#they did something wrong!!!! acknowledge that!!!!!

[fromchaostocosmos]

I've said this before and I'll say it here that all the time traveler goes and kills baby Hitler stories I hate them and so do most Jewish and Roma people.

Because it shows that all the people who think killing Hilter before he rose to power or as an infant would have solved the problem and that the have no real understanding as to what was going, what societal issues where at play, and what antisemitism and anti-Roma racism had been around for a long time to help play a role in it all.

The reality is with or without Hilter it was all brewing and Hitler took advantage of the hate that was already existing towards Jewish and Roma people.

That hate would not have magically disappeared just because he was gone.

The other thing I think a lot people miss with the Diamonds and their ending is that Rebecca Sugar is Jewish.

And how Judaism views forgiveness and punishment is different then Christianity which all those Disney movies are made under the influence of and Christian culture.

Teshuva is the process one under goes when they have committed a wrongdoing. And how it goes differs if the wrongdoing is done towards G-d or a person.

I'm going to focus on the against a person part. When one does a wrongdoing against another person one must go through a process of admitting and acknowledging their wrongdoing and the hurt they have caused. They must spend time working on themself, growing, and changing as a person. Bettering themselves. Looking deep within at their flaws and seeing it all. It is hard and painful.

And it takes time. It is only then, that they can go to one that they hurt and apologize, and they do that by admitting and acknowledging the hurt and wrong they did, by taking responsibility, by explaining and showing how they have grown and changed as a person, and doing their best to not do the thing that they apologizing for.

If the person they have done the wrongdoing against does not accept their apology they are required to do the process again.

And if the on the 3rd time the person still does not accept the apology then the two go their separate ways and do not interact. Because sometimes a person can be very hurt by something that it is unforgivable to them.

It is why Teshuva towards a person is considered to have a time limit because people only have so long to live.

It is also why killing is considered to be the only unforgivable action in Judaism because the person to whom one would ask forgiveness from is not here to ask from.

(though there is commentary that compares rape to killing and thus puts the act of rape on the same level as murder)

So for me knowing the context of how Judaism views forgiveness and punishment and what the purpose of these things are for and knowing that Rebecca Sugar is Jewish it makes so much sense that she would write in the story they created to not have the Diamonds be chucked off a cliff or die as the answer to problems, but rather something more nuanced and complex.

And something more inline with a Jewish perspective.

Sometimes I think about how and why some people had such a *bad* reaction to the end of Steven Universe, specifically in regards to the Diamonds living.

Even though they no longer are causing harm to others and are able to actually undo some of their previous harm by living, some folks reacted as though this ending was somehow morally suspect. Morally bankrupt, even.

And I think it might be because so many of us were raised on a very specific kind of kids media trope:

They all fall to their deaths.

Disney loves chucking their bad guys off cliffs. And it makes sense- in a moral framework where villains *must* be punished (regardless of whether their death will actually prevent further harm or not), but killing of any kind is morally bad for the hero, the narrative must find a way to kill the villain without the protagonists doing a murder.

It's a moral assumption that a person can *deserve* to die, that it is cosmically just for them to die, that them dying is evidence that the story itself is morally good and correct. Scar *deserves* to die, but it would be bad for Simba to kill him. So....cliff.

Steven Universe, whatever else it's faults, took at step back and said "but if killing people is bad, then people dying is bad", and instead of dropping White Diamond off a cliff, asked "what would actual *restorative*, not punitive, justice look like? What would actual reparations mean here? If the goal is to heal, not just to punish, how do we handle those who have done harm?" And then did that.

Which I think is interesting, and that there was pushback against it is interesting.

It also reminds me of the folks who get very weird about Aang not killing Ozai at the end of Avatar. And like, Ozai still gets chucked in prison, so it doesn't even push back on our cultural ideas of punitive justice *that much.* and still, I've seen people get real mad that the child monk who is the last survivor of a genocide that wiped out his entire pacifist culture didn't do a murder.

[oceantornadoo]

ch14 something borrowed something blue (mafia!price x simon's sister!reader)

tw: guns and violence. christmas is mentioned but nothing religious

last chapter yall! i did not edit this srry

masterlist

The day your life changes forever, again, is emotional for all the wrong reasons.

Two months after you get rescued (John insists that you rescued yourself, but you like to remember that image of him haloed by light at the top of the stairs like an angel), you send your brother and his husband back home to Manchester. The morning breeze whips the fabric of your coat as you squint at your family in front of you. Simon is dressed in his usual dark slacks and button down, the lines of his tattoos escaping the fabric to trail up his neck. Johnny’s mohawk has grown into a mullet, curly hairs framing his face like a cherub. They stand in front of the Castle doors with their backs to the waiting car, eyes trained on you and occasionally flicking to John or Gaz at your sides.

“I’m going to miss you.” You murmur, hugging Johnny first. He squeezes you until you’re lifted off the ground and pounding on his back to let you go. “Gonna miss ye too, hen.” He sets you on your feet laughing, then leans in to kiss your forehead. “Take care of y’rself.” He says it to you but his eyes meet John’s, a silent conversation happening between them. You turn to Simon, leaving Johnny to have intimidating handshakes with the men by you.

“Bye, Si.” He smothers you in a hug like he’s trying to merge you into him. “Bye, my love.” You sniffle into the crook of his neck, willing yourself not to cry. “You gonna visit more often?” You ask, voice weak with emotion. He nods tightly against you. “And it can’t just be because I got kidnapped. You need to come for fun.” He grumbles something nonsensical at that. Simon’s still sensitive over not finding Phil, a task that had eaten away at him all month. John finally called it after there was evidence Phil fled to Cuba. Simon squeezes you once more, freezing for a second when he feels the Glock tucked in your waistband. He sets you on your feet, his eyes searching yours as you try to tell him why. Satisfied that he found something, Simon nods resolutely. His eyes are wet but in a blink they’re dry, maintaining his tough-guy persona. You snort back a sob like a real woman, turning away as the men shake hands.

“Bye, guys!” You say one last time as they turn, hands almost brushing on their walk to the car. Johnny winks at you before dipping into the car while Simon turns his head upwards like he’s blinking back tears. The door shuts and they disappear in a cloud of exhaust. 

John’s arm wraps around your waist, tugging you into him. You go willingly, hiding your face in his neck as you fold into him. “You’ll see him for Christmas, sweetheart.” Only a few weeks away, but it feels like eons. John kisses the side of your head, squeezing you tight until you can breathe. “John, I just…” You don’t even know what you want to say, just that you already miss your family with a deep ache in your heart. His free hand finds purchase at the nape of your neck, tugging you closer into him. “I know, baby, I know.” The simple acknowledgement of your feelings calms your breathing into a normal rhythm until you can pull back with a small smile on your face.

“I think I’m going to take a walk. Clear my head.” He nods, his beard pulling at the sides. You notice new grey hairs at the sides, a worrying look. “I’ll come?” You shake your head no, then peck him on the lips. “I think I need to be alone, honey. You can have all the men watch me from every corner of the park, I promise.” John knocks his forehead into yours for a second before pulling back with a grim smile on his face. “I’ll be in my office if you need me.” He pecks your forehead and turns back inside. Gaz nods at you, then taps his ear and speaks something into his earpiece.

You venture across the street into the local park. It reminds you a bit of Central Park in the movies, full of natural structures rather than just a flat patch of grass. You let your feet guide you, taking deep breaths in the crisp winter air. A moment later, you realize this is the first time in a while you haven’t thought about your kidnapping. Your therapist’s breathing techniques make an appearance as you pat yourself on the back. 

Though the leaves are dead and the air is chilly, there’s still a lot of foliage in the park. Considerable bunches of bushes protect you from the wind as you walk in deeper. It’s calming to know that there’s guards watching you from somewhere you can’t see, a safety blanket to fall back on. As you turn left, you notice a tiny hill that rises into an overhang. Your feet weave a path towards it, settling your back to the rock wall and sliding down into a sitting position as you contemplate the last few months. 

Footsteps crunch on dead leaves as someone approaches from behind you. “Oh, I’m sorry, I’d really prefer to be alon-” You stop in the middle of your sentence when you register the man standing in front of you. He’s thinner from when you last saw him, cheeks gaunt and sallow. His hair looks thinner and though you know it’s not possible, he looks shorter. A dark cap blocks you from seeing his eyes, an unsettling realization creeping over you. 

“What, how, I thought you left the country?” Phil shakes his head, advancing near your spot. You scramble to sit up, wincing as your head knocks against the short overhang. You try to step out of its shadow but Phil steps forward again, preventing you from peeling out of the shadows. “Couldn’t leave you, sugar. Was jus’ waiting for your brother to leave.” You shiver at his insinuation. He seems…off. No longer the confident assistant or the wily interrogator. It’s like you are his mission now that Shepherd is gone.

“Why don’t we get out of this cold and grab a tea, Phil? I bet you’re shivering.” He’s not even wearing a coat, dressed in a worn pair of jeans and a cotton long sleeve. If you can just get out of the overhang so security can see you…

Phil shakes his head, fumbling for something at his side. Your dominant hand is still against the hard slab of rock, originally there to steady you as you stood up. “I’ve been watchin’ you. Waiting.” You nod, hand pressing against your pants as you fumble for the Glock tucked in your waistband. “Waiting for what?” You steady your voice so it doesn’t sound nervous. You smile sweetly at him, like you’re excited to be conversing with your kidnapper. Phil smiles back and you hold back your flinch. He’s missing two teeth, like they were pulled out at all the wrong angles. You shiver to think of how else Shepherd punished him.

“To talk to you, sugar. We could’ve had somethin’ great at the bookstore.” You swallow and nod, smiling tightly. Your hand finally finds the cold metal of the gun, fingers falling into a familiar grip at the handle. “I know, I’m sorry it went the way it did. I enjoyed our time there.” He nods sharply, eyes glittering with zeal. Shepherd must have knocked something loose in his brain, some part to turn him into this frenzied stalker. Phil looks at a loss for words so you stumble through a question.

“How were you watching me? Must’ve been pretty clever of you.” You give him a tooth grin, encouraging him to continue with a head nod. “Well, I-” You flick out your gun, hands sure as you aim it at him. “I need you to step backwards, Phil.” He refuses, shaking his head vehemently. “I can’t let you out there, sugar. My mission isn’t complete.” You walk forward with the gun and Phil doesn’t follow your lead, standing tall. “Move, Phil. Let’s talk this out in the park.” 

It happens in a flash.

Phil reaches for the gun and you fire. Years of lessons come back instantly, all those times you pushed yourself to learn self-defense techniques, even when Johnny pleaded exhaustion and Simon pleaded never-ending work. You squeeze the trigger again, shooting through his outstretched fingers. It’s like a release.

The gunshot garners the attention of your security team. Men and women swarm you instantly, securing the body and taking the weapon out of your grip. John is there a minute later, petting your face worriedly. Gaz is asking questions but all you can focus on is the maroon stain of blood drying on the dusty rocks and lifeless grass of the park. You squeeze the gun in your grip before realizing someone took it from you, your fingers only finding air.

“I did it.” Finally, your eyes focus on John’s, noting the concern woven into your skin. “You did.” His hands don’t stop moving, squeezing your face and sides like he can’t believe you’re in front of him. “Let’s get you home, sweetheart. Ok?” You nod once and he smiles like you’ve impressed him. “Ok.”

-

For Christmas, John only buys you one gift.

Well, not exactly.

John cannot bear the sight of his city anymore, so he convinces you to stay, temporarily, in the countryside after you shoot Phil. After you, his wife, killed her own enemy in a park. A fact he reminds himself of everyday, turning it around in his brain like a puzzle he can’t solve. He can’t protect you, plain and simple. There’s only one solution for that.

You beg him to do Christmas in the library in front of the fireplace, a festive tree tucked in the corner. It’s been just you and him since the shooting. He can’t bear losing your attention to any other person and you’re too skittish to be around more than one person at a time. Jumping at every footstep, staring at the corners of the old master bedroom in the estate like there are ghosts watching. Laswell’s wife agreed that an escape to a new location might be good for you since the Castle and its surrounding park hold too many terrifying memories. 

“I want you to open this one first, John.” There you are, haloed by firelight as you hand him a red and green present. You’re clothed in Christmas pajamas, a matching set you forced John to wear as well. He shakes his head no, sliding the envelope from where he was holding it behind his back. “You first, sweetheart.” You drop the present with a frown, snatching the envelope from his waiting hands.

You break the wax seal impatiently, tugging the set of papers out of their cage and setting them on the floor in front of you. Your eyes scan the papers quickly before frowning at him. “What are these?” John scans your face for any sense of a reaction, but it’s a smooth mask. “Read the top, baby.” You don’t look down at the papers, eyes trained on his face. “Let me rephrase. Why are you handing me divorce papers, John?” He sighs frustratedly.

“I can’t protect you. You said it, sweetheart. You’re trapped. I’m lettin’ you out. You never signed up for losin’ your life.” Instead of answering him, you slap your hands on the wooden floors and scramble into a standing position. “You’re an absolute ass, you know that?” You turn smartly and march into the bookshelves, John sharp on your heels. He thought this might happen, but he didn’t expect such an angry reaction. He thought you might be a little distraught but glad to go back to Manchester and put this shamble of a marriage behind you.

You’re muttering things under your breath as he chases you through the bookshelves. Right before the shelf ends, you whip around, flames in your eyes. “I haven’t hated you for months, but I think I do right now.” You bite out. John puts his hands up like you’re a wild animal needing to be calmed. “I thought you’d be glad. You were trapped.” You roll your eyes, nearing him quickly. “If I didn’t choose this marriage, you would know, John. I can clearly use a gun.” You haven’t talked about the shooting too much. John shut you away and waited for you to fall apart, but all you’ve done is…survive. John doesn’t respond, too thrown by your admission. Now you’re in his space, your chest meeting his own with every inhale. When he still doesn’t answer, you continue. “I love you, you absolute idiot. I did before I was kidnapped and I do now. You held me after I killed a man, John. Why would I divorce you?” John has no logical response. He drops to his knee.

“Marry me again. Just us, doin’ it ‘cause we can.” You blink, thrown by the change in events. “You just served me divorce papers.” You blurt. John smiles. “I didn’t sign them so even if you did, we’d be…” He gestures into open air, like he can’t articulate that he intended to trap you again. A terrible, terrible man. He can’t believe you love him.

“I hate you.” You say, smiling. “You love me.” You shake his head at your words. “That’s it?” You murmur, suddenly shy. That’s right, he almost forgot. “I love you too, sweetheart. Have since the weddin’, if we’re bein’ honest.” You bite your lip in surprise. John rises up and you pull him in, kissing him hard. “Tha’ a yes?” He murmurs, kissing your jaw. “Yes, Mr. Price. I’ll marry you again.”

-

GUYSSSS she's over!! she's done!! thank you for all the kind likes and comments and reposts and overall support it means the WORLDDDD. stay tuned for more price content <333

-

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[ovaryacted]

GUILTY AS SIN || II. VETITI FRUCTUS

─ General Marcus Acacius x fem! virgin! reader || WC: 11.5k

SYNOPSIS: After General Acacius hangs you out to dry, you're sure he no longer wants anything to do with you. Yet, when he confronts you while your father is away for business matters, he tries to prove you wrong.

CONTENT/WARNINGS: MDNI/18+. NSFW. SMUT. Girthy age gap [Acacius is 50/reader is early 20s]. Explicit Language. Formal dialogue. Virginity loss. Unprotected p in v. Pull-out method. Oral sex (f! receiving). Fingering. Mirror sex. Light handjob. Praise kink. Size kink. Marking kink (if you squint). Dirty talk. Marcus guides you through it. Breast/nipple play. Terms of endearment (dove, little dove, mea columba). Misunderstandings & angst. Jealousy. Confessions. Mentions of misogyny, patriarchal norms, & customs. Mentions of societal beauty standards. Reader has hair & wears dresses & jewelry. Marcus the Munch makes his debut. Not historically accurate.

➣ Note: Reader's Father’s Name - Julianus Novius Lurio. Handmaiden name - Viria. Pictures are for aesthetic purposes only.

A/N: This chapter took me such a long time to write and I apologize for that, but I'm glad I was able to finish it. I did this for the 5 mutuals that wanna fawk Marcus Acacius like I do! Big thank you to @gothcsz for the constant encouragement and feeding my love for the General. Thank you to @pedgito for the proofread, I don't know what I'd do without you. Anyways, reblogs, comments, and likes are always greatly appreciated! <3

NAVIGATION | MASTERLIST | SERIES MASTERLIST | AO3

You had awoken the following morning to an empty bed and disheveled sheets, not a trace of Acacius left behind, at least to the naked eye. Your fingers searched over the silk that covered your mattress for any possible remnant of the man you had spent all night dreaming about, the buttery material cool to the touch. Curiously, you drew your face closer to the pillow beside your head, digging your nose into the plush cushion, hoping to find something reminiscent of the General.

Faintly embedded in the covers, you caught it: small hints of almond oil and basil smudged under your nostrils; you’d recognize that scent anywhere. All it did was confirm what you needed to know, that what transpired last night wasn’t a dream.

Resting once more on your bed, your eyes closed as you made sense of the things you did last night, what you felt. A part of you knows you’ve stepped into risky territory with the General, tempting him in such a way you gave him your first set of kisses, and in return, he gave you the first taste of forbidden pleasure. If you thought long enough, you could still feel the thick muscle of Acacius’ thigh between your legs, his plush lips trailing kisses over the side of your neck, his voice whispering the praise you sought after. Just thinking about it brought a throb to your core, something new that caused you to exhale a deep breath.

A tentative knock at your door snapped you out of your daydream. Clearing your throat, you sat up straighter on the bed and called out to the inquisitor. The door to your bedroom opened, with Viria appearing on the opposite end, slightly bowing forward at your presence.

“Oh, you are awake, my lady.” She acknowledged warmly, coming to your side of the bed, silently taking in your appearance. She didn’t say much about how the other side of your bed appeared used, but she watched over you with a knowing glance. “Shall I prepare a bath for you? Your father is said to make his return before midday.”

“Yes, that would be helpful. Thank you, Viria.” She nodded, stepping out of your room to order the other servants to set up the bathing chamber.

As you stripped yourself of your sleep gown and slipped into the scented bath water, you cleansed your body of last night’s conduct with the pumice stone, ridding the ghost of Acacius’ touch and replacing it with the scent of jasmine and olive oil. Viria had helped you dress once your skin had dried, layering the flowing material of your stola and fastening it with a golden brooch. As she styled your hair while the other servants took care of preparing for your father’s arrival, you glanced at her apprehensively through the mirror in front of you.

“Viria, did you see anyone leave the domus in the night?” She paused styling your hair momentarily, releasing the curled strands in her hand before placing them on your shoulder.

“If you are asking about the General, yes, I saw him leave before the others awoke at dawn. He left quietly without a word; I am sure he had not been spotted.” Viria’s words did little to provide you any comfort, a slight sense of defeat washing over you as your head filled with unanswered questions.

“Did he spend the night with you?” She asked cautiously, a wary look gracing her features as she tried to understand you. “Was he…was he forceful with you?”

“No, no, nothing of the sort. He was not like that…quite the opposite actually.” You were nervous to speak the truth to the one person you trusted in your home after all of these years, wringing your fingers over your lap. “We kissed.”

“You kissed the General?” Viria commented in hushed shock, receiving a bashful nod of your head. “And you wish to deprive me of such information?” Her lighthearted approach to her probing eased you slightly, chuckling lightly along with her.

“No, I do not plan on doing such a thing. It was bliss what we did, I have never felt anything like it. Yet, we avoided the very thing I hear so much from other people. It’s strange.” While you spoke, Viria resumed styling your hair, isolating each riveting curl to fall down your back. “Though, I am rather confused on how to feel. He confuses me…” You slumped your shoulders and looked off to the side.

“Well, he is a complicated man, I am sure he has his reasons for leaving without notice. But, so long as he treats you with respect and not like a barbarian, that should be sign enough that he is considerate of you.” You hummed at that, feeling another squeeze on your shoulders. “Perhaps you should speak to him afterwards, once you two have a moment alone.”

You left the conversation at that, adding the finishing touches of your look for the day, a simple set of earrings paired with a jeweled necklace, tying it together with some scented oil on the sides of your neck. The rest of the morning was focused on making sure your home was prepared for your father’s return. The servants kept themselves busy by sweeping and scrubbing the floors, placing fresh flowers in the vases by the entryway while others cooked a welcoming feast and fetched the best aged wine in the reserve.

Your father arrived just as the sun reached the halfway point in the sky, the guards at the front door lowered their heads to welcome the man that paid them. Standing beside Viria and some of the other servants to honor him, you all offered him a bow of respect as he walked down the entryway, nodding in approval at the scene before him.

“Stand, child.” He commanded, straightening your back to look at the man before you in the eye. He looked you over once or twice, the end of his lip faintly coiled upwards, patting you on the arm before walking down the line and thanking the other members for their kind welcome. Strolling behind him, lunch was a quiet affair, consisting of light conversation between the bites of food prepared for the day.

“How was your trip, father?” You asked him, sitting across from the man at the dinner table.

“It was fine. Some of the other politicians in the provinces had conflicts they asked my input on, nothing to cause much concern over.” His fork dug into a piece of pork, munching away at the piece of meat and washing it down with the wine in his goblet. “How have things been in the city since my departure?”

“No change since you left. Rome remains the same.” You took tentative bites of your meal, pacing your swallows the way you’ve been trained to. Posture tall and shoulders drawn back, always so careful not to irritate your father.

“And what of your marriage affairs?” The question immediately spoiled your appetite.

“I believe that is intended to be your duty, to find me a husband worthy of partnership.” You chose your words and delivery carefully, taking a sip of wine to manage the nausea you could feel coming.

“When I find a man who offers the right price for your hand, then I will consider it. I refuse to have you bring shame to my name and my legacy by bedding with a commoner. I did not raise you to be a whore after all, unless I am wrong in my judgment?”

The hairs on the back of your neck rose as you met your father’s piercing gaze, eyes widening at his insinuation. It should be no surprise to you, these were the same comments you’ve heard for most of your life since reaching the appropriate age for marriage. The price was never enough, or your father was too busy establishing himself as a man of politics to care for your future outside of being his emotional punching bag. The thought of him figuring out your affections towards the General made your stomach churn, and you knew then that there was no possibility of your union happening with his approval.

“No, father, I understand. I shall wait for you to approve such a union.” He responded with a satisfactory hum, gulping the rest of his wine and snapping at one of the servants for a refill. You did your best to finish the rest of your meal, growing impatient to avoid more of your father’s temperament.

Luckily, he remained busy with his work in the Roman Senate, frequent meetings with the other politicians and leaders kept him out of his home more often than not, leaving you to your own devices as you’ve grown accustomed to. Though leaving you alone to your thoughts granted you time to think about Acacius or where he was as of late. You haven’t heard from him since the night he snuck into your room and offered more than conversation, the night replaying on a loop in your mind and in your dreams.

It was almost one full moon cycle before you saw him again.

The front doors of your domus opened, welcoming the sound of heavy footfalls and the metallic clicks of armor. You’ve trained yourself to recognize when Marcus was present in your home, the staccato of his steps echoing the walls of your entryway, exactly how you remembered. You made your way to the atrium like you always have, ensuring you’d get a good look at him as he stepped through the halls to speak with your father.

The moment you saw the top of his head, you were expecting him to turn and meet your eyes. Desperate for the soft chocolate irises to hold your gaze for that one moment to signify he was okay, that things hadn’t changed between you, that he hadn’t lost interest in you.

Except he never did.

You watch with furrowed eyebrows as Acacius walks beside your father towards his study wearing his black and gold armor, the signature red shawl thrown over his broad shoulders. His face remained hardened, jaw firm and eyes sunken as he kept them forward, body stiff and head stuck in place with no sign of turning.

Look at me. Look at me. Look at me.

The doors of your father’s study closed with no change, the sight of Acacius now kept hidden from you, savoring the last bits of his back and graying curls before you were shunned out in the dark. Standing there full of confusion, your chest stung at the slight dejection you just witnessed.

Has he grown bored of you so soon? 

You retreated to your bedroom again, refusing to see Acacius going through the front doors. Keeping to yourself, you disregarded the sound of his voice through the walls, commenting on something the twin Emperors had requested for the next Senate meeting. He parted ways from your father and trekked to the doors, surely on his way to speak to whoever demanded his attention. Unbeknownst to you, he glanced in the direction of the atrium and further to your room for a mere second, walking out of your home without turning back.

The next time you went to the market for some goods, you stopped by the garden you and Acacius claimed for yourselves, searching everywhere for a note or a sign to explain his sudden behavior. The place was just as you left it previously, looking by the fountain and the marble bench to see nothing left behind, peeking around the trunk of the massive tree and the weeds surrounding it to see if you had missed anything.

Not a note. Not a flower. Nothing for you to find.

Had he even thought of you during this time?

Were you so easily forgettable?

You didn’t have the time to continue rummaging before Viria stated it was time to return home. Taking your baskets and stomping out of the garden, you controlled your breathing as much as you could, brushing off the disappointment and the hurt brewing inside you. It was delusional to think you would be anything but someone’s plaything, a naive little girl yearning to be seen as a woman capable of making her own choices.

You were stupid to think the General viewed you as something other than a toy to occupy his time, and nothing would change your reality, no matter how much you wanted things to be different.

Anxiety gnawed at your gut from sunup to sundown, restless nights spent wasting away questioning yourself and your worth to the man you’ve opened up to. You ran through the multitude of possibilities to explain his sudden rejection, finding any loophole to give Acacius the benefit of the doubt put you on the verge of losing your mind from the stressors.

You’ve heard of the recent campaigns initiated by the twin emperors to satisfy their lust for violence, your father spending lengthy periods in his study noting the financing to the army, lingering by the door in case his drunken mumbles revealed any news of the General and his location.

Last you heard, he was along the coast of Alexandria in Egypt, standing at the ready to combat runaway rebels of the army. Resting was a hassle; your clammy skin and hyperactive mind kept you awake throughout the night, with Viria offering teas to soothe your nerves by morning. It was useless; too much of your psyche was tethered to a man who had made it obvious he no longer cared for your existence. Yet you still prayed for his safe return every night, for respite and favor from the twin leaders who were hellbent on jerking their lapdog’s leash.

The news of the army’s successful conquest didn’t surprise you, nor did the extended invitation you and your father received to another one of the emperors’ banquets. However, the thought of being in the same space as the General once more, much like how it had first been when you two initially met, brought bile creeping up your throat. You prayed the wine they served would quell your worries; at this rate, you’ll drown in it one way or another.

Heeding your father’s commands, you dressed in all white and gold, a jeweled armband cuffed around your bicep with opals draping down your open back. Your hair was folded into a neat array of braids, some bordering around a pinned bun and the rest melting into your wavy tresses layered neatly around your neck.

With your hand taking its place around your father’s arm, you held the folds of your stola with your free hand, adopting the facade of sociability with grace. It was the same routine as usual, nodding your head when you were acknowledged, letting the men offer their sons’ hands in marriage or their own while laughing off their propositions and feigning a playful smile.

Amongst the crowd of opulent wealth and overindulgence, the urge to search for the one face you cared to look for was hard to ignore. Subtly turning on your heel and heading for more wine, that was when you spotted him.

General Acacius, draped in his signature white and golden armor, the cape flowed behind him, golden cuffs on his thick wrists. His hair had grown since the last time you saw him, grayer than you remembered, curling down the nape of his thick neck. From afar you could count a new scar on his forearm, a shade of light pink contrasting his tanned skin. He was still relatively the same, the same Acacius, your Acacius.

But he wasn’t alone.

Perched beside him was a woman you’d never seen before, at least not in the streets of the city from where you usually ventured off. Dark raven hair with a singular streak of gray and golden pins ornate her head, almond-shaped eyes as blue as the sea, smudged in dark pink and lashes darkened with ink. The green material of the fabric adorning her slim figure cascaded around her pronounced waist, her chin angled upwards with confidence and a permanent smirk on her oval face.

You didn’t miss how her hands clutched onto Acacius’ bicep, her nails scratching at the muscle, grip steady and consistent, never once parting from him. It was as if she was purposefully taunting you, proving a point that he was only hers to have. Hers to touch. Hers to claim. That he was never yours to begin with.

She was older, refined, established. Everything you weren’t.

The way Acacius’ hand clasped over hers and looked her way with the same charming grin he wooed you with tore your heart in two, the glass in your hand shook from your weak grip as you observed the scene from afar. The room began to spin, and your breath caught in your throat, rib cage rattling around your lungs as the white fabric you wore grew tight, constricting around your frame.

It was too much.

Pushing through people to reach the balcony, you were thankful the space had been empty for some time, everyone’s attention drawn to the boar that was brought out to be served. Tightly gripping the railing, you struggled to take a steady intake of air, knuckles turning white against the marble guarding you from falling over the edge of the hill. The tears lining your eyelids burned, threatening to flow down your cheek and leave their mark.

It was idiotic and embarrassing more than anything. To think you would be the one chosen for once, desired and sought after the way you wanted. Jealousy. An all-new emotion to you, one you did not preferably enjoy. The image of that woman smiling with glee while she relished in the attention she received from Acacius seared into your mind, filling you with disgust, a fiery irritation burning in your chest.

She has what you’ll never come close to. Nothing would be able to change that.

Pivoting on your heel to the sound of hasty footsteps behind you, your teary gaze was met with Acacius’ furrowed eyebrows, concern written all over his war-worn face. Quickly wiping at the corners of your eyes, you made a pathetic attempt at keeping your head high, brushing off the seething rage overpowering the betrayal bubbling inside you. Whether you were mad at Acacius directly or the witch who selfishly caressed him, you weren’t all too sure.

“General. Congratulations on the success of your campaign.” Your voice grew strained as you spoke, face hardened with the reaffirmed formalities.

“I give you my thanks,” Acacius replied, gauging your body language and expression as you played into the dismissive and cold act towards him. You cut him off before he could speak a second time.

“I shall let you enjoy the balcony in peace.” In an effort to excuse yourself, you paced to the banquet entrance. Just as you were about to pass Acacius, his hand came to grip your forearm, stopping you in place in front of him.

“Dove.” He whispered firmly, his voice seeping into your mind, a shaky exhale escaping you from the sheer closeness of him, your body betraying you at his missed touch.

“Do you give all of your playthings nicknames as well?” Tearing your arm away from his grip, you faced him directly with a bit of distance between you, uncovered anger in your emotional eyes. “Or is that only when you have yet to grow bored of them?”

“Playthings?” He squinted at you, stepping closer with a slight puff of his chest at the insinuation.

“The woman on your arm,” just mentioning her burned your tongue and sent your blood boiling, practically smelling her on him, “I was unaware of your…tastes.”

“She is merely a party guest.”

“A guest?” You fought the urge to laugh sourly in his face, taking offense to his sudden aloofness.

“You do not believe me?” Acacius tilted his head, and for a second you would think he sounded confused, even hurt. You didn’t bother having enough faith in him to find out. “Or would it be more convenient to paint me as a liar?”

“It certainly suits the current circumstances between us. One does not attempt to woo a girl and disposes of her for a replacement. But that is how this works, is it not?” Your words were laced with venom, striking a nerve when you noticed Acacius growing stiff, his back straightening more, fingers flexing by his side as realization dawned on him.

“I can explain everything, dove, please.” The authoritative tone he had with you wavered as the conversation progressed, edging to the point of pleading when those brown orbs landed on you. 

“No. I do not wish to hear it.” Unyielding in your decision to shut him out, your ears tuned into the level of noise at the banquet, needing to turn back before someone grew suspicious of your whereabouts. “Vale, General Acacius. I will pray for your continuous prosperity on behalf of the empire.”

Hurriedly parting from him, you were quick to leave Acacius alone on the balcony to meddle in his own thoughts. Your body vibrated for the duration of the outing, occupying yourself with whatever wine, meal, and conversation you came close to. For the remainder of the night, you refused to look over in the General’s direction, not caring whether his guest was stroking his broad chest or holding his hand. Yet, you could feel his eyes on you the entire time, stealing glances when he could without making it too obvious, burning holes into the back of your head whenever a man approached you, offering them a petty bat of your lashes.

You were thankful that your father suggested taking his leave not too long after that fiasco of a conversation, not looking back at the attendees much like Acacius had done when he blatantly ignored your presence in your own home. Wishing the man of the house goodnight and storming past Viria towards your bedroom, the dam you constructed collapsed, and the tears you’ve been withholding flowed over the material of your pillow, sobbing long into the night until dawn broke the next morning.

It was never going to be you. That was just how things were, and how they’ll always be.

The days have gone by in a blur, repeating the same endless cycle of the sun rising in the East and setting in the West. You hadn’t stepped foot outside of your home much, foregoing your usual visit to the market and instead handing Viria a list to check off. She tried her best to put you in higher spirits, bringing you fresh flowers and your favorite fruits from her shopping trips, but it was no use. The frown remained permanent on your face, and your appetite had dwindled since the night of the banquet, not being able to keep anything down besides liquids for the most part.

Your father inquired about your change of attitude, and the only excuse you could offer was worry from the hecticness of the empire, the rapid changes around you frequently making your head spin. He didn’t bother probing more than he thought necessary, reminding you to maintain your strength unless you wished to plunge your household into despair due to your insolence. That night, you forced yourself to eat a loaf of bread and a side platter of cheese, leaving the dish clean despite the urge to throw it back up.

Senator Lurio was on his way to another trip for political matters out of the safe confines of the city. You almost had half a mind to ask your father to take you with him, to grant you some space from Rome, another sight that wouldn't bring so much anxiety. He declined, as you expected, waving you off and ordering you to pray for his safe return. At least you no longer had to play pretend when it came to your sadness and heartbreak, Viria grew concerned for your well being regardless of the number of times you brushed her off and sat at the fountain feeding the koi fish, fingers strumming the water for hours.

The night was silent and empty, your mind a contradiction to the serenity your domus should provide. The silk slip you threw on for bed helped keep you cool from the warm air, massaging oil into your damp skin before coursing the wooden brush through your hair in mindless passes. A knock at your door caught your attention, placing your brush down at your vanity and coming towards the entryway of your bedroom, opening the door to find Viria on the other side of the threshold.

“Viria, it is late,” you stated, looking at her in slight confusion with no hostility in your tone. “Should you not be resting?”

“I should be, my lady, but you have a visitor.”

“A visitor? Who would be in their right mind to come at this hour?” You had tried to think of who would come late into the night and request your presence specifically. Perhaps it was a messenger for your father? Or worse, an intruder.

Another pair of footsteps to your left forced your head to turn, eyes widening at the sight of General Acacius removing his black hood from his head, meeting your gaze. You stood frozen as you looked at him, reminded of his presence after busying yourself trying to forget him the past couple of days. Wiping your face of the initial shock, you huffed out a breath; the anger you’d dimmed ignited once more.

“No.” Shaking your head defensively, you positioned yourself to turn inward to your bedroom, threatening to shut the door behind you. “I do not wish to speak to him. Send him away.”

“My lady, if I may,” Viria spoke up, always persistent to show you reason when you’ve lost your way, “the General comes as a guest. He seeks to speak with you and swears he will not bother you again if that is what you request of him. I believe you should pray for an open mind and listen to what he has to say.”

Your nostrils flared out as you glared at Viria and then at Acacius, who stood idly by. He didn’t say anything as he waited for you to come to a decision, his body rigid with his hands to his back. A soldier’s stance, at the ready for your command, as if you were the one to dictate his actions and not the other way around. Admitting defeat, you dropped your shoulders with a sigh and stepped to the side.

“So be it. But he is to leave soon after.” You affirmed, ignoring Viria, who gestured for Acacius to go into the bedroom with you.

He whispered his thanks to her as she closed the door, leaving you alone in the room with him. You instinctively put some distance between you two, standing closer to the middle of your bedroom while he remained by the entryway.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, General?” Sarcasm dripped from your lips; the intention in your opposing behavior didn’t go unnoticed by the man before you.

“I came to apologize and to ask for your forgiveness,” Acacius said calmly, his broad shoulders widened as he spoke.

“And what for?” Your body itches with anxiety, the endless pit in your stomach fluttering along with the beat of his words. “You have done nothing wrong. You simply acted in the way a man of your stature would.”

“I do not understand,” he switched his weight from one foot to the other, hands flexed in antsy fists. “There are very few men who act as I do, or who have the title and honor I carry.”

“I am not speaking regarding your title, General.” You take a breath, fingers toying with the fabric of your slip. “You may have honor, but at the core, you are still a man with urges who seeks to release them somehow. Whether it be on the battlefield or in the brothels, the drive of men is natural and cannot be avoided.”

Acacius took your words personally, becoming slightly defensive as he caught your insinuation. To think he simply goes and sticks himself into whoever he finds convenient when you know nothing of what went through his head or how much you occupied his mind was offensive, to say the least. He thought the time you two spent together and crossing the line of boundaries dividing you would be enough to show how he truly felt. He thought wrong.

“That is something I do not spend my limited time doing,” he voiced, growing frustrated with your refusal to give him the benefit of the doubt. “Do not generalize me with other men in this city because of the social customs they engage with. We are not all alike; you must know that despite your naivety.”

“You speak of honor and virtue, and yet you come here to lie in my presence.” This time you chuckled bitterly at him; the fierce green flare in your eyes burned holes through the General. “You toyed with me for some time and found another that is more willing to provide what you need. Is that not what you men do?”

“If you would allow me to explain—”

“There is nothing left to explain, Acacius!” You threw your hands up exasperatingly as your voice increased in volume. “I understand why things happened the way they did. You sought some enjoyment from me, and once you grew bored, you went to seek companionship elsewhere. No need to elaborate on that when I know this is how things were always meant to be.”

“And that is far from the truth.” He took a step closer to you then, and another while your feet were planted to the ground. “You merely saw one side of things. Is that how you truly see me? A man who seeks to take advantage of you? After the time we spent together?”

“How else do you wish for me to see things, Marcus?!”

At the shout of his first name, his eyes widened, mostly in surprise rather than anger. You took yourself off guard as well, stammering at the usage of his name in such an informal manner, he should have your head for it.

“General, forgive me. I should not have—”

“No.” The word came without pause, and you expected him to retaliate, to strike his hand over your cheek and put you in your place. Instead, he came as close to you as he could without startling you, his hand lifting to hold your chin between his thumb and forefinger. The act of softness shocked you, eyes misty as you struggled to face him.

“I am not angry with you.” He spoke softly to you now, much like he had always done since the start of your relationship with him. “I do not wish for us to argue, to throw around false accusations. Speak to me honestly; let me understand you.”

“I felt hurt. Betrayed.” Your bottom lip wobbled, trying to find the right words to describe your emotions to Acacius, who was as patient as he was considerate. “I saw you with that other woman and…I was convinced your affections towards me had changed.”

He hummed at your words, staying silent for a beat longer, working to find the best way to explain his side of things without having you jump to more conclusions.

“The woman I was with at the banquet is a friend of mine, not a lover. She is not fond of men in particular, but…she favors the female form. We have an arrangement when we need to maintain our roles at these festivities. She is nothing more than a friend whom I respect and aid when needed.”

You felt stupid.

“Oh.” You faltered in your answer, ruminating on the fact that Acacius had left you with no other message to show you otherwise. “Then why did you leave so suddenly? You were here one day, and the next had disappeared into thin air with no regard for me when you returned.” He exhaled then, looking off to the side.

“After that first night together, I was sent on another campaign that very morning. The Emperors refused to give me the proper time to depart, to write a note to you. The campaign itself…it went on longer than it needed to. I lost men, saw more blood lost in the vain ambitions of the empire, and…it drained me. But this is my duty; this is the burden I must carry, you know that better than anyone.”

You hung on to every word he said, silently looking at him to continue with an encouraging nod.

“When I returned to Rome, I was sure that all I would do is put you in danger. Leaving you day and night to wonder whether or not I would make it back safely, to worry you to such an extent…I could not bear doing that to you. I convinced myself that it was easier to push you away, to let your father wed you off to someone else. And yet the thought of you being with another man vexes me.”

Your heart pounded in your chest, pulse spiking as you caught part of his confession. He felt the same way? Maybe there was a chance. Maybe you weren’t crazy for being fond of the General after all.

“Is that true?” With a raised eyebrow, you inquired for more, seeking more of his candor.

“Yes. It is.” His hand now tenderly cupped your cheek, thumb wiping at the tears that streaked down your face. “On my travels, you consume my mind so often it overwhelms me. I see you in my dreams, in my prayers…I look for you in every corner I turn. I desire you, dove. I crave to want you, to kiss and touch you. You are not mine to have, and it pains me that I cannot have you the way I want.”

“Why not, Acacius?” your cheeks were heated from his confession, your hand holding his wrist to ground yourself. “You have the will to do as you please.”

“Your father would disapprove of me. He is a man of politics, and he has his stake in funding the army. They will call it a conspiracy if the General of the army he pays for is engaged with his daughter. I cannot do something that would put you in harm's way, I would never forgive myself.”

“I do not care.” You declared, pressing your body to his and tilting your head upwards. “I refuse to let my father control me and my choices any longer. If you truly desire me, then show me.”

“Dove—,” the General eyed you, placing his hands on your hips to hold you steady. “If word got out of this, you would be damned and punished for your actions.”

“Am I not damned either way? To let a hypothetical husband whom I have never met dictate my existence is suffocating. I cannot keep depriving myself of so much in fear of my father’s judgment when all I care for is being with you.”

Hands creeping up to the brooch holding his black hood, you gripped onto him tighter, gently tugging him towards you in an act of persuasion. His brown eyes swirled with the torment of fulfilling your mutual impulses, to give in to the temptations you both felt towards each other.

“Please, Acacius.” You were so close you could smell him, the familiar scent of almond oil hitting your nose. “Let me control the one thing I have that is mine. I want it to be you; I only want you.”

His breath could be felt on your lips, the anticipation building like a live wire. He kept his eyes on you, watching you closely with his teeth sinking into his bottom lip. The hand on your hips turned into one strong arm around your waist, bringing you flush to Acacius’ strong body, a shiver rolling down your spine. He leaned his head closer, the tip of his nose lightly grazing yours and his free hand holding the side of your jaw.

“Dove…” It was a plea, so hushed one might consider it a prayer. Your fingers dug into the thicker material of his hood, tilting your chin to welcome him.

“Kiss me.” Close to begging now, he focused his attention on your mouth, plump lips parting as the distance closed in. “Please kiss me.”

Acacius’ resolve snapped, meshing his mouth with yours in a passionate kiss, yelping from the force he used. He kissed you fiercely, keeping you pinned to him and cradling the back of your head, his fingers spreading over the expanse of your skull. He didn’t let you part for air, granting him entry into your mouth so his tongue curled around yours, reclaiming his place. You willingly gave up control, running a hand up his thick neck and scratching along his scalp, gripping the curling gray strands you were enamored with.

You panted against him, sharing the same breath as the hand on your back shifted down to cup your rear, pawing at you greedily in a way that sent a moan pouring out of your mouth, one that Acacius happily swallowed. He overpowered you and took you off guard, expertly taking off his black hood and tossing it to the floor, never taking his hands off of you.

His lips parted from you, trailing to leave kisses on your cheek and jaw. Tossing your head back, you gasped at the sensation of his facial hair brushing over your skin; the faint tease of a bite on a spot behind your ear made you whimper.

“Acacius,” a rumble settled in his chest at the sound of your voice, airy and needy. The strap to your slip fell down your shoulder, his lips following the piece of fabric to place another kiss.

“I want to see you,” he proclaimed, grasping at the silk material that covered your body, a silent question hanging in the air. “Will you let me see all of you?”

“Yes,” it was effortless to answer him, craving more of his touch. “Please.”

Stealing one more kiss from you, he held your silk nightgown and pulled it up to your thighs and torso, lifting it above your head and letting it fall to the ground. Standing bare under the warm candlelight of your room, you didn’t take your eyes off him, waiting for his next move. He took a step back to take you in, shamelessly raking his sight over your naked body from head to toe.

Predatory in his perception, Acacius walked around you in a slow circle, taking more of you with every step. You stood in place, anxiously following him as he spun, breasts rising and falling with every nervous breath. He remained silent, catching your gaze once or twice, mischief in his brown eyes with the smallest hint of a grin tugging on the corner of his lips.

He stops to stand behind you, his broad back shadowing your figure. You could feel his presence, hear his breathing, and sense his eyes pinned to the back of your head. The ghost of his touch ran down your spine, a knuckle drifting to the nape of your neck and down your back, teasing your tailbone. Your eyes fluttered closed, slightly arching towards the touch.

“Acacius…” At the call of his name, he beckoned forward, pressing himself against you from behind. The linen fabric of his tunic rubbed over you, his proximity making you gasp. A large hand came to your hip, your head leaning against his shoulder as he kept you close.

“Beautiful,” Marcus whispered, blood rushing to your cheeks at his words. “So beautiful, little dove.”

“Touch me.” He hasn’t done anything, and you were already growing impatient from the teasing, the center of your body tense, seeking release.

“I will, sweet girl,” Acacius nipped at your ear, guiding the both of you closer to the bed.

You expected to have him hovering above you, doing the things you’ve heard from married women in passing, to have pain between your legs as he claimed you for himself. Yet he surprised you, sitting on the edge of your bed with you perched on his lap, your back to his chest and your thighs over his, keeping you spread. Opening your eyes, you were met with your reflection in the full-body mirror positioned ahead of you, Acacius’ head hovering in the crux of your shoulder.

“W-What…what are you doing?” You asked him, voice trembling from anticipation.

“I want you to see what I see,” Acacius rasped in your ear, both hands on your hips as your breath caught in your throat. “I want you to watch yourself when I touch you for the first time, my darling.”

He continued with his generous kisses on the side of your neck, craning your head back to invite him for more. The curve of his nose stroked the column of your throat, threatening to leave a mark for you to find in the morning. One of his hands reached to cup your breast, kneading your skin in a gentle squeeze. He pinched at your nipple, rolling the stiff nub between his pointer finger and his thumb, one of your free hands stretching to the back of his head for another rough kiss.

He took his time touching your chest, familiarizing himself with the weight of your breasts in his sword-worn palms. The texture of his skin against yours felt too good for you to ignore, looking in the mirror to watch how you fit just right in his hands, whether that be him palming your chest or holding the side of your ribs and hips. You were a perfect fit, and in the back of your mind, you thought of how else you would mesh together.

Acacius’ touch was drawn elsewhere, his fingertips trailing down your sternum and towards your stomach, ghosting along the skin under your belly button right above your pelvis. You could feel yourself pulse above him, your body lacking what you didn’t know you needed. Sneakily, your hips shifted upwards, chasing the tingling sensation of his fingers treading closer to where you wanted him most.

“Easy, little dove,” Acacius said beside you, tapping the skin of your mound with his other hand grasping one of your thighs, holding you in place. “Do you wish for me to touch you?”

“Yes, yes, please…I cannot bear it any longer.” He was satisfied with your pleading, a grin on his face as he kissed the back of your neck.

“Watch yourself,” he commanded, black engulfing his brown irises as he observed your reflection. “Look in the mirror as I touch you.”

Finally, he gave you what you wanted. A broad hand reached towards the most sensitive part of you, thick fingertips lining your slit, coated in the wetness of your arousal. The tips of your ears burned from the sensation, watching his hand move between your thighs in the mirror in front of you. He flicked his wrist upwards, the tip of his pointer and middle finger swiping your sensitive clit, rubbing in circular motions as your thighs shook from his touch.

With a whimper, you clasped at his arm, one hand holding his wrist and the other swaddled around his arm. You were entranced by your reflection, mindlessly widening your legs more, angling your hips to chase his calloused fingers circling your clit.

“Look at you,” he murmured beside your cheek, dark eyes sweeping over your figure, diligently rubbing your sensitive nub counterclockwise. “So wet and eager for me. Thought of touching you like this for so long.”

Your empty walls clenched under his touch, nails digging into the muscle of his bicep, and your head lolling to the side. You struggled to focus on your mirror image, the pleasure amounting to a level you didn’t anticipate. It was different than last time, more of a constant slow build versus the previously rushed movements of your hips grinding over his thigh. He had full control over you, pinned to his chest and at his mercy, hearing him purr sweet nothings in your ear as he rapidly brought you to your climax.

“Acacius, please…so close,” you gasped out, the tempo of his motions increasing in pace, heat boiling in your lower gut as the rope of tension wound tighter, ready to snap.

“Come for me, dove. Come for me, and I will make you mine.”

With his words you fell apart, keeping his arm between your legs and threatening to shut your shaking thighs from the impact. A loud wail of his name echoed through the walls of your bedroom, your eyes closing as Marcus held your legs open so he could watch you convulse. He milked your orgasm for as much as you could handle, your release soaking his hand and dripping onto his thigh.

Once the wave of your climax had ended, Acacius drew his hand away from between your legs, leaving affectionate kisses on your shoulder to ease you through the cooldown. There was a small smile on your face when you looked at your reflection again, meeting his gaze from behind you.

“And how was that?” He inquired, not stopping you from standing on quivering legs and straddling over his lap to face him with blown pupils.

“Perfect,” you replied breathlessly, leaning forward to catch his plump lips in a kiss, tugging at the collar of his toga.

You could feel him under you, his muscular legs, and the bump of something else poking at your thigh. Instinctively, you gyrated your hips over him as you littered kisses along the side of his neck, nipping playfully at the thick vein that poked out. The groan that escaped him from deep within his chest graced your ears, pulling back to kiss him more passionately, the heavy weight of his hands sweeping along the curve of your back to guide your movements.

Acacius held your thighs and flipped you both around effortlessly, causing you to lie on the bed with him hovering above you. Your legs were hooked around his waist, hands on his broad shoulders as you looked up at him, heart stirring, wondering what was going on in his mind. Expertly, he grabbed one of your pillows, placed it under your head, and kissed your forehead. He dropped kisses over your nose and cheeks, giving you more on your lips in small pulses, bringing a laugh to your face.

“You are radiant when you laugh,” Acacius noted softly, the heat in your cheeks persistent as he glanced at you with adoration.

“Will you spend the whole night toying with me, General?” You jested, curling a finger around a gray strand by his forehead that fell out of place.

“I will toy with you however I see fit,” a cheeky smirk appeared on his face, chuckling together. “If that is what you still desire from me. We can always continue this another time.”

Ever the considerate man, your chest warmed at his suggestion of doing more another time, not needing to rush the experience if you had changed your mind. But you knew deep down he was what you wanted, and you didn't want to waste another moment longer without having him.

“I want you,” you confessed honestly, thumbing the scar on his cheekbone. “I want you to make me yours…if you will have me.”

He sealed his promise with a kiss, repeating his familiar pattern of caressing your jaw and neck with his lips, pinning you to the mattress, and mouthing at your collarbones before arriving at your chest. Two kisses were left on your skin, one on each breast, a third right where your heart was beating rapidly.

“Then let me worship what is mine.”

Acacius’ lips enveloped one of your nipples, sucking the nub while flicking the other with his fingers. Your back arched at his touch, fingers coursing through his hair to keep him in place, gasping as the sensations ran through you like an electrical current. From one breast to the other, he lavished his attention on the stiff peaks, blowing on your wet skin when he was done with them.

He continued with his passage down your body, holding your waist and mouthing your sternum and stomach, kissing under your belly button and curling his hand around your thigh, bending it over his shoulder. You sat up on your elbows to watch him, lustful eyes meeting his dark ones, gasping when he smooched along the side of your inner thigh, biting into your skin hard enough to make you jolt.

“Acacius,” your fingers dug into the silk sheets of your bed, the suspense growing in your body, not knowing what else to expect.

The man before you kissed the crease where your inner thigh met your hip, then your mound, skimming the soft skin of your lower lips. Spreading your legs to welcome his head, Acacius placed a tentative kiss on your clit, the contact sending you reeling and your hips shaking. He went back for another kiss, licking a broad stripe up your cunt, humming at the taste of you invading his mouth.

“You are perfect, little dove,” he groaned against you, both hands wrapping around your thighs to keep you secured in place. “And you taste divine, the sweetest ambrosia.”

You didn’t hear what else Acacius had to say when he dove in to feast on with ravenous hunger, your back curving over the bed with a whine. Squeezing the pillow under your head, you closed your eyes and focused solely on how Marcus was pleasing you, flicking his tongue over your opening and collecting more of your slick into his wanting mouth. He was a greedy man, lapping at you like he could never get enough, a man thirsty and living in a drought, seeking replenishment from the oasis that was left to be unclaimed between your thighs.

The sweetness of your arousal filled his taste buds, reminding him distantly of fig and honey, a combination he often favored during the summers of his youth. The curve of his nose pressed further into your pussy, seeking more of your desire for him and slipping his tongue inside of your cunt. Your breath hitched in your throat, hands winding in his hair to ground yourself, bucking your hips into his face as he fucked you with his tongue.

“Oh, oh Gods…Acacius,” you stuttered on the call of his name as the General grunted in response, the vibrations shooting up your back.

You were unprepared for this kind of gratification in the bedroom. Sure, you were somewhat familiar with what happened behind closed doors, at least from what Viria had told you in private when your father refused to teach you anything else. There were always rumors of what happened in the brothels, how the workers easily wooed the men they entrapped, pleasing them in ways that were still misunderstood by you. But this, being worshiped in such a gluttonous way by a man so willing to get on his knees for you, was something unheard of.

You would think once again that General Marcus Acacius was an exception to the rule.

In the throes of his audible slurping, the General focused on sucking at your engorged clit in concentrated pulses. Meanwhile, his finger teased your twitching entrance, clutching at his head as he delved it deep inside you with minimal resistance. You keened at the feel of him filling part of you, quickly drawing the thick digit out and thrusting it back inside. He repeated the action a few times, concentrating on watching your face contorting in delight once he inserted a second finger, coaxing you to cry out into the room.

Breathless moans escaped you, the last bits of shyness and shame leaving you as you gripped the back of Acacius’ head, grinding your hips towards him with a receptive growl. He knew you were getting close to having another release, your walls pulsing around his fingers with every nudge he gave you. He curled the two digits inside you, burrowing them down to the knuckle and hitting a spot you didn’t know existed, tears in your eyes at the ferocity of what you felt hurtling towards you.

“Please, please…Marcus!” You didn’t know exactly what you were begging for, whether it be for release or mercy; Acacius understood it well.

Deepening his steady pumping, he sucked at your nub harder and moaned against you, sending you falling headfirst into your second climax. This one was more drawn out than the first, a tingling that started at the tip of your toes and spread from your quaking thighs, rushing to your head. Your nails scratched at his scalp as he coaxed you through your release, prolonging it for as much as he could until your body grew too sensitive for more. With a gentle tug of his head, Acacius drew away from your twitching pussy, leaving one last kiss on your twitching clit. He pulled his fingers out of your hole and slipped them in his mouth, cleaning up what was left of your arousal before straightening his back and standing to peer at you.

You were still catching your breath from your climax, thighs trembling on his hips as he massaged your skin in an attempt to soothe you. Tears ran down your cheeks, not from pain but from being overwhelmed in the best way, your lower body throbbing from how the General treated you. When you focused on Acacius, the tip of his nose, lips, and chin were stained with your arousal, meshing in with the prickly gray of his mustache. His eyes gaped at you voraciously, licking his top lip as he stared down at you.

“Are you alright?” he asked you, nodding as you tried to bring him back down to your level.

You dragged him in for an eager kiss, licking at his bottom lip and hunting the taste of you on his tongue. He sighed against you, pressing himself over your body, letting you feel the length of him poking incessantly on your lower stomach.

“Will you let me see you as you have seen me?” You suggested to him in a low murmur, gazing at him with lust-blown eyes. It only made him want you more.

“Anything you wish,” Acacius said, backing away from you to stand on the edge of the bed, using your arms to sit upwards to watch him.

The black hood he wore was already discarded in your earlier pursuit of kissing him, his big hands grabbing at his linen toga and hauling it above his head, tossing it to the ground. You instantly gawked at the expanse of golden skin now exposed to you, kissed by the sun, and marked by scars from years of training and fighting in wars. He appeared to be even more broad without the bulkiness of his armor constantly weighing down on him, his body as strong as it was soft, a reliable vessel blessed by Mars.

Ogling him closely, Acacius went to remove his loincloth; the last piece of fabric shielding him from your view dropped to the marble floor with the rest of his clothes. Trailing your eyes down his body, your sight landed on his thick length bobbing against his stomach; the graying thatch of hair at the base caught your eye, your cunt flexing in response.

You couldn’t help but let your mouth water at the sight of him.

Acacius shuffled forward to hover over you again on the bed, his knees digging into the mattress as he went. Your hands itched to touch him, to get a real feel of him for the first time, but your nerves were starting to eat away at you. Gently, he reaches for one of your hands gripping the sheets, kissing the inside of your palm, each finger, and your inner wrist before placing your hand on his chest right by his left pectoral.

“You can touch me.” He coaxed, not letting go of your hand as you went on your journey to learn his body. “Feel all of me.”

Your touch continued down his bare chest, grazing along the scars you found on his freckled skin. Some were freshly pink, others were faded with age and mixed into the rest of him. You wondered what were the fables of each of these markings, the moment he experienced that imprinted onto him for the rest of his life. You went along the path he set for you, your fingertips reaching his belly button and the soft hair lined underneath it.

With Acacius’ help, you enclosed your hand around his aching cock, the heavy weight of him warm in your hand. You marveled at the sight of him, his skin smooth, twitching at the feel of you giving him a testing squeeze.

“You are big, General.” You commented with a lilt in your voice, the smallest hint of a smirk on your face.

“And you are a tease, little dove.” He played along with your game, guiding your movements with his larger hand, showing you how to touch him the way he liked. Though he was sure he would give you a more in-depth lesson next time.

He groaned at the touch, tentatively jerking him with a flick of your wrist, doing what felt natural to you. To your surprise, he grabbed hold of your jaw and kissed you fervently, fondling him until he took your hand away and urged you to lie flat on your back.

Swathing your arms around his shoulders and keeping him close, Acacius held your thighs, spreading you open and placing your legs on either side of him. His hard cock rested on your pussy, grinding his length between your lips, coating him in your wetness. The tip of him bumped into your slick pearl with every shift of his hips, clenching around nothing and whimpering as you seek more of him, to finally be his.

“Please, Marcus, take me. I want to feel you,” you pleaded, waiting for his next move. Grabbing hold of the base of him, he notches himself at your entrance, his free hand on your hip to keep you steady.

“I will go slow,” he assures you, leaning forward to press his forehead against yours, breathing with you. “You will hold onto me and tell me if it is too much or I hurt you. Understand?”

“I understand,” you echo with a dry mouth, your eyes beating closed as your nerves wrack through you.

Slowly, he rolls his hips and eases himself inside you with a careful thrust, pushing into you with control. Your breath hitches when he manages to get halfway before meeting resistance, fingers clinging onto his shoulders at the slight tinge of pain from being breached for the first time. He tried to thrust into you again, making you whimper from both pain and something else, moving his hips away to lighten the pressure before attempting to drive another inch into you.

“Too much?” He droned, and you nodded shakily. “Breathe for me, sweet girl. You are doing so well.”

The kisses and words of praise he gave you did little to alleviate the stinging tightness you felt from Acacius sliding into you for the first time. You were grateful he had been so attentive before, the fullness of him enough to make your eyes roll to the back of your head. He coaches you to breathe in through your nose, and out your mouth, and once your body was relaxed enough, he plunges into you in one go.

You yelped at the sudden intrusion, the stretch of him bringing tears to your eyes, huffing out a breath and holding onto him tightly, shielding your face in his neck. He stayed still on your behalf, giving you time to adjust, all while caressing your back in the process.

Acacius drew his head back to look at your face, an expression of worry and concern etched on his features. His thumb wiped at the tears that fell from your eyes, kissing you with affection as you leveled your breathing.

“Marcus,” you mumbled at him, looking at him wantonly. “It’s so much…”

“I know, dove. I know it is.” He felt you fidget your hips just a bit, panting from the change in angle. “Just keep your eyes on me, look only at me.”

Following his command, you did your best to focus on Acacius, shuddering when he pulled his hips back, missing the stretch of him already. He lunged himself back into you, down to the hilt, punching a rough moan out of your mouth as he carved room for himself in your cunt. He maintained his slow and even pace, not doing too much to aggravate your body as you adapted to taking him.

The more he moved, the more you craved him. Every push and pull of his hips felt like a kiss from the inside out, his cock hitting spots you didn’t know were a part of you. The depth of his languid strokes and the angle he was hitting felt like a kiss from the inside out, reciprocating his advances and instinctively meeting his thrusts halfway. You didn’t realize how vocal you had become, senseless keens pouring out of you with your arousal coating Acacius’ cock with every shove into you.

“There she is, my little dove.” You pulsed at the way he said it, possessive in his tone and his handling of your body. “Tell me how it feels. Tell me how you want me.”

“Full, so full…” Your voice grew to a higher pitch as you spoke, his eyes rapacious as he watched you. “Please, give me more. I need more.”

He didn’t keep you waiting any longer; grabbing hold of one of your thighs, he raised it to his shoulder, driving into you even deeper. He upped the tempo of his thrusts, sending your head craning into your pillow. Acacius took advantage of your position, laying his entire weight over your body and biting at the skin of your neck as he fucked into you intently, filling you to the hilt and doing it repeatedly.

“That’s it. Take it all, taking me so well.” He grunted into your ear, a hand coming to grapple the back of your head, grabbing your hair in a tight fistful. You were coerced to face him, lamenting with glassy eyes as he had his way with you. “This is what you wanted? To know what it felt like to be mine?”

“Yes, yes,” it seemed to be the only word in your vocabulary, rendered speechless from how Acacius was fucking into you so intimately. “Only yours. Only yours.”

He couldn't hide the wide grin on his face, locking his mouth over yours in a possessive kiss with a snarl, swallowing all of the sounds that poured out of you. The same tingling sensation from earlier sneaked up on you, your slick walls tightening around Acacius’ cock. He altered his bucks against you, hitting as deep as he could, making sure to leave his claim on your body from the inside out.

“Acacius, please…mercy.”

You could barely breathe being smothered under him, your sharp nails scraping at the nape of his neck and down his shoulders, tearing through his skin and marking him for yourself. He licked at his thumb, bringing his hand down to where your bodies met, and rubbed at your slicked nub, a cry forcing its way out of your throat.

“Come for me one more time, little dove,” he pounded against you so vigorously, that you would think he was purposefully trying to break you, the bed creaking under you. “One more for me, mea columba. Give it to me; let me feel you soak me.”

With a wail, you fell over the edge a third time, stars shooting under your eyelids as you shook violently and soaked Marcus entirely. You couldn’t handle the intensity of your orgasm as it slammed into you, all the blood rushing to your head, leaving the rest of your body numb. It felt like you were floating, swimming even, the warm breeze of a shoreline hitting your skin under the blazing sun.

It was euphoric, a sense of nirvana that you’ve prayed for so many times before, and here it was given to you freely and openly by a man that should be held at arm’s length.

Acacius was getting close to meeting his end; you could tell from the way he thrusted more frantically against you, groaning loudly in the curve of your neck. A few more drives of his hips, and he forced himself out of you, fisting his cock rapidly and spilling his seed over your stomach, tainting your clammy skin. You studied him with half-lidded eyes, how he heaved with sweat cascading down the side of his forehead, thick fingers holding his length in his hand to claim you, some of his release dotting your mound.

The General held himself up with one thick arm, closing the distance between you to kiss you much softer than the previous times, your lips plump and bruised from his prior aggressiveness. You reciprocated his affection happily, bringing him closer with a hand winding the back of his head, sighing contently against him.

“You amaze me, General.” You remarked, a dopey smile and wet streaks on your cheeks from the experience he granted you. You silently hoped the other servants in the domus weren’t disturbed by the loud noises coming from your room, but you had a feeling Viria would be able to cover for you.

“And you amaze me. Did so good for me, my sweet girl. So good.” Acacius praised, standing up to reach the bathing basin on the farthest corner of your bedroom. You eyed his broad back as he stepped away from you, catching the red scratches you left embedded in his skin staring back at you.

He turns and smirks when he catches you looking at him, taking the damp cloth to clean his spend from your skin. You slightly hissed when he wiped between your legs, a muttered apology falling from his mouth as he cleansed himself, tossing the rag back in the bowl and sauntering towards you.

You thought he would put his clothes back on and flee into the night, leaving someone to wake you in the morning. Instead, he came to your bed, slipping under the sheets and pulling them back to signal for you to join him. Without a word, you threw the sheets over yourself, a small inch of space between you and Acacius, staring at him curiously as if he had not just taken what remained of your innocence.

He blanketed an arm around your waist, beckoning you closer to him, and you rested your head on his chest, calmed by the steady beating of his heart. You silently caressed his side while he ran lines up your spine, his touch comforting and welcoming, palming your head and running his fingers through your loose hair. There was a nagging question tearing at your spirit, wondering what would come of this, what you meant to the General whom you just gave your virtue to on a silver platter.

“Do you plan to stay?” You asked him, raising your head to look back at him with your chin to his chest, his brown eyes already on you.

“I will be here until dawn breaks, and we will figure everything else out after.” He confirmed, bringing you close, kissing the crown of your head and again on your lips, petting your cheekbone. “Rest now, little dove. I will be here when you wake. I swear it.”

With your body against his, you breathed in his scent; the serenity your body felt beside him eased you to slumber. As you slept against the General, he stayed awake for a while longer, taking in your sweet face as you dreamed of whatever manifested in your pretty head. A part of him grew anxious about what to expect from your blooming relationship, how best to work around your father’s scrutiny, and protect you from the hardships that came from his demanding position in society.

But he knew what he wanted; he knew that whatever this was between you was something he was willing to fight for. And so he held onto you a little tighter, joining you in the land of dreams and fantasizing about you, as he usually did when he was away. Only now, part of his dream became a reality, and he had you by his side, safe in his arms.

©️ ovaryacted 2024-2025. Please don’t repost, copy, translate, or feed into any AI. Support your fellow creators by reblogging, commenting, and liking!

Dividers by @/saradika-graphics.

Latin Translations: Vale - farewell/goodbye. Mea columba - my dove.

[saffusthings]

second chances

mob boss! lando norris x reader

part three: clean up

word count:

warnings: bone cracking, minor violence, some threats, a usual day in the mob life yktv

two | three | four

The night air was damp with the lingering scent of rain and blood.

Lando stepped out of her apartment building, shoving his hands into his pockets as he made his way back to his car. The streets were quiet now—too quiet. Just an hour ago, the space had been filled with the sound of a man begging for his life. Now, the city hummed with its usual indifference, as if nothing had ever happened.

He had stayed just long enough to be certain. No phone calls. No texts. No neighbors suspiciously knocking to ask what was wrong. She hadn’t told anyone.

Good girl.

He slid into the driver’s seat, checked his phone — no messages, no calls.

Finally, some fucking quiet.

Lando finally leaned against the back of his seat, long fingers wrapping themselves around the familiar steering of his McLaren 675 LT as he drove away. He drove without hurry, one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting against his temple as he exhaled a long, measured breath. The events weighed down on his shoulders — not with guilt, of course, never guilt– just the meticulous web of problems that needed to be untangled into solutions.

And the idiots he worked with? They were the biggest problem of the night.

His fingers tightened around the wheel, knuckles pressing white. He could still smell the iron tang of blood from earlier, the sharp memory of the gunshots ringing in his ears. He had done what needed to be done—handled the aftermath, cleaned up their mess. But the fact that he had to clean it up at all pissed him off.

He took a few turns through the empty streets before heading toward his house — a looming, intricate work of architecture nestled in the more quiet part of the  city. The headlights sliced through the dark as he pulled up to the wide cobblestone driveway, shutting the engine off before stepping out, his boots almost silent against the stone.

His own place was nothing like hers.

Large, sleek, classical — all marble and dark wood. A skyline view of the city stretched wide beyond huge church style windows, lights flickering like static against the black water of the pool. It was pristine, everything in its place, every surface immaculate. But that was the difference between a house and a home—he didn’t need comfort. He needed efficiency.

He stepped inside,  letting the heavy metal door slam behind him, the sound like a gunshot in the vast space. He turned and reactivated the alarm system from a side panel before shrugging off his jacket, letting it fall onto the back of a chair. The blood on his boot had dried by now, a small, insignificant detail, but he noticed it anyway. He always did.

Inside, the air was thick with sweat, smoke, and the stench of blood that hadn’t been properly cleaned up. A few men were already there laughing and talking, the remnants of their work sprawled out before them — discarded gloves, a half-empty bottle of whiskey, the stench of sweat and gun oil. They weren’t worried. They weren’t tense. They were acting like tonight hadn’t been a fucking disaster.

By the time he came up beside his seat, unbuttoning the cuffs of his sleeves,  he was already seething. He stood and glared with the kind of measured posture that should have put them on edge.

It didn’t.

Because they were idiots.

Lando took his time stepping forward, peeling off his gloves, his gaze sharp and unreadable. He watched them—studied the way they barely acknowledged his arrival, how one of them laughed under his breath about something, how another flicked a cigarette against the ashtray with a lazy, unbothered wave.

It was insulting.

“You are all too comfortable,” Lando murmured, his voice a quiet blade.

Fewtrell is, of course, the first to notice. Once he goes quiet, the others are a lot quicker to be pulled out of the blissful ignorance of whatever nonsense they were blabbing about moments ago.

Conversation died instantly.

The three of them turned to face him, their relaxed postures stiffening under his gaze. They were good at a lot of things —intimidation, violence, making money— but it seemed like reading Lando’s moods was never one of them.

Which was a shame. He wasn’t in the mood to be patient.

Slowly, he reached for the whiskey bottle on the table, lifting it to the light. Amber liquid swirled lazily inside. He turned it in his grip, then—without warning—he slammed it down, shattering the glass into jagged shards across the wooden surface.

The men flinched.

Finally. Finally, they realized.

“You think tonight went well?” he asked, voice even. Controlled. “You think that was a clean job?”

Silence.

“Because from where I was standing, it looked sloppy.” His words came slow, deliberate. “Messy. Reckless.”

He leaned forward, placing his hands on the table, watching as they shifted uncomfortably under the weight of his stare.

“It was just some low-level asshole,�� one of them muttered. “It’s not like he had protection. No one’s gonna come looking.”

Lando smiled. It was a sharp, humorless thing.

“You really think… that’s the fucking point?” he asked, voice deadly quiet.

The man swallowed.

“Are you all fucking stupid?”

One of them, Daniel —a lanky Australian bloke with a knack for fixing vehicles who’d been part of his team for a few years now— shifted, running a hand over the back of his neck. “Look, man, it was clean—”

Lando moved fast.

A sharp, brutal swing of his fist connected with Daniel’s ribs, knocking the breath out of him instantly. He staggered back, wheezing, but Lando didn’t let him recover. His hand shot out, gripping the front of Daniel’s shirt and yanking him forward until they were inches apart.

“Clean?” Lando echoed, his voice dripping with venom. “You brought him and dropped him in a place people actually walk through. You never sweeped the area. Then, you left a fucking body in the open? You idiot,” he seethes. “And now you’re standing here telling me it was clean?”

Daniel’s hands grasped Lando’s wrist, but he didn’t dare push him off. The others watched in tense silence, knowing better than to intervene.

Lando released him with a rough shove, sending him stumbling back onto a chair. He stepped around the table, slow, purposeful, like a predator sizing up its prey.

“You guys got cocky,” he continued. “You were loud. You did it out in the open, like amateurs. And you left yourselves exposed.”

Another beat of silence.

Lando’s gaze flicked over them, assessing. He didn’t mention the witness—the quiet, bookish girl who had stumbled onto something she was never meant to see. He had handled it. They didn’t need to know.

“You don’t get paid to be stupid,” he said finally, his voice smooth as if they were merely discussing the weather, yet something about it had their hearts lodged in their throats. “You get paid to be precise. To be efficient. And if you ever,” he pauses, “-fuck up like that again, I won’t be cleaning up your mess. I’ll be cleaning up you.”

The threat sat heavy in the air, settling into their bones.

Good.

One of the men —Carlos, the Spanish man who had been in charge of planning tonight’s job— shifted in his seat, clearing his throat. “It won’t happen again,” he said, accent curling at the ends of his quiet words.

Lando tilted his head, considering him. Then, in one fluid motion, he reached for the man’s hand resting on the table, grabbed his pinky, and snapped it.

Carlos howled, jerking back, but Lando kept him there, gripping his wrist in an iron hold as he leaned down to just beside Carlos’s ear, lowering his voice to something eerily calm.

“I know it won’t.”

He let go, stepping back, watching as Carlos cradled his mangled finger, his face twisted in pain.

“You’re lucky I’m in a good mood,” Lando mused, wiping his hands on a napkin before tossing it onto the table alongside the rest of their earlier rubbish. “Now, clean this shit up. And next time? Get it right the first time, yeah?”

“I had to take care of a loose end tonight because you were sloppy,” he continued, his voice cutting through the room like a blade. Sharp eyes flicked between them, his lip curling in disgust. “I believe it should be clear by now that if you ever put me in that position again, I won’t be dealing with a loose end — I’ll be dealing directly with you.”

Silence.

No one spoke. No one even breathed too loudly.

Lando exhaled sharply, shaking out the lingering tension in his knuckles before rolling his shoulders back. He unfolded his collar, unbuttoning the top buttons of his shirt as though he hadn’t just threatened to kill them.

“Sort the body. Properly,” he said flatly. “Let’s see if you can actually do something right.”

They nodded, silent and obedient.

Lando turned on his heel, walking toward the grand staircase at center of the house without another word, not bothering to glance back.

By the time he got into his room, the remnants of his rage had dulled into something more calculating. He had made his point. They wouldn’t mess up again—not if they wanted to keep breathing.

And as for her —the girl wrapped in her blankets, now fast asleep in her too-small apartment, oblivious to the choices being made in her name— he still hadn’t decided what to do with her yet. He hadn’t brought her up, didn’t tell them how close they’d come to getting their ]ittle job tonight exposed because she was his problem now.

And if it ever came to it? 

He was more than willing to solve it himself.

a/n: thank you for the response so far! likes, comments, and reblogs are the fuel that motivates me to go work on the next chapter. lmk what you thought of this one!

[fidgetyhands]

You also have to remember that evil people are human because that helps you acknowledge when people you care for act in evil ways.

If you see two firmly-divided groups, monsters and people, then what happens when someone says that one of your people was hurtful? How can you respond to hearing that your friend or relative or neighbor or someone you share a religion with did something wrong? That's your friend Chris -- surely good old Chris isn't a monster! That person is saying that Chris did something evil. That person is hurting Chris. That person is a monster!

It is really dangerous to claim that anyone, even someone as cartoonishly evil and immensely damaging as Elon Musk, is not human.

I thought it was fairly normal to feel empathy for bad people.

I thought it was common, even.

But after my Elon/Grimes post... now I'm wondering if I was mistaken about that.

I wrote a post about Trump being traumatized after his assassination attempt and a post about his poor adaptation to aging. I expressed sympathy for him in both cases. But I still maintain my white hot hatred of him and wish for him to face consequences.

Elon was abused by his father. Some of the stories are incredibly tragic. Hearing those stories triggers an involuntary response in my emotional systems that I can't stop no matter how much I despise present-day Elon. I also wonder if that abuse never occurred maybe we wouldn't be dealing with this current clusterfuck.

I have never held so much anger towards a single person as I do my brother. But I also see him as a victim of abuse. I know he was once a really good person and he was slowly corrupted. I feel sorry for him. I mourn the amazing person he used to be. And I still love him.

But that doesn't make me any less angry.

[everytimewetouch-dot-mp3]

shang qinghua does not feel good about the fact that his son was thrown into the abyss. he doesn’t feel good about all the disciples who died in the invasion, or about the fact that he basically traded all their lives to spare his own. he doesn’t feel good about the fact that he could’ve killed his king years ago and chose not to, even knowing what it would mean he’d have to do.

and listen, he knows he’s not a good person. who could be, having done what he has? there’s a reason he’s lord of an ding peak, and it’s not just because the system said he had to be. shang qinghua is smart and smooth. and sure, some might call him sleazy or slimy or manipulative, but he prefers to call himself effective. he might play at being pathetic, but even that is a calculated decision. whatever needs doing, he gets it done. he is not a good person, but he is an efficient logistician, a shrewd businessman, a cunning spy.

he has rarely been dragged down by dumb shit like guilt. no, he doesn’t feel good about what he did, but the other option was feeling dead, and that’s really not on the table. it’s just—there are rumors. the widow of qing jing peak, they’ve started calling shen qingqiu. and like, that’s embarrassing as shit, yeah. he’s sure if shen qingqiu knew they were calling him that, he’d throw a fit. but also it’s—they’re not really wrong? wasting away as he is, losing himself kneeling at that sword mound, calling for his disciple like he’s haunted by the ghost of his presence. he is the picture of a widow ruined by grief.

shang qinghua doesn’t feel good about that either, especially after he learned that shen qingqiu is a fellow transmigrator. he knew, in an abstract sort of way, that people would die in the invasion and those people would have loved ones, and those loved ones would grieve them. people die all the time, and they are allegedly grieved by their loved ones. shang qinghua has never grieved a loved one. has he ever even had loved ones who he would truly grieve? did anyone grieve him when he died alone in his apartment like an idiot? did anyone even look for him before his corpse started to smell?

anyway.

he knew he’d be causing a lot of grief, is the point, but it’s different when it’s a hometown bro who’s grieving. even if that hometown bro refuses to acknowledge his grief for what it is. shen qingqiu is grieving. when he loses days at a time at that sword mound; when he flits about the world and avoids his peak for months; when he comes home and haunts the bamboo forests, a ghost of himself. all of it is grief, which shang qinghua is starting to believe he has never felt for anyone but his own sorry self.

shang qinghua is not a good person, has never let himself be dragged down by dumb shit like guilt. maybe what he feels for his hometown bro is pity. maybe that’s why, when he hears that shen qingqiu is nearing cang qiong again after months away, he decides to bring some snacks and wine and his pipe to the bamboo house. the disciples say their shizun hasn’t been eating, and shen qingqiu has been looking rather thin at the peak lord meetings he bothers to attend. so maybe it’s pity that has shang qinghua breaking into the bamboo house and cooking something light and simple, setting it out on the table along with the snacks and the wine, and curling up to read while he waits.

and then, when shen qingqiu steps into his house and calls for luo binghe, it’s pity that moves shang qinghua to greet him fast, so shen qingqiu doesn’t embarrass himself imagining that it was his disciple who cooked for him. it’s pity that has him convincing shen qingqiu to eat, that has him politely looking away when shen qingqiu quietly cries as he tastes the simple stir fry. pity keeps him from responding when shen qingqiu excuses his reaction, saying ‘it tastes just like binghe’s, is all.’ no, binghe’s cooking taste’s like airplane shooting toward the sky’s. where does shen qingqiu think luo binghe got it from, indirect though that inherited skill might be? luo binghe is still airplane’s son.

shang qinghua does not feel guilty for the invasion at the immortal alliance conference, but he does not feel good about it either. he does not feel good about the grief he’s caused, or the way it’s hollowed his hometown bro out into a ghost of himself. so whenever shen qingqiu returns to the sect, shang qinghua does his best to make sure there’s a meal waiting for him, and an afternoon of drinking and smoking and distracting him from the grief he refuses to acknowledge. shang qinghua doesn’t hover. he doesn’t imagine that he and shen qingqiu are now friends—if anything, it seems like shen qingqiu is politely humoring his presence. shang qinghua does not feel any better about himself because of these rare afternoons. he imagines, though, that he would feel worse about himself if they were to stop.

[cosmicjoke]

I think something people rarely acknowledge when talking about the situation with Levi and his mother growing up is, as much as Kuchel loved Levi, and as much as she wanted him and did her best for him, it wasn't, in fact, fair of her to bring a child into the situation she was in. Levi suffered immensely because Kuchel's dream of having a child overpowered her ability to do the right thing.

Of course, in retrospect, we're all happy that Kuchel did have Levi, because he's here and he's an incredible person, but Kenny wasn't wrong when he told her that she shouldn't bring a child into the kind of life she was living, because ultimately, it caused him immense suffering. For the few years Levi had her, they lived in abject poverty and destitution, and Kuchel's love, as great as it was, still wasn't enough to provide for Levi his basic needs. It wasn't enough to raise him properly, it wasn't enough to take care of him or protect him from harm, to the point that Levi very nearly followed her into death, and would have followed her if Kenny hadn't shown up when he did. She also chose to have him despite knowing the situation facing Ackermans at that time. That they were being actively persecuted by the royal government, actively hunted, and also while knowing in the most stark terms what life in the Underground City was like. How disenfranchised the people forced to live down there were, how cut off from any sort of rights or societal protections they were, how deprived they were of the most basic luxuries, like fresh air, sunlight, clean water, food. She understood going in what she would be exposing Levi to in terms of her own line of work, the risks she would be subjecting him to, the hardships and struggles. Some part of Kuchel must also have realized the possibility that she would some day die, leaving Levi alone and unable to care for himself, and that's ultimately what happened, with Levi having the suffer the trauma of seeing his own mother grow sick and die, while he was left to starve to death. Kuchel was aware of all of this, and still, she chose to bring Levi into that world because she wanted a child so much.

The fact that Levi ended up in that situation is because Kuchel failed him as a parent, not out of a lack of love for Levi, but because she simply didn't have the means to properly provide and care for a child. It was Kuchel's selfish desire to have a child, putting that desire above what was best for Levi himself, in fact, that led to Levi suffering. That doesn't by any means make Kuchel a bad mother or a bad person, but it's objective reality that her choosing to have Levi was, ultimately, a choice made at his expense.

I just think that should be acknowledged more. Because there's a tendency, I think, for people to view Kuchel as this perfect, selfless mother who would do anything for her child. There's no doubt in my mind that Kuchel loved Levi more than life itself, but she wasn't totally selfless when it came to him. She chose her own desire to have him in her life over what was ultimately best for him, and it was Levi who was forced to pay the price for that desire, through the burden of lifelong trauma.

[heyhilana]

As an Afro-Latina fan, it is really jarring to see the blatant racism and lack of accountability going on. I took a break from fandoms for this reason so to see it still going on is sad :(

One thing I think we should ask ourselves when interacting is this. Would the person this fandom is based on condone this behavior? If you can't answer that question or have to dance around it, then that says a lot. And this is not to start the whole real fan vs fake fan discourse, but I think for anyone who has watched his interviews or at the very least has been on his instagram (especially after this election), he has made it very known he is against bigotry which answers the question.

On a similar note (not saying what the person did was right at all but for future reference), we have to remember that the intention behind something said or done does not mitigate its impact. We can have the best of intentions, and it can still come out wrong. It is still on the person who did it to acknowledge the impact, apologize, and do better in the future. Trying to defend it by ignoring the impact and tone-policing the people who are rightfully offended by it makes you not only part of the problem, but the reason why other offenders feel comfortable doing it.

Thank you for writing about this! <3 I hope we can continue to learn and grow as a fandom as well as taking from this that these lessons are necessary for real life as well. :)

For a bunch of fans of a Latino man, this fandom is sure filled with a lot of racism.

[misshoneyimhome]

What’s up, buttercups!

Please don’t ask me why friends to lovers and secret crush are my go-to tropes with this absolute sweetheart of a goaltender 🙈💕 Someone requested some Woller smut, and I’ve been practicing—but I have to admit, it always seems to come out the same… soft and slow with him 🥰

Anyway, to all my Joe Woll girlies, I hope you still enjoy this piece! 🤗💕

Summary: Rumour had it that you and Auston Matthews were more than just friends—whether dating or simply hooking up. But the truth was, your connection with the team’s captain was purely platonic. Meanwhile, Joseph had been quietly drawn to you from the moment he joined the team, always watching from the sidelines.

Tropes & warnings: friends to lovers, secret crush, Bestfriend!Auston Matthews, Joseph Woll x reader, 18+ smut: fingering, protected sex (vag pen.), oral sex (m receiving)

Word count: 5.5K Requested: yes / no

➼｡ﾟ

Jealousy Looks Good on You I Joseph Woll ✐☆

Joseph wasn’t the kind of guy to let gossip get to him. He knew better than to listen to the locker room chatter, the half-joking, half-serious comments from the guys when they were riding high after a win. But when your name kept coming up in the same breath as Auston’s, something inside him twisted—something dark and unfamiliar.

“You see the way she was looking at him after the game?” Domi had teased one night, unlacing his skates. “Pretty sure she was about two seconds away from jumping him.”

“She’s at all the games, too,” Marner chimed in. “Always waiting for him after. If that’s not a girlfriend move, I don’t know what is.”

Joseph had clenched his jaw, focusing on the tape in his hands, trying—really trying—not to react. Because it wasn’t his business, was it? You weren’t his. You were just… you. Beautiful, confident, always hanging around the team, laughing at something Auston said, wearing his hoodie like it was your own.

That hoodie had been the final straw.

Joseph had caught sight of you in the arena tunnel after a game, standing next to Auston, sipping from a bottle of water like you hadn’t just made his stomach drop through the goddamn floor. His hoodie—Auston’s hoodie—swallowed you up, the sleeves covering half your hands, the collar hanging loose around your collarbone. You’d looked so damn comfortable in it, so at ease, like you’d worn it a hundred times before.

It made Joseph feel sick.

He had forced himself to look away, to walk past without acknowledging you, ignoring the way his chest burned. Because if he stopped—if he let himself think about it—he wasn’t sure he’d be able to hold back the thing clawing at his ribs.

Jealousy.

It was stupid. He had no claim over you. You weren’t his to get jealous over. But damn it, he wanted to be the one you looked at like that. The one who got to be close to you, who got to make you smile in that soft, secret way you always did when you thought no one was looking.

And maybe, if he was honest with himself, he’d wanted that since the moment he first laid eyes on you.

But instead, it was Auston’s arm you tucked yourself under as you whispered something in his ear, giggling as the Leafs’ captain smirked down at you. Joseph turned away sharply, his hands balling into fists at his sides.

He needed to get over this.

Because clearly, whatever was happening between you and Auston—it wasn’t his problem.

Even if it felt like it was.

_

Joseph tried to ignore it. He really did.

But the thing about jealousy? It lingers. It settles into the quiet moments, the ones where his gaze found you without meaning to, where he caught himself listening for your laugh even when he told himself he wouldn’t.

And the worst part?

You weren’t doing anything wrong.

You were warm, easy to be around, the kind of person people naturally gravitated toward. Auston, especially. He was confident, magnetic in a way that made it effortless for him to pull people in—and you fit seamlessly into his orbit.

Joseph wasn’t like that.

He wasn’t the loudest in the room, wasn’t the one cracking jokes in the locker room or pulling you into teasing banter. He was steady, patient, the guy who kept his head down and did the work.

And yet, he wanted to be the one you turned to first.

The one who made you smile without trying, the one who knew exactly what to say to make your eyes light up.

It shouldn’t have bothered him. But it did.

And after a while, it started to wear on him.

He found himself pulling back. Not intentionally, but enough that you noticed. When you found him after a game, ready to congratulate him, he gave a short nod and a clipped, “Thanks.” When you lingered around the team, waiting for Auston, Joseph looked the other way.

It wasn’t fair, and he knew it.

But it was easier to distance himself than to admit how badly he wanted something he wasn’t sure he could have.

It didn’t take long for you to call him out on it, though.

“Hey Joe,” you said one day after training, your voice soft and gentle. “Can I ask you something?”

He simply nodded.

“Are you… are you mad at me or something?”

Joseph barely glanced up, focused on tossing his gear into his bag. “No.”

You hesitated. “Really? Because you’ve been acting a bit weird lately.”

His grip tightened on the strap of his bag, but he forced himself to keep his expression neutral. “I’ve just been busy.”

A small frown pulled at your lips. “Too busy to talk to me?” 

The quiet concern in your voice made something tighten in his chest. Joseph exhaled, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. He hated this—hated feeling like this, hated how much space you took up in his head when he had no right to want you the way he did.

“You barely look at me anymore,” you continued softly, stepping a little closer. “Did I… did I do something?”

His stomach twisted. Because the truth was, you hadn’t done anything wrong. Not really. But that didn’t stop the jealousy, the frustration, the way it gnawed at him every time he saw you with Auston. He swallowed, staring at the floor. “No, you didn’t.”

“Then what is it?”

Joseph let out a quiet sigh. He should have walked away. He should have just shaken his head and left it at that. But instead, the words slipped out before he could stop them. “Why do you even care?”

The moment the question left his lips, your brows furrowed, confusion flickering across your face. “What?”

He finally looked at you then, forcing himself to hold your gaze even as his pulse thrummed beneath his skin. “Why do you care if I talk to you or not?” His voice was quieter this time, but there was something else in it. Something fragile.

Your lips parted, but no words came.

Joseph took a breath, shaking his head, the corner of his mouth pulling into something almost self-deprecating. “Never mind. You probably need to get back to Matthews.”

The second the words left his mouth, regret settled in his chest like a stone.

You blinked at him, your expression shifting—not angry, not even upset. Just… surprised. Like something was clicking into place.

Joseph opened his mouth, like he wanted to take it back, but before he could, a voice called from across the room.

“Woll! Let’s go!” Matthew Knies stood near the exit, waiting. The rest of the team was heading out, and Joseph hesitated, his gaze flickering back to you one last time before he gave a short nod.

“I better go,” he muttered.

And then he was gone.

You stood there for a long moment, your heart pounding in your chest. Joseph’s words echoed in your mind, looping over and over—

“Why do you even care?”“Never mind. You probably need to get back to Matthews.”

It wasn’t like you hadn’t heard the rumours before. They’d been floating around for a while, nothing more than background noise, something you brushed off without much thought. Because you knew they weren’t true.

Auston was a good friend. A close one, sure, but never more than that. He wasn’t someone you’d ever considered as a romantic partner.

Not like Joseph.

_

It was about a week later when you found yourself standing in the hallway of the training facility, casually chatting with Auston and a few of his friends. Some of the guys from the team had joined in, filling the space with easy conversation and laughter.

Auston had always liked Joseph. He admired him as a teammate and respected his quiet, hardworking nature. But Auston’s friends? They weren’t always as kind.

So, when Joseph and Knies wandered over, joining the group, it wasn’t a surprise when someone made a teasing comment.

“You know,” one of Auston’s friends started, grinning. “Y/N’s in need of a date.”

You chuckled lightly, rolling your eyes, but before you could brush it off, they turned their attention to Joseph.

“Woll, what do you say?” they asked playfully. “You interested?”

It was meant as a joke—just harmless locker room banter. But the moment Joseph’s cheeks flushed, the energy shifted.

“Hold on,” someone else interjected, pointing at him. “Are you… in love with Y/N or something?”

The laughter around you was immediate, a mix of genuine amusement and teasing.

Joseph didn’t say anything. He didn’t deny it. He didn’t even meet your eyes. And that was all it  took.

“Oh my god,” someone else laughed. “He is! The sweet, innocent, mr. romantic piano goaltender, Joe Woller, is in love with Y/N!”

The group erupted again, but you weren’t paying attention to them. Your gaze was locked on Joseph.

But he still wasn’t looking at you, his expression carefully blank, shoulders tense. As the team’s goaltender, he was skilled at tuning out the noise, at blocking out distractions. But this? This wasn’t just noise.

And Matthew Knies noticed, too.

So, with a quiet, knowing look, he clapped Joseph on the back and muttered something before steering him away from the group. 

They walked away, and the laughter faded as the topic shifted, but you couldn’t let it go. Couldn’t let him go.

So, you ran after him.

“Joe. Wait.”

He didn’t stop at first, his long strides taking him down the hall, but when Knies saw you following, he gave Joseph a gentle push and stepped aside, leaving the two of you alone.

Joseph finally turned; his face unreadable. “What?” His voice was quiet, guarded.

You took a slow breath, suddenly feeling more nervous than you ever had before. “Joe… is it… is it true?” you asked carefully. “What they said about… you and… me?”

Joseph hesitated. The silence stretched between you, thick with everything unspoken.

Your chest tightened, but then, slowly, a smile tugged at your lips. “Joe,” you said softly, tilting your head. “I like you too.”

His eyes snapped to yours, surprise flashing across his face. “What?”

You laughed lightly, shaking your head. “Yeah, I like you too. I have for a while…”

He just stood there, staring at you, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right. Like he’d spent so long convincing himself he couldn’t have you that he never considered what would happen if you wanted him back. And now that you were standing here, telling him exactly that.

You shifted on your feet, your heart racing in your chest. “Joe?”

He blinked, like he was snapping out of something, but still—he didn’t say anything.

You swallowed, feeling a little nervous now. “I mean it,” you continued, softer this time. “But you don’t have to say anything,” you then murmured. “I just… I wanted you to know.”

Joseph inhaled sharply.

For months, he had been convincing himself that what he felt for you was unspoken for a reason. That it was better this way—keeping you at arm’s length, pretending he didn’t care, swallowing down every flicker of jealousy whenever you laughed too easily with Auston or looked too comfortable in his orbit.

And now here you were, standing in front of him, saying everything he had never let himself hope for.

That you liked him. That you had liked him for a while. He wanted to say something. Anything. But the words caught in his throat. So instead, he did the only thing he could. He reached for you.

His fingers brushed against yours, hesitant at first, like he wasn’t sure if he had permission. But when you didn’t pull away—when your fingers curled around his in response—something in him broke.

Joseph exhaled, his shoulders dropping slightly. “I—” But he didn’t get to finish.

Because just then, you lifted yourself onto your toes and pressed your lips to his. It was gentle. Soft. Not desperate or rushed—just something unspoken finally given the space to exist.

Joseph froze for half a second, like his brain hadn’t caught up to what was happening. But then—slowly, carefully—he kissed you back.

His hand lifted, fingertips grazing your jaw, hesitant at first. Like he was still afraid this wasn’t real, like if he held you too tightly, you’d slip right through his fingers.

But you didn’t. You stayed.

Your hands curled into the fabric of his hoodie, pulling him a little closer, and that was all it took for something in him to give way.

Joseph exhaled against your lips, his grip tightening ever so slightly, like he was grounding himself in this moment—in you. And God, he wanted to stay here forever.

The hallway around you felt far away, the world outside this moment blurred into nothing. It was just you and him. Finally.

When you eventually pulled back, your noses brushed, your breath warm against his skin. You smiled. “Joe,” you murmured. “I really like you.”

He huffed out something close to a laugh, shaking his head slightly, still dazed. “I got that part,” he murmured back.

You grinned. “Good.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. You just stood there, your fingers still curled into his hoodie, his hand still resting lightly against your face. It wasn’t loud or dramatic. It wasn’t some grand declaration. But it was real. And that was enough.

_

Joseph wanted to do it right. Romantic. Sweet. Slow.

A proper date, planned carefully on one of his rare nights off, with another day off to follow. No rush, no distractions—just the two of you, together, the way he’d been dreaming of for months. But it wasn’t as easy as he’d thought.

From the moment he picked you up, from the second you greeted him with a soft kiss and that radiant smile, the tension between you both crackled in the air. It had been building for too long, after all.

Neither of you needed to fill the silence with small talk—you already knew each other so well. The comfort between you was effortless, but underneath it, there was something else. Something simmering just beneath the surface.

It was in the way his hand hovered just shy of your waist as he led you through the restaurant door. In the way your fingers brushed against his when you passed him the menu. In the way you caught each other staring more than once, a soft blush dusting your cheeks every time.

It was in the way he swallowed hard when you laughed, in the way his eyes flickered down to your lips before he caught himself and forced his gaze away.

You both had to hold back.

You wanted to kiss. To touch. To feel.

But you waited, both of you silently agreeing to keep it together, to take things slow, to let the night unfold without giving in too quickly. And somehow, you made it through dinner, through the lingering moments of stolen glances and barely-there touches.

But then he drove you home. And when he walked you to your door, everything changed. There was a pause, a brief moment of hesitation as you both stood there, neither wanting to overstep.

Joseph was a gentleman. He always had been. And under any other circumstance, you would have appreciated that. But right now? Right now, his restraint was driving you insane.

You didn’t want polite. You wanted him.

And when he leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss against your lips—a simple goodnight kiss, nothing more—you knew that wasn’t enough.

So, before he could pull away, before he could say goodnight and leave you standing there with your heart racing and your body aching for more, you reached for him. Pulled him in again. And this time, it wasn’t gentle. This time, the kiss was deeper, more urgent.

Joseph inhaled sharply, but he didn’t resist. His hands found your waist, gripping you like he’d been dying to, like he was finally letting himself want in a way he hadn’t allowed before. By the time you pulled away, both of you were breathless.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his jacket, anchoring yourself, keeping him close. You hesitated for half a second before making the decision—one that had been weeks, months in the making.

“Want to come inside?”

And that was it. That was all it took. Joseph exhaled, his resolve slipping, his control snapping like a frayed thread. Because he was only human. A human with needs. With longing. With desire. And he wanted you.

The moment you stepped inside, coats were discarded, barely making it to the hooks before falling to the floor. There was no pause, no hesitation—just the magnetic pull of months of restraint snapping at once.

You made your way straight to the bedroom, your bodies moving together in a frenzied rhythm, lips never breaking apart.

Clothes formed a trail in your wake, scattered carelessly as hands roamed and breaths deepened, the air thick with longing and need.

As the backs of your knees hit the edge of the mattress, your palms slid over his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin, the tension in his muscles as he held himself back.

Joseph exhaled sharply at your touch, his hands steady but eager as they skimmed up your sides, slipping beneath your shirt. His fingers, deft and skilled, traced over your ribs before tugging the fabric up and over your head, tossing it aside without a second thought.

Then his hands moved behind you, fingers brushing against your back as he worked the clasp of your bra with practiced ease. The garment slid away, and he pulled back just enough to look at you—eyes dark, lips parted, breath uneven.

For a brief moment, everything slowed. His hands traced the newly exposed skin, massaging your breasts, reverent and careful, as if memorising every inch. “You’re beautiful,” he murmured, his voice rough with something deeper than just desire.

Your breath hitched, heat pooling low in your stomach as your fingers reached for his belt, unbuckling it with slow, deliberate movements. “Joe,” you whispered, meeting his gaze, voice barely above a breath. “I need you.”

Joseph’s jaw clenched, his breath coming in slow, measured exhales as if he were holding himself back.

But you didn’t want him to hold back. You urged him on, slipping the leather from its loops, pushing him toward the edge of restraint.

And then, finally, he gave in.

His trousers hit the floor with a quiet rustle, quickly followed by the last remaining layers of fabric between you. His arousal was evident, pressed against you, hard and throbbing. The feel of him—all of him—made a sharp heat curl deep in your stomach, an ache so strong you almost whimpered at the contact.

Lying back on the mattress, Joseph hovered over you, his hands braced on either side of your head, his breath uneven as he tried to keep himself together. But you could feel it—how much he wanted this. How much you wanted this.

Your legs parted instinctively, your body seeking his, your hips shifting just enough that his hardness pressed firmly against your core, drawing a quiet gasp from both of you.

His forehead pressed against yours, his lips hovering just above yours, his entire body tense with restraint. “You have protection?” His voice was rough, almost hesitant, like part of him was afraid you’d change your mind.

You nodded, your fingers trailing over his back, nails scraping lightly as you whispered, “Bottom drawer.”

Joseph let out a shaky breath, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple before reaching over, fumbling blindly for the handle of the drawer. His other hand never stopped touching you, his fingers trailing absent, soothing patterns against your skin, as if grounding himself.

You watched him, your own breaths shallow, anticipation thick between you. “Here, let me,” you murmured, your voice soft yet certain.

Joseph exhaled slowly, nodding as you took over, your fingers brushing against his as you retrieved what you needed. The warmth of your touch sent a shiver down his spine, his entire body tense with restraint as he watched you roll on the condom with careful precision.

And then, instead of letting him take control, you gently guided him to lie back against the pillows.

His blue eyes flickered with something unreadable—surprise, awe, desire—as you straddled him, your thighs framing his hips, your hands resting on his chest. His heart was hammering beneath your fingertips, the steady rise and fall of his breath unsteady, almost shaky.

You leaned down, brushing your lips over his in a lingering, teasing kiss before shifting your hips, dragging your folds against his length, slow and steady.

Joseph let out a sharp breath, his fingers gripping your waist, his jaw tightening as he fought to keep himself together. You both wanted more—craved more—but he was determined to make this perfect. Unhurried. Something that felt as incredible as it should, something neither of you would ever forget.

So, you took your time.

The slow drag of your heat against him had you both trembling, pleasure simmering just beneath the surface, building with each slow, steady movement. Then, finally, finally, you allowed him to enter you.

You gasped as you sank onto him, your body stretching to accommodate his length, the sensation sending a wave of heat through your entire body. Joseph let out a low, guttural moan, his hands gripping your hips tighter as he fought to keep his control.

“Jesus,” he whispered, voice wrecked.

You braced your hands against his chest, steadying yourself as you adjusted, feeling every inch of him buried inside you. And then you moved.

Slow at first, rolling your hips, letting the pleasure wash over you both, your breaths coming in unsteady gasps as the sensation grew more intense with every shift, every movement.

Joseph’s hands roamed up your back, over your waist, down to your thighs, his grip firm but reverent, like he was savouring every second.

“You’re—” He broke off with a shaky inhale, his head tilting back against the pillow, eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment before locking onto yours again, completely consumed by the feeling of you.

You leaned down, pressing a kiss to his jaw, his neck, whispering against his skin.

“I’m yours, Joe.”

Joseph’s breath hitched, and then, with a quiet groan, he flipped you onto your back in one fluid motion, his body pressing into yours, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was deep, desperate, completely consuming.

Your hands found his back as he moved inside you with deep, purposeful thrusts, each one sending waves of pleasure crashing through you. He wasn’t rough, wasn’t rushed—just deep, so deep, his body in perfect rhythm with yours, pushing you both closer to the release you were so desperately chasing.

The room was filled with nothing but the sounds of your mingled moans, ragged breaths, heated skin meeting again and again.

Joseph’s jaw clenched, his body tensed, fingers fisting the sheets, as his control slipped but his focus was still on you. He wanted—needed—you to come before he let himself go.

So, he let one hand brace against the mattress for leverage while the other slid between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit with practiced ease. 

The combination of his skilled touch, the way he filled you so perfectly, the weight of him pressing you into the sheets—it was all too much. A sharp gasp escaped your lips, your back arching as your fingers gripped onto his shoulders.

“Joe… I’m—”

His lips brushed against yours, his voice rough and breathless. “Yes, mmm, come with me.”

And indeed you did.

Your release shattered through you, pleasure spiralling out from the core of your body in waves so intense it left you trembling beneath him.

And the way you clenched around him sent him over the edge right after you, a broken moan slipping past his lips as he lost himself completely, his motions turning ragged and desperate as he chased his own climax. Finally, he let go, his body shuddering as he spilled into the latex, his forehead dropping to yours, his breath coming in harsh, uneven pants.

For a moment, neither of you moved, still caught in the aftershocks of what had just happened.

Then Joseph let out a slow, shaky breath, his lips brushing against your temple as he whispered, “I’m so in love with you.”

You smiled, still breathless, wrapping your arms around him, holding him close. This had been everything—more than everything.

And as Joseph kissed you again, slow and sweet this time, you knew without a doubt—This was just the beginning.

_

Soft morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the room. The air was still thick with the remnants of last night—heat, passion, and the quiet hum of satisfaction that lingered between tangled sheets and bare skin.

You stood in the doorway, watching Joseph sleep, your lips curling into a slow smile.

He looked so peaceful, his bare chest rising and falling in steady breaths, his features relaxed in a way they never were when he was on the ice, under pressure. Here, he was just Joe—yours, and completely at ease.

But the longer you stood there, the stronger the pull became. You needed to touch him again.

So, moving slowly, yet with purpose, you crossed the room, slipping beneath the sheets with him. The warmth of his body welcomed you instantly, your fingers brushing gently over his arm, his shoulder, up to his jaw.

Joseph let out a soft, tired groan as he stirred, shifting beneath your touch, his lashes fluttering slightly before his lips parted in a slow inhale.

You leaned down, your lips ghosting over his cheek, his jawline, the warmth of your breath teasing his skin. Then you kissed him.

He responded instinctively, his lips moving against yours in a slow, sleepy kiss, still laced with drowsiness. “Haven’t brushed my teeth yet…” he murmured against your lips, voice rough with sleep.

“Don’t care…” you whispered back, deepening the kiss, pouring every bit of morning heat into it.

His lips were soft, warm, and when you kissed him deeper, he let out a quiet, appreciative sound from the back of his throat.

Your kisses trailed lower, following the strong line of his jaw, over the curve of his collarbone, down to his chest. You could feel the heat of him, the way his body responded even before his mind had fully woken up. Your hands traced over his skin, fingers mapping every muscle, every inch of him.

And as you moved lower, the sheets shifted with you, revealing that Joseph had been sleeping completely naked—evidence of last night’s actions. You smiled against his abdomen, pressing a lingering kiss just above his navel.

Then, you went further.

Joseph let out a slow exhale, his breath hitching slightly as your lips traced lower.

“Looks like a part of you is already awake…” you teased, your voice a playful whisper.

Joseph chuckled lightly, the sound still husky from sleep. “Well, it is the morning.”

You hummed in response, dragging your lips just along the inside of his thigh, deliberately slow, deliberately teasing.

“Mmm.” You simply hummed, your fingers skimming along his stomach as you kissed around his hard cock, feeling the way his body tensed, the way his breath deepened in anticipation.

Joseph let out a sharp inhale as your lips brushed over him, his body tensing ever so slightly beneath you. His fingers twitched against the sheets, his breaths growing heavier, deeper—his body slowly waking in a different way. His stomach tightened as you placed another soft, lingering kiss at the base of him, teasing, savouring.

“Fuck…” he exhaled, his voice still thick with sleep, laced with something deeper.

You smiled against his skin, pleased by his reaction. “Relax, Joe,” you murmured, your fingers ghosting over his hips, your nails dragging lightly as you moved.

His head tilted back against the pillow, eyes fluttering shut as your lips moved further, taking your time, letting your tongue flick lightly over the sensitive skin. His whole body tensed for a second before he let out another ragged breath, a quiet groan slipping past his lips.

“Jesus, Y/N… that’s—”

You hummed in response, the vibration of it making him shudder.

You took him into your mouth slowly, savouring the way he reacted—his grip tightening on the sheets, the way his abs tensed, the way his lips parted as a low, guttural moan escaped him.

“You’re killing me,” he groaned, his fingers finally reaching for you, brushing against your hair as though he needed to touch you, needed something to ground him.

You hollowed your cheeks slightly, taking him deeper, your hand gripping the base of him, working in tandem with your mouth.

Joseph swore, his hips jerking slightly before he forced himself to stay still. He was always so composed, so controlled—but now, with you, he was unravelling.

You kept your pace slow, teasing, enjoying the way he reacted to every movement, every flick of your tongue, every gentle squeeze of your fingers. You saliva dripped from the corners of your mouth, working as lube for your palm.

“Fuck, that feels good,” he murmured, his voice deeper now, raspier.

You looked up at him through your lashes, and the sight nearly undid him—your lips wrapped around him, your eyes dark with mischief, so fucking pleased with yourself.

“Y/N—” he groaned, his grip tightening slightly, his chest rising and falling in sharp breaths.

You could feel how close he was, how his body tensed, how his stomach clenched beneath your fingertips. 

“Wait—stop,” he suddenly rasped, his voice hoarse.

You pulled back, blinking up at him, lips slightly swollen, a teasing smirk playing on your lips. “Something wrong?”

Joseph let out a shaky laugh, dragging a hand through his hair before looking at you, his blue eyes dark, filled with something heated. “If you keep going, I’m gonna come…”

You knew you weren’t making it easy for him. Your teasing smirk widened as you shifted between his legs, your fingers ghosting over his thighs, your lips hovering just above his cock.

“That’s the point, love.”

He let out a breathless laugh, shaking his head as he gazed down at you, his blue eyes dark and hooded with something dangerous—desperation, need, want. “You’re really trying to kill me, aren’t you?” he rasped, his voice hoarse, thick with restraint.

You hummed, dragging your lips slowly along the inside of his thigh, your breath hot against his skin. “You say that like it’s a bad thing…”

Joseph let out a low groan, his head tipping back against the pillow as his hands fisted the sheets.

And then, before he could protest again, you took him back into your mouth, slow and deliberate, savouring the way his body tensed, the way his hips instinctively lifted toward your warmth.

“Fuck—”

His hand shot down, fingers threading through your hair as you moved, his breath coming in sharp gasps, his body tight beneath your touch.

You didn’t rush. You wanted to please him.

Your tongue flicked over his length, your hand working simultaneously, stroking where your mouth didn’t reach. You could feel him tremble beneath you, his grip on your hair tightening, his stomach tensing as he tried so hard to hold on.

But you could tell—he was close. And you wanted to see him break.

Your pace quickened, your fingers tightening around the base of him as you took him deeper, hollowing your cheeks just enough to have him swearing under his breath.

“Y/N—shit, I—” His voice cut off into a strangled moan, his body tensing beneath you, and then—

He came. A deep, wrecked groan tore from his throat, his hips jerking as he came undone, his body trembling as he spilled into your mouth.

You swallowed him down, slow, and deliberate, savouring every second of his release, until he was twitching from overstimulation, his fingers weakly gripping your hair, his breath ragged.

You pulled back, wiping the corner of your mouth with the pad of your thumb, your gaze flickering up to meet his.

Joseph was wrecked. His head was tilted back, his chest still rising and falling unevenly, his blue eyes hooded and dark as he looked at you like you had just completely ruined him. Which, honestly—you had.

“Jesus Christ,” he exhaled, dragging a hand through his already-messy hair, his voice still hoarse.

You smirked, crawling back up his body, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to his lips. “Told you that was the point.”

Joseph let out another breathless laugh, shaking his head before flipping you onto your back in one smooth motion, his weight pressing you into the mattress. His lips ghosted over your ear, his voice low and dangerous.

“My turn.”

And just like that, the morning was far from over.

[sturniololuvz]

can you do an angst fic where one of the boys were play fighting with sister reader who’s 14-16 and he accidentally actually hurts her. she gets upset and scared of him and refuses to talk to him for a week and only talks to the other boys

yepppoo

“I Didn’t Mean To”

Sturniolos x sister

Warnings : hurt. ignoring

Chris never meant to hurt her.

It was supposed to be fun. Play fighting like they always did, throwing harmless jabs, pushing each other around, laughing until one of them gave up. It was something they had been doing since Y/N was little.

But this time… it went wrong.

They were in the living room, messing around while Matt and Nick were in the kitchen. Y/N had shoved Chris first, laughing when he stumbled back.

“Oh, you think you’re strong?” he teased, pushing her back playfully.

Y/N grinned. “Stronger than you.”

Chris scoffed. “Oh, bet?”

And then, in the heat of the moment, he swung his arm out—playfully, not thinking—and shoved her a little harder than he meant to.

Too hard.

She lost her footing.

She stumbled back, her socked feet slipping against the hardwood floor—

And then she hit the coffee table. Hard.

The sound of her body colliding with it made Chris’s heart drop instantly. The laughter died.

“Y/N?” he breathed, already moving toward her.

She was on the floor, clutching her arm where it had slammed into the edge of the table, her face twisted in pain.

Chris froze. His stomach twisted painfully. Oh, shit.

“Yo, I’m so sorry—” He reached for her, but she flinched back instinctively.

And that’s when it hit him.

The fear in her eyes.

The way she pulled away from him like he had actually meant to hurt her.

Chris felt like he couldn’t breathe.

Matt and Nick ran in at the sound of the crash. “What happened?” Nick asked, eyes darting between them.

Chris swallowed hard, panic settling in. “I—I didn’t mean to, I swear, we were just messing around and—”

Y/N stood up quickly, still clutching her arm, her jaw tight. “I’m fine,” she muttered.

But she didn’t look at Chris.

Not once.

Instead, she turned to Matt. “Can you take me to my room?”

Chris opened his mouth. “Y/N—”

She didn’t even acknowledge him.

Nick glanced between them, his face serious. “Y/N…”

But she was already walking off, with Matt. Not even looking back.

Chris felt like his heart had been ripped out of his chest.

The next week was hell.

Y/N wouldn’t talk to him. Wouldn’t look at him.

She’d joke around with Matt. She’d talk to Nick like nothing was wrong. But the second Chris entered the room? Silence.

It destroyed him.

He tried everything.

“Y/N, can we talk?”

Ignored.

“I swear, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Silence.

“Please, don’t be scared of me.”

Nothing.

Chris hated himself for it. Hated that one stupid mistake had changed things between them.

“She’s not actually scared of you,” Matt reassured him one night. “She’s just mad.”

Chris shook his head. “Did you see how she flinched? I’ve never made her do that before.”

Nick sighed. “You just gotta give her time, man.”

Chris nodded, but deep down, he wondered if things would ever go back to how they were.

It wasn’t until a week later that Y/N finally snapped.

Chris was sitting in the living room, head in his hands, when she walked in.

“Why do you keep acting like I’m never gonna talk to you again?”

Chris’s head shot up, eyes wide. “Because you haven’t talked to me.”

Y/N crossed her arms. “Because you hurt me, Chris.”

Chris felt his stomach twist. “I know,” he said quietly. “And I hate myself for it.”

Y/N sighed, her expression softening slightly. “I know you didn’t mean to. But it just… freaked me out, okay? You’ve never actually hurt me before.”

Chris swallowed. “I’d never—” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. “I’d never do that to you on purpose, Y/N. Ever.”

She was silent for a moment before she finally sighed. “I know.”

Chris hesitated, then opened his arms slightly. “Are we okay?”

Y/N hesitated too—then stepped forward, wrapping her arms around him.

Chris exhaled, hugging her tightly. “I’m really sorry, bug.”

Y/N nodded against his shoulder. “Just don’t do it again, dumbass.”

Chris let out a breathless laugh. “Deal.”

[yume-writes]

So you know how Blue is a Star Guardian and is technically the mcb version of a prime, but he’s also the shortest of the group?

I saw this headcanon where in cybertronian, the bigger a bot is, the more important they are. Which is why the primes are whole giants.

Imagine that applies for mcbs too. It has PLENTY of angst potential for Blue Cop. Cause like, he’s the shortest yet has a much more higher status then all of them. At least before his upgrade in S2

Like sure, a few of them are criminals. But Black Hook and Heavy Iron are practically larger and most likely had a high bounty. Black Hook was implied to being a former ruler (idk about Heavy Iron tho). But most of them had jobs that were considered important at least on Machina and were decently sized.

But then there’s Blue Cop, the smallest of them all. Yet one made to protect a whole planet that exploded whilst trying to protect it. Sure it probably means absolutely nothing to earthlings, but what about all of the other star guardians? Is that why he was so small? Why they all had abandoned him?

Optimus seems to be the newest and last living prime. But he’s large and is able to lead an entire faction— probably because there’s a whole lotta bots looking up at him.

Idk man but this could be a good excuse on why he’s heavily implied to have abandonment issues in an episode and doesn’t seem acknowledged later. (I don’t have the English dub, so pardon me if I get anything wrong and if this doesn’t really make much sense😓)

MCB x TFP crossover

Sorry for the late reply!!!! But thank you for the amazing ask!!

The amount of angst you could fit into Blue Cop is honestly insane, lol

Anyway, the idea of the bigger the bot the more important they are would do sooo well to be placed onto Blue Cop.

Imagine how he must have felt like while Machina still existed, he must have been one of the smallest star guardians. We've seen big Flame Nova is, he's as tall as Heavy Iron, so it isn't too far off to imagine the rest of the star guardians being around or near his size.

The other guardians could have shunned him for his size, maybe given him near meaningless work or missions, just leaving him behind a lot of the time. This could tie into his abandonment issues, he does have a nightmare of Jun leaving him after he was defeated by Wild Guardy. Maybe the Star guardians did something similar to him after he failed beforehand, or maybe even threatened it if he failed.

He would also feel undeserving of being the last Star Guardian, out of everyone in the Star guardians he, the smallest and least important, is the one that lived.

I've already said in the previous post that Blue Cop would look up to Optimus (literally in this case) but maybe he could also envy him. This big bot who doesn't let anything faze him, always seems to have a plan, and has the full support of his team, who listen to his decisions. Blue Cop wants to be like him, wants to be someone important who won't be left behind, if only he was bigger.

[ephemeralinstance]

Solas is (already) a god

At some points in Veilguard, characters seem to suggest that Solas' problem is that he secretly wants to be a god. But I think they're ultimately shown to be wrong about that, because Solas' issue is really the exact opposite: he is a god, and doesn't want to be. After all, by making the Veil, Solas unintentionally became the creator of modern Thedas. Nearly everything about the modern world is the way it is because of his creation; he isn't literally the Maker, but he did a number of the things the Maker is supposed to have done. If the word 'god' means anything at all in Thedas, Solas is one. And this, I think, is a large part of why he's so horrified by the existence of the Veil: he spent so long fighting against beings who wanted to reshape the world in their own image, only to discover that he'd unwittingly done so himself. When he talks about his motivations, he often mentions the fact that the Veil isn't natural, it's a 'wound' - no one person should have had the power to reshape the world that way, and so he's desperate to return the world to its natural state, thus undoing his own godhood. No wonder Elgar'nan hates the Veil so much: in creating it, Solas shaped the world much more permanently than Elgar'nan himself ever managed. In Blood of Arlathan, Solas says to Elgar'nan 'Ma banal'evanuris. Ma salin ar ghilana?' which means something like 'You are not a god. Do you need a guide on how to be one?' Here, Solas seems to be acknowledging that although he personally never wanted to be a god, he unintentionally was much more successful at being a god than Elgar'nan ever was! Thus ultimately, the ending of the game isn't about showing Solas he's not a god: it's actually about making him accept that like it or not, he is a god. Rook is asking him not only to leave his creation in place, but also to actively sustain it, in exactly the way that a god would be expected to do. So although I personally find him declaring himself to be a god in one of the endings to be somewhat out of character (would a person who's built his whole sense of moral superiority for thousands of years on not claiming to be a god really suddenly change his mind about that?) in a way it makes sense. Although he very much doesn't want to be worshipped, to all effects and purposes he is a god, and Rook is forcing him to accept that.

[sst4rdst]

synopsis : scaramouche did everything in his reach to you, but you keep being stubborn. maybe he should resort to something more physical, after all. pairing : yan scaramouche x reader (no gendered pronouns used for reader) warnings : yandere themes, unhealthy relationships.

you make it so difficult to love you.

scaramouche doesn’t say it. he doesn’t have to. it’s in the way he stands in front of you, jaw tight, eyes dark with something unreadable—something he would never, ever voice aloud. his hands clench at his sides, barely restrained, because you make it so difficult, and yet you are all he wants. all he has.

and yet you repay him with this?

“don’t look at me like that.” your voice is sharp, cutting through the thick tension between you both. you don’t soften for him. you never do. “i don’t owe you anything.”

scaramouche laughs, and it’s an ugly sound. dry and hollow, completely devoid of humor.

“no?” he tilts his head, studying you. his gaze drags over your face, looking for something—remorse, regret, hesitation. he finds none. it only sharpens his irritation, that festering frustration curling beneath his skin, seeping into his voice. “so that’s how it is. i pluck you out of the filth, keep you safe, and this is the thanks i get? how ungrateful.”

you scoff, arms crossing over your chest. “i never asked for any of that.”

“didn’t you?” he steps forward, and you don’t move back. not out of bravery—no, you are far too proud for that. but he knows. he knows that even if you don't admit it out loud, you are scared of him. maybe because of the amount of times he made you watch him torturing and killing an unlucky underling of his. but perhaps he's being way too soft with you, as you're brave enough to not step back.

a cold smirk curves his lips, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “you’re lying to yourself.”

“and you’re delusional.”

something snaps.

the air between you crackles, a slow-burning storm gathering beneath his skin. his voice drops, low and venomous. “you don’t get to speak to me like that.”

“oh? and what are you going to do about it?” you tilt your head, mocking. “throw a tantrum? you’re good at those.”

it stings. more than it should.

scaramouche isn’t sure what infuriates him more—your defiance, your refusal to acknowledge everything he’s done for you, or the fact that he still wants you. even when you are cruel. even when you reject him, dismiss him, push him away at every turn.

his fingers twitch, aching to grab your wrist, to force you to stay, to shake some sense into you—to make you understand. but he doesn’t. he just stands there, gaze smoldering, hands clenched at his sides, as you tear him down without hesitation.

“i’ve done everything for you,” he says, voice quieter now, but no less sharp. “and this is how you repay me?”

you don’t answer. maybe you can’t.

the weight of his words settles heavy in the air between you, pressing down like a storm about to break. his breathing is slow and controlled, too controlled, and that scares you more than if he had simply lashed out.

because scaramouche is volatile, a spark in a room full of gunpowder. you don’t know when or how, but at some point in this conversation, you lit the match.

the realization creeps up your spine like ice.

“nothing to say?” he tilts his head, mockingly patient. “where’s that sharp tongue now, hm?”

you force yourself to hold your ground, but it’s different now. there is something in his voice, in the way his eyes gleam—something dangerous.

you fucked up.

you fucked up, and you know it the moment he takes another step forward.

it’s not just anger. anger, you can handle. but this—this is something else.

he exhales, slow and deliberate. “you should be more careful with your words.”

you don’t respond.

it’s the wrong choice.

his hand moves, too quick to track, seizing your chin between cold fingers, forcing you to look at him. his grip is not bruising, not yet, but it holds the promise of it.

“i could do anything to you,” he murmurs, too soft, too quiet. “do you realize that?”

your pulse stutters.

“i could take everything from you. just like that.” he snaps his fingers, the sound sharp in the silence, the crackling in the air around you making noises. his lips twitch at the way your breath hitches. “and you wouldn’t be able to do a damn thing about it.”

he leans in, close enough that you feel his looming presence above you, the restraint barely holding him together. his voice drops lower, almost a whisper. “is that what you want? to push me until i finally snap?”

you shake your head—or try to. his grip on your chin doesn’t allow it.

“then,” he says, tone turning amused, lilting, “you should start acting like it.”

he releases you just as suddenly as he grabbed you. your skin tingles where his fingers had been, phantom pressure lingering.

“now,” he continues, and the cruel amusement in his voice makes your stomach sink. “how do you think i should handle your little outburst?”

your breath stills.

scaramouche smiles, slow and wicked, as if savoring your silence.

“that’s right,” he purrs, tilting his head. “you don’t know. but i do.”

his fingers brush against your wrist, feather-light, deceptively gentle.

“don’t worry,” he muses, darkly sweet. “i’ll teach you how to be grateful.”

[asthedeathoflight]

Like you / Like me

Hi guys. Today I was reading Metal From Heaven by August Clarke and was suddenly seized by like I don't know some kind of fucking spirit. So I went home and I wrote this in essentially one sitting, with a break for dinner in the middle in which I was still kind of writing it on my phone.

CWs for this fic for depiction of a panic attack from a POV character, and also the fact that it is rated M for lesbiaM.

~ ~ ~

People wonder - aloud, even - at how it was that Ajax had come to join the Warriors. If it was in a moment of violence, or bravado. Ajax tolerates the younger girls’ wild speculation and knows the truth will never live up to the legend. The place where everybody gets it wrong is that they expect her to have joined the Warriors as Ajax. Ajax is a Warrior. Ajax has always been a Warrior. Ajax has always been a Warrior. But she didn’t come to the crew as Ajax. There was a girl, once upon a time, who Ajax remembers now in fits and starts, and the story of how she became a Warrior isn’t worth telling to anyone who wasn’t there. And almost everyone who was there is gone. 

The girl who would one day be Ajax became a Warrior in a tense, quiet conversation in which she did not speak at all. She stood near a wall in the tiny, dingy office above a butcher shop and stared sightlessly past where the woman who had maybe always been Cleon spoke with steel in her voice and fire in her eyes. Ajax could never look at her when she was like that. Cleon like that was like the sun, like something that was too much of what Ajax was meant to look at, so much of what Ajax had been made for that she was poisoned by it. 

Cleon was leaning over the desk to speak urgently to the woman behind it, quiet like the ocean was quiet, like she knew her power and didn’t care if you heard her coming. 

Something changed in their conversation. The woman Cleon was speaking to sat back in her chair, scraping a hand along her jaw thoughtfully. She wasn’t safe to look at either. She was rough-hewn like a boulder or an unpaved road, and her shoulders and hands were broad and square. She had a moth-eaten wool cap pulled over her dreads, even inside - no use paying for heat in a building where most of the inhabitants would spoil at room temperature. Her name was Daedalus, and looking at her made Ajax feel a little bit like throwing up, like the spinning feeling of having taken a hit before the pain came. 

So Ajax looked at the wall past them, where it was yellow with smoke residue near the ceiling, and tried to hear their words without understanding them. She had always been shit at not saying everything she felt with just her face, and Ajax wasn’t sure how she was feeling at the moment, so she couldn’t afford to give any of it away. 

Cleon continued intently for a few moments, leaning her weight on the desk for just a second, and then Daedalus nodded slowly. Cleon rocked back on her heels, breathing out like the venting of a steam engine; like wheels spinning slowly to a stop. “Okay, great,” she said, and Ajax had lost whatever rare focus was allowing her to let the conversation slip over her without sticking. 

“Okay,” Daedalus echoed, more gruffly. “You better have meant all that shit. I don’t take kindly to exaggeration.”

Cleon nodded fervently, and Ajax made a mental note to have her explain the bargain she had made on Ajax’s behalf. Oh, Ajax was sure she worded it for both of them, but Ajax was faster and stronger than her. She would shoulder most of it. Cleon didn’t have a choice about that. 

The door to the little office swung open, and a woman stepped in without waiting for any acknowledgement from Daedalus. She was wearing a threadbare bathrobe and a silky little slip of a nightgown and carrying two mugs of coffee. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” she said with a jazz singer’s husky contralto. 

 As she entered the office she passed through Ajax’s eye line and caught her eye for a moment. She winked. Not safe to look at. Ajax moved her head to look up at the buzzing, flickering overhead light instead. 

“You’ve got perfect timing as always, Twitch,” Daedalus rumbled. “We were just finishing up.”

“How’s the latest litter of strays?” Twitch asked. 

Ajax blinked at the light, and the imprint of it glowed blue-green on her eyelids. It hurt just a little bit. She let the discomfort swallow up any other sensation. 

“Eager,” Daedalus replied.

“Aw,” Twitch cooed. “Patriotic. Cute.”

Ajax could hear that Cleon was smiling when she spoke. She could almost see that smile, cheerful and happy to help and unimpeachably angelic. Her Girl Scout smile. “Just doing business, ma’am.”

“Only one kind of business here in Coney, girl. Don’t go forgettin’ that.”

“Of course not,” Cleon said, a little bit sharper. A little bit more cat-with-the-cream. “Sir.”

Ajax failed to duck away from the chill that ran through her. Her body came back online all at once, without her permission. She dropped her gaze from the light down to the room, barely seeing anything except what she needed to - the door, Cleon’s back, the skeptical upward tilt of Daedalus’s eyebrow. 

Cleon’s hands were clasped behind her in parade rest. Her fingers twitched once in the moment of silence, but Ajax couldn’t imagine it had shown on her face. A heartbeat of silence in the room, and then Daedalus threw her head back and laughed. 

“Christ,” she said, chuckling, “You’re something else. Okay, run along. We’ll be in touch.”

And in the release of the imminent-danger feeling in her body, Ajax became aware that she had missed something. Daedalus, not just a facial expression and proximity to an exit. She sprawled back in her chair comfortably, mug of steaming coffee in one hand. Twitch had come around to stand on her other side , both hands around her mug, standing in the corner formed between Daedalus’s body and the chair and the desk. Daedalus’s other arm was hooked comfortably around her waist beneath the bathrobe, fingers splayed over her hip.

Daedalus and Cleon finished having some kind of silent exchange Ajax wasn’t privy to, and then Daedalus turned to Twitch in a way which plainly signaled the end of Ajax and Cleon’s relevance to the conversation. As Cleon was turning to her so they could go, Twitch leaned down and kissed Daedalus on her still crookedly-smiling mouth. Casual, easy, like parents on TV. 

Ajax wasn’t frozen. Frozen implied an external force that she could strain against. It was just that, suddenly, there was nothing for her to move. She was dropped into cold water. There was no relationship between Ajax and any moving part of her body. Cleon noticed her not leaving. She rolled her eyes and grabbed Ajax by the hand and tugged her towards the door. Whatever had been left in the shell of Ajax that she had abruptly vacated followed obediently behind her, down the stairs and out to the street and back to their apartment. She could feel Cleon’s fingers between her own more like pressure than warmth. 

Cleon fumbled with their keys one-handed when they got to their door and Ajax watched her without seeing, without being able to just goddamned move and let her go so she could open the door. Cleon exhaled in relief as she dragged Ajax across the threshold and shut the door. Her inhale bubbled up and over in her until she was giggling uncontrollably as she bent over to unlace her boots. Ajax stared at her mutely, the ice water slowly draining from her. 

“Holy shit,” Cleon whispered to herself as she straightened up. “Holy shit!” she said again, louder, gleeful. “Holy shit, we did it!”

She stomped her feet and rubbed her hands together a little bit like it was cold, like she did when she was excited. She kicked her boots off to land vaguely next to the coat hook and took a few steps further into their apartment before she noticed that Ajax still hadn’t moved. She turned back to her, still grinning - vicious, giddy, victorious. Whatever she saw on Ajax’s face made her stop. 

What had she seen on Ajax’s face? This was the problem with being Ajax, a problem she had inherited from the girl she was before. Anyone looking at her could tell how she was feeling, but Ajax’s perspective was all wrong. She couldn’t see herself. She didn’t know. 

Cleon’s eyebrows drew together in concern. “Hey,” she said, “Hey, what’s wrong?”

Something was wrong? Yes, yes, Ajax realized, something was wrong. The cold water was gone from her and she could feel the raw ache of ice on her insides, a feeling that could have been fear or anger. But oh, how Ajax’s body loved anger. 

“Did you know?” Ajax’s voice was hoarse to her own ears. Not hoarse like Twitch or Daedalus, with time or cigarettes, but hoarse like it was after she’d broken in a moment of weakness and started to scream. 

“Know?” Cleon still looked a little confused, like she wasn’t sure what was going on. Like maybe they were still kids, and Ajax had just skinned her knee. 

“Becca, did you know?” Was it still Becca, then? In their apartment that afternoon, Ajax doesn’t know what to call either of them. They would climb out of that time-between when Daedalus finally called, Cleon leaving Beck Waters in a closet like an old coat and Ajax leaving the girl whose name she sometimes no longer knows in a grave. 

“Is this because of me?” she had demanded, and the vice grip of the glacier had caught her around the ribs. “Because I'm not -” She'd choked on the words, then. “I'm not like that. I'm not like them.”

Realization came to Cleon like dawn, like pity, and in the futility of that moment Ajax had never hated anyone other than herself so much. 

“Ajax,” Cleon says in her memory, and her lips make a different shape. The sound scraped across her in that moment and she shook with the sudden collapse of all her failures, with the sudden snap of a lie. 

“Nooo,” Ajax had said, a lost and animal sound. Where was anger when she needed it? “No, no, no.”

She couldn’t breathe in. She raised her arms to ward off the blow that would not come, forgot the years since she had been small enough for anyone to hit her from above. She couldn’t hear Cleon’s soft footsteps over the sound of her failure to breathe. She put her arms over her face, instead, to protect herself from having to see. 

She felt Cleon’s hands on her shoulders, felt how they were steady over the shaking thing she could hardly recognize as herself. 

“If this is about - I’m sorry - I didn’t mean it, it was a mistake, please -” Ajax could hear herself speaking, beginning unforgivably to dissolve into sobs. “Please, I didn’t mean it, I’m not like them.”

And the lie scorched her throat on the way out. 

The world melted around her and she felt Cleon’s hands on her face, her careful soft fingers wiping away the tears that were spilling from her like blood from a wound. Ajax felt that kindness in her like venom, like briar in her airways. Her chest heaved and no air came in. Cleon tried to draw her in, to press Ajax’s face to her shoulder, but Ajax could only see Daedalus’s broad bicep tucked comfortably into the curve of Twitch’s back. 

She struggled in Cleon’s arms, shoved and fought against the encroaching gentleness without any of the strength she had clawed from her body. She was small and weak and helpless, and the last time she had allowed herself to be overtaken by the softness and heat of Cleon’s body she had nearly ruined them both. 

“Please, please,” she begged, “I can’t. I can’t - I can’t-”

Cleon’s thumb traced little circles along her temple and the wanting jolted through Ajax as a pain too big for her body, rising and falling in waves as it kicked and screamed to be heard. 

“You have to breathe,” Cleon said. As Ajax’s vision refocused on her she looked stricken, looked like it was her heart threatening to collapse into a black hole. There were tears wavering at the corners of her eyes. “Please, for me, you have to breathe.”

And Ajax’s only hope for salvation was some kind of self-immolation but she was too wicked and bruised for martyrdom and she could never deny Cleon anything, not even to save her. 

She breathed rabbit-fast and shallow and broke to pieces as Cleon put a hand on her chest, over her heart. The pain was nothing in the face of how completely Cleon held her then, how utterly at her mercy Ajax was. Even the wanting she surrendered to breathing as Cleon breathed, their foreheads pressed together. For a moment between the person she was and who she would become, Ajax forgot what it meant to fight altogether. 

When Ajax went limp in her arms like shaken prey, Cleon exhaled a shaky breath. “God,” she said, and she sounded like she might cry. “God, I’m so sorry.”

“No,” Ajax protested, and she felt like a child who was just barely learning how to speak. “No, I’m sorry,” she reminded Cleon.

But Cleon hardly seemed to hear her. “God, I should have known, I should’ve been stronger, I’m so sorry.”

Bathed in the soft light of having given in, Ajax could only sit up enough to look Cleon in the eyes - they were on the floor? When had they started sitting on the floor? “This is all my fault,” she said gently. “It wasn’t you, it was me. And it was a mistake. You said you believed me.”

She put her hand on Cleon’s jaw in unconscious mimicry of Cleon’s earlier gesture. She could feel the kickdrum of Cleon’s heart. 

Cleon winced, like the words were an accusation she couldn’t deflect. “I should’ve been stronger for you,” she murmured, almost to herself, “I shouldn’t have let you carry it alone, shouldn’t have let you think -”

Very carefully, Cleon reached up and moved Ajax’s hand away from her face. She pressed her thumb into the center of Ajax’s palm, and her hand spasmed under the pressure even as Cleon held her fast. 

Cleon closed her eyes and took one deep breath in and out. When she looked at Ajax again, the specter of the scared girl begging her to breathe was gone. “I’m like that,” she said calmly. Resolutely. “I’m like them.”

The words were just noise. Ajax couldn’t make them make sense. 

Cleon must have seen it on her face, must have known she was beyond words right then. Or maybe she saw the breaking dawn in her of a new kind of desire. Ajax had always been a cage-creature, accustomed to the weight of slamming doors in the face of wantings for freedom. The feeling of wanting something right across from her, something she could have, was alien. She hardly could have recognized it for what it was. But some ancestral monster woken in her body must have known, because when Cleon leaned in, Ajax was already reaching for her to drag her closer. 

For a moment, Ajax was a totally new kind of animal, an animal that had never been anywhere or anyone except here, shoved up against the doorframe with another body on top of her, breathing in another body’s air. 

“I thought I’d die,” Cleon whispered into her mouth, “God, baby, I thought I was gonna die if I never got to do this again.”

Ajax wasn’t totally sure the imminent threat to her mortality had passed. She arched up into the weight of Cleon above her until Cleon kissed her again. 

Cleon kept wanting to pull back to talk, and Ajax kept feeling like she would suffocate if Cleon wasn’t kissing her, so they worked out a kind of compromise where Cleon kissed her in between every other word and Ajax tried really hard to comprehend language. 

“I’m so sorry,” Cleon said, breathless and with a giddiness that belied her words. “I’m sorry, I was stupid, I was waiting for you.”

Cleon laughed at Ajax’s expression of consternation as she tried and failed to parse this new sentence. She kissed Ajax on the nose, and then the temple. She settled herself higher in Ajax’s lap, with her cheek pressed to the top of Ajax’s head. “I thought you needed more time, I thought - I thought this would help, I thought knowing we weren’t alone would help.” 

Time. That was the thing that was forcing Ajax to experience the interminable interludes between Cleon’s mouth being on hers. Ajax hardly needed more of it. She made an impatient noise. 

Cleon laughed again and put a hand in Ajax’s hair to drag her head to an angle where Cleon could kiss her again. That was another sensation that Ajax could not consciously understand but which the ancestral monster of her body understood intimately. The first time, Cleon had felt like a wilderness, swallowing her in newness and uncertainty until she had gotten lost and pulled back in horror at what she had done. 

On the floor of their apartment, Cleon handed her back the memories of a life she had forgotten, the trembling and hunger that Ajax suddenly couldn’t believe she’d ever been able to turn away from. 

Ajax was unsteady as a lamb as Cleon guided her to her feet and lured her one step at a time across their apartment. She navigated the doorknob to her bedroom from behind her with one hand still gripped in Ajax’s braids, which was good because Ajax wasn't sure she could have managed it even facing the door. 

When Cleon’s calves hit the edge of her bedframe she kicked out her foot and tripped Ajax and spun her around in a move that temporarily jostled the circuits of Ajax’s brain long enough for her to have her first coherent thought in what felt like hours, which was that she needed Cleon to teach it to her. This momentary clarity was immediately derailed by the thought that teaching it to her would probably involve Cleon demonstrating it on her again. Maybe even more than once. 

And then her back hit the mattress and Cleon was pressing her down into the bed that had been Cleon’s that morning and became theirs long before Ajax’s brain managed to come back online. 

~ ~ ~

Ajax came to herself in pieces that week and the weeks that followed, not like recovery but like new construction. She stood in the wreckage of the girl, the smoking ruin of someone she was already forgetting how she’d ever pretended to be. 

Twitch was smoking behind the counter when Ajax finally went back. She flicked ash to the ground and smirked. “Little lamb,” she drawled, “I almost don’t recognize you.”

And that was a kind of mercy, a kind of allowance for becoming something new. Ajax hoped nobody who had ever known her before would ever recognize her again. 

Ajax grinned and held out her hand. “I don’t think we’ve properly met.”

Twitch put her hand in Ajax’s, long fingers just brushing Ajax’s palm, and Ajax remembered the twinkle in her eyes, the knowing wink. Bold as anything, bold as the person she would one day be and was already becoming, Ajax brought Twitch’s hand to her mouth and kissed the backs of her knuckles. Her skin was cool and smooth and smeared with just a little bit of blood. 

Twitch’s smirk broke into a smile. “So,” she said, “I hear you’re calling yourself Ajax now.”

Ajax’s grin broke wider like a break in the clouds. Ajax could care less if anyone recognized her, because she finally did. 

~ ~ ~

This fic is dedicated to @alexihollis and her fic where Ajax has internalized homophobia. That fic is foundational to my understanding of Ajax as a character and it was the blueprint for this fic.

[winterlico]

SEVEN DAYS WITH A DEMON — SJY

⋆.˚ pairing : demon!Jake x fem!reader | status : on going

Summary : You thought summoning a demon for seven days would be temporary. You were wrong.

⋆.˚ word count : 1.6k

Genre : Fantasy, Romance, Comedy, Light Angst, Fluff

⋆.˚ warnings : 18+ joke (implicitly), harsh words, making out, LOTS of teasing (buckle up)

⋆.˚ a/n : English is not my first language and this is the first time i uploaded a fanfic, i'm sorry if there is still a lot missing words. If you want to be tagged, comment here!

❛ feedback & reblogs appreciated! ❜

Night Four: A Brush with Mortality

The apartment was different in the daylight.

It shouldn’t have been. It was the same space—small but comfortable, lived-in, a quiet kind of chaos that only came from two people sharing it in a way they were never meant to. The same mismatched furniture, the same lingering scent of coffee and books and whatever remnants of last night’s cooking still clung to the air. The same soft hum of traffic filtering through the window, muffled by distance, a reminder that the world outside continued whether or not either of you acknowledged it.

But still—it felt different.

Or maybe it wasn’t the apartment.

Maybe it was him.

Jake was stretched out on the couch, one arm thrown over the backrest, fingers drumming absently against the fabric, his golden eyes half-lidded as he stared at the ceiling. The smirk he usually wore—the one that made everything feel like a game, like nothing could ever touch him—wasn’t there.

Not because he was thinking about last night.

Not because he was still feeling the ghost of heat against his skin, the phantom press of something almost-too-close.

Not because he could still hear the way your breath had caught, just for a second, just barely.

No.

He wasn’t thinking about any of that.

(He was lying to himself. He had been lying for hours.)

So when you made the wish that night, throwing the words into the air like they were nothing, like they were just another tease in the never-ending push and pull between you—

Jake should have known better.

The wish was simple.

So simple, it was almost dangerous.

"I wish you could experience human things—just for a day."

Jake blinked, his head tilting slightly, his usual smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth, lazy and amused.

"That’s… not quite how it works," he mused, a brow raising.

Except—it did.

Because the moment you said it, the air in the apartment shifted.

Not loudly. Not in some grand, dramatic way.

But in a way that felt like the universe itself had taken your words, wrapped them in something old and irreversible, and whispered back—

Granted.

Jake felt it immediately.

A sudden tightness in his chest, unfamiliar and intrusive. His breath hitched—not in shock, not in pain, but in discomfort. Like something foreign had settled inside him, pressing into places that had never been touched before.

And then—

Then he stumbled.

It was small. Just a slight misstep, barely noticeable—except for the fact that Jake never stumbled.

You were in front of him before you even realized you had moved.

"Jake?"

His lips parted. His golden eyes flicked to yours—wide, unsure, almost dazed.

And then—

Then he sneezed.

Loud. Violent. Unmistakably, undeniably human.

Silence.

A moment stretched between you, the air still thick with fading magic.

You stared at him. He stared back.

And then, with the most dramatic, theatrical misery you had ever seen, Jake let out a deep, suffering groan, dragging a hand down his face like he had just been mortally wounded.

"God, is this what being mortal feels like?" he muttered, voice hoarse with disbelief. "It’s awful."

Something in you snapped.

A breathless, uncontrollable laugh spilled out before you could stop it—a full-body kind of laughter, shaking your shoulders, curling you forward. The kind that left no room for restraint, the kind that made it impossible to do anything but let it happen.

Jake shot you a flat look, unimpressed and deeply, profoundly offended.

"I take it back," he deadpanned. "This is hell."

You gasped for air, clutching your stomach, tears prickling at the edges of your vision.

"Welcome to the club," you choked out between wheezes.

And just like that—his fate was sealed.

Jake had never experienced hunger.

Not the kind that meant anything. Not the kind that crept in slowly, twisting in your stomach, demanding something from you that you couldn’t ignore.

So when it happened—when the feeling settled in like an unwelcome guest, low and insistent—he looked personally offended.

“What,” he said, voice flat, accusatory, “the hell is this?”

You leaned against the counter, unimpressed.

"You’re hungry, genius."

Jake scowled, poking at his stomach like he could physically reprimand it into silence.

"This is disgusting."

You tossed an apple at him. He caught it—barely.

"Eat," you said simply.

Jake eyed it suspiciously, like you had just handed him something radioactive. “This feels degrading.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you drawled, folding your arms. “Would you like a bib and a high chair too?”

His golden eyes narrowed. But he took a bite anyway.

And the second he did—

He froze. For just a moment.

But you saw it.

The way his pupils dilated, just barely. The way his jaw tensed, like he was bracing himself against something unexpected. The way his shoulders dropped, just a little—just enough.

And when he chewed, it was slow. Like he was trying to understand it.

For the first time, Jake was experiencing satisfaction. Not just in theory. Not just from watching others. But in real time. In real feeling. In real hunger and real fulfillment.

Something in your chest tightened.

He blinked, cleared his throat, rolled his shoulders back, and the moment was gone.

"This is dangerous," he muttered, popping the rest of the apple slice into his mouth like he hadn’t just had a life-altering experience.

You raised an eyebrow. "What, food?"

Jake smirked, but it was different this time. Softer.

"No," he said simply.

And then, in a voice just a little too quiet—just enough that it didn’t sound like a joke anymore—

"Liking things."

The afternoon was fading, the world slipping into that golden hour haze where everything was soft at the edges, painted in deep oranges and quiet shadows. The warmth of the sun clung to the air, lingering, stretching itself across the earth like something living.

Jake sat in the grass, arms draped over his bent knees, head tilted back, eyes half-lidded against the light.

And for the first time, he felt it. Not just as heat. Not just as something distant, something to be observed but never touched.

The way the warmth soaked into his skin, slow and patient. The way the breeze shifted through the trees, cool in contrast, sending a faint shiver down his spine. The way the air smelled different out here—not just clean, but full.

And it was… Strange.

Unsettling, in a way he wasn’t sure he liked. Because warmth was supposed to be temporary. Fleeting. Gone the second the fire burned out.

But this—this stayed. It sank into him like something permanent.

Like something he might actually miss.

Jake swallowed, letting his eyes slide closed. The breeze shifted again, pulling strands of your hair across your face as you sat next to him, legs stretched out, gaze distant.

And for once, Jake had nothing to say.

No teasing remark. No smug observation. No half-smirk or sharp retort. Because right now, there was nothing to win.

Just this.

Just the two of you, sitting under a sun that had never meant anything to him before now.

And maybe that was the real problem. Because now, it did.

The magic faded like a sigh.

There was no great burst of light, no violent snap of energy, no finality to mark the moment it ended. It just… drifted away. Like mist burning off under the morning sun.

Jake stood in your apartment, hands curled loosely at his sides, shoulders tense. He exhaled slowly, eyes flickering as if testing something, as if feeling for something that had just slipped through his fingers.

And when he looked at you—really looked at you—there was something there that hadn’t been there before.

Something unreadable. Something too human.

For the first time, Jake had no idea what to do with himself. He had idea how to joke about it, how to brush it off, how to turn it into another game. It hadn’t been something he could manipulate, something he could pull the strings of and untangle when he was finished.

Today had been real. And real things left marks. Real things could not be undone.

Jake exhaled again, his fingers flexing briefly before stilling. You were standing there, watching him carefully, as if waiting for him to say something first.

And for the first time, he didn’t. Because there was nothing to say. So instead, he stepped closer. Just enough.

Just so that when his hand brushed your wrist, when his fingers barely, barely curled around it—

He could convince himself that it was accidental. That he wasn’t lingering.

But he was and so were you. Neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke.

Jake swallowed. His thumb barely grazed your pulse point, and he felt it—fast, steady, alive. His gaze flicked to yours. For a second, a single second, he almost let himself go.

But then he pulled away.

Slowly. Carefully. Like if he moved too fast, he might lose his grip on something dangerous. And when he finally spoke, his voice was quiet.

"Goodnight, angel."

And then he turned away. He left the room and didn’t look back.

Because if he did, if he saw the way you were still standing there, still watching him, still feeling this the same way he was—

Then there would be no stopping it and Jake wasn’t ready for that.

Not yet.

back to the list ⋆˚࿔

taglist : @firstclassjaylee @tya0 @limerenceisserenity

[lucysarah-c]

Hey Lucy! How have you been? Sending virtual hugs!

My question to you is how would Levi react to Y/n giving him silent treatment? Do you think he'd be chill, and give her the cold shoulder? Or would be try to woo her back?

Hi love, how are you? I’ve been doing great, thank you for asking!

Oh, silent treatment with Levi? You don’t want to go there—believe me.

Levi didn’t grow up in a household with healthy emotional communication, so he’s carried some of those toxic traits with him. One of them? He can be so petty. If you give him the silent treatment and he thinks he doesn’t deserve it, he’ll dig his heels in. He’s stubborn as hell—he’ll think, I’m right, you’re wrong, and I’m not budging.

If he genuinely believes he’s in the right, he won’t talk to you either. And he’ll hold that silence for days if necessary. But if, after cooling down, he realizes he was actually in the wrong, he won’t outright say it—he’ll try to subtly wave a white flag, like leaving a cup of tea near you or finding an excuse to be near you again. It’s not the healthiest way to handle things, but emotions aren’t his strong suit.

Levi struggles with expressing feelings and having open conversations about them. If you’re someone who uses the silent treatment as a way to process emotions, just know that he’ll match your energy, and you might be stuck in a standoff for a while. Eventually, something will push him to break it—either realizing the fight isn’t worth it or acknowledging (internally) that he was wrong.

Hope that helps! Have a lovely day or night. Kisses! 💕

But in general... do not expect this man to take it nicely. He can be so stubborn and petty.

I actually answered a very similar ask here!

Did you enjoy this headcanon? I have two entire masterlists full of them! Here's a link!