#so it's not like it would be exactly the same...

[maskedbyghost]

i have a breeding kink but at the same time i have a terrible fear of getting pregnant to the point where ive had nightmares about it and anxiety attacks (especially now that abortions are no longer a constitutional right in the US). yeah, not a great combo when in bed lol

just thought maybe my woe would spark some kind of lil story for ya :)

thank you for the request anon, hope you like it :) cw: breeding kink, smut, +18 content below

You shouldn’t want it... Not like this.

You’re on your back, thighs spread and shaking, and Simon’s weight is pressing down over you, with his hands under your knees, pushing your legs open wide enough that you can feel it in your hips, that sweet ache where stretch meets surrender—but all you really notice is the way he’s looking at you.

A little wild. A little too pleased. Like he knows exactly what’s going on in your head.

"You’re fuckin’ dripping," he mutters against your throat, dragging the thick head of his cock through your folds, teasing you with it, slowly. “You want me to fill you up, yeah?”

Your body screams yes. It pulses with it. You tilt your hips, chasing the friction, heat curling sharp in your belly. That filthy little corner of your brain lights up like a match—the one that wants to hear him say it, again and again. That he’s going to put a baby into you. That your body’s his, made to take it.

But just behind that is the fear. Always is.

The kind that hits in the dead of night, heart racing, breath stuck in your throat. The kind that makes you double-check your pill pack and panic at a missed period. That terrible, breathless dread of being trapped in your own body. Waking up from a dream where you were pregnant and sobbing like it had already happened.

Your fingers grip the sheets, tension building under your skin, about to snap.

Simon feels it. Of course he does. He always knows.

He stills, just slightly. Doesn’t let go of your legs, doesn’t pull away—he just watches you, his brows pulling together. "Hey."

You blink, trying to smile, but it doesn’t work. “I’m fine. I want it. Just keep going.”

He doesn’t move. "You sure?"

“I am,” you say too fast, then softer, “I think I just… my head’s being weird again.”

That look he gives you—the one that feels like a fucking hand on your heart. He leans in, nose brushing yours, eyes locked on you like nothing else exists, and in that moment, it doesn't.

“Tell me,” he murmurs. “Whatever it is. We don’t play unless it’s good for you. Yeah?”

You swallow, heart hammering. You hate admitting it. Hate feeling like your brain’s betraying your body.

“I like it,” you say quietly. “The dirty talk. The whole—breeding thing. I need it sometimes. But I’m also terrified. Like, terrified of actually getting pregnant. It’s… bad. Nightmares, panic attacks...”

His jaw ticks. Just once. That barely contained fury that only shows up when he’s angry on your behalf.

“Fuck,” he says. “Alright. Come here.”

He pulls you in, lets your legs wrap around his waist, chest to chest now, holding you close, grounding you. One big hand slides up your back, the other gripping your thigh, his voice right at your ear.

“You trust me?”

“Yeah,” you whisper.

“Then let me take care of you.”

You nod against his shoulder, and that’s all he needs.

“Good girl,” he breathes, then pulls his hips back, just enough to push his cock against you again. “Gonna give you everything you want, every filthy fuckin’ word. Gonna ruin you like I’m tryin’ to knock you up. But I won’t. I won’t do anything to you that you don’t want, yeah?”

You whimper. “Yes, Simon. Please.”

“God, you sound so sweet like this,” he groans, sliding in, inch by inch. “So needy. You like when I talk like that, don’t you? Gets you so wet, you don’t even care how wrong it sounds.”

He bottoms out with a growl, and your back arches off the bed. You’re already close, tension thrumming under your skin, clenching around him like your body’s begging to be used.

“Look at this little cunt,” he pants, pulling out halfway just to slam back in. “Taking all of me like it wants it. Like it’s fuckin’ desperate for it.”

You’re gasping now, fingers digging into his back, losing yourself to the rhythm, to the stretch, to the low, filthy sound of his voice.

“You want it, don’t you?” he whispers darkly, lips against your jaw. “Wanna be full of me. Wanna let me fuck you raw and finish inside, over and over until you’re leaking, stuffed, ruined.”

“Yes—Simon, yes—”

“But you don’t have to be scared,” he says, voice dropping lower, sweet and vicious. “You’re safe with me. I’ve got you. Always.”

And somehow that undoing feels different.

Like you can want it—really want it—and still be safe.

He fucks you through it, one hand on your belly, pressing down just a little, groaning when you flutter around him.

“Feel that?” he growls. “That’s me. Deep as I can go. Where I belong.”

Your eyes roll back. You're shaking under him, every nerve lit up, body raw with pleasure.

And then he’s coming too, face buried in your neck, groaning your name like it’s the only thing he knows how to say.

He pulls out slowly and carefully. Your thighs are trembling, slick between them, and he’s already wiping you down with a warm cloth before you can even blink. No words—just his soft hands.

Then he climbs back in behind you, draping a blanket over both of you, pulling you into his chest.

“You’re not wrong for wanting it,” he says against your temple. “Wantin’ that kind of surrender. You just need someone who knows how to give it to you right.”

You smile, slow and sleepy. “And you’re that someone?”

He huffs. “You fuckin’ know I am.”

And yeah, you really do.

--------------------------------------------

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6

[prythianpages]

Take Me Home | Azriel x Reader

Azriel x Reader | When Azriel gets drunk, he forgets he has a wife.

warning: drinking, drunk & fluffy Az

a/n: You can thank tiktok for this one. It inspired me to take a little break from all the angst. I literally have never written a fic so fast before, this took me a little more than an hour. Just something short & sweet (1K words.)

Azriel liked to drink every now and then. Rarely, would he get drunk. He preferred maintaining control, always mindful of his surroundings and alert to his ever-listening shadows. 

But when he did get drunk, he'd sometimes forget he had a wife.

Normally, it was Azriel who stayed at your side. He was the hand that always found yours under the table when your words began to slur or the gentle pressure at the small of your back keeping you upright as you stumbled through the crowd. But tonight at Rita’s, something in his shoulders told you he needed to let go.

So when Cassian ordered shots for the table, you passed yours to Azriel with a playful grin, silently telling him, “your turn.”

He hesitated but after a few teasing remarks and a chorus of encouragement from the rest of the Inner Circle, he tipped the glass back and knocked it down in one go. Then another. And another. 

You watched the shift in him slowly unfold. His shoulders began to ease from their earlier tense posture. Though it was dark, you could see the inky tendrils of his shadows twitching and rippling less against his skin. Almost as if, they too, were content. 

You knew he was tipsy the moment he let Cassian drag him onto the dance floor without so much as a protest. And you knew he was drunk when he nearly tripped over nothing and just laughed before catching himself.

Across the table, you met Rhysand’s gaze. He was lounging back with a smirk, swirling his drink lazily in his hand as he watched the scene unfold.

“Should I stop him?” you asked, though your voice lacked any real concern. 

Rhysand raised his glass in salute toward Feyre, who had joined Cassian and Azriel on the dance floor.  “No. Let him. This is the most relaxed I’ve seen him in weeks.”

Sensing your mate’s gaze on you, you turned your head back to the dance floor only to see Azriel shying away from your gaze. Oh yeah, he’s definitely drunk. Rhysand chuckled, mirroring your thoughts.

Rhysand was right, though. This was the most relaxed you’d seen your mate in weeks and your heart ached a little with how much he had needed a night out like this.

Azriel continued to sneak glances at you when he thought you weren’t looking. He didn’t last much longer on the dance floor. Cassian’s spinning and swaying became too much, and eventually, he slipped away from his friend. His steps were a little uncoordinated.

Then, his eyes found yours. For a moment, he just stood there, staring at you like you were the only steady thing in the room. The grin that spread across his face was boyish and a little lopsided as he approached the table.

“Hey,” he said, swaying slightly.

“Hey.” You grinned back up at him, a hand reaching out to push back his hair. The stool you sat on gave you just enough advantage in height to do so. His wings shuddered in response, making your grin widen at how easily flustered he got when drunk. You adored it, reveling in being able to make him feel that way.

Azriel’s shadows danced lazily around his shoulders like they, too, were drunk. He leaned down, one of his wings casting a small shadow over you, offering some privacy in the midst of the noise.

“My friend over there,” he whisper-yelled, breath warm against your ear and his scent washing over you, “thinks you’re cute.”

You blinked, pulling back to look at him. “Friend?”

Before you could even process, he pointed to the side. You followed his hand, confused, just as a soft whoosh sounded beside you.

And there he was.

Standing a few feet away with the same grin on his face, exactly in the spot he had pointed to you. You pointed your hand at him and silently beckoned him back to you. With a dark glimmer of shadows, he vanished from across the room and stumbled right back in front of you. You hopped off the stool, catching him with both hands on his chest and helping in steadying him.

“Tell your friend I’m really flattered but I’m taking my husband home.”

You showed him your ring, lifting your hand in front of his glazed eyes. He blinked at it, brows pulling together. Something like disappointment flashed across his face, his wings drooping slightly behind him.

 “Oh.”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing, your heart melting as you gently reached for his hand. You lifted it, bringing it up the same level of the hand flashing your wedding ring. The matching silver band to yours gleamed on his finger, and you gave your finger a little wiggle for emphasis.

His eyes widened. “Oh.” A pause. “Me?”

You nodded, your fingers lacing with his. His whole face lit up, that grin of his brighter than ever and reaching all the way to those hazel eyes you loved so much. He turned to the person closest to you both, Rhysand, “I have a wife!”

Rhysand raised his brow in mock surprise. “Just wait until you find out you have a mate, buddy,” you heard him mutter.

But Azriel didn’t hear. Or maybe he did, and chose to ignore it. Either way, he turned back to you, stepping a little closer. You released his hand and Azriel was quick to place both his hands on your waist.

“Well then, my wife,” he said, pulling you flush to him, his tone and touch possessive in a way that made your stomach flutter.

He dipped his head, his forehead resting against yours, nose brushing yours in a gentle nuzzle. His eyes flicked to your lips, lingering for a beat too long, before lifting back to yours.

“Take me home.”

You laughed softly, cupping his cheeks and placing a chaste kiss to his lips. “Okay, my husband.”

He looked at you like he was falling for you all over again and then, his lips were chasing yours for another taste. Warmth bloomed in your chest, the bond between you thrumming with love and adoration.

Because even if Azriel forgot he had a wife when he was drunk, his heart always knew.

At the end of the night, in every life and every state of mind, he always chose you.

a/n: Hope you enjoyed this silly little fic! & kudos to you if you recognized the tiktok that inspired this.

General tag list: @scooobies, @kennedy-brooke, @sillysillygoose444 @lilah-asteria @the-sweet-psycho

@daycourtofficial, @milswrites, @stormhearty, @pit-and-the-pen, @mybestfriendmademe

@loving-and-dreaming @azriels-human @mrsjna, @adventure-awaits13, @lorosette

@alwayshave-faith, @xadenswhore, @kodafics

[luv-lock]

ֹ ⊹ # TRASH BELONGS TO TRASH CAN .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Conner Kent x Fem Reader

☆⁠ HEADCANON : How Would He Be When He's Obsessed?

☆⁠ NOTES : English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

It starts with panties.

Yeah.

Conner is that kind of guy.

It’s not romantic.

It’s not fate.

It’s not some world-shaking love story.

It’s a pair of stupid pink cotton panties peeking out when you bend over to tie your shoe outside a Metropolis strip mall.

That’s it.

He’s flying low, bored, looking for something—someone—to kill time with, when he sees you.

Barely a flash of pink lace and thigh, and something in his brain just short-circuits.

Like a dog catching a scent.

He drops out of the sky without even thinking.

You don’t see him.

You don’t even notice him.

You just stand up, brushing your skirt down, humming some silly, happy little song under your breath like you don't have a single brain cell to rub together.

And when you turn around—

Christ.

Your face.

Your stupid, perfect, sweet face.

Big wide eyes.

Soft mouth.

A face like a goddamn Disney princess, all sunshine and innocence and "golly gee whiz" plastered on you like you stepped straight out of a coloring book.

He stares.

Like a moron.

Mouth slightly open, sunglasses slipping down his nose.

You blink up at him, confused but not scared, tilting your head like a puppy.

"Hi!" you say brightly, like he's not the one who just fell out of the sky like a lunatic.

Conner almost laughs.

Almost feels sorry for you.

You're obviously dumb as a bag of rocks.

Sweet and soft and easy to rip apart.

Like tissue paper.

Pathetic.

Perfect.

God, you’re exactly his type.

Short skirt. Tight top. Pretty tits. Even prettier lips.

The kind of girl who’s either too good for him or stupid enough to fall for the first smile.

And God, he wanted to fuck you.

Not love you.

Not know you.

Just fuck you.

Another notch on the belt. Another story to brag about to Bart or Tim or whoever the hell cared.

Because that’s what Conner did—

Pretend he was the king of the world so nobody noticed he felt like garbage underneath.

Trash.

He always felt like trash.

You just happened to look like heaven.

You end up talking.

Well, you talk. He mostly stares at your mouth and imagines your panties again.

You tell him your name.

You tell him you're new to the city.

You ask him if he wants to be friends.

Friends.

Nobody ever asks him that.

Not without wanting something.

Not without the cold gleam of "what can you do for me?" behind their eyes.

But yours—

Yours are so soft.

So fucking trusting.

Like you really think people are good.

It’s laughable.

It's pathetic.

It makes him want to punch a wall and hold you under his jacket at the same time.

He plays it cool.

Shrugs, smirks, tosses some dumb line about "showing you around sometime."

You giggle.

Actually giggle.

Like a cartoon bunny.

He wants to fuck you stupid.

He wants to keep you on a leash.

He wants to smash your stupid, trusting heart into pieces.

But instead—

Instead he finds himself offering to fly you home.

You accept without blinking.

No fear.

No suspicion.

You just trust him.

Superboy.

The clone. The lab rat. The trash.

And somehow, it’s worse than if you hated him.

It spirals.

He doesn’t mean to get attached.

Really.

He tells himself it’s just a game.

Just a quick fuck.

Just another dumb girl who’ll cry when he forgets to call.

But then you're smiling at him.

Waving at him.

Bringing him stupid little homemade cookies wrapped in pink napkins because "you thought he might get hungry after patrol."

You don't ask him for favors.

You don't drool over him.

You don't flirt like the girls at the clubs.

You just exist.

Soft and warm and good.

So fucking good.

And it drives him insane.

He watches you when you sleep sometimes.

Just to make sure you’re safe, he tells himself.

He learns your routines.

The cafe at 9am. The bookstore at 2. Home by dark.

He memorizes your smell.

Sweet. Something like strawberries and chocolate.

He catches himself smiling at nothing sometimes, just thinking about you.

God, he's pathetic.

God, he doesn't care.

He thinks you’re the last pure thing he’ll ever touch.

He thinks you’re an angel who was dumb enough to fall into the mud with him.

It’s subtle, at first.

Like the way a vine wraps a tree—

Slow.

Gentle.

Inevitable.

Conner doesn’t notice when it happens.

He doesn’t notice how he stops spending nights with random girls.

Doesn’t notice how he starts flying lower, slower, in case he spots you in the crowd.

Doesn’t notice how the inside of his head starts filling up with your voice, your laugh, your tiny hands shoving a paper cup of hot chocolate at him like you’re offering him a crown.

It’s stupid.

It’s pathetic.

He knows it.

But when you smile at him, he feels—

God.

He feels good.

He feels real.

Like he’s not just a science project wearing skin.

You treat him like he's normal.

Like he's better than normal.

You look at him like he’s a superhero.

You look at him like you believe he's good.

It gets addictive.

You get addictive.

It creeps up on him during the little things.

He starts waiting outside your favorite cafe before you open the door.

He pretends it’s a coincidence. You pretend to believe him.

He starts asking if you like the way he styled his hair.

You tell him he looks "sooo handsome," and he practically preens.

He picks fights just to hear you fuss over him.

He lets villains punch him a little harder because he likes the way you patch him up after, scolding him with trembling hands.

He hates it when you frown.

He hates it even more when you go quiet.

The first time you don’t text him back, he almost levels an entire city block.

Not because he’s mad. Because he’s scared. Scared he did something wrong. Scared he lost you.

Because somewhere along the way, without him even noticing—

Your approval became his leash.

He doesn’t realize it yet.

He just knows he feels like a good boy when you smile.

And he’ll do anything to make you smile.

You’re careful.

You’re so, so careful.

You make him think it’s his idea.

You make him think he’s the one leading.

When you pout and ask for little things—

"Would you carry my groceries for me? You're sooo strong."

"Would you help me put up my bookshelf? I can't do it alone…"

—he practically falls over himself to please you.

When you laugh at his jokes—real, big, stupid laughs like you're absolutely delighted—

he feels like he could rip the sun out of the sky and gift it to you.

When you pat his head and call him "my hero"—

he fucking glows.

He thinks he’s protecting you.

He doesn’t realize he’s sinking into you.

Molding himself into whatever you want.

A dog with too many teeth and too much violence, just waiting for you to snap your fingers.

A broken, pretty boy who was just dying for someone to scratch behind his ears and say:

Good boy.

And the best part—

the part that keeps you warm at night, humming to yourself in the dark—

is that he still thinks you’re just a sweet little thing.

He still thinks you’re innocent.

He still thinks he’s the dangerous one.

Poor Conner.

Poor dumb puppy.

He has no idea the real monster is the one holding his leash.

Then come the tests.

Tiny. Harmless.

You don’t mean it, not really—

You just flirt a little.

Bat your lashes at the barista. Laugh a little too sweet at the grocery store clerk.

You even hug one of your classmates a second too long after class, right where you know Conner's flying overhead.

You peek from the corner of your eye and see him.

Standing across the street.

Fists clenched.

Eyes burning red for a heartbeat before he crushes it down.

Poor baby.

He doesn’t come over.

Doesn’t make a scene.

He just watches.

Takes the knife you're plunging in and buries it deeper in himself.

When you finally catch up with him later—acting all clueless, all bright-eyed and soft—you ask if he’s okay.

You look up at him with those stupid, glittering eyes like he’s your whole world.

Conner cracks.

Not in a big way.

Not yet.

Just a little.

His hands shake when he touches you.

He laughs a little too hard at your jokes.

He won't stop looking at your lips.

He clings.

You’re so nice to him.

You let him.

You lean into his touch.

You beam when he picks you up like you're made of spun sugar.

You whimper when you scrape your knee, and he nearly tears the concrete apart.

You make yourself so soft for him.

So small.

You know exactly how to slip your hands around his throat and make him say thank you.

It festers inside him.

A need.

A sickness.

He’s never needed anyone before.

Not really.

Girls were just girls.

Things he touched and threw away.

He was trash. He knew it.

But you—

You feel like home.

When you call him your "best friend," he swears the world stops spinning.

When you slip your little hand into his big, calloused one—smiling up at him like he's your knight—

he thinks maybe he can be someone.

Maybe he deserves you.

Maybe he’s worthy.

You watch it happen.

Watch him rot for you.

Bloom like some ugly, beautiful weed, all tangled and desperate.

You know the cracks in his armor now.

You know he wants to be loved.

Wants to be wanted.

And you know you’re the only thing keeping him together.

You turn the screws.

You start making sad little comments.

"I bet you’ll get tired of me someday… everyone does."

"I know you’ll leave me too. It’s okay. I’m used to it."

"I don’t really matter, right? I mean, you're Superboy. you have real friends."

Conner loses it every time.

"No! I won't!"

"I swear— I swear to God, I’m not leaving you!"

"You’re all I want— all I need— please don’t say that—"

He’s practically begging.

Choking on it.

You hide your smile in his shoulder when he hugs you too tight, like you might vanish if he lets go.

Poor baby.

Poor broken boy.

You’re poisoning him with kindness.

Feeding him a steady diet of guilt, fear, and worship.

And he’s drinking it down like salvation.

Sometimes you catch him just staring at you.

Like he’s trying to memorize every inch of your face.

Like he’s trying to brand you into his brain.

Sometimes you pretend not to notice.

Sometimes you catch his gaze and tilt your head, all concerned and soft:

"Are you okay, Conner?"

And he always looks away, ashamed, ears burning.

He mutters something about you being beautiful.

About you being the only good thing he’s ever had.

You are not good. You never were. But you smile and kiss his knuckles like he’s your hero anyway.

You’re rotting together.

You’re just smart enough to know it.

You’re pulling him down into the same darkness that hollowed you out years ago.

Making him a little sicker, a little sweeter, a little more yours every day.

It’s not fast.

It’s not violent.

It’s slow.

Tender.

Patient.

Like two animals bleeding out together in a beautiful, quiet room.

And when he finally realizes it—

when he finally sees that he can't breathe without you—

it’ll already be too late.

You’ll already have your leash tied around his throat.

And he’ll be smiling through the choke.

It starts stupidly.

A guy you barely know—some loudmouth from your psych class—tells you you’re “too pretty to be walking home alone.”

Offers you a ride.

Winks at you.

It’s harmless.

A mosquito buzzing in your ears.

You giggle, play dumb, say "thank you."

Smile sweet and empty.

Because you know he’s there.

You know Conner is there.

Watching.

You always know.

You feel the air shift before you even see him.

Conner’s behind you the next second, tall and tense, his whole body coiled tight like a spring about to snap.

He doesn’t touch you.

He doesn’t say anything.

But the look he gives the guy—

the sheer, crushing rage behind it—

it’s enough.

The guy blanches.

Mumbles something about being late.

Slinks away like a kicked dog.

You stand there.

Batting your lashes.

Feigned confusion painting your face.

"Conner?" you whisper, small and sweet, reaching up to touch his arm.

"What's wrong?"

He looks down at you—jaw flexing, fists curling and uncurling at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

You can feel the way he’s trembling.

Not fear.

Not sadness.

Something worse.

Something primal.

"Don’t," he grinds out. His voice rough. Raw. "Don’t ever smile at guys like that."

Your breath hitches.

Soft. Perfect. Vulnerable.

"I—I didn’t mean to upset you," you whisper.

You sound like you're about to cry.

You even let your bottom lip tremble.

And that's it.

That’s what breaks him.

Conner’s hands snap out—

one gripping your waist, the other fisting into your hair—

and he drags you into him like he’s drowning.

The kiss he slams in your lips isn’t sweet.

It isn’t careful.

It’s filthy.

Starving.

Possessive.

Like he’s trying to mark you.

Bite you.

Make you bleed love for him.

He kisses you like he hates you.

Like you’ve ruined him.

And you—

you kiss him back.

Soft and syrupy at first.

Little whimpers into his mouth.

Clutching at his shirt like you don’t know how to breathe without him.

You give him everything.

Everything he wants—

everything he’s too scared to ask for.

You let him take.

Let him devour.

When he finally pulls back, you're both panting.

Your lips are swollen, your eyes big and glassy.

Conner’s chest heaves like he just fought a war.

His pupils are blown wide—so dark you can barely see the blue anymore.

He looks wrecked.

Broken open.

He stares at you like you hung the stars just to have something pretty to look at while you destroyed him.

"I—"

He chokes on it.

The words are too big, too much.

You reach up.

Cup his stupid, handsome face in your gentle hands.

Smile that soft, doomed smile you know he can’t survive.

"It’s okay," you whisper.

"I like you too, Conner."

You don't.

You never did. Not really.

Not the way that he loves you.

But he doesn’t know that.

And he never will.

Because he falls to his knees right there.

Buries his face against your stomach like a man praying to a god that doesn’t hear him.

And you—

you just thread your fingers through his hair, humming sweetly.

Like a mother comforting her sick little boy.

— MASTERLIST ☆

— © luv-lock. Don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆

[wren-kitchens]

once more, with feeling

876 words

it's not exactly the same every time. it's altered by what they went through, and why they’re asking, and how it all ended. but it's always close enough that it may as well be the same. 

100% inspired by this incredible post by @thirdtimed! it had me by a chokehold i had to do something about it

it's not exactly the same every time. it's altered by what they went through, and why they’re asking, and how it all ended. but it's always close enough that it may as well be the same. 

the first time, it was unprecedented. 

blood on his hands, tears in his eyes, we expected it to be over—a failed experiment, one that only he would ever remember to save the others the pain. too much grief wracked his body for him to even choke out the words for a long while, but we waited. it isn't an unusual thing for us to do, to wait.

smearing sand on his sunburned face, he wiped away his tears and said,

"give me another chance."

the second time, we were curious.

shaken and silent, he stared into our face for a long while, as if trying to decipher what in void we were. the crown of crystals were still and a kind of grey that isn’t truly grey, but every colour at once, and his breathing was shallow. the bloodlust drained from his eyes, leaving them as grey as the crown.

we asked, because he would not have thought to answer otherwise. he flinched, and hesitated. 

"i.. can i see them again?"

the third time, it was almost expected.

still smoking from the explosion, she sunk to her knees, sobbing and clutching herself as if she feared literally falling apart. it took a long while for her screams of grief subsided, and longer still for the weeping to fade into sniffing and hiccups. she hadn't looked at us once, as if she didn't know we were there, but we did not wish to interrupt—she was entitled to her unraveling in private.

wiping her eyes, she didn’t bother to compose herself much more. she lifted her face, littered with gashes and scars, and with agony in her voice-

"i want my friends."

the fourth time.. well, it was a little surprising.

a victor had not yet arrived so high on adrenaline and confidence, and the blood that stained even his mouth seemed to be a trophy. the sword had not left his hand, and still dripped with what remained of the last two, the drops vanishing into the abyss below. he was grinning, and this was the most surprising part.

not needing any persuasion or suggestion, he looked us right in the eye—as none had done before, crowing,

"come on, give us another go!"

the fifth time, it wasn't the request that was new.

alone in a field of sunflowers is where we eventually found him, after waiting fruitlessly for his arrival. he startled a little as he realised we were there, but soon calmed at the understanding of what we meant for him. after all, it had been almost a year since he became stranded—and stranded was the word for it. the shawl was still the red and purple of the flowers he had once given to his partner, and we suppose one could say they started this whole chain of events.

setting aside his gardening tools, he smiled almost sadly. perhaps he would miss what had become his prison, despite everything it signified. he sighed,

"i think i’d like a better try at companionship."

the sixth time.. it almost didn’t count.

surprised to have even been considered for a crown, they laughed in delight when the paper version settled on her head, clearly pleased with our creative flair. we were pleased as well—it isn’t often creative flair ends up being a positive part of our abilities.  they looked around, as if deciding whether or not the place was real, and seemingly settled on an answer. we didn’t ask what the answer was. 

adjusting the paper crown, she laughed, clearly finding the whole situation amusing. when we asked, they seemed to be even more surprised.

"i get to choose? well- let's do it again!"

the seventh time, it became amusing. they did know they could choose something else, did they not?

whooping and throwing his arms around in celebration, came the second victor to be genuinely pleased by his victory and subsequent death. he spent a considerable amount of time pretending he was at an awards show, thanking his family, his wife, his best friend and so on. it was refreshing, after all that misery we witnessed at the beginning of the games, to see the tides changing. especially with him; rage used to be his fuel. now it seemed to be love.

grinning up at us, he waited for something. perhaps one of the others had mentioned it, but he did not seem surprised when we asked.

"what do i want? of course i want more!"

the eighth time, we don’t have to even introduce ourselves.

considerably more pleased than he had been the first time, he seems to think that taking his own life was the ultimate show of power against us. of course, we have changed our ways since his game, but he is not to know that. like his predecessor, he too seems amused by the paper crown. 

cracking his knuckles, and stretching his neck, we already know what he’s going to say, but we let him ask it.

"one more time."

[hivemuthur]

I’ve had a thought. You believe Viktor to be Experienced, right? What would his first time have looked like? This could be a request if you wanna write a one shot. Or just like share your thoughts. I’d be intrigued to see what you come up with if you wrote it out tho 🤔

You do like to throw me curveballs (I love that, thank you). Here is some virgin!Viktor take, he's not exactly super freaky but take it as the origin of Freaktor :')

Humble as I Go

viktorxfem!reader explicit! first time, a bit awkward, a bit sweet. Both Viktor and Reader are virgins! There is no specified age for the sake of legalities, but you can imagine them both young.

word count: 3,8K

author’s note: ok, so I've seen some angry post about condemnation of virgins through HC-ing Viktor as a non-virgin, and what I'm saying here is that I disagree with his infantilization in most virgin!Viktor fics. I was a late bloomer so I am literally nobody to tell people when it's cool to start having sex, it's absolutely irrelevant to your maturity. But having him unable to add 2+2 or being completely oblivious to sex in his 30s IS ableist. For the most part, disabled people know their bodies pretty well because they have to, and I can imagine Viktor being pretty well-read as well, him being curious about life. So no, it's not a punch toward people who didn't have sex yet, it's a punch toward those who see a disabled guy and think 'let's make him pathetic.' @rennethen beta read, thank you as usual! Happy (sort of) Freakday :')

—

Viktor stares at his thighs intently, grateful for a moment to regroup. The fabric around the knees is bulging and thinned out, threads threatening to pull—if not today, then tomorrow, or the day after. It’s also slightly damp, soft beneath his fingers where he’s wiped his sweaty palms while waiting for you to come back from the bathroom.

He’s afraid to get up from where you sat him on the bed—he’d slipped in the puddle that gathered on the pavement in The Fissures on your way home, after you’d muttered that your parents were away. And your house is nice. It’s warm and cozy. It’s full of love, with plenty of things that don’t match finding a place beside one another. A wet stain from his ass on your bedsheets wouldn’t bode well for what you’re both so excited for—and frightened of—all the same.

The door creaks, and then your head peeks out. A ghost of a smile lingers on your mouth, and you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear—and Viktor, oh, he can’t help but smile too. He actually laughs, breathy, nervous and quiet, but welcomes the weight of you settling beside him on the edge of the bed, as if your presence alone repels every doubt.

You don’t say anything at first. Just lean into his side, shoulder brushing his, your palm resting between you. His fingers twitch beneath it. “You okay?” you ask eventually, soft.

Viktor nods once. Then again, slower. “I think so.” A beat. “My hands are sweaty.”

You smile into your knees, arms looping around them. “Mine too.”

That gets a laugh out of both of you, hushed and crackling with nerves. You untangle your limbs first and stretch one leg over the edge of the bed, your knee knocking gently into his. His trousers shift as he moves to look at you more fully, and the suspenders tug awkwardly with the motion.

“I like these,” you say, your finger sliding under one of the straps and letting it snap back lightly against his chest.

“They’re necessary,” he replies. “My trousers are too big. They used to be my father’s.”

You hum like that makes perfect sense, which it does. His whole frame still has the look of someone who hasn’t quite finished growing into himself—elbows and knees a bit too sharp, shoulders a little unsure of their breadth. You reach out and brush his hair back from his forehead, and this time he doesn’t flinch, just watches you with wide, liquid eyes.

“I keep thinking I’ll mess this up somehow,” you admit, quiet.

“You won’t,” he says quickly. “Even if we do it all wrong, it’s still with you.”

That makes your throat ache. You kiss him—small and soft, mouths barely moving, just the warmth of it. When you pull back, Viktor’s eyes are closed, but he’s smiling. Your hands drift to the buttons of his shirt, but hesitate, hovering. “May I?”

He nods. “Yes. Please.”

You undo them slowly. One, then another. His skin is pale where it’s usually hidden, collarbones delicate, chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. When you glance up, his eyes are open again, fixed on your face like you’re the most intricate, important thing he’s ever seen.

His hands fumble next, trying to return the favour, but they shake a little and get caught in the hem of your sweater. You both laugh again, leaning forehead to forehead, nerves zinging in the air between you like lightning trapped in glass.

“Wait,” he says, reaching down awkwardly, and peels off his socks like they’ve betrayed him. “I don’t want to wear these for this.”

“They’re not that bad,” you say, but you’re already tugging off your own to match. “There. Even.”

The grin he gives you is crooked and overwhelmed, but he’s glowing with it. There’s no hurry, not really. Just a shared understanding that you’re moving toward something neither of you has ever done, and yet it feels inevitable in the best way.

Your hands find his suspenders and slide them down the slope of his shoulders. The tension in the elastic gives a soft snap, and he flinches, then laughs under his breath. He looks smaller without them, somehow—softer. Less held together.

His trousers sit loose on his hips now, waistband gaping far away from skin and it looks like a second Viktor could fit in them easily. When your fingers find the button, he nods, barely a breath. You undo it, and the fabric slides down, pooling around his ankles with a sigh. You both blink at the sound, then laugh again, quietly—he shrugs, self-conscious.

“See?” he mutters.

“Thank gods for those, huh?” you say, pulling at one of the suspender straps, and Viktor chuckles, air leaving his nose loudly as if he was holding it until now.

You guide him out of the trousers, then pause, eyeing the brace along his leg. “Would you like to—?”

He follows your gaze, then nods, sitting back to unbuckle the straps. “It’s easier like this,” he murmurs, focused on the clasps. “I don’t usually take it off unless I have to.”

“You don’t have to,” you say gently.

“I want to.” His voice is soft, but certain.

You watch as he undoes the last strap and lifts the brace carefully aside. Without it, his leg looks thinner, a little tense—but you only touch his knee, light and reassuring, and his shoulders drop. You lean in to kiss his cheek, and he smiles, just barely.

Then you reach for the hem of his shirt, and he lifts his arms to let you pull it off. It takes a moment to work it over his head—his hair sticks up after, and you smooth it back without thinking. He’s left in his undershirt, but the skin you can see is pale in the light, slender and unevenly freckled. When you run your palms down his arms, he inhales sharply, but doesn’t stop you.

“You’re beautiful,” you murmur, and he ducks his head like he doesn’t believe it, but his smile flickers small and bright.

“You’re not supposed to say that first,” he says. “I was going to say it.”

“You still can.”

He does. Quietly, but steady. “You’re beautiful.”

Then he touches your wrist, tentative, and waits. You nod.

He starts with your sweater, careful with the buttons even though his hands are shaking. You help him with the last one, and then the shirt beneath. His knuckles brush your ribs as he works the fabric off your shoulders. His gaze lingers—not just on your chest, but on all of you, awed.

His fingers trace the waistband of your trousers next, and he looks up again. “Alright?” he asks.

You hum an answer, too full to speak. The zip comes down smoothly. He tugs, slow and a little awkward, and you lift your hips so the fabric can slide off easier. When he gets them halfway down your legs, he stills for a second. Watching your thighs, your knees, your bare skin, as if it’s something rare and precious.

When he finally gets them off, you’re both just… there. Sitting in your underwear, knees bumping, hearts thudding so hard it’s almost funny. You reach for the duvet, tugging it over both of you. Not to hide—just to be close. Wrapped together in the warmth of this.

And then, when you’re ready, you reach again. Gentle. Curious.

“Hi,” you say, and smile.

“Hi,” he echoes, and his gaze never leaves yours.

The covers rest around your hips, pooling softly between you. Viktor’s knees knock against yours again, faint and accidental. Or maybe not. Your fingers graze his, and he turns his palm up, opening it for you.

“I’ve never done this before,” you admit, voice hushed. “Obviously.”

“Me neither.” He huffs a laugh, awkward and fond. “You can probably tell.”

You nudge your shoulder into his. “It’s okay. I think… I’d be scared with anyone else.”

His eyes flicker down, then back up, bright and unblinking. “You’re not scared now?”

You shake your head. “Not with you.”

He exhales like that means the world. Slowly, carefully, he brings a hand to your cheek, thumb barely brushing the skin. “Can I kiss you again?”

You nod, may times, and this kiss is different—shy at first, but it lingers, warmer, his mouth parting when yours does. His hand slides behind your neck. Yours settle over his ribs, thin beneath your palms. The duvet shifts with your closeness, and you both feel it: your bodies pressed together, clothed in breath and nerves.

It changes then—from careful lips to Viktor’s mouth opening a little more, and yours following. The world narrows to the slick, tentative press of tongues. It’s warm, unfamiliar, and clumsy in a way that makes you both stifle little laughs between kisses. His breath tastes like mint and you’re curious when he’s managed to refresh. Yours is all heat. A soft sound slips out of him when you suck gently on his lower lip, and he mirrors it, hesitant but eager.

The sounds are quiet, wet, a shared secret. A rhythm begins to build—just earnest, as if you're both learning at the same pace. His hand slides from the back of your neck to your waist, pulling you in, every touch like a plea for permission. You tip, gently, and both of you laugh as you fall sideways, mouths still pressed together.

Viktor braces himself on one elbow, looking down at you. His curls are a mess. His chest rises and falls in quick little stutters, and your fingers find the hem of his undershirt, then slip beneath. His skin is warm, smooth, and he twitches when you drag your hand along his ribs.

Your legs shift, one sliding against his. The covers slip lower. His free hand trails up your side. Hesitant, at first, but when he finds the curve of your breast and cups it, you gasp—soft and startled and entirely involuntary.

He freezes, then breathes, and you watch his throat move as he murmurs, “I like that sound.”

“Well,” you blush and swallow loudly. “I liked… that.”

His thumb brushes over your nipple through the thin fabric, and the breath that leaves you this time is closer to a moan. His eyes flick to your mouth and linger. Then, shyly, he bends to kiss you again.

You let your fingers drift lower, and wrap them around the hem of his undershirt. He breaks the kiss with a gasp, and lifts his arms in wordless permission. The fabric peels away easily, and when it's off, you pause to look—Viktor’s chest is narrow, ribs visible under pale skin. One of your hands grazes his sternum, and he makes a small, helpless sound in response.

“You’re…” you begin, but it gets lost in a breath. “Beautiful.” His ears go red, and he lowers his head, but he’s smiling.

He mirrors your movement, fingertips brushing the strap of your bra, a question in his eyes. You nod, and reach back to unhook it yourself. When it slips off, Viktor stares like he’s been handed something sacred. His hands hover before he rests one gently against your side, the other cupping you carefully. The sensation makes you shiver, and when his thumb brushes your nipple again—skin to skin this time—you bite your lip.

You tug him back in for a kiss, and while your mouths meet, you shift your hips just enough for your knickers to slide down. You shimmy them off beneath the covers, kicking them away with your toes. He notices. His eyes widen.

“You too,” you whisper, smiling, and he lets out a quiet, nervous laugh.

He pushes his briefs down with both hands, wriggling a little to get them past his hips. They’re snug, but they come off, down to his toes where they tangle, and he has to kick them off. Again, you both let out breathy laughs, pressed forehead to forehead. Now there’s nothing between you. Only skin and heat and everything unknown.

Your palm traces the curve of his shoulder, gliding down his chest, where his heart beats like a second one between you. He mirrors the path, fingers grazing your hip, then your waist, learning you in slow lines and soft breaths. And then, lower.

You hold each other’s gaze when his fingers slip down, brushing through the heat between your legs. The first touch is feather-light, but it makes you tense around the sound it nearly draws from you. His jaw clenches; he swallows, focusing, adjusting, trying again—gentler, more measured.

Your hand finds him in the same moment, wrapping around him with instinct more than knowledge. The sharp breath he lets out doesn’t sound like anything you’ve heard from him before. His hand pauses. He blinks fast, lips parted, stunned by the way your touch makes him falter.

“I—I didn’t know it would feel like that,” he says quietly, wonder bleeding into each word. Your thumb brushes over him and his hips jump. His forehead touches yours, and he whispers, "I might not last that long."

“I don’t mind,” you confess, breath caught.

You’re both still breathing each other in when Viktor shifts, propped on one elbow, looking down at you with flushed cheeks and hesitant eyes. “I… I’ve been reading,” he says, and his voice is so small you almost miss it.

You blink at him, trying not to smile. “Reading?”

He nods. “About this. About how—it might hurt. For you.”

The smile breaks through anyway, teasing, gentle. “Were there diagrams or something?”

The tips of his ears go crimson. “Maybe.”

You laugh under your breath, and it seems to give him courage. His gaze flickers across your face. “Will you let me try something?”

You nod, already breathless at the tenderness in his voice. “Yes.”

His hand glides down your belly, careful and warm, until he’s cupping you again. You’re already soft and slick, the trust between you easing the way, and when the tip of his finger begins to press inside, your body welcomes him with a gasp.

“You’re…” he murmurs, eyes wide in awe. “You’re so soft.”

His voice makes your toes curl. He moves slowly, watching your face the entire time, his brows drawing together in concentration as he slips in deeper, then adds another finger, and you arch at the stretch.

Your hand tightens instinctively around his cock—still warm and heavy in your palm—and the reaction is immediate. Viktor gasps, hips twitching toward you, and then he whimpers, “I beg you, don’t distract me.”

You giggle, trying to find your composure. “Forgive my manners,” you manage, mock-polite, but your voice cracks as his fingers curl just so. “Oh—”

His expression softens into something closer to wonder. “Is that alright?”

You nod, panting. “Yeah. Better than alright.”

“Good,” he says, with so much focus it almost makes you laugh again—if you weren’t so full of feeling. “You’re doing so well.”

“You too,” you whisper, and you mean it. Every moment is something you didn’t know you’d treasure. Every breath from him, every careful touch, feels like something precious.

Viktor’s fingers move again, slowly, curling as if he’s trying to memorise you by feel alone. Your hips twitch, and your head falls back against the pillow, lips parted. It isn’t overwhelming, not yet—but it’s building. Warming. Like a fire catching at the edges.

“I like how you feel,” he says suddenly, shyly, as though he’s admitting something shameful. “Inside. Around me.” Your throat tightens. There’s something about his voice—equal parts reverent and surprised, like he can’t believe you’re letting him do this.

“You can—keep going,” you breathe. “It feels really good.”

His lips brush the ball of your shoulder. “Tell me if it stops feeling good. Please.”

“I will.” You smile, lifting your hand to brush his fringe aside, fingers sweeping through soft hair. “You’re already being perfect.”

That makes him fluster, his fingers faltering for just a moment before resuming. He adds a tiny twist to the motion, and the sound that leaves you is unguarded. “Viktor—”

“I like that sound too,” he says, grinning, and then ducks his head to hide it against your shoulder.

You both giggle quietly, your bodies trembling with nerves and affection and something deeper that you’re only beginning to name. Then, he kisses your neck. “Can I try something else?”

You hum and nod, nearly absent and his thumb shifts to stroke you in slow, tentative circles while his fingers stay deep, coaxing the pleasure higher. You cling to his shoulders, skin hot under your palms. It feels good—careful, considered. It’s not polished or practised, but it’s full of kindness, full of him.

And when your hips roll up without thinking, chasing the rhythm, Viktor breathes a shaky “Yes,” into the hollow beneath your ear, like your response gives him permission to keep going. You feel yourself starting to tighten around him, fluttering.

“Gods,” you whisper. “You’re so good.”

“You too,” he says, kissing your cheek, breath ragged now. “You feel… you feel amazing.” His hand has you, fingers deep, careful, as his thumb circles around you slowly. You can feel yourself tipping—your legs tense, your thighs pressing closer around his palm. It's all so much: the warmth of his body against yours, the way he keeps watching your face like he’s afraid to miss even a flicker of feeling.

Your breath catches. “Viktor—”

“I’ve got you,” he whispers. “Let go if you want to.”

One permission is enough for you, and with a soft gasp, you do let go. It rolls through you slowly at first—warmth blooming outward, your muscles clenching around his fingers as your hips jerk. Your breath forms a sound that might be a moan, might be his name. He holds still inside you, except for the slow strokes of his thumb, drawing it out, waiting until your body begins to tremble and soften again. Only then does he carefully slip his hand free.

You’re blinking up at him through the haze, breathless, glowing from within. “You—”

“Did I hurt you?” His brow is furrowed. “Was that alright?”

“It was—” You laugh, dazed. “It was incredible. I think I forgot my name.”

He blushes, his chest rising and falling with shallow breath. You pull him closer, pressing your mouth to his, lazy and grateful. When your hand finds him again, he shudders violently. “You’re so hard,” you murmur against his lips.

He nods, almost sheepish. “Since the beginning.”

Your fingers close around him, and he gasps, hips twitching forward despite himself. He hides his face in the crook of your neck, panting.

“Do you want—?” you begin, but he interrupts with a desperate little sound.

“Gods, yes.” He lifts his head, eyes wide and earnest, “I really, really want to.”

You kiss him again. “Then come here.”

You watch as Viktor reaches behind him, fumbling for where his trousers lay crumpled near the edge of the bed. His hand disappears into the pocket and comes back holding a small, square packet. He blushes when he sees you looking, sheepish. “I, um… thought maybe.”

You smile. “I’m glad you did.” You help him tear it open, hands brushing. There’s a stutter in his breath as he rolls it on, careful and methodical, brows drawn in focus like he’s solving a delicate matter. His fingers tremble.

When he’s done, he looks at you—truly looks. His hair is messy from your hands, lips swollen from your kisses, his whole expression open and tender. “Are you ready?”

You nod, guiding him forward with your hands on his hips, your legs parting to welcome him in. He steadies himself on his forearms, nose brushing yours. “Tell me if I do anything wrong,” he whispers. “I’ve never—”

“You’re perfect,” you whisper back. “I want you.”

He lines himself up, the tip brushing where you're soft and slick. The sensation draws a sharp breath from both of you. And then, slowly, he begins to press inside.

It’s careful, hesitant, and overwhelming—tight and unfamiliar and so incredibly intimate. He gasps, pausing halfway with his eyes fluttering shut. “Oh—God.”

Your hands are on his back, one tracing the line of his spine. “You’re okay,” you whisper. “You’re doing so well.”

He presses the rest of the way in, shallow and shaking, his body curled over yours like he’s trying to disappear into the moment, or maybe into you. For a few seconds, he doesn’t move. He just breathes, and you are grateful for this time to adjust. You feel the warmth of his chest against yours, his heart racing in time with your own.

“It’s—” he starts, then breaks off with a soft, overwhelmed laugh. “You are so good.” You cup his face, unable to say anything. When he finally starts to move, it’s slow and stuttering. He’s trying so hard to hold on, eyes glazed, mouth parted. You kiss his cheek, his jaw, his temple—anchoring him.

“I certainly won’t last,” he confesses, voice breaking. “You feel so—”

“It’s okay.” Your hand slides to the nape of his neck, thumb brushing his hair. “I don’t mind.”

His hips rock a little faster, the rhythm unsteady but full of feeling. Each thrust draws a soft whimper from him, a breathy moan from you. He buries his face against your shoulder, breath heavy. When he comes, it’s with a quiet gasp, his whole body tensing and then melting against you. He clings, arms tight around you like he’s afraid to let go.

You lie there, tangled together in the hush that follows. Eventually, he lifts his head, eyes searching yours. “Did I…?”

You smile and kiss him. “You were wonderful.”

He exhales, dazed and a little teary. “You make me feel like I could do anything.”

“You can,” you say suddenly all serious and Viktor blushes differently this time. His face blushes and his ears, but you are certain his heart does too. He rolls of you, limbs lose and boneless, and pulls you close, arms wrapping snugly around your shoulders until there is space big enough only for you to breathe each other in. Legs tangled and fingers twisted in another’s hair you lay sunken in the sheets. The room quiets around you, and neither of you knows if this was so big only because you don’t know any bigger—but you choose to take it as it is: humbling.

[ozzgin]

How would the yokai harem react to you talking about a manipulative ex? content: gender neutral reader x various demons

Murasaki will silently listen to your rant with the same flat expression he always wears. Or was that a grimace you just spotted? Upon further inspection, he does seem more annoyed than usual. “At least you had the brain to walk away, I suppose,” he says with a huff. It doesn’t surprise him much, in all honesty; humans aren’t exactly known for their awareness, and you’re a particularly naïve one. He places a hand on your head and gives you a swift ruffle. Christ, you’re hopeless. Thankfully you won’t have to deal with that anymore, not under his watch. Had this happened in his presence, the offender would’ve been sliced in half.

Kiritsubo is very vocal throughout your retelling. They did what?! He’s so upset on your behalf, cheeks flushed and puffed up with indignance. After clarifying some details to him, you discover that the yokai is rather...oblivious himself. Good Lord, he would’ve fallen for it even harder. He pats his sword and declares he won’t ever allow it to happen again. You can’t help but chuckle at his confidence. Indeed, you might have to help him a little in recognizing the danger. You appreciate his good intentions, nonetheless.

Suma approaches your story with a very positive outlook, which is very much like him. With a laugh, he pats your back and praises you. “It’s a hard lesson, but a lesson still. Humans and demons are difficult creatures, eh? You can’t always read them, nor can you tell their intentions. To be aware of this and continue living with an open heart means you’re brave, not gullible.” That’s just the way things are. We get hurt and we learn from it. He’s proud of you for being here despite everything. “That’s not to say you have to deal with it alone,” he adds with a cheeky smile. “Let me know about it next time it happens, alright?”

Yuugiri is very unbothered, nodding along with a smile. Oh, you recognize that grin. A cold shiver runs down your spine as you realize your mistake. The serpent yokai is exceptionally vengeful, especially when it comes to you. Your ex-partner has now become a target for unknown terrors. Somewhere, sometime in the future, they will suffer. Yuugiri will make sure of it. No one messes with his precious little human and comes out unscathed. Oh, to think they took advantage of your innocence! Of course you’re easily manipulated, but it’s a gift that must be appreciated, not abused. He should be the only one with the privilege of...influencing you every now and then.

Sakaki scribbles in his sketchbook while listening to your rant. Truth be told, you’re not expecting much from him. He’ll probably tell you that it is indeed in the nature of most humans to be this devious, and misery is inescapable. Suffering is but an eternal part of life, from which only Death can free us. Gosh, you’ve been hanging out way too much with this gloom-ridden artist. You finally glance over his shoulder and notice the intricate pentagram. “It’s a curse,” he says with a flat smile. “I just need to find the guy, and then...heh. It’s not the poetic kind of agony, that’s for sure.” You’re his only source of happiness and hope, after all. There’s no way in Hell he’d ever allow anyone to interfere with it.

Sekiya is very similar to Kiritsubo in his reaction. His face begins to twist through a range of emotions. You know him so well, at this point, that you can already guess the stages of grief crossing his mind: he’d never treat you that way, and if someone else was to dare, he’d...he’d deal with them, right? Could a weakling like him even manage? Come, now, he’s still a yokai several ranks above the regular demons. Can he prove it to you, however? You stop his thoughts before they go any further, taking his hand in yours. “You’ll take care of me, right,” you ask. His eyes widen and his chest involuntarily swells up with pride. “Of course,” he barks loudly. Oh, to think you’d put your faith in him like that! He’s drunk with delight.

[billionairebratenergy]

Wherever You Are, I’ll Be

 Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: He needs your touch like air, anchoring himself to you in every room, every moment, his hand always finding your skin as if you’d vanish otherwise.

Bucky Barnes had never known softness until you.

Not in the silk of a Sunday morning when the world hadn’t woken up yet. Not in the brush of a hand against the small of his back while he cooked eggs. Not in the way someone would instinctively lean into him instead of away. But now? He needed it like breath. Like blood in his veins.

He needed you.

And more specifically, he needed to feel you.

Your thigh draped over his on the couch. Your pinky finger curled into his when you walked through the city. His hand on the curve of your waist while you brushed your teeth, and the comforting press of your calf against his in bed. Even now—his arm lay lazily around your shoulders as you laughed at something Sam was saying across the room.

But Bucky wasn’t listening.

He was watching your profile. The way your lips tilted up at the corners. The crinkle beside your eyes. And, maybe more urgently, the way a man had just walked up to you from behind and tapped your shoulder like he’d known you for years.

And Bucky—without thinking—tightened his grip.

His vibranium fingers flexed slightly on your arm. A grounding pressure. Subtle, but unmistakable. You didn’t even glance at him, just reached over your shoulder and rubbed your thumb across his knuckles as if you knew exactly what that little squeeze meant.

You did know.

-

He never liked when people approached out of nowhere. Not when it was you. Not when he was already two seconds from spiraling.

“Sorry,” the guy was saying. “Are you Y/N? From the Stark internship program?”

You blinked, tilting your head. “Yeah… That was years ago.”

“I thought so,” the stranger smiled. “I recognized you. You did a seminar on AI ethics, right? I was in the audience.”

“Oh, wow,” you said, ever polite, while Bucky’s jaw tensed beside you. “That’s a blast from the past.”

He had the gall to laugh, too charming for someone standing way too close.

Bucky’s hand slid from your shoulder to your waist.

Not just touching now. Holding.

He kept his eyes locked on the guy, his chin barely tilted up. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to.

And sure enough, after another thirty seconds of awkward small talk, the guy politely excused himself and walked off—leaving behind the heat of Bucky’s jealousy simmering in his chest.

You turned to look at him.

“I wasn’t going to walk away from you,” you whispered gently, your hand coming up to cup his cheek.

“I know,” he muttered, eyes dark. “But it feels like you might.”

Your brows softened. “Buck…”

“Every time someone walks up to you, I think they’ll take you. I know it’s stupid. I know you love me. But the part of me that lived through losing everything…” He swallowed hard. “That part doesn’t trust anything.”

You traced your fingers along his jawline. “Then let me show you. Every day. In every way.”

He looked at you like you’d just promised to rebuild him.

Because you had.

Later that night, he didn’t let you go once.

You brushed your teeth with his arm slung low around your hips. He undressed you with both hands on your waist like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go. And when you crawled into bed, he pressed his forehead against yours, breathing you in like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

“Don’t leave the bed before me,” he murmured, his voice sleep-heavy.

“Even for coffee?” you teased.

He opened one eye. “I’ll get it for you. Just stay.”

You did.

And the next morning, when sunlight peeked through the curtains, Bucky was already awake.

He hadn’t moved. His hand was resting against your bare thigh. The metal one cradled your ribs under the blanket. Protective. Possessive. Gentle.

“Morning,” you whispered.

His lips curved softly. “Still here?”

“Always.”

Throughout the day, it was more of the same.

Bucky on your hip at the grocery store. His thumb stroking circles over your back while you chose tomatoes. He kissed your temple in the aisle, not because he needed to—but because he had to. Because the warmth of your skin beneath his lips told him this was real.

He didn’t speak much in public. Never had. But the world quieted around him when you were near. And he knew—knew—if he just kept one hand on you, he’d never lose you.

At the Tower, Sam clocked the way Bucky’s hand kept drifting. To your lower back. The nape of your neck. Your shoulder.

“You two glued together now?” Sam teased as he passed by.

Bucky didn’t respond. He just shifted slightly closer to you.

You smiled, not even trying to move away.

“Jealous?” you called after Sam.

Sam huffed a laugh but didn’t reply.

Bucky’s hand slid lower, resting on your hip bone as if claiming you in silence.

And for all his posturing—for all the brooding and quiet sulking—when the door finally closed and you were alone, the first thing Bucky did was pull you into his chest and whisper, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For staying.”

You looked up at him, brushing a hand across his chest.

“I’m not going anywhere, James,” you said, voice steady. “Even if someone offered me the world.”

He kissed you like it broke him to believe that.

That night, after making love slow and reverent and full of whispered promises, Bucky tucked his head into your neck.

You ran your fingers through his hair, gentle and rhythmic.

His voice was barely audible when he spoke.

“Sometimes I think you’ll wake up and remember you could have anyone. And that you’ll leave.”

You pulled back, cupping his face so he had to look at you.

“I already have everyone I want,” you said. “He has blue eyes, a vibranium arm, and the softest damn heart I’ve ever seen.”

He blinked fast.

“Touch me,” he rasped.

You leaned forward, brushing your nose to his. “I already am.”

“No,” he said. “Always.”

And he meant it.

Because to Bucky Barnes, touch wasn’t just a way to connect.

It was a promise.

A silent vow that he wasn’t alone.

That this time, the people he loved—you—weren’t going to be ripped away.

And you, with your arms around him, legs tangled with his, fingertips dancing over his ribs, you were keeping that promise.

One touch at a time.

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[hauntedhokage]

𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗒 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀

Dante/F!Reader

word count: 1k

warnings: somno & dry humping

He was cute when he slept. 

Eyes closed and body still, Dante was the picture of peace. Mostly your peace, since he was much easier to deal with when he was asleep. 

No winking or eyebrow wagging in your direction, no objectifying or snarky comment inviting your hand to smack the smirk off his face. But even as he slept, the pervert still had a handful of your ass to keep you close.

“Just bein’ protective, baby,” was such a stupid excuse but you let him get away with it because that stupid little smirk was impossible to deny. You also would not deny yourself how nice it felt to be held onto and savored by a man like him. A good man, through all his flaws and vices he had twice as many virtues and you did care for him through it all just as deeply as he cared for you. 

This was why you let him sleep. There was always another client, another demon, another problem, but right now he needed the rest more than he needed the additional work — and he knew that.

The semi poking at your thigh pulls your focus from his sleeping face, and your hand carefully travels down the planes of his solid torso down to the waistband of his briefs. A groan tumbles through his parted lips when your hand slides over the growing bulge but your movements don’t falter, as the end result would be the same whether or not he woke up — this was Dante, after all. 

A squeeze and he shifts but doesn’t wake up, not even when you try to free yourself from the arm keeping you pressed to his side. The handful of ass was not getting released, so you have to make do with what you’ve got. 

Your leg hooks over his hip, bringing your still covered mound to rest against his bulge. Later you’d get him to rail you through another mattress, right now you just wanted him to get off without having to do anything. You opt for a slow roll of your hips to truly test the depth of Dante’s sleep, and are satisfied when he doesn’t falter in his breathing. No movement, no reaction, just continued peaceful slumber — which was exactly what you wanted. 

His cock grows harder with every roll against it, a couple mumbles and groans tumbling from those pretty parted lips. The split that he went to bed with had healed nicely in the last few hours, and that has you smiling as your thumb traces over his bottom lip. 

“Baby.” His low grumble is quieted by your lips meeting his, coaxing your still dreaming lover into as effective of a kiss that you can manage. The hand holding you grips tighter, his fingertips digging into the plush of your ass to keep you closer as his own hips roll into yours. His dreams were obviously sweet, a mumble of your name against your lips proving that he was dreaming of you, making your chest swell and panties dampen with the way his voice sent a shiver down your spine. 

“Dante,” you whisper, bringing your hand up to push the thick white hair out of his face. There’s a tick in his jaw, his lip trembling as if he was trying to fight a smile, and you know you’ve caught him. “You can stop faking.”

The grin breaks through, one blue eye cracking open to assess your mood as he says “Was only fakin’ for a minute.” 

“But since you’re up you can finish yourself off, right?”

The answer comes with Dante rolling you onto your back so he could settle properly between your legs. You bring your legs up and around his waist, your arms following suit around his shoulders to keep him as close as possible while he humps into you with little pants being exchanged between you until he seals them off with a lazy kiss. It’s sloppy, teeth and tongue clashing but unbothered as you lose yourselves in each other during this early morning affair.

A string of saliva keeps your lips connected to his when he pulls away, broken only by his heavy pants as he tries to prolong his end. But you didn’t want him to try to last, uninterested in any show of bravado that usually came out of the demon hunter you called a lover – you just wanted to take care of him after he spent the night taking care of the rest of the world. 

“C’mon Dante,” you coo, your voice a soft whisper in his ear that sends a shiver down his spine. “Cum for me.”

“Not very gentlemanly of me, honey.”

“Didn’t ask for a gentleman,” you retort, licking your lips with a smirk of your own as he lets out a huff. “I told you to cum.”

He doesn’t seem to accept your reassurance, and you know being given an order did some conflicting things to his cock and his attitude – but you also know what he needed and were determined to give it to him without delay. Your hands move from over his shoulders, up his neck until they’re holding his face to keep his attention on you. Those bright blue eyes seemed to glow with his desire, his hands gripping your thighs tighter to keep you in place and gain some fraction of control over the situation despite the fact that he knew you had it. 

“Make a mess, babe, you deserve it.”

His head drops into your bosom, kissing the skin exposed by your tank top. His groans of pleasure are first muffled by your skin, only to be further drowned out by your pained yelp when he bites into your breast as he releases into his briefs.

“Baby, princess, darling,” he mumbles, looking up at you through white lashes as he kisses around the mark he’d left. “I’ll take care of you later, promise.”

And you know he’s good for it, Dante was always good for it. 

[cherry-zip]

─ • CSC .ᐟ Heaven

› content ┆ Choi Seungcheol x fem reader ⊹ genre .ᐟ smut and cute ending ✎ word-count ┆ 3,2k. ⌁ summary ┆perhaps rambling about how hot Taemin was during his concert isn't such a bad idea when you're dating Seungcheol. ⨯ content warning .ᐟ smut with a little plot, jealous cheo (good way), penetrative sex, unprotected sex, oral (fem receiving), coming inside, light bondage, light choking, coming inside.

✧ feedback & reblog are highly appreciated! › minor do not interact, you will be blocked

The concert was everything you’d dreamed of and more. Taemin’s voice echoed through the arena, powerful and mesmerizing, and his dancing—god, his dancing, was nothing short of breathtaking. Every move was sharp, precise, and dripping with charisma. You couldn’t tear your eyes away from the stage, your lightstick waving wildly in sync with the crowd. By the time the final encore ended, your throat was raw from screaming, your eyes were red from crying at how unbelievable he was, and your cheeks hurt from smiling so much. Getting to witness his talent in front of your eyes felt almost unreal.

As you made your way home, adrenaline still coursed through your veins; you couldn’t wait to tell Seungcheol all about it. You had been excited about the concert all week, talking nonstop about how much you loved Taemin’s music and how you couldn’t wait to see him perform live. Seungcheol had smiled and nodded along, but you knew that deep down, he couldn’t help but feel a little… insecure. Not that he would ever admit it out loud. But he had been so sweet earlier, listening to you gush while helping you get ready, even though you knew he wasn’t exactly Taemin’s biggest fan—for boyfriend reasons. But that was one of the things you loved about him—he always supported you, even when it came to your slightly obsessive fangirling.

When you finally unlocked the door to your apartment, still clutching the lightstick to your chest, you were greeted by the soft glow of the living room lights. Seungcheol was lounging on the couch, phone in hand, looking effortlessly handsome in his oversized t-shirt and sweatpants. He glanced up as you walked in, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“Hey,” he said, his voice warm and familiar. “How was the concert?”

You dropped your bag by the door and practically floated over to him, your excitement bubbling over. “Oh my god, Seungcheol, it was incredible. Taemin is just… ugh, he’s so perfect. His dancing? His stage presence? His voice? I feel like I died and came back to life. I might actually be in love!”

You expected him to laugh or tease you like he usually did, but instead, his smile faltered for a split second before recovering, forcing a chuckle. “That good, huh?”

“The best!” you gushed, pulling out your phone. “You have to see the videos I took. He did this move during ‘Heaven’ where he—okay, just watch.” You leaned closer, holding your phone up so he could see the screen.

Seungcheol watched the video with a neutral expression, though you noticed his jaw tighten slightly as you narrated every move. “Wow,” he said when it ended, his tone dry. “He’s… really flexible.”

You laughed, completely missing the edge in his voice. “Right? His arms, his hips, and his abs—oh my god, don’t even get me started. I mean, I know you work out and everything, but Taemin is just on another level.”

Seungcheol raised an eyebrow, his smile now firmly in place, though his eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “Is that so?”

You nodded enthusiastically, still scrolling through your photos. “Yeah, like, I didn’t think it was possible for someone to be that cute, hot, and talented at the same time. It’s not fair!”

He leaned back against the sofa, staring at your face as he crossed his arms over his chest, looking serious. “Sounds like I need to step up my game.”

You finally looked up, catching the hint of jealousy in his tone. “Aw, are you jealous?” you teased, poking the dimpled cheek you adored. “Don’t worry, babe. You’re still my number one.”

“Am I now?” he asked, his voice low and playful, though there was a darker edge beneath the surface. “Because it sounds like Taemin might be stealing my spot.”

You laughed, leaning into him. “Never. You’re my Seungcheol. No one could ever replace you.”

He hummed, seemingly satisfied, but the glint in his eyes told you he wasn’t quite done. Grabbing your chin so you had to look at him closely, he murmured, “Good. Because I think you need a reminder of who you belong to.”

Before you could respond, he grabbed your waist and pulled you onto his lap, his hands firm against your hips. You squealed in surprise, dropping your phone on your lap as he leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear. “You’re mine,” he murmured, his voice sending shivers down your spine. “And I think it’s time you forget all about Taemin and only remember my name.”

You giggled, trying to squirm away, but his grip was unyielding. “Seungcheol, I was just kidding! You know you’re the only one for me.”

“Do I now?” he asked, his tone teasing but edged with something that made your breath hitch. “Because you were talking an awful lot about someone else’s abs.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he cut you off with a searing kiss, his hands sliding up your back to tangle in your hair. When he finally pulled away, you were breathless, your cheeks flushed for an entirely different reason.

“Seungcheol…” you started, but he silenced you with another kiss, this one deeper and more demanding.

His tongue explored every corner of your mouth, playfully pulling out your own tongue and soothing every bite he gave to your bottom lip. He broke the kiss again, tugging your hair back so he could look at you—straddling him, flushed and beautiful. He loved seeing you like this, all completely wrecked for him. 

“Fuck, baby, you look so hot in this outfit. I can’t believe I let anyone else see you like this,” he muttered, pressing a sweet kiss to your forehead. 

“Gonna remind you why you’re mine tonight. I don’t want to hear his name again,” he said, his voice rough as he trailed kisses down your neck, making you shiver. “From now on, the only name you’ll be screaming is mine.”

You can’t help but whine. He knew how much his words affected you. He knew everything about you. He was confident when it came to understanding every inch of your body: how it looked, how it felt, how it tasted, how it reacted to his teasing. Tonight was just another example of you falling deeper under his spell, trapped in a hold you never really wanted to escape. And… you couldn’t help but love it.

He groaned deeply at your whine, sucking at your neck, leaving marks for everyone to see. He lifted his head to grab your thighs,picking you up as if you weighed nothing. Instinctively, you wrapped your legs around his hips, clinging to him as his lips found yours again—knowing damn well you were about to protest with a breathless “I’m too heavy.”

“I’m strong enough”, he growled against your lips. 

He was right, you knew he was strong. Staring at his arms or his shoulders became a hobby of yours over time— especially when he was walking around shirtless at home, coming out of the shower, or even wearing one of those tight compression shirts you adored. He was working out to please himself and because he loves seeing you try to hide, secretly looking at his body without him looking. His ego felt good.

With ease, he starts walking up the stairs leading to your room. Unable to help himself, he gets carried away in you, having to stop and press your body against the wall, his kisses deeper than ever, travelling from your mouth down your neck. One harsh bite near your collarbone had you letting out a louder scream. He’s fueled by the desire to remind you that you belong to him. His kisses are getting faster, harsher than ever, his tongue wetting your skin with open-mouth kisses, the grip on your thighs tightening.

You honestly could not remember the last time you felt this wet, this good, this needy for more than kisses. All your thoughts and memories of the night flew out of your head—the only thing that mattered in that moment was Seungcheol and how you needed him more than ever.

You moan for more while he continues to attack your collarbones. He wasn’t gonna deprive you of your needs… even when being punished.

He continues to walk down the hallway, only stopping in front of your bedroom to open it - slamming it shut after entering. He drops you on the bed and starts undressing you, holding your wrists above your head with one hand, leaving kisses and bites all over your body. You're left at his mercy once your clothes are scattered around the room. He snatches a random tie of his from the closet and ties your wrists up to the bed frame. You couldn’t do anything, touch him, pull his hair, scratch his back, hold his biceps. You were only going to be able to scream his name tonight. 

Seungcheol looks down at you, smirking at what he is planning for you inside his head. The way he looked at you made you feel good inside your stomach; just his eyes on you could boost your confidence. Right now, it was a little bit different, you were so needy for him, you wanted him.

“Cheol, please, touch me.” You breathed out. However, he quickly shushed you and went down on your body, leaving kisses on his way between your legs. Grabbing your legs, he spread them apart, kissed the inside of your thighs while looking up to see your reactions. He loved seeing you close your eyes to savour this feeling, breathing heavier in anticipation. He couldn’t help but smile as he kissed and licked your pussy.

“Cheol- ah fuck.” Your back arched from the bed, your hips bucking into his mouth as his tongue entered your pussy. Rapidly increasing the speed of his movement inside you, his thumb found your clit. He was pressing and circling it just the way he knew would push you closer to the edge. 

“I’m so close, please don’t stop - please.” He sucks and licks harder at your inside, then everything stops. Seungcheol gets up from between your legs, licking his lips from your juice, smirking, watching you groan and squirming in need of release. 

“You really think I’m gonna let you come that easily?” Seungcheol sucks roughly on the hickey he placed above one of your nipples, biting into it making you moan in pleasure. “Want to cum so badly baby? You know how it is when you’re being punished.. Unless, do you still want Taemin ?”

“No,.. not Taemin. Just you, you, I want you.” You breathed out quickly, his face in your neck, his soft hair tickling your sensitive skin..

“You sure, baby? You seemed pretty excited about him just now.. Was I mistaken, or did something change your mind?” His fingers back to playing with your pussy, circling your clit with his thumb as two fingers slipped back into your hole. Moaning and dropping your head back as he moves his fingers inside you. Seungcheol groans against your neck as he feels your walls squeeze around his fingers. His dick was growing inside his grey sweatpants just from hearing you, the sounds you’re making was music to his ears. His fingers set a fast pace to drag you close to the edge again.

“Please ch-cheol. I’m sorry please - please fuck me.” You were desperate to come at this point, tears were forming in your eyes. Of course, Seungcheol couldn’t help but be satisfied, watching you stare at his face, mouth open, and glossy eyes. He wanted to make you forget about Taemin, and he did.

“Do you deserve it, baby ?” His smirk never leaves his face as he caresses your cheek with his other hand.

“YES! Please, yes, yes, yes! Cheol, I’m begging you.”

His gaze locked with yours—loving,  for just a moment–he felt so lucky to have you. He slipped his fingers out of you and untied your wrists, kissing each of them before turning you over onto your stomach. 

“On all fours, baby,” he demanded, tapping your hips and making room for you to undress. He unbuckled his belt and pants, throwing them across the room while you patiently waited on your knees with your ass on full display. You were growing impatient, swaying your ass in front of him, earning a firm slap for you to calm down. You could feel the mattress sink as Seungcheol positioned himself behind you, gripping your waist, dragging you closer to him. 

You knew he was smirking when you felt him tease your cunt with the tip of his cock, and it only grew wider when you whined for more. He continued teasing you, slowly pushing until he settled deep inside of you., resting for a moment, groaning as you squeezed around him - he was so big, you felt so full. He slowly slides out of you before gripping your waist tighter, thrusting into you without any warning. You moaned for more, needed more, you wanted him to move and almost destroy you from the inside. 

“Please, Cheol.. Harder”, he didn't say anything and simply chose to act. His thrusts were aggressive and deep. Your hands are holding on to the bed sheets to keep steady, gripping as he fucked you as hard as he could. You asked for it– from your behaviour and words– and he was delivering it all. Your hips matched his rhythm, meeting him in the middle of his thrusts, causing Seungcheol to groan at each thrust.

Your insides were twitching around him, which was hinting that your high was close. He knew you were close, and you honestly thought he was going to close down again, teasing you until the end, but you were so wrong. He slides out of you to turn you around so he could see your fucked out face. He thrusted deep into you, you threw your head back as your eyes rolled back. He loved seeing your reactions, his hand came to wrap around your throat, slightly squeezing it for you to look at him. Satisfied to see you look at him, mouth open, whining his name - he began to fuck you harder than before. His dick so big inside of you, none stop kissing that special spot of yours, pushing you further to the edge.

“Fuck, I’m so close,” you told him, breath heavy.

“Seungcheol! I’m gonna cum, cheol..” you were panting but you got no answers. He didn’t seem to stop either, he kept his thrust inside of you steady.

“I’m not going to stop fucking your pretty pussy just yet. I’ll keep on going until I get to cum. I told you, I’ll make you remember only my name. You might as well scream it so loud even the neighbours know my name.” his grip on your throat was tighter, he meant every word he said. He didn't stop his movements, as if it was possible, he got rougher, making you come on the spot, and he kept going. 

You were completely fucked out for him, he was using you, making you his. You chanted his name over and over again, not growing tired of saying it. He won this time. 

Seungcheol’s groans got louder and louder. He called your name as his grip on your throat and waist tightened. He was on the edge of coming.

“Do you want me to come inside your pussy or no? Do you deserve it?” He asked, even throwing some more teasing as he was close to coming.

“Inside, I want you inside–please.”

And then, it hits you–you both came undone, hard, his trust deep, and stopped all his movements. You could feel your inside getting filled by his hot cum, coming so much your inside felt full. He pulled out of you smiling at himself to admire his work of art, his cum dripping out of you. He caressed your body, calming you as you came down from your high. This orgasm felt so good, your breath heavy as you watched him admire you, his eyes were full of love.

“Maybe I should make you jealous more often, it looks good on you”, you laughed at him and pulled him by the neck to kiss him on the lips.

“Shut up, I’m not jealous.” He had no reason to be; you were his, but you loved seeing him jealous regardless. You felt love.

The apartment was quiet again, the only sound you could hear was the soft rustling of sheets and mingled breaths. You lay curled against Seungcheol’s chest, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on his skin. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his arms tightening around you.

“So,” he said after a long moment, his voice casual but with a hint of amusement. “Still thinking about Taemin?”

You laughed, slapping his chest lightly. “Not even a little. You made sure of that.”

“Good,” he said, a satisfied smirk tugging at his lips. “Just remember—you’re mine.”

“Always,” you replied, snuggling closer. “But just so you know, I’m totally going to his next concert.”

Seungcheol groaned, burying his face in your hair. “You’re impossible.”

You giggled, pressing a kiss to his chest. “And you’re jealous. But don’t worry—I’ll always come home to you.”

“You better,” he muttered, though there was no real heat behind his words. “Or I’ll have to remind you again.”

You smiled, your eyes drifting shut. “I’m counting on it.”

You woke up to the smell of coffee and the sound of Seungcheol humming in the kitchen. You stretched lazily, your body was sore, but you wore a contented smile on your face as you remembered the events of the previous night. Seungcheol had definitely made his point, and you couldn’t help but feel a little smug about it.

You padded into the kitchen, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind. “Morning,” you murmured, pressing a kiss to his shirtless back.

“Morning,” he replied, turning around to kiss you properly. “Sleep well?”

“Like a baby,” you said with a grin. “Thanks to you.”

He smirked, handing you a cup of coffee. “Good. Just remember who’s responsible for that.”

You rolled your eyes, taking a sip of the coffee. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“Maybe,” he said, leaning against the counter. “But you love me anyway.”

“I do,” you admitted, smiling up at him. “Even if you are a little jealous.”

He raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening. “Jealous? Me? Never.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Sure, Seungcheol. Whatever you say.”

He pulled you closer, his expression turning serious for a moment. “Just remember—you’re mine. No matter how many concerts you go to.”

You nodded, your heart swelling with affection. “I know. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

✧ feedback & reblog are highly appreciated! › anonymous review form & join my taglist

@ credits┆big big thank you @kyeomofhearts for beta reading & @kwanisms for the help on the banner vibe ☆彡

☘︎ taglist: @zozojella, @shinysobi, @kyeomofhearts, @codeinebelle, @eclipsaria, @nerdycheol

‧₊ ᵎᵎ “CHERRY.zip" 🍒 ⋅ ˚✮

[pukefactory]

•☽────✧˖°˖ HIGH FASHION ˖°˖✧────☾•

(COMMISSION)

★ Summary: A Compilation Of Headcanons Featuring Salesperson ENA As Your Roomate

★ Commissioner: @mrs-potatocat

★ Character(s): Salesperson ENA (ENA: Dream BBQ)

★ Genre: Headcanons, SFW

★ Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

★ Image Credits: @JoelG

☆ You had no idea how renting worked in Dreamland. You tried to offer ENA some rocks and a torn “coupon” for housing payment. She accepted with a businesslike handshake, then later taped the rocks to the ceiling as “mood crystals.”

☆ ENA never asked if you wanted to be roommates. She just appeared beside you one day, pointed at a wobbly house that materialized on the shore, and said, “Welcome to our entrepreneurial headquarters. Rent’s due in emotional labor.”

☆ She has a business chalkboard in the kitchen. Most mornings you wake up to her jotting things like “Goal: Catch a fish the size of despair” or “Revenue stream: sell bottled sighs.” You pretend you know what’s happening.

☆ She casually intrudes into your personal space without warning. Like popping up from your laundry hamper or pushing through your bedroom window with a megaphone: “Good morning! Q1 goals are calling!”

☆ Her moods flick like a switch. Sometimes she’ll gently ask if you want coffee with a perfect smile, and two seconds later she’s screaming into the fridge about “THE DEATH OF EGG SUPPLY CHAINS!!!”

☆ You often find her in bizarre states of “relaxation.” One time she sat criss-cross applesauce inside the washing machine because “I need to rotate my anxieties evenly.”

☆ Nighttime is when she gets weirdly vulnerable. Laying on the couch, hat slipping off her head, murmuring to herself things like “Some days… I wish I was just static noise,” before immediately snapping back to pitch you a “start-up idea.”

☆ Despite her chaos, she’s quietly protective. If any other Dreamland entity so much as looks at you funny, ENA’s already intercepting with a sales-pitch so aggressive it borders on threat: “Would you like to invest in a lifetime supply of BACK OFF?”

☆ Sharing the same roof means learning her tics. Like how her Meanie side can’t fall asleep unless the window is cracked open exactly 2.3 inches, or how her red side won’t eat unless you pretend it’s “closing a business deal” over toast.

☆ Slowly, it starts feeling less like survival and more like home. Not because the house is stable (it isn’t) or because ENA is easy to live with (she’s not), but because somehow… you fit here. Like two missing puzzle pieces accidentally jammed into the wrong box.

When You And ENA Are Dating:

☆ ENA immediately made a PowerPoint presentation about it. Titled: “Reasons Why Dating Me is a Fiscal and Emotional Investment.” It included bullet points like ‘frequent hugs’ and ‘unlicensed emotional support during catastrophic events.’

☆ She keeps treating “dates” like business trips. “Thank you for accompanying me on this critical mission to the ice cream stand,” she’ll say while holding your hand like it’s a formal contract.

☆ Her Meanie side gets violently flustered when you’re affectionate. The moment you kiss her cheek, she’s yelling: “STOCKS ARE CRASHING!!! MY WALLS ARE DOWN! MY WALLS ARE DOWN!!!” (while secretly melting.)

☆ At home, she’s unbearably clingy in the softest way. Following you from room to room under the pretense of “supervising home operations,” but really just wanting to lean her sharp shoulder against yours.

☆ She accidentally made you matching “Employee of the Month” badges. (“You’re the best co-founder of this messy heart company,” she said, pressing it onto your chest while you tried not to cry.)

☆ Arguments are surreal and stupidly sweet. You’ll be bickering about who left a portal open in the laundry room again, only for ENA to suddenly grab your hand mid-shout and mutter: “I’m only mad because if you fell into the sky, I’d miss you.”

☆ Her Salesperson side plans “business retreats” that are just beach days. Setting up towels like “negotiation tables” and trying to teach you how to build a sandcastle shaped like a quarterly report.

☆ Her Meanie side has a special nickname for you now. She only uses it when she’s feeling too much at once. (Something stupidly intense like “Captain Foolheart” or “Top-Grade Dreamlander.”)

☆ Some nights, you both sit on the roof together. ENA lets her hat fall to her lap, and you both watch the neon moons turn inside out. She tells you, in a voice heavy with the red side’s warmth, “I never thought I’d find someone who understands the wrong parts of me too.”

☆ Living together used to feel like a gamble. Now, it feels inevitable. Like you were both tossed into existence not to be lonely chaos, but to be…each other’s slightly broken, slightly brilliant, slightly ridiculous home.

[giantpredatorymollusk]

I appreciate this post for being the rare item to acknowledge that we did lose cool brain skills when we started using calculators and writing stuff down, even if both things probably benefited us overall. I would say that the thing that makes generative AI untrustworthy is just that it was trained on all the correct statements but also all the incorrect statements out there. Books can be wrong, but it's possible to find the good ones that contain the highest proportion of true facts. Whereas generative AI is inescapably built out of all the books, including the shitty ones.

It would actually be extremely difficult to get an AI to always refer to the Gulf of Mexico as the Gulf of America, because it's seen Gulf of Mexico in its training data so much - the best you could do is scan its output and try to find-and-replace it or shut it off if it says the wrong thing. It's hard to get generative AI to follow any consistent principles in its output, for the same reason that makes it so powerful: the sheer volume and variety of stuff that it was trained on. This also makes it bad at replacing thought: it's much, much more likely that it will repeat something that someone else already said than it is for it to come up with something original, even if the thing that someone else already said doesn't actually exactly apply.

I don't yet know if thinking for yourself will always be valuable; it may be that someday, all your most important life decisions should be double-checked using an app if you want to be sure of them. But thinking sure is still valuable now. At work, whenever someone submits code and mentions that some of it was written by AI, I can basically always go directly there and find mistakes to point out during the review, lol.

generative AI literally makes me feel like a boomer. people start talking about how it can be good to help you brainstorm ideas and i’m like oh you’re letting a computer do the hard work and thinking for you???

[silens-oro]

Well Enough Alone: Part V

Not all fics have adult content, but this blog is 18+. Andrew "Pope" Cody x f!Reader (nicknamed Hawk) Prologue Cut the Loss (companion piece) Part I Part II Chicken Hawk (companion piece) Part III Part IV Trespassing (companion piece)

Masterlist Pope Cody Playlist

General Synopsis: Things come to light Word Count: 6k Content Warning: typical Animal Kingdom warnings AN: this one is a doozy. I'm constantly kicking my feet giggling at all of the comments and messages y'all have been kind enough to leave. the chapters keep growing larger and larger because I genuinely cannot help myself. ANYWHO, Well Enough Alone was inspired by the song of the same name by Chevelle, if anyone is interested to know. It's the first song on my Pope x Hawk playlist (listed above). please comment & reblog :)

“What are those, baby?” Smurf’s non-reaction to Pope all but slamming the bottle of pills on the counter made his eye visibly twitch. Watch what she gives you, is what Hawk said, and he did just that. When Smurf caught him switching a plate with Deran that night, Smurf switched it with hers and that is when Pope knew Hawk was telling the truth. No one spoke as they ate, but Pope never took his eyes off of Smurf. He followed her into the kitchen after everyone else was done and she was picking up. That is where they were now. 

“Don’t play dumb, Smurf. You know exactly what these are.” Smurf sighed, dropping the dirty plate she was washing back into the soapy water of the sink.

“Hawk didn’t tell you about them? I told her it wasn’t a great idea, but she insisted.” Smurf busied herself in the kitchen, and the more nonchalantly she lied to Pope, the more enraged he became. He let it simmer, building like a pressure cooker. He wouldn’t erupt quite yet because he wanted to see how far Smurf would let this play out. 

“So this was Hawk’s idea?” Pope asked Smurf. He knew it wasn’t, he wasn't stupid. As much as he wanted to fully blame Hawk out of pure frustration because of a very stupid decision she made at the behest of his mother, Pope knew this wasn’t something she’d be the mastermind of. Smurf nodded, playing dumb. 

Pope knew his mother was twisted, and he'd never put it past her to throw Hawk under the bus and reverse over her, but to hear the lies spewing from her mouth only further enraged Pope. Smurf sighed and wiped her hands on a kitchen towel before leaning against the counter to give him her attention. 

“She came to me, baby. Told me she was nervous about having you in the house. I merely recommended getting you back on a dose to even things out while you adjusted to life outside of prison. You know how Hawk is -a heart of gold with skewed intentions. Has been her whole life." Smurf said as if this was his lesson to learn. "Didn’t want to make a big deal about it, and I knew it was in your best interest, so I gave her one of your old prescriptions.” Smurf explained softly to placate him. Why was she doing this? Smurf practically pushed him in Hawk's direction the second he stepped foot in the house after his release. Pope didn't like knowing something was going on, but not knowing what it was. "A lapse in judgement on my part."

“I was arrested this morning because I failed my piss test. I was held in South Bay for six hours before they released me, and thank God I was released because it’s a mandatory year sentence for breaking parole, Smurf. I was let off on a warning.” Pope hissed at her, nearing his breaking point.

“Oh, baby, I’m so sorry. I figured she’d talk to you about it, but it looks like she didn't and you've paid the price for her mistake. Guess you never really know a person, huh?” Smurf rounded the corner and tried to reach out to him so she could pull Pope into a hug, but he stopped her by picking up the bottle and throwing it past her head -just missing her by a hair. It hit a row of glasses she had on one of the many shelves lining the kitchen and the shelf shattered behind her, raining glass in a massive clash as everything tumbled down. Smurf stood there in shock, wide eyes never leaving her eldest son.

“Every pill in that bottle is accounted for, Smurf. Every fucking one. I counted them three goddamn times.” He stalked over to his mother, crowding her against the glass covered counter, and he saw the genuine fear in her eyes. “Hawk didn’t do this.” Pope sneered down at Smurf. “You did. I almost went back to prison because of you.” Baz entered the kitchen, alarmed when he heard the glass shatter from his room and stopped short when he saw the showdown between Pope and Smurf. 

“Everything good?” Baz took tentative steps forward in case he needed to separate them. 

“No, Baz. Everything is not good.” Pope turned his attention to Baz. “I’m sure you knew about the pills too?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, man.” Baz held his hands up. Another liar, Pope thought. He looked between Baz and Smurf before shaking his head and going outside to get some air. 

“What the hell just happened?” Baz looked to Smurf, but her attention was set on the sliding door. A deep frown was set on her lips and her calculating eyes shifted to Baz. 

“A minor hiccup. I had hoped he would pull her back in, but she’s pulling him further out, Baz. Talk to her.” It was an order, not a suggestion. “We need him as level headed as he can be for this job or you don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell, baby.”  

The radio silence from Pope was killing Hawk. He didn’t come back to the house for a week after he stormed out of the driveway and she hadn’t seen hide nor hair of him since. Or if he did come around, Hawk hadn’t seen him. For all she knew, he was in after she went to sleep and out before she woke up. He never left any trace of himself in her home to begin with aside from the things he kept neatly put away in the guest bedroom, as was his way -to take up as little space as possible and to go unnoticed.

Hawk didn’t have the heart to check the spare bedroom to see if his stuff was still in there. Just the thought of it being empty made her keep a wide berth from the door any time she walked past it. 

Pope screened her calls and ignored her texts altogether, and Hawk had gotten desperate enough to call Deran to see if he had seen Pope or if he was completely AWOL. 

“Yeah, he’s been around.” Deran said awkwardly, eyeing Pope as he nailed the punching bag over and over outside. “I’ll let him know you’re looking for him, Hawk.” But Hawk never heard back from Pope. All she could do was wait for him to reach out, to give her a sign of life, because he knew damn well that Hawk wouldn’t step foot at Smurf’s unless she was summoned -especially when she knew he was pissed at her. And Pope was pissed at Hawk, but he was even more furious with Smurf. 

The breeze that picked up outside gave Hawk a small respite from the oppressive end of summer heat. There was one thing that distracted her enough and kept her busy so she didn’t have to think about anything that was now out of her control -her yard. It took years of building and planting, and tedious upkeep, but all of the effort she and J put into it over the years was well worth the sight she got to see every day. Picking weeds wasn’t her favorite task to do, it was something that J -and on occasion Nicky- usually helped her with, but it needed to be done and she desperately needed the distraction. 

Hawk pulled a particularly thick weed out of her bed of beautiful, golden California Poppies when she heard the gate to her backyard creak open. Her head snapped in its direction and saw Baz letting himself into the backyard.

“Hey, stranger,” He called out with a wave, “Long time, no see.”

“What do you want, Baz?” She pulled another weed, then settled the soil back into place.

“Just coming over to check on you. Figure you’d know what’s going on with Pope.” He said with a shrug.

“Haven’t seen him in a week, so no.” She grunted as she pulled another out, tossing it onto the growing pile.

“But you know why he’s been gone?”

“Of course I know why he’s been gone, Baz. And I’m sure you do too, so stop fishing for information. If Pope didn’t directly tell you, then he doesn’t want you in his business, and if he doesn’t want you in his business, then you’re not getting anything out of me. I’ve already pissed him off enough for the foreseeable future.”

“I genuinely just wanted to make sure you were alright. He and Smurf duked it out and he uh…” 

“I’m fine.” Hawk snapped, yanking another weed from the dirt. Baz sighed, rubbing a hand over this mouth. He was the last person Hawk wanted to discuss any of this with and he was well aware of that fact, but he needed to get her comfortable. Baz squatted down to Hawk’s level, his forearms resting on his thighs while his hands were clasped together.

“He’s only punishing you because he can’t punish Smurf. You know that, right? He knows this was all her, but he can’t do anything about it, so he’s taking it out on you.”  

“Listen,” Hawk grunted as she stood up, wiping the dirt from her knees and ripping the work gloves off of her hands and tossing them to the ground next to her gardening tools. Baz followed her up, his knees cracking as he did so. “I don’t need you to play mediator between me and Pope, and I sure as hell don’t need you to come over here to do Smurf’s dirty work for her.” Hawk knew damn well that Baz would never bridge this gap for Pope. This had Smurf’s stench all over it. “Smurf put me in an incredibly shitty position and as far as I’m concerned, if she has anything to say to me about this, she can stop hiding behind you and say it to my fucking face.”

“I understand that you’re angry, I do, but sometimes we have to do things, Hawk. They don’t feel good, but it’s the best for everyone in the long run. And it was best for Pope had you just done it.”

“That’s a load of bullshit, Baz. Pope doesn’t benefit from the meds, you do. Smurf does.” Baz nodded, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Sure, but you better add yourself to that list too, Hawk, because that’s the version of Pope that you’ve been shacking up with. The one that’s coming back is going to be very different from the one that left, let me tell you.”

“You really are a piece of work, you know that, Baz? A real fucking piece of work.”

“Look, I didn’t come here to argue with you. If I wanted to argue with a brick wall, I’d stay home with Cath.”

“Oh yeah, because Cath’s the brick wall between the two of you.” Hawk scoffed, walking past Baz and up to the porch where her water bottle was sitting on the table. Baz took the jab with a bite to his lip so he didn’t respond in a way he would’ve had it been one of his brothers. She’s hurting and cornered, he told himself. “Why are you really here, Baz? To check on me? Fine, you’ve checked on me. I’m alright. I’m okay. You can report back to Smurf that things are all fine and dandy on the western front.” Hawk took a long drink of water and sat down. Baz sat across from her, his back to the sun.   

“You’ve distanced yourself from everyone. I know you like your space, but…It doesn’t matter how hard you’ve tried to claw your way out of this family, Chickenhawk, you’ve always found your way back in it. And now that you have…whatever is going on between you and Pope-”

“Considering he’s avoiding me like the fucking plague, there isn’t anything happening between us, Baz. Not anymore. You missed your window of opportunity for whatever bullshit you’re trying to sell me.” 

“Pope needs time. He knows who was pulling the strings, Hawk. I think he would’ve killed Smurf if I didn’t step in when I did. For what she did to him, and to you. I know he thought about it. I know he’s still thinking about it and I don’t blame him. I’m just asking you to give him some grace, alright? and be there when he’s ready to come back because he will come back. Whether you know it or not, you’ve been the center of his world since the very first time you went to visit him in Folsom and he’s been chasing your shadow since you were thirteen. You could ask him to strap a bomb to his chest and jump off of a building and he’d do it, Hawk. That’s a power you didn’t even know you had.” Hawk scoffed, shaking her head. “He’s changed for the better since he’s been around you, you know?” 

“Did he change or are you now just starting to pay attention to who he is? Because he’s not this horrible monster you and Smurf try to make him out to be with everyone else. He has his quirks, but that’s just being a goddamned human trying to navigate this fucking world.”

“You’re good for him,” Baz sidestepped Hawk’s question. “Knew you would be. It only took about twenty years for both of you to get your heads out of your asses.” He tried to lighten the mood, but Hawk learned very early on to never let her guard down around Baz. He was a sweet talker, an expert at manipulating through conversation and Hawk knew better than to let his words break down the walls of protection she had carefully crafted in her youth when it came to him because if Baz was anything, it was a snake in the grass. 

He was groomed by the best, after all. 

“Don’t you miss being in the thick of it?” He leaned on the table towards Hawk. “I know you miss the rush, the adrenaline of a successful job, and we were only doing small takes then. Now…we’ve got something big coming up.”

“The things I was involved with before…I’m not going back to that, Baz. I don’t need to. I "got away" with those things because I was a kid and my record was expunged. Unlike you guys, I’ve learned my lesson. I have too much at stake now to risk it on whatever bullshit you guys have cooked up, alright? I don’t want to know what you’re up to because I want zero involvement in it.”  

"Can't blame me for reminiscing on the good ol' days." Baz leaned back into the chair.

“Some of us don’t like reminiscing on the good ol’ days, Baz. For some of us, they were bad ol’ days.” She joked, but there wasn't an ounce of humor in her voice.

“There you go again, Hawk. I remember how close we all were. The shit we got into. How Smurf wanted to beat all of our asses when she’d have to bail us out. They were crazy, but they were good.” 

“Again, not my recollection of things.”

“You were one of us, Hawk. Always have been. Always will be.”

“No. I was always an outsider, Baz, held at arm’s length even when I was living there. And I still am, on purpose.”

“You made yourself feel like that, Hawk. You separated yourself from us when you didn’t have to. Smurf loved you in her own way, and she still does. You know that.”

“She loved being able to control an impressionable teenager, Baz. Your experience in that house and my experience in that house were two very different things. I was never family, not like you were, because I put up resistance.”

“You used to be.” He pushed. “You were family to Julia.” 

“Because I was all she had left.” Hawk’s eyes bore into Baz’s. “Smurf couldn’t manipulate us as well as she could manipulate you and the other boys. Why do you think she let me leave?” 

“She let you leave because she knew you’d flourish on your own, and she was right. Look at you now. Got this beautiful house right on a hill overlooking the fucking ocean, an impressive business you built from the ground up. You have properties on the other side of the country. All of it legit. You’ve got it made, Hawk. The only thing you're missing is your family.” It was as earnest as Hawk had ever seen Baz, but she knew it wasn’t genuine. “You did good with the kid -I really mean that. J’s sharper than a knife and he’s got a good head on his shoulders. You did the best with what you had and you did better than any of us ever could. And you did that alone, Hawk. Having Lena has been hard as hell and I have Cath. I couldn’t imagine doing that on my own. You’re a lot stronger than you give yourself credit for.” Oh he was really trying to butter her up. 

“You want something. Or Smurf. Either way, my answer is no.” Hawk got up, grabbed her water, and turned to make her way back into the house, kicking her sandals off at the door. Baz was quick to follow her, sliding the door shut behind him. “I didn’t extend the invitation to come inside.” She said over her shoulder as she washed her hands and arms in the kitchen sink. Baz stood in Hawk’s kitchen with his arms crossed and a thick brow raised. “I’m serious, Baz. Whatever it is, I don’t want any part of it.”

“We need you.” Hawk laughed, loud and sharp, as she dried her hands on a kitchen towel. 

“You need me?” She teased, but there was nothing nice or kind about it.

“Yes, we need you, Hawk.”

“Listen, I have the time for this, but I’m not wasting it on you, so if you could please show yourself out,” She motioned to the front door with a wave of her arm as she grabbed a beer from the fridge and padded into the sunken living room to relax. “That means leave, Baz. Get out. Scram. Be gone.” Hawk snapped as she dropped down to the sofa, kicking her bare feet up on the table as she twisted the cap off the bottle of beer. Still, Baz followed her and took a seat on the coffee table next to her feet.

“This job, Hawk…we can’t move forward unless we have you. Just hear me out. That’s all I’m asking.” Baz pleaded. 

“How does Pope feel about this?” Hawk asked with a brow raised and a smirk gracing her lips. She knew he’d never agree to this, in any capacity, because Pope knew how she felt about all of it. 

“Pope doesn't know.” That might’ve been the first truthful thing he’s said since he stepped foot on Hawk’s property. “You’re not going to be directly involved with the job, but we need you for information pertaining to it.” 

“Leave, Baz.”

“You just have to come to Smurf’s for a dinner tonight. You know Paul Belmont?” Hawk’s brows furrowed. What the hell were they doing with Nicky’s dad? 

“Moderately.” Hawk glared openly at him. 

“But he’s familiar with you? He asked about you by name when I spoke to him last.”

“What the hell are you doing talking to Paul Belmont?”

“You’re either in or you’re out, Hawk. You want to know what we’re doing with Paul Belmont? Give me a yes.”

Hawk turned to Baz as Paul backed the mainly car out of Smurf’s driveway. Her arms were crossed and a heavy frown pulled her features down. “You are beyond stupid if you go through with this, Baz. You’re willing to risk federal prison?” 

“No one’s going to go to prison, Hawk.”

“You say that about the bank heist, too?” They held eye contact for a moment before Hawk looked at J. She still didn’t know where he stood with things, and at this point in the night she wanted to just go home and take a hot bath with a glass of wine. Hawk glanced at Smurf, who was watching her every movement. Hawk didn’t say another word to anyone as she got in her own SUV and took off back home. 

Another three days passed and Hawk still hadn’t seen nor spoken to Pope. She was reaching the point of acceptance that he was done with her. The trust that was severed was too great to overcome on his end and so she simply let sleeping dogs lie. Her life went back to the way it was before Pope was released from prison, albeit somehow more depressing and isolated than before. She took up more time at the shop, filling orders, helping customers, and propagating new plants that came in so she could build her stock. 

Hawk didn’t hear from any of the Cody’s following the dinner with Nicky’s parents, aside from a 'thank you' text from Baz, and she was eternally grateful that they’ve all collectively decided to leave her alone for the time being. 

Hawk’s head perked up when she heard her full government name spoken from the other side of the register. 

“Detective Yates, this is my partner Detective Fischer.” The woman motioned to the man next to her. Both flashed badges. “We were wondering if you had a few moments to answer some questions?”

“What’s this pertaining to?” Hawk crossed her arms over her chest. 

“You know exactly what this is pertaining to.” Yates stated.

“I really don’t.” Hawk shook her head. 

“I’d suggest you take a few steps outside with us, unless you want your customers to hear about the crime family you have entangled yourself with.” Yates raised her voice just loud enough to get the attention of the people in the shop. 

“We just need to ask a few questions and we’ll be on our way,” Fischer interjected, eyes pleading with his partner to not escalate. “We won’t take much of your time.” Hawk nodded over to Jane without another word and took a few steps outside the shop. 

“There better be a damn good reason for you to come into my business and do this horse shit.” Hawk snapped at Yates. 

“Janine Cody a good enough reason for you?” Yates asked, hands moving to her hips as she stared Hawk down. “How about Joshua Cody? Catherine Cody? Know them?” 

“What about them?” Yates said Hawk’s real name with a shake of her head. 

“Joshua's in danger, and so is Catherine.” Tell Hawk something she didn’t already know. “Josh was unofficially in your care for the majority of his life. I know you care about him and he cares about you a great deal. You want him to be safe and as long as he’s with Janine and his uncles, he will never be safe.” 

“You have the wrong one, Detective Yates. I’m not interested in anything you have to say.” Hawk turned to go back in the shop, but Yates opened her mouth again. 

“You’re also in danger. I don’t know who you think Andrew Cody is, but I can guarantee you that-”

“That what?” Hawk spun around and got in the detective’s face. “Anything you say isn’t anything I haven’t heard before. You’re gonna have to try harder.”

“Catherine can read between the lines, Hawk. She wants to protect her child and I don’t blame her. These men are dangerous, and Janine is worse. I don’t need to tell you that. At some point she will turn on you -he will turn on you- and when that time comes, it’ll be too late for us to help you.” Cath wouldn't be stupid enough to talk to these two idiots, Hawk thought to herself. They had to be bluffing. They probably tried to approach her like they were doing with Hawk and she told them to screw. Cath was smarter than that. “And not to alarm you, Hawk, but we haven’t been able to contact Catherine in nearly two days.” 

“I haven’t heard from her. Cath and I aren’t close. I like to keep my distance from any of them.”

“Except when Pope Cody is in your bed.” Yates interjected. “You’re his contact and address for the parole board. We've had an eye on you.” 

“Then you know that you've got nothing." Hawk said with a grin. "Would you believe me if I said Pope was the sanest out of all of 'em?” 

“How about this for a joke? Do you know what Josh has been up to? Say the last…three weeks or so.” Hawk hadn’t. She hasn’t seen much of J and neither had Smurf. “Figured as much.” Yates felt like she had the upper hand when she saw the look on Hawk’s face. “Or maybe what he’s been up to since he went to live with the Cody’s? He’s been busy, Hawk, I’ll tell you that much.” 

“I don’t have time for this.” Hawk shook her head and was about to push the door open when Yates dropped the bombshell. And then another. And one more for good measure. 

We need to talk at the house. Just us. Tonight. Hawk’s thumb hovered over the send button before pressing it. A few minutes passed before the three bubbles popped up followed by J’s response. 

Be there in 30

“Hey,” J breathed out as he hugged Hawk. She had a very severe look on her face and the atmosphere in the house was dour as he followed her to the kitchen. He took a seat and Hawk leaned back against the counter, watching him as his eyes bounced around the kitchen nervously. 

“Some very interesting people came by the shop today, J. Two detectives.” By the look on his face, he knew where this was going. They told him they were going to pay Hawk a visit and they hadn’t been lying. “Against my better judgement, I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt, Josh. Is what they told me even remotely true?” Cops lied, that was a given, but the details they told her were too familiar to not be true.

They wanted to shake her and they’d been successful. 

“What did they tell you?” Hawk breathed out an incredulous laugh as she dropped her head before looking back at him, crossing her arms over her chest. 

“That tells me all I need to know.” She was pissed. Hawk was understanding to a fault and when she was pushed to have an outward response it was for good reason. 

“No, what did they tell you, Hawk?”

“That you’ve been talking to them. That you’ve been telling them about what’s been going on with Smurf and your uncles. That you’ve been…Jesus Christ, Josh. Are you screwing your teacher? You are seventeen, Joshua! She is probably thirty! If she wasn’t protected by the police, I’d drag her ass out of that house myself and show her what happens to adults who do shit like this to kids. Because you are still a kid! How could you be so stupid?!”

“I thought-”

“No you didn’t! If you thought, you would’ve never and I mean never have gotten yourself involved with her. And you never would’ve spoken to a cop. Ever! When I told you to come to me for anything, this is what I fucking meant, Josh!”

“I’m sorry, Hawk!” J shouted, standing and running his hands over his face.

“They also told me that you’re involved.”

“What?” He picked his head up to look at Hawk.

“Are you?”

“Hawk-”

“-Are you involved with their jobs?” Hawk pushed, her eyes unrelentingly probing his for the truth. She shook her head, biting her lip in agitation when he didn’t answer. “I told you. I told you not to get in the middle of any of their shit, Joshua. I fucking told you.” Hawk wasn’t the type to reprimand, but it seemed that the Cody’s brought out the worst in her as of recent and J was no exception. 

“You think I’d be in the middle of this shit if it was that easy to say no? You have no idea-” J felt like his back was against the wall, cornered like a rat with no where to hide, so he started lashing out. 

“-I know exactly what it is like to live in that fucking house! You play stupid and don’t. Get. Involved.” Hawk shouted, slamming her palm on the island. “I lived that nightmare for five years, J, and I came out the other side in spite of it. For five years I lived under Smurf’s thumb, used and manipulated, then let go when I wasn’t of use to her anymore. Because that’s what she does. That’s what they all do.”

“Even Pope?” J knew bringing up whatever was going on between Hawk and Pope was a dirty play, and he regretted saying it the second it left his mouth. J didn’t want to hurt Hawk, not intentionally. She was the single person who has looked out for him since day one on this planet and he had disappointed her in such a catastrophic way that he didn’t think she’d ever forgive him for it. Add on the world of shit he was in with Alexa and those two detectives, and J couldn’t fathom how he was getting himself out of any of it. 

“I fucking guess so.” Pope had the balls to give her the silent treatment over a poor decision when he himself was purposefully doing this shit behind her back. He was in for a reckoning the next time they crossed paths and he didn’t even fucking know it. 

Hawk should’ve expected the deception from Pope, but it still hurt. Hawk trusted him and maybe she was blinded to think he’d never do something like this to her, but he was a Cody through and through. 

With her head tilted down, eyes squeezed shut, she had to know how deep J was in it. “What the hell did they make you do?” Her voice was just above a whisper, the anger gone and replaced with resignation. 

“They didn’t make me.” J’s voice was just as low. He didn’t want to say it out loud, to let Hawk know he was no better than the uncles she protected him from his whole life. 

“J,” She sighed, turning to pace the kitchen with her hands pushed tightly against her waist. 

“That night that the cop died,” He admitted, and there it was, that look that J knew was coming. The look of unbridled devastation cast itself over Hawk’s entire being and tears welled in her eyes. 

“You just moved into that fucking house and they already had you doing jobs?!” Her eyes were looking all over the room, her brain putting a timeline together, before her eyes landed back on J. “The night you came home beat up. That’s the night that cop died -you lied to me. You fucking lied to me and you’ve been lying to me, J. What the fuck did you do?” She sounded absolutely gutted. 

“I helped Pope get a car that night. The guy we stole it from is the one who,” J motioned up to his face. 

“Pope took the fall for it. For both of you. He said you weren’t involved in any of it. Said it straight to my face that you had nothing to do with-” Hawk stopped herself short, shaking her head. She was an idiot. She wanted to believe Pope.

“What the fuck is wrong with the men in this family,” Hawk shouted, storming out of the kitchen. She didn’t know where she was going, but she needed to move or she’d combust. As much as she didn’t want to, Hawk felt her bottom lip wobble and knew tears were following closely behind.

“Hawk,” She put her shaking hand up to stop him from getting closer to her as she returned to the kitchen. 

“Don’t. Do not.” Her breathing got heavier. Hawk stopped on the other side of the kitchen, the entire length of the island acting as a barrier between them. “You wanted to do it. After everything, you still wanted to do it.”

“Not initially. You told me to do what I needed to so I didn’t rock the boat. What the hell was I supposed to do with Pope breathing down my neck? You left me to the goddamn wolves!” He knew he was grasping at straws. Just yesterday afternoon he got into Camp Pendleton and got this most recent job rolling. It was a rush he never felt before when he made it out unscathed, but it had been a close call on his way out. He’d never tell any of this to Hawk, but he did actually enjoy himself. 

“I-” She had to stop herself with an incredulous laugh. “I left you?! That’s what you think? That I left you?” Her tears finally fell and J felt like the world’s biggest piece of shit. He was angry and frustrated, and Hawk was the only person he could take it out on because she was the only one there who would take it. “No one wins against Janine Cody, Josh. No one. Not me, not you, not Julia, not her fucking sons, not anyone. If I went against her, I would’ve never seen you again. In fact, she’d probably have my body dumped somewhere in the desert for the fucking buzzards to pick at. If Smurf finds out you’ve been talking to the cops, she’s going to kill you, do you understand me? There isn’t a single person on this planet who can save you from her.” 

“I fucked up, Hawk. I know I fucked up and I don’t know what to do.” 

“You fix this. I don’t know what you need to do, but you got yourself into this and now it's time to grow up, J. This is serious shit. It gets fixed or were both fucking dead.”

Hawk should’ve listened to her gut when she said that she didn’t want to open the doors that came with her involvement with Pope. It wasn't his fault, partially, and Deep down she knew this wouldn’t end well for herself or anyone else involved. Hawk wanted to love him and be loved by him, and she knew he wanted to be loved in return. Deep down Hawk knew loved Pope, but that love didn’t outweigh the hurt that seemed to weigh Hawk down to her mattress as she sat against her headboard with a bottle of wine locked in her grasp. It was the only thing that took the edge off for her, but she hated how sad she felt when she got to the bottom of the bottle. 

The anger Hawk felt for Pope had dissipated and in its place the oppressive shadow of self-doubt and misery took form. Was this what her life was destined to be? She drained the last of the bottle and slumped over a bit, letting her weight lean against the plush pillows. 

“Another night spent alone in an empty bed, in an empty house and with an empty bottle.” Hawk slurred, messily trying to kick her way under the comforter. Once she was comfortable enough, she flicked the lamp on the bedside table off and was out the second she closed her eyes. 

The clock on Pope’s dashboard read 4:16 AM as he sat in his truck in Hawk’s driveway. He felt his heart pound in his chest and the dirt grated under his fingernails as he tried to drown out the thoughts that assaulted his brain after what he just did. Pope’s done a lot of horrible shit in his life -he’s hurt a lot of people, but this…this he would never forgive himself for. 

Pope sighed as he got out of the truck, closing the door quietly as he went up the walkway and let himself in. He toed his boots off, setting them neatly on the shelf next to Hawk’s shoes and padded down the hall. Hawk’s door was wide open, catching his attention. She was spread out in her stomach, face smashed into her pillow, and one leg hanging over the side of the mattress. Pope saw the empty bottle on her nightstand and took a few steps into the room. 

Pope needed to touch her, to feel her. He needed her warmth and the comfort that he only ever felt when she held him. He didn’t deserve it, didn’t deserve her, and if Hawk ever found out about what he just did, he would probably take himself out before he could see the way she’d look at him for the monster he really was. 

He silently undressed, save for his boxer briefs, and crawled into Hawk’s bed. He lifted the comforter, pushing it down so he could gently turn Hawk over to lay on her back. She mumbled incoherently and Pope could smell the wine on her breath. 

Once Hawk was positioned on her side facing him as Pope needed her to be, he laid his head on her chest and let her arm fall over his waist. Pope’s arms wrapping around her waist to hold her as tightly to him as he could. Hawk’s other arm was placed over Pope’s shoulder and her fingers started to gently twist the curls at the nape of his neck the second they came into contact. 

The tears of agony Pope held in finally fell when he felt her hand in his hair. He didn’t move, he didn’t shake. He just laid there and cried, silently pleading for a forgiveness that he knew he’d never receive -especially not from her. 

please comment & reblog :)

[katya-1917]

In theory, my mother is very trans accepting and a good ally. She signs petitions and goes to protests and writes to our legislators. But when it comes to her own family...

She cannot accept both my brother being a trans man and me having some other form of gender fuckery going on, because being a mother of girls is such a core part of her identity. Losing one of her daughters when my brother came out was a blow, but one she took in stride, after a bit (and I couldn't do anything then except stand between her and my brother, protecting him from her and Dad's instinctive reactive transphobia as much as I could, while trying to divert Mum to doing girl stuff with me - realising issues with my own gender as I stopped having to be Dad's substitute for a son simply because I was the oldest girl, but I couldn't do anything about it, I had to be a cis girl to protect him and encourage people to treat him as a boy, by acting as a contrast), but losing us both would destroy her, and women like her, blows like that... they don't quietly implode, they explode and try to destroy everyone they blame for the matter in the process.

She's never called him a "gender traitor" or the like (to his face, anyway), but me... yeah. I think she blamed my lifelong nonconformity and tomboyishness on having to play the role of Dad's son with him and his brothers, doing stupid dangerous little boy crap for the entertainment of adult men who should know better. And then when my brother was obviously more boy than me and took that role far more willingly, she got mad at both of us, but me far more openly, that nothing really changed. Oh, sure, I wore more skirts, to make people notice he was wearing boys' trousers, but it's not like my *behaviour* was any more feminine.

My mother understands on paper that gender is not always binary or static. But her tolerance for losing her daughters hit its maximum at one of us, and so... in practice, she can't accept that I'm not always a girl, and even when I am, I don't know or care how to do a lot of stereotypical girl stuff. It's not exactly mistreatment for being transmasc so much as nasty happenstance of being AFAB, not being a binary woman, and being the second of two siblings to come out, but... yeah, it's something that probably wouldn't have happened if I was AMAB and had the same gender problem. Fluidity is weird, but my mum's seemingly made it her life's mission to make mine suck even more than it already does.

It’s just so weird that I can say “I was treated badly by my mother in a way that only happened because I came out as a trans man and would not have happened had I been a cis woman or a trans woman because my masculinity and status as a “gender traitor” was the problem” and a portion of this website will look at my experiences and go “you were just experiencing general transphobia and/or misogyny :)” and not take a single second to listen to what I actually said. Like I am not going to sit here and have this godforsaken website gaslight me about my own experiences when I’m about to kill myself over the way my mother treats my trans masculinity.

Being a trans man was the reason for my fucking abuse. You do not get to tell me that what I experienced was not fucking targeted.

[paulyenvol6]

The Bolter

An angsty Joel x reader story but don't worry there's gonna be a part two!!! (And shoutout to @mrspascalsworld for the inspiration <33)

Contains: angst, mentions of pregnancy, age gap (unspecified), fighting, crying, anxiety, mentions of a panic attack

Wordcount: 7,167

Masterlist

Your heart was beating fast.

Sweat drooled on your forehead and the anxiety bubbling in your stomach made your head dizzy. You were gripping the edge of the table to ground yourself, your nails painfully digging into the oak wood when Joel entered the room and you instantly let go, pushing yourself away and approaching him on wobbly knees.

"Joel," you unnecessarily said as though he hadn't seen you yet.

"Hi hon," his husky voice rang in your ear and for some strange reason it sounded louder than usual tonight.

"I need to talk to ya," you said with your head low and almost bursted into tears when you lifted your gaze.

His dark eyes looked concerned and worried and you wanted nothing more than to rip the pain and hurt out of you, bury it deep in the ground underneath his house and have everything be perfect again. Cut out the painful ache right below your chest even if it required the worst methods just to avoid the upcoming conversation.

It wasn't like everything was bad. Of course not. You had good reason to jump into his arms and bury your head in his neck and you would have done that if you hadn't had a certain encounter with Maria the other day. You knew you should have spoken to Joel right away because it was never good to surpress anger and hurt and as your boyfriend wasn't exactly the most talkative and communicative person you oftentimes had to do the emotional heavy lifting for the both of you but this time even you hadn't acted the way you should have. You had needed an evening at the very least to process what Maria had told you and along with the other thing that had just completely swept you off your feet you had cried yourself to sleep that night, unsure of how to handle this situation.

"Course. What's up?" he said sounding like he was in a good mood tonight which made you straighten your back. Although your body was resisting, your insides clenching and twisting when thinking about the words you had already formed in your head, you knew this was the perfect opportunity to talk to him.

"I need to talk to ya," you repeated and Joel laughed, his eyes narrowed.

"You already said that."

"I know."

A crease appeared between his brows and he became suspicious.

"What is it, babe? C'mere."

He sank down on a chair tapping on his thigh to gesture you to sit on his lap but you couldn't. Not now, when the weight on your heart seemed to be trying to drown you, pulling you down and through the ground in the depths of the earth until all you could taste and smell was mud and dirt.

You stood up straight, slightly shaking your head and interwined your fingers in front of you.

"No… I just… I talked to Maria yesterday."

Joel frowned again, folding his hands between his slightly spread legs and tilting his head as he watched you in the dim light.

"Okay?"

"I… I wanted to talk to you a few days ago and I don't know, I didn't and – it's… everything was so much and – I – I know I should've gone to you earlier but – it was too much yesteday and I – "

You suddenly bursted out in tears, your shaky hands pressing on your eyes to hide the wetness dripping on your cheeks but of course Joel had watched you with growing fear and now was on his feet rushing towards you to pull you to his chest.

"Hey, it's okay…," he soothed you, rubbing the small of your back with his left hand while his right pressed your head to his neck.

"I got you, it's alright. We can talk about anythin'. You know that, right? Shhh, hon…"

It felt so good that you wanted to scream but at the same time you felt that you couldn't enjoy it. You had sworn to yourself that you would talk to him and now first had to deserve to be held by him. Therefore you gently pushed against his chest drawing away and immediately turning away to rub your eyes and wipe away the tears. You weren't able to see Joel's puppy eyes that followed your every move and perhaps it was for the better because you surely would have broken down again had you seen the sad look on his face.

"Darlin'. Please talk to me."

Silence fell over the room, broken only by the sound of your sniffing.

"Look at me, baby."

You turned your head carefully and saw Joel's eyes soften at your painfully contorted expression.

"What's goin' on, pumpkin?" he whispered and your chin twitched at the nickname. A deep inhale followed, your brain forcing your body to cooperate and vocalise what was bothering you so you could peacefully fall asleep tonight knowing that you had communicated everything there was to say and had been truthful to your boyfriend.

"I talked to Maria the other day," you started again and wiped over your wet eyes. "I don't really know how… And why… I mean I can't remember why it came up but she said somethin' 'bout you… Somethin' I didn't know an' I… I just couldn't believe that you kept something like this from me, Joel."

It was so quiet in the room that your heart stopped. The air was hot and tense, your lashes nervously fluttering as Joel swallowed loudly, his expression tensing just a little bit.

"What did she say?" he spoke, glancing at you through small eyes. It was hard to hide your anger now and at the same time your breathing became heavy.

"Why didn't you tell me that you have a daughter, Joel?" you pressed and it was way more emotionally loaded than you had planned it in your head. At first, his face was unreadable, the clenching of his fists being the only sign that he had heard you. But then the muscles in his forehead twitched and his face tensed with anger, his nostrils flaring and his teeth gritting.

"Careful," was all he hissed, but now anger washed over you like a wave, swallowing you whole and making you say things you most certainly hadn't meant to.

"I told you everything. Everything I went through and everything that I swore I'd never tell anyone. And I thought you opened up to me as well and now I sit there with Maria and she mentions that you have a daughter an' I have to act like I know who she's talkin' about? How the fuck do I not know about this, Joel?"

"You better shut up now," Joel whispered but it sounded dangerous. Unfortunately you were at a point where you couldn't hold back anymore and almost acted hysterical. The little knives that seemed to cut in your heart were simply to painful and you felt that the only way to deal with the unbearable sorrow was to let it all out. Thus, you threw your hands in the air, walking around Joel like an animal hungry for its prey and your teary eyes spitting fire at him. You had wanted to stay calm and you had been at the beginning of the conversation, but now you were in a maelstrom that was sucking you in and there was nothing you could do about it.

"This is just so goddamn typical of you. I trusted you an' I opened up to you like I've never fuckin' done before. And we talked about this so many times, you not being able to get your shit together and communicate with me in a healthy way and every time I think 'oh he's definitely doing better and starting to tell me more, too' you come around with somethin' like this. You have a daughter named Sarah? What the fuck? Where is she and who is she and – and what the fuck? Where did she come from all of a sudden?"

You had to inhale deeply because you were so out of breath. You panted loudly, the anger still making the air around you feel heated but you didn't even have any time to calm yourself because new accusations were stumbling out of your mouth.

"I fuckin' get that you need time 'n' all but we can't go on like this. You can't just keep those things to yourself so I have to learn about it from freakin' Maria? Not just for our bond but because I have to know shit about you, Joel. We're a couple and I have to know about your fucking life and – and who you are – and what you have done in your life – and – "

"SHE'S DEAD!"

There was a high-pitched noise in your ears. It hurt and stung but you couldn't do anything about it. Your head was throbbing, your pulse roaring in your whole body. All you could do was stare at Joel. Look at the sweat on his forehead. His flexed bicep. His glistening eyes. His clenched jaw. His mouth that was in a thin line. The heavy lifting of his chest.

He took a big step towards you that made you flinch but your feet didn't follow the commands of your brain and you were frozen.

"She's dead and that's why I didn't tell you about her. That's why I have the scar on my temple, that's why I swore to myself to never have any kids again and that's why I don't go to the fuckin' cemetery with you."

You wanted to throw up. A brief moment later you believed that you might actually empty yourself on the carpet but in the last moment you coughed which certainly didn't fit the moment but you couldn't help yourself. Tears were rolling down your face although you hadn't even noticed you had started to cry again.

"S'that what you wanted, mhm? You wanted me to tell you all of this on our first fuckin' date? 'Cause you think you're my goddamn therapist or somethin' that feels entitled to work through my fuckin' trauma all the time?"

He came closer and now your weak knees managed to take a step back which made you bump into a chair and you stumbled, your hand closing around the edge of the table just before you would have fallen. You sobbed uncontrollably but Joel seemingly didn't care which terrified you more than anything else. Your view was blurry and you felt sick in every part of your body. Your throat felt sore and the lump that was restricting your breathing wouldn't vanish any time soon, you were certain.

"Stop fuckin' cryin'," Joel fizzled, towering over you, who hunched over slightly, as if you could escape his piercing gaze that way.

"M'sorry," you mumbled and wanted nothing more than to feel his arms around you but you had never been more emotionally distanced from him than in that moment so you didn't even attempt to dream about it.

"I don't fuckin' care," he hissed and then suddenly turned around and left the room.

You wrapped your arms around yourself as if you could protect yourself that way, inhaled deeply but the needed air simply didn't come. Perhaps you would just suffocate, you thought and tightly held on the table. Strangled cries left your mouth and you whinced as you became more and more aware of what had just happened. How could you have been so stupid? How was it possible that it didn't cross your mind for once that his daughter might be dead? You had fucked up. You had fucked up big time and there was no way of catching those hurtful words that had come out of your mouth and swallow them before they could reach Joel's ears.

Suddenly your heartbeat thundered in your chest and cold sweat broke across your back. The insides of your cheeks were hurting from the way you had chewed on them and all you could taste now was fresh blood that didn't do anything for your rumbling stomach. You were still crying but almost didn't pay mind to it at all as you tried to calm your racing heart and quick and unsteady breaths.

What were you supposed to do? Follow him, apologize a million times and hope that he would listen to you? Leave and give him time to process your fight? But what if you would lose him? What if he would be gone with the wind quicker than you were able to notice and this wicked evening would end up taking from you what you held so dear.

You didn't know Joel for that long, to be fair. How could you, he had only arrived in Jackson roughly a year ago. And looking back, you had been cowardly, dancing around him, imagining what it would be like to go on a date with him, but too shy to actually ask him out. It had taken you almost three months until your best friend had finally convinced you that you had nothing to lose and the following weeks and months had felt like a cheesy movie.

Your first date in a café where Joel had told you all about his adventures with Ellie, his slightly grumpy mood that seemed to fade away in the gentle autumn wind the longer the two of you talked and eventually your first kiss on his veranda. You had bonded over music and movies, and somehow you both had found in each other something to hold on to. It was hard not to feel broken in this world but now you clung to each other in a desperate attempt to have at least some stability in life. To hold on to something that would last. Something that you could put your trust in. Something that couldn't make you forget the pain and suffering both of you had endured in the past but something that could try and stitch it up so the pieces could grow back together and leave a scarred wound.

And the time you had spent together had been beautiful and yet it was still delicate and fragile and right now you couldn't help but feel that you had fucked it up. That you had shattered the vulnerable bond between Joel and you and that he had come to the realisation that as pleasant as your time together was, it wouldn't be enough after all. That you were not strong enough to carry his burden and go on with him which would leave him no choice but to let you go. He would leave you behind as he went on and then you would be lost in the darkness just like you had been before Joel and you would try to find orientation in this wasteland of your heart without him and you honestly didn't know if you would be able to do that.

And then there was this other thing. This other way bigger and way more important thing that you had tried to tell him just now but of course you had panicked and messed up and looking back you now realised that you should have told him earlier. 'That's why I swore to myself to never have any kids again.'

The words rang aggressively in your ears, taking control of you like cordyceps and making you shiver as if you were in the middle of a snowstorm. It was just his words, just the promise he had made to himself that now gave you no choice but to cry again. You were almost too tired to cry but at the same time you couldn't hold back the tears and simply prayed that Joel wouldn't hear you. You were still in his house after all and although the bond of you had grown deep and intense during the last few weeks you weren't living together yet.

Leaving and going back to your own place was the right thing to do but somehow you felt that if you went through that door, turning your back towards his house and walking past his mailbox it would set an end to something. Something that you couldn't quite grasp just yet but at the same time you didn't want to find out. What if this had just done serious damage to your relationship? What if Joel wouldn't forgive you so easily?

You just couldn't lose him, not after everything you had gone through. You've lost more people than you can count, you've had to bury your own sister and move on because there just wasn't time to deal with her death, and you've had to say goodbye to the people closest to your heart.

You remembered the way you had sat on your bed after your first date with Joel. There had been a smile on your face, very slight and careful as if you were just starting to explore something that was beautiful and endearing but you feared about the consequences. After a single date you had felt ready to pour your little heart out to him and be embraced by his warmth, but at the same time you were so scared to put your love into another person's hand and have them slip it out of their hand once more.

And now you were here with Joel shouting at you and it was entirely on you. Carefully, you pushed yourself away from the table to straighten your back. No matter how miserable you were feeling right now, Joel needed time now and so did you. And no matter how angry he was with you, you would fight for this, for your relationship. Perhaps you overdramatised all of this. You were tired, you had cried so much today and were overstained with all of these recent events so it was no surprise that your nerves were especially thin today. What you needed was a good amount of sleep and maybe when you woke up tomorrow and confront Joel again everything would turn out fine. Yes, you thought. You would be fine; had to be fine. You didn't know what else you would do.

The next day you woke up with a stuffy nose. You immediately exhaled and turned to your other side, the corners of your mouth dropping as a cold wasn't what you needed right now but the problem became second row when you remembered the events of the day before. A quiet whimper escaped your throat as you stared at the ceiling and pulled the blanket under your chin.

You didn't know when was the last time you had woken up without Joel but it must have been a long time ago. The way he would embrace you when he opened his eyes before you, pulling your sleeping body towards him and nudge his face against your neck. The way he would inhale your scent and hold you so close as if he was just as scared to lose you as you were to lose him.

Suddenly there was a big lump in your throat and fresh tears collected in your eyes. You missed him and his presence and you knew you couldn't wait another day to go over to his house. When you had cried yourself to sleep last night you had promised yourself to give him the next day and not show up at his place and risk to annoy him but you physically couldn't fall asleep alone in your bed another night. Perhaps you were clingy and needy and maybe he would be pissed that you didn't let him breathe freely for a few hours before apologizing to him but you accepted it.

You would have loved to immediately do it, walk the short way to his house, apologize to him and make sure that the two of you were still good but although it pained you, you forced yourself to have breakfast first, start the dishwasher and do all sorts of other things just to distract yourself. But no matter how hard you tried Joel was in your head at all times and at some point you stopped fighting it. His face, his voice, his eyes lingered in your mind and seemed to haunt you every step you took, but you surrendered to it, allowing a few tears to quietly roll down your cheeks while you stuffed your dirty clothes into the washing machine.

It was 12am when you looked at the clock. You hesitated and fought the urge to throw your jacket on and instead decided to make yourself lunch before the inevitable encounter. Because as much as you wished to get over with it already and tell Joel how sorry you were you were afraid, too. Afraid that everything was so much worse than you hoped and that there would be serious consequences to the way you had messed up. And then there was the life that was growing in your belly at this moment.

You had to tell him. It was the only right thing to do but then again you heard his words over and over again in your head and it was strange because when he had said them they had sounded muffled and far away but now in your memory they were clearer than the white of the snow and the blue sky outside.

'That's why I swore to myself to never have any kids again.'

You gulped but the lump in your throat wouldn't go away. He didn't want any kids and of course you accepted it. You had never planned to be a parent, not because you actively decided not to be, but simply because it had never been a prospect. All your life you had fought for your survival and for the safety of the people around you and romantic love, let alone offspring had never been on your mind.

But now it was. There was a child growing in your belly. A child that Joel didn't want. You hadn't even had any time to think about your thoughts on this. Your first reaction had been shock and surprise, then you had doubted that the test was right, but when you had done three more, all positive, you had felt overwhelmed and had panicked about how to tell your boyfriend.

And then there had been the conversation with Maria that had totally swept you off your feet and your mind had been elsewhere for a while and now… Now you at least knew what Joel thought about having children so had he already chosen for you? Bringing a child into this evil world was a thought that had scared you at first. Not because you didn't like children, but because there would be another beloved creature that could possibly be taken away from you.

You had to care for yourself, now had found true and deep love in Joel – and you sometimes woke up in the middle of the night from a nightmare that involved losing him – and would have to protect a vulnerable little child? It sounded terrifying and surreal but on the other hand… If you did it with him? If Joel was at your side, accompaning you throughout the whole journey? Raising a child with the love of your life suddenly didn't sound so bad. Maybe it was the Joel-effect because sometimes when you were with him you felt like the two of you could defeat everyone in the world. You were torn between the fear of him getting dragged away from you and the poetic trust that you could go through anything as long as he was with you and your attitude highly depended on your mood – whether you felt miserable and depressed or like a hopeless romantic.

Suddenly you had to smile which felt unfamiliar because the muscles in your cheeks hadn't worked for quite a while now. But you couldn't help it, you saw Joel and yourself in your mind, cradling a little baby in your arms while he had his arms around your waist. His chin resting on your shoulder as the two of watched the little creature that was safe in your grip. Yes, you oftentimes hated this world and everything and everyone on it. But having a family with Joel…? Living with him, waking up beside him every day and watching your child grow up together? Keeping it safe with him and having an actual family with him? You had never even dared thinking about it and the thought lingering in your head was too beautiful to even consider.

There is nothing to consider. Joel has made clear what he thinks about having children.

The corners of your mouth dropped just as quickly as they had lifted.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

That was what happened when you daydreamed for too long. There was no family, there was no future that involved him, you and a little child and he hadn't been shy to let you know about his opinions. Even if you would be able to make up with him and make him forgive you, there was no way he would suddenly embrace you and celebrate the fact that you were pregnant. He would probably just immediately dump you and tell you to stay away from him and you weren't even able to be mad about it. His daughter died and you couldn't imagine how horrible that must have been. Having a child now might make him feel like he was trying to replace his daughter's memory or he simply was too scared to lose another child and go through the same sorrow again. Putting this burden upon him was cruel and heartbreaking, but… what were you supposed to do? You were pregnant right now, whether it was convenient, whether you wanted to be or not.

Suddenly, a loud noise made you flinch and you remembered that you had wanted to cook yourself lunch before visiting Joel. You blinked a few times and then looked around trying to figure out where that noise had come from.

The door.

A loud knock on the door and you couldn't think of a lot of people who would show up at your place on a Sunday noon. You rose from the chair and headed to the door, your feet dragging over the floor and your heart sinking lower in your stomach with every slow step you took.

Your shaky hand grabbed the door handle and you closed your eyes, inhaling and forcing yourself to breathe steadily before turning it and opening the door only to look right into a pair of dark eyes. At first, this was all you could focus on. His deep eyes that had left you in awe back when you had started dating because you had never felt so lost in someone's gaze. You felt that you could drown in those eyes, the hazel tone somehow offering you the promise of home and had you not felt so awful you might have been able to fill ahundred pages of a book, solely focused on describing those perfect warm eyes that were shimmering like sunlight reflecting on clear blue water.

The only problem was, well, his eyes were squeezed. Everything about his face was tense and hard, his mouth a thin line, his neck flexed and a crease between his eyebrows. It almost looked a little bit like he was pouting as he briefly ran his eyes over you and then walked right past you like he owned the place. What had you expected? A warm morning hug?

You closed the door behind Joel and then followed him into the living room where he had sat down on the armrest of your couch and something about the way he looked so natural and right in the center of your living room made you sad. He was meant to be in here. He was a part of this room, the heart of your house just like he was part of your home and your heart. You were on the verge of crying again although you hadn't even exchanged a word so far but Joel was about to change that from the way he cleared his throat.

"I needa talk to ya," he began, his voice rough but much steadier than you felt. You nodded and folded your hands in front of your stomach just to do anything.

"Yes. I wanted to talk to you, too," you replied and wondered why your voice sounded so high. His eyes found yours and you tried your best not to avert your gaze but Joel redeemed you soon anyway and pressed his hand on his eyes, rubbing them while exhaling loudly.

"We have to – "

"I'm sorry, Joel," you interrupted him. "I'm so sorry, I… I really am."

Your eyes were round, your pupils dilated as you ran your gaze over him in desperate search of any sign of reaction. Any sign that the two of you would be fine. Joel exhaled loudly, his shoulders rising and falling and then dropped his hands to his side to look at you again.

"This ain't gonna work."

There was this high pitched noise in your ear again that had been there the day before. You stared at him but didn't actually perceive him, didn't see how he swallowed deeply or how he bit down on his bottom lip. When your mouth twitched you didn't know how much time had passed and for how long you had looked at him in silence.

"What," you breathed, your eyes wet, but you somehow weren't able to let go off the tears just yet.

"This… between us. It ain't gonna work."

"Because of yesterday? I'm sorry, Joel, I… I wanna make it up to you and I know that I'm gonna be able to – I… please, you're not breaking up with me right now, are you?"

Joel grinded his teeth as he turned around to run a hand through his hair, his fingers nervously tapping against the desk.

"Jesus… I don't wanna talk about yesterday right now."

"What," you hissed, your voice airy and weak and your heart beating louder than ever before.

"Listen, I… yesterday was messed up 'n' all but the reason I'm here today is 'cause…" He sighed and put his hands on his hips.

"Fuck. You're too young to me an' I'm too fuckin' old for you and it's been on my mind all the goddamn time since we started datin' but I don't know I shut the voice up and acted like it's right but I can't no longer."

You narrowed your eyes at him, the content of his words slowly and with some delay reaching your brain.

"What," you whispered again but this time you weren't lost for words. "Joel, this… you can't mean that."

"Yeah I do," he grimly said, his eyes flickering as a single tear escaped from the corner of your eye.

"Give me one reason why it's a problem. I'm an adult, I can choose who I wanna be with 'n' I… I just don't get it, this is bullshit." Your voice had became high and thin which made you fear you were about to have a panick attack so you pressed your hand to your chest to calm the rapid pounding of your heart.

"It ain't right. I'm not gonna deny I had a very beautiful time with you, y/n, but the age gap is too big for somethin' serious," he whispered, his voice softer now but it only enraged you further.

"Fuck you," you hissed before you could properly think about it and although you instantly regretted it you couln't stop.

"Fuck you, Joel Miller. This is a stupid fuckin' excuse 'cause of yesterday and I know you don't wanna talk about it so now you're choosing to lie to me instead and use our fuckin' age gap as a reason why you don't wanna be with me anymore. This is horseshit and-and stupid and…"

You stopped mid-sentence because Joel had pushed himself away from the desk and now took a step towards you, his arms crossed in front of his chest.

"No," was all he said through clenched teeth, his mouth forming a thin line.

"Be honest with me at least," you sobbed and pushed against his chest once. You didn't care about anything anymore. You didn't care about crying or being childish for not being able to accept his words. All you wanted was for Joel to take you in his arms and tell you that he loved you just as much as you loved him. Did he? Had he loved you at some point during your relationship or had it just been a fling for him? Or was he actually lying to you and the core of his problem was yesterday's fight.

"Be fuckin' honest," you shouted and pushed against his chest once more which Joel reacted to by grabbing your wrists and pinning them to your hips.

"Stop it," he said with a voice that was way too calm for the occasion.

"No you stop it."

"I am honest. I told you, you're too young. We shouldn't have even started dating in the first place."

Although you had felt like your heart had already been shattered into a million little pieces it seemed to shatter again at his words and you brought a hand to your mouth to surpress you uncontrolled sobs.

"How can you say something like this?" you cried and flinched when Joel involuntarily took a step towards you. Had you been able to see through the curtain of tears you would have noticed that his eyes were glossy now as well and it might have made you feel better. But you didn't so you allowed your sadness and despair to utterly take over and you spat out everything that came to your mind.

"S-So you're just g-gonna end it 'cause you randomly remembered that you're o-older than m-me and now that's it? It d-didn't mean anything to you a-and we're just gonna l-live our separate lives f-from now on and act like nothing ever happened?"

"Of course it meant something to me," Joel whispered and he sounded just the way he sounded when he wanted to comfort you which didn't do anything for your current state. You whimpered when you felt his arms wrap around you and your first instinct was to make him let go so you winded in his hold.

"N-No..." you whimpered, wanting to shut off all your senses because now you could smell his scent and feel his warmth and touch the rough fabric of his shirt and it hurt you so much that you squirmed as Joel put his hand on the back of your head.

"Y/n," he whispered but you didn't listen.

"Let m-me go," you stuttered and after a brief moment of silence he did and somehow it felt even worse.

Now it was coldness and lonliness that silently embraced you and when he took a step back it meant something. He was leaving you right now and if you weren't careful he would slip away. It was like you could feel his finger against yours and all you had to do was hold on tightly and pull him back, but you couldn't. You couldn't grasp at him and he would leave. He would leave because all of this hadn't been that important to him and perhaps you had just floated around Jackson on cloud seven the last couple of months but it seriously had meant something to me. Fuck, it had meant more than something to you. Joel was the love of your life and you were about to watch him leave out your front door.

"Please," you whimpered, a weak hand reaching for him but he didn't react, his sad brown eyes lingering on your tear-stained face.

"Joel."

"I'm sorry," he murmured and put his hands in his front pockets as though he would feel less bad for not taking your hand if they were occupied elsewhere.

"It meant something to me. Of course it did. But it can't go on."

You couldn't even disagree or fight back, all you did was stand with weak knees wishing that the floor would swallow you and take the pain away. The stinging sharp sting that had started in your chest but had spread all throughout your body and was so breath-takingly excruciating that the flesh of your limbs seemed to melt off your tired bones. Joel opened his mouth and you expected to hear another cruel word but he seemed to change his mind and just nodded once.

"I'm sorry. I really am. But I wish you the best."

A cold hysteric laugh broke out of you which was followed by another wave of fresh tears. You wanted to reply and insult him or refuse to accept this pathetic attempt of a breakup or just scream and shout mindless words but it seemed like your throat had shut down and not even the quietest rasped noise could escape. Your swollen eyes were on the back of his head when he turned around to slowly head to the door.

You hated everything about it, how slowly he set one foot in front of the other as if he wanted to give you time to stop him but this honestly couldn't be the case because he had been the one to end it so why not just vanish in the air instead of spending an unnecessary amount of time in your home.

You stared at the ground counting the carves and lines in the wooden floor until you twitched at the sound of your door slamming shut. He wasn't supposed to leave. He was supposed to lay with you on the couch, his arms holding you close to his chest, protecting you from the cold and dark and a crappy old movie playing on your TV that Joel swore you just 'had to see'. He was supposed to listen to your complaints about the cold weather that you, as someone who was born in the south of the continent weren't used to and he was supposed to braid your hair in the mornings while you sat in front of the mirror and could laugh about his focused expression in the reflection.

He most definitely wasn't supposed to step out of your door without knowing when the two of you would be seeing each other again. It even had become a running gag between Joel and you because once you had started dating he had never let you go without agreeing on the next date.

You remembered standing on his doorstep, his lips pressing a soft kiss on your cheek and his lips curled in a crooked smirk. 'When will I see you again?' he had asked and you had shyly chuckled, your nervous hands toying with the hem of your jacket. 'Maybe Thursday? But a little bit later because I'm working long.'

Joel had pursed his lips and the I-don't-like-physical-contact and don't-show-any-emotions Joel Miller had grabbed your hand for a brief moment and squeezed it. 'Okay. 'Cause I really wanna see you again. And I think it would kill me to watch you leave without the promise that we're gonna see each other again.' You had laughed, excited butterflies swirling in your stomach and restlessly shifted your weight from one foot to the other. 'I wanna see you again, too, Joel.'

The memory made your stomach turn and you feared that you were going to throw up all over the carpet. That was it. He had ended it and he had made pretty clear that he wouldn't change his mind. When you started to feel dizzy once more you feared to actually have a panick attack so you forced yourself to inhale although it felt like iron clamps were closing around your lungs with every breath.

The drumbeat in your ears, the cold clammy sweat that pooled on your back, the weight of fear that pressed down on your shoulders. Everything was too much and the situation seemed to slip out of your hands when your view became blurry. You quickly grabbed the backrest of a chair, steadying yourself and then sinking to the floor before you could collaps. The ground wasn't comfortable at all but at least your weak legs didn't have to carry your weight now and so for a moment you felt better, your head resting against the chair and your throbbing pulse making it impossible for you to concentrate on anything else.

A whimper escaped your mouth but now there was no reason for you to hold back so you allowed yourself to break into tears and your loud sobs echoed against the high walls of your living room. Your sad empty lonely living room that suddenly felt like a prison. Or rather a cold basement. The kind that children were scared to enter alone in movies.

You adjusted on the floor, your back finding support against the chair leg and in that moment you believed that nothing in the world could make you rise from this spot again. There was nothing left. Nothing that you cared about enough to make you do anything. Perhaps you should just stay there and either starve or freeze to death because what did it matter anyway? Joel had been your life's purpose, your reason to get up and keep going even at the deepest lows in your life and you were just tired of pretending that the two of you had casually dated a few months.

You had fallen head over heels for him, been swept off your feet and fallen in love in every other poetic way there is to describe it. And you couldn't believe that Joel hadn't felt the same way; things had felt too real and natural.

Your shivering hand came down to rest on your lower stomach, an unpleasant ache in your chest.

You hadn't told him.

You knew you should have but the last hour had been agitating enough and you weren't sure you would have been able to handle announcing the surprise. So there you were now, left alone by your boyfriend you had believed to be the love of your life, pregnant with his child and unable to get up from the floor because it just hurt too much. Were you supposed to raise this child on your own now? Joel had just broken up with you and although the memory was still way too fresh and surreal to process it, you knew what it meant.

Not only did he not want to be part of your life, no, he had made clear what he thought about children. This had to be one horrible nightmare, you thought as you rubbed over your eyes that just wouldn't stop producing tears.

And while you had always found yourself in Joel's caring arms whenever you had a nightmare in the past few months, now you were on your own.

[ekkkkey]

vestal (chapter IV)

summary: Livia, a young Vestal Virgin, is bound to Vesta's eternal flame and the vow of sacred duty. In Rome, it's common knowledge; touch a Vestal, and the wrath of the gods will descend upon you. But what if someone dares to defy that rule?

chapter I chapter II chapter III

warnings: 18+ minors dni, dub-con, non-con, blood

tags: darkfic, sibling rivalry, no softboys here, religious guilt, mommy issues, Caracalla’s a whole damn goblin and Geta’s just as cursed

word count: ~7k

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The feast hosted by the emperors seemed to draw every noble citizen of Rome. Servants and slaves rushed through the palace halls, nearly running, desperate to prepare everything to perfection—failure meant punishment, and punishment here was rarely merciful.

None of the guests had been warned that Livia would be present, so several men had already tried to court her, only to be met with her cold, sharp rejection. She couldn’t really blame them—not many knew her by face, and white robes weren’t worn by Vestals alone. Still, the looks they gave her made her stomach turn. They were full of… full of what, exactly? Livia paused.

She knew nothing of lust, desire, or the cravings of the flesh, yet she could sense what these wealthy, pompous men were thinking. The emperors wanted the same from her—of that she was certain—but why, then, were their looks and smirks so different from the ones she caught tonight?

Her eyes swept over the riot of color—so many faces. Old, young, dull, clever, noble, brutish. And though she hated to admit it, she was searching for two faces in particular. The young emperors.

Their game insulted her, sowed doubt and unease, yet it also sparked a fire of defiance. A challenge. She would show them she was no mere kitchen wench to be toyed with. She was a priestess of the great goddess, chosen by the divine. They were not worthy to test her.

Memories of her last encounter with Emperor Caracalla flushed her cheeks with shameful heat. How dare he! Her angry thoughts were interrupted by a soft, unfamiliar voice, and Livia quickly wiped the scowl from her face.

"Mistress, please, the emperors await you."

A young slave girl bowed, offering a cup of wine. Livia waved it away. She hated drinking.

Stepping deeper into the hall, she saw them. Oh, what a glorious sight! Her lips twisted, and her brows furrowed. Glorious for the corrupt, pompous nobles who hung on every word of the emperors. For her, the scene stirred barely concealed irritation, though she forced a polite smile to avoid seeming rude.

Geta at least kept some semblance of decorum, lounging back on the bench with his legs spread wide. Caracalla, on the other hand, had sprawled out completely, his legs stretched so far that his toga had ridden up almost above his knees. Livia quickly turned her gaze away.

Geta always prattled on about decorum—so why did everything around her feel like a mockery, an insult aimed directly at her? And he smiled at her now—sweet, soft, like she was a childhood friend and not a captive in his game. His white robes were so blindingly white they seemed to glow in the dimly lit hall, illuminated only by flickering flames. White and gold—holy colours. He was taunting her. She clenched her own white robes, refusing to show how much he angered her.

His golden belt, embroidered mantle over his tunic—it was the embodiment of divinity and high rank. A laurel crown adorned his fiery hair, and intricate gold bracelets gleamed on his wrists. Caesar had outdone himself.

Caracalla, in contrast, seems deliberately dressed in an entirely different manner. He wore black, and only the brightness of his hair and the glint of his golden laurel stood out against his pale face.

And, like his brother, he was dripping in gold.

A long, heavy golden earring swayed with every lazy tilt of his head, its delicate touch grazing his pale neck. Even in dark clothing, he drew her gaze—forcing her to look at the gold dusted around his eyes and the red of his lips, stretched in a smile not meant for her.

Captivated, she found herself following the path of his delicate fingers as they stroked the pale hair of the slave girl at his feet. The whiteness of his hand was marred by red marks—marks she had left on him not long ago.

Livia caught his mocking glance and quickly looked down at her own wrist. No gold bangles there—only dark, blooming bruises. She wrapped her fingers around them, desperately hiding the proof of her shame.

"Priestess of Vesta," Geta greeted her. The room fell silent, all eyes on her with curiosity.

Between the two emperors sat Lucilla, draped in gold silk, looking—if it were possible—even less pleased to be there than Livia. She offered a polite nod and a faint smile, which Livia returned.

Caracalla caught their exchange and leaned toward Lucilla, whispering something. Lucilla paled. Then, under Livia’s disbelieving gaze, she picked a grape from a golden dish and offered it to Caracalla’s red lips. He ate it with a sly smile, never taking his eyes off Livia.

A wave of nausea rose in her throat. Such public disrespect toward his adoptive mother only deepened her righteous anger.

"You’re even lovelier than Appius described!" a coarse, mocking male voice broke her thoughts.

To Geta’s right, slouched among half-naked slave girls, sat three senators—or rather, what passed for senators these days. She recognized Claudia’s husband, laughing loudly at his companion’s vulgar remark. She felt naked under their stares.

These weren’t the wise old men of Rome, the voices of reason and law—they were long dead, executed for treason, for conspiracies against the emperors. In their place lounged the young, the arrogant, the shameless sycophants.

Before she could answer, Geta gave a gracious nod toward a gold-trimmed bench.

An invitation.

Head high, Livia took her seat. Her back was straight, her hands rested gently on her lap. Everything about her posture declared who she was: a Vestal Virgin. No one in this room, no matter how powerful, had the right to disrespect a priestess of Vesta.

But no sooner had the thought crossed her mind than she met Caracalla’s gaze. Smirking, he nibbled at his thumb, his eyes locked on hers, while his other hand idly stroked the slave girl’s hair. Livia’s jaw tightened, and she quickly turned away, offended.

"I hope you enjoy tonight’s spectacle," Geta murmured, leaning in close. "I promised you, didn’t I?"

His words sounded more like a warning, but before she could reply, Caracalla clapped his hands, commanding the show to begin.

The crowd parted, pressing to the walls, as decorations were set in the hall’s center.

She couldn’t say why, but a bad feeling settled in her gut as she watched the performers take their places. And then she understood.

The Rape of the Sabine Women.

Her hands balled into fists as the show intensified, men "abducting" resisting girls under a cacophony of music, shouts, and screams, "accidentally" tearing clothes off some. Livia blinked but refused to look away, unwilling to give the emperors the satisfaction. Women’s bodies didn’t frighten her. She glanced, just once, at the brothers.

They watched, utterly engrossed—laughing, shouting, draining one glass of wine after another.

Livia endured, as expected, watching the performance until the end and even clapping politely. But as soon as it was over, a handsome, finely dressed young man stepped forward. A poet.

Irritated, she let out an impatient breath. Geta had indeed arranged an evening of "culture," but the moment the poet opened his mouth, her ears burned, and her face flushed with red blotches. Never in her life had she heard such filth paraded as verse. Livia could not help herself—her eyes darted away, and it took everything in her not to rise from her seat and flee the hall filled with laughing nobles.

The worst part—the worst—was that the women were laughing too. And that shocked her the most. How could they find this funny? Who thought this was amusing? Her gaze darted across the hall, until it met the sorrowful eyes of Lucilla. The older woman gave a slight shake of her head, silently urging Livia to stay seated.

A senator nearby roared with laughter, spilling wine and clapping. Nausea rose in her throat. Closing her eyes, she silently prayed to the Great Goddess, picturing the quiet, safe sanctuary of the temple. But the sounds didn’t fade, and she was forced to open her eyes—and found Geta watching her.

The paint around his eyes had smeared, the powder blurred and fading. He looked wickedly amused, drunk—and in those black eyes, Livia saw not a trace of reason. Beside him, Caracalla let out a full-throated laugh, throwing his head back in raw delight.

Animals.

The poet finished to thunderous applause and disappeared into the crowd. Livia rose at once. Her palms were slick with sweat, and her heart pounded so hard she thought it might tear through her chest. She was terrified—feeling utterly unsafe.

But why? she asked herself.

"I am a priestess of Vesta, keeper of the Eternal Flame, my title…" she tried to steady herself, but a man’s jeering whistle behind her immediately scattered her thoughts.

Not long ago, the very thought that anyone would dare touch her seemed impossible. Yet now, she stared at her wrists, the dark marks glaring back at her—marks left not by just anyone, but by the emperor himself! Those who dared dishonor a Vestal were punished severely, executed even—but who would dare punish an emperor!? No one even knew!

"Gods, punish him, I beg you, protect me, let justice strike him!" she repeated, pushing through the crowd.

No one seemed to notice her departure, and with relief, she slipped behind a red fabric partition, leaned against a column, and finally exhaled. What she’d witnessed tonight had shaken her. It was worse than those awful encounters when the emperors had tried to provoke her. This time, they had succeeded. Her anger was gone—replaced by fear that made her hands tremble.

The entire hall, every guest, was drowning in wine and debauchery. She had even seen some of the men inhaling white powder from silver trays. Whatever it was, she didn’t want to know.

Catching her breath, Livia slapped her own cheek lightly to steady herself. She had to leave. Return to the House of the Vestals. Tell the High Priestess everything. She couldn’t bear this burden alone anymore.

Cautiously, she peeked past the partition into the room. The feast was still in full swing. Seeing no sign of the emperors, she breathed a small sigh of relief—only to flinch at a soft, unfamiliar touch.

Startled, she turned—and immediately exhaled. It was the same slave girl, dark-skinned, her wide eyes full of fear.

"Leave, Mistress, please!" the girl whispered.

"You scared me!" Livia replied softly, immediately taking the girl’s trembling hands in hers. "What is it?"

"I’m sorry… so sorry… please leave… not again…" The girl was trembling, repeating the same words over and over, her eyes darting in panic.

No matter how much Livia tried to comfort her, the girl only grew more agitated, babbling incoherently. Then—silence.

With a frightened squeak, the slave girl darted behind the curtain, leaving Livia alone. But not for long.

"You abandoned us so quickly," said a voice.

Geta.

His steps were uneven, his gaze hollow, and his tongue kept flicking over his lips, betraying his nervousness. He looked almost like himself… except he was terribly drunk.

Livia pressed her lips together. Pathetic. Did he really need to drown himself in wine just to find the courage to speak to her as he truly wished?

They stared at each other in silence. Only the muffled sounds behind the curtain reminded them they weren’t truly alone. The torchlight made his appearance ominous, aging him, twisting his features into something darker.

"I asked you a question," he said, no longer courteous but angry.

"I wasn’t impressed by the performance, I’ll be honest, Caesar." The words slipped out before she could stop herself. She cursed her own tongue the moment they left her lips. Angering him now was foolish.

As if reading her thoughts, he frowned, clicking his tongue in disapproval and stepping closer. She didn’t move. Geta was not Caracalla.

He seemed to read that in her eyes, too—and something in him twitched. His upper lip trembled.

Warily, Livia met his gaze, searching for some flicker of the old interest, that strained civility he used to wear like a mask. But there was nothing. Not even the torchlight touched those bottomless black eyes. She swallowed.

"I appreciate your invitation nonetheless, Caesar," she tried to soften her words.

It didn’t work.

He said nothing, squinting at her, lazily scratching his neck, smudging the white powder further. His gaze dropped to her hands, her wrist, and his mouth twisted into a thin, bloodless line.

"He does it to spite me," he muttered, more to himself than to her. "But you’re here, with me, whether he touched you or not," he continued, lost in thought.

"May I leave?" Livia whispered, though she knew the answer.

Geta smirked and shook his head, rubbing his hands as if steeling himself.

"You… you’re devout, aren’t you? Please! The goddess…" she appealed to his reason, but it was futile.

He wouldn’t dare, would he? He wasn’t his brother! But no, he was exactly the same.

His hands were ice-cold, yet they burned her wrists. His palm pressed down exactly where Caracalla had left bruises, squeezing until it hurt. Desperate, Livia tried to scream, but he clamped his hand roughly over her mouth, stifling the sound.

"Quiet, priestess, quiet," his drunken whisper scorched her neck. "I don’t like doing things the hard way, understand?"

She shook her head frantically, a tear slipping down her cheek. She didn’t understand anything. Nothing but her own stupidity—thinking she could play games with emperors. Thinking she could win.

Geta lowered his hand, and she gasped for air. He leaned his forehead against her shoulder, still gripping her wrist. She was trembling.

"Now, you’ll please me, won’t you?" he lifted his head and stared at her lips.

Disbelieving, Livia stayed silent, shaking her head, but her wishes mattered little. Who could resist an emperor’s kiss?

If his hands were cold, his mouth was hot, searing. For a moment, she lost all sense of reality, too terrified to react, but then the truth crashed over her. Someone else’s mouth on hers, someone else’s hands on her waist. A man was touching her—touching her in a way he never should have!

Whether Mars or Vesta herself had given her strength and fury, Livia bit down hard, her mouth filling with the metallic taste of blood.

Geta immediately pulled back, his eyes wide with disbelief. Oh, he was stunned! She’d bitten through his lower lip. Blood trickled down his chin, and only when a crimson drop hit the marble floor at his feet did the truth finally reach him.

Rage twisted his handsome face.

She breathed heavily, still reeling from what she’d done. But there was no time to think—before she could even process it, he struck her cheek with the back of his hand. And just as quickly, before the pain could even bloom, he dragged her into another kiss. This one was angry, punishing. Anything but gentle.

He released her. Her mouth tasted of blood, and she spat, unladylike, wiping her lips. Let him kill her! But first, she’d claw his eyes out!

But no, he only smirked, licking his own blood from his lips.

"Leave, priestess, or it’ll be worse," his voice was hoarse. "And remember, you’re still expected at the games."

Only once he slipped back into the hall did Livia realize how badly she was shaking. Only then did the sting of his slap truly bloom across her face. She wanted to sob like a little girl—but not here. Not in this place.

"Imperial blood spills far too often these days, Amata," said a voice behind her—calm, amused, almost gentle.

Caracalla.

Livia turned to him like a hunted creature, silently cursing him with every word she knew. He was drunk and cheerful, utterly at ease—if anything, exhilarated, almost thrilled.

His brother’s little performance had clearly entertained him.

"Perhaps you’ve been praying poorly to your goddess?" His pale brows furrowed in feigned concern. "Could something like this happen to a pure, devoted novice? Or perhaps your goddess is punishing you for something?" He leaned in like a conspirator, his hand covering his mouth as if to protect a forbidden secret. "Or maybe," he whispered, "this is exactly what she wants."

"Please, let me leave," she whispered, her lips stinging from the dried blood, her wrists aching with every movement.

"But what of your punishment?" he asked, with theatrical surprise, raising his hands. The bracelets on his wrists jingled. "Twice now, you’ve spilled the sacred blood of the fathers of the empire! Perhaps I should spill a little of yours?" And with a syrupy smile, his pale eyes, clouded with wine, slowly slid over her face.

The hint was so blatant that even her naive mind understood. The first touch. The first kiss. The first… She shook her head. None of this was ever meant to be part of her life.

"I’m begging you," she breathed, barely audible, not knowing what else to say.

It pleases him. She can see it—the twitch at the corners of his mouth, the lazy narrowing of his eyes as he savors her humiliation. Her pride, once unshakable, is crumbling, and he’s enjoying every second of it.

"Very well," he nodded playfully. She exhales, a breath of relief escaping her—

"But first…"

Caracalla extends his delicate hand, the same one where she’d left her scratches. Mesmerized, she watches the firelight dance on the golden rings. He tilts his head, eyes fixed on her. Waiting.

Her heart stutters. She knows exactly what he wants.

Swallowing her pride, Livia bent, brushing her lips against his wounded hand, hearing his satisfied exhale. It felt obscene to her.

He’d forced her. Forced her to touch him, to bow, to press her lips to his warm, soft skin. Humiliating. But if this was the price of her peace, so be it.

Livia hurried to leave, but as she passed Caracalla, she found herself caught in his iron grip.

He held her for just a moment, just long enough for him to lean close and whisper hotly in her ear: "Tonight, my brother won’t be the only one imagining your face."

The slave girl leads her out of the palace, accompanied by a young man with dark skin. Livia stumbles, nearly collapsing, but the man catches her, steadying her with a firm arm around hers as they descend the steps. She doesn’t care that he’s a man—right now, he’s her only salvation.

"This is my brother, Mistress," the girl whispers. "He’ll help you."

They seat Livia in a carriage. As the door is closed, she casts one last glance toward the palace and catches sight of a dark figure standing on the balcony, watching. She yanked the curtain shut with a shaking hand.

She didn’t have to see his face to know it was one of them.

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The High Priestess stares at her with disbelief, wariness, and fear. No wonder—Livia had burst into her chambers in the dead of night, disheveled, bloodied, bruised. She had shed all her tears on the way from the palace; now there was only one thing she longed for: to tell the truth.

"You weren’t at your sister’s," the older woman says, narrowing her eyes and drawing her cloak tighter around herself.

In the darkness, in her thin nightgown, her hair loose and her face suddenly aged, the High Priestess seems almost fragile to Livia—nothing like the stern, commanding figure she had always known. For a moment, fear claws at her: what if she won’t help? What could this aging priestess possibly do against the emperors? But Livia shoves the thought aside, falls to her knees, clutches at the woman’s legs, presses her cheek against them, and whispers fiercely:

"It was them!"

Her voice quivers with rage. The sister-priestesses loved her for her lightness, her cheerful spirit, but now there’s no trace of that left.

"The emperors!" she spits the words out with such hatred that the High Priestess flinches, stepping back, but Livia won’t let her go. She looks up, straight into her eyes.

"Look at me!" She thrusts out her arms—pale, bruised, trembling.

"My child…" the priestess whispers, stunned. "Why did you go to the palace?"

"Why?" Livia’s breath grows heavy, anger rising in her chest. "Because of my sister, of course! Did you think I stayed there willingly—for what? For a man?"

The High Priestess presses her lips into a thin line. Pity flickers in her eyes, but so does doubt.

"You’re young, beautiful… perhaps you did something wrong, somehow…"

Enraged, Livia springs to her feet, towering over her.

"Me? You think I’m to blame for this?" She scrubs at her lips and wrists as if trying to erase the shame. "You think I would lie? I, who took the sacred vows? I, who gave up my family, my life, everything—just to trade it all for disgrace and dishonor?"

Something shifts in the priestess’s face. She reaches for Livia’s hands, squeezing them, then pulls her into an embrace, gently stroking her back.

"What did they do? Did they…" The look in her eyes says the rest.

"No," Livia snaps, breaking free from her arms, "but they did enough to be judged."

"And who will judge the emperors?" the priestess says, throwing up her hands.

"The Senate! The people! The gods!" Livia’s voice rises, and the priestess hastily motions for her to lower it. "Someone will, Great Virgin!"

"You forget whom you’re speaking of, child."

"What, are they above the law? The people hate them—that’s no secret. Everyone in Rome knows what they are—everyone but children! And they themselves are like children—cruel, vicious—"

She’s cut off.

"And yet these children rule us. They rule Rome. You’ve seen what happens to those who oppose them. The Praetorians, the army, even the Senate—they all stand with them. What is your word against theirs?"

"I am a Vestal Virgin! My word is not nothing!"

"Then stay away from them. Don’t provoke them. Devote yourself to your duties."

The conversation is over.

Livia storms out of the priestess’s chambers without a word of farewell, furious at finding no support. And yet, having finally spoken, a weight lifts from her chest.

She doesn’t want to tell anyone else—but Caesonia is different. Her friend, her sister, her mentor—she cannot keep this from her.

A storm rages over Rome. Lightning flashes illuminate the city with ominous bursts, and Livia is certain it’s the ancient Goddess herself, furious that her priestess has been defiled, dishonored. The thought warms her heart. Let Emperor Caracalla say what he will—she is under her Virgin’s protection.

Here, within the House of the Vestals, she finds refuge—and in Caesonia, the understanding she needs.

The elder priestess asks no questions. She only gently helps Livia undress, combs out her tangled hair, kneads the tension from her shoulders.

Livia sinks into the warm water, closing her eyes in exhausted bliss. Caesonia, wearing only a thin tunic, sits by the pool’s edge, watching her in silence.

Her wrists are almost white again, as they once were, with only faint yellowish marks hinting at the painful memories. She notices Caesonia’s gaze lingering on them.

"What did you talk about with the High Priestess after your visit to your sister?" Caesonia asks, circling the truth.

Livia leans her head back against the marble edge, staring up at the vaulted ceiling. Should she tell her everything?

"That’s not what you really want to ask, is it?"

Caesonia licks her lips, tilts her head, and smiles slyly. She slides into the pool beside Livia, her soaked tunic clinging to her skin before she pulls it off and lets it drift away. She presses close, resting her head lightly on Livia’s shoulder. Cool, delicate fingers trail along Livia’s wrist, barely brushing the bruises with feather-light touches.

"Was it one of the emperors?"

"Who told you?" Livia’s heart lurches.

Caesonia laughs softly, stroking her wrist.

"I’m not a fool. I saw the way they looked at you. I might never have known a man, but I can imagine what’s in their heads when they see a beautiful girl." She tucks a strand of hair behind Livia’s ear and meets her gaze, waiting.

Heat rises under Livia’s skin—not from the water. She looks away, murmuring the whole story. Caesonia listens, wide-eyed, drinking in every word. It’s not the reaction Livia expected; she grows even more embarrassed.

"And what was it like?" Caesonia lowers her voice, though the slaves outside the door can’t hear.

"What…" Livia whispers, confused.

"You know," Caesonia’s hand gently caresses her cheek, "what’s it like to feel a man’s touch? Is it like mine?"

The priestess’s hand strokes her, leaving Livia stunned and flustered, but then Caesonia laughs and pulls away.

"Forgive me! Forgive me, sweet Livia," she says with a wink, sinking into the water up to her chin. "I’m too weak for beauty, and to hear about a handsome man…"

"Caesonia!" Livia tries to sound stern, but can’t help laughing.

"You should be ashamed of your words and thoughts!"

"I’m just teasing, you know that," Caesonia says, then theatrically leans back against the pool’s edge, pressing a hand to her forehead. "Oh, Emperor, I think I’ve twisted my ankle!"

Anywhere else, the joke would have horrified Livia. But here, safe and warm in the water, she bursts out laughing, grabbing her friend’s shoulders and shaking her.

"Stop it, you fool, it’s not funny at all!" When he grabbed her roughly, it wasn’t funny. When he kissed her, it wasn’t funny. But Caesonia fluttering her lashes like some lovesick emperor—yes, that was funny.

They never speak of it again. The bruises fade. Life settles back into its old rhythm. And Livia throws herself into her sacred duties, heart and soul.

But the faster the carefree days flew by, the closer the games drew near. Livia tried not to think about them, but in the restless moments before sleep, the emperors’ faces haunted her—their voices, their touches, their smiles…

One radiant, sunlit day, slaves arrived at the House of the Vestals carrying a covered palanquin. From it, they hauled a massive chest onto the terrace.

The priestesses gathered around, eyeing the ornate, gold-trimmed chest with curiosity. The slaves withdrew quickly, but none dared open it without the High Priestess’s permission.

A wave of dread washed over Livia. Sensing her unease, Caesonia reached out and quietly took her hand.

When the High Priestess finally appeared and lifted the heavy lid, the Vestals gasped in unison, recoiling in horror.

Livia clapped a hand over her mouth, stunned by the sight.

On a bed of crimson velvet lay two severed male arms, hacked cleanly at the elbows. A tightly wound scroll rested beside them. Nausea rose in her throat.

The High Priestess, regaining her composure quicker than the rest, seized the scroll, scanned it, then nodded sharply for Livia to step closer.

"Emperor Caracalla expresses his deepest regrets and begs forgiveness for the inappropriate behavior of a slave who dared leave those marks on you. He sends his warmest regards," she said, her voice like a verdict. Both of them knew he was lying brazenly — and so did he.

Livia’s lips trembled with outrage and fury as she realized whose arms these were. The slave who had helped her escape the palace, who had held her by the shoulders to keep her from collapsing on the steps. So it was Caracalla on the balcony! He had seen them!

"Dispose of them," the High Priestess commanded coldly. "And I shall convey your gratitude to the emperor for his… justice."

Livia only nodded, her heart hammering in her chest. She had glimpsed the depths of his madness—and it terrified her.

Now the days leading to the games became a slow, grinding torture. She buried herself in ceaseless prayer, trying to smother the rising panic that no words could soothe.

"Don’t worry, we’ll be with you, won’t we?" Caesonia said. Livia, dressed in a long white tunic, her hair braided with red ribbons and veiled, stood ready. Caesonia hung an amulet around her neck and stepped back, admiring her.

The arena greeted them with a deafening roar as they took their seats to the left of the imperial box. Young girls approached, holding out wreaths of flowers, and the priestesses accepted with gracious smiles, settling them gently on their heads.

As usual, Livia sat beside the High Priestess, her back as straight as a string. Her gaze was fixed on the arena, and she didn’t allow herself even a glance toward the emperors.

"Emperor Geta is watching you," Caesonia whispered in a low tone. Livia curled her lip in disdain, waving off the comment with a flick of her hand. Let him watch.

Heralds in masks of the seven gods announced the start of the games, held in honor of General Fulvius Plautianus’s victory, who had seized part of Persia in the emperors’ name.

"As if they conquered it themselves," Livia scoffed under her breath, careful no one overheard.

As the gladiators entered the arena, she stole a quick glance at the imperial box. For a moment, their red-haired heads caught her attention, but she quickly turned away, unwilling to meet their eyes.

The games began, the crowd roared, and Livia, finally forgetting the emperors, leaned forward, gripping the railing, her gaze fixed on the combatants below.

The sun climbed higher, and the arena grew bloodier. She noticed the crowd favoring a young gladiator—dark-haired, tanned, powerful. The barbarian fought fiercely, clearly not for the emperors’ amusement. For a moment, his eyes swept toward the Vestals’ box, and Livia, her heart pounding with some hidden sympathy, nodded slightly, silently wishing him victory. He gave no sign, but his next fight was another win.

The emperors leapt from their seats, clapping, clearly pleased with the spectacle. A small monkey on Caracalla’s shoulder screeched, mimicking its master’s applause.

The crowd chanted "Hanno," and Geta, visibly stung, sank back into his chair, followed by his brother. Livia smirked.

To her dismay, the final bout turned against Hanno. Exhausted, he collapsed onto the sand. Her sisters, the crowd, the entire stadium froze in tense anticipation. The verdict rested with the Caesars.

Livia no longer even tried to hide it—she stared straight at the emperors. Caracalla leaned over and whispered something to his brother, then lounged back lazily in his chair. Geta rose to his feet. Behind them, Lucilla sat, visibly uneasy.

Emperor Geta braced his hands on the edge of the imperial box, sweeping his gaze slowly across the crowd, across the men in the arena… Then he lifted his hand—and locked eyes with her. His smile was cold and crooked, his chin lifted in arrogance. The wretch. She didn’t bother to hide her grimace in response…

… And his thumb turned downward, sealing the death sentence.

The crowd erupted in outrage, but Geta sat back smugly, sipping from his goblet and raising it toward her with a mocking nod.

"Livia…" the High Priestess warned, but inside, Livia’s heart burned with indignation and hatred. Did he enjoy making her vulnerable? Humiliating her in front of the gods? Well, then…

She leaned forward, extending her arm, and raised her thumb, staring straight at the emperors.

Oh, their furious, twisted faces were a balm to her soul. They could do nothing to her, say nothing—everyone knew a Vestal’s word in such matters was final.

With a sense of quiet triumph, she settled back onto the bench, her smile unwavering, as the heralds proclaimed the verdict in a booming voice. This time, the crowd’s cheers weren’t for the emperors or the fighters—they were for her.

"You shouldn’t have done that. I told you to stay away," the High Priestess said sadly, but Livia barely heard her. Her heart raced with the thrill of the small victory.

They were escorted into the Colosseum’s inner halls, but Livia felt no fear, walking steadily, carefully holding her long tunic.

And of course, they were waiting for them. The emperors—both dressed in white and crimson, the colors of victory. Geta’s head was crowned with golden laurel, while Caracalla’s unruly curls wore a different wreath. Fresh green laurel leaves made his blue eyes seem even brighter, his skin paler, and he… She turned away. He once again reminded her of Sol.

Many of the senators were there too, and they quickly drew the High Priestess into conversation, leaving the younger Vestals to themselves.

Livia, keeping well away from the emperors, slipped toward a quieter corner of the hall.

"Pious Virgin, may I speak with you?"

Startled, she turned to see Lucilla standing before her, head bowed.

"Of course. Your company is always a pleasure," Livia said.

Lucilla glanced around nervously, then leaned closer, whispering,

"Thank you for sparing the gladiator today… Please, ask me nothing—I beg you—but know that I’m grateful. And in return, I’ll offer you a service. I will tell you how your sister died."

Livia freezes, blinking rapidly and opening her mouth in silence. Lucilla’s story is brief, dry, and lacking in details, but it is enough. Livia knew. She knew who was responsible.

After parting with the daughter of the former emperor, she felt an eerie, almost unnatural calm. Emperor Geta had killed her sister—and now he tried to violate her, as if mocking her grief.

She stood alone by the hall’s far columns, lost in thought, when the very one she had been thinking of found her, his brother beside him. Her gaze was empty, cold.

"Emperor Geta," she nodded. "Emperor Caracalla," another nod.

"I wish to apologize, priestess," Geta began. She could see how the words strained him, how he forced himself to be courteous…

But what was his courtesy to her?

"Tell me, Caesar, what exactly are you apologizing for? For the disgusting advances you made toward me, or for murdering my sister? Do you even remember her? Dark-haired, gentle-hearted. Do you even remember her name? Her name was Cassandra," she said through clenched teeth.

Geta took a step back, and for the first time, Livia saw him completely exposed, vulnerable. To her surprise, his black eyes weren’t looking at her. Instead, he was staring at Caracalla. And Caracalla, in turn, was looking right back at him. On his pale face, there was no smile, no familiar sneer—only an unnerving, stone-cold mask.

"It’s a lie, brother," Geta said, not addressing her once again, and Livia understood less and less. Caracalla didn’t believe him, that much was clear.

"Please, not here," he pleaded. Caracalla said nothing, but his blue gaze shifted back to Livia.

Geta cast her a final look—one full of hatred, bitter disappointment—and hurried toward the Praetorians, disappearing into the crowd.

"Did you know?" she asked Caracalla.

He lifted his head, blinking rapidly, as if shaking off a daze. A crooked smirk slowly returned to his face.

"No, I swear," he says hoarsely, almost whispering. He’s angry—this much was clear—but for the first time, she wasn’t the target of his rage, and it felt… strange. "We…," he trails off, licking his lips, "Cassandra and I—we were good friends. Didn’t I tell you? I wouldn’t have let anyone hurt her, believe me, Livia."

She watches him, eyes narrowed in suspicion. He meets her gaze with that same smirk, peering up at her from under his brows, his pale eyebrows drawn together—pure innocence. Livia shrugs, taking up her proud stance once more.

"And yet, you acted inappropriately towards me," she said, now feeling more confident as his attention was fully on his brother.

"Oh, I regret it," he replied, his lips slightly parted, the tip of his tongue brushing over his upper lip. Did he truly regret it? Livia looked at him again. Not a hint of it. But even empty words carried weight now.

"How do you like my gift?"

A shiver ran through her, the memory of the chest with the severed hands sending a chill down her spine. She said nothing.

The emperor leaned in, his hand brushing the bust behind her, tracing the curve of the nameless marble girl’s neck. The scratches on his hand had healed. Her bruises had faded as well. He glanced at her hands before locking eyes with her.

"If you want," he whispered, his grin widening, "I’ll give you one just like it—with Geta."

For a brief moment, she forgot how to breathe. He was offering her the revenge she’d craved—for her sister, for her own honor! But he was his brother… And yet, with a breath heavy with fury, she answered,

"Yes."

The delight on the emperor’s face terrifies her. Caracalla breathed heavier, his tongue sliding over his lips again and again, and for a moment, she could have sworn she heard a low, strangled moan escape from his red mouth.

His delicate hand released the marble throat of the bust and rose toward her face. Livia nervously glanced behind him—was anyone watching? Fortunately, the column was wide enough to shield them from prying eyes…

What was she thinking? She quickly scolded herself.

But the emperor didn’t touch her. Instead, he plucked a rose from her flower crown and tucked it behind his ear, as if he were a mischievous street boy, not the Father of Rome. It seemed the talk of his brother’s murder didn’t trouble him in the slightest. Had such a thought crossed his mind before? Had it ever occurred to him? Like Romulus and Remus—twins, both of them…

She loses her train of thought as her gaze lands on the large medallion on his chest. Golden, elaborate, screaming wealth—she had no interest in it, until Livia noticed the embossed female profile.

At first, she couldn’t believe her eyes, wondering if it was her own face staring back at her.

"Oh, this is my mother," he lifted the medallion, showing it to her. Livia understands it’s another woman, but she can’t deny the striking resemblance. It terrifies her.

Nervously, she glances up at the emperor. The last time he spoke of Julia Domna, he pressed against her hips, shamelessly moaning. It’s hard to forget such a thing.

He smiles slyly, knowing exactly what she’s thinking, tilting his head, savoring the blush on her cheeks.

"I was just a boy when she died. Father always hated me, but she…" He steps closer, and Livia finds herself backed against the wall, nowhere to retreat. "She loved me. That much I remember."

Livia has no words to reply, but he doesn’t expect an answer. Their faces are almost level now, his eyes burning with feverish intensity. Caesar leans in, but then immediately tilts his head, turning to bury his face in her neck, not touching, leaving a small gap between his lips and her skin. Unconsciously, she tilts her neck, almost as if offering it. She feels his smile against her skin.

"You look just like her, don’t you?" he murmurs, inhaling deeply before once more searing her neck with his breath. "Your goddess didn’t hear your prayers, did she? Didn’t grant your wishes…" He leans back slightly, still staring into her eyes, chin raised arrogantly. She exhales sharply.

"Then I’ll be your god, Amata, and for my help, I don’t need thirty years of devotion. I think it’ll all end much sooner," he purrs.

It’s only now that Livia realizes what she’s agreed to.

[lxzy-bxby]

Sitting in a Tree

~ ♡ ~

Caleb thought that it would get better over years. You two had your fair share of anniversaries already—yet he still drooled over you.

Just like this morning.

When you descended downstairs, you found your husband at his usual place—by the stove. Might sound reverse-sexist, but it was true nonetheless. Caleb said that if you ever do as much as lift your finger, he owes you a divorce.

Frankly speaking, having househusband is nice. Having househusband who fucks your guts until you drool all over the bed is even nicer.

Just like last night.

You two went at it around four times, and you suppose you passed out right after his cock slipped out of your worn-out cunt. Usually Caleb would carry you to shower and bathe you himself, or at least wipe your body all over with a towel and change your clothes with bedsheets—but he was exhausted, too.

Hence dried-off sticky cum between your things this morning. You threw stained sheets in the laundry basket, hoping Caleb won't notice—since 'it's his duty to keep the house'. That's what he said next day after your wedding.

You move forward to the room, pressing kisses to the temples of your twins, settled in their high chairs. They babble something like greeting, making Caleb turn towards you to see why are they chattering.

You swear you notice his eyes widening a little. As if you was wearing a thong with no bra—but you was wearing his shirt, long enough to cover your knees.

Which is ways sexier, in his eyes.

You cast a glance towards carrier on his bare chest with your eight month babygirl in it. Caleb swore he has zero gender preferences when it comes to kids made with you, but it was so comically obvious he was happy to be a girl dad more than anything.

Caleb blinks a few times, finally snapping out of it. He felt like going through puberty all over again.

And his puberty was torture. He was sure it was inappropriate to get a boner caused by your childhood bestfriend.

Thank God now his childhood bestfriend is his wife. He still gets a hard-on every time he sees her, though.

Feeling blood from his brain rushing to his cock, Caleb groans internally. Great. Just great. A semi at 8 AM. Exactly what he wanted.

Ignoring relentless twitching of his dick in his sweatpants, he clears his throat, feeling suddenly so wrong for getting rock-hard with his children present in the same room. "Good morning, honey! Breakfast gonna be ready in a minute. Bacon, eggs... Want me to make you coffee?"

You want him to let you breathe, honestly. And putting a shirt on wouldn't hurt—he probably had no idea, but his back was painted with lines your nails left on it the night before.

But you nod, because coffee honestly would be excellent thing to have right now. He immediately moves to coffeemaker, managing to coddle little one on his chest, check on the eggs and pour your coffee.

"One latte for pretty Mommy, incoming right up." He grins smugly, carrying cup of coffee to you carefully.

You huff out a quiet chuckle, taking an opportunity to peck your infant's head. She looks extremely adorable today—Caleb dressed her up in a colorful green onesie with little red apples, and there for a fact is nothing cuter than adorable babywear. Especially when the baby wearing it is adorable as well. And babies made with Caleb can't be anything but adorable.

Caleb chuckles, but you see the way his eyes darken slightly from the feeling of neglect—he always makes sure you have nothing to care about so you can give himself your all. Seeing you showing affection to someone else, as much as his own kids, made him feel both warm and pained.

"Is there a kiss for me as well, ba-by?" He hums, leaning in way too close, taking all of your personal space.

Ah, right. You stopped having any upon marrying him.

"Maybe. Think you earned it?" You tease, stroking his bottom lip.

Caleb's eyes glint as he murmurs the words practically against your ear. "What's your pricelist, wifey? How many orgasms per kiss? Ah, nevermind. How many should I give you for a makeout session? ...Oh, then again, forget it. Just gonna keep makin' you come unless I get a discount for life."

"Caleb!" You hiss, gently swapping his forearm.

"Mhm. Exactly what you're gonna keep screamin'."

With a glance at your kids, who are blissfully unaware of his dirty talk, you sigh with relief.

Then his huge palm cups you chin, turning your head towards him, and when you part your lips to say something, he just latches on to them.

Caleb is PDA ambassador, actually.

And yeah, for you your kids count for public, too.

His lips caress yours reverently yet hungrily, his kisses always bordering on something in-between. You sigh, cupping his face and just giving in.

"...Mama and Dada sittin' in a twee!" One of the twins squeaks, clapping his small hands.

Of course. Beware of toddlers.

You pull away first, chuckling, "Were they?.." You mutter under your breath to yourself.

Caleb grins like a Cheshire cat, walking over to the twins, letting his hands brush against your hip while he's at it. "Yeah? Then what, buddy? Oh, wait. You can't even spell 'kissing'. Tough luck."

Caleb ruffles both boys' hair, making them giggle. You clear your throat indifferently, sipping on your coffee.

"Other than that, you're right. First came love... then came marriage. Then came Mommy with... actually two baby carriages. And then came Mommy with a baby carriage, again." Caleb snorted, his eyes glistening with amusement.

"And then again?" Twin brother of your little tease in the making piped in, giggling and grinning so hard his gums started to show.

"Oh shoot." You mutter under your breath. Kids and their tongues.

Caleb raises an eyebrow. "Dunno, buddy. Probably she will. Most likely, she will."

He glances at you with a devilish sparkle in his eyes, and you curse internally. Two under two would be wild. People gonna start talking.

Caleb eyes you up and down, his eyes lingering on your curves and smooth skin of your legs, his throat bobbing with a swallow. "You wanna know what, champ? One hundred percent she will."

Twins squeal with delight as if they both were the only children who had zero siblings to play with.

And Caleb looks at you so smoldering as if it's your first wedding night.

After all, maybe skipping Plan B just this once wouldn't hurt.

~ ♡ ~