#thread: run that plan by me

[fantasykiri5]

Does anyone know where I can find target clothes from a few years ago? I have this specific pair of pants that need to be replaced soon but they are Literally my favorite pants ever and I would REALLY love to find the same ones. I’ve found one of the pair for certain, Here, but they’re a size or two too big, BUT it does mean I have the specific name of them now. I’ve found one other listing that might be the same ones but the picture quality is too bad for me to tell for sure, and the size isn’t listed. (here)

Basically I’m asking if anyone has any tips on how to search for them? Since google is giving me about 8 million other items from the same brand, which would be nice if I weren’t incredibly autistic and hated change. Hence wanting to get the exact same pants again.

If anybody has any clue how one would search please let me know!!

[acourtofquestions]

Boots crunched in hay, and then he was knee to knee before her.

Aedion.

There was nothing kind on his face. No pity or warmth.

For a long minute, they only stared at each other.

Then the prince growled softly, "Your plan was bullshit."

She said nothing, and couldn't stop her shoulders from curving inward.

"Your plan was bullshit," he breathed, his eyes sparking. "How could you ever be her, wear her skin, and think to get away with it? How could you ever think you'd get around the fact that our armies are counting on you to burn the enemy to ashes, and all you can do is run away and emerge as some beast instead?"

"You don't get to pin this retreat on me," she rasped. The first words she'd spoken in days and days.

"You agreed to let Aelin go to her death, and leave us here to be slashed to bloody ribbons. You two told no one of this plan, told none of us who might have explained the realities of this war, and that we would need a gods-damned Fire-Bringer and not an untrained, useless shape-shifter against Morath."

Blow after blow, the words landed upon her weary heart. "We—"

"If you were so willing to let Aelin die, then you should have let her do it after she incinerated Erawan's hordes!"

"It would not have stopped Maeve from capturing her."

"If you'd told us, we might have planned differently, acted differently, and we would not be here, damn you!"

She stared at the muddy hay. "Throw me out of your army, then."

"You ruined everything." His words were colder than the wind outside. "You, and her."

Lysandra closed her eyes.

Hay rustled, and she knew he'd risen to his feet, knew it as his words speared from above her bowed head. "Get out of my tent."

She wasn't certain she could move enough to obey, though she wished to. Needed to. Fight back. She should fight back. Rage at him as he lashed at her, needing an outlet for his fear and despair.

Lysandra opened her eyes, peering up at him. At the rage on his face, the hatred She managed to stand, her body bleating in pain. Managed to look him in the eye, even as Aedion said again with quiet cold, "Get out."

Barefoot in the snow, naked beneath her cloak. Aedion glanced at her bare legs, as if realizing it. And not caring.

So Lysandra nodded, clutching Ansel's cloak tighter, and strode into the frigid night.

"Where is she?" Ren asked, a mug of what smelled like watery soup in one hand, a chunk of bread in the other. The lord scanned the tent as if he would find her under the cot, the hay.

Aedion stared at the precious few logs burning in the brazier, and said nothing.

"What have you done?" Ren breathed.

Everything was about to end. Had been doomed since Maeve had stolen Aelin. Since his queen and the shifter had struck their agreement.

So it didn't matter, what he'd said. He hadn't cared if it wasn't fair, wasn't true.

Didn't care if he was so tired he couldn't muster shame at his pinning on her the blame for the sure defeat they'd face in a matter of days before Perranth's walls.

He wished she'd smacked him, had screamed at him. But she had let him rage. And had walked out into the snow, barefoot.

He'd promised to save Terrasen, to hold the lines. Had done so for years. And yet this test against Morath, when it had counted ... he had failed.

He’d muster the strength to fight again. To rally his men. He just ... he needed to sleep.

Aedion didn't notice when Ren left, undoubtedly in search of the shifter with who he was so damned enamored.

He should summon his Bane commanders. See how they thought to manage this disaster.

But he couldn't. Could do nothing but stare into that fire as the long night passed.

[age-of-moonknight]

“New Kids on the Block,” Spider-Woman (Vol. 8/2023), #7.

Writer: Steve Foxe; Penciler and Inker: Ig Guara; Colorist: Arif Prianto; Letterer: Joe Sabino

[inun4ki]

"...Oh, you have got to be kidding me. You think this is enough to intimidate me? Your little Jedi mind tricks and brutish cruelty mean nothing to me. Try harder. Or did getting drawn, quartered, and divided into fingers - for heaven's sake - sap the life outta you?"

Intent upon provoking the Ryomen Sukuna, Kaede blatantly ignored the misty pools of blood at his feet and the shattered bones submerged within, doing his damnedest to...perhaps gain control of the situation - and limit any potential harm that may come his way. It was really quite the gamble, but for the moment, he was unafraid, forcibly removing as many external distractions as possible, his focus fixed.

He furrowed his brow and sneered at the so-called King of Curses, but soon began to pace, blood splashing about with every step and soaking into his clothes. Disgusting, but he had no idea what to expect, and imagery as hellish as this was on par with Hell Prism, if a bit more straightforward.

"Show me something better, old man." Freely making bratty demands, he underscored his words with emphatic hand gestures, brazenly (and unrepentently) challenging Sukuna's claim to fame. A gamble that would only work if Sukuna bought in, too. "No deals, bargains, pacts, or...whatever it is a bloody brute like you wants. Boo~"

@starsinthesworld / for sukuna !

[magnusmodig]

╰┈➤ VI TALKS ABOUT THOR/MCU / @veldinstar / ACCEPTING !

🔥

||. 😶 ......... Thor is the strongest Avenger, change my mind.

Runner ups off the cuff include: Dr. Strange, Wanda/Scarlet Witch, the Vision (who Thor partially created), but honestly for as much as I absolutely adore those three too, all of them rely either directly or indirectly from an infinity stone, whereas Thor's is all natural. ...Pun intended.

[immobiliter]

       Damn it all to Haishan's deathbed. As soon as she'd received word from her contacts in Liyue harbour, and a summons from the Tianquan herself mere hours after she'd stepped off the Alcor, a sinking feeling had settled in the pit of Beidou's stomach. A Liyue treasure galleon, bound to Natlan with mora ( something not exactly in plentiful supply as of late, given the fate of Morax ), sunk somewhere off the coast of Fontaine and now vanished. She knew who was to blame. She could likely reel off a whole list of names to Ningguang, given the sorts of... conversations she'd been privy to last time she'd been on Nassau. An island whose sovereignty had always been disputed, now home to rebellious freedom fighters who wanted to establish an independent state of their own. All they needed now was an Archon to rule over it, she supposed, and she knew exactly who'd jump at the chance of that glory.

       Beidou suspected he was behind this little stunt too, though, despite the Tianquan's question, it was far too early to be throwing names around. “ That's the problem, Ningguang. If the situation in Nassau is what I fear it to be, then it's not just one man or woman who is to blame. They're likely all working together. ” What she was about to suggest might elicit some trepidation in her companion — after all, Beidou knew these people, had sailed with them, drank and made merry with them. But her loyalty to Liyue came first. “ I can go, but it has to just be the Alcor. Too many ships from the fleet and it'll look like we're there to wage war. Let me go alone and talk to them. Maybe I can get them to relinquish the stolen mora without this becoming bigger than it needs to be. ”

@resolutepath / cont.

[a-bastard-worth-knowing]

HIATUS

RULES:

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TAGS:

get thee behind me foul fiend! (ooc posts)

run off together? (rp threads)

tell me while we dance? (answered asks)

the farthing has vanished! (ask memes)

the ineffable plan (lore)

it’ll all be rather lovely (reblogged)

[kaluawoo]

Being on Tumblr is just like. Going into a fandom tag. Reading like 3 posts. Vowing to not go into that tag again.

Going back into it the next day.

[ghostjelliess]

We've been so many people together, I don't know which version to display at The Event.

[flwrkid14]

Famous streamer Danny and his secret boyfriend:

Okay, but picture this: Danny Fenton is this massive streamer—like, he’s the guy everyone watches for chill vibes, chaotic gaming, and somehow getting sidetracked talking about conspiracy theories in the middle of a speedrun. His streams are a mess of ghost jokes, random facts about space, and way too much energy for someone running on three hours of sleep and coffee.

And then there’s his boyfriend���who the fans only know exists because Danny’s way too in love to not talk about him. Like, every stream, without fail, Danny’s casually dropping hints. “Oh yeah, my boyfriend brought me coffee, isn’t he the best?” or “I was playing this game with him last night, and he kept getting us killed, but he’s cute so I let it slide.”

The thing is, no one has ever seen this boyfriend. Not once. No name, no face, nothing. And at this point, it’s basically part of Danny’s brand. His fans are in the chat, spamming questions like, “Who is he?” “Is he another streamer?” “What’s his name?” and Danny’s just laughing it off every time, like, “Eh, maybe I’ll introduce you guys one day.”

The fan theories are wild. People have made entire reddit threads trying to piece together clues about who this mystery guy is. Some think Danny’s boyfriend is a celebrity. Others are convinced it’s someone famous in the gaming world, but no one has any proof. It’s like the internet’s biggest mystery, and Danny’s just sitting there, fully aware of it, leaning into the chaos without giving away a single detail.

Meanwhile, Tim Drake—yes, that Tim Drake, Gotham’s resident CEO of WE and vigilante—is just chilling in the background. He’s the boyfriend, obviously. The one who makes sure Danny actually eats between streams and sometimes joins him off-camera to play co-op games. But Tim’s got no intention of revealing himself. He likes the anonymity, the whole “mysterious boyfriend” thing. Plus, with his whole double life as a vigilante, staying out of the public eye (more than he already is) isn’t exactly a bad idea.

But the best part—Danny’s fans? They’re convinced his boyfriend is some kind of superhero or vigilante. The way Danny talks about him—like he’s always busy, never around during certain hours (because, you know, Tim’s out patrolling Gotham), and the fact that he’s never once shown up on camera? It’s practically begging for wild speculation. And Danny? He’s just letting them run with it, saying stuff like, “Oh yeah, he’s totally saving the world right now, can’t make it to stream today.”

So now Danny’s got this massive online following, all obsessed with his mystery boyfriend, while Tim’s just quietly in the background, living his double life and probably smirking every time Danny plays along with the fans’ theories. It’s lowkey hilarious, and neither of them is ever planning to set the record straight. They’re just having way too much fun with it.

[rafesangelita]

poguesweethearts first time with rafe and he is just so so so so mushy with her 🥺

warnings: soft!dom!rafe, fluff, use of the nickname ‘sweetheart’, oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex, soft sex, multiple orgasms, soft aftercare

rafe had it bad. every touch, every glance, every laugh, he was fighting off things he never thought he’d have to. like right now for instance. “okay how do you like this? is it too pink?” you did a little spin for rafe, oblivious to the way his eyes danced down your figure.

you were currently trying on different outfits to meet his family in, your overthinking machine of a brain not resting until rafe decided for you. rafe leaned back in his seat, meeting your gaze. “you could wear a garbage bag, and i’ll still think you look perfect.”

you shook your head, a pout forming on your lips as you stepped closer to him. “rafe i’m serious! i want them to like me.” rafe pulled you down to sit on his lap, his hands bringing your legs up to rest over his thighs. “sweetheart, they are. my folks are already in love with you, they’re constantly telling me to bring you home already.”

rafe watched the worry etched in your brow melt away, his fingers cupping your chin. “please don’t stress yourself out about it. we still have a whole week before then.” you nodded, pecking rafe’s cheek. he shut his eyes the second he felt your lips against his skin. something so small like a kiss on the cheek was starting to become too much to handle.

“hey, do you uh- have any plans for the next few days?” he hoped you couldn’t feel the hard on in his jeans. leaning your head against his shoulder, you fiddled with a loose thread on his shirt as you hummed. “nope. my manager went on vacation with her husband so the icecream shop is closed, and i already baked what i needed to sell this week, so i’m all yours.” all yours, that was like music to his ears.

“good, that’s good.” you noticed the way he rubbed your knee as if to soothe himself, your eyebrows knitting in concern. “rafe?” you adjusted yourself in his lap, freezing when you felt something poke your thigh. both of you looked at each other, your eyes falling to his lips.

“are you busy the next few days?” you asked him, your chest rising and falling as your fingertips burned to touch him. “no..” without hesitation, both of you kissed each other desperately, your hands flying out to pull him closer as if he wasn’t already flushed to your side.

this kiss was everything you wanted it to be, and everything rafe needed. you wrapped an arm around his neck, letting him pick you up bridal style where he then lead you two to your bed. you swore your sheets have never felt this soft before, but then again, with the way rafe’s hands roamed your body, everything seemed, well, just sweeter.

you welcomed him between your thighs, your dress pooling around your waist as he pulled away to admire you underneath him. “god, you’re fucking gorgeous.” rafe traced the sweetheart neckline of your dress, your breasts peeking out just enough to drive him crazy.

you smiled softly, taking his hand in yours as you dragged it across your chest. “please take it off.” you didn’t have to tell him twice. in seconds, he had you in nothing but your white matching set, kissing your skin as if you’d disappear if he didn’t devour you right then and there.

everything about you was so perfect to him, for him. you slipped off his shirt, running your hands down the ridges of his abs. “i’ve wanted to do this since i first saw you walk into the country club.” you gasped softly when he cupped you through the lacey material of your bra. your hands worked to undo rafe’s belt, his cock straining painfully in his pants.

rafe cursed under his breath, taking his jeans and boxers off in one swift movement. you’ve imagined what rafe would look like; naked and ready to take you, but it didn’t come close to the sight of him right now. he stood glorious, the look in his eyes making you rub your thighs together.

“rafe?” you sat up, watching as he reached for your ankle. you don’t know what you were expecting, but rafe yanking you towards the edge of your bed definitely wasn’t it. “keep talking, sweetheart, ‘wanna hear your voice.” you swallowed thickly, your heart skipping a beat when he kneeled in front of you.

“i want to make you feel good..” you trailed off, letting him lay you down as he took your panties off. one look at your soaked cunt, and rafe couldn’t believe he had survived this long without it. “you already are.” your mouth fell open when you felt his breath tickle your skin.

“is it okay if i do this?” you looked down, the sight of rafe gazing up at you from between your thighs was something you didn’t know you needed. you whimpered, muttering a ‘yes.’ before you felt his tongue run between your folds.

rafe was quick to pin your thighs down on top of his shoulders, ensuring you couldn’t move away from him while he lapped at your clit. “feels s-so good, rafe..” you shuddered, your body jolting when his tongue prodded at your entrance.

rafe had finally gotten a taste of you, and now he was addicted. from your little whines, to the way your thighs threatened to close around his head, rafe couldn’t help but fist his cock at the idea of making you cum on his tongue. he groaned against your slick cunt, the vibrations shooting straight to your clit.

“oh!” your hands fisted the sheets underneath you, your back arching up from your bed at the sensation. rafe watched you fight to take a breath, his chest blooming with pride at your obvious display of struggle. “you look so pretty like this.” he pulled your bra down, your tits spilling out of the white lace.

it wasn’t long before your hips starting moving away from his face, your first orgasm of the night threatening to rip through you. “don’t make me chase you.” you shivered at rafe’s words, complying immediately as you let him pull you even closer. rafe knew you were close to making a mess for him, and he was going to watch you unravel if it was the last thing he did.

“rafe-” your hands scrambled to find his, the band in your stomach snapping as you borderline screamed at the white hot pleasure coursing through you. “i got you, baby,” rafe let you dig your nails into his skin, your cries making his cock twitch with need.

you couldn’t form a single thought, let alone a sentence, so when rafe kissed his way up to your lips and asked if you were okay, you settled for a broken moan. “shhh,” he moved you two further up your bed, making sure your head was resting on a pillow before pecking the tip of your nose.

if you felt fucked out with rafe’s mouth alone, you couldn’t even begin to think what you’d feel like after he was done fucking you with the same cock that currently rested on your tummy. you were still going through the aftershocks of your orgasm when rafe caged you between his arms.

“you’re so perfect, you know that?” your breathing slowed to the sound of his voice in your ear. no one had ever made you feel like this. orgasm aside, you realized as you gazed up into rafe’s eyes, that he wasn’t rushing to have his way with you; instead, he was comforting you and smiling down at you as if you were the most precious thing to ever grace the earth.

he was selfless, even in this very moment when he had every right to be greedy, and that fact turned you on more than anything ever did. “rafe? please give it to me.” he blinked slowly, his jaw clenching at your words. looking down where he lined himself up with your entrance, you watched as his face contorted into full on bliss, a gasp leaving your lips as he filled you up inch by inch.

“holy fuck.” you ran your nails across the back of his head as he cursed against your skin. wrapping your legs around his waist, rafe interlocked his fingers with yours, both of you moaning in unison as he started thrusting into you. he stroked the side of your face, your eyes fluttering shut as you stretched deliciously around his length.

your heart felt like it could explode in your chest. the hand holding, the way rafe touched you as if you were made of glass, it was all making you melt into a puddle of sweet nothingness. “shit-” he hissed through gritted teeth, “you can’t be real.” he half laughed, kissing you ever so gently.

you couldn’t help but squeeze around his length, the head of his cock brushing that sensitive spot that sent you whimpering against his chest. rafe admired the way your eyes sparkled everytime you looked up at him. he fucked you hard and slow, every stroke bringing him closer to the edge of euphoria.

with his forehead resting on yours, your hand suddenly felt cold as he reached down for your clit, your hips stuttering when he circled your sensitive bundle of nerves. “oh my god!” you squealed, your eyes screwing shut as your high hit you in intense waves of ecstasy. alas, rafe was next to float on cloud nine, his jaw going slack as his thrusts came to a stop.

the feeling of rafe spilling his load inside of you was now etched into your mind, incapable of ever leaving. rafe unintentionally had a death grip on one of your tits, your whine of protest snapping him back to reality. “oh, i’m so sorry baby. did i hurt you?” he was panting when he popped his digits into his mouth to taste you one last time for the night. you shook your head, snuggling into his side as he rolled over.

“just a little, s’okay.” you reassured him, rubbing a palm over his chest. rafe looked over at you, moving away any stray hairs you might’ve had in your face. there was nothing you loved more than a man that turned all soft and mushy for you, and rafe certainly didn’t fall short. “it’s a good thing you’re going to meet my folks soon..” he traced the cupid’s bow of your lips. “cause i’m not going anywhere.” just when you thought things couldn’t get anymore sweeter than this, he spooned you.

[nobodysuspectsthebutterfly]

FYI artists and writers: some info regarding tumblr's new "third-party sharing" (aka selling your content to OpenAI and Midjourney)

You may have already seen the post by @staff regarding third-party sharing and how to opt out. You may have also already seen various news articles discussing the matter.

But here's a little further clarity re some questions I had, and you may too. Caveat: Not all of this is on official tumblr pages, so it's possible things may change.

(1) "I heard they already have access to my data and it doesn't really matter if I opt out"

From the 404 article:

A new FAQ section we reviewed is titled “What happens when you opt out?” states “If you opt out from the start, we will block crawlers from accessing your content by adding your site on a disallowed list. If you change your mind later, we also plan to update any partners about people who newly opt-out and ask that their content be removed from past sources and future training.”

So please, go click that opt-out button.

(2) Some future user: "I've been away from tumblr for months, and I just heard about all this. I didn't opt out before, so does it make a difference anymore?"

Another internal document shows that, on February 23, an employee asked in a staff-only thread, “Do we have assurances that if a user opts out of their data being shared with third parties that our existing data partners will be notified of such a change and remove their data?” Andrew Spittle, Automattic’s head of AI replied: “We will notify existing partners on a regular basis about anyone who's opted out since the last time we provided a list. I want this to be an ongoing process where we regularly advocate for past content to be excluded based on current preferences. We will ask that content be deleted and removed from any future training runs. I believe partners will honor this based on our conversations with them to this point. I don't think they gain much overall by retaining it.”

It should make a difference! Go click that button.

(3) "I opted out, but my art posts have been reblogged by so many people, and I don't know if they all opted out. What does that mean for my stuff?"

This answer is actually on the support page for the toggle:

This option will prevent your blog's content, even when reblogged, from being shared with our licensed network of content and research partners, including those that train AI models.

And some further clarification by the COO and a product manager:

zingring: A couple people from work have reached out to let me know that yes, it applies to reblogs of "don't scrape" content. If you opt out, your content is opted out, even in reblog form. cyle: yep, for reblogs, we're taking it so far as "if anybody in the reblog trail has opted out, all of the content in that reblog will be opted out", when a reblog could be scraped/shared.

So not only your reblogged posts, but anyone who contributed in a reblog (such as posts where someone has been inspired to draw fanart of the OP) will presumably be protected by your opt-out. (A good reason to opt out even if you yourself are not a creator.)

Furthermore, if you the OP were offline and didn't know about the opt-out, if someone contributed to a reblog and they are opted out, then your original work is also protected. (Which makes it very tempting to contribute "scrapeable content" now whenever I reblog from an abandoned/disused blog...)

(4) "What about deleted blogs? They can't opt out!"

I was told by someone (not official) that he read "deleted blogs are all opted-out by default". However, he didn't recall the source, and I can't find it, so I can't guarantee that info. If I get more details - like if/when tumblr puts up that FAQ as reported in the 404 article - I will add it here as soon as I can.

Edit, tumblr has updated their help page for the option to opt-out of third-party sharing! It now states:

The content which will not be shared with our licensed network of content and research partners, including those that train AI models, includes: • Posts and reblogs of posts from blogs who have enabled the "Prevent third-party sharing" option. • Posts and reblogs of posts from deleted blogs. • Posts and reblogs of posts from password-protected blogs. • Posts and reblogs of posts from explicit blogs. • Posts and reblogs of posts from suspended/deactivated blogs. • Private posts. • Drafts. • Messages. • Asks and submissions which have not been publicly posted. • Post+ subscriber-only posts. • Explicit posts.

So no need to worry about your old deleted blogs that still have reblogs floating around. *\o/*

But for your existing blogs, please use the opt out option. And a reminder of how to opt out, under the cut:

The opt-out toggle is in Blog Settings, and please note you need to do it for each one of your blogs / sideblogs.

On dashboard, the toggle is at https://www.tumblr.com/settings/blog/blogname [replace "blogname" as applicable] down by Visibility:

For mobile, you need the most recent update of the app. (Android version 33.4.1.100, iOs version 33.4.) Then go to your blog tab (the little person icon), and then the gear icon for Settings, then click Visibility.

Again, if you have a sideblog, go back to the blog tab, switch to it, and go to settings again. Repeat as necessary.

If you do not have access to the newest version of the app for whatever reason, you can also log into tumblr in your mobile browser. Same URL as per desktop above, same location.

Note you do not need to change settings in both desktop and the app, just one is fine.

I hope this helps!

[rafecameronssl4t]

Ok, question, fem! forced marriage au - how would Rafe react/feel if she brought up ANYTHING about separating, weather that’s flat out divorce or doing it in secret - happy to the public but living in diff spaces/diff lives/maybe even having affairs(?)

Tied bonds || Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

A/n: don't mind me going off slightly in the beginning when its talking about the legality side of it, i was literally studying trusts and estates law a couple days ago lol

Warnings: angst galore!

Word count: 2,801

MASTERLIST (forced marriage au masterlist)

divider by @h-aewo

The heavy oak doors of the estate’s study shut behind you with a quiet but resolute thud, isolating you from the rest of the world. The room, with its high ceilings and ornate furnishings, exudes both the security and suffocation of wealth. The scent of polished mahogany and aged leather permeates the air, a sensory reminder of the legacy you're bound to uphold and the responsibilities weighing on your shoulders.

The dim light from the tall windows casts long shadows across the room, making it feel as though the walls themselves are closing in, urging you to act before time runs out. You sit across from your lawyer at the broad mahogany desk. He’s a man in his 50s, with silver-threaded hair and sharp, calculating eyes. His demeanour exudes quiet authority, the kind of calm that comes from handling the complex finances of wealthy families like yours for decades.

A briefcase sits open beside him, documents meticulously laid out in front of you. These aren’t just numbers and figures on a page—they represent your children’s future, your security, and the small corner of independence you’re desperately trying to carve out for yourself. “Now, given the scale of your family’s assets,” your lawyer begins, his voice smooth and professional, “it’s prudent to separate certain accounts. Some in your name, some under irrevocable trusts for the children. This will not only shield them from potential claims but also provide financial protection in the event of....unforeseen circumstances—marital or otherwise.”

You glance down at the papers, feeling a mixture of relief and apprehension. This was necessary, you remind yourself. You need some semblance of independence, some safeguard for your children. With Rafe’s unpredictable behaviour and the constant pressure from both families, you can’t afford to let everything slip from your control. Your lawyer pulls out another document, sliding it across the desk.

“We’re talking about setting up separate trusts for each of your children. These funds will be distributed to them upon reaching a certain age—18 or 21, depending on your preference. In the meantime, control of the trust can be vested in you alone, ensuring that no one else has access to or influence over these assets, including your husband.”

“And what about Rafe’s side of the family?” you ask, your voice quieter than you intended. “Would they have any legal claim?” The lawyer shakes his head firmly. “No. Not if everything is properly structured. The trusts would be irrevocable, meaning no one—not even your husband—could alter them once established. His family would have no legal right to interfere, regardless of any financial entanglements between the two of you.”

You take a breath, the enormity of it all settling in. This is exactly what you wanted—an impenetrable safeguard. A plan that ensures your children’s future remains under your control, untouched by the unpredictable tides of Rafe’s influence or the demands of your family. “Thank you,” you respond softly, your fingers tracing the edge of the document, the weight of your decision pressing heavily on your chest. “I want everything arranged quietly,” you say softly, your voice carrying the weight of your decision.

“No one else needs to know about this… especially my husband.” The lawyer gives a small, understanding nod. “Discretion is key, as always.” You sign where indicated, feeling a mixture of relief and unease as you watch your name inked onto the page. This is the right thing to do, you remind yourself. For your children, for their future. Yet as you rise from the desk and collect your things, a sense of foreboding lingers.

The heavy oak doors creak open as you step out, and the estate feels impossibly vast around you. Despite the careful planning, you can’t shake the feeling that keeping this from Rafe will lead to complications far greater than you anticipate. With every step you take, the sinking feeling grows. You only hope Rafe doesn’t find out before you’re ready to tell him.

~

The moment you step through the front door of your home, the tension in the air is palpable. You pause, your coat still in hand, as your eyes land on Rafe. He’s leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, an almost relaxed posture, but the intensity in his gaze betrays any notion of calm. His sharp blue eyes follow your every move, calculating, probing.

"You have a nice little meeting today?" His voice is cold, deceptively casual. But you can hear the edge in it—the suspicion lurking beneath the surface. Your heart skips a beat, anxiety pooling in your chest. Of course, he knows. Rafe always knows. You hang your coat on the rack, avoiding his gaze, trying to maintain some semblance of calm. "I had a few things to take care of. Where are the children?"

You answer nonchalantly, hoping to steer the conversation away from any confrontation. "With Astoria, they wanted to play with their cousins," Rafe answers, his gaze sharp as he pushes off the doorframe, taking a slow, deliberate step toward you, his presence overwhelming as always. "Answer my question," His tone hardens, suspicion fully creeping into his voice now. "I know you met with your lawyer. What are you up to?"

Your pulse quickens as you hold Rafe’s gaze, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. He’s already jumping to conclusions, constructing a narrative that fits his fears. You knew this confrontation was inevitable, but the reality of it still unsettles you, the tension in the room thick and suffocating. "It’s nothing that concerns you," you respond, keeping your tone as even as possible, despite the way your nerves fray under his scrutiny. "Just some family matters."

Rafe scoffs, the sound harsh and filled with disbelief. His jaw clenches as he steps even closer, his towering figure casting a shadow over you, blocking any hope of retreat. His presence is overbearing, the heat of his anger palpable in the air between you. "Family matters?" His voice is dripping with accusation, dark and biting. "Don’t play games with me. I heard enough to know this wasn’t just about your parents or your siblings."

His words cut deeper as his tone drops, low and dangerous. "You’re setting up trust funds. Inheritance management. Without telling me. What the hell are you planning?" His words slam into you, twisting your stomach in knots. His paranoia, the sharpness of his accusations, stings in a way you hadn’t fully prepared for. Of course, you knew he’d react like this, but hearing it out loud—his anger, his distrust—it’s worse than you imagined. You steady your breath, trying to keep your composure.

"It’s for the children, Rafe," you say, your voice soft but firm, though the tightness in your chest makes it difficult to breathe. "I want to make sure they’re taken care of, no matter what happens. That’s all this is." But even as you say it, you can see the suspicion lingering in his eyes, the doubt still gnawing at him, twisting this simple act of protection into something more sinister in his mind.

Rafe glares at you, his eyes dark and intense as they search your face for the slightest hint of deception. His presence feels overwhelming as he steps even closer, the space between you disappearing in an instant. Without breaking eye contact, his hand moves down deliberately, resting on the swell of your belly where your third child grows. His touch, firm and possessive, sends a chill through you.

"You don’t trust me with that?" His voice is low, almost a growl, laced with an edge of disbelief and wounded pride. "You think I wouldn’t look out for my own kids?" His words sting, but it's the subtle accusation in his tone that cuts deeper, as if he can’t comprehend why you would feel the need to act independently. Your frustration bubbles to the surface despite your best efforts to remain calm, your emotions swirling between anger and exhaustion.

"That’s not what this is about," you snap, your voice sharp as the tension between you flares. You're trying to hold it together, but the weight of his misunderstanding—of him always assuming the worst—pushes you to the brink. "I’m doing this to protect them. To protect us. You can’t control everything, Rafe." For a split second, something flickers in his eyes—hurt, maybe—but it vanishes quickly, replaced by his usual defensiveness. He steps closer, his voice lowering, cold and accusatory.

"You’re doing all of this behind my back," he growls. "And I’m supposed to believe it’s just for the kids? You don’t set up secret meetings with lawyers for something as simple as trust funds. It looks more like you’re preparing for something else. Like maybe you’re planning to escape this all." His breath is hot against your ear now, the venom in his words unmistakable. "Is that it? Are you getting ready to leave me?"

His accusation hits you hard, knocking the air from your lungs. The vulnerability behind it cuts deeper than you expected. It’s not just anger simmering in his voice—there’s fear too, buried beneath the suspicion, fear of losing control, of you slipping away. His jaw tightens, but his hand remains firmly pressed against the swell of your stomach, as if anchoring himself to you, to the life you’re carrying.

“And have our children without their father?” you ask, your voice sharp. There’s a flicker of something more beneath the surface—hurt, uncertainty. His eyes search yours, almost pleading. You blink, stunned by the weight of your own question. “Rafe…” you begin, your voice barely a whisper, incredulity lacing your words as you try to make sense of what you’ve just implied. “I’m not leaving you.”

The tension in the room feels suffocating, as if the walls themselves are closing in. You take a breath, steadying yourself, as you step closer, your gaze softening despite the frustration swirling inside you. "This isn’t about that,” you say gently, trying to reach him through the haze of his suspicions. “But I need some control over my life, Rafe. Some protection.” Your voice wavers slightly, but you press on. “I’m not just here to be controlled or managed. I need to know that I’m not just a piece in this game.”

You can feel his breath against your skin, heavy with unspoken fears, and for a brief moment, the façade of his strength cracks. The fear of losing control, of losing you, is palpable, and it clings to the space between you like a storm cloud ready to burst. He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair, pacing in frustration. "Control. Protection," he mutters under his breath, his movements sharp and agitated. "You think I’m the threat here? You think I wouldn’t protect you? Protect our family?"

You shake your head, stepping back slightly, trying to maintain some distance from the intensity of his emotions. "I never said that," you say, your voice softer now, trying to calm him. "But this is something I need to do. For me. For them." For a long moment, the two of you stand there, locked in a silent standoff. His breathing is heavy, and the anger in his eyes slowly shifts into something else—something more conflicted. He turns away from you, pacing a few steps before running his hands through his hair again.

"This isn’t how marriages are supposed to work," Rafe mutters, more to himself than to you. The words cut deep, piercing through the fragile layer of calm you’ve been clinging to. It’s a painful reminder of what your marriage has become—what it’s always been. The expectations, the compromises, the strain. This life… it’s not what either of you envisioned. You feel the urge to retort, to let loose the frustrations that have built up over the years, but you bite your tongue. Now isn’t the time for that argument.

"I know," you whisper, though you’re not sure if he hears you. The admission feels hollow in the tense silence that follows, the weight of your reality pressing down on both of you. The room feels unbearably heavy, the air thick with unsaid words. Rafe exhales, his broad shoulders sagging ever so slightly, as though some of the fire inside him has been extinguished. He turns his back to you, the physical distance a reflection of the emotional chasm that has been growing between you both.

For a brief moment, you consider stepping closer, reaching out, bridging that gap—but the weight of your decision, of everything you’ve been trying to secure for yourself and the children, holds you back. It’s a boundary you can’t afford to cross right now. "You should’ve told me," he finally says, his voice quieter, but still taut with lingering tension. There’s hurt there, beneath the anger, beneath his instinct to control everything around him.

Your throat tightens at his words, the soft accusation lingering in the space between you. "I didn’t want this to turn into a fight," you admit, your own voice subdued, drained from the confrontation. The fatigue in your bones echoes in your tone. "I just needed to make sure everything was in place. For the kids, for their future." You pause, the weight of your decisions settling on your chest. "I wasn’t trying to hide it from you."

Rafe turns back to face you, his expression a mixture of frustration, hurt, and something more vulnerable—something he rarely lets show. "It feels like you were," he mutters, the edge of accusation still present, though softer now. His blue eyes search yours, looking for answers, reassurance, something to ease the fear behind his suspicion. You hold his gaze, trying to convey the truth behind your words. "I need to feel like I have some control, Rafe," you say gently, your voice steady but laced with an underlying sadness.

"Our lives… they’re not easy. And I know you want to protect us, but I need to protect them too. In my own way." Your heart beats heavily in your chest, each word an attempt to bridge the gap between you, a gap that seems to widen with every conflict. Rafe’s gaze lingers on you, the tension between you both crackling in the air. You take a tentative step forward, closing the physical distance between you, hoping it will ease the emotional one. Just as you stop inches from him, his expression softens slightly.

He reaches for your hand, his grip firm yet tender, and before you can say anything, he brings it up to his lips. The moment feels suspended in time as he presses a kiss to your knuckles, the warmth of his breath brushing against your skin. It’s a gesture so gentle, so unlike the earlier confrontation, that it catches you off guard. The vulnerability in his eyes flickers, almost as if he’s silently asking for forgiveness or offering an unspoken truce.

You feel your heart ache, the gesture disarming you in a way his words couldn’t. It’s as though this kiss is his way of telling you that, despite his anger, despite his suspicions, there’s something deeper binding you together—a love neither of you can deny, even in moments like this. “I’m not the enemy, Y/n,” he repeats softly, his voice rough but sincere, the earlier accusation tempered by this quiet moment.

His lips linger on your skin for just a second longer before he lowers your hand, though he doesn’t let go. You swallow hard, your chest tight with emotion, your voice a whisper as you respond. "I know you're not." The air between you feels different now—quieter, softer, though still tinged with the weight of everything unresolved. For that fleeting moment, it feels as though the two of you are in sync again, even if just barely.

Rafe’s hand remains wrapped around yours, and though the tension between you hasn’t fully dissipated, it’s no longer suffocating. The kiss to your knuckles feels like a promise, fragile but meaningful. As he finally lets go and turns away, you watch him disappear down the hallway, the memory of his lips on your skin lingering long after he's gone. The weight of your choices still presses down on you, but somehow, in that brief exchange, it feels a little lighter.

You know this isn’t over. Rafe’s suspicions won’t vanish overnight, and your need for autonomy remains unresolved. But for now, the confrontation is over. The weight of your decisions, the strain on your already fragile relationship, presses down on you like a heavy cloak. You did the right thing, you remind yourself. This is about protecting your children, about securing a future for them. For now, all you can do is hope that, in time, he’ll come to understand why you did this. Why you needed to.

[iamyourdailydoseofbi]

THE HISTORY BOOK ON THE SHELF. ( HOTD x Reader )

AUTHOR NOTE! Thanks for all the love. <3 pairing: King Aegon ii Targaryen x Targaryen! Little Sister! Reader prompt: When the small council plans to marry off once again, you turn to your older brother for help. word count: 1, 000+ words

You were the youngest and third daughter of Alicent and Viserys. A few months younger than Helaena and Aegon's little shadow in your childhood. Your older brother at first hated it, the way you cling onto him and gawk at him with an innocent awe.

It was your ninth name day, your Father had not paid much attention to it, but your Mother had ordered a celebration for it. You had trailed after him, babbling about nonsense as he tried to lose you. It was at dinner that night that everything had boiled over. Instead of receiving gifts, you had taken to giving everyone a gift.

He had not expected anything. He hadn't been the most kind to you. But was surprised when you had gifted him an embroidered cloth with Sunfyre on it. It was not the best and some threads were loose, but you proudly had told him you learned embroidery for him. Seeing those big doe eyes of yours his opinion changed. He adored you. You were the only one in the family that did not care about his worsening reputation. You just...adored your big brother, flaws and all.

It was why it killed him on your eleventh name day you were shipped off to the Reach, married off to a Lord as old as your Grandsire. He was haunted by your wails, of the way you clung onto Helaena and Aemond, the two of them wailing as Ser Cole carried you off to the carriage.

His young sister, the only one in the family who truly cared, was sold off like a piece of cattle. Not even your cold Grandsire was able to protest the marriage as politically it was a good match and good enough reasoning for the small council to approve it. 

As years ticked by, you gave birth to two children, a stillborn daughter and a healthy son. Your husband kept you away in the Reach, so no one in your family had seen you since you were twelve and given birth to your only surviving son.

He remembered the look in your eyes, so void and almost dead. Of how you tried to stay positive. Saying, "Tis' not so bad. He mostly ignores me, except when he wishes to bed me. But even then tis' not so bad, he finishes quickly."

When he became King, he swiftly ordered you to return home, regardless of your husband's wishes. No one would take his baby sister away from him. Not whilst he was still alive and had the crown placed upon his head.

Watching you bounce your son on your lap, he attempts to pay some attention to the small council, but his eyes keep straying back to you. It was odd to think that you were now a Mother and all grown up. Snapping out of his little daze, he glances back at the small council, each member arguing intently. Furrowing his brows in confusion, Ser Criston slides a piece of parchment in front of him, an uncomfortable look on his face. Raising a brow at what he had just returned to, he glances at the parchment, reading the words quickly. 

Your cunt of a husband was dead, finally croaked in his sleep. There was no reason for you to go back to the Reach. You could stay here in King’s Landing once more. Softly smiling at the good news, he goes to speak up when Lord Lannister stands up from his chair, slamming his hands down on the table. His face red from anger, his eyes wild like an untamable beast, and voice booming loud enough that it would make a dragon’s roar put to shame.

“To speak of the Princess in such a manner is dishonorable, I will see to it personally that your tongue is removed, Lord Wydle.” 

“The girl is of age, she has proven she can bear heirs, healthy heirs. To not give her hand to another Lord would be foolish.” 

“We need allies, the common folk are starving and soon the coin will run out. Surely as Master of Coin you can see reason, Lord Lannister.”

“Your grace, please, listen to reason we should⎯”

It takes a moment to realize what they had been discussing so intently. Then it clicks, they were speaking of having you remarry. 

"What?" He whispers, his voice shaky and full of disbelief.

"No, Aegon, please don't make me do this again. Please." You whisper, tears building up in your eyes.

"It would be best to have your sister marry someone⎯"

"Think of the war, your grace⎯"

Seeing the tears building up in your eyes, it reminded him of all those years ago when you were whisked away to the Reach. Struggling to speak up and dismiss their suggestions, you kneel in front of his chair, gripping onto breeches as you beg and plead for clemency to their plans. Your son starts to wail on the other side of his chair, making motions with his hands to be picked up. 

Feeling his heart break a little at the sight, he shifts his gaze from you then your wailing son then back to the small council. Everything is hectic and he doesn’t know who or what to focus his attention on. Does he console you? Does he tend to your wailing son? Does he handle the small council? Struggling to find his voice, he just stays frozen in his chair. 

“Please, please, do not make me do this again, Aegon.” You beg, “I did what was asked of me before. Please do not ask this of me again.”

“We need allies, your grace. The Princess is still desired by many men, men who will look past her past marriage and son. Think of the kingdom⎯”

“Send treaties, then!”

“Please, Aegon. I ask as your sister, not a member of the Court. Please do not make me do this again. I do not wish to marry again. Please do not send me away again.” You beg, your voice cracking. 

Watching as the tears begin to fall from your eyes, he clenches his jaw tightly, anger boiling up at the sight of you. His precious little sister, the one person in all of the Realm that he truly cared for, was crying by his small council's hand. Slamming his hands down hard on the table, the room goes deadly silent, minus the soft sniffles of you and your son. 

“There will be no marrying off my sister! If you wish for such alliances as much as you claim, do offer your daughters instead, for I will not be doing the same to my sister nor my daughter.” 

“Your grace, if you would just⎯”

“I am King, no?” He snaps back, “There will be no questioning of my decision. The matter is settled.”

----

@fragileheartbeats

@danytar

@nightvers

[kateschi]

by god, don't leave me

synopsis: in a heart-wrenching moment of despair, katsuki races through a hospital to find you, only to confront the devastating reality.

pairing: timeskip!bakugou katsuki x f!reader

⊹ ࣪ ˖ notes: have you noticed how much I love "where is my wife?" angst + major character death btw!!

katsuki’s heart pounds in his chest like it’s ready to explode. his legs push him forward, carrying him through the sterile, cold hallways of the hospital, each step echoing off the walls in a frantic, relentless rhythm.

“where is she?” his voice breaks through the silence, barely held together by a thread. “where is my wife?!”

the nurse at the counter starts to respond, her eyes filled with the kind of pity he can’t bear to see. his face contorts in desperation, and he doesn’t wait for her to explain.

he’s moving, his boots slamming against the floor, refusing to believe—refusing to even consider—that he might be too late.

another doctor, another nurse tries to intercept him, but he’s beyond hearing them. he pushes past, breaking into a sprint, his breath coming in gasps, wild and desperate.

when he reaches your room, it’s as if time stops.

there’s a stillness in the air that hits him like a punch to the gut. he stands there, gripping the doorframe, refusing to believe what he sees.

you’re lying in the bed, so quiet, so still. too still.

he stumbles to a halt, the sight of you stealing the last shred of breath he had left. you're lying there so still, too still.

the life that always seemed to burst out of you—the laughter, the warmth, the damn light—it’s all gone. all that’s left is your body, and that makes him furious, desperate, helpless.

“hey.” his voice trembles as he reaches for you, his hand hovering over your cheek before he finally touches it, cupping your face with fingers that shake uncontrollably.

the warmth he’s looking for isn’t there, the color gone from your skin. “come on,” he whispers, his voice barely a breath as his thumb traces your cheek. “come on, y/n, wake up.”

but you don’t respond.

he bites his lip hard, tasting blood, willing the agony to stop because he can’t let you go.

he’s gripping your shoulders now, his fingers sinking into you like he could hold you here, force you back to life by sheer will alone.

“you… you promised,” he whispers, his voice breaking. “you said we’d grow old together, remember? that we’d be those old, grumpy people who couldn’t stand anyone but each other.”

but there’s no answer, no gentle squeeze of his hand, no reassuring smile. just silence. he presses his lips to your forehead, his hands still cupping your face as if he can anchor you, hold you here with him just a little longer.

“you lied to me,” he murmurs, his voice trembling, harsh, as though he can will you back by sheer desperation. “you said you’d stay with me—no matter what. no matter what.”

katsuki's hands go slack, slipping from your face to the edge of the bed, where his knuckles press white into the mattress.

he stares, his mind refusing to process, searching for any sign that this is all some horrible, twisted joke.

for one unbearable, suspended moment, he almost expects you to stir, to open your eyes with that look that says he’s an idiot for worrying so much.

but there’s nothing. just the faint beep of machines, the sterile scent of antiseptic, the steady ache that presses harder and harder against his ribs, hollowing him out with each passing second.

his fingers curl against the sheets as a tremor runs through him, his breath hitching violently. memories flood in unbidden—moments he thought he’d have time to revisit someday.

how you’d laugh and shake your head when he’d scowl over some trivial thing. how you’d tuck yourself into his side on quiet mornings, your hand pressed against his chest, the sound of your breathing steady against his heartbeat.

katsuki feels his throat tighten as he leans down, forehead pressing against the coolness of your hand.

"we had a whole life planned out," he whispers, voice breaking.

“remember? we’d find that crappy house by the beach, fix it up, make it ours. you were gonna paint the walls bright colors, and I was gonna complain and pretend I hated it."

he lets out a jagged breath, eyes clenching shut as his shoulders shake, the reality tearing through him in waves.

this wasn’t supposed to be how it ended. there was supposed to be more—more days, more late nights, more everything.

“I don’t…” he struggles, voice barely more than a broken rasp, “I don’t want to do this without you.” the words slip out, hollow, stripped of all the fire he’s ever had, leaving nothing but the raw ache underneath.

he presses his face into the crook of your neck, searching for any hint of the warmth that was once there, anything to hold onto, but it’s gone.

and it hits him, like the ground crumbling from under his feet, that you’re really not coming back.

the weight of all he’s lost crashes into him. he thinks of the arguments that meant nothing now, all the times he’d leave you with a brusque goodbye, figuring he’d make it up to you later.

how you’d roll your eyes at his stubborn pride, laughing at how he’d scowl at affection in public yet draw you close the moment he thought no one was watching.

he’d do anything to take it all back, just to hold you again, to let you know he’d trade every bit of strength, every scrap of pride if it meant you’d be here, laughing at him, calling him out on his nonsense.

he doesn’t notice the tears streaking down his face as he stares at you, the silence so absolute it feels like it’s burying him.

the room feels colder now, like the world has shifted on its axis, taking you with it.

for a moment, he wonders if he can even go back to the life you both shared; if he can return to the apartment filled with pieces of you in every room, every corner.

katsuki’s shoulders sag under the crushing weight of it all, fingers curling around the edge of the bed as he takes a shuddering breath. he wants to scream, rage, curse the universe for being so damn unfair.

but all he can manage is a broken whisper. “I should have told you more… should have said it every day. you’d have laughed at me, said I was going—soft.”

he gathers you closer, pressing your body against his own as he begins to sway, rocking gently back and forth as though he can somehow soothe the emptiness inside him.

his chest shakes, the first tears slipping down silently, but then they come harder, a ragged sob tearing from his throat as he buries his face in your neck.

“I love you…” the words escape in a cracked whisper, his breath hitching as he clings to you, his grip tightening, desperate.

“I love you… I love you…” he murmurs, his voice breaking more with each word.

his tears fall faster, his breath coming in shuddering gasps, as if the weight of those words—the words he can never say to you again—is too much to bear.

“I love you,” he chokes out, each syllable fractured, his body trembling as he holds you closer, his tears soaking your shoulder.

his heart shatters all over again with every whispered confession, until he’s clutching you so tightly it hurts, his sobs growing louder, rawer, until he’s left gasping, brokenly repeating, “I love you—I love you, y/n—so much.”

kofi — navigation — masterlist

do not copy, translate, or plagarize

[pedgito]

𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐒 | General Acacius x reader x Emperor Geta

↝ masterlist | requests? | ao3 | update blog | fic rec | ko-fi

summary | General Marcus Acacius has one thing Emperor Geta doesn't, you.

author's note | @pr0ximamidnight is FULLY responsible for this. she had an idea, i flip-flopped and threw out another one, and here we are. paige thank you for being a constant source of inspiration in my life and pea brain, ily. and thank you for beta'ing.

content warning | 18+ smut, DDDNE, dubcon - power imbalance and forced cuckolding | additional warnings: reader is a servant (but also participates in s*x work), established situationship with the general, marcus is a soft but guilt-riddled man, geta is literally just a gremlin asshole with an ego and you know what? i'm okay with that, heavy degradation, oral (m receiving), unprotected p in v, fingering, f voyeurism/exhibitionism. extra note: please heed the tags and proceed with caution. do not read if this icks you out, that simple. also we can just say this is au to avoid the bs. i just wanted to write a fic with both of my blorbos <3

word count —2.7k

There was something special about being bedded by a General, one so illustrious and generous as Acacius, but an Emperor, that was a wholly different experience. 

He knew you belonged to General Acacius, in a sense. One of his loyal servants who had sailed across the sea with him to the palace of the Emperor brothers who ruled here—Caracalla, a slimy and disgusting man, alongside his brother Geta, who wasn’t much better. He was smarter, though—albeit not by much, but his choices were calculated, vengeful, planned.

He had his eyes set on you from the moment you entered his home, alongside General Acacius in your unsuspecting and flimsy garb, a white and pristine material to match that of your General, detailed with gold specks and a tie at your waist that kept you modest.

“Serve them, appease them,” General Acacius had told you, “they are tempered men, do not upset them.” He’d meant it as a warning; watch yourself.

Acacius was a caring leader, for the most part. You stayed out of politics and war, dutiful to him and his needs wherever and whenever he needed you—and if that meant buried in his sheets when you were away with him on one of his many triumphs around Rome, that was his business and your secret to keep. The gold necklace that hung around your neck was a gift from him, a thank you for all of your hard work, but a silent reminder that you were his. None of the other men touched you, like a brand on your body that had them running in the other direction.

But, not Emperor Geta.

He tips your chin up with his finger, your body shaking nervously under his touch as he uses his other hand to spread your legs apart at your knees, stripped out of his cloak and down to his tunic, but even that was hanging on by a thread. 

He’d commanded you to strip down in front of him, your clothes pooled somewhere on the floor near his bed.

You’ve been in plenty of situations like this before, sex with men you didn’t care for. If it meant sustenance and another day of breathing, you didn’t care. You did what you had to. But this, it felt off. There was a constant snarl to his face, his gold crown displaced beside your head as his finger trace and followed until he was gripping the underside of your chin in his palm and pushing up, fingering the necklace with a smug, salacious grin.

“He’s got you collared,” Geta breathes, “like a dog, doesn’t he?”

Don’t speak, he’ll hear the quiver in your voice.

“Answer me,” His voice booms, “does he fuck you in secret?”

You blink, watching his lips pull back in a thin line and his gaze—it was frightening.

You nod despite yourself, not prepared to see what would happen if you had lied.

The thing with Geta was he also disguised his intentions behind momentary kindness.

A kind smile as you offered him a full goblet of wine or refilled his plate, as you trailed alongside him holding another gaudy offering to appease the other ego-driven men who pursued this place—General Acacius knew he was losing you to him and there wasn’t a thing he could say or do without risking your life in the process.

His face softens for a brief moment, feeling the hard swallow from your throat as it strains, eyes droning into the bedpost above your head as his fingers flex, debating on whether he should rip the jewelry from your neck or leave it be. 

Eventually, he decides for the latter.

“Show me,” Geta commands, “how you please him.”

He loosens his grip on your chin and allows his hand to fall, watching as you rise up slightly on your elbows, breasts shaking with the movement and you can catch the way his jaw clenches, salivating at the sight. You pull at the tie on his skirt, finding that he was already bare underneath, his hard and aching cock springing from underneath as you pushed it away.

His confidence wasn’t a cover, you could confirm. He was large, not nearly as much as General Acacius but given the amount of situations you’ve caught yourself in, staring up or down at men who just needed a quick taste of you and the pleasure you had to offer, he was quite enough.

The tip, red and dripping already, he palms himself. A chuckle escapes his chest as he flings the rest of the fabric to the floor, his hand cupping around his balls and rolling them between his fingers before he’s gripping his shaft and then your own hand, allowing a few strokes before he intructs you to do as he’s asked. 

You squeeze, apply an ample amount of pressure as you pull at his shaft, watching as he slowly canted his own hips into your palm, his hand gripping into your scalp to keep you upright, hair tangled around his fingers as he breathes out roughly through his nose.

“Always know a whore when I see one,” He denotes and you have to fight the urge to bark back, “do you suck cock like one too?”

If anything, it was a silent order.

You push up onto your palm, feeling the strength of his grip as he yanks your head back, forcing your eyes to lock with his as he uses the other hand to guide his cock head to your lips, sneering as he spreads the glistening precome over your lips before pressing further. You open your mouth to him, allowing the heavy weight of his cock to split your lips apart, giving you very little time to adjust before he’s eagerly thrusting into your mouth, using your hand to cover the rest of his cock you couldn’t fit, feeling more shameful than you should about how you weren’t as bothered by him as you should be.

He wasn’t some strange man pandering you with a pile of coins on the street or around the dark corner of the palace—he was power. An emperor with little remorse.

You can hear him chuckling darkly above, his eyes wild as you suck at his cock, spit pooling in your mouth and dripping down your chin.

“Messy bitch,” He mutters, picking up the pace considerably as he began to fuck into your mouth, the tip of his cock pressing against the back of your throat forcing a garbled gag around him, “—are you of the thankful sort or are you ungrateful?”

He pulls you back suddenly, leaving you to gasp out in desperation at the sudden relief, looking up at him with watery eyes, swallowing against your sensitive gag reflex.

“Thank—thankful, sir.” You confirm with a weak nod.

“No sir,” He counters, “Emperor. Let me hear you speak it.”

“Thankful,” You affirm, “I’m thankful, Emperor.”

“Good,” His thumb traces your bottom lip, mixing with the spit and slick of him that was covering your mouth, “so you’ll take my cum and say thank you, won’t you?”

You nod obediently, feeling him loosen the grip on your hair slightly as he fisted himself, using the copious amount of spit as lubricant. You watch as his abdomen flexes under the guise of his impending orgasm, how jerky his movements become as his teeth dig into his bottom lip, a muffled curse slipping beyond his lips before he’s pressing his cock to your lips without warning and expecting, knowing that his obedient little whore would be willing and waiting. His cum pools in your tongue, salty and warm as he jerks himself a few final times before he pulls away, watching carefully as you swallow down the taste of him. It was then that he finally allowed you a break, releasing his grip on your scalp as you fell back.

“What a harlot you are,” Geta comments, but seemingly pleased as he leans back on his calves and pulls you upright, awaiting until you’re sitting less rigidly before he drags a hand across your breast, his thumb rubbing over your nipple and watching as it pebbled underneath his touch, “might I suggest an audience?”

You have no time to respond before he’s fetching for one of his other many servants, a name you’ve never heard before being thrown across the room and you scramble for the covers, desperate for some protection to your state of undress. Geta allows it, but he doesn’t hide the smirk or laugh that escapes him, his eyes creasing in amusement.

The servant peaks around the door dutifully, wide eyes dropping on you before quickly averting to the Emperor.

“Fetch the General for me, would you?” He asks, “I’ve been meaning to show him a proper good time.”

The servant nods meekly before departing and when Geta looks at you—he sees it.

“What?” He remarks like a child, “Don’t fear for your modesty now—“

The footsteps grow closer, heavy and slow as they thump, thump, thump against the floor, matching the quick beat of your heart.

“Emperor Geta—“ His voice brings you to tears, looking away in fear that he would judge, seethe, leave you to be eaten alive by the Emperor on your own and finally rid himself of you.

“General,” He boasts, still stark naked but using your legs as a makeshift cover over his cock, despite how bare you were, “won’t you join us?”

When you do look at him, he’s stoic. Fearful just as much as you. In fact, you’ve never seen him this worried. Not even in the depths of war.

“Are you asking, Emperor?” He counters, “Or ordering?”

Geta answers with a wave of his hand toward your naked body and Acacius pushes down the sigh that wants to escape through his nose, closing the door shut behind him.

“She’s quite the woman, you must know,” He comments and General Acacius' nose flares at the words, lifting himself slowly onto the bed to sit near you, still a distance away. If you reached out, you could touch him, “beautiful, obedient—the perfect whore, really.”

“Emperor, forgive me,” Acacius argues, “but I am not sure what you want from me in this situation.”

“She’s yours, is she not?” He asks, flinging the necklace up lazily before it hits your chest again and Acacius eyes immediately draw to the jewelry. “This reeks of you.”

“It was a gift, for her diligent and loyal work.”

Because as much as you had served General Acacius in many ways, you were still tending to everything else without complaint and with a good attitude. In another life, if things could be different, you might have him as your own. But, that wasn’t possible.

“Do you fuck her?”

Geta knows the answer—all of you do.

“That is none—“

“As she is under my rule—it is my business,” He snaps, “Do you fuck her, General? Is she a good fuck?”

Lord above, put me out of this misery, you think.

Acacius offers nothing but silence.

Geta nods with finality, “Fair—you can watch and tell me if her moans sound the same while my cock is inside of her.”

And Geta catches the way your hand in his sheets inch closer toward Acacius out of instinct, wanting his touch just as bad.

He furrows his brow and nods toward the General.

“Prepare her for me,” He orders, “touch her.”

Your eyes flick up toward him, a silent and pleading echo of Marcus behind your eyes. Serve him, appease him.

He closes his eyes and breathes a deep sign, his fingers trailing down your stomach until they can hover over your cunt, his middle and ring finger placed and at the ready. You nod, mouth instantly falling open at his touch.

The Emperor smirks, watching Acacius dexterous fingers work over your clit and your chest rise and fall in quick succession, his hand fisting his own cock lazily. 

“I can see why you’ve taken such a liking to her,” Geta notes, speaking as if you weren’t in the room, as if he wasn’t fisting his cock at the entrance of you cunt, “I owe you, for bringing her to me—and leaving her with me.”

You can see the way Acacius' face twitches in anger, but his eyes never leave yours when they open again, using him as a solace in this complicated time. You grab for his wrist when you feel yourself growing near, breathing out a shaky moan.

“There, stop.” Geta orders and Acacius' hand drags away slowly, fingers drifting along the edge of your jaw with a fondness that was reserved for you alone.

You smile sadly.

I’m sorry, you convey silently.

In this world, Acacius knew you had no choice in the matter. It was survival and had you been born into a wealthier family, a better life, maybe you would be at the other end of this situation.

“Look at me,” He commands you, pulling your face away from Acacius grip and forcing your eyes on him as he presses inside of you slow, hand gripped at the base of his cock as he split you open, his face pinched as you squeezed him, cunt sucking him in greedily. 

You bite at your cheek, trying to stifle the involuntary moans from the stretch of Emperor Geta’s cock. You could deny and say that it didn’t feel good, but that would be a lie. Your selfish body was betraying you and you didn’t want to give the Emperor the satisfaction, not yet.

Acacius shakes his head minutely, a subtle movement you barely catch. Don’t defy him.

“Tell her,” Geta says through heavy breaths, his hips snapping into you steadily, your thighs being pressed tight to your body with his grip on the back of them, “keeping silent will do her no good.”

“Dove,” He comforts you, “let go.”

“You’ve named her!” Geta exclaims in amusement and genuine disbelief, “You’ve named your whore? Pathetic.”

“She was never a whore,” Acacius snaps through gritted teeth, “she is loyal—good, and she does not deserve this. She would give you anything you asked if you did it with kindness.”

“I’m right here!” You shout, fed up with the unjust tension, your voice riddled with the building pleasure in your groin, the feeling of Geta’s thumb ghosting over your clit.

“Grab her face and look at her,” Geta orders roughly, his chest flushed from exertion, “and be sorrowful that it isn’t you making her fall apart—seeing as this is the last time you will ever be allowed to see her.”

You sob out, both from the crest of your orgasm and the hate behind his words, eyes locked on your General for the brief interim that you fall apart, pulsing tightly around the Emperor’s cock until he comes with grunt, slipping out of you just in enough time that has seed doesn’t spill into you. The last thing he needed was a bastard son.

“You will learn to respect me,” He snarls, grabbing for his clothes haphazardly and retrying them around his waist.

You shake with a silent cry, hand still latched around the General’s wrist, too afraid to let him go.

“You have five minutes,” Geta bites, “say your goodbyes and leave my sight, both of you.”

The moment his footsteps finally descend and you feel the momentary relief, he deflates.

“Marcus, I never meant—“

He shushes you quickly, pushing the stray hair from your face as you lean up, reaching for him and he tucks you into his chest.

“You are safer here,” He promises, “I cannot protect you like I once could, and you’re smart—I know you are. Geta is a temperamental but immature man. Get in his head, manipulate him. Live.”

“Where are you going?” You ask with a somber tone.

“Away,” He replies simply, not willing to elaborate.

It tugs at your heart deeply, feeling the material of a blanket being slide up over your naked body.

“Fight,” It’s one of the last words he says to you, pressing a kiss against your forehead before he reaches your lips, and it lingers for a while, but not nearly as long as you wish, “if not for me, but for you.”

And you would, even if it killed you.