#utterly barbaric

[shsl-box-worshipper]

Okay, I'm fucking losing my mind.

I'm at a summer camp thingy rn, and, for lunch, the supervisors ordered pizza for everyone. Nothing too bizarre, right?

HOWEVER, HALF OF THE KIDS ARE CURRENTLY EATING THEIR SLICES WITH A FORK.

A FORK!

Am I the only one that thinks this is barbaric?

Y'know what, fuck it. Poll time

[junk-culture]

dearly beloved we are gathered here in the sight of god to anoint charles our parasite in chief with his most idiot hat.

[lizardkingeliot]

It is difficult to explain how his words disarmed me, how efficiently succinct and impenetrable his argument was. All my conceptions, even my guilt and my wish to die seemed utterly unimportant, and I completely forgot myself and the barbaric scene that surrounded me. For the first time in my life, I was seen.

[xoxochb]

sorry for the spam of fics today this is my last one :)

——— ౨ৎ ⊹ ࣪ ˖

you’re surely about to die like this, you know it.

your hands are turning a bright shade of white from how harshly they’re gripping the sheets beneath you, and by now you’re practically gagging on every tear entering your mouth, and your legs are burning and percy can’t seem to unlatch himself from your throbbing cunt.

his tongue is shoved inhumanly deep inside of you, working your core mercilessly as you cry and tug at his raven locks to get him to give you a moment to fucking breathe at the very least. and if this wasn’t enough to overstimulate you, he will occasionally slip three at the very least, fingers into your hole, making sure to curl them in just the right way to make you writhe along him.

and not only are you a mess, but he may be even more than you. your juices are running over his chin relentlessly, every once in a while he pulls back for only a second to lick himself clean before, similar to a leech, his mouth attaches itself to your clit yet again.

“perce- I- plea- I can’t…” you can’t speak, that’s the issue.

though you presume that even if you could, percy wouldn’t seem to care because he was to busy having his own separate make out session with your clit instead of you. he’s absolutely obliterating you, leaving for a wreck to fix in the morning. your face has become damp from your continuous streaming tears, your moans and whimpers reverberating throughout the cabin and every muscle in your senses on fire from the over-ecstatic sensation running through you.

percy’s hands hold tightly to your thighs, assuring to keep them parted as far as possible as he ruthlessly eats you out. your gut is a new inferno— turned to the maximum heat setting possible, similar to your poor cunt that’s been barbarously devoured by your boyfriend.

“gonna- perce, I’m-” shit you’re dripping again. “gonna come.”

your orgasm hits you viciously, you know now for sure that you won’t be able to speak a single word in the morning, your voice box is utterly destroyed. percy doesn’t yet give you up, he tongue finds a deeper portion inside of you and works it until he can’t breathe himself and pulls away with a malicious smirk.

he licks his lips clean of your arousal, wiping his chin with the back of his hand before he lifts himself up to your level to be face-to-face with you. what a fucking sadist he is.

“are- I- are you trying to kill me?”

[wizardpink]

@iamanoccasionaldoodler

Okay so,

There seems to be this negative reaction to the finale from a lot of Devil's Minion fans and I don't understand it for a lot of reasons, but one of them is ... I don't get why people are upset that, when read at it's worst, Armand and Daniel are seemingly not on good terms after Daniel is turned. I keep seeing this belief that Armand "abandoned" him, which I think is fully pulled from y'alls collective ass, and a disappointment that Daniel would call Armand a "fucking asshole."

But the thing about Armand/Daniel everyone seems to be forgetting is that even in the source material, they first had to tear each other down to their bare bones before they could see each other well enough to love one another -- REALLY love one another. Because Armand is a russian nesting doll of lies, masks, and emotional walls, and with Daniel, idek if I can explain it properly, but I think its some combination of Armand needing to break him a bit to get him on his level of broken freakitude, and also Armand not being able to relate to the 20th Century Human period and needing to drill down into Daniel's core, straight down into the monkey brain that every homo sapien has shared for eons, before he can find something he understands.

If we were to ever get a proper Devil's Minion storyline on this show (and we will), they've laid the perfect groundwork by having Daniel EVISCERATE Armand right to his face, slicing his Gorgon's knot of lies and schemes in half and leaving it lay on that table. And Armand's face! HIS FACE! He can't believe it! Seventy-seven years with Louis who never could unravel all the strings, or simply didn't care to even bother. And THIS guy who seemingly hates him found Armand fascinating enough to try. AND succeed!

And why wouldn't he? Daniel may not have remembered until they were nearing the end of the interview, but Armand SHOWED Daniel what was beneath the mask years ago, the very first time they met. The jealous, insecure, desperate creature that was hiding under there, that IS Armand to Daniel.

I'm getting off track here, but what I'm trying to say is that as much as Armand turning Daniel in the books is SUCH a flawless scene, ultimately, if you believe in the infinite and eternal nature of their love story, it doesn't matter whether Armand turned Daniel before they fell for each other, afterward, during a break-up or at the climax of their most romantic streak. Like Lestat said, "We'll be together ten thousand nights, a hundred thousand. What we're doing is hard."

So maybe Armand turned Daniel shortly after Daniel stripped him bare in front of Louis, and Louis was so disgusted by what he saw, he threw him into a stone wall. Daniel could have run, too. For some reason, he didnt. Armand could have killed him in an instant, sitting at that table or after Louis left. He didn't. Armand made a conscious decision to tie himself to this man who just exposed him for ETERNITY. Because as horrific an experience as it was, as devastating and life-altering, he was seen.

"It is difficult to explain how his words disarmed me, how efficiently succinct and impenetrable his argument was. All my conceptions, even my guilt and my wish to die, seemed utterly unimportant, and I completely forgot myself and the barbaric scene that surrounded me. For the first time in my life, I was seen."

Louis said those words about Lestat as he described being made a vampire, when he kissed Lestat on the altar.

That feeling, of someone cutting to the core of you and telling you exactly what you are as no one else has ever been able to understand, made Louis accept the Dark Gift from Lestat.

And it made Armand give that Gift to Daniel.

[yandere-wishes]

Hi!!

I have a question... what do you think sentinels prime punshiments would look like? :3 what would be the worst one?

｡˚ ❀ ˚｡ He's so evil and sadistic...so why do I love him so much?!?!

𝄞 Real Men by Mitski

❀ The Icon of Iacon

❀ He loves the rogue sparks that fly inches from his face as he burns or rather "engraves" you. Sentinel uses his torch to engrave his name (Or rather a pretty cursive signature) somewhere on his darling's chassis. Similar to what he did to Megatron. He'll trail his digits over the resplendent scar later on. Making sure he feels every dip and curve of his name across her armor. Every shiver and shutter that runs ramped through his beloved darling's frame.

❀ Sentinel Prime isn't a gentle bot. He prefers to not see himself as barbaric just determined, steadfast. That's why he plucks the tires from his darling's body, not because he's cruel but because he'll do anything to keep her by his side. Although it's hard to find an excuse for how he relishes in the warm energon that coats his digits as he thrusts them into her open lacerations. Hard to find the right words when he's trailing open-mouthed kisses between gaping iron and savoring her ethereal taste as he eagerly licks her gushing wounds. Not cruel, no immoral...just in love.

❀ Her alt mode is rendered utterly useless. Pretty shiny thing that can't move. It leaves his darling ruined emotionally. She can't bear the state she's in. The grotesque useless thing she now has to transform into...

❀ So Sentinel rips out her T-cog. He does it to preserve her mental state, he swears. Does it so she won't have to turn into the form she's come to despise so wholeheartedly...And maybe if he's allowed a moment of selfishness he'll confuse in hushed tone whispers that he may have also done it to prevent her from running away.

❀ Although the procedure entirely depends on how his darling behaves. If she's sweet and docile, only ever trying to escape from his golden grasp. Then he'll take pity on her and permit her to remain unconscious through the whole thing, he's only doing this for her after all, he doesn't want her to suffer but it's necessary to keep her safe. Things are always "necessary" with him.

❀ However if his darling is feisty headstrong and constantly putting up a fight, a constant threat, metallic rose throne at his side, daring even to try and harm him. Then he'll definitely rip her T-cog straight from her chest, making sure she feels each wire snap, the grotesque unnatural expansion of her metallic chest. The rigorous pop of your diodes. The gory crunch of circuits snapping, forced to release the precious organ. He wants her withering in the pain. Looking into his optics and finally understanding that he owns her.

❀ The thing about a bot like Sentinel is that they can so easily look in a mirror and only see justice and golden paragons. Blood-soaked rhyme and reason that always ends with them draped in innocence relishing in the thing they want most. Bots like Sentinel, bots whose deific power ripples through every vein of a planet. Can never be painted as monsters, as wretched. They have too much authority and excuses to be anything but wholly perfect.

❀ You'd been so used to internal pain. The righteous crack of sparks, blunt anxiety cascading through your circuits. Maybe it's cause there isn't much that can harm a Cybertronian, not much that dents and rips celestial steel. But with him, everything is outwards. The churn of a nervous stomach is nothing compared to the rippling agony of a broken leg. Sentinel rips the pain from your metallic viscera, baths you in your own ichor, bedaubs you in pain as he calls you his "sweet little lover".

❀ "I hope Primus sends you straight to Unicron!" You can't help but scream between tears and traumatized sobs. You straighten your spine, knees folded to your chest. Your energon pools beneath you, pouring from his latest mauling. Open-ended wires spark as they make contact with your blue essence.

❀ Sentinel only chuckles, sky-hued optics playfully darting to the ground. 'Dear Primus, I don't believe in you'... but all he offers his darling is a sweet sugar-laced smile and a saccharine peck on the cheek.

❀ Sentinel will never admit it, it's hard to show such benignity when you rule an entire planet, but maybe -just maybe- at the end of the cycle his favorite misery to besiege upon you, is when he grips your chin or cheek and tugs you towards his lips. Savouring your ethereal taste. When he guides your servos to his chassis, pulling you closer till both are one. When he can just hold and kiss you. Just be with you. A romantic scene framed eternally by Cyerbtron's setting sun.

❀ If you close your optics, you can almost pretend to be in love...

[onlyswan]

summary: in which leaving the past behind is not as easy as forgetting, and you want to be everything jungkook wants to know.

idol!jungkook x f!reader, est. relationship / angst, fluff / wc: 7.9k

playlist: strange by celeste / sinking by clairo / manta rays by chloe moriondo / ceilings by beabadoobee / iris (cover) by phoebe bridgers & maggie rogers

content/warnings: [deep breath] no one will know the violence it took to become this gentle / it’s their first winter as a couple / oc’s ex bf slaps oc / jk beats up the ex / blood and bruises / crying :( / mention of cheating (not in our main’s rs we don’t tolerate that in this household :]) / mention of s*x / jimin as both their older brother and friend :(

in which masterlist!

note: greeting 2024 with angst woopsie… i literally ugly sobbed writing a particular scene T_T… anwww i hope it’s a good read <3 as always reblogs and feedback are appreciated! i’d love to hear your thoughtsss 🥺

—

the word VICTORY flashes across the screen.

with a proud smirk adorning his lips, jungkook pushes down his headphones to hang around his neck.

he rises from his seat, resting his crossed arms over the partition dividing the computer that you’re renting from his.

“hi, baby. are you almost done?”

he chuckles to himself when he realizes that you didn’t hear him, not with the music blasting from your headphones. you direct your attention upwards when endless song by no reply is abruptly put on pause; the cushions of the headphones are pressed up against your cheek by your boyfriend’s doing.

“what?”

“hi, baby. are you almost done?”

“oh, yes…” your focus returns to the screen, fast fingers dancing along the keyboard without an ounce of hesitation weighing on them. “i just… need to… send the file to my email.”

jungkook blinks at the long rows of words you’re masterfully curating, thinking to himself — how the hell do you think and type that fast at the same time?

it was his suggestion to stay at a pc bang tonight so you could be together while you each do your own thing. he spent his half of his day-off playing games, and during that time, you worked on your research paper and finished an essay that isn’t even due for another week. you took a break every hour, munched on some snacks, and cheered him on while he was diligently playing. perhaps he could’ve done something more productive today, but it couldn’t have made him happier.

he holds out the last slice of gimbap in between chopsticks, lightly poking your lips, and his heart flutters when you offer him a sweet smile after welcoming the big bite with some difficulty, cheeks full and nose scrunched.

“is there anything else you want to eat?”

you shake your head, and unable to speak while chewing, you gesture for water as if you’re playing charades.

a kiss is granted to your forehead.

when he comes back with a bottled water, all your tabs have been closed and you’re wearing your white beret again, re-organizing your belongings in your backpack.

“ready to leave?” he inquires as he hands your order.

you hum as a reply, standing from your seat as you swing the backpack over your head to wear it with little to no effort.

jungkook thinks you’re so cool.

you visit the restroom as he settles the bill. when you come out, he’s already pulling out a credit card from his wallet. you decide to head straight for the door then, wait for him outside as the air inside the room has started to feel a little too stuffy after you stepped away from the computer.

you’ve always thought about it— how time stands still when you experience something traumatic, how that moment feels stretched for eternity… how utterly barbaric that is. you’re forced to memorize frames of the origin of your scars, relive it over and over again, eyes closed and open. moments of happiness, on the other hand, are fleeting. they are sand slipping through the gaps of your fingers. getting out of bed is scooping them in your hands and praying that they will hold on to you in the following rotations and revolutions of the earth. they never do.

there he stood at the bottom of the stairs, just as horrified as you.

his face is the last thing you want to see on a winter night.

because you still recall the amalgamation of emotions in his eyes two winters ago. his skin was flushed from the cold, but he turned redder with anger and your stomach coiled in shame.

“juwon?”

the name felt odd in your mouth. it’s like when you eat a food you haven’t had in a long time, and it doesn’t quite taste like you remember it.

and to be honest, you didn’t know what you expected to happen when he carried on to climb the remaining steps that led to you. but it definitely wasn’t… this.

the first hand to carress your bare body, as if it was in disbelief of its existence, and the rings you used to blindly adore— they collide with your cheek with a sound that resonates in your eardrums.

the slap thins out into a ringing noise.

“are you insane?!”

it continues to assault your hearing even as you scream and hit him back.

it ends when someone bumps against your shoulder in a haste, and the next thing you register is juwon lying on the ground with jungkook sitting on top him, balled fist throwing unforgiving punches at your ex-boyfriend’s face. juwon is held hostage by the shock and is unable to reciprocate jungkook’s aggression. he attempts to fight back but your boyfriend dodges easily.

“jungkook! stop, stop, stop!”

you run down the stairs with panic thundering in your chest, nearly in tears as you forcefully grasp at the back of jungkook’s coat to pull him away, but with his strength and the adrenaline flowing through his veins, your efforts prove to be fruitless.

“you fucking bastard! i’m gonna kill you!”

“that’s enough-” you cry out. “please!”

“how dare you lay a hand on my girlfriend like that, huh?!”

he is furious, gripping the collar of juwon’s sweater and slamming him to the ground.

“your girl?” coughing, juwon faces the side to spit out the blood in his mouth, which then shapes into an arrogant smirk. “didn’t you know? ____ was mine first. i was the first!”

the next punch he receives cuts his lower lip open, and a stronger metallic taste assaults his tongue.

“jungkook!”

before jungkook could inflinct more permanent damage, you resort to holding back his arm with both of your hands.

your gazes connect, and your heart drops to your stomach. he is seething with anger. your blood runs cold and a thick haze clouds your thinking. you can’t move your limbs. what do you do? what do you do? what do you do?

“____, let go. i’m not fucking finished with him.”

“please,” you beg, ignorant of the tears that have begun to slide down your cheeks. “that’s enough. look at him!”

“and why should i care?” he spits out as he shrugs you off.

“ah, jungkook! i said that’s enough! why won’t you listen to me?!”

your desperate tantrum falls on deaf ears. you squeeze your eyes shut when he re-assumes his stance, tucks his thumb over his folded fingers, exactly what he taught you about making a proper fist to avoid injuring one’s self when boxing.

“stop it! you’re scaring me!”

that throws a bucket of ice over jungkook’s head. the anger in his eyes is replaced by vacancy, and with that, juwon seizes the opportunity to finally strike him with a jab and escape from underneath him. jungkook finds himself pushed aside on the ground with a throbbing cheek, mostly likely to be noticeably bruised in the next hours.

“love-” you gasp, and you rush over to him but your path gets rudely obstructed by your ex.

“is this the guy you cheated on me with?”

he is extremely near that you can feel him panting on your face. two years later, your stomach coils in disgust. your glare is venomous, and if only looks could kill, if only looks could kill…

“just leave, won’t you? what’s the point of all this?” you roughly push him away with your remaining shred of energy, driven by exhaustion and frustration. “it was so long ago! get a fucking grip!”

he huffs in disbelief as he wipes the blood from the corner of his mouth. it also drips from his nose and eyebrow. strange enough, you do not feel guilt nor compassion for this man. not anymore.

“are you seriously crying just because he got punched one time…? isn’t that a little unfair? you loved me too. once.” he snickers, but he is visibly pissed off. he can no longer look at you in the eye. “shit, is he that much of a better fuck than me?”

your skin crawls. bile creeps up your throat. technically speaking, this is the consequence of your own actions, but you can’t help but to be resentful.

“you are…” your voice trembles, but your glare remains unwavering. “still as despicable and shallow as ever… and i don’t regret what i did.”

and it may have been a long time ago, but you still know how to hit him where it hurts the most— his ego.

you purposely bump against his shoulder as you make your way to jungkook, leaving him speechless as he stares at the ground. the night the two of you broke up, you were crying and begging him for forgiveness… what the fuck happened?

“let’s go home.” you demand quietly while refusing to meet jungkook’s stare— a mix of confusion, offense, and rage.

but the thing about juwon? he always needs to have the last word.

“you better keep a close eye. you might think you know ____, but whores never change. especially those who became one so young.”

“dude, how are you still speaking?!”

it’s too late when you realize that jungkook has left your side. he swings at juwon’s face with a force that sends the man stumbling backwards. he completely loses balance then collapses on the ground with a curse that almost misses your ears.

“don’t ever go near ____ again! don’t even think of it! if you show your face to me again, i might really end up fucking killing you. you hear me?!”

—

jungkook doesn’t recall a time when he felt a rage this intense and consuming. witnessing you get slapped, his vision went dark and he was shaking with fury. everything was a blur after that, but he knew one thing: this man violated the most precious person to him, and he won’t allow him to get away with that unscathed.

and that must be why he feels restless until now. neither one of you has dared to utter a word for the past couple of minutes. he can’t see your face as you’re walking ahead of him, leading the way with his wrist in your cold hand. however, he can hear your sniffles, and he can see you wiping your tears dry with the back of your hand. he thought he has experienced heartbreak, but this pain cuts deeper than anything he has ever felt.

“baby, let’s go back.”

he breaks the silence, standing infront of you to stop you on your tracks. he almost reeks of desperation as he intertwines your fingers together.

“please? there should be a cctv camera infront. we can sue him.”

“are you even hearing yourself? you’ll also get into trouble!”

his insistence only fuels the urge to cry and scream and break things. it’s an understatement to say that you’re ashamed. it was foolish of you, really, to assume that leaving the past behind would be as easy as forgetting. it may be out of sight but it is everywhere, and it sneaks up on you without tell and mercy.

“you attacked him out of nowhere! he can sue you for that too!”

“out of nowhere?” he repeats your words slowly, hurt flashing across his face. “i was protecting you, ____! who knows what else he could’ve done? and the shit he was talking about you? was i just supposed to stand there and do nothing?”

“and i’m protecting you too! why did you even have to punch him again?! he was obviously just trying to provoke you! god, i-” you release the air in your lungs you didn’t realize you’ve been holding. “thank god he didn’t see your face.”

that struck a nerve for some reason. he harshly rips off the mask that has been concealing half of his face all along.

“he hit you! look- fuck, you’re bleeding-”

oh, his rings must’ve grazed you.

jungkook brings out a clean white handkerchief from the backpocket of his pants, pressing it softly against your cheek. the sharp sting forces you to grit your teeth. it’s not only the wound… your skin is still warm and tender from the assault. you’re terrified to look at the mirror. you don’t want to feel sorry for yourself.

“and that’s what you’re really worried about right now?”

“okay, then i’m sorry for caring about my boyfriend and his career! i’m sorry, okay?!“

he dies a little inside when you harshly push his hand aside.

so this is what it feels like to be at the other end of your anger… shitty. it feels really shitty. after what happened, there is no sadness or fear. the twinkle in your eyes have been replaced with sharp daggers and it is gutwrenching to watch. it clicks for him then: you weren’t scared of him. you were scared for him.

he doesn’t allow you to go further than ten feet away. he seizes your arm before sneaking his hand on your waist to tug you closer to his body.

“you think i’m letting you out of my sight again? it’s not happening!”

you click your tongue in exasperation, left with no choice but to admit defeat as he hails the approaching taxi. you cover your face to hide from the blinding headlights.

ever the gentleman, jungkook opens the door for you.

“get in, ____.”

and the first thought that enters your mind: the air freshener is nauseating. it has to be something mixed with lemon.

you roll the window down as your boyfriend dictates the address of your destination to the taxi driver. not yours, but his. you send him an unimpressed scowl, but he only looks back at you challengingly under the warm dim light. the soft cloth is placed over your wound again, rudely snatched as you turn away from him. you hold it on your own as you watch the world outside the window, streetlamps with blurry light streaks and homes you will never set foot into. in the midst of your musing, you register the weight on your head, or its lack thereof. your beret landed on the ground in the aftermath of the first strike. what is there left to lose?

you thought you could be happy at last, but beside you is another soul you’ve stained with your bloody hands.

juwon was right, you never change.

—

“i still don’t think it’s right that i know the password.” you whisper as you push the door open.

“but i have a key to your house. what’s the difference?”

“i don’t know…” you begin removing your boots, carefully placing each one in the middle level of the shoe rack. “you live with six other people.”

“namjoon-hyung and yoongi-hyung are in their studios. the others went home.”

you enter the living room with jungkook hugging you from behind. his cheek rests on top of your shoulder, and he doesn’t want to let you go. the ride here was suffocating. he thought you wouldn’t talk to him for the rest of the night anymore.

you blink at jimin who is sprawled out on the sofa, a gray blanket that matches his sweatpants is covering his naked torso.

“why does he sleep here? doesn’t he have a bed?”

“the sofa is more comfortable.” he mumbles loud enough for you to hear as he opens his eyes halfway, but then he gives up and closes them again, curling in on himself to resume his slumber.

“okay… now i know what to get you for your birthday.”

for a brief second jungkook assumes that you’re joking, but you sounded way too nonchalant.

“a sofa?”

“a new mattress,” you blankly stare back at him, before proceeding to break free from his embrace to search for the bathroom.

he follows you like a lost puppy, whining. “why does he already have a birthday gift and i don’t?!”

“quiet!”

he winces. “sorry, hyung!”

—

you’re perched in the space between jungkook’s thighs, legs swung over one of them as he tenderly presses a cold compress against your left cheek. you’ve changed into the pair of pink cooky pajamas he wore a few times and has kept in his closet specially for you. sinking into his mattress, drowsiness has also begun to seep into the depths of your bones. it’s been an arduous week, and you’re exhausted of fighting in every sense of the word.

“he deserves more than what he got away with.” he mutters through gritted teeth.

“jungkook, enough.” you chide at him with a sigh. “let’s just forget about this.”

“your face is going to be bruised for atleast a week! how am i supposed to ‘just forget’? are you hearing yourself?”

your rhetoric question from earlier comes back to gnaw at your thread-like sanity. you feel backed into a corner. you can’t think of a solution that will put this issue at rest, much less make either one of you feel better.

“he’s not worth it.”

“you are to me.” he declares.

it’s impossible to argue with that. you want it to stay true. you want him to keep believing in you.

“i’m tired.” you whisper, removing yourself from his lap. “let’s go to sleep.”

he gazes at you with longing.

you are lying on his bed but you have never felt so far away.

“are we really not going to talk about this?”

“not now. i’m tired, jungkook.”

“baby…”

“juwon is a terrible person, but i had it coming…” you mumble. “that’s all there is to it.”

foreboding silence falls upon the bedroom. you can’t bring yourself to look at jungkook, so you close your eyes and pray that when the sun rises, this night will simply turn out to be a nightmare orchestrated by your wicked mind.

“whatever that is, it doesn’t warrant what he did.” he plants a gentle kiss on your forehead, and it takes everything in you not to fall apart into a thousand shards. “and i’m sorry that i couldn’t stop it from happening.”

—

jungkook returns after his shower, not yet done with drying his dripping hair with a towel. you’ve drifted off to sleep in the time that he was gone, lips slightly parted open as you breathe out puffs of air in a steady rhythm. your hair is a halo and you’re an angel snoozing on a cloud.

he heard it loud and clear, and you haven’t denied it either, but there’s not a part of him that believes it. is he blindly in love with you? is this what he was warning him about? are you not an angel, but a siren?

wary of waking you up, he attaches a bandaid to your cheek. he flicks the lightswitch but he turns on the night lamp so you won’t have to manuever the dark incase you wake up in the middle of the night in need of the bathroom.

shit, shit, shit. he curses in his head when you begin shuffling as soon as he settles himself on the bed, but it’s just you unknowingly seeking for warmth in your sleep. he gathers you in his arms and your pillow is abandoned in favor of his naked chest. it always feels fitting, like his heart is the stuffed toy that you can’t go without at night.

he swallows the lump in his throat, brushing your hair away from your face to gently caress your soft skin. you look so serene. but your ex’s fingers can be traced on the red bruise that has tainted your cheek and his jaw clenches, hand momentarily balling into a fist to release the leftover anger still boiling in his blood. everyday, you feel the need to act tough because of people like him, and you are… but deep down, he knows, that you just crave to be loved.

“you loved me too. once.”

however, that has lost its meaning when juwon didn’t love you the way you deserved to be loved.

and jungkook admits it’s not as easy for him to do in a whole different dimension. he leads a kind of life not everyone survives, but that never stopped him for trying his damn hardest.

—

you’re awoken in the middle of the night by jungkook’s forehead accidentally knocking against yours. his snoring doesn’t cease, however, and you had to remind yourself that this is the same boy who continued sleeping despite rolling off his inflated sleeping bag on camera.

you slowly sit up as you rub the sleep from your eyes. you spend an unknown amount of time spaced out, barely blinking. afterwards, you force yourself to leave the comfort of the bed, taking the cold compress along with you. you drain the melted ice over the kitchen sink before opening the refrigerator to refill it with ice cubes. you can’t help but to allow your eyes to wander around, which then leads you to contemplate on whether to cook ramen or not… but then again, it’s already 3am and most likely, you won’t be able to sleep again if you do.

“yah! why are doing just standing there?”

the deep voice echoes throughout the kitchen. you yelp in shock, nearly dropping the ice bag as you tap on your pounding chest.

“i told you to stop doing that!”

jimin bursts into a fit of too delighted giggles, hunched over the kitchen counter as he places a hand over his belly. he’s fully clothed this time, fresh from the shower, judging from his hair.

“it’s not funny!” you whine. “one of these days i might be holding a knife when you do that!”

“ey, what would you be holding a knife for? jungkook never lets you lift a finger while you’re here.”

that’s just because he knows you’re not very talented in the kitchen.

the wide smile on his face then fades, expression morphing into one of concern as he studies your face bathed by the refrigerator light.

“what happened to your face?”

fuck, you’ve completely forgotten about that.

“it’s a long story.” you sigh, closing the refrigerator.

“it’s alright. i have all the time in the world to listen.”

“you know that i really appreciate that and i’m grateful but…” your smile borders on a wince. “no, you don’t. get some more sleep, please.”

your unexpected response causes jimin to scratch his head shyly. the two of you stare at each other for a few seconds before laughing at the same time.

“oh, that’s right!” you pause on your tracks when an essential item pops in your mind. “do you have healing ointment? for cuts and bruises and stuff?”

“it’s for jungkook,” you add.

“doesn’t he have that?”

“it’s not here,”

your sweet smile tells jimin everything he needs to know.

“ah, that kid really comes home to different houses now. he’s all grown up.”

“…and how many exactly?” you arch an eyebrow.

he purses his lips together, jokingly pretending to think hard. “the dorm… and then his family… then there’s you?”

“anywhere else?”

“nope!”

“sooo, do you have it or not?”

“i’ll go downstairs and buy it right now.”

he offers you a kind smile and pats on the head. a protest dies down in your throat as he goes straight for the front door.

“thank you!”

“you’re welcome!”

—

despite your active efforts to avoid making any sort of noise, the door produces a small ‘click’ as you cautiously close it behind you. you discover that jungkook has flipped over to face your side, his arm outstretched as if he was reaching out for you. you almost feel bad for leaving him alone in bed, so you sit next to him, positioned on the lower half of the bed since he took up your space.

a short snore escapes him, one that rises then falls so abruptly, like a note on the piano pressed on accident. you cover your mouth to muffle your giggle.

how adorable. you have grown to tolerate, and even adore, his snoring.

stolen kisses on his bruised knuckles, tiny and featherlight, apologetic most of all. their bad condition brought upon by boxing worsened when he used his dominant hand bare, knuckles of his two longest fingers ripped. it seems that he did the bare minimum by putting a stop to the bleeding then washing them clean, then nothing else. he didn’t even tell you, didn’t complain or show any sign that he was in pain.

you hold the cold compress over his bruises, switching between his cheek and knuckles, mindful of not touching the wounds as to not aggravate him in his sleep.

you’ve been stripped down bare— your pride and dignity dismantled into pieces that create a picture of you that you do not like… but could be the love and sincerity in your heart be enough to live by? even if no one is awake to witness it?

you’re saved from drowning in your thoughts by the front door being unlocked. for the second time, you tiptoe your way out of jungkook’s bedroom.

“this is for wounds, and then…” jimin returns the tube inside the paper bag to grab the other. “this one, for bruises.”

“thank you. i’ll pay you back.”

“yah!” jimin expands his eyes threateningly, which you mimic in challenge as you hug the paper bag to your chest. “i’m also your older brother, okay? i should do these things for you.”

you scrunch your nose, to express disagreement at first, but later on it only makes your smile appear brighter.

“doesn’t it hurt you to smile? please use them well too, ____. do you understand? that’s why i bought the biggest ones!”

it does hurt.

“thank you…” you reply shyly.

you’ve forgotten how it feels like to be taken care of by family.

—

“baby, where did you go?”

jungkook’s raspy voice is music to your ears.

he woke up a mere minute ago, caught in the middle of sitting up on the bed once it caught up to his sleep-muddled brain that you’re no longer beside him.

“nowhere,”

you sit at the edge of the bed without another word, putting his hands over your lap to apply the healing cream to his afflictions.

his eyelids flutter in sleepiness as he watches your every movement.

a small dollop at the pad of your finger, transferred over his torn knuckle and smeared with the lightest of touch. occasionally your finger pauses, unsure, calculating— the last thing it wants is to hurt him.

he kisses your lips— he feels suspended in time—hasn’t quite reconnected with reality and with his body. wide-eyed, you seem taken aback by the display of affection. his mouth then softly curves with fondness.

“i love you.”

“i love you, too.” you whisper timidly.

your actions have become hurried, but jungkook is far too drowsy to notice your discomfort.

for the final part, you rub the cream on the bruise on his cheek. you press a kiss on the corner of his lips. “all done. go back to sleep.”

“let’s go,”

he hooks his arm under your knees, eager to carry you over to your side of the bed, but he gets interrupted by your protest.

“wait, wait, wait- i need to pee first.”

“wha- hurry!” he complains with a peeved frown, which you fail to catch a glimpse of because he has squeezed you taut against his body. “i won’t be able to sleep without you here.”

—

eternally cursed with the ability to feel too much of everything.

you push your back against the bathroom door, breathing heavy and labored as you blindly pat around for its lock. the click serves as the cue for your salty tears to drip from the edges of your eyelashes, cascading down, down, down your chin. some of them crash on the collar of your pajama top, the rest on the white tiled floor. this room is a stranger to your shipwreck, but old habits die hard.

the intense pressure of the water collides with the porcelain sink. rain and thunder and the gusts of wind being your gasps for air. an isolated storm undetected in the city of seoul you’re forced to brave alone, on the floor, tucked into yourself to protect the beating sacredness inside your ribcage. the sobs claw their way up your throat rather than soaring like exhales do.

no one has ever raised their hand at you. not even your parents. not even when you broke your grandmother’s precious china, or lost their big paper bills to the wind, or cursed at them for embarrassing you infront of your friends.

you want to be mad and say that juwon deserved what he got. you want to say that you hope his nose is broken. but you don’t know how one is supposed to react when something like that happens. you don’t know if it justifies everything after that. if the roles were reversed and you slapped him, won’t no one bat an eye?

…and you know jungkook has questions you still haven’t figured out how to answer. you know he now has reasons to doubt you. you know in his eyes, you may now be a hypocrite and not the advocate he adored. these days, you don’t really want to be seen as anything less or more than who you are, but you so desperately wish to be someone he is proud to love.

you feel mocked for even daring to dream of it.

“i’m tired, i’m tired, i’m tired.”

incoherent mumbles further stirs the unbridled chaos.

“i’m so sick of this. why… why do bad things keep happening to me?”

you don’t expect an answer but you yearn for some sort of meaning. you don’t mind suffering but you wish it could only be to an extent where you don’t have to fear.

echoes of rumbles and thunder. you’re nearer the sky but farther from heaven.

—

it’s been more than a week. you’ve been waking up with a gaping hole in the middle of your torso. you climb out of bed, cover up your cheek with make-up, good as new, and go about your day as if nothing happened. life on its own is already too much of a burden for you.

jungkook checks up on you everyday, though, despite his busy schedule. mostly through the phone, and whenever he can, he goes straight to where you are after work to dote on you no matter the time. he kisses you on the cheek, claims himself to have healing properties, and says i love you. and during those periods of time you were together, he hasn’t said another word about the incident. and it has been driving you absolutely insane.

you glance down at him, sat on the floor with an ipad balanced on top of his propped up knees, wearing one of your anti-radiation glasses as he finds himself absorbed in drawing the view a foot away from him. you.

“why do you keep looking at me?” he scolds you lightheartedly. “go back to studying so we can go to sleep.”

“can’t help it,” you mumble as you reposition your pen over the paper. you’ve been reorganizing your notes the whole night for your upcoming tests, but your mind keeps flying everywhere else. “my boyfriend’s too pretty.”

“ah, it can’t be helped then. sorry about that.” he smirks cockily, pulling the dramatics by switching his eyes between you and his back. “should… should i turn around then?”

“did you box again?”

the accusation is spat out before you can think twice.

“oh, you did. your knuckles are all messed up again.”

he pouts, crossing his legs. “but baby, i have to train... i wrapped my hands properly!”

“still,” you sigh. “can’t you just let them heal for a little while?”

you turn to the cabinet on your other side to bring out the pouch of healing ointments you’re now suspecting he brought and didn’t accidentally leave behind.

you lay out your hand, and jungkook puts his on top of yours, dragging himself close.

you both smile when you see that he has laid his hands over your thighs like he’s getting a manicure. silly boy. you pull them closer by his fingers so you can reach his red knuckles.

“why are you trying so hard?”

your finger is stained with his blood. your voice is as gentle as your touches, and that’s why it hurts.

jungkook doesn’t know either. he’s been trying to extinguish his leftover anger and bitterness through work and boxing— suppressing the onslaught of negative thoughts threatening to poison what the two of you have. jungkook doesn’t want to know. he doesn’t want anything to change. right now, he can’t afford them to.

“there’s no one to fight.”

“turns out there is,” he argues.

he regrets it as soon as your hand trembles.

“it’s okay… to ask. we’re in a relationship. you’re entitled to know things like that.” your eyes are unafraid again, and it scares him, like you’re always prepared to let him go. “i won’t get offended, or anything like that. if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“i trust you,” he says simply. “so i don’t need to know. especially if talking about it makes you uncomfortable. it’s okay… we’re okay, baby.”

stillness washes over the room like a tide that swallows everything up, and for a moment jungkook is convinced that the two of you will never bring it up again.

but the words you utter next are a punch to the gut.

they almost sound like a plead.

“but i can’t live my life that way, jungkook.”

strands of your hair descend to your face, framing it perfectly, but your eyes become hidden from view. you rip a bandaid open and blanket it over his two knuckles, still wounded as before, if not worse.

“if you intend to be with me for a long time, then i need you to need to know…” because there will be things i’d want to tell you, but wouldn’t feel the need to.

“then tell me,” he replies, prompted by a renewed determination. “i don’t just intend to be with you for a long time. i want way more than that.”

—

jungkook fiddles with the hello kitty bandaid using his thumb, mind reeling and grappling to process the overload of information told by your storytelling voice. all of a sudden, he’s grateful that you decided to lie down on the bed for this conversation.

“juwon was your boyfriend before me, no?”

“no, no, no. he was…” your lips part as if you have something more left to say, but you eventually give up. “yup, no.”

“so you found out that he’s been cheating on you for-for two mo-”

“three-”

“three months, and you…” he blinks. “slept with a stranger and let him catch you?”

“i was really petty. i was seventeen after all… my pride couldn’t take it. my friends- they tried to stop me but… but all i could think of was how to make him feel the way i was feeling.” your voice sounds small, smaller as you squeeze yourself into his side and curl up to hide your face. “so i let him think i was the bad guy.”

he understands that you were vengeful, but he doesn’t know if you comprehend the scale of what you have done.

“he looked so sad and hurt that i started to feel guilty. i don’t know if i was still acting when i was apologizing to him.” you scoff with eyebrows knitted together. “i felt so dirty… i still feel like a bad person, you know?”

you took the face of juwon’s demons and he didn’t like what he saw.

“i had it coming,” — he now has a grasp of what you meant before.

“so how has he been doing this to me for such a long time? how does he stomach it? knowing what i was going through? that’s what i thought… it makes me so upset…”

jungkook doesn’t try to assess you as you speak. he only listens, until your voice cracks. his heart is split into two as tears flood your eyes, escaping past the corners and slipping down to soak the fabric of his t-shirt.

you sniffle. “and the sex wasn’t even that great. i regret it even more.”

he flinches, abruptly squeezing his eyes shut. not that great? okay… okay. the mental image of you being physically intimate with someone that isn’t him definitely doesn’t sicken him to his core. at all. nope, nope, nope.

“fuck, baby, please,” he groans as if he is in pain, putting an arm over his eyes. “hearing about you have sex with other guys is making me want to punch something again. fuck.”

“that’s what you took away from the story?”

“yes!” he exclaims with conviction. “we should’ve met a year earlier. i would’ve let you use me!”

you gasp, scandalized. “oh my god! jungkook!”

“argh-” he animatedly clutches at his chest that caught your fist.

“you’re crazy!”

“uhuh, about you.” he proudly replies, pulling you closer to his side, as if that was still possible.

the subtle upwards of the corners of your lips gives him a sense of relief. he tenderly cups your cheek, his thumb ghosting over the bruise that has turned a darker shade of blue and purple.

“listen to me, i- i’m not here to tell you what’s right or wrong. i’m not that type of person. but what i can do tell you is that this…” he briefly shakes his head. “didn’t change the way i see you at all. he hurt you. he cheated and you were hurt, ____.”

your eyes gleam with uncertainty, a fresh wave of tears threatening to escape. “are you sure?”

“of course i am. why wouldn’t i be sure?”

“because you’re crazy about me.”

the sweet innocence of your eyelashes fluttering elicits a chuckle from him. you’re so fucking cute.

“that’s the reason i’m sure.” he tilts up your chin to plant a kiss to your lips, mumbling. “i’ve never been wrong about anything i’m crazy about.”

“thank you,” you say quietly, melting into his embrace. you nuzzle your face against his chest, and at last, you grant your eyes rest. “i can finally sleep peacefully again.”

fuck, it’s been weighing on you this whole time and he didn’t know.

“i’m sorry i only dated assholes before you.”

“aish, why would you be sorry about such a thing?” he kisses the top of your head, gentleness contradicting his following sentence. “i’d crush each one of those assholes for you.”

and he’d beat himself up the worst if he ever becomes one of them.

you yawn, sniffling right after. “mhm, i bet you will.”

he carefully rolls over to the side so he can wrap both arms around you, and you keen in contentment.

“jungkook?”

“yes, baby?” he coos.

“i… really… love you so, so, so much. you are… the one person i’d die for before i hurt.”

goddammit, it’s an angel sleeping in his arms.

“that’s a relief to hear. you’re very smart and scary when you’re mad.”

“eh, jungkook! i swear i’ve grown up! i’m not like that anymore!”

“okay, okay!” he laughs at your childish whining and squirming as he ushers you back in his embrace. “i believe you! i trust you! i love you too!”

—

although you spend more nights together in your apartment for your safety and convenience, in all honesty, you like staying over at jungkook’s more. his smell evokes the sentiment of home, and when you stay long enough, it becomes a temporary part of you. you’re gradually more well-versed in the organized and unorganized corners of his room. you like that you know where he keeps the safety pins and you know to be careful when walking so you won’t trip over his dumbbells he leaves lying around. and it’s a little ridiculous but… you like that his mattress is on the floor and you don’t really know why.

your boyfriend is still blissfully asleep as you climb over him, landing on the floor without a sound like a veteran spy. however, you rush to step out of the room before the rumbling of your empty stomach could wake him up.

“yah, thief! what do you think you’re doing?!”

“fuck!” the pack of ramen hits the floor when your hands fly to your chest to clutch at your painfully pounding heart. “i swear to god, you’re going to kill me one day!”

and unsurprisingly, your chagrin is countered yet again with jimin’s all too pleased laughter.

“____, you look so suspicious! why are you using a flashlight? we have electricity! we can pay for it!”

“i don’t like it too bright, okay?” you grumble as you pick up your supposed midnight meal.

“let’s just turn on this one then.”

“uh-” the objection dies down in your throat when the light over the dining table was switched on.

“i’m hungry, too. grab two more packs of ramyeon, please.”

“who’s the other one for?”

jimin fills the pot with water from the sink while you pick up two more of the same pack from the pantry.

“just us. don’t you agree that one pack is too small for one person?”

“it’s just enough for me though?” you rip open the packs one by one to retrieve the packets of seasonings. “with your job, though, i’d definitely have a bigger appetite.”

“alright,” he pouts, pretending to be upset. “let’s have just two then.”

“no, no, no-” you chase his hand, tightly gripping the last pack that he stole. “let’s have three! let’s have three! i didn’t eat dinner!”

—

“my mom brought a lot of kimchi yesterday. there’s an entire box in the fridge. i’ll pack you some before you leave later.”

“put some more in,” you say cutely as you peer down at the pot of ramen beside jimin. “please?”

he chuckles, adhering to your request before handing the container to you.

“thank you!”

you hop on the counter infront of the stove, chewing on a mouthful of kimchi with a joy akin to a child receiving a sweet treat. leaving the ramen to cook for the next five minutes, jimin sits a few feet away.

“aigoo, are you that hungry?”

“this is so delicious!” you praise his mother’s cooking instead of answering the question. “i can really eat this on its own.”

“ey, don’t fill yourself up yet! we have a lot of ramyeon to eat!”

“sorry, sorry!”

your giggles fill the apartment with warmth during this freezing winter. jimin didn’t doubt it when jungkook said that you light up every room you enter, he just didn’t expect that he would also gain a friend.

“how’s your cheek?”

“as you can see,” you motion at your face. “yellow. soooo… uglier.”

“that means it’s healing well.”

“i know,” the apples of your cheek become plump as your lips curve. “it no longer hurts to smile.”

“that’s a relief to hear,” he returns your kind smile. “jungkook has been worried about you.”

that’s the end of what he can tell you. jungkook won’t be pleased if you learn that he cried when he talked about the horrible thing that happened to you.

“thank you,”

“huh? for what?”

“being jungkook’s happiness.”

from his peripheral vision, he perceives your surprise. however, he is too flustered to meet your eyes while he is speaking from the bottom of his heart.

“the past year was physically and mentally draining for the team. as you know, we… we were considering giving up and disbanding. and of course it’s hard on all of us, but i’m really, really worried about jungkook. but!”

he chuckles at the dramatic rise of his own voice.

“i’m less worried now that you’re in his life. and i’m not saying this to put pressure on you or anything! but you see, when he’s tired, he bounces back quickly because of you. he’s smiling more because of you. and i know it goes it also goes the other way around. mhmm… i-i guess what i’m saying is that i hope you can continue being each other’s strength? be each other’s cheerleader?”

you have begun to feel emotional as you listened to his sincere and heartwarming words, but you can’t help but to cackle at the fact that you just witnessed the park jimin say the word ‘cheerleader’ while daintily waving his hands around as they were holding pompoms. how awfully endearing.

“…or something like that.”

uncontrollable giggles vibrate his body, dramatically slipping down the counter and onto the tiled floor to enshroud himself in extreme sheepishness.

“ah, ____! this is driving me crazy! don’t laugh!”

“what are you doing lying on the floor?” you playfully scold him, recording with your phone in secret. “why do i suddenly feel like the older one?”

“what’s with the noise?”

you whip your head around, wide curious eyes greeted with a shirtless jungkook who is still rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“is that ramyeon…? i want some too.”

jimin groans when he feels your foot poke him lightly.

“mister, can we add more? my googie is hungry too.”

—

“hyung, ____ told me something recently that really put a lot of things into perspective.”

and with that, jimin pours another bottle of beer in his and jungkook’s ice-filled mugs. “let me hear it.”

“if you intend to be with me for a long time, then i need you to need to know. at first i didn’t understand what it meant? then after we talked, something clicked for me. ahhh, i see it now. ____ didn’t want us to trust each other blindly… because that… that isn’t a good… foundation? for something that i want to last for a very long time. you, me, the members… don’t we all trust each other because we know that we’re good people to our core and we’re good at what we do? isn’t that why we have come this far, and why we keep going? besides army, of course!”

jimin blinks lazily, glossy eyes from the alcohol underneath it all. “that’s right. we wouldn’t have started this anyway… without that kind of trust. i don’t think it’s a connection you can just build with anyone too.”

“oh, that’s it. that’s right!”

“living together for a long time doesn’t guarantee it.”

“exactly.” jungkook nods repeatedly, probably too passionately, a guaranteed ticket for a hangover later on. “we talked about that last time too.”

“right? so we should protect it… maintain it… never lose sight of our purpose…”

the lack of words that follow does not equate to silence. glasses clink against each other and teeth rip bags of chips open and noodles are slurped. they’re overseas and they can’t go to a korean restaurant and grill their own meat. the hotel steak would take forever to arrive and quite frankly, they had it yesterday and it was not good. this is not exactly ideal, but it has its own charm.

jungkook takes another swig of the bittersweet alcohol, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand afterwards.

“____ has become an important part of my life that i would do anything to protect too. how do i say it…?” he exhales to relieve the heavy weight on his chest. “i feel like i gained more purpose in life, hyung… to be honest, i might have a harder time because of that. i know it but… i’m happy. seriously, i’m happy.”

—

taglist in the reblogs! send an ask/dm if you want to be added (or removed) :D

—

[gaypeople]

It is difficult to explain how his words disarmed me, how efficiently succinct and impenetrable his argument was. All my conceptions, even my guilt and my wish to die seemed utterly unimportant, and I completely forgot myself and the barbaric scene that surrounded me. For the first time in my life, I was seen.

Interview with the Vampire | 1.01 “In Throes of Increasing Wonder”

[zahraaziza]

news flash: palestinians don't want this

the part that fucks me up the most about all of that's been going on is, that palestinians would never in a gazillion fucking years wanna be put on display, for everyone to see like this.

all of the indiscribably horrific footage and imagery coming out of the occupied palestinian territories is deeply and utterly humiliating.

do you think, that for a split second, anyone, regardless of their background, would want to have someone record you literally blown to pieces?

do you think, that anyone in their right frame of mind would want someone to post videos of them crying, calling out for help, lying unconscious, having their own organs spilling out of their bodies?

do you honestly think, that they enjoy seeing the unimaginably horrifying footage of their own people, their own families and friends, their own blood, getting rounded up like animals, stripped naked against their will, tied up, beaten to no end and raped?

but this is what 76 years of their suffering has come to.

the world hasn't listened. the world has deliberately turned a blind eye. the ones in power purposely flip the script and adjust the narrative to their liking, knowing that you and people in your circle will willingly believe and eat it up.

after all, they have successfully run the campaign of "dirty, barbaric, war mongering arabs that have got nothing on their minds, but to blow themselves up and slaughter their own" for decades now.

palestinians are forced to expose themselves in the most vulnerable, raw and primitive manner, because they see no other way out.

this is their last resort, because the ones in power have made it theirs.

palestinians have been served on a silver platter and humiliated on the world stage, yet people still find ways to look away, because this imagery, they would've never wanted to be exposed to billions of strangers, makes these exact people uncomfortable.

shame. shame. shame.

palestinians do not want you to see them like this. they don't want you to fucking see them mourning yet another loss that adds to their list of millions of martyrs. they don't want you to see their men, women and children exposed and quite literally stripped from their dignity. they don't want you to fucking see their men blown to bits. they don't want you to see their family crushed under the rubble, that they once called their home.

but the world has left them no other choice. shame.

[weirdmorefics]

Hello! Love your Bridgerton fics, I was wondering if you could do a Anthony x wife!reader and she’s like the complete opposite to him (personality wise) sorta like grumpy x sunshine trope? Have a good day/night 💙

Sending love from Scotland!

A/N- Hi! Thanks for waiting for me to make the request! I can't believe someone so far away sees my silly little fanfics. I love the internet

Pronouns- She/Her

Word Count- 533

Tooth rotting fluff

Summary- Anthony has been doing everything to get Eloise to participate in the balls and behave at least somewhat ladylike. He loses his temper but the reader is there to calm the nerves of everyone.

The Rainbow After The Rain

"Eloise!" I hear Anthony shout so loud as it reverberates off our window window panes. I quickly draw the curtain back to see the commotion. Eloise seems to be simply sitting on the tree swing reading however, the whole house is aware of the fact that we are late to the ball. This wouldn't have been such a big argument if it weren't for this particular ball being Eloise's introduction to society. I sigh and put the curtain back to where it once was and make my way to the garden.

The two don't seem to notice my appearance too involved in their battle of wits. I clear my throat to hopefully garner some of their attention to no avail. Eloise is going on about how barbaric the whole tradition is and how she does not wish to marry and Anthony is shouting about she is already dressed and no one is asking her to marry someone tonight. I clap my hands twice loudly which finally snaps their eyes up to my presence.

Anthony's once furrowed angry eyebrows turn into a soft gaze, "Darling."

I ignore Anthony and go straight to Eloise. I can tell by the way his hands instantly turn to fists he is angry with my actions.

"Now Eloise, is my dear husband bothering you?" I say with a sweet smile.

"Indeed, he is being quite troublesome," Eloise smirks as we tease Anthony together.

"Isn't he always," I look at Anthony with love and his once tense shoulders seem to relax at the familiar jest. "I must say Eloise you look absolutely handsome in your gown. I think it would be a waste to not let others see beauty. Do you really want your beauty wasted on your grumpy big brother?"

Eloise puts a finger to her chin in thought, "I suppose you are correct it certainly would be a waste on Anthony."

"Is Y/n not always right?" Anthony questions.

I get up on my tiptoes and place a chaste kiss on Anthony's cheek, "Aw, he is learning."

"Truly, Y/n where would be without you. Anthony would be all rain no shine."

"Lucky, for all the Bridgerton they won't ever have to find out." I smile widely at Eloise. "Now, shall we get you to your ball! I am sure your late entrance will just make you shine more." I link arms with Eloise to guide her to the carriage and my lovely Anthony links arms with my other.

"I think Y/n is more like my rainbow," Anthony interjects.

Eloise and I both turn our heads to look at him like he has utterly lost it.

"She is my light after the storm," he replies after seeing our confused faces.

I can feel my face instantly burn and I am sure I must look like a tomato as Anthony's face turns from love to a smug eating grin.

Eloise gags, "If you want me to make it to the ball I think it is best you do not make me vomit myself to death beforehand."

I bite my lip to stop the laughter but Anthony fully lets out a deep laugh, my favorite sound in the world.

[shalomniscient]

sara has been poisoned.

you know this because she has been sick longer than any fever lasts for, but more so because you’ve spent nearly the entire past decade of your life studying poisons in sumeru. the anatomy of a poisoning is an old friend of yours; the poison, the poisoned organism, the injury to the cells, and the symptoms and signs—which is usually succeeded by death, although you are not so unskilled to undo the effects of a simple almond-based poison. no, the poison itself is not your concern, hastily and poorly concocted as it is.

no, your concern is the bastard who would dare do such a thing to your wife.

sara shivers as you pat a damp cloth to her forehead. her face is flushed with fever, sweat beading on her neck. her fingers grip and relax the bedding of her futon, eyes squeezed shut as the poison rips through her. you’ve already administered the antidote, but the aftereffects are still something sara must weather alone. it makes your heart ache. you are used to seeing your wife as a pillar of strength, so to see her reduced to quivering frailness brings out a grief in your heart you only experienced once, as your mother lay dying. you lean down and press a kiss to her forehead, squeezing her hand. sara groans, but some of the tension in her expression melts at the gesture.

just then, the door slides open with a soft sound. by the cadence of the footsteps—even, controlled, but with the weight of the house’s master—you know it is your brother, ayato. you do not look at him when you speak, your voice deceptively soft.

“have you discovered the culprit, brother?”

ayato hums behind you. “i have. one kujou kurose, a minor officer from one of the kujou branch families.”

“a fellow member of the kujou?”

“yes. though, he has made his disapproval of takayuki’s adoption of sara clear from the beginning. now that takayuki is out of the picture, i suspect he felt bold enough to make his move and get rid of her as well.”

you snort derisively as you brush some damp hair out of sara’s face. “he would commit treason out of jealousy?”

“the human heart is fickle,” ayato says evenly. “so, what is it you plan to do, sister?”

you tuck the sheets a little tighter around sara, then rise to your feet. you turn, and offer ayato a carefully measured smile—the smile your father taught both you and ayato to wear; the one that brings with it unrest. ayato recognises it innately, and a spark of amusement lights up his usually placid eyes.

“why, invite them to tea, of course.”

-

kujou kurose is a poor actor.

you learn this as you sit across from him at tea, listening to him ramble and rave about just how terrible it is for general kujou to have fallen ill. your hands squeeze your teacup tight enough that the glass might have cracked in your grip. instead, you grit your teeth and patiently endure his incessant blabbering, before insisting he have some tea.

“sakura blend,” you elaborate. “the petals came from the sacred sakura. it is intended to promote good health.”

kujou kurose idly strokes his beard and chuckles. “is that so? then let us drink to general kujou’s continued good health. please, pour some for me.”

you smile—polite as ever—and lean forward to lift the teapot. the collar of your kimono shifts with the action, and you can feel kurose’s eyes linger on the brief flash of your exposed collarbones. a stab of annoyance flickers through you, but you tamp it down. you pour his tea, then return to your seated position. kurose, to his credit, is not so barbaric to forget the etiquette of tea. he sips his tea from his cup slowly, expression smoothing out as the warm, sweet liquid tips down his throat. your smile does not leave your face. when he sets his cup back down, his expression is utterly calm, relaxed.

fool.

your own tea is untouched. you watch him carefully as you speak. “is the tea to your liking, my lord?”

kurose gives you a look. opens his mouth and tries to speak.

he fails.

you cannot stop the sheer delight on your face as you watch the man realise he cannot move at all. his eyes, once arrogant and deceptive, are now filled solely with fear. rage flickers across his expression briefly, but the fear resurges without mercy as he experiences what it is like to have no control over your body. as he remains stone-still in paralyzed fear, you raise your own cup to your lips and take a sip. the tea is warm and sweet—but to your seasoned palette of poisons, the subtle bitter hints of paralytic are obvious.

not that it bothers you. you’ve been ingesting your own poisons (in controlled doses, of course) since your first year at the akademiya to get a leg up on your coursemates in describing and documenting the effects of assorted poisons. suffice to say, you’ve developed a reasonable amount of tolerance to poisons, especially the ones you crafted yourself.

others, like kurose? not so much.

when you set your teacup down, there is nothing in his expression but despair. that dark, vindictive part of you howls with glee at the sight, and you give him your first true smile of the afternoon. when you speak, your voice is low, like a serpent slithering through tall grass.

“did you think i would not know, kurose?” you use his first name casually, as befitting your status both as a kamisato, and the general’s wife. “the walls have ears, kurose, and you have been so very loud.”

his throat bobs. you had given him just enough of a dosage to paralyze most of his muscles, but not enough to freeze the ones in his lungs or heart. at least, not yet.

“i know you poisoned my wife,” you continue, your tone hardly betraying anything. the conversation flows as if you were merely speaking of ther weather. “and i know it is because you are too much of a bitch to face her in honorable combat.”

if kurose could move, he would have flinched. but he can’t, so the best he can manage is a frenzied look of pure panic in his eyes.

“so you resorted to these… pathetic, underhanded methods you know sara would never dream of partaking in. and you thought, like this, you might win. and even if she didn’t die, you could not be implicated because of a lack of evidence, and that sara’s own respect for the law would let you walk free. but i’m afraid your cowardice is only matched by your stupidity,” you spit, unable to contain your vitriol any longer. “because if you think i subscribe to such restrictions, you are sorely mistaken.”

you have been away from inazuma for years, studying in the land of wisdom. and many have forgotten just who you are, but you are a kamisato. they call your sister a heron, sweet and beautiful. they call your brother a fox, cunning and charming. but you? you are nothing so warm-blooded. you are a snake in the grass, coiled in on yourself, fangs filled with venom. and archons help whoever is foolish enough to tread too close to your nest.

“make an attempt on my wife’s life again, kurose, and i will watch the light leave your eyes myself.”

and with that, you stand, forgoing a bow, and leave the trembling man in your living room with a swish of your silk kimono.

-

sara blinks as she looks down at one of her documents. she’s since recovered from her illness, and has resumed her duties as general. currently, she’s going over her backlog of paperwork that accumulated while she was unwell. and one of them is particularly odd—kujou kurose’s resignation letter.

“strange,” she mutters, and you look up from your embroidery to glance at her. you tilt your head in question.

“what is, dearest?”

“uncle kurose resigned,” she says, scanning over the document again. “he said he feels ‘too old’ to keep attending to his role within the clan. he’ll be… taking an extended trip to liyue to recuperate, apparently.”

you only hum at that. “mm, it is not too surprising. he is quite old, no?”

“well…” sara sighs. “he is old, yes, but he is also… tenacious. i didn’t think he’d resign unless he died. so it’s just weird, i suppose.”

you set your embroidery down with a smile, rising to your feet to pad softly over to her side. your brush her bangs away from her forehead and press a soft kiss to her temple. sara makes a tiny, surprised noise, a delicate flush settling on her cheeks as your hand rises to cup her jaw.

“you’re so caring, my dear,” you chuckle. “i’m sure he’s quite fine. it isn’t like he was threatened or anything—he’s still a kujou, after all. who would dare?”

sara sighs again, and leans into your touch. “you’re right.”

“i always am,” you quip, and sara rolls her eyes affectionately. she turns her head and presses a quick kiss to your palm.

“i love you,” she whispers, and your eyes soften. you lower your head to catch her lips in a soft kiss. she tastes like peppermint tea and sugar, the blend you made specifically for her. you breathe your reply against her lips.

“i love you too, my dear.”

[cuntylestat]

It is difficult to explain how his words disarmed me, how efficiently succinct and impenetrable his argument was. All my conceptions, even my guilt and my wish to die, seemed utterly unimportant, and I completely forgot myself and the barbaric scene that surrounded me. For the first time in my life, I was seen.

[archivequinn]

What's your secret, envoy? emperor geta x fem!reader

Summary: Desperation drives you to the gates of the Roman Empire when your brother is dragged away to fight as a gladiator in their blood-soaked arenas. With nothing left to lose, you strike a perilous bargain with the cunning Emperor Geta—your freedom and future in exchange for your brother’s life. But what begins as a desperate ploy turns into a tangled web of intrigue, betrayal, and forbidden ties. You never imagined that the ruthless emperor would become more than an adversary—and that the most dangerous risk of all would be losing him.

chapter one | chapter two | chapter three (completed) ao3 link

Darkness had fallen, and the flickering light of the torches surrounding the arena cast dancing shadows on the ancient stone walls. The weight of chains stretched from wrist to wrist, from wrist to ankle, echoing with every step you took.

Fatigue and resignation were etched onto Geta’s face, but the last spark in his eyes had not yet dimmed. Looking at him, you felt in your bones that this moment had finally come, that the inevitable was now here, confronting you.

The screams and cheers echoing through the arena were like a death march rising from the heart of Rome. The crowd was filled with the fervor of ruthless savagery; in their hands were roses and mud-mixed stones, hurling at you the paradox of life and death.

On one side, a barbaric crowd hungry for blood; on the other, roses, symbols intertwined with death. The air carried the mingled scents of soil, sweat, and fire, imprinting the moment indelibly into your memory.

As the sky transitioned from a copper-hued sunset to the absolute blackness of night, Macrinus's arrogant gaze gleamed before you. Reclining on his throne with the demeanor of a king assured of his victory, he listened to the frenzied cheers of the crowd.

Beside him sat Caracalla, his face utterly different; tense with rage, you could almost hear the blood coursing through his veins. His hatred for Geta seemed like the hidden playwright of this dark theater.

Geta suddenly stopped. The clinking sound of the chains reverberated on the stone floor. Standing confidently in the center of the arena, he held his head high. “People of Rome!” he shouted, his voice echoing through the stone walls and reaching every corner.

The weight in his voice imbued each word with both fury and hope. “Today, here before you, a conspiracy is being staged. Macrinus is a traitor who has infiltrated the heart of our empire! Can’t you see his treachery?”

For a moment, the crowd fell silent, but it was short-lived. Screams, laughter, and jeers rose again, crashing over you like a wave. Geta’s voice was lost in this sea.

Though he continued speaking, the crowd’s minds were already sealed with a predetermined verdict. They wanted blood. The eyes looking at you sought not justice but mere entertainment.

Geta’s words were like winds wasted in the void. You looked at him, your heart constricting, helplessness clutching at you. Geta’s hands trembled into fists; the chains clattered once more. Among the faces watching, there was no mercy, only cruelty.

At that moment, Macrinus rose from his seat. As his steps echoed in the arena, the crowd began to quiet down. That arrogant, mocking smile never left his face. His hands moved like those of an actor initiating a play, and his voice rang out, cold and cutting.

“People of Rome!” Macrinus declared, his every word dripping like venom.

“Today, you will not only witness the punishment of traitors. No! Today, I present to you a tragedy! You will see how these two traitors pay the price of their betrayal. But the one to execute their punishment will not be an ordinary gladiator…”

The crowd held its breath. Everyone waited to hear what Macrinus would say. His voice lowered, but its impact grew stronger, slithering like a serpent and feeding the crowd’s curiosity.

“Their executioner will be one of this woman’s own blood! Her brother!”

For a moment, everything seemed frozen. Your mind refused to comprehend it. “No…” you murmured, the word breaking like a fractured prayer before leaving your lips.

Your eyes turned to Geta. He was just as shocked as you, but his expression quickly shifted to one of anger.

When one of the slave gates opened, the figure emerging was initially just a vague silhouette in the darkness. The crowd held its breath. As the echoes of footsteps drew closer, your heart began to race. Your eyes recognized the figure. Broad shoulders, a face weary but hardened—it was your brother.

No. This had to be a nightmare. It couldn’t be real. But there he was. His chained hands were visible beneath the coarse, heavy pieces of gladiator armor. The crowd’s shouts and cheers rose once more. The people were enthralled by this dramatic display.

Geta leaned toward you, his voice firm and sharp. “You must pull yourself together.”

Ignoring the weight of your chains, you surged forward, running toward your brother. But just as you moved, the world froze with the sharp cry of an arrow. The arrow embedded itself in the sands before you, halting your steps.

Geta suddenly appeared beside you, pulling you back. He extended his arms protectively in front of you like a shield. “Stay calm,” he said in a low voice, though a storm raged within him. “They’re luring us into a trap.”

Macrinus’s voice filled the arena with mocking resonance. “Ah, how touching! But there is no mercy in this arena! Without blood, there is no victory! The people of Rome want victory, they want tragedy, they want blood! But only one will leave this arena alive!”

A brief silence fell before he widened his smile and added, “And the decision of who that will be… is in your hands.”

As the crowd erupted in wild cheers over this merciless proposition, tears streamed down your cheeks, and you saw the same anguish in your brother’s eyes.

Geta turned to Caracalla, his voice now an unstoppable eruption of fury. “Are you really watching this, brother?” he shouted, his voice reverberating against the stone walls of the arena. “Can’t you see how Macrinus has deceived you? This game, this plan, all of it is his doing! He lied to make you kill us! He lied to turn you against me!”

Caracalla sat on the throne on the other side of the arena. His face seemed expressionless, but there was a flicker in his eyes. Yet what was it? Doubt? Or anger? You knew you wouldn’t get an answer in that moment, but you heard Geta’s voice rise even further in one last desperate effort.

“Are you so blind that you can’t see Macrinus’s true face?” he cried, his voice sharp like a cutting wind. “He’s the traitor! Not us! He’s the one poisoning Rome! He’s the one who turned you against me!”

At that very moment, one of the large gates in the corner of the arena slowly began to open. The crowd momentarily ceased their cheers, turning their attention to the gate. Beyond it, General Acacius and his elite soldiers emerged. Acacius stepped forward with a composed demeanor, his face bearing an expression as unyielding as stone. The silence of the crowd turned into a murmur; some greeted Acacius with surprise, while others speculated on his intentions.

Seeing Acacius enter the arena, a glimmer of hope appeared in Geta’s eyes. “Finally…” he murmured.

Acacius approached the center of the arena and bowed toward Caracalla. However, this did not please Macrinus. “General, what are you doing here? The game has started, and it is not your place to entertain the crowd!” he snapped, his voice tinged with irritation.

Acacius spoke with cold certainty in his tone, “Your Majesty, I am responsible for the security of Rome. However, I sense that there is a darker plan unfolding behind these public games.”

Macrinus, his anger plain on his face, demanded, “What are you implying, General?”

Acacius took another step forward, standing directly in front of Macrinus. “Betrayal and manipulation. And the one responsible for it is you, Macrinus.”

Turning to Caracalla, Acacius spoke in a measured tone, “Your Majesty, I have evidence to prove Macrinus’s treacherous schemes.”

Caracalla hesitated for a moment. His gaze shifted from Macrinus to Geta and finally to Acacius. The crowd held their breath, waiting in tense silence.

Caracalla’s face was like a stone mask. His silence made every breath in the arena feel heavy. At last, he turned to Macrinus and spoke with a mocking smile, “How curious, Macrinus. It seems everyone has a story to tell today.”

Macrinus let out a confident laugh, attempting to mask the tension in the air. “Your Majesty, this general’s loyalty has long been questionable. Don’t let him waste your time with supposed evidence. Justice must be served to Geta and these traitors!”

But Caracalla ignored Macrinus’s words and focused his gaze on Acacius. “Do you have evidence, General? And if so, why have you waited until now?”

Acacius, feeling the weight of the question, replied in a calm voice, “Because traitors work in the shadows, Your Majesty. I waited for the right moment.”

Despite the cheers of the crowd, Caracalla seemed lost in thought. Finally, he raised his hand, silencing the arena. A wave of quiet spread, broken only by the whisper of the wind and the crackle of the torches.

At that moment, Macrinus lost his feigned smile and raised his voice. “Your Majesty, this is a trap! Acacius and Geta’s collaboration is nothing less than treason against Rome!”

Acacius turned to Macrinus, his voice as firm as steel. “Watch your words, Macrinus. No one understands treachery better than you.”

At that instant, Acacius reached into an inner pocket of his armor and produced a carefully folded parchment. His expression remained stoic, but his eyes shone with the determination that matched the gravity of his words. “Your Majesty, this parchment contains the proof of Macrinus’s treacherous plans—details of conspiracies that threaten Rome’s security…” As he spoke, a murmur rose among the crowd.

The whispers spread like sparks under the flickering light of the torches.

Macrinus, struggling to maintain his mocking facade, said, “Who can guarantee the reliability of this so-called evidence?” But the panic in his voice was impossible to hide.

At that moment, the leader of the archers stationed at the edge of the arena was staring at Macrinus, waiting for his orders. Macrinus scanned the crowd quickly, then furrowed his brow and gave a low command: “Prepare.”

The archers drew their bows, aiming at the four figures in the arena. The tension was so thick it felt difficult to breathe. The murmurs of the crowd foretold an impending storm.

As you tried to understand how everything had reached this point, your eyes drifted to Geta. There was a strength in his stance, one that seemed to defy all the chaos in the world. When your eyes met, a spark of both fear and something else lit up within you. His gaze seemed to say, “You wil be okay.”

Geta stepped forward and suddenly pulled you into his arms. The warmth of his chest was stronger than the cold steel of his chains. It was as if you weren’t standing in the middle of an arena, as if you weren’t in the shadow of death. He whispered, his voice low enough for only you to hear, “If this is our end, I’ll die protecting you.”

In that moment, everything froze. The flames of the torches danced in your eyes as you felt Geta’s hands on your shoulders. His embrace wasn’t just protective—it was a reflection of all the emotions he had suppressed. A warmth spread through you, momentarily erasing all fear.

Macrinus’s voice cut through the moment. “Archers!” he shouted, his anger echoing through the crowd. But just then, chaos erupted among the spectators. Those who believed in Macrinus’s schemes clashed with those opposing him. Torches toppled over, and the crowd at the edge of the arena began scuffling with the guards.

Amid the chaos, someone accidentally bumped into an archer. Losing his balance, the archer released his bow, and the arrow shot through the air, piercing the silence of the arena as it landed on the ground. The tension peaked. A scream rose from the crowd, and people began to scatter in panic.

In that instant, Geta reflexively pulled you to the ground, wrapping his arms around you. The arrow had struck just a few steps away. “I won’t let anything happen to you,” he said, his breath warm against your neck. The tears streaming from your eyes were the expression of a feeling that was neither pure fear nor pure happiness. When you looked at Geta’s face, you saw that his eyes, too, were brimming with tears.

Acacius’s gaze was locked on Macrinus, who was attempting to retreat.

Meanwhile, the guards in the arena quickly moved to secure Caracalla’s safety. Soldiers rushed toward the emperor’s throne, escorting him to the palace gates to protect him from the chaos among the crowd.

Only four people remained in the center of the arena: You, Geta, Acacius, and your brother. The sands glowed with sparks from the fallen torches. Your heart knew that everything would unravel in this fleeting chaos. Geta’s hands were still on you, and when you turned to him, words caught in your throat. He simply whispered to you, “Never forget me.”

As the chaos grew, Macrinus retreated to a corner of the arena. But Acacius, sword drawn, began to pursue him.

The turmoil within the arena escalated. Shouts echoed among the crowd, and a full-blown rebellion erupted. For a brief moment, Geta turned to you, his face holding something you had never seen before—a mixture of love and sorrow.

“You must stay here,” he said, his voice softer than before. “I can’t protect you if you put yourself in danger.”

“No, Geta! You can’t go!” you cried, tears burning down your cheeks. But Geta had already made his decision. He gave you one last look—a gaze that wasn’t just a farewell but the passing of an eternal memory to you. “Forgive me,” he said. Then he surged forward, following Acacius.

You tried to run after him, but a strong hand on your shoulder stopped you. When you turned, you saw the determined look on your brother’s face. “Don’t leave him! Please!” you shouted, but your brother held you firmly.

“No,” he said, his voice hard and resolute. “Listen to me. I can’t leave you here. We have to get out of here. Now!”

He wrapped his arms around you, almost carrying you away from the chaos of the arena. But your mind and heart remained with Geta. With each step, you felt further away from him, and each breath became an unbearable torment.

Your brother quickly led you out of the arena to a waiting horse. “No! Let me go!” you shouted, but he didn’t listen. He placed you on the horse, your hands trembling, your eyes still locked on the fading sight of the arena. “Something will happen to Geta! I can’t leave him alone!”

Gripping the reins tightly, your brother said, “He risked everything to save us. We must honor his sacrifice!” He spurred the horse forward. Behind you, Geta’s face remained frozen in your mind as the last image you saw of him. Your eyes were still filled with tears, and everything felt like a dream—or rather, a nightmare. But one thing was certain: Geta’s choice had changed your life forever.

You found yourself inside an old stone-walled warehouse where your brother had dragged you. The interior was dark, illuminated only by the faint moonlight streaming through a narrow window in the wall, casting soft shadows. The distant screams and the sharp clash of metal against metal outside planted deep roots of fear in your heart. From afar, the silhouette of Rome was visible; massive fires painted the sky orange, and smoke rose like a heavy shroud. The city was burning. Rome was burning.

Your brother stood with one hand on your shoulder, the other gripping the hilt of his sword, on high alert. "You’re safe here," he said, though his voice didn’t sound particularly confident. His words didn’t comfort you.

Your eyes remained locked on the distant flames. Trembling with a storm of emotions swirling inside you, you muttered, "Geta... He’s dead. He... He tried to save us but failed. I... I couldn’t protect him..." Your voice was hoarse and filled with sorrow.

Your brother spoke without looking at you. "We had to survive. Geta knew that. That’s why he risked everything." But those words didn’t console you; instead, they brought another wave of guilt and grief. You collapsed to your knees, your throat tight with emotion. Tears streamed down your cheeks as the weight of your grief crushed you to the ground. Watching Rome burn, you remembered Geta’s face. The determination, courage, and... farewell in his eyes. You felt as though something inside you had shattered.

Crying was like trying to purge all the heaviness inside you, but it also left you feeling more drained. Your eyes burned, your shoulders shook. Finally, when your tears dried and your breathing grew uneven, exhaustion settled over you like a heavy blanket. Your eyelids succumbed to their own weight, and you slipped into a dark unconsciousness.

You didn’t know how much time had passed. It was as if your grief had disconnected you from time. But after a while, a sharp "clattering" sound pulled you back to reality. The echo of horse hooves reached your ears. Your heart began to race; the silence of the warehouse was torn apart by the resounding sound. A whistling noise came from above the rafters, like a cold wind slipping inside. You heard the creak of the door as it opened.

Your brother instantly rose to his feet on high alert. One hand went to the hilt of his sword, while the other protectively pushed you behind him. "Stay behind me," he said, his voice now tired but just as protective. Your heart pounded as you tried to guess who they were. But then, everything went still.

Then, the moonlight illuminated the faces of those who had entered. You suddenly recognized the two riders before you: Geta and Acacius.

At that moment, your world froze. You stared in disbelief. Standing before you was Geta, alive and breathing. His face bore a few scars, and he looked exhausted but strong. And then, your body moved as if it had a will of its own. "Geta!" you cried, your voice trembling, but this time not with sorrow— with joy.

You ran towards him. Your brother tried to say something, but you didn’t hear him. In that moment, all you cared about was reaching Geta. Tears streamed from your eyes, but they carried an entirely different meaning now. Geta bent slightly toward you, and when you threw your arms around his neck, it felt as if time itself had stopped. You held him tightly, as if letting go would make everything vanish again.

"You... You’re alive! I thought I lost you! I was so scared!" you said, words tumbling out of your mouth as your mind struggled to process everything. When Geta’s strong arms wrapped around you, a deep sense of comfort washed over you.

Behind you, Acacius exchanged a brief look with your brother, his face tired yet determined as he gave a small nod. In the darkness of the night, the only thing holding you all together was love and the instinct to survive.

Clinging to Geta, you felt waves of happiness and relief wash over you. The weight in your heart seemed to lift entirely. His warm voice broke the silence: "Don’t worry anymore. Everything is under control." His words rang with the solidity of a promise, though your mind was still struggling to grasp what had happened.

You pulled back slightly from his embrace to look into his eyes. "What happened? What did you go through?" you asked, your words shaky but filled with hope.

A faint smile appeared on Geta’s lips. "Macrinus has been captured. He’s been thrown into the dungeon and won’t pose a threat again. We also quelled the rebellion among the people. The city will be rebuilt now. There’s a light of hope for everyone," he said. His voice was weary but carried the relief of a hard-fought victory. As you watched his expression, you found yourself admiring his courage and leadership once more.

Acacius stepped forward, as stoic as ever, though a flicker of pride and satisfaction shone in his eyes. "Emperor," he said formally to Geta, "Tonight, Rome saw not an emperor but a hero of the people. Your loyalty and bravery will become a legend."

Geta turned to him, nodding. "This victory isn’t mine alone. It belongs to everyone here. And to you, Acacius. Rome could never have had a better general, and never will."

Acacius’s lips twitched slightly in what might have been a faint smile—a quiet expression of gratitude. But when Geta turned back to you, his face was entirely different. His eyes softened, as though he’d found his one source of peace amidst all the chaos. "But above all, seeing you here... That is my greatest victory."

Those words filled your heart with warmth. "I thought I’d lost you," you said, tears accompanying your words. "It felt like the whole world had stopped, Geta. Without you... I would be nothing."

Geta took one of your hands in his. The warmth of his palm melted away all your fears. "And I would never leave you," he said, his voice low but resolute. "No force, no rebellion, no war could ever separate me from you."

His words brought a faint smile to your lips. In that moment, the entire world seemed to quiet down. While Rome’s smoke rose in the distance, you felt safe at Geta’s side. His eyes held a promise—a future of countless days together filled with hope.

The following days were spent rebuilding Rome. The people looked upon both Geta and Acacius with deep respect. Acacius received an honorary medal from the Senate and was declared the commander-in-chief of the army. Your brother was hailed as a hero who restored his family’s honor. But your world was defined by being at Geta’s side.

One day, as you walked through Rome’s quiet gardens, Geta was beside you, his usual calm yet profound expression on his face. Amidst the birdsong, you noticed him suddenly stop. "I need to say something," he said, his voice taking on a serious tone.

Your heart skipped a beat. "What is it?" you asked, smiling slightly.

Geta took your hands in his. His eyes locked onto yours as if he understood the entire world within them. "I’ve seen many things in my life—power, war, betrayal. But after meeting you, I realized that the most important thing isn’t loyalty; it’s love. Before you, I wasn’t living, only existing. And now... I know what it means to truly live."

His words deeply moved you. Your eyes welled up, but with happiness this time. Being with him made all the chaos of the world feel meaningful.

In that moment, Geta leaned down, and his lips softly met yours. It was a moment beyond everything—a moment transcending all the complexities of life. Rome might have burned, and the world might have been changing. But your world was complete in Geta’s arms.

And in that moment, after all the struggles, losses, and fears, you were truly happy. It was a happiness that would last forever.

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[communist-ojou-sama]

By the way, another little point of hope and optimism to hold onto is that on the point of international law and Israel's flouting of it, a lot of people are justifiably, and with great frustration, asking "what's the point of it if it doesn't apply now?" Well, based on the US' own abrupt about face we can see that it Does matter, and the reason why is good news. See, the truth of the matter is that those of you who aren't fellow Geopolitics Heads might not realize this, and take it as axiomatic that the US is still The Global Hegemon that does as it pleases on the world stage, but increasingly, especially in these past 5 years in particular, that whole reality has been beginning to fall apart.

The truth is, in spite of the scam that is orthodox development economics, little by little, the third world has in fact been rising up to the level with the parasite nations of the West. What this means is that more and more Brazil matters. Indonesia matters. China matters. India matters. Nigeria matters. South Africa matters. Iran matters. So many other countries matter. Not in some abstract moral sense, but in the sense that they are increasingly powerful, and increasingly independent global powers in a world order that is just beginning to take shape before our very eyes.

People forget, but at the height of its power, when the 3rd world was much weaker, the US used to make a big show of meticulously following international law in light of day and equally meticulously covering it up when they violated it, but as imperial collapse continues apace, the same decisionmaking positions are occupied by zealots who are unwilling to operate with the same care as their predecessors, arrogantly believing that the US can do whatever it wants to the rest of the world, even though increasingly, and I can't stress this enough, it cannot.

So while defeat is of course waiting for the Zionist Enemy as well, the US's full-throated support of its vicious attacks on Palestinian civilians has utterly eviscerated any remaining credibility as a fundamentally benign power the US may have had remaining just about anywhere after the Iraq war. Imperialist parasites flock together and they crash and burn together.

Point being, the days in which these ghouls can even appear to "get away with" this kind of barbarity on the global stage are numbered, and they will be over Far sooner than many of you may think. So keep fighting, keep preparing for your own fight when the US begins to collapse in earnest as well, but also take heart. Be ready to celebrate when the colonial regimes are defeated and the fascist international is extirpated, for that day will come without fail.

[dhampling]

one fem!reader, 2k

“Mummy and Daddy’s evening off though, love? Really?”

“Oh shut up, you horrid thing. I know.”

-

astarion is a newly-minted girldad. that's it. that's the plot.

word count: 2,028

an: fluff, fluff n more fluff. no smut this time. soon. promise. parts ONE and TWO linked respectively but can be read alone.

-

“She’s asleep, Astarion!” 

You are wide eyed, furious; speaking in a whispered shout at your husband.

His pale hands flit across the ties of your shirt, frisking every which way they turn. You slap them off like flies on fruit.

“Even more reason to take advantage of the situation, if you ask me.” He murmurs hungrily in your ear, hands now circling down to your waist to tug on your waistband.

“It’s a fine job I didn’t ask you then!” Gritted teeth. Eyes aflame. Cornered against the dresser.

The crib beside your bed holds your infant daughter - skittish and fresh to a world wholly unknown in every sense of the word. She rests rarely and wails often for company in these early months of being alive with you both. Pallid and red-eyed yet beautiful beyond comparison and entirely yours. 

Seeing you together brings him joy unparalleled. 

He has, genuinely; never been prouder of anything of his doing - saving the Sword Coast is a drop in the ocean that is completely and utterly awash with love for your youngling. The mistaken mess of his own bastard elven vampiric genetics now born unto another. This time it would be right. The hunger, the rot; the abuse and neglect, they were hundreds of miles away.

He would make it right. 

But it was already so. She was here, and you all cried together in that dark, sweaty birth chamber. His great guttural sob at her birth, wracked with emotion he never knew he could possibly be permitted to feel on this immortal coil. Your genuinely feral howls of pain turned weeping with pure joy.

Two full days of agony unlike any you’ve ever endured and she had arrived, breathing; wailing; skin of a changeling in birthing viscera and lungs keen to rival any bellow of the Gods.

Astarion weakly clinging to you both; tears salting your lips and wetting her tiny head for hours on end. 

The great weight of another being on your shoulders. His sincere - yet cliche - fervently whispered oath to her just moments after being placed in his arms.

She is home. She is loved beyond any unit of measure. She will want for nothing, and she will never know anguish like that of her parents and their complex lives. No matter who she is or what she becomes, she has two people who are in her corner. She will be fierce if she so desires. Cunning. Witty. Roguish. Barbaric. Horrid. 

It didn’t matter. It never would. 

She was yours, and his; and she would always have a choice.

He had spoken with her for hours, the nurse whispered to inform you once you had awoken from the deepest slumber of your life. Even then when you looked he was hanging over her small form in her cot, running his lithe fingers over her tiny hands and feet in a repetitive soothing pattern. 

When you queried the topic of conversation he simply looked at you with a grin so lovesick it would flip your stomach completely. Butterflies.

-

“We deserve a bit of fun though, darling. Mummy and Daddy’s evening off? No?” 

Astarion pouts, wrapping his arms around you - still pinned against the dresser - and inhaling your scent deeply. 

You return the gesture and cough reactively.

“You stink of Noblestalk. I know your tricks.”

You playfully shove him away and tiptoe from your room to the landing, the pale elf hot on your heels.

“I have never stunk in my life, thank you.” He sulks. 

You pointedly stop to look at him, before picking up a basket of waiting laundry and descending the stairs. He follows.

“I’m trying to fuck you, dear. Don’t make it weird.” He rolls his eyes and huffs. 

You hum. 

“Corpses tend to smell awful.” 

“Warning.”

“You started it.”

“Touché.”

A beat of silence.

“Mummy and Daddy’s evening off though, love? Really?” 

“Oh shut up, you horrid thing. I know.”

“You’re getting rusty.”

He captures you in a kiss as you reach the bottom of the stairs, slow and patient. Holding your free arm to keep you close. 

“Look at me. I’m the epitome of the fatherly jester!’

Waggles his free hand.

‘I have been blessed with brains and humour anew by the birth of our daughter, clearly.’

He grimaces.

‘Not necessarily superior versions of either, but I - am - changed.” 

From the moment of her conception you’d felt it. An old wives’ tale. The night you’d agreed to mother a brood alongside him, you knew she was there. That she was her. That she was brewing as something brilliant deep inside you and nothing would be as it was ever again. 

He’d called it ridiculous, gestured wildly and rolled his eyes to the deepest hells, but a hazardous hope never left them until you’d far missed your bleed and it was confirmed to be true.

From that moment onwards, something shifted even further in Astarion. 

The domestic tether to your townhouse in the city - no longer just a convenience to remain a steady base for you both, but a fundamental part of his scene setting, to plant roots and grow together. Two centuries of rot and abuse, and his reward was finally nearing completion.

His nesting phase began far earlier than yours and with greater intensity than you could’ve matched even without the issue of your later-heaving belly. Entire pinboards tacked with decadent fabric swatches for every occasion - be it swaddling or nursery curtains. Tailor’s tape around his neck each morning and notebook in hand to note your measurements and take inventory of your wardrobe; ensuring you never looked awry or felt anything less than wholly comfortable. 

Because gods forbid ill-fitted clothing stand in the way of you and your brutal vomiting spells, obviously. A pointed click of his tongue as he fixes your sleeve.

In the middle months of your gestation, the typically discerning clientele who visited you and Astarion in your tailor’s store at the dead of night were the first to become privy to the news. Rounder by the week, flushed; brimming with a deep fatigue and yet somehow absolutely aglow.

Children to be fitted for yet another presentation evening placed sleepy hands on your belly with a saccharine softness. Their parents jostle you - sometimes in congratulations, sometimes to whisper in sheer curiosity. Dhampir are a notoriously rare breed, and you’re certain there were rumours of a third party involvement in the process.

‘No, no. We just tried really, really hard.’ You’d smile, as if in a blissful stupor from just the recollection. He’d turn to you with his ridiculously brilliant hearing; needle between teeth, brow raised; lips upturned in a slight quirk. Devilishly handsome, never anything less.

-

You drop the laundry basket in the kitchen corner. A stuffed bear falls from it. Clive.

A pause.

“You never asked what I did with that shirt, you know.”

It takes you a moment to recall which shirt he’s referring to. He sits at the table and watches you lazily.

“Which? The one for Mr. Chugley? I didn’t think it needed much by way of adjustment, at least?”

A stale piece of burnt toast sits on the counter untouched. You bite and chew and bite and chew like a woman who has never once tasted a morsel so divine; so untainted by the evils of hot butter and a filling bronze crunch.

“Oh - Bunt? Gods, no.’

He sips his stone-cold tea. A fresh film wobbles on top.

‘Bunt Chugley.”

A snort of laughter sends it straight back through his nose and out onto the table. You begin to choke on your toast.

“Bunt Chugley.” You giggle, crumbs spilling from your mouth.

Astarion stands to wipe himself down, creasing over with an escalating laughter.

“Bunt Chugley.”

He waggles his hands, eyes heavy lidded with lack of rest. 

He looks purely maniacal.

“That’s- that’s what we should-’

You stop for breath, cackling now; hands over knees for a brief moment.

‘We should call the next one Bunt Chugley.”

He launches into a wheezing fit.

“How- How would that even work, darling? Like Bunt Chugley Ancunín, or- or-”

“No! No, no. Just that. Bunt Chugley.”

You hold both hands to your eye as if framing a canvas, looking through the gap at the ludicrous proposition in front of you. 

He takes a moment to still. Smiles at you dopily.

Crosses the floor and brings both hands down to your waist with a gentle grasp.

“I am so sorry, my love.” He grins and holds his forehead against yours.

You look at him, dazed.

“Hmm?’

He simply looks up. 

A profoundly gut-wrenching wail becomes apparent to you from above. Your face falls.

‘Oh for fuck’s sake, Astarion.”

-

He’s up the stairs before you can comment further, swiftly darting back into your chambers and grinning with an unbridled joy - though, you note, with lack of rest that grin is beginning to look more insane by the hour.

“Sweetheart! My darling girl. Shush now. You’re sounding something absolutely wicked.”

You watch on from the doorway, arms folded; stale toast in hand and jaws meeting in a firm chew.

He’s far too good with her. 

It somewhat surprised you at first just how innately fatherhood came to him, but as he picks her up and cradles her intently it’s as if there are fractures of his own childhood coming back. How he was loved, how he was held. 

A piece of him, now alive and breathing again after all these years of death.  

He coos at her, bouncing her small frame gently in his arms and hushing her with each wail. It takes very little for soft mewls to take their place as she reaches aimlessly in his direction. 

He leans towards her grasping fingers and allows her to take one of his ringlets from the front of his head as he kisses her tummy. She’s enthralled by him; recognises him. She wants to know more of him. 

As he lifts his head her grasp remains firm.

“We have some work to do on your sleight of hand, I think. Not to worry.” 

Ever so gently, he unpicks her fascinated fingers and kisses them all in tow. Her face looks almost ready to crumple before he reaches for one final kiss on the very top of her head.

“There, now. All better. Back to sleep?’

A gurgle. A puzzled blink.

‘Absolutely. Mummy does look particularly radiant today, doesn’t she? I’ll be sure to send your regards.”

He catches the smile on your face. Winks your way.

“You’re getting the baby to flirt on your behalf now?” You tease.

“That’s the lady of the house to you. She was simply passing on her praises.” He whispers as he places her back into her crib and steps back fondly. Sidles over to you as you finish the last bite of toast and pulls you in for a soft kiss.

“Stop playing coy. I know you feel the same way I do.’

He whispers down at you.

‘You want another one, don’t you?’

A kiss on the very top of your head.

“You’re projecting.” You smile.

You can’t deny him for long, he knows this. You don’t particularly want to. 

Since becoming a mother you’ve taken to parenthood almost as naturally as he has; and when the topic has come up since you’ve struggled to say no and mean it.

“Think, though. The sooner we try again, the sooner we can begin building our little mercenary force.” He looks at you with the face of a man who thinks he’s just had a really good idea.

“Oh! Yes! You’ve sold me!’

You pull him into a long kiss, the kind that still makes you swoon after all this time together. He tastes like cold tea and smells so clinical you can’t help but laugh heartily as you pull away.

‘That Noblestalk is getting to me. Have a bath and try again with a little less?”

He scowls before narrowing his eyes in thought.

“Does that mean what I think it means?”

“It just might, my darling dearest.” 

You wink this time.

The bath starts running before you’ve fully made it back down the stairs.

[bits-and-babs]

could i be cheeky and ask for some more mandalorian 👀 preferably touch starved din

✦ 𝐊𝐄𝐄𝐍 ✦

– KINKTOBER DAY 2: TOUCH STARVED

din djarin x reader | smut, 18+ | 1.2k words

summary: the child has been getting in the way of you and mando spending time together. after weeks without your touch, he's finally reaching his limit.

cw: f!reader, needy din, slightly ooc din to fit the theme, begging, oral (m receiving), cumming early, reference to f oral.

⇽ KINKTOBER MLIST | DAY 3: PHONE SEX ⇾

Even a kriffing Miraluka, blind as they are, could see how badly Mando desperately wanted you to touch him. The sheer yearning that rolled from The Mandalorian in waves was enough to shift the midichlorians themselves, the fibres of the galaxy trembling whenever you were near him.

Weeks trapped inside the Crest with Mando, far too preoccupied with the tiny green gremlin to pay attention to his needs had taken its toll on the warrior's mentality. Grogu had been pulling at wires, leaving the ship static in dead space and even managed to find a button that sucked the oxygen from the hangar, resulting in a frantic struggle to restore O-Levels to baseline before your lungs shrivelled. A menace to the galaxy, you’d spent more time with your eyes glued to the tiny, green hazard than you had sleeping. 

In turn, Mando was practically trembling with need. He’d let out a shaky sigh every time you sat beside him in the passenger seat, voice-strain evident even with the crackle of the vocoder doing its best to conceal the distress that dripped from each singular-syllable response to your questions. 

In deep space with the child finally down in his cot for a much needed sleep, Mando’s leather gloves creak with the grip he tightens around the controls of the Crest. You hear the grains scream under the pressure as you approach, glancing over the map and the coordinates Greef Karga had offered in Mando’s search for the bounty. It’s cruel, barbaric almost, but you swear you can’t see the digits, numbers far too small for you to see from this close… So you place your palm on Mando’s shoulder, leaning over him in an attempt to get a better view. 

You'd never admit it, but the way you somehow managed to touch him between the Beskar plates of his armour was completely intentional. It was a guilty pleasure, seeing the stoic bounty hunter crumble simply from the pressure of your fingers. His chest heaves, each muscle in his body stiffening under the weight of your fingers. 

Regardless of how heavy the Mandalorian’s stare was, his eyes burning into your skin from behind the tinted visor, you refuse to advance without his request. You pretend not to notice, mouthing the digits of the coordinates to yourself, squinting as though you were unable to see.

It had been weeks of this Loth Cat and Womp Rat game, and poor Mando seems to be reaching the end of his tether.

You finally feel his respove snap when you settle your hand on the nape of his neck, leaning further over his shoulder to ‘check the fuel levels of the Crest was enough to make the journey’. Your fingertips brush the bare skin between the neck of his flight-suit and the edge of his chrome helmet, and Mando nearly doubles over like he's in pain. He chokes out, and you can tell he's already hard, his cock straining against his flight suit.

"Please, please fucking touch me,” Mando’s voice sounds utterly pathetic, a far cry from the vicious warrior that blasted through whole packs of assassin droids.”I can't take it anymore, I ca-ahaaa-" he can't swallow the moan that bleeds through the vocoder when you palm his cock though his suit. You can feel the hard curve of his cock twitch against your palm, even though the thick fabric. A rough squeeze sends Mando’s head rocking back against the seat with a quiet, metallic thunk. 

“It feels like you’ve missed me,” you murmur quietly, feeling his hips jerk against your touch when your voice reaches his ears. Prickling arousal bleeds across your skin at how reactive he is, the usually stoic figure shaking himself apart under your touch.

“M–Missed you so much,” he admits, and you’re almost certain you hear the strain of his teeth from grinding them together, “Hah– Need to feel you on me, nee-d to be in you.”

Offering a soft hum of acknowledgement to his suffering, you spin his seat around slowly. His head seems loose on his shoulders, unable to hold it upright when he sees you sink to your knees in front of him. You almost feel sorry for him, watching how he frantically scrambles to free his cock for you. 

The first drag of your tongue against the arch of his shaft has Mando panic-stricken, his hands grasping the arms of the seat when his dick throbs heavily against your taste buds. 

“Fuck–” He growls, practically choking on his own voice, “C–Can’t!”

“It’s okay,” you whisper against a pulsing vein beneath his velvety skin, “We can do it again…” 

Pre-cum slips from the ruddy head of his cock at your gentle encouragement, a tortured whine rattling in Mando’s lungs. It’s so loud that you wouldn’t be surprised if the sound was bouncing inside the Beskar walls of his helmet. 

Carefully, you trace the tip of your tongue against the salty head of his cock, letting out a sharp breath when Mando takes a tight fistful of your hair. His chest is heaving, barely able to keep from slurring his words when he begs you to take him into your mouth. 

Slackening your jaw, you hum softly as you take just a few inches. Mando, in what seems like a half hearted attempt to escape the overwhelming pleasure, pushes his whole body back against the chair while choking out obscene curses. You’re so slow, trying your best not to overwhelm the poor, devastated man– but the flat of your tongue pressed against the underside of his cock and the tip nudging the back of your throat is all it takes to obliterate his self control. 

Mando sounds almost winded by the force with which he cums. His balls pull up so tight, the fingers in your hair clenching to the point your follicles scream beneath the grip. Underneath the Beskar armour, every muscle in his body flexes before the cum hits the back of your throat. Spurts of thick, salty seed paint the inside of your mouth, violent jerks of his shaft causing Mando’s head to fall backwards again, whimpering as you swallow down– swallow around him. 

“Hoh-Fuck–! Stars,” he babbles, wheezing out your name while the last of his cum drips from his cockhead. Pulling from him when his thighs finally start to seize from the overstimulation, you lean your head against Mando’s trembling knees and giggle. He looks utterly exhausted, slumped in his seat and chest heaving as he sucks oxygen into his lungs. 

“Your mouth– hah–” he wheezes out a slight laugh, so unlike the reserved Mando you met in a bar on Corellia. You’d stopped the child from running off into the crowd, and somehow found yourself with the role of babysitting him while following the bounty hunter on his adventures. “It’s so good…”

“Mhmm,” you hum in agreement, smiling to yourself at the memory of meeting the apathetic, almost grumpy chrome-man as you brush your palm across his thigh and closing your eyes to sweeten the deal, “So is yours. Put it to use and taste me?” You hear the tnk of his helmet touching the ground soon after.

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