentment. She made sure Whitney brushed her teeth, helped Alaina with her homework, and even made you tea once with a sticky note on the mug that said: you don’t have to be perfect. just stay.

Marshall had been quietly watching everything.

You’d catch him sometimes — just looking at you like you were a puzzle he couldn’t solve, or something precious he was terrified to break.

That afternoon, he came into the bedroom while you sat curled in the corner of the bed, thumbing the edge of a pillow.

“I’m gonna make dinner for the girls,” he said softly. “Why don’t you take a bath? Just relax. I’ll handle everything.”

You wanted to protest — say you should be helping, doing something, earning this kindness — but his eyes were pleading. So you nodded.

He kissed your forehead, then went to the kitchen.

The bath was warm. Soothing. You let the water run too long and sank beneath the surface, hoping maybe silence could press all your doubts out of your skin. You stayed until the water went cold.

You toweled off slowly, wrapped yourself in one of Marshall’s shirts, and moved into the bedroom.

And then — before you could even think about it — you slipped into the bathroom.

The scale sat there, tucked beneath the cabinet like it always was.

You didn’t hesitate.

You stepped on.

You exhaled like it was routine — and it was. The blink of numbers was almost comforting, a ritual of self-worth wrapped in digits.

You didn’t hear him come in.

You didn’t see him freeze in the doorway.

But you heard him the second his patience snapped.

“Are you fucking serious right now?”

You flinched, head whipping toward him, heart slamming against your ribs.

His eyes were dark — not cold, not cruel, but furious. Hurt and helpless and boiling over.

Before you could step off, before you could stammer an excuse, he was across the room in three strides.

He yanked the scale off the tile.

And then — with a guttural, broken sound — he threw it.

It slammed against the far wall with a crack so loud it made you jump.

Glass shattered, plastic split down the middle.

You gasped.

He just stood there, chest heaving, fists clenched at his sides.

“I can’t fucking watch you do this anymore,” he said, voice shaking with rage and pain. “I hold you in my arms like you’re all I’ve got left in the goddamn world, and then I come in here and you’re still... still trying to disappear.”

You stared at the ruined scale, pieces glittering across the floor like sharp, bitter confetti.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice cracking.

But it wasn’t enough.

It never felt like enough.

Marshall sank to the edge of the tub, hands scrubbing over his face. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to make you believe me when I say you don’t have to earn being loved.”

Tears welled in your eyes. You crossed the room slowly, bare feet avoiding the glass.

“I don’t know how to stop,” you whispered.

He looked up at you then — really looked — and all the fire in his eyes faded into heartbreak.

“That,” he said softly, “that’s what we take to therapy. Not because you’re crazy. But because you’re drowning, and I can’t keep dragging you to shore alone.”

You collapsed into his arms, both of you sitting on the cold bathroom floor, the broken scale a few feet away.

And for once, you didn’t argue.

You just held him back.

---

You’d tried.

God, you really had.

Marshall made the calls. You went to the appointments. Sat on too-stiff couches under buzzing lights, sipping water from paper cups while therapists asked, “So how are you feeling today?”

And always — always — you found a reason not to go back.

Too clinical. Too soft. Too judgmental. Too warm.

One didn't challenge you enough. The next made you feel judged. Another was too young. One wore perfume that made your stomach turn and you left halfway through the session, claiming a headache.

Marshall kept trying to be patient, but every “she’s just not the right fit” chipped away at him.

“You want someone who’ll heal you without looking too close,” he said one night, voice flat, arms crossed over his chest.

You didn’t answer. Just rolled over in bed, away from him, pretending sleep came easy.

The silence between you started stretching longer in the evenings. He stopped pushing. You stopped pretending.

And then came the night everything cracked.

It had been a quiet evening. Dinner was awkward, Whitney cranky, Hailie texting more than talking. Alaina offered to help with dishes, but Marshall sent her upstairs instead — “Go unwind, kid. I got this.”

You’d gone to brush your teeth after pretending to eat again.

The bathroom was quiet.

Until it wasn’t.

A sound hit the air — a crash, sharp and sudden. Followed by a high-pitched, panicked scream.

“DAD!”

Alaina’s voice, ragged and terrified, echoed down the stairs like a shot.

Marshall didn’t think. Didn’t breathe.

He dropped the dish in his hand — didn’t hear it shatter — and took the stairs two at a time.

The bathroom door was half open.

He pushed it the rest of the way and the world stopped.

You were on the floor, curled inward on yourself, body too still.

Alaina was crouched beside you, crying, whispering your name, hands trembling and useless.

Marshall dropped to his knees.

“Baby—” He grabbed your wrist, searching for your pulse. Nothing.

His heart bottomed out.

“Lainey,” he said, too calm for how fast his hands were moving, “I need you to get my phone. Call 911. Right now. Tell them mom collapsed and she’s not breathing.”

Her eyes widened.

“Go,” he said, sharper now. “Go, baby girl!”

She ran.

Marshall leaned over your body, hands moving to your chest. Training he hoped he’d never need took over.

One hand over the other. Steady compressions. Count. One-two-three-four—

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he muttered, voice cracking. “Don’t do this to me. Not like this. Breathe. Please.”

Tears streamed down his face as he kept pressing, the sound of your ribs straining under his palms. He didn’t stop. Didn’t dare.

“I’m not losing you on a fucking bathroom floor,” he choked. “You hear me? You don’t get to just... fade out. Not after everything. Not now.”

Somewhere downstairs, he heard Alaina’s panicked voice on the phone.

But all he could see was you, colorless, limp.

Like all the light had finally gone out.

He pressed harder.

“Please, baby—please come back.”

---

The hospital lights were too bright.

Marshall had been staring at the same stain on the ceiling tile above him for what felt like hours. His hoodie was soaked with sweat and dishwater. His hands wouldn't stop shaking.

He’d done CPR until the paramedics shoved him back. Until they took over. Until someone said, “We’ve got a pulse.”

Alaina had ridden in the ambulance with you.

He followed in the car. Didn’t remember the drive.

Now he sat in the waiting room, elbows on knees, hands clenched, phone buzzing somewhere in his pocket with calls from Hailie, from Paul, from God knows who else. He didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

A nurse came out with a clipboard and said your name.

He was on his feet before she finished the second syllable.

“Are you family?”

“I’m her husband.”

She nodded, lips pressed tight. “She’s stable. We’ve given her fluids and are monitoring her now. She was severely dehydrated. Malnourished. We’re still running tests, but... her blood pressure was dangerously low. You said she collapsed at home?”

“She was brushing her teeth,” he rasped. “Then she just... dropped.”

The nurse exhaled. “We see this sometimes with eating disorders. The body just—” she hesitated, “—gives out.”

The words landed like lead in his stomach.

“But she’s okay?” he pressed.

“We’re doing what we can. She's awake, but very weak. We'll keep her on IV fluids and watch for electrolyte imbalances, arrhythmias. These things can... escalate quickly.”

He nodded, swallowing the scream climbing his throat.

“She’s asking for you.”

He followed her through too-white hallways that buzzed with the quiet urgency of lives hanging by threads. Machines beeped. Voices whispered. Time didn’t feel real.

You were pale under hospital lighting, lips chapped, eyes sunken. There was an IV in your arm. An oxygen monitor on your finger. You looked smaller than ever — a ghost of the girl he'd fallen in love with, the girl in the sundress under the bleachers.

You looked like you were barely there.

“Hey,” he said, choking on the word.

Your eyes flicked to him. You tried to smile. Failed.

“I’m sorry.”

His knees buckled as he sat beside the bed, taking your hand. Cold. Fragile. All bone and regret.

“I did this,” you whispered.

He shook his head violently. “Don’t. Don’t go there.”

“I broke the girls.”

“No,” he said, voice rising. “You scared them. But they’re okay. They love you. They’re just... they don’t understand how someone can vanish in front of them and smile through it.”

Your eyes welled. “I didn’t know it got this bad.”

“I did,” he admitted, “but too fucking late.”

You didn’t have the strength to cry, but your face crumpled.

He reached for you, leaned forward, resting his forehead against the back of your hand.

“I can’t lose you,” he whispered. “I don’t know how to do this without you. But I won’t keep watching you die slow.”

Outside, Hailie sat with Whitney curled in her lap, arms wrapped tight. Alaina sat by the vending machine, knees pulled to her chest, eyes red-rimmed and wide.

No one had words.

Not yet.

Only a hollow silence full of fear, love, and the weight of what came next.

---

Marshall hadn’t moved from your bedside.

Hours passed. Nurses came and went. Monitors beeped a rhythm he couldn’t stop listening to, like your heartbeat was the only thing keeping his going.

You slept off and on, shallow and restless. Every now and then your eyes would flutter open, find him, and then drift closed again — like the guilt was heavier than the fatigue.

He watched the way the IV fed into your veins. Watched how even blinking seemed to exhaust you.

The door creaked open again — and this time, it wasn’t a nurse.

A doctor stepped in, early 40s, calm eyes and a clipboard hugged to his chest.

“Mr. Mathers?”

Marshall stood. “Yeah.”

“Can we talk outside for a moment?”

He glanced back at you, then nodded and followed.

The hallway smelled like antiseptic and too many people trying to survive at once.

The doctor lowered his voice. “We’ve completed our evaluation. I wanted to talk to you about the next steps for your wife.”

Marshall folded his arms, bracing for more bad news.

“In cases like this,” the doctor began carefully, “where we’re dealing with severe malnutrition, electrolyte imbalance, and a pattern of disordered eating, the standard protocol is a medical hold. Seventy-two hours at minimum. In her condition, it’s not safe to discharge her. She’s a danger to herself, whether she realizes it or not.”

Marshall’s chest tightened. “You’re saying... like a psych hold?”

“Not exactly,” the doctor clarified. “There’s a specialized unit. It’s secure, but compassionate. Built for patients with eating disorders who are physically compromised and psychologically at risk. We treat the body and begin stabilizing the mind. She’ll have access to doctors, dietitians, therapists.”

Marshall rubbed his jaw, trying to absorb it. “And if she says no?”

The doctor sighed. “Then we invoke an involuntary medical hold. It’s not a punishment — it’s protection. Without intervention, her body could shut down again. Next time, she might not wake up.”

Marshall closed his eyes.

“She’s not gonna like this.”

“She doesn’t have to,” the doctor said gently. “She just has to stay alive.”

He nodded, slowly. “Can I tell her?”

“We’ll explain it with you. But... yes. You should be the one to say it first.”

Marshall stood in the hallway for a minute after the doctor left, forehead against the wall, trying to breathe through a grief that hadn’t fully landed yet. This wasn’t just a scare.

This was a line.

And it had been crossed.

He went back into your room quietly. You looked at him through bleary eyes, the IV beep steady.

“Hey,” you rasped.

He sat down and took your hand again, rubbing his thumb across your knuckles. “They need to keep you for a while, baby.”

Your face shifted — confusion first, then suspicion.

“They said it’s for your heart, your blood pressure, the weight, all of it. They got a place here. A whole unit just for this.”

“I don’t want that,” you said instantly, voice cracking. “I want to go home.”

He squeezed your hand, voice low and steady. “They’re not giving you the choice.”

Your breath caught.

Marshall leaned closer, eyes shining but firm.

“They’re not doing it to you. They’re doing it to keep you breathing. I almost lost you on our bathroom floor, and I swear to God, if I ever have to look at our daughters while you're zipped in a bag—”

His voice broke.

You started crying before you realized you were crying.

“It’s not prison,” he whispered, forehead against yours. “It’s a damn hospital wing. And it’s gonna suck. And you’re gonna hate it. But it’s life, baby. It’s one more day. Then the next. And I’ll be here for all of them.”

You turned your head and sobbed into his shirt.

He didn’t say anything else.

He just held you while your whole world changed.

---

You were quiet for a long time after the doctor explained the hold.

The room had gone still, a silence so heavy it buzzed louder than the machines. Marshall sat beside your bed, hands clenched between his knees, waiting for the explosion he could feel building behind your trembling lip.

And when you finally spoke, your voice didn’t shake. It cut.

“Get out.”

He looked up sharply. “What?”

Your eyes — once soft, once honey and sunlight — were ice now. Still bloodshot from crying, but cold.

“Get. Out,” you repeated.

“Babe—”

“No,” you snapped, sitting up despite the IV in your arm tugging. “You did this. You agreed to this. I trusted you—you—and you’re throwing me in a cage and calling it love.”

“It’s not a cage, it’s—”

“You’re no better than everyone else who looked at me and decided I was broken,” you spat. “You’re just wrapping it in some ‘I love you’ bullshit.”

Marshall stood slowly, like your words had physically pushed him back. “I didn’t want this,” he said, quietly. “I wanted you safe. Breathing. Not cold on our bathroom floor while Lainey screamed your name.”

You turned your face away.

His chest rose and fell like he’d just run miles.

“If you do this,” you said, voice low and lethal, “I don’t want to see you again.”

The room went dead silent.

He took a step toward the bed. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.”

Marshall stood there for a moment longer, jaw tight, fists clenched. His heart beating so loud it echoed in his ears.

Then, finally, he nodded.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Okay, baby.”

And he walked out.

He didn’t make it far.

The moment he reached the hallway, the tears came. Fast. Quiet. Angry.

He sank into one of the plastic chairs against the wall and buried his face in his hands.

The doctor from earlier found him there a few minutes later.

“She’s scared,” he said gently, crouching beside him. “They all lash out at first. Especially when the disorder's voice is louder than everyone else’s. Including their own.”

Marshall didn’t look up. Just wiped his nose on his sleeve and nodded.

“She meant it,” he whispered. “She meant every word.”

The doctor exhaled. “Maybe today. But not forever.”

Marshall stared at the wall across from him — pale green, sterile, too quiet.

“I don’t care if she hates me,” he said. “I just need her to stay alive long enough to get better.”

And still, it didn’t help.

Not really.

Because the girl he’d loved since fourth grade had finally looked him in the eye and told him to leave.

And for the first time in his life, he had.

---

You’d never been a problem before.

You were the quiet one. The peacekeeper. The good girl who always smiled when spoken to, who said thank you even when your bones ached from hunger.

But in here — in these pale rooms that smelled like hand sanitizer and stale fear — you were a problem.

You refused group therapy on the first day. And the second. And the third.

You sat there, arms crossed tight over your chest, jaw set in defiance, eyes fixed on the corner of the room while other girls talked about their triggers, their recovery journals, their meal plans. You said nothing. You offered nothing.

You wouldn’t go to nutrition counseling. Wouldn’t even open the worksheets they gave you. You slept through movement therapy on purpose. When the staff gently asked if you wanted to call home, you stared through them.

You didn’t want to call home.

Home was where Marshall had betrayed you.

You didn’t care that your body was weak or that you needed help standing most mornings. You didn’t care that your hands shook when you tried to hold a cup. You didn’t even care when your vision blurred at the edges after skipping breakfast again.

You didn’t eat.

Not enough. Never enough. Not when your chest burned with a rage you didn’t know how to hold. Not when every breath you took in this place felt like proof that you were broken beyond repair.

On day five, Marshall came.

You weren’t expecting him. And when the nurse told you he’d shown up for family therapy, you laughed.

Laughed in a sharp, bitter way that made even the nurse flinch.

“I’m not doing that,” you said flatly.

“He came a long way—”

“I don’t care. Tell him to go home.”

Marshall didn’t argue when they told him you refused. He just nodded once, jaw clenched so tight it ached for hours after. He left a bag of your favorite lotion and a new book at the nurse’s desk.

You never opened either.

By day six, your team had had enough.

The dietitian, the therapist, the medical doctor — they all sat down with you in the small, too-bright conference room.

“You’ve lost more weight since admission,” the doctor said gently, flipping through your chart. “You’re not meeting your caloric minimums. At this rate, we’re at risk of organ strain.”

“I’m eating,” you muttered.

“You’re nibbling,” the dietitian countered, voice kind but firm. “We’ve watched you pick at meals. Hide pieces in napkins. Chew and spit. You’re not sustaining yourself. And we’re concerned.”

You shrugged. “I’m not hungry.”

“We know,” the doctor said softly. “But your body is dying.”

You looked away.

“We’re going to place a feeding tube.”

That made your head snap back around.

“No.”

“It’s not a punishment—”

“I said no.”

The therapist leaned forward. “You’re not being punished, [Y/N]. But your body can’t survive on anger and water. You need nourishment. And right now, this is the only way.”

You stood, nearly losing your balance. “This is my body.”

“And this is a hospital,” the doctor said gently, but without budging. “And we’re bound by our oath to keep our patients alive.”

You cried when they placed the NG tube later that night.

Not because it hurt — though it did — but because it felt like a collar. Like proof you weren’t in control anymore.

And control was all you had left.

You didn’t call Marshall. You didn’t call anyone.

You just curled up on the too-firm mattress, feeding tube taped to your cheek, and cried until the nurses dimmed the lights.

For the first time in your life, you weren’t the good girl.

You were the girl they whispered about behind clipboards.

The girl with too many walls and not enough body to hold them up.

---

You didn’t want to see him.

Not again. Not after the tube, not after the pleading eyes of the nurses, not after the way your body shook from cold even when wrapped in two blankets.

So when the knock came at the door to the visitor room that afternoon and you saw him, you almost stood to leave.

But then you saw them.

Alaina first — her jaw set like Marshall’s when she was worried — holding Hailie’s hand. And behind them, Whitney, looking smaller than you remembered, in a pink hoodie that swallowed her whole.

Your breath caught in your throat.

They hadn’t said the visit was family.

The nurse at the door glanced at you for confirmation. You blinked once, stiffly, and nodded.

“Just twenty minutes,” she said gently, before closing the door behind them.

The room was suddenly quiet in a way that wasn’t peaceful. It was fragile. Like one wrong word would make the whole thing crack.

You sat still as stone, IV line tucked into your sleeve, the feeding tube secured to your cheek like a neon sign announcing failure.

“Hi, Mom,” Hailie said softly.

You hadn’t realized how much you missed her voice until that moment. It was steadier than you expected — stronger. She walked toward you slowly, then wrapped her arms around your shoulders and hugged you like she wasn’t afraid you’d break.

You didn’t hug her back at first. Couldn’t. Your arms felt useless — and shame had your stomach clenched.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered without thinking.

But she just held you tighter.

Whitney climbed into the chair beside you, silent for a minute before her little voice piped up, “Daddy said you’re sick.”

You swallowed. “I am.”

“But you don’t look sick,” she said honestly, childlike, eyes big and confused. “You just look tired.”

That made you smile — barely — and you reached to brush a piece of hair out of her eyes. “I am tired, baby.”

Alaina sat across from you, legs crossed, arms folded — but her eyes weren’t hard. They were wet.

“Don’t be mad at him,” she said suddenly, surprising you. “You can be mad at a lot of things. I get that. But don’t be mad at him for saving your life.”

Your throat tightened.

“I wasn’t—”

“Yes, you were,” Alaina interrupted, gently. “And we’ve all been so scared. We don’t care how skinny you are, Mom. We just want you home. Alive.”

The word alive hit harder than it should have.

Marshall hadn’t spoken yet.

He sat back, quiet and steady, like he knew this wasn’t about him anymore. Just watched, eyes never leaving yours, like he was waiting to see if you’d shatter or soften.

When Whitney leaned into your side and laid her head on your arm, you finally exhaled. It wasn’t forgiveness. It wasn’t healing.

But it was something.

“I missed you,” you said hoarsely, voice cracking around the edges.

“We missed you more,” Hailie whispered.

And for the first time in days, maybe weeks, you let yourself cry — not from anger, not from fear, but from that deep, aching place inside you that had never stopped needing to be loved.

Even when you didn’t think you deserved it.

---

The girls had gone.

They’d hugged you tightly — even Alaina, who rarely showed softness without reason — and promised to visit again. Whitney had drawn you a picture with too many hearts and stick figures holding hands, and Hailie had whispered “You’re doing good, Mom,” even though you knew you weren’t.

Marshall had stayed behind.

Just for a little while, according to the nurse. “Just long enough to talk, if you’re up for it.”

You weren’t.

You weren’t up for anything when it came to him.

Still, you found yourself in the family therapy room fifteen minutes later, legs curled under you on the edge of the couch. He sat across from you, elbows on his knees, quiet and cautious, like any sudden movement might send you running.

The therapist — a woman named Dr. Keene — sat between you both, clipboard resting gently in her lap.

“We don’t have to do anything intense today,” she said calmly. “We just want to talk about what’s been coming up for you. Both of you.”

You looked away.

Marshall nodded once. “I’m not here to push. I just wanted to—”

“I said no.”

The words came out sharp — sharper than you meant. Still, you didn’t pull them back.

Dr. Keene blinked slowly. “You don’t have to engage if you’re not ready. But it might help to—”

“I said no.” Your voice cracked like a whip, slicing through the room. “I don’t need another person treating me like I’m some broken thing to fix.”

The venom in your voice startled even you.

Marshall flinched like you’d hit him. Not obviously — not dramatically — just enough for his shoulder to draw back an inch. Just enough for you to see it landed.

You didn’t apologize.

Dr. Keene stayed quiet for a breath. Then two. Then said gently, “No one’s here to fix you. We’re here to support you.”

You turned toward her, eyes dark. “Funny. Doesn’t feel that way when I can’t take a piss without someone tracking my sodium levels and watching me chew.”

Marshall opened his mouth, then shut it again.

He didn’t have a defense. Because there wasn’t one.

“I don’t trust this,” you hissed. “I don’t trust you,” — your eyes cut to Marshall — “and I don’t trust the fact that I said no and everyone’s still acting like I didn’t.”

Dr. Keene didn’t move. Her voice was calm, practiced. “Okay. You said no. That matters.”

You stood slowly, the IV pole dragging beside you like a chain.

“Then this conversation is over.”

And you walked out.

The hallway was too bright. Too quiet. Every footstep echoed louder than your thoughts, and for a minute, you couldn’t breathe.

Not because you were angry.

But because all of it — the feeding tube, the bruised arms, the way Marshall had looked at you like he didn’t recognize the girl sitting across from him — hurt.

And you didn’t know how to make that stop.

---

Two days passed in silence.

You didn’t ask if Marshall had stayed. You didn’t ask if he left.

You barely looked at the nurses. Barely touched your food, even with the feeding tube still in place.

You did what they asked, technically — kept your vitals stable, showed up to morning check-ins, nodded in the right places during group sessions. But you weren’t really there. Not in the way they wanted.

Not in the way that could be mistaken for trying.

On the third morning, your case manager called you into her office. It was too bright. It always was. The blinds were pulled halfway shut like that did anything at all.

You sat down stiffly across from her, arms crossed tight, muscles aching from sleep you hadn’t gotten.

“[Y/N],” she began carefully, her voice more maternal than clinical today, “we’re adjusting your treatment plan.”

You blinked at her, flat. “Why?”

“Because you’re not engaging.”

“I'm doing the work.”

“You’re avoiding the work,” she corrected gently. “You show up, but you don’t participate. You’ve made no progress in individual therapy. You’ve refused all family sessions. And while your physical health is stabilizing, your psychological symptoms remain… resistant.”

You said nothing.

“The goal isn’t just to keep you alive,” she added, softer. “The goal is to help you live.”

Still, you sat stone-still.

She folded her hands on the desk. “Starting this week, we’re implementing a behavioral agreement.”

Your stomach turned.

“You’ll still get your weekly visits with your daughters,” she said. “But only if you engage in two individual therapy sessions and one family counseling session with Marshall each week. No therapy, no visit.”

You stiffened. “That’s blackmail.”

“It’s structure,” she said calmly. “Boundaries. Motivation. The same way we structure meal plans — we need to structure your emotional engagement, too. You don’t have to like it. But it’s what’s needed.”

You stood too fast. “You can’t keep me from my children.”

“We’re not,” she said, still maddeningly even-voiced. “You are.”

You stopped cold.

She sighed. “You’re not being punished. But your girls are part of your life. Your recovery. If you want that connection, you need to show up for it.”

Tears stung your eyes before you could stop them.

And for the first time in weeks, you didn’t feel furious. You felt exposed.

Like someone had finally peeled back the armor you’d been wearing since the day you collapsed on the floor with a toothbrush still in your hand.

You didn’t respond.

You just left.

Later that afternoon, you sat in your therapist’s office for the first real session you didn’t try to sleep through.

And the next day?

You signed up for a family session with Marshall.

You didn’t do it for him.

You did it for Whitney.

For Hailie.

For Alaina, who hadn’t stopped hoping, even when you had.

You weren’t ready to talk.

But for the first time in a long time… you showed up.

---

[lacesoflove]

guess who’s back on tumblr after trying to unalive themselves 😍 i don’t really wanna talk about my absence and go into the depths of the reasoning why, so i’ll just talk about why this account was made - which was for hamzah and slushy noobz. i want to have my own little thinkpiece on the match as well as my place in the slushy community moving forward

i want to say the match and the production is the reason why i love them soo much. they have such an ability of creating cinema with their videos, hence why one of my favourite video from them is the camping video (i tend to watch this video more for comfort rather than for humour though) – and there’s an immense amount of payoff as a viewer watching their content, you can see all the layered inside iokes (i.e having aldo, and nettspend’s producers) and internet jokes culminate in something so carefully crafted (like the way chase’s commentary was genuinely good??). and then the obvious reasons as to why i liked it, hamzah looked so damn good, and he knows it too (i also find martin attractive too, i’d just prefer not to talk about it too much in respect to his relationship). there’s something so beautifully boyish about their content that i can’t find something else (as much as i love them and before anyone says it, no - the dancing gamers cannot replace hamzah and martin and that’s okay!)

however this video kind of cemented why i don’t think i’ll continue regularly engaging with their content. this video kind of felt like a bittersweet ending to one of my favourite eras in my life (watching them). and before i proceed, ik the reddit fans are gonna be annoying - on a side note of the reddit fans i feel like the reddit community is so pedantic over small stuff and because of the few, genuine bad eggs in the community, they over correct and just get so bitter and mad about everything (i.e them being so cruel to fanfic writers) and call everyone chronically online whilst they use the same old “*insert trending braintrot joke* 💜”. i feel so aged out in a fandom even though i’m 18 - i can’t imagine how the slushies who are actually around hamzah and martin’s age feel when their fandom is so reminiscent and full of the same 14 year olds that i’m convinced are the reincarnations of the 2021 14 year old dsmp fans. definitely more sane, i’ll give them that. but community aside, at least reddit community, i want to talk about something another one of my mutuals mentioned recently in their own post and it’s how money hungry they seem. two things can exist at once, let’s get that straight - hamzah and martin don’t get a lot of sponsorships but also being upset that so much of this well awaited come back was heavy promotion for the patreon which, mind you, had a decent amount of members subscribed (i do commend hamzah for encouraging people to unsubscribe over the break!) and also they get money off of ad revenue. i just personally find it egregious that their hoodies, the out of character ones, which are at least unique designs unlike them literally reselling temu shirts like the “find x” shirts, are the same price, in my currency, to the essentials fear of god hoodies.

for any south africans here, it was around like R900 for a hoodie! which is gross im sorry :)

there are also other reasons im distanced from them, and its their associations with chase and claire - i made a, now deleted, post about this before but chase has this annoying tendency i notice in white ‘queer’ (i think he’s queer lmao) men where they speak in blaccents, which was heavily highlighted to me when he was a commentator and he was able to speak in a ‘normal’ white accent, and claire made weird ass comments about black women. as well as having fucking idubzz (who im not sure why was even invited when like sm people are like “who even is he??”) who literally had to make an apology about the fact he created a racist culture with his platform, years after the damage was done. i also have other smaller issues with them that would definitely actually get me cancelled (not even over on the reddit but here). but idfk, what are yalls thoughts?

[theetherealbloom]

IF THERE'S NOTHING LEFT - CH.5

Chapter Five: When They Erase Our Names, God Knows That One Thing Remains

Summary: You, a skilled healer, are brought to Rome by Senator Gracchus under the pretense of treating gladiators and Roman elites. You work with General Marcus Acacius to fight against the cruel reign of the twin emperors. Through danger and shared hope, your connection becomes a source of strength as you both dream of freeing Rome.

Paring: General Marcus Acacius x F!Reader

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI, ANGST, Fluff, SMUT, Age-Gap(ish), Ancient Rome, Canon-Typical Violence, Gladiators, Blood, Gore, Romance, Politics, Alternate Universe, Eventual SMUT, Slavery, Sexism, Misogyny, Guilt, PTSD, Rebellion, Empires, (Very Light) Strangers-to-Enemies-to-Friends-to-Lovers, Crowds, Shouting, Animals, Duels, Loose Historical Fiction, Kissing, Torture, Threats, Fighting, 

Word Count: 6.6k

A/N: I dreaded this chapter for various reasons lol T^T I hope you enjoy!

Side note: I’m dyslexic and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!

Song: The Rider by Paris Paloma

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IMPERIAL VILLA — NIGHT  

The grand hall of the Imperial Villa was dimly lit, the flicker of torches casting long shadows across the marble walls. The air reeked of incense and the sharp tang of blood, a bitter reminder of the night's brutal events. You stood off to the side, your wrists bound, a bruise blooming across your cheek and a shallow cut stinging on your temple. Beside you, Marcus Acacius knelt, beaten and bloodied but unbroken, his defiant gaze fixed ahead.  

Lucilla, regal even in captivity, was forced to her knees on his other side. Her disheveled hair did nothing to diminish her dignity. 

The Emperors swept into the room, their appearances as disheveled as their tempers. Geta, draped in an elaborate robe hastily thrown over his sleepwear, strode in with practiced authority. Behind him, Caracalla, his tunic barely covering his fury, paced like a caged beast. Macrinus and Thraex lingered in the shadows, smug satisfaction written across their faces.

Geta’s eyes locked onto Marcus with contempt, his voice ringing through the hall like a gavel. “The honor, the dignitas that Rome has bestowed upon you—all this you have forfeited by your treachery. Thanks to the civic virtue of men like Macrinus and Thraex, your insurrection has been revealed.”

Marcus lifted his chin, the blood on his face gleaming in the torchlight. Despite his injuries, his voice carried with unwavering strength. “Please, Emperor Geta, torture me if you want. But do not lecture me.”  

Geta’s lips curled in a sneer. “Your name and deeds will be forgotten, lost to history. You are damned to oblivion.”  

Marcus let out a low, defiant laugh, the sound echoing ominously through the chamber. Geta bristled. “You laugh?!”  

“You damn me?” Marcus growled. “I don’t care. Everything is forgotten in time. Empires fall. So do Emperors.”  

Caracalla, already simmering with rage, exploded. Grabbing a sword from a nearby Praetorian, he stormed forward, his voice a snarl of fury. “Why wait? I’ll gut him right now!”  

Geta rushed to restrain his brother, grabbing his arm as the blade swung wildly, narrowly missing Marcus’s head. “No! No! Calm! Calm! His death must be public.”  

“Public, yes,” Caracalla hissed, his eyes wild. “Hang his entrails from the city gates!” He spun toward you and Lucilla, his gaze venomous. “And them! Crucify them both. Crucify her!” His finger jabbed toward you, his voice breaking into a shriek. “Let them all suffer!”  

For the first time, Marcus’s composure cracked. “Leave her out of this!” he roared, his voice reverberating through the hall.  

Lucilla, too, stepped forward as far as her restraints allowed, her voice cold and commanding. “She is no threat to you. Punish me if you must, but she is innocent.”  

Caracalla’s lip curled. “Innocent? No one in your circle is innocent.”  

Geta held up a hand, signaling for silence. His gaze swept over you, considering, calculating. “No,” he finally said, his voice low but resolute. “Her skills as a healer are of use. She will not die.”  

Caracalla rounded on his brother, his outrage spilling over. “You would show her mercy?”  

Geta sneered, his tone dismissive. “Not mercy. A healer stripped of her riches and status is no better than a servant. She will remain—serving the Empire, tending to our men. Let her be a reminder of what happens to those who think they can defy us.”  

The decision was made. The Praetorians moved to haul you away, their grip bruising. Marcus struggled against them, his voice a thunderous plea. “No! Let her go!”  

You glanced back at him, your heart aching at the anguish in his eyes. “Marcus,” you whispered, your voice soft but steady. “Live. For Rome. For us.”  

His struggles stilled, though the fury in his gaze remained unquenched. “I will come for you,” he vowed, the weight of his words promising blood and fire.  

Lucilla caught your gaze as you were pulled away, her expression unyielding. “Stay alive,” she commanded in a soft whisper. “That is how you win.”  

You didn’t speak again as the guards dragged you out, but the quiet determination burning in your chest was louder than any words you could muster. The fight wasn’t over—not yet.  

UNDERCROFT, COLOSSEUM — MORNING  

The undercroft was cloaked in a heavy stillness, the faint roar of the distant crowd above serving as the only reminder of the chaos awaiting outside. The dim torchlight flickered against the cold stone walls, casting wavering shadows that seemed alive. You worked with quiet determination, dabbing ointment on Lucius’s wounds, though your hands trembled slightly from exhaustion. Sleep had eluded you since the altercation. If Ravi or Lucius noticed the change in your demeanor, they chose to remain silent.  

Ravi was seated nearby, carefully wrapping Lucius’s wrists with the precision of someone accustomed to mending what others sought to break. Lucius, his youthful face etched with weariness, broke the silence first.  

“Today, I woke up dreaming of a dark river,” he murmured, his voice low but steady. “A river I have dreamt of before, but this time, for the first time... I was crossing it.”  

Ravi paused, his hands stilling briefly as he considered Lucius’s words. “Where I come from, crossing a river represents forgiveness and salvation,” he replied softly.  

Lucius let out a faint, humorless chuckle. “Where I come from, it means you’re dead.” His gaze shifted to the middle distance, as if seeing something far beyond the confines of the undercroft. “I believe it means I will die today in the Arena. But—as I saw it, I was not afraid. For there were people on the other side. I was not alone. And my heart felt... open.”  

The weight of his words lingered in the air, but you said nothing, focusing instead on your work. You felt the knot tighten in your chest, the reality of his belief pressing down like a physical force.  

Lucius turned away, his eyes catching on the shrine of gladiators carved into the wall. He moved closer, stopping before a blank spot where a name had been crudely chiseled away. “Who was this man?”  

“Maximus,” Ravi answered, rising to stand beside him. You hesitated before stepping forward, your curiosity drawn toward the name as well.  

“I saw him fight once,” Lucius said, his voice carrying a rare sense of reverence. “It was magnificent.”  

Ravi nodded in agreement. “My time in the Arena was after his, but in whispers, many still spoke of him and what he did.”  

Lucius tilted his head slightly, as if piecing together a memory. “I met him once. He was kind,” he added, his voice softening. “Bowed to no one.”  

Your eyes met Ravi’s, a silent understanding passing between you. You swallowed hard before speaking. “Come with us,” you urged, your voice low but insistent.  

---

UNDERCROFT, CATACOMBS — DAY 

The air grew colder as you descended the narrow staircase, the light of your torch flickering against the damp stone walls. The tunnel was lined with catacombs, their alcoves filled with the remains of fallen gladiators. Most were marked with nothing more than a name etched into the stone—Iduma of Mykonos, Cimon.  

“When a rebel gladiator dies, we are supposed to cremate him and scatter the ashes,” you explained, your voice barely above a whisper. “But we bury them here instead.”  

The crypt opened into a small chamber, dominated by a single phrase chiseled roughly into the stone: What we do in life echoes in eternity.  

Lucius approached the words, his fingers brushing lightly over the inscription as he read aloud, “What we do in life... echoes in eternity.” Beneath the phrase, the name Maximus was etched into the stone.  

Above the crypt, Maximus’s breastplate and sword hung from the wall, the metal dulled by time but no less imposing. Lucius reached up and took the breastplate down, his expression thoughtful. “Scatto,” he whispered. “Argento.”  

You watched him for a moment, your heart heavy with the weight of what lay ahead. Finally, you turned to Ravi, passing him the torch. “I must go before the games begin,” you said, your voice faltering slightly. “I...”  

Ravi gave a solemn nod, his expression steady. “The people will be ready when you call upon them,” he assured you.  

Lucius’s brows knit in confusion, but before he could ask for clarification, you turned and fled, your footsteps echoing in the narrow corridor.  

THE COLOSSEUM — DAY  

You sprinted through the labyrinthine corridors of the Colosseum, your breath ragged, the cold stone walls blurring past you. The distant roar of the crowd reverberated through the halls, each cheer a hammer against your chest.  

At last, your eyes found him—Marcus, striding toward the Arena gates. His armor gleamed faintly under the dim torchlight, but it did little to hide the stiffness in his movements, the weight of his untreated wounds dragging against his formidable will. His commanding presence, though battered, remained intact, his head held high as if he bore the weight of Rome itself.  

“Marcus!” you cried out, your voice slicing through the din, raw with desperation.  

A Praetorian stepped forward, intercepting you with a vice-like grip on your arm. “Stand back!” he barked, his tone as sharp as the gladius at his side.  

“Let me go!” you screamed, thrashing against him. Your gaze locked on Marcus, pleading. “His wounds—they haven’t been treated! You’re sending him to die!”  

Marcus turned sharply at the sound of your voice, his piercing gaze cutting through the distance. The hardness in his expression wavered for a fleeting moment, giving way to something tender. “Release her,” he growled, his tone low but unyielding.  

The Praetorian hesitated, glancing between you and Marcus as if weighing the consequences. When he didn’t relent, you tore your arm free, ignoring the sting of his grip. “If you send him into that Arena like this,” you said, your voice rising with fury, “it will not be a fight—it will be an execution!”  

Marcus took a step closer, his battered frame radiating defiance. His eyes, however, softened as they met yours, and for a moment, the clamor of the world seemed to fade. “You shouldn’t have come,” he murmured, his voice rough, but threaded with something intimate.  

“I couldn’t stay away,” you replied, your voice trembling. “Not when I know what they’re doing to you. Not when I—” You swallowed hard, the words catching in your throat.  

The Arena gates groaned open, and the roar of the crowd surged, deafening. Time seemed to slow as Marcus reached for your hand, his touch brief but searing, grounding you in the moment. “No matter what happens, know this,” he said, his voice steady despite the chaos around you. “You are the light I carry into the darkness. My carissima—my heart has been yours long before this day.”  

Your breath hitched, your vision blurring with unshed tears. “Then fight for me,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “Fight for us.”  

A faint, bittersweet smile ghosted his lips as he released your hand and turned toward the gates. “For you, I will endure anything,” he said, his voice resolute.  

As he stepped forward, the sunlight streaming into the Arena catching on his armor, you stood rooted to the spot, your heart splintering with every step he took. “Marcus!” you called out one last time, the weight of unspoken words heavy on your tongue.  

He paused, glancing back with a look that spoke of endless promises. “Whatever happens, my love will echo into eternity.”  

You watched him disappear into the blinding light of the Arena, the roar of the crowd swallowing him whole. The Master of Ceremonies reads off the official denunciation of the man you love, “For his treason against the lives of the Emperors and the Roman state... an Enemy of the People.”

And in that moment, all you could do was hope—that the fire in his spirit would be enough to carry him back to you.

The clash of swords echoed in your ears, but your focus was entirely on him—on Marcus. The sight of him in the Arena, a whirlwind of strength and precision, sent your heart into a spiral of anguish and awe. He dispatched the four soldiers with ruthless efficiency, sustaining only a superficial scratch. His breath came heavy as he stood amidst the carnage, blood staining the sand beneath his feet.  

You tore your gaze away to look above, where Lucilla sat in the royal box, her wrists bound in chains. Her face, streaked with tears, mirrored the grief clawing at your own chest.  

When Marcus’ eyes found yours, the rest of the Colosseum seemed to vanish. Though his body bore the scars of countless battles, it was his gaze that struck you deepest. His eyes burned with a fire that had kept him alive through horrors unimaginable, yet they softened when they landed on you.  

Your heart twisted painfully. Yes, he wore the scent of blood and death like a warrior’s perfume, his every move a testament to his survival. But you loved him regardless, perhaps even because of it. He was a star burning with the light of a thousand suns, and your world was an endless abyss without him.  

The Master of Ceremonies stepped forward, his voice booming over the crowd. “From the vanquished city of Numidia, the victor of two contests in the Colosseum—the barbarian Hanno!”  

The south gate creaked open, and from the shadows stepped Lucius. Your breath caught in your throat. Fear consumed you, gnawing at your resolve. This was no ordinary opponent; this was Lucilla’s son. Lucius, whom you had come to know, to care for as a friend. And now, fate had pitted him against the man you loved.  

Marcus straightened, his sword glinting in the harsh sunlight. Lucius raised his weapon, his youthful face a mask of determination, and charged.  

The clash of their swords reverberated through the Arena, each strike heavier than the last. Marcus splintered Lucius’ wooden shield with a single swing, sending fragments scattering. Without hesitation, Lucius threw himself back into the fray, weapon raised high. The flat of his blade caught Marcus broadside, forcing him to stagger.  

Your nails dug into your palms as you watched the brutal dance unfold. Marcus managed to disarm Lucius, knocking him to the ground. But when the final blow could have come, Marcus hesitated. He stepped back, raising his hand to the crowd, then dropped to his knees in the sand.  

“Acacius has raised his hand!” the Master of Ceremonies declared. “He has surrendered!”  

A stunned silence fell over the crowd. Tears streamed down your face, unchecked, as you whispered, “No…”  

The silence broke with a roar. “Let the gods decide!” the Master of Ceremonies proclaimed.  

Your stomach churned as Geta stood in the royal box, his hand lifted to the sky. Time slowed as he brought it down—thumb turned irrevocably down.  

“No!” you screamed, though your voice was drowned by the crowd’s cheers.  

Lucius rose, sword in hand, and approached Marcus. The words exchanged between them were faint, but you strained to hear. Marcus spoke with quiet conviction, his voice steady even in the face of death. “Do what you must. On my death, you must know… I love her—the healer, my carissima. Your mother was my friend. Your father, my brother in arms. I would have died for him.”  

Something shifted in Lucius’ stance. He faltered, his sword lowering. And then, to the shock of all, he dropped it to the sand. Slowly, he knelt beside Marcus, defying the will of the Emperor.  

Rage flared in your chest, consuming the fear that had gripped you. It was raw and primal, burning away hesitation. You darted toward a weapons rack near the Arena’s edge, your fingers trembling as you grabbed an arrow. Wrapping its head in cloth soaked with pitch, you moved swiftly to the north gate.  

The guards were too distracted by the unfolding scene to stop you. Lighting the arrow on a nearby torch, you notched it and drew the bowstring back, your muscles taut with purpose. The flames licked at the arrow as you aimed high and let it fly.  

It struck true, igniting a banner in the royal box. Flames spread rapidly, drawing screams from the crowd. You let out a sharp whistle, piercing through the chaos—the signal.  

In an instant, chaos erupted. Some of the Praetorian archers turned on their comrades, loosing arrows in calculated rebellion. Screams and confusion engulfed the Colosseum as you sprinted toward the center of the Arena.  

“Marcus!” you shouted, dodging arrows as you reached him and Lucius.  

His head snapped toward you, his expression a mix of fury and desperation. “What are you doing? You’ll get yourself killed!”  

“I’m not leaving you!” you shouted back, grabbing his arm.  

The three of you ran for the undercroft, but not before an arrow struck Marcus in the arm. His cry of pain sent a fresh wave of terror through you, but you didn’t stop.  

Ravi appeared at the entrance to the undercroft, his face streaked with soot and pale with fear, but his resolve unwavering. “This way!” he called, rushing forward to take Marcus’ other arm and hoist it over his shoulder. Marcus groaned, his weight pressing heavily against both of you, though his eyes still burned with determination despite the pain.

“Keep moving,” Ravi urged, his voice tight with urgency.  

Lucius, breathing hard but steady, halted suddenly. “I will stay,” he said, his voice firm, though his expression betrayed the conflict within.  

“Lucius, no,” you protested, your voice catching as you turned to him.  

“I must,” he said, shaking his head. His eyes were filled with a mix of fear and fierce loyalty. “For my mother. For Lucilla. I can’t abandon her to them.”  

You hesitated, your chest tightening. “Lucius…”  

He stepped forward, his hand resting briefly on your shoulder. “You have a chance to make this right,” he said, his voice softer now, almost imploring. “Go. Protect him. Do what I cannot.”  

Marcus stirred at Lucius’ words, his head lifting weakly. “Lucius,” he rasped, his voice laden with respect and sorrow. “You’re braver than I could ever hope to be.”  

Lucius gave a small, sad smile. “No, General. I’ve only learned from the best.”  

Your throat tightened as you searched for words, but none came. Instead, you nodded, a silent promise passing between you.  

“Go,” Lucius said, his voice more urgent now as the distant sound of Praetorian guards grew closer. “I will buy us the time we need.”  

Your heart clenched as you watched him turn back toward the chaos above, his sword in hand, shoulders squared against the impossible odds.  

“I’ll see you again,” you called after him, your voice trembling.  

He didn’t look back, but his voice carried through the shadows. “I’ll hold you to that.”  

Ravi tugged on Marcus, breaking you from your frozen stance. “We have to move!”  

You spared one last glance at the chaos above—the flames licking at the banners, the rebellion erupting like a storm, the empire trembling on the brink of collapse. Lucius stood at the edge of it all, a lone figure against the inferno.  

Then you turned and disappeared into the shadows, Marcus’ weight heavy against your side but his presence anchoring you. Each step was a vow—to see this through, for Marcus, for Lucius, for Lucilla, and for the fragile hope of a future you still dared to dream of.  

HIDDEN COTTAGE, OUTSKIRTS OF ROME — EVENING

The hidden cottage was small, nestled among the thick trees on the outskirts of Rome. Its weathered walls, cloaked in ivy, offered a fleeting sense of safety as you dismounted your horse, your legs trembling beneath you. Marcus slumped in the saddle, pale and shivering, his strength all but drained. Ravi rushed to help, catching him before he toppled to the ground.  

“Inside, quickly,” you urged, your voice shaking as you flung open the door. The cottage was sparsely furnished—a rough-hewn table, a single cot, and a fireplace where embers still smoldered from whoever had left it behind.  

Ravi and you eased Marcus onto the cot, his armor clinking as it hit the wood. He let out a low groan, his hand gripping yours tightly as his head lolled back.  

“Marcus,” you whispered, brushing sweat-soaked hair from his forehead. His eyes fluttered open, glassy and unfocused.  

“I’m fine,” he rasped, though the deep crimson staining his tunic said otherwise.  

“No, you’re not,” you said firmly, your voice steady despite the storm raging in your chest. “Ravi, get the water boiling. We need to clean these wounds.”  

Ravi nodded, already moving to the fireplace. You quickly removed his armor and tore at Marcus’s tunic, exposing the angry gash on his shoulder where the arrow had struck. Blood seeped sluggishly from the wound, a stark reminder of how close you’d come to losing him.  

“This will hurt,” you murmured, your fingers trembling as you pressed a cloth to the wound.  

“Hurts less,” Marcus said, his lips twitching in a faint smile, “when you’re the one tending to it.”  

“Save your charm for when you’re not bleeding to death,” you replied, though your voice softened, betraying your worry.  

As you worked, Marcus’s breathing grew shallower. His hand found yours again, squeezing weakly. “You’re trembling,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.  

“So are you,” you shot back, though your resolve wavered as his thumb brushed over your knuckles.  

“Carissima,” he murmured, the term of endearment slipping from his lips like a prayer. “I need you to listen.”  

“Marcus, stop,” you said, blinking back tears. “Save your strength.”  

He shook his head, his dark eyes locking onto yours with startling clarity despite the fever setting in. “Listen to me. There’s something I need you to do.”  

Ravi returned with a steaming basin of water, and you began cleaning the wound with swift, efficient movements. Marcus flinched but didn’t pull away.  

“You’re going to ride to Ostia,” he said, his voice hoarse but resolute. “You will find General Darius Sextus. Tell him to bring the army. It’s the only way we overthrow those bastards on the throne.”  

“I’m not leaving you,” you said, your tone sharp as you dabbed at the wound. “You’ll bleed out if I’m not here.”  

“You’ll come back,” he said, his lips curving into the faintest smile. “I know you will.”  

“Marcus, stop talking like this,” you snapped, the lump in your throat threatening to choke you. “You’re not going to die.”  

He reached into the pouch at his belt, fumbling until his fingers closed around something. When he pulled it free, your breath caught. It was his simple signet ring, battered with age but unmistakably precious.  

He pressed it into your hand, his fingers curling over yours. “Take this,” he said, his voice trembling now. “When you return, I want to see it on your finger.”  

“Marcus…” Your voice broke, tears spilling down your cheeks despite your best efforts to hold them back.  

“You’ll be my wife,” he continued, his delirium softening his usual commanding tone. “You already are in my heart. Always have been.”  

Your hands shook as you clutched the ring, the weight of his words pressing into your chest. “You’re feverish,” you said, trying to deflect the overwhelming wave of emotion. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”  

“I’ve never been more certain,” he murmured, his eyes searching yours. “You’re the reason I fight. The reason I live.”  

Ravi placed a steadying hand on your shoulder, his voice quiet. “We need to cauterize the wound, or we’ll lose him.”  

You nodded, swallowing your tears as you set the ring aside, your fingers brushing Marcus’s cheek one last time. “Stay with me,” you whispered, your voice fierce despite the crack threatening to break it. “Stay, Marcus.”  

He gave a weak nod, his hand tightening briefly around yours. “For you, carissima, always.”  

The fire roared as Ravi prepared the blade. You took Marcus’s hand again, anchoring him as he drifted between consciousness and oblivion. The pain would be unbearable, but so was the thought of a world without him.  

As you pressed the heated metal to his wound, his scream tore through the room, and your heart shattered. But you didn’t let go. You never would.  

HIDDEN COTTAGE, OUTSKIRTS OF ROME — MIDNIGHT

The crackling of the fire filled the silence of the room as shadows danced across the walls. You sat on a worn wooden stool, staring into the flames while absentmindedly twirling Marcus’ signet ring on your finger. The weight of it felt both grounding and unbearable—a constant reminder of him, of the fragile hope that lingered between life and death.

The sound of the door creaking open startled you, and you rose quickly, your heart in your throat. Ravi stepped inside, his arms laden with bundles of potions, food, and water. His face was streaked with dirt and exhaustion, but his resolve remained unbroken.  

“I carried what I could,” he said, his voice quiet but steady.  

You gave him a small, grateful nod. “Thank you, Ravi.”  

Together, you began unpacking the supplies, arranging them on the shelves in hurried efficiency. The weight of the night pressed down on both of you, heavy and suffocating.  

As he placed a jar of salve on the counter, Ravi broke the silence. “The streets are in chaos. Masses of people rioting, chanting for the emperors’ heads. It’s madness out there.”  

You paused, the weight of his words sinking into your chest. “And Lucius? Lucilla?” you asked, though you feared the answer.  

Ravi hesitated, his face grim. “I’ve heard talk… They plan to execute her tomorrow, along with several senators, including Gracchus.”  

Your heart clenched, and tears slipped down your face before you could stop them. The thought of Lucilla—brave, steadfast Lucilla—facing such a fate made your chest ache with helplessness.  

Ravi turned to you, his voice gentler now. “I know the fear inside you,” he said, his eyes steady on yours. “But let hope live beneath the doubt. You must ride to Ostia. Gather the army. I’ll stay here and watch over Acacius.”  

Your hands trembled as you gripped the edge of the table. The coolness of the ring on your finger seemed to burn against your skin, its presence a bittersweet comfort. “You have to keep him alive,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “I beg you, Ravi. Keep him alive.”  

Ravi placed a reassuring hand on your shoulder, his gaze resolute. “I will. I swear it.”  

You moved quietly into the small room where Marcus lay, his large frame stretched across the narrow cot. His brow was furrowed even in sleep, and the faintest groan escaped his lips as he shifted. You knelt beside him, your heart tightening at the sight of him so vulnerable, so worn.  

Carefully, you brushed a stray lock of his salt-and-pepper curls from his forehead, your fingers lingering against his warm skin. He leaned into your touch unconsciously, his expression softening, and the faintest flicker of peace graced his face.  

“I love you,” you whispered, your voice trembling. The words felt like a prayer, a promise, and a plea all at once.  

Tearing yourself away from him felt like ripping your heart from your chest. Your knees threatened to give out, but you steadied yourself, reminding yourself of the task ahead. For Marcus, for Lucius, for Lucilla, for Rome—you had to be strong.  

You stepped outside, the crisp night air biting against your skin. Pulling your hood over your head, you turned to Ravi, who stood waiting with your horse. He handed you the reins with a solemn nod.  

“Heo is se wind. You’re the wind,” Ravi said softly, almost as if speaking to himself. “The wind that will carry them home.”  

You met his gaze, your throat tight with unspoken gratitude, and mounted your horse. With a final nod to Ravi, you dug your heels into the stirrups and rode into the darkness.  

The cold air whipped against your face as the cottage disappeared behind you, the quiet night broken only by the sound of your horse’s hooves pounding against the earth. The road ahead was long and uncertain, but your heart burned with a single, unrelenting purpose: to save Marcus, to save Rome, and to see the light of hope once more.  

—--------------

OSTIA — DAWN  

The first light of dawn kissed the horizon, streaking the sky in hues of gold and crimson. The Roman camp at Ostia stirred with life as soldiers prepared for the day, their voices carrying through the crisp morning air. You rode into the camp at a gallop, your horse’s hooves pounding against the earth, kicking up dust in your wake.  

“Stop!” a centurion bellowed as you neared the heart of the camp. Others joined in, shouting commands to halt, but you paid them no mind. Your determination was unshakable.  

You dismounted swiftly, your legs unsteady after the relentless ride. The horse whinnied, tethered hastily to a nearby post. Two centurions moved to intercept you, their hands outstretched to block your path.  

“Out of the way!” you snapped, your voice sharp with urgency. When one of them grabbed your arm, you shoved him aside, yanking your hood back to reveal your face. They froze, their expressions flickering between surprise and confusion. A woman, unarmored, and yet, you carried yourself with a ferocity that made them hesitate.  

You stormed through the rows of tents, your breath coming in shallow gasps, until you reached the largest one—adorned with the banners of Darius Sextus, the legate commanding the army at Ostia. Two guards stationed outside moved to block your way.  

“Identify yourself!” one barked, his hand on the hilt of his gladius.  

Your eyes burned with the fire of purpose as you held up your hand, revealing the signet ring gleaming in the early light. “This is my identification,” you said fiercely, brushing past them before they could respond.  

Inside the tent, Darius Sextus sat at a makeshift table, a half-eaten loaf of bread in one hand and a goblet of wine in the other. He looked up at you with mild irritation, his brow furrowing at the sight of an unannounced visitor.  

Before he could demand an explanation, you strode forward, your breath still labored, and thrust the ring onto the table. The sound of metal striking wood reverberated through the space.  

His gaze dropped to the ring, and the moment recognition dawned in his eyes, he stiffened. “Who gave you this?” he demanded, rising to his feet.  

You straightened, despite the ache in your legs and the sweat dripping down your temples. “Marcus Justus Acacius,” you replied, your voice steady despite your exhaustion. “My husband.”  

Darius blinked, his surprise evident, but you pressed on before he could question further. “My friend Lucius Verus Aurelius Maximus, the prince of Rome, and his mother, Lucilla, are in grave danger. They need your help.”  

Darius stared at you, his expression unreadable. Finally, he gestured to the ring. “This is proof of Acacius’ command. And yet, you claim he sent you as his... wife?”  

Your jaw tightened, your hands balling into fists at your sides. “He entrusted this to me because he knows the danger we face. Rome is falling, and you, Legate, have the power to stop it. Marcus fights for a better Rome, not for glory or power, but for the people. If you care for your city, for your honor, you’ll listen.”  

For a moment, silence stretched between you. Then, Darius stepped closer, his voice quieter but no less firm. “If Acacius sent you, where is he now?”  

Your heart clenched at the memory of Marcus lying pale and wounded in the hidden cottage. “He is injured,” you admitted, your voice breaking slightly. “But alive. And he fights still, in spirit, even as his body recovers. He would be here himself if he could.”  

Darius studied you for a long moment, his sharp eyes assessing. Finally, he nodded. “You have his courage,” he said, a flicker of respect softening his tone. “I will call the banners and ride for Rome. But understand this, woman—if you are lying, it will cost you your life.”  

You lifted your chin, defiance burning in your gaze. “I do not fear death. But you should fear the wrath of a man who loves Rome enough to sacrifice everything for her. Marcus Acacius does not choose his allies lightly.”  

Darius gave a curt nod, already turning to issue orders to his men. The tent erupted into activity as soldiers prepared to march. You stepped back into the dawn, your heart heavy with the weight of what lay ahead but emboldened by the hope flickering in the distance.  

You clutched the ring on your finger, its presence grounding you. "Wait for me, Marcus," you whispered under your breath as the camp burst into motion. "I will see this through."  

VIA SACRA, RIVERBANK — DAY  

The air was thick with tension, the distant outline of Rome rising like a specter against the horizon. The sound of hooves pounding the ground was relentless, a rhythm of war and desperation. You rode at the front of Acacius’s army, the wind whipping your cloak as your horse surged forward. Around you, the soldiers moved as one, their determination palpable.  

Beside you, General Darius Sextus rode with a stoic expression, his gaze fixed on the gates of Rome. Your own heart thundered in your chest, not from the exertion, but from the knowledge of what lay ahead. Somewhere beyond those gates was Marcus, his life tied to the fate of this city, and you would see it through—if only for him.  

As you neared the gates, movement drew your attention. Macrinus, a dark figure astride his horse, galloped toward the advancing army. His presence was a challenge, a taunt, his defiance cutting through the rising tension.  

You reined in your horse, watching as Macrinus paused, his sharp gaze darting between the approaching forces. General Tegula, standing at the head of the praetorian line, gestured for Macrinus to act. But before he could, another rider tore across the field—a blur of motion and purpose.  

Lucius Verus Aurelius.  

You drew in a sharp breath, your hands tightening on the reins as Macrinus's voice rang out.  

“Will nothing kill this barbarian?” he shouted, his tone biting, his words aimed at Lucius.  

The two men faced each other, their animosity tangible even from a distance.  

“My name is Lucius Verus Aurelius,” Lucius declared, his voice steady and commanding. His words carried to the men at the front of the praetorian army, the hint of intrigue flickering in General Tegula’s expression. The soldiers began to falter, their loyalty visibly wavering.  

Macrinus sneered, his voice laced with contempt. “A man does not become Emperor by bloodline alone. It must be taken by force and kept by force. Are you such a man as this?”  

Lucius sat tall on his horse, the morning sun catching the golden trim of his armor. “I don’t fight for power,” he said, his voice resolute. “I fight to free Rome from men like you and return it to them.” He gestured to the soldiers and people around him, his meaning clear.  

Your chest swelled with a mix of hope and trepidation as you glanced at Darius, whose expression remained unreadable.  

For the first time, doubt flickered in Macrinus’s eyes, his bravado cracking. “The gods themselves want Rome reborn. They sent me to fulfill that task,” he declared, though his voice lacked its earlier conviction.  

“And what if your gods sent me here to kill you?” Lucius countered, his voice deep and unyielding. “It’s time to end this, Macrinus.”  

Without another word, Lucius drew his sword, spurring his horse into a charge. You barely had time to catch your breath as the two men clashed, the force of their collision sending Macrinus and his horse tumbling.  

Your gaze followed the battle, each strike and parry a brutal testament to their will. The armies on either side stood silent, watching as Lucius and Macrinus fought beneath the Arch. Darius’s men halted, their discipline holding firm, while the praetorians hesitated, their loyalty unraveling.  

Lucius’s movements were fierce and unrelenting, but Macrinus fought like a cornered beast. The clash carried them off the road and toward the riverbank, the muddy slope making each step precarious.  

You leaned forward in your saddle, your breath caught as Lucius slipped, his body vanishing beneath the filthy water. Macrinus pounced, his blade flashing as he drove it downward, but Lucius erupted from the river with a rock in hand, smashing it against Macrinus’s head.  

The fight turned savage. Each strike from Lucius was fueled by purpose, his blows braining Macrinus until the man reeled, blinded by blood. You winced as Lucius swung his sword with surgical precision, severing Macrinus’s arm and then cutting deep into his abdomen.  

Macrinus crumpled, his remaining strength spent as he slumped into the river, his body drifting away in the current. Lucius stood motionless for a moment, his chest heaving as he stared after his fallen enemy.  

When he turned back, his bloodied form ascended the muddy slope, stepping into the silence that had overtaken the battlefield. Under the Arch, between two armies, Lucius paused, his gaze sweeping across the faces of the men and women who watched him.  

He threw down his sword, the sound of it hitting the ground a final punctuation to the violence. His voice, ragged but clear, carried across the field.  

“You look to me to speak,” he began, his tone solemn. “I know not what to say other than we have all known too much death. Let no more blood be spilt in the name of tyranny.”  

You swallowed hard, your chest tight as his words struck a chord.  

“My grandfather, Marcus Aurelius, dreamed of a Rome that would be a city for the many, a home for those in need—a republic. That dream has been lost.” He looked at the soldiers on either side of him, his expression weary yet determined. “But dare we rebuild that dream together. What say you?”  

For a long moment, the battlefield held its breath, a fragile stillness settling over the chaos. Lucius stood at its heart, bloodied yet unyielding, like a lone pillar in a storm-ravaged temple. His chest rose and fell with the weight of his words, his armor bearing the scars of battle, but his gaze remained steady, unbroken—a light that refused to be extinguished.  

Your eyes met his, just for a fleeting second, and in that shared glance was an unspoken vow, a thread of hope tethered to the impossible. As you turned your gaze back to Lucius, he stood as a reflection of what Rome could become: bruised but not beyond redemption.  

In that moment, a fragile ember of belief sparked within you. Hope, tenuous and flickering, wove itself into your thoughts. You closed your eyes briefly, your heart murmuring a silent prayer—for Marcus, for his dream of a better Rome, and for the chance to stand beside him when it was finally brought to life.

[invadernei]

So... A friend of mine asked me to post my analysis of Ekubo (@reigenlvr, thank you very much for the encouragement and for editing this stuff!!)

So here it is.

It includes some of my personal thoughts, canon-based speculations, and analysis of the series itself. It might be a bit messy, since it is basically my DMs combined into one post and edited. Sorry about that... Also, English is not my first language, so this analysis may contain some weird phrasing 😅

Anyways...

It all started with me complaining about how sometimes Ekubo is completely looked over (despite being the third main character of the show) or mischaracterised as being just... mean for no reason or malicious, and there's nothing behind it... Well, I believe he has a very complex and colourful personality, just like Mob and Reigen do. And in addition to this, he has HUNDREDS of years behind him, so... he is very deserving of being analyzed and understood. So here we go...

Ekubo!

His entire arc is about how human he is and how his "evil spirit" attitude is fake. He needs to uphold that image of himself because he doesn’t realize what he actually wants in life and instead plays a familiar role. Or maybe he’s so deep in denial that he has to. Anyway, even in canon, he shows how empathetic he actually is (he's quite good at reading human emotions and behaviour + his whole relationship with Mob and especially that one scene in the burning Kageyama house—ohhh, I could talk about it forever). And his whole motivation is based on a desire to make people happy?? Yeah, his methods are kinda evil-spirit-ish, but that’s about it. His first religion was created with "the most peaceful way possible" in mind (and he made that decision before he even met Mob!!). In the Broccoli arc, he directly says that everyone will be happier with the Divine Tree... and worship him as a god—yep, another evil spirit thing—but based on everything we saw before that, I doubt he would want to get to that position by any other means. He wants to be a beloved god, not a feared one, and that perfectly aligns with his final realisation: "I want to be seen and acknowledged, I want a friend." He clearly likes people very much and is fascinated by them.

I believe he did actually learn some behavioral patterns from the spirit world (which is very cruel in nature). Like how he tried to kill Mob the moment he realized Mob could be a real threat. He knows very well what the rules of power vs. weakness are. He has difficulties understanding some human concepts, like true kindness, and especially applying them to himself. I would even speculate that the idea of someone valuing him for anything other than pure power had never crossed his mind before the Divine Tree arc.

But what he learned in the spirit world mostly applies to how he reacts to his environment, not how he acts himself. He forces an evil spirit attitude onto himself, but it is hinted that he either despises other spirits or is afraid of them. He doesn’t like them. And deep down, he probably doesn’t want to act the way he does—but how could it be any other way? At least before someone truly saw him and trusted him.

A couple of side notes:

Omg, how excited he is about romance and romantic relationships!! Did you see him in the second season?? The pure teenage excitement about gossip and Mob’s love life??

And I think it’s worth mentioning that in s2e8, he messes with Mob’s bully in a rather nonviolent way... while Ritsu straight-up strangles the guy. What’s up with these middle schoolers, for real...

Anyways, back to the analysis.

Why is Ekubo different from other evil spirits? It’s definitely not just because he’s "special." The anime doesn’t appreciate the concept of "being special," and it actually has a point. So... Ekubo being simply "not like the other spirits" just because he is that way is an underwhelming idea to me. I think he gradually becomes different over the course of his existence because he’s capable of self-reflection (as we’ve seen in the Broccoli arc). He questions himself, his position in the world, and his desires. Maybe not fully consciously, since it’s shown that he only truly realizes his desires and goals during the Divine Tree arc. But some of his character traits are not typical for an evil spirit, even at the very beginning of the show. So he must have done something. It was his half-conscious choice to change himself. Intelligent spirits seem to retain some of their human personalities and emotional responses (biker spirit in s1e1, creepy spirit in s1e2, Mogami, spirit from the 2nd OVA audio additions, etc), but whether they remain more human or turn into full-blown, power-hungry monsters or creeps depends on the individual spirit.

Speaking of Ekubo's backstory, I especially like two ideas:

1. At some point in his past, Ekubo encountered a spirit who was more interested in killing people than eating other spirits. Hanging around with that spirit gave Ekubo a twisted idea of friendship and a resentment toward harming human beings.

2. Ekubo has always had hypnotic powers and spent a lot of time inside human minds, observing dreams and emotions. Instead of using that ability to increase his power or cause harm, he developed some kind of empathy and formed his goal of becoming a god—a sincere desire to make people happy, distorted by his evil-spirit nature.

But those are just my thoughts about what might have happened to him... I actually like that, in canon, his backstory is basically non-existent, leaving us to analyze his traits in the present and guess what his long journey was like. I prefer it that way.

What we can be almost sure of is that the spirit world is cruel, creepy, and unforgiving. Everything is about power there. "To eat or to be eaten" is an unbreakable law. It’s very likely that Ekubo had to deal with some really terrible things—from the raw pain of being devoured to some very messed-up betrayal (if he ever tried to connect with someone of his own kind). Also, it’s possible that he believes (at least vaguely) in some Great Force responsible for the order of the universe. Firstly, he wanted to become a god himself. Secondly, he knows (or believes) in "paradise" (where some people go after death and some do not). Thirdly, he ranted about "I don't truly understand how everything works" in the spin-off...

This is mostly speculation on my part, but I don’t think it contradicts anything in canon, and it adds some interesting layers to Ekubo as a being who is not quite dead but not quite alive. If he believes in such things to some extent, he’s most likely afraid of those powerful forces. And I suppose that this fear, combined with the dangers of the spirit world, might be part of his motivation to become a god. It’s his desire to distance himself from all of it—and finally feel safe.

All in all... Ekubo deserves all the love in the world. And all the nice things. And all the happiness. He’s as human as all of us. And I don’t think any other character in any other piece of media I know resonates so strongly with me or makes me feel such warm, tender love. He’s beautiful.

...And also, I wrote like 70 fanfics where he’s one of the main characters, so—

(and some of my Ekubo doodles in addition, i really really like him that much ☺️☺️)

[optimisticartistic]

so here's a fun thought for everyone

Why the FUCK doesn't Kayne want Arthur to know anything about the King in Yellow?

It's tricky to spot over the course of Malevolent as an ongoing canon, but when you look back at the pieces there's a very interesting pattern forming.

First and foremost, the King is (functionally) dead. John's memories of the King's actual life are inconsequential to the point of nonexistent, and Yellow doesn't have any. Given that we know now that Kayne can travel freely between the Dark World and other realities, something no other god is suggested to be able to just yet, we can infer that Kayne put Yellow in the Dark Place explicitly to remove his memories. So there's no longer any first-hand accounts of what the King's motives were/are.

Any humans who could explain the King's motives are dead, and the ones who might have had a reasonable guess is removed. Emily is dead. Amanda is dead.

(Side note: HEY ISN'T THERE ONLY LIKE ONE OTHER HUMANOID THAT JOHN CAN'T DESCRIBE)

Anna is dead.

The Butcher, who has been previously involved with Eldritch Bullshit and may have even held clues as to what was happening with the overall state of the gods, is dead.

Larson, who was an active researcher of eldritch deities, was put in too much pain to function and removed from the scenario entirely. Yellow, who was still sympathetic to Arthur and may have been able to be swung around as an ally, is likewise removed.

(Charlie, who was just in the wrong place at the wrong time and knows nothing, gets yote for funsies.)

So, the only person Arthur has to rely on about information on the other gods becomes Kayne.

Every time Arthur meets Kayne in person, he is in a compromised position and unable to follow up on his own questions

The first time is 20, right after the prison pits, immediately off-kilter because of Faroe's music box and her song, and Kayne immediately distracts him with his own agenda, pushing the idea of Arthur being special, of the King winning, and he gives Arthur the knife - while prompting him on how to use it, as well as how to summon him again.

The second time is Coda, where Arthur is actively dying, and not only does Kayne continue to keep him off-balance by forcing him to beg for John, he keeps Arthur even further off-balance by forcing him to take the entirely unnecessary deal to get "John without his memories" back. And then he spends all of S3 obsessing about John and too distracted to care further than Larson.

The third time is 40 and Intermezzo, where he is witness to Everything Going To Shit, and at this point has actually developed some learned helplessness around Kayne: he no longer pushes back, except to ask relevant questions.

Kayne constantly undermines John, making it difficult for Arthur to feel like he can rely on him in Kayne's presence. He insults John, makes it difficult to describe him and drops references that John can't understand to put his intelligence into question, putting John on the back foot and into compromised social positions. Revealing the cruel things John has done in unflattering lights (forcing John to perform them in the Dark World and making him sound proud of them in 40) and outright orchestrating the divorce in Intermezzo with the entire 'I'll remove his memories for you' debacle. He puts John in a position where Arthur has legitimate reason to doubt his honesty and intentions, and uses that to further undermine John in Arthur's eyes.

I had more points but I lost my train of thought. anyway i am fucking frothing at the mouth about this, what are we missing about the King??

[alessiamalfoyzabini]

Dark Moon | Chapter Four

Pairing | yandere!Jimin x Reader

Word Count | 1,9k

Warnings | +18, violence, slapping, smut noncon, forced blowjob, abuse, yandere themes, humiliation, explicit and dirty language, forced cum swallowing, spitting, prostitution, Jimin is cruel (yes, it is a warning)

This fanfiction is yandere, if you don't like the genre, don't read and if you are not of age, don't read.

I don't want to hear any complaints in the comments, thank you.

This does not reflect my way of thinking or living at all, it is just a work of fiction, it is like watching a horror movie, many of us love horror movies, but we would never dream of what we see in those movies happening in reality as well.

Simply put, this story was written for entertainment purposes, it should not be seen as a reflection of my values, opinions or morals. I absolutely do not condone such acts.

⤷ Summary | She just wanted to escape her past, take charge of her life and break out of her steel cage, praying in God for a miracle that could change her life for good.

And her prayers were heard, but it was not the Divine that answered her.

That was certainly the devil in the guise of an angel, she thought as those corrupted and empty eyes searched her soul with extreme voracity.

He turned a sweet, false smile on her, before pushing her into the abyss.

➢ Author's Note | This chapter is stronger than the others, if you don't read yandere don't go on, it has triggering content.

Taglist: @katherine-kookie, @dragons-flare, @m00njinnie, @seokjins-luigi, @pjmsneverland, @jimincrystal, @ajkwww, @ungodlyjoon, @hecateslittlewitchling, @namjoonsbuspass

Taglist is open!

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"I have no problem shooting you right this instant. So I won't say it again, leave what belongs to me and never come back to this brothel."

Minho let go of the grip with which he was forcing the girl to suck him off, she fell back on the bed at dead weight, desperate for air, with tears clouding her eyes she saw Minho hastily compose himself, before Jimin moved to the side to let him out, still with the gun tightly clenched in his fist.

"This is not over, Jimin," threatened the man.

"I think it is."

"We'll see," was the last thing he said, before leaving that bedroom behind.

Y/N could not speak, too shocked by the experience she had just gone through, on her tongue she still felt the overwhelming taste of the bastard, but even more agonizing was the thought that Jimin had used her to anger Minho.

He could have acted that way from the start, but no, he had decided to give the man time to use her, making her feel if possible even more like an object.

She hated him, damn it.

"Are you still alive?" he asked her without a hint of tact, Y/N gritted her teeth inhaling through her nose.

"Does it matter? Dead or alive, things will not change. I'll live as a whore and die as one," she hissed, letting the boy finally have a view of her red and tear-streaked face, "And it's all your fault, you're a fucking monster and god ... you don't even know how much I hate you!"

A backhand hit her full in the face, for a moment she saw everything white, she only had time to feel a shift of air about her before a stabbing pain hit her in the skin, Jimin was gripping her hair with such brute force that her head began to throb and burn, she screamed in despair as she was dragged away.

No one in the hallway came out to help her, why would anyone bother, then?

Jimin was in charge there, it was his right to do whatever he wanted with the girls, especially if it was his first choice.

After minutes that seemed interminable, she was thrown inside a room she recognized as her own, indeed, theirs.

"You hate me for that? Oh no, my angel," he shook his head, slamming the door behind him, "I'll give you more reasons to hate me, good reasons," he concluded, beginning to remove his own clothes.

The more skin was shown, the more Y/N feared what was soon to come, Jimin's otherwise perfect arms were littered with ink weaving into thick sinuous lines, heavy tattoos stared at her menacingly when the man's belt also fell to the ground with a thud.

"What are you going to do?" she asked with a trembling upper lip.

Jimin shot her an unfriendly look, brought his hair back in a neck movement that the girl would have found attractive and manly if they were normal boys in an equally normal setting. Instead, she found it threatening and stifled a cry as the man began to unzip his pants.

No. Not again.

"I'll take what's mine, you whored with another man in front of my eyes, this deserves punishment," he replied with deadly calm, he knew things were not like that, he had given her the order after all, but he enjoyed provoking her, the girl tried to retort but Jimin was quicker, "Do you know why I stopped him before he finished?"

Y/N didn't know what to answer, she just watched fearfully as the boy shed all his clothing, he was completely naked. His cock stood straight and swollen, Jimin ran a thumb over the turgid tip and moved closer and closer to her, who curled in on herself.

"Please, I don't want to do this," she cried, but Jimin did not take pity on her.

"Answer me."

"I don't know... I don't know" she shook her head, the young man grabbed her face hard, blocking her.

"I stopped it because the only cum your pretty little mouth is going to swallow is mine," he said firmly in a statement that went against the Dark Moon's own principles, again trapping her head in his firm grip, "Hate me, Y/N, I want to feel how much you do it while your throat is squeezing me," he chuckled viciously, before thrusting unceremoniously into that delicious hot, wet cavern, he closed his eyes biting his lips, the woman moaned and cried with her mouth tight around his girth, swallowing against her will every single inch of the man, until she touched the tip of her nose to the boy's pubes.

 Jimin let his moans filled with lust and satisfaction wander around the room, with his hips he pushed deep into Y/N's throat, she threatened to choke on her own spit, long rivulets trickled down her chin, going to soak Jimin's belly closer and closer to her face as the speed of his harsh thrusts increased.

"Aaah... you're better than I thought, tell me the truth... you like being my personal whore, mhh if I touched you... you'd be wet, right?" he asked cruelly, Y/N shook her head forcefully, she was tired, her jaw ached and that bastard's cock kept pulsing and swelling without showing any sign of coming, but she felt it that strange sensation snaking up to her lower abdomen, making her legs tighten to her horror.

She really was Jimin's personal whore.

That realization made her feel disgust for herself.

A grip on her hair more fierce than the others caused her to lift her shiny red eyes to those of her "boss."

The man's hard and cold expression did not match the desperate movement of his hips, "You will swallow every single drop of my cum and afterwards you will lick my cock until it is completely clean, because that's how my whores do it," he grunted giving increasingly frantic and violent thrusts, the girl only wished that this torture would end as soon as possible, she was in such a devastated state of mind that she would follow his every single order to get him away from her, so she nodded weakly as she met the first hot spurt, the muscles of her throat contracted around the cock, throwing down every single drop, just as she was ordered to do.

Jimin's chest swelled in satisfied pride, seeing her there, her cheeks swollen with his cum devastated him in a way he would have struggled to admit out loud.

He released her mouth and finally Y/N was able to take a long breath of air, before the man once again crushed her face against his swollen cock, ever more humiliated she stuck out her tongue, beginning to give small licks along his still stiff length, collected seminal fluid mixed with her own saliva, Jimin's ever-deepening sighs intensified, breaking into a moan at the small suction on the soft, veined skin.

The grip on her hair softened and soon Jimin let her go, Y/N abandoned herself in the clean sheets, her vacant gaze fixed on the ceiling.

"Open your legs, sweetheart," he ordered, and in the girl's mind flashed the thought of resisting him, of not giving in to him. But what would that decision bring? Only pain, so much pain both physical and mental.

She opened her legs as ordered, but looked away to prevent herself from seeing that violence.

Jimin grinned, he did not rip off the young woman's underwear as she had imagined, he spat on her belly causing her to shudder in disgust, he pressed his heavy and still hard cock on her moistened skin and began to slide over it with ease, grunting at each savage lunge and at the intense overstimulation he himself was forcing himself to endure.

He squeezed the girl's chin between two fingers, forcing her to watch as he used her body without giving her the same satisfaction, her look filled with anger and disgust was enchanting to the man, who with one last thrust came one more time, soiling both of their bodies with his cum, such was their closeness.

"Are you angry because I didn't smash your tight pussy?" he asked amusedly, sinking his thumb into the woman's lower lip, "I might as well lick your pussy if you would behave well with me, and I don't think that's going to happen anytime soon with such an attitude...think about it, my pleasure could be yours too if you wanted it."

Y/N turned her head abruptly, releasing herself from his grasp with an expression of disgust firmly stamped on her face.

"I couldn't take pleasure with you even if I wanted to, you're a piece of shit," she spat between her teeth, Jimin clenched his jaw before giving her yet another resounding slap that made her swallow the tears she was holding back.

"Careful, I might consider cutting out that bold tongue of yours, you'd be able to suck me off without it anyway," he hissed before abandoning her, just like a whore.

"You put on a show yesterday."

Jin welcomed Jimin into his office in an icy voice.

"Yes? Well, a rat had sneaked into my territory, I couldn't turn a blind eye, I hate rats," he sat confidently across from his friend and business partner.

"Yet Namjoon must have informed you of my intentions regarding that rat."

Jimin clicked his tongue against his teeth, "How long have we been friends, Jin?"

"Jimin, don't take this key with me, it's just business those with-"

"But family is not business!" blurted out the younger man, "I don't care about the whores and new friends you make, because I know you would never screw us over for someone else, which is precisely why I don't understand what went through your mind when you decided to go into business with Choi," he said harshly, Jin maintained a somewhat neutral expression despite the shaking of his clenched fist.

"I meant no disrespect, Jimin," Jin replied more calmly, "Choi Minho is not involved in what happened to you, so I thought it was accessible."

Jimin leaned toward Jin with fury in his eyes, "No Choi from that family is accessible, if you still want me as your business partner, but especially if you still want me as your brother, drop any negotiations with them," he ordered.

Normally Seokjin would not have accepted such a tone from one of his subordinates.

But that was Jimin, one of his closest friends, one of his brothers, and faced with his stormy past with the Choi family, he could only bow his head and look for another way to get into politics.

"I will cut Choi Minho from my list of names," he finally said, Jimin nodded a little more relaxed.

"Thank you, Jin."

"I'm not done," he blocked him before he could get up, "What are you going to do with that girl?"

Jimin glowered at him, "What do you mean?"

"I need to make sure you're not going to cause trouble with other clients, I heard you were quite possessive of her."

"Possessive? Come on, I was just having fun to provoke Minho a little."

Seokjin didn't buy that excuse; Jimin could tease anyone but him.

"If you want her, I'll wrap her up myself with a nice bow and send her home to you, Jimin."

Jimin narrowed his eyes, "And let's hear it, why would you do that?"

"Because you like her."

The pierced boy swallowed, speechless. Yes, he liked her, he had made that clear, but to that extent? Would he have taken Y/N away from the brothel to enjoy her himself?

"You're imagining things, man," he chuckled, Jin raised an eyebrow.

"Is that your last answer?"

[vanishingcherry]

Hi, could you please write a lando Norris fic with angst prompt 1 thank you 🥰

LOVE, OR LACK THEREOF

pairings: lando norris x reader

warnings: break up, implied drinking, kinda asshole lando at first

authors note: thanks for requesting! prompt 1 is "do you even love me anymore?" side note, it is so hard to find a gif of lando in which hes not smiling. also im so sorry for the ending i have no idea how to end angst

masterlist

๑ ⋆˚₊⋆────ʚ˚ɞ────⋆˚₊⋆ ๑

The two of you had fallen in love surprisingly fast, but the process of falling out was slow and torturous. Fate was cruel, adamant on hurting you.

Instead of late night talks, the two of you would sleep facing the wall, neither wanting to risk seeing the other. Cute dinner dates turned into eating leftovers in different rooms, not wanting to risk a conversation. Small gifts and bouquets were to be seen no more, the house growing more dreary by the day.

You weren't sure if it was worth it anymore. You loved Lando, too much if you were being honest. But at this point, you weren't sure if he loved you back.

You noticed it at the beginning of the end. The way he always had an excuse. Whether it was streaming on twitch or calls with Zak, he never did anything with you anymore.

And you had tried, my god had you tried.

You had done everything. You had meticulously planned dates and activities based on his schedule, shifting around your own. You had been understanding, comforting, whenever he claimed he was too tired to go out to eat. You figured it was just for a while, that the stress had gotten to him and everything would be okay soon. But nothing changed, and 3 months later you found yourself in the exact same position.

Honestly? You were tired. Tired of your relationship, tired of Lando, and tired of putting effort into something he clearly didn't care about. You would give him one last chance, one last time to show he loves you.

That day, you wait for him in the living room. He had gone out with a few friends and it was well past 11pm, the time he had promised he would return.

Hearing the click of the lock, you mute the movie, watching the door open to reveal a tipsy Lando. His eyebrows furrow together at the sight of you on the couch.

"Why aren't you asleep yet?" he asks, heading to the kitchen for a glass of water.

"I wanted to talk to you, remember?"

"Can't we just talk tomorrow, I'm tired" he responds, before turning towards the staircase.

You knew you had to speak now, his understanding of tomorrow would never come. You look down at your hands, almost whispering the next words in fear of what his answer would be.

"Do you even love me anymore?"

"What?" He turns around immediately, looking at you.

"You heard me."

"Of course I love you, why are you even asking me that?"

"You've said it 2 times in the last week."

"What?" he scoffed. "You're counting now?"

"What else do you want me to do, Lando? We've spent maybe 1 day together in the last month. You're always making excuses and leaving and- I don't even know. What am I supposed to think?" You stand up, your voice increasing in amplitude as you grow more and more frustrated.

"I don't know Y/N, maybe trust the fact that I love you!"

"How!? You haven't given me a reason to in months." Letting out a sigh, you shake your head. "Nevermind, I don't know what I was expecting by doing all this." You get up and head to your bedroom, speeding up when you hear Lando trailing behind you. You had prepared a small bag with enough clothes for a week, should the conversation not go well.

Thankful for your foresight, you turn around and see Lando standing in the doorway, interested in finishing a conversation for the first time in ages.

"Why do you have a bag packed?"

"I'm done. I'm leaving."

It was ironic how quickly his face changed. His hard expression turned soft at the realisation of what you meant, the anger in his eyes was no more, instead it flashed with fear and sadness.

"Done... with what?" he whispered. The tables had turned, now it was him who was afraid of your answer. He waited for your answer, mouth slightly parted, taking small breaths, fearful of what would happen when you broke the tense silence.

"You. Us." Your voice was cold as steel, wanting to leave the house as soon as possible. Leave him as soon as possible. You could feel the emotions building up inside of you, threatening to burst out, but you hold on, not wanting to cry in front of him.

You try walking past him, but his hand grabs your own, pulling you into his arms. He was now stood directly in front of you, still blocking the doorway.

"Darling I- I get that you're mad but we don't have to break up." His voice is hesitant, not wanting to accidentally say something to upset you further. "

"We do, Lando."

"No no no. We can- I can fix this, darling. How about we spend time together this week? Yeah? I'll clear everything, it'll be just the two of us, all week." His mind was scrambling, going through every possible action, trying to think of ways to make you stay. "Please, my love. I love you, I promise, so much. I'll say it a million times a day, forever."

You sigh, eyes filling up with water as you try to hold back the tears. He didn't deserve to see you cry, see how much he had hurt you. "Lando, I would've given anything for that a few days ago, hell even a few hours ago. But you didn't care until it was too late, and that's not my fault." You don't look at his face, knowing that his expression would break you. Instead you look past him at the door, shrugging off his hands and walking away.

"Wait! I- I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry and I'm sorry I didn't tell you how much I love you. I'll do anything, my love. Anything. Tell me what you want and I'll do it."

You stop, but don't turn around, knowing that Lando was standing right behind you. "I don't want anything from you anymore, not when I know all I'll get is disappointment."

You leave, heading to your car. Lando stands still, staring at the door, watching, praying that you would come back. That he hadn't messed up to that point. That it was all just a nightmare.

[writerscall]

i cannot be your friend, so i pay the price of what i lost. and what it cost now that we don't talk.

because pushing her away was easier than having to stomach seeing her be with someone else.

author's note/s: 1k words. this is part one of a series. close friends to sad strangers to surprise college roommates is a trope, right?

Ignoring Hazel for the rest of the year wasn’t an easy decision or any easy thing to do. You two weren’t attached at the hip but you were such good friends that even the people who didn’t really talk to either of you eventually asked if you two had a falling out. We’re both just pretty busy at this time of senior year, you’d tell them; you had no idea what Hazel’s answer was to that, and you didn’t wanna know. It hurt you to ice her out but after what happened at the game, you just couldn’t be around her. Not when it was clear that PJ was in the picture like that.

Really, you should’ve been happy for her. You were one of the first people she came out to and even though she never explicitly said it, you knew she wanted to experience one relationship, or even a sort of fling, before high school ended. But your wishful thinking that it could’ve been the two of you in the end like some cliche really was just that — wishful thinking. That kiss and the way she and PJ acted around each other after said it all.

So you blocked it all out. Joined some clubs to fill up your schedule and actually make you as busy as you said you were, focused on academics like never before, got closer to other friends (for obvious reasons but also, why the hell not? It was senior year and you might not see some of them again). Overall, there were pros to what you decided to do about your crush on Hazel Callahan. You were making the most out of a sucky situation.

What you weren’t proud of was deciding to go out with the baseball team’s captain on a whim, and then agreeing to really date him after. He was nice and was a pretty good boyfriend, but you weren’t as into him as he was into you. But that was the least of your concerns throughout that relationship that inevitably came to an end as graduation neared.

You’ll never forget the complicated look on her face the day he greeted you with a kiss on the cheek at your locker. You’ll never forget the ‘Can we talk now? Please?’ text she sent that night, her last attempt at reaching out before she took to ignoring you too.

And that was it. Hazel wasn’t part of your senior year until its end and you assumed it would be the same for the rest of your life, or at least for a long, long time.

But the universe just loved playing cruel tricks sometimes.

“Okay, you’re sure you’ve got everything? Those new notebooks, your writing materials, enough bras and pa—”

“Okay, mom!” You cut her off with a nervous laugh, silently thanking god that your roommate and whoever was helping her move in hadn’t arrived yet. “I’ve got it all, I promise. It’s okay for you to go now.”

Your mother sighs as she reaches out to give your arm a squeeze, and after a few more pointers for your first day and about five ‘you can always give us a call for anything’ reminders, you were alone. You smile to yourself as you look at your fixed up side of the dorm, jittery in a good sense. Everyone said college was different from high school in the best way and you were determined to make it so. Even though you knew how much busier and hectic life would get with university level academics.

You’re so lost in your own thoughts that you don’t hear the door open. It’s only when that painfully familiar voice says your name that you snap out of it.

Hazel Callahan, practically the same as ever, standing in the doorway with her luggages and a duffel bag across her body. She manages a smile, small and hesitant. To your surprise, all you can say is, “You’re my roommate?”

Her face twitches in disappointment, smile faltering noticeably. You didn’t mean for that to come off the way it clearly did but the question escaped you before you could think. Of all the people in the world — or even just of all the people in high school, it just had to be her? You were over Hazel. You’d tried so hard and honestly haven’t thought about her much at all since graduation.

Only for all that effort to feel like it was undone within seconds. Fantastic.

“Trust me, I… I didn’t know this would be the arrangement. My mom’s got an old friend here who could probably do a room switch for one of us — I mean, for me I guess, you’ve already got your side of the room fixed up while I’m still all packed, so—”

You put a hand up to stop her. “Hazel, it’s fine. We can share this room. All that stuff from…” You let the sentence trail off and clear your throat. “I mean, it doesn’t matter anymore, it never really has.”

Though expecting her to brighten even slightly at your attempt at an olive branch, her expression stays the same. Complicated actually, like the one she had upon seeing you and your (short-lived) senior year boyfriend for the first time in school. You try not to think about it.

“Anyway, I’ve got some things to go check with the registrar’s office, so I’ll get out of your hair so you can unpack and all that.” There was nothing to check with at the registrar’s office, but you needed to find some place that wasn’t your dorm to pull yourself together. Or maybe scream.

There’s a look of understanding on her face but shakes her head at you. “You wouldn’t be in the way. We could use this time to catch up. It’s been a long while, you know?”

Well, you certainly weren’t ready for that, so you just say something about wanting to get to the office while it wasn’t too busy yet. You cast her a side glance with a smile that you really hoped didn’t look forced or fake as you watch her bring in her things, then make a beeline for the door. 

But you stop when she asks, “Hey, um, maybe we can sit with each other at the orientation tomorrow?”

“Uh… yeah, sure.” And you knew that didn’t sound forced or fake with the way Hazel almost grins at you.

Yeah, you really needed to find a place to scream somewhere on campus.

[multi-fandom-imagine]

Hi! So at the end of Loki how he becomes part of the multiverse tree and everything resets. but what if the reader still remembers Loki so she goes to look for him and try to give him a happy ending.

It's so sad because Loki should have a happy ending and seeing what happens in the finale of the show I would like to see him not end up alone.🥺

A/n: I WILL GIVE LOKI HIS HAPPY ENDING, p.S…Wanda is also alive cause I said so. So yea obviously I changed a lotttt of things.

Side note: was gonna make Sylvie switch places for Loki’s but I didn’t want to be called stupid 😂. But if you want it as an alt end then I’ll write it.

You didn’t understand, you couldn’t understand why people couldn’t remember him. Why? Mobius,Sylvie, not one of them remembered Loki.

You refused to believe this, he couldn’t be gone, you had to do something, you had to fix this. Ignoring Mobius calling out your name, you were determined to find him, you will save Loki and you had to go to the one person that would help, the one person that could help.

Wanda

Your heart hammered as you came upon the home, the same little house you had found for the woman, one reality where she can finally be happy. You just hoped she would remember her love. You hoped that what ever Loki had done hadn’t reset this life.

Taking a deep breath, you made your way to the door. Your hand knocking on the door though relief flooded your body when the woman said your name, her head tilted to the side.

“You remember me?! Oh thank god…Wanda I need your help?”

Wrinkling her nose Wanda stepped side letting you come into her home. “Why wouldn’t I remember….what’s wrong?”

Patting your lips you ran you nervously bit your lip as you started explain everything to your friend. “And now he’s stuck in the Loom and nobody remembers him but us and he’s alone and I can’t.” Shaking your head you grasped the edge of your shirt. “Please Wanda! You’re the only one that can help me.”

Wanda hated seeing you like this, you were one of the kindest people she knew. You were the only one that helped her, the believed in her. Glancing over her shoulder, she nodded her head as she grasped your hand gently. “Of course, let’s just find a place that’s not my front yard.”

Giving one last look at her family she tugged you to her car. While she knew what this would mean, she was grateful for your friendship.

•

Stepping through the portal, you glanced over your shoulder spotting the woman struggling to keep it open. “It’s okay Wanda you can let go.”

Tears sliding down her cheeks, Brooke gave you a weak smile. “I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you too, and thank you.” Turning away from the closing portal you took a deep breath taking a glance at your surroundings. Did he really subject himself to this? It felt so lonely here, so isolated.

You didn’t care if people will forget you, it didn’t matter because you would have Loki, he wouldn’t be alone anymore.

A smile formed on your lips as you spotted the man sitting on a thorn. The once heart broken look on his face was replaced with a look of disbelief, your name spilling from his lips.

“It’s can’t, this must be a cruel joke.” This bad to be some illusion, something is mind made up to push back the loneliness he felt.

Giving him a teasing smile you stepped forward kneeling down in front of him. Your hands grasping his gently. “I’m not very good at jokes but I can assure you that I am very real.”

Clutching your hand tightly he was afraid that if he let go than you’d just vanish. “You must go back you can’t-.”

Placing your hand on his cheek, you let your thumb glide across his skin. “Well, it’s a bit to late for that now.” You then pressed a kiss to the corner of his lips then smiled resting your head against his feeling Loki draw you in close. “So now you’re going to have to put up with me.”

“Thank you.” Loki whispered holding you tight, hr might be stuck protecting all the time lines but at least he wasn’t alone anymore.

At least he had you.

[jeonghantis]

https://twitter.com/dindinowo/status/1657312174568767488?s=46&t=gMNFXRsnYXE0OiELxeVYXw

i know he is probably just sleepy but….. dacryphilia go brrrrrr

✧ — [11:33 PM] (k.mg)

PAIRING ⇝ kim mingyu x reader.

TAGS ⇝ established relationship, smut.

WARNINGS ⇝ language, gn!reader, small caps are intentional, explicit sexual content (MINORS, DNI!).

EXPLICIT WARNINGS ⇝ sub!mingyu, dom!reader, top!mingyu, bottom!reader, praise (mingyu is called pretty and if u dont fuck w that click out), dacryphilia, teasing, tear licking (does this need a warning), handjob, orgasm denial, edging, penetration, unprotected sex. lmk if i missed anything!

WORD COUNT ⇝ 842 words.

note: congratulations, anon. you made me so feral that you're getting a short, probably poorly written drabble. 😁 because holy shit……… tell me why my stomach flipped when he started wiping his tears…. anyway i’ll tell you 😋 i hope you enjoy hehehehehhehe. this was written completely on a whim so it is not proofread one bit and it's a bit less detailed than my usual writings and different. it is just me pouring my brainrot out. i am so SORRY.

reblogs & comments are very much appreciated.

hard hours are open.

you’ve been stroking his cock for god knows how long, but every time he feels like he’s close to cumming, on the brink of toppling over into a euphoric high, you wrench away your hands away from him. he’s mewling and just so pathetic as his hips stutter up into the air as if to chase after that stolen bliss to no avail. 

“you’re adorable, baby,” you lilt sweetly, leaning down to press a feathery kiss atop his leaking tip as a reward—or was it to further taunt him? “can i see it again? can you handle one more?”

no, absolutely not, he wants to say, but defiance had long quelled away from him since the third (fourth?) time you’ve denied his release.

“i-i don’t know,” mingyu exhales shakily, glistening eyes wavering to meet your gaze. “m-maybe?”

“it’s a yes or no question, darling,” you smile and squeeze around the base of him which earns a delightful throb from him. 

mingyu worries on his bottom lip. “just one more?”

“just one more,” you reassure. 

his eyes shut. “then yes, i can.”

a grin. “you’re so good for me, gyu.”

and so, mingyu is enduring another round of your cruel ministrations with his hands remaining stubbornly at his sides as you told him to, clenched so tightly into fists that his nails imbed red crescents into his palm. pleasure was a fiery flame from where it sparked once again in his abdomen, licking its way up his veins and swallowing everything in its path. it fogged his brain, compelling him to focus on nothing else but its passionate blaze. mingyu was almost lost in it, the remaining fraction of his sanity almost completely consumed. then his moans grow louder in volume and frequency, his thighs flexing -

and you’re pulling your hands away from him once again, darkened and eager eyes watching his every move. 

something in mingyu breaks then and it was not the sweet release he had been hoping for. tears flow from his eyes, staining his cheeks in a wet sheen. his sobs comes with tiny hiccups, his chest rising and falling with rapid breaths, and yet he’s still babbling his pleas and mantras of your name through it all. he’s gone. he’s so impossibly gone in his own desires and need, and all you could do was just stare. you stare and take it in with widening eyes and a pounding heart.

“oh my god,” you whisper under your breath. 

you’re torn. your first instinct is to panic, to coddle your lover and wipe his tears away and reassure him of everything good in the world. but beneath, the underlying and somehow very overwhelming part of you wants to laugh. oh, it’s sick. you’re absolutely sick to be deriving pleasure from this. but god help you, there was just something so gratifying about seeing a hulk of a man trembling and crying under you because of you. 

“you did so well, gyu,” you croon, finally lifting yourself from your position to finally climb over his sprawled figure. “god, you look so pretty right now.”

mingyu lifts a hand to start dabbing at the tears that continue to cascade down his face, then up to his eyes where they blur his vision. “was i not pretty before now?” he murmurs weakly.

you laugh. “i see you’re fine enough to be joking around.”

“i’m so very far from fine,” he sulks with pouted lips, his hands coming to rest on your waist. “i need to cum inside you to be fine.”

“of course,” you snicker and seat yourself down on him, your throbbing arousal resting neatly on top of his own. the softest moan slips from your lips, while the loudest slips from his, his grip on your waist tightening just the slightest bit.

“please,” mingyu sobs out, looking at you with his pupils blown out wide from pure, primal lust. “please, baby, i don’t think i can handle any more. just please fuck me.”

you gave a fake hum of consideration just as your hips roll deep, dragging your crotch over his with one lazy, delicious drag that draws out the most pitiful whimper from mingyu.

“well, since you asked so nicely,” you say, wearing the sweetest smile on your face. 

“thank you,” he breathes out when he feels your hand wrap around his girth again.

“thank you,” he says again when you press his blunt tip to your fluttering hole.

“thank you,” he mewls out when you finally sink down on him, swallowing every inch of him in your luscious heat. 

you reach forward, thumbing away at the new set of tears that he had not known were running down his cheek. you bring your finger to your mouth, lapping at the salty drops you gathered, and your lips only pull wider into a grin. 

mingyu let out another sob.

“for the record,” you start, cradling his face gingerly in your hands. “you’ve always been pretty. i just find you a just little bit prettier when you’re crying for me.”

*cut to mingyu cumming in one stroke* hehehhe

© circlesol. all rights reserved. do not re-publish, translate, plagiarise, edit any of my work on any other platform.

[sweetkpopmusings]

ateez as demigods <3

a/n: i acquired the poca albums for spin off last week, and a picture of yunho reminded me of greek gods, so here we are ! i adore aus like this, so i hope you enjoy a little magic with your ateez thoughts today <333 pics not mine~

content: demigod!ateez, greek mythology au | wc: 0.7k | warnings: none really! | pairing: ateez x gn!reader | requests: open

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

seonghwa♡‧₊˚

the son of aphrodite 

heart-fluttering touches, light reflecting off pearls, soft smiles after unsaid i love you’s

seonghwa cherishes his ability to make roses bloom any time he walks by because he deeply believes there is nothing more important than creating beauty in the world. when you meet him, a light breeze and the faint scent of sea foam envelops you, carrying with it an abundance of calm. when he looks at you, you feel as though you are being seen by the intimate eyes of the one destined to love you for eternity. 

hongjoong♡‧₊˚

the son of hades

the smell of an old leather jacket, music in a dive bar, holding on and never letting go

he’s proud of how he can sense the presence of sadness, anger, loneliness, and despair in others, because he possesses an impeccable ability to comfort those trapped in darkness. when you meet hongjoong, the world is quiet, save the sound of his voice saying your name. when he looks at you, you understand the security that comes with unfaltering trust in someone who has never let you down and never will.

yunho♡‧₊˚

the son of apollo

a perfect summer afternoon, gut feelings, waking up from a restful nap

yunho carries the sun wherever he goes, and his mightiest power is warming those who need it most, even when their worlds have frozen over. when you meet him,  all the tension in your body falls away, replaced by the satisfaction of a job well done. when yunho looks at you, his glow melts every last worry in your mind, an endless promise to point you in the right direction and follow you wherever you go. 

yeosang♡‧₊˚

the son of artemis 

intense gazes, secrets revealed by moonlight, the deep green of a forest after rain

yeosang views his capacity to calm the racing hearts of animals and humans alike as a shield against a cruel world. when you meet him, you feel the electricity of the full moon rising in a clear night sky coursing through your body, a never-ending promise of adventure. when he looks at you, you are intoxicated by an incomprehensible mix of bravery and safety. if yeosang is by your side, you are invincible.

san♡‧₊˚

the son of demeter 

golden sunlight, cutting fruit for the ones you love, picnics filled with laughter and promises

anything touched by san becomes infinitely sweeter, and he never fails to pick the ripest fruit from the tree. when you meet him, you feel as though you’ve finally caught your breath, even though you can’t remember when or why you started running. when san looks at you, you are filled with delight, giggling like children playing their favorite type of make-believe.

mingi♡‧₊˚

the son of hermes

a familiar voice calling your name in a crowd, handwritten notes, hearing “i missed you”

mingi, though filled with racing thoughts, is confident in his power to say the exact words needed at the most important times. when you meet him, his simple “hello” carries with it a promise to always find you, no matter where you are. when he looks at you, everything you’ve ever wanted to say falls off your lips easily, as though all the right words you couldn’t find before are coming to you at once.

wooyoung♡‧₊˚

the son of dionysus

the taste of honey, skin buzzing with excitement, neon lights flooding city streets

he is eternally grateful for the fact he can lift people’s spirits with just a glance in their direction. when you meet him, you are overwhelmed by the feeling of hearing your favorite song from childhood, a bliss that comes with the innocence of youth. when wooyung looks at you, your heart drums inside your chest as though you’ve been dancing for hours, but you somehow still have the energy to dance again and again and again.

jongho♡‧₊˚

the son of athena

freshly brewed coffee, pages turning in a nearly empty library, footsteps on marble floors

he can settle any argument, not through stubbornness, but with an unflinching ability to determine the most equal compromise for all parties involved. when you meet jongho, the question that had been weighing on your mind for ages was finally answered. when jongho looks at you, you feel an unbreakable self-confidence, grounded in a way you never dreamt of before you knew him.  

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

[waitingonher]

hi there!! congrats on 100 followers,, could you do prompt 17 for leo valdez? i love ur writing so so much you write characters just how i imagined them

EMMY'S 100 EVENT CELEBRATION

leo valdez + this reminded me of you.

content warning: nothing

authors note: HI THANK YOU SO SOSOSOSO MUCH!!! that really means a lot to me <33 thank youuu

your only regret about joining camp-half blood—besides the lethal quests issued every once in a while—are the monthly cabin check-ups. why chiron had to implement this incredibly useful, yet incredibly stupid system? you wish you knew. well, you do suppose it’s come in handy against your siblings who’d prefer to live in a complete pigsty. but other than that, it’s proven to become everyone’s least favorite day. a day full of cleaning, very irritable campers, and the overpowering scent of every detergent on the market isn’t exactly what someone would want to wake up to.

but here you are, unfortunately put on laundry duty. damn your terribly cruel siblings. they get assigned the fun things like sweeping, and dusting! well actually, those still aren’t very fun but it’s way, way better than doing laundry. the process of separating, washing, drying, and then folding isn’t your ideal way of spending your afternoon. but, the only benefit of laundry duty is that you’re basically completely alone, which also means no one’s there to pester you about your quality of work. yay to no one screaming in your ear about better sweeping techniques!

that’s why you find yourself half-assing the color sorting. you absentmindedly toss somebody’s light pink hoodie into the colored laundry basket. light pink and black? basically the same thing. but your focus comes back as you realize that you’re onto the last basket that requires sorting. you really have to fight yourself from doing a victory dance. 

while your focus does come back, it doesn’t necessarily go back to the clothes though as you hear the door of the laundry room slam open. a sweaty, disheveled-looking boy enters, a grin plastered on his face that makes it seem as if he’s relieved to have found you. and he just so happens to be your boyfriend, “babe, i’m here to rescue you from laundry duty.” 

“thank the gods,” you toss the sock in your hand into a random basket and make your way to leo. he chuckles at your carelessness before pulling you in for a kiss. you really needed that, “now tell me, how do you plan to rescue me from laundry duty?” 

leo makes a face that tells you he hasn’t really thought that far, “um. well, i brought you temporary relief,” he responds, fishing something out of his jean pocket. and out comes a tiny red satin pouch. 

“oh?” your head tilts out of curiosity, “did you find and steal something while cleaning?” the thought of leo doing something like that wasn’t totally out of the question. so that’s why you’re a little more confused when he simply shakes his head and offers you the bag in silence. 

with the pouch in your hand, your boyfriend makes a motion for you to open it, “okay, i might’ve hyped it up a little too much,” leo gives you a sheepish smile as you pull out two absolutely adorable matching cat keychains, “but they reminded me of you, so i bought them. plus, i also thought they’d make a good gift of encouragement for today.” 

“oh leo, these are so cute!” you put the cats side by side and you almost scream, once connected, they form a heart! all of a sudden your hatred for laundry duty and everything else bad in the world washes away. who knew two little cat keychains could have this effect on you? apparently leo did, “thank you so, so much babe,” you kiss him on the cheek, “i swear, as soon as i’m done here,” a smooch on the other cheek, “i’m putting my half on my bag,” finally, one for his lips. 

leo’s features form a lopsided, lovesick smile, “wow. if i knew two little keychains would earn me this many kisses, then i would’ve just bought you two real cats,” he says, a teasing tone laced within his words. 

you laugh at the idea of leo walking into the laundry room carrying two random cats. as much as you’d love to see that come to fruition, cat hair and clothes do not mix well. you pocket your keychain and hand the other to leo, “you should probably go, chiron would lose his shit if he saw you here with me.” 

“wait, more kisses, then i’ll leave,” your boyfriend’s lips begin to turn comically downwards as his brows raise, and you realize what he’s doing: his stupid puppy dog eyes, “you can’t resist this can you?” 

you quirk your brow, “oh, i can,” but the way he looks so incredibly dumb and desperate makes you give in, “fine. let’s make it quick.”