#Porch Script

[lillybean730]

i usually hate interacting with people but i genuinely loved handing out candy to trick or treaters... too bad that no one celebrates halloween in my area 😩

[dgdraws]

I just like their faces

these started as sketches of Dale & Ellen but ended up as experiments with the digital wash brush in krita.

the way I had to look up their names bc in my head they're just "the assassins" XD Also why does top dale look like drake I couldn't make it stop looking like him

anyway I like how the bottom right came out but I wasn't saving my color combos so I had nooo idea how to replicate it ahhhhh. learned my lesson for ellen who has the same fore/background combos for her skin/eyes in both portraits. I liked this method, though I may tweak the settings a bit to see if I can mix my favorite parts of my sintix paint brush w the top/bottom color and texture of the digital wash... though I'm thinking that sounds like having my cake and eating it too lol

[anyarose011]

Et tu, Brute?

Pairing: Emperor Geta x Reader x Lucius

Summary: You went by many different names: "Rome's Delight", "The Woman with the Golden Mouth", "Geta's Favorite Whore", and "Julia". None of these were your true name; all used just to dehumanize you as nothing more than a slave. When the General Acacius returns from conquering Numidia, and you meet one of the slaves that was brought from the bloodshed, you hope to reclaim not just your freedom...but power along with it.

Part 1 of 2 (Masterlist)

Warning(s): Depictions of rape and SA [not shown], slavery, cannon typical violence, minor Stockholm Syndrome, major character deaths, historical inacuracy [but I tried my best to make it somewhat accurate] and Spoilers for Gladiator II

I saw this movie once, watched Game of Thrones at the same time, and cranked out a story where you, the reader, know how to play "The Game" (but also not because let's keep it kinda realistic) I'm gonna be honest, this might be a hot mess, and I used a script I found online (but Idk how accurate it is). Also, this first part is just mainly story based with the events of the film the SECOND part will focus on reader and Lucius' relationship (including smut, you sluts {I am also slut, don't worry}.

I do want to say though that the depictions of SA are in no attempt to romanticize them. I also decided not to write out the specific scenes because I myself am a survivor, and wanted to focus more on the protagonist's growth. The trauma still affects her story, but I do not want to write rape scenes merely for shock purposes.

Also, if you name is actually "Julia"...no it's not :)

Word Count: 16.1k

It was your own fault, that was what they tried to make you believe.

How dare you not wish to participate in the public baths, how dare you desire to bathe in the place you felt most safe.

Foolish, foolish girl. You were not even safe on your own porch in the house you grew up in.

Your father hadn’t been the wealthiest of merchants, but before he passed into the Elysian Fields after his death that year, he had made a fortune; so much as to buy a bathtub for your house.

If anything, you had bathed at night when you believed no one could see you not for your own modesty, but to prevent anyone from stealing it.

Yet, one particular night, a man had spotted you.

The Emperor Geta of Rome had watched your naked form glisten in the moonlight as you washed the most intimate areas of your body; sighing at the feeling of being clean after the day, only for your soul to feel tainted once morning broken.

Guards had nearly broken the hinges off the front door to your house, and dragged you to the palace. You had lived in that house for your entire life, the same neighbors beside you, yet as you kicked and screamed…none helped.

You had grown tired once in the palace, and the eldest of the twin emperors stood before you. He cupped your chin.

“What is your name, girl?”

You answered him, attempting to speak with venom, but the quaking of your voice betrayed anxiety.

He hummed, repeating your name. “Why are you all alone?”

You huffed. “My mother died in the battle that is childbirth, and my father was lost to an ailment in his loins.”

“You have no brothers?” Geta questioned, his eyes running down your form. “No husband?”

“They called my father strange for leaving me his possessions.”

“He mustn’t have passed on so long ago.”

“Why does the death of my father concern you if you only seek my body?” You questioned.

A smile twisted upon his lips. “Perhaps I like to know my fruit before I devour it.”

And he kissed you.

You had been kissed before, but this was the first time you hadn’t wanted to be. You hadn't expected him to be serious about devouring you. His teeth sank into your chin, then your cheeks, until they were finally upon your lips.

It was the first time, in all your life, you felt your body grow cold and freeze despite his hands wandering over you, pulling at the thin fabric of clothing that covered you.

You fell to the floor, clinging to it desperately as he tried to lead you to his chambers. You had expected him to order one of his men to kill you, or have them carry you…

Instead, he took you right there. He simply lifted his own robes then yours and stole what wasn’t his to take.

All you remembered of that was counting how many pillars were in the room.

You were one of his several concubines. Yet, despite being the newest, you were his favorite.

“Julia,” he whispered to you in the night a month after he had made you his. A month after he had decided to call you by his mother’s name instead of your own. “are you awake?”

You mewled, sitting up. “I am now, my love. What is it?”

Geta smiled, holding out a stack of parchment. “Look at what some of the men found in Carthago.”

You rubbed your eyes as the lamps in his room brightened before looking down at the crudely written words. Geta looked at you in earnest.

“Can you read them?”

A few days prior at him and his brother Caracalla’s birthday festivities, it was revealed that you spoke five languages: Latin, Phoenician, Aramaic, Hebrew, and Greek. Your father had taught you every single one of them to fend for yourself amongst all kind of people.

Now, it was nothing more than a shameless trick Geta used to his amusement.

“Rome’s Cleopatra,” he deemed you in front of the crowd. “the Woman with a Golden Mouth”.

Everyone in that room and all of Rome knew that your ability to speak so many dialects was not the only reason he gave you that title.

Still, as you lay in his bed with crumbling parchment in hands, you forced a tender smile. “Yes, I know what it says. Would you like to know?”

He laid his head in your lap without another word.

Months passed, and he had grown kinder…only when it was night, and even so, that was only when the moon was full.

There wasn’t a day where your body hadn’t ached from the turmoil he put you through. It was hard to discern when he would want you to be small and subservient to him, or confident and commanding in matters of the bed.

The handmaids that were blessed to not be in bed with him would bathe and coddle you as best as they could, for even through your suffering, you tried your best to treat them with kindness.

You didn’t even know who you were after the fourth month of being Geta’s slave.

Gone was the girl who had a peaceful life; there was now the Emperor’s Pet.

General Marcus Acacius returned to Rome after overtaking the kingdom Numidia in the emperors’ names, and it was the first time you were in his presence. It was certainly a surprise that Geta would string you alongside him on personal matters that had nothing to do with sex.

The general would glance at you every so often, and his look of pity felt more violating that any of the times Geta, or his brother, or anyone else in all of Rome had looked at you.

Upon the general’s return, a series of games at the Colosseum were to be hosted, among parties that would last for the remaining week.

The first was at Senator Thraex's home.

“My little Julia,” Geta caressed your cheek as you sat upon his lap in the makeshift throne. “might you fetch me another cup of wine?”

You nodded, taking his cup and kissing his hair. “I shall, my love.”

He ran his fingers down your neck as you got off of him and made your way to the barrels. Yet, as you passed an open door, something caught your eye. Peeking around the somewhat crack in the door, you saw a few men sat in the room, chains around their ankles and their wrists.

One of them, more muscular than the others with brown curls, held his head low. His skin wasn’t as dark as other men from Africa Propria, but not as pale as the Germanic lands.

When his eyes met yours, you saw a pale blueness only seen in the sky on a summer’s day.

Gasping, you hid behind the door for only a moment before looking again. His gaze was still on you. Deciding to end the strangeness of the situation, you spoke.

“I’m sorry.” You apologized.

He said nothing; you tried again.

“I’m sorry.” You said in Greek.

The look in his eyes changed to confusion, but he said nothing.

“Hebrew?” You questioned. “Aramaic? Phoenician?”

“You speak Phoenician?” He asked as if he hadn’t heard it in forever.

You nodded. “I speak five languages.”

“Ah,” he answered in your native tongue to your surprise. “Rome’s Cleopatra.”

Your nose scrunched as if you smelt something rotten. “You understood me the first time?”

“I did.”

“So why not say anything?”

“What am I to say to your pity?”

You hummed. “I do not pity you, I was showing respect.”

He scoffed. “Respect? Am I a man that looks as if I deserve respect?”

“I believe every man deserves respect so as long he is kind.” You glared at him.

The man shook his head, sighing. “You are a foolish child if you believe that men can be kind.”

“I haven’t for quite a while.” you stated. “I pray that it is the hope that kills me.”

He questioned. “And not one of the emperors?”

“What is your name, slave?” You crossed your arms.

He huffed, drawing his eyes away from you and clenching his fists before relaxing them. “Hanno.”

You nodded. “They call me ‘Julia’.”

“But that is not your name.”

It was blistering hot that particular day, but you felt your body run cold; the same cold you felt when Geta…when he first…

“Who says it is not my name?” You challenged.

“You are merely a concubine,” he said. “you are not a part of his lineage, and therefore, your name is not ‘Julia’.”

You do not know why you seethed with so much rage from his words. You did not even spit on him; you merely stomped away from that door, filled up the emperor’s cup, and went back to Geta.

“It took you nearly a millennium to come back, my sweet.” He scoffed yet kissed your bare shoulder. “I was beginning to worry.”

You shook your head, leaning against him as you sat on the arm of the throne. “You mustn’t over me, my love.”

“You seem distressed.” Caracalla teased beside you. “This is a festivity; you should be merry!”

All you did was smile and nod. It was a pleasant change from the parties you were forced to attend in the past; you weren’t the center of attention, and this was the first time Geta dressed you in the bright colors everyone else wore instead of white.

You could pretend you were royalty for a day.

Not so long after you came back, both Thraex and Macrinus, a stable master who traveled far and wide for new gladiators, approached with their own champions to fight.

You were not even at the Colosseum, and yet, violence still had to be played for everyone’s amusement.

Hanno entered from the door you had previously been at, and another man entered from the opposite side of the room. Both were given swords.

“Brother,” Hanno began. “let us not kill each other for their amusement-.”

The other man struck him without hesitation. You had seen fights before, but none like this. It was ruthless, quick yet drawn out. Hanno lost his sword in the middle of it all, leading to him smashing a flowerpot over his opponent’s head.

The fight was still not done, he rose up on his feet and took his sword from the ground, raising it high above him. Hanno, against all odds, knocked him back onto the ground and took the sword just as they both sood, stabbing his opponent in the chest.

A chorus of cheers and groans echoed in the room. Geta arose from his seat, laughing and applauding as you sat there, eyes as wide as they could be at the bloodied sight before you.

“Remarkable! Gladiator, which part of the Empire do you hail from?” He questioned Hanno. Hanno stood stoically, glaring at the emperors before him. Geta tutted, turning to you. “Julia, open your golden mouth and-.”

“-The gates of hell are open night and day.” Hanno interrupted in the common language. “Smooth the descent, and easy is the way: But to return, and view the cheerful skies, in this the task and mighty labor lies.”

Geta smiled. “Ah…a poet!”

The rest of the world fell away as you could not tear your gaze away from the man laying on the floor. If he hadn’t died from his wounds, he would’ve from choking on his own blood.

“-You understand, don’t you?” Geta asked.

You sat in your own personal chambers that night for the first time in a while. You were never overjoyed to be in his bed, but being sent to your own perplexed you.

Then, he simply told you that you were to be General Acacius’ for the night.

“He’s sacrificed so much, my little Julia.” Geta combed his fingers through your hair to soothe you. “I refused him once already; I cannot do so again. Do you understand?”

The emperor had never shared you with anyone. He wasn’t delicate with you, but at least you knew what to expect.

He clenched your jaw. “I do not care to ask you a third time, girl.”

“Yes,” you squeaked. “I understand, Geta.”

Nodding, he softened his hold, leaning his head against yours. “You are still mine alone; I promise, it will only be us after tonight.”

You swallowed thickly. “Okay.”

“There she is.” He kissed your lips before pulling away and standing. “He will be in right away. Do not fret, I told him to be gentle with you.”

Geta left through your chamber doors without another word. There you were, sitting on your bed, draped in silks you should have known were given to you out of lust and not out of kindness. Your eyes trailed to the empty vase on a table beside your bed.

You didn’t know what possessed you that night, but you yanked it off the table, and smashed it on your bed. The handle of the door began to rattle. Quickly pushing the shattered pieces under your bed, you hid a shard behind your back and sat at the head of the bed.

In came General Marcus Acacius, wearing only a thin overshirt that went down to his knees. You’d done this game of seduction many times with Geta, how different could it be for him? Grabbing the bottom of your night dress, you raised it until it bunched up your thighs, revealing your bare center to him.

He took a hitched breath. “My lady-.”

“-What troubles you, general?” You asked then smiled with gritted teeth. You felt your hand begin to ache as you squeezed the vase shard.

Marcus furrowed his brow, and as if he already knew, he said. “Cover yourself and show me what is behind your back.”

Your eyes dropped along with your heart. Still, as his face turned into a scowl, you cooperated. Handing him the shard and quickly pulling your dress back down, you spoke with intensity.

“If you will not stab me before you rape my corpse, then I shall throw myself from the nearest window and allow the people of Rome to defile me. I will not lie on my back and take it anymore.”

He took a deep breath, holding the sorry excuse for a weapon in his hand. “It is unwise to tell the enemy your plans.”

…What?

“It would serve you greatly to control the faces you make before harming a man as well. Yet, above all,” He held the shard out to you. “your enemy is not afraid to kill you; you should feel the same.”

“Why do you tell me this?” You asked, still not believing it.

Marcus sat up. “I believe we can help each other, my little dove.”

“How?”

He lowered his voice. “You have heard of the gladiator Maximus, his dream of a free Rome, yes?”

“Yes.”

“A dream that cannot be obtained from the rule of two emperors.” He lamented. “My wife and I, along with several others, plan…to fulfill our shared dream.”

They were going to overthrow Geta and Caracalla.

“What gives you reason to believe I won’t say a word of this to them?” You asked.

He smiled for the first time since you’d seen him. “That freedom belongs to you.”

“I…I’m still lost. How will I be of any use?”

“Emperor Geta favors you considerably. He is a man, and not a cunning one at that. There are ways to wear foolish men down.”

You nodded, beginning to understand. “There’s always a woman.”

“There’s always a woman.” He solidified. “Gain the trust of the public; make them love you, and they will not see the emperor’s whore but a woman of the people.”

“And how will that dethrone them?

He smiled. “My wife and I will meet with the counsel tomorrow night. I will send for you.”

You scoffed. “Geta said that after tonight I am just his alone.”

“Then I’ll refuse to give him Persia and India.”

“He’ll have your head.” You berated. “Besides, I don’t think he’d believe my cunt would be worth two countries.”

Marcus shrugged. “Considering he only wants you to himself, I have no doubt that it is worth that much. But I am unable to confirm it.”

You sighed. “Even if he’ll allow it, he’ll send a guard with me.”

“I am not one to invite a third into the bedroom.”

“Then where shall-?”

“-Little dove,” he interrupted. “the city was not built in a day, therefore it cannot be emancipated in one.”

Gods help and forgive you for being impatient on wanting to be free. Still, you composed yourself. “Alright.”

He nodded, standing up. “I will be seeing you on the morrow, one way or another.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

“For what, child?”

You swallowed thickly, avoiding his gaze. “Not forcing yourself upon me.”

Marcus’ face softened, and he lowered himself to your height as you sat on the bed. He took your face into his hands, and you immediately tensed when his face drew closer to yours.

“Don’t be afraid,” he whispered. “it’s not that kind of a kiss.”

With a tenderness that reminded you of your father, he placed his lips on your forehead and pulled away. Giving you one last knowing nod, he promptly left your chambers.

You wanted to do nothing more than shed tears of happiness, yet for no reason at all, you could not cry.

Your father had only taken you to the Colosseum to watch mock animal hunting. Even when your friends invited you to watch gladiator fights or other public executions, he had found ways of making you stay far away from them.

There was a strange humor in sitting in the best chair for your very first gladiator duel. That being in the front as Emperor Geta ran his hand up and down your back.

In utter honestly, you tried to stray your attention away from the fights, speaking more with Caracalla of all people. He was more erratic than Geta by far, and it was more difficult to tell when he would be kind one moment, then out for blood the next.

Yet at least he was open about being cruel, unlike his brother.

When you would watch the fights…a familiar face seemed to catch both you and the general’s wife’s, Lucilla, eye.

The man with light skin yet hailed from Numidia…Hanno.

You hadn’t recognized him at first, for it wasn’t his mere presence that drew you to finally look at the event before you. No, it was the way he fought.

Most men previously had attacked with brute force; just stabbing the beast and hoping it would die. Hanno fought with wit. Simply using the sand beneath his feet as an advantage, blinding and tricking the rhinoceros to run directly into the wall.

He was cunning…he commanded the men beside him as if it weren’t the first time he’d done so in his life.

Then, when it came to deciding his fate when all seemed lost…Geta turned to you.

“My love,” he played with a strand of your hair. “shall I show the poet mercy, or bloodshed for your entertainment?”

Even if it weren’t Hanno, your answer would have been the same. “Mercy.”

As a hush fell over the crow, Geta rose his thumb up, sparing him. As cheers erupted, Hanno shook his head.

“No, no mercy.”

Geta furrowed his brow. “Gladiator, we have spared your life. No one refuses-.”

“-I would sooner face your blade than accept Roman mercy!”

Thus, the fight continued. An act of defiance…Peculiar…Quite peculiar.

Both you and Marcus were correct about the night; Geta did indeed allow you to go to the general’s house, but only if you were escorted by a trusted guard. When you arrived, Marcus immediately draped you in a cloak, practically covering your face and had excused as not wanting the staff to tell his wife of who he was bringing into their house.

Marcus led you into his chambers, and there you saw two people. Apparently, they weren’t even apart of the counsel; simply paid to pretend to be both you and the general as the guard would listen outside, assume it was the two of you fucking.

He had certainly thought through every little detail.

Marcus pushed on a stone in his chambers, revealing a hidden door. You had only heard of these within stories, and as he led you down the darkened passage with only a torch in one hand, and the other holding yours, you had never felt more alive since your past life had been stolen.

You were welcomed to a room filled with dozens of the senate you had passed by in the palace. How strange it was to see them all huddled into a dimly lit room, plotting the demise of the men they initially swore to serve.

An arm looped through yours, and it was Lucilla. She whispered into your ear.

“Whatever you have to say, speak it to me, and I shall speak to them.”

You turned. “Why must I not speak for myself?”

“I only allowed you to be here if Marcus agreed to not let your voice be heard.”

“What?”

“I will explain more to you soon after, I vow it.”

Thus the meeting began. In all truthfulness, you were only able to understand the bare minimum: In a few days’ time, Marcus would lead five-thousand men into Rome to overtake the thrones of the empire, and thus destroy them, restoring the Roman Republic.

When the conversation turned to you, you were merely referred to as an informant who had the closest relationship to the emperor.

It still perplexed you as to why you needed to remain anonymous; there was an excellent chance they would know you as ‘Geta’s Favorite Whore’.

Yet, you did your best to inform the counsel of a plan you had simply created on the spot (they did not need to know the latter part of it).

You would gain more favor from the public, while at the same time, putting Geta’s worries to rest about any uprising or dislike from the majority of the empire.

How you would do that…it was fortunate that they didn’t ask you to give specifics.

Once the meeting ended, you were taken back up from the secret passage, yet instead of going back to the chambers, you felt Lucilla take your hand and lead you down another path.

You couldn’t even get a sound out before she said. “It is alright; he knows I want to speak with you in private. We will not take long.”

She led you up into the bath area of the house. It was quite beautiful; the tub wasn’t made of porphyry, but that did not make it any less exquisite. There was something about it being lesser of the baths you’ve had in the palace. It wasn’t entirely reminiscent of the one you had at home…

But you felt safer.

Lucilla had been gentle in pulling off your robes, and never once did it feel wrong. You were a woman and so was she. She never pulled or scratched your skin, and you knew that she only felt sorrow when she gazed upon the bruises and wounds you had received from Geta.

“How long have you been at the palace?” She questioned as she carded herbs through your hair.

You glanced at her, sighing. “I’ve stopped counting…months, I know.”

“Were you forced to leave any family? Brothers, sisters, children?”

“No. My mother died birthing me, and my father was taken half a year ago to an ailment emperor Caracalla also suffers from.”

She hummed. “Have you ever been in love?”

You laughed the most genuine laugh ever since you became a slave. “Why on earth would you ask that?!”

“I am merely curious!” She teased. “You are truly beautiful, and there is no doubt that men would throw themselves off cliffs for you; but it matters most of who you would choose.”

Her question scraped your mind. There had been times you were fond of, even lusted over, men both your age and older…but love? The only one you experienced would be storge; perhaps philia…but eros? Agape?

“I don’t think I have been.” You answered. “Have you?”

She nodded, a forlorn look in her eyes, but smile upon her mouth. “Twice.”

“Twice?” You couldn’t help the nervous giggle that left your throat. “It can happen twice?”

“It’s possible, yes.”

“And who have you willingly fell captive to?”

“Marcus is the most recent, though there are days I do not understand what he sees in me. Then…the father of my child.”

Lucilla poured water upon your head to wash out the soap in your hair, and a silence fell over both of you. One that was broken when you spoke a name.

“Lucius…”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“He-he had gone missing all those years ago, hadn’t he?”

“He had.” She ran the bar of soap over the top half of your body. “I believe he must’ve been around your age when he ran away.”

“And there hasn’t been any sign of him since?”

“No.” She answered right away.

You curled into yourself. “I apologize if I upset you my lady-.”

“-No. I…I love talking about him.”

You managed a gentle smile to soothe her. “What was he like?”

“Headstrong.” She chuckled. “Wanted to become a gladiator more than anything in the world. Yet, he was gentle, and kind as well. He…I believe he would’ve adored you.”

You shook your head. “Maybe when we were children, but I don’t think so now.”

“It’s hard to judge.”

Whilst the air between you turned into more intimate topics, the question that had weighed on your mind was brought to light. “Why did you not allow me to speak or show my face tonight?”

Lucilla stopped her ministrations. You looked up at her, and the look she wore bore an exhaustion that you had felt recently.

“I know too well the cruelties of men.” She began softly. “My brother had done everything to keep me from ever resisting him…he had done everything. I had only wished for someone to be there with me at every moment when I faced his abuse.”

Words; simple words that meant everything to you was what made you weep.

There was no warning at all. Once she was finished, tears sprang to your eyes, and you felt your sinus clog up. Even as you tried to tear yourself away from her comfort, she merely wrapped her arms around you in an embrace from a mother you had never felt.

“I don’t want to go back.” You begged. “Please don’t let me.”

She kissed your hair. “I’m so sorry.”

“No!” You sobbed. “I-I don’t want to! Please, please, you can’t make me. I-I-I-!”

Lucilla shushed you, rocking you back and forth. “Do not weep. You will be free beside all of Rome, and the past months of your life will be nothing more than a distant, horrible dream.”

You pulled away just enough to look at her. “You-you must promise me something.”

“My child-.”

“-Promise me and I shall help you overthrow them until my last dying breath!”

She stared for a moment before nodding. “Yes. What is it?”

Your lip quivered. “When I die, you must bind my legs with chains or ropes when you bury me. I have,” you whimpered. “I have been told of men who dig up the bodies of girls and…”

Lucilla kissed your forehead before holding you once more. “I vow I will honor your wishes.”

All you could do was believe her.

There were more times than not the Emperor Geta would talk about filling you with his seed as he bedded you. You never were able to discern if he was serious about wanting to give you a child (they would be his, not yours).

It all became too real when you didn’t bleed that month.

Yet, you also did not feel sick in the morning, and your breasts hadn’t swelled. You still had urinated on wheat seeds for several weeks, but they had not sprouted.

You weren’t with child…yet there was nothing stopping you from convincing Rome you were. It would certainly be a risk; for there was no telling how Geta would react. But that was a risk you were willing to take.

Once a week, you were allowed to go outside the palace during the day, and you had chosen then to venture out into the numerous markets. It was nice to speak with the merchants you knew from your childhood. Some were elders who would watch over you when your father was busy, others were friends who had grown up with you.

“Now what would a little empress want with commoner’s food?” A man’s low timbre voice asked behind you.

Turning your head, you saw Macrinus standing before you with a curious grin. You mirrored it. “That’s not an appropriate title for me.”

“Ah, you are correct.” He nodded. “My apologies, ‘Lady with The Golden Mouth’. Or do you prefer ‘Rome’s Delight?’.”

“You may call me whatever you wish if you’d like.” You forced a laugh and turned back to the merchant you had known since you were a babe. “I’ll take a sack of wheat and small bag of garlic, Gaius.”

“Of course, lady Julia.”

Not even a childhood friend could say your real name. A tight smile formed upon your lips when he turned to sack the wheat before you. Macrinus spoke again.

“You still didn’t answer me about why you’re exactly here.”

“I am not an empress.” You turned to him. “I am not a queen from another realm, I am not even a lady. I am a lowly whore that was fortunate enough to be chosen by the emperor. I like to keep my own schedule from before, so I am aloud to bake my own bread.”

He hummed. “Is that so?”

“Yes.”

Gaius handed you the sack of wheat and garlic, and you held out three silver coins. He shook his head. “No, just a copper-.”

“-Please.” Was all you said.

He hesitated, then took them from you, smiling. “May Fortuna rain a thousand blessings upon your head.”

“And unto you as well.” You curtsied and turned on your heel to leave.

Macrinus walked beside you. “How generous you are.”

“I try to be.” You decided to change the topic. “You are in charge of Hanno, are you not?”

“I certainly am, why do you ask?”

“Just out of interest.” You shrugged. “There is talk of him being similar to the one Maximus from years ago. Many admire him already and it has only been a day.”

Macrinus laughed. “It is my duty to entertain the people. I noticed though that you are more prudish of the games.”

“I must admit, I am not used to the violence.”

“A sheltered girl?”

“Ashamedly so.”

“There is no shame at all. So, it is the Numidian that has captured your affection?” He teased. “How scandalous for the young empress to fall for a slave.”

You chuckled. “Nothing of the sort, I just find him amusing.”

“Oh, I am more than happy to let you see him alone if you ever so desire. You don’t need to wander upon him at another party.”

Your carefree air fell once he asked that. “I don’t know what you-.”

“-It’s alright.” He interrupted. “There’s nothing wrong with being curious, I am only concerned for your own safety.”

You stood taller, a shy smile upon your lips. “I am capable of taking care of myself, sir.”

“Of course my lady, why else would you be out here in the streets of commoners without a chaperone?”

Purposefully, you turned onto one of the crowded piazzas where the music and laughter was the loudest. You grinned from ear to ear.

“Oh please, don’t tell me you volunteered yourself to keep me safe.”

He laughed. “No, just wanted to say hello.”

You didn’t have time to respond, as one of the performers had recognized you. Ah, a girl that lived in the house across from yours when you were children! You still remembered her name, and after you passed your belongings to Macrinus, she pulled you into the circle of performers, dancing with you.

You laughed the most you had that year; in fact, you swore your bruised your ribs just from the sheer joy you felt. You don’t know how long you danced and sang with those who were your neighbors and friends, but just as you felt your feet begin to give out, Macrinus put his hand on your shoulder.

“I believe you should go back to the palace and rest.”

Nodding, you said farewell to your companions and took the bag of wheat and garlic back from him. “You are right, thank you so much.”

He grinned. “Let me escort you back.”

“No,” you walked ahead of him. “I wish not to bother you anymore. Good day, Macrinus!”

You lost yourself in the crowd, purposefully making it harder for him to follow. Once you were in the palace, you rushed into the kitchen, holding the sack of wheat behind your back, you greeted the cooks and snuck into the small pantry. You set the sack down on a shelf and pocketed two single reeds, along with an onion.

That night, Geta had called you into his chambers. Before going, you had cut the onion and brought it to hover around your eyes. You were crying by the time you were at his door. Immediately, he took notice of your reddened eyes and tear-stained cheeks.

“What is it, what’s wrong?”

You shook your head, only crying more. It was less because of the onion now, and just everything coming down crashing onto your shoulders once more. Geta pulled you into his chambers by your shoulders, sitting you on the bed.

“Tell me now what is bothering you.” He commanded.

You shook your head. “I-I can’t-.”

“-Now, Julia!”

Taking a deep breath, you reached into the pocket of your breast, taking out the two reeds and setting it in his hand. He furrowed his brows.

“I do not understand.”

You took a deep breath. “The handmaids have given me wheat and barley seeds ever since I have arrived. If they grow, then that means…that means I am with child.”

The look on his face spoke it all. You were certain you were dead.

“I-I didn’t know how you would feel, and-and so I-.”

He crushed you in an embrace, attaching his lips to your jaw. “Jupiter has blessed me.”

It was the first time you felt happiness in his presence. Of course, not because of him, but still joy. You returned his embrace, sighing in relief. “You are happy?”

“Happy?” He pulled away, holding your face in his hands. “There is nothing in this world that could sadden me right now. I will have an heir.”

As long as it was a boy (if it were real at all).

You feigned your smile and leaned into his touch. “I am fortunate to give you one.”

“And I am most fortunate to have you.” He laid down and brought you with him.

Perhaps, in another life, he was kind to you and didn’t only value you until you gave him a child. Perhaps you would be in love with him, and he would make you empress

But you weren’t fortunate to be born into that fantasy.

You wished nothing more than to sit with Marcus and Lucilla as you made your way into the emperor’s booth of the Colosseum. The three of you had managed to speak to one another, but only about meaningless things. Still, you just enjoyed their company.

 It would be more exciting that day. A naval battle, the Naumachia. The arena was filled with water and sea creatures you could never even possibly imagine. It was a wonder in and of itself how all the ships managed to fit themselves in the arena.

“Caracalla,” you said to the brother beside you as you were about to take your seat. He looked up upon hearing his name. You handed him the bag filled with garlic. “I finally found some for you.”

He grinned from ear to ear. “And you say that if I mix this with myrrh, I shall be cured?”

“It should treat the lesions on your skin.” You corrected. “This is what I did for my father.”

He died of the same ailment, but Caracalla didn’t ask; simply smiled. “Thank you, dear sister.”

You nodded, sitting down on the arm of Geta’s throne that would have put you in the middle of him and his brother. He wrapped his arm around you.

“You’ve been far kinder these days.” Geta pointed out.

“Perhaps that means I’ll be the most agreeable mother.” You jested, kissing his cheek.

He smirked, and as the man on the far end of the Colosseum began to announce the games, Geta stood up and rose his grail.

“I would like to propose a toast!” He yelled. The crowd fell silent, and you felt your skin crawl away from you. Geta continued. “To the health of wives and to mothers. Especially to my lover, Julia, who carries my son the moment as we speak!"

An eruption of applause and cheers filled the stadium. You blushed upon the praise, and genuinely wanted to hide yourself from the gaze of everyone; especially the ones closest to you. You could feel both Marcus and Lucilla’s eyes on you, attempting to hide their shock and perhaps horror. The worst was that of Macrinus.

He knew. Just from the look of him (or perhaps it was your own paranoia), but he had to have known from the moment you bought the wheat.

Still, they all applauded, and ones the excitement of your supposed pregnancy died down, the enthusiasm for the battle was born.

It was perhaps the one event you could stomach. While you could still clearly see men dying, it wasn’t as horribly bloody as the prior. Were you becoming numb to the cruelty of these games because you were pretending…or were you letting the game invade your head?

As several ships collided within the growing chaos, men would either die from their fellow man or would simply fall into the water and be devoured by beasts you had never seen until then. Your eyes had been following Hanno the whole time, whether purposefully or not.

Words could not describe the terror that had been brought upon you as you saw him aim his crossbow at the booth you sat in.

You did not think the arrow would pierce you, but it did. It longed into your right shoulder, and a cry you had no idea you were capable of making tore through your throat.

Tears blinded your vision, but the screams from the whole arena deafened your ears you could not even hear what Geta was saying to you.

You could barely make out Marcus’ in front of you as he snapped the body of the arrow and then hoisted you into his arms. You’d never been carried like this as a woman; only as a child by your father.

The heat of Rome felt hotter that day as the pain in your shoulder only grew tighter and tighter as if your skin was going to stretch away from you. The next thing you knew, you were laid upon a cold, solid surface, and sound returned to your ears.

“It’s alright, you’re alright.” Geta shushed, brushing your hair. “You’ll be okay.”

Someone stuck their fingers into your wounded shoulder, and you could only scream. A tender hand laid itself on your cheek, and just from touch alone, you knew it was Lucilla.

“Do not touch her!” Geta hissed, swatting her away.

“No, no!” You whined, reaching out and holding onto her.

Lucilla dropped to her knees, kissing every part of skin that was available, mumbling. “I know, I know. This too shall pass, you are stronger than you believe, my dear.”

Then, just like that, you felt the arrowhead leave your body. The pain was still excruciating beyond belief, but all that was left was for your arm to be wrapped in cloth, and to rest.

One of the guards in charge of the gladiators approached you when you were finally able to sit up.

“My lady,” he began. “did you happen to get a look at the man who shot you?”

“She’s only starting to recover!” Geta snapped. “How dare you. She carries my child, and-!”

“-It’s alright, Geta.” You soothed.

You could’ve done it. Told him with full confidence that it was Hanno. There would have been your chance of power; to kill the man who had nearly killed you.

Yet…you were vindictive and wanted to do it yourself.

“I have no memory.” You told him. “It happened so fast.”

How horrible it is that Geta would stop forcing you to pleasure him only when you were supposedly with his child and injured. You assumed that if you were suffering from only one of those ailments, than he still would’ve held you down and used you.

You thought nothing else would happen that night. You would simply speak to one another, pretending to be completely enamored by his existence, and then lie down to sleep.

Of course, that would be too peaceful.

You were awoken gently, to your surprise, by Geta shaking you. Humming, you rubbed your eyes. “What is it?”

“The general and his whore wife.” He gritted his teeth. “They planned to kill us.”

You shot right up, forgetting about your injured shoulder, and let out a cry. Geta helped you stand, and that was when you saw Caracalla standing before you, his monkey companion Dundus perching upon his shoulder.

“How-how do we know?” You stammered, not having to feign your terror.

Neither of them answered, and the three of you were led out into the throne room. There before you in their night clothes just as you were, Lucilla and Marcus.

Geta approached them first, seething. “The honor, the dignitas that Rome has bestowed upon you. All this you have forfeited by your treachery. Thanks to the civic virtue of men like Macrinus and Thraex your insurrection has been revealed-.”

 “-Torture me if you want,” Marcus shook his head. “but please, don’t lecture me.”

Geta’s face turned almost as red as his hair. “Your name and deeds will be forgotten, lost to history! You are damned to oblivion!”

“You damn me?” He laughed. “I don’t care. Everything is forgotten in time. Empires fall… and so do Emperors.”

Caracalla rose from his seat, reaching for his brother’s sword. “Why wait? I'll gut him right now!”

Geta grabbed onto him. “Brother! Brother! His death must be public.”

“Public, yes. Hang his entrails from the city gates!” He pointed at Lucilla. “Crucify her!”

“No!”

All eyes fell on you after your outburst. Even you froze in place, feeling bile begin to rise up within you. Geta let go of Caracalla. “‘No?’ You say? What would you have me do then?”

Swallowing thickly, it was hard to speak as tears began to fall. You held your stomach. “Crucifixion is…it’s…”

His face dropped into a scowl. “You aren’t saying I should let them live, are you?”

“No-!”

“-Then which is it?!”

Your voice fell silent as your chest constricted, and you could barely breathe. Your mouth would move, but nothing came out; not even strangled noises of desperation.

“If I may, your grace,” Macrinus stepped forward. “I believe she means to bring equal punishments to the crimes committed.”

Geta furrowed his brow. “I do not know what you speak of.”

“Please, let the rest of them out of the room so I might explain more clearly.’

He considered his words, then turned to his guards. “The criminals to the dungeons, my brother to his chambers, and my love-.”

“-I wish to be alone tonight.” You stated.

The emperor scoffed. “What?”

“The babe.” You began. “I-I have helped many women deliver their children, and what has always caused an early birth is stress. I-I cannot take any-anymore of it, or I fear…”

Finally, he took in the sight of your fearful face. Sighing heavily, he said. “Put my lady in her chambers for tonight.”

“Thank you.” You kissed his hand.

You were led into your own chambers, and once the door was shut, you threw yourself onto your bed and wept. You wept until you were wailing into the night, you wept until your eyes were as red as the sun in the morning, you wept until it hurt to continue to do so…

It was unknown how long you had cried, but the opening of your bedroom door is what alarmed you. Snapping your head over in the direction, you were shocked to see Macrinus.

“The general and his wife’s fate has been decided.” He stated.

You held a pillow to your chest, rubbing your reddened nose. “And what is it?”

“The emperor has chosen to let the gods decide, and Acacius will fight against Hanno tomorrow in the arena.”

“You mean you convinced him to.” You glared.

Macrinus approached you. “May I try some of the bread you have baked, my lady?”

You held no confusion when he asked you that. Surprise, yes; but you knew what he asked. You took a deep breath. “I believe I don’t understand.”

“The wheat you bought only days ago.” He reminded. “You said you would bake your own bread. Surely, you didn’t use it as false proof of you carrying the emperor’s heir?”

You didn’t dare look at him. Even when he laid his hand on our back, rubbing circles over your nightdress. “I wish to help you, my child. You must be willing to help me first.”

That was why he also didn’t alert Geta of your betrayal…unless, he had no idea of your alliance with Marcus and Lucilla.

“What is it that you want?” You asked.

“All in time.” He soothed. “I wish to give you the privilege to speak to someone.”

You finally looked at him, your eyes wide. “General Acacius?”

“No.” He shook his head. “I am unable to escort you to the dungeons below the palace. Yet, I can take you to the pit of gladiators.”

“It is easier for you to take me out of the palace than below it?”

“Take you to the man who nearly overthrew the emperors?” He chuckled bitterly. “Not possible. I cannot grant you the gift to say goodbye, but I can allow you to bargain for his life.”

You blinked. “Hanno?”

“Correct.”

“How can I leave the palace at this hour, after what has just happened?”

“You underestimate the silence men will take when it is weighed in gold.” He tutted. “I can only give you ten minutes with him. Will you go or not?”

You were forced to decide quickly…This could be your chance. He had nearly took your life the other day, and the pain in your shoulder was just a growing reminder of that. If he were dead…there was no way you could overtake him.

Yet, you learned that, in a world of men, you didn’t have to be stronger than them: Only smarter, and faster.

“I will go.”

You had hidden a kitchen knife under your bed the moment you had your own chambers. Geta had gifted you several colorful ribbons he loved to see you wear in your hair. He perhaps did not expect you to tie one around your waist under your gown, securing the knife.

Macrinus led you swiftly from the palace to the gladiator pit, which was thankfully not a long walk. You ignored the stares and intrigued calls from the other men as you treaded the halls. You were stopped by a door. Macrinus didn’t even warn Hanno who stood shirtless in his cell, only opened the door and let you enter.

“I’ll rattle the door when it’s time.” That was all he said and left.

Hanno didn’t even seem alarmed. “And what is Rome’s Delight doing here?”

Your blood boiled upon seeing him, yet you remained calm. “I have come to make a bargain; a plea.”

That was when the puzzlement appeared on his face. “And what is that?”

“The man you will fight tomorrow, you must spare him.”

“Why should I?”

Your grief and despair had made itself known to everyone around you for the past few days; yet, in that cell, only with Hanno as your witness, did he see your rage.

“He is the one who saved my life when you meant to steal it!”

The only change you saw in him was his jaw clenching. Other than that, nothing. “The general?”

You only nodded.

He sighed, brushing past you and shaking the door. “Macrinus!”

“What are you doing?” You hissed.

“I will not have you waste your breath on that man.”

“I will give you anything you desire.”

Hanno faced you. “Then you can deliver his head on a platter for me.”

You gawked as he walked away.  “What have I ever done to you?”

“What?”

“Do you truly hate me that much?!” You turned back to him, getting closer. “Kill the man that is the reason I am still here?”

The last thing you thought you would hear left his lips: A laugh. No, not a genuine one. One that you yourself have released on multiple occasions when you have been in disbelief.

“You truly believe everything that happens is because of you?” He taunted. “Has the emperor been filling your mind with so many delusions of grandeur, you can no longer conceive a world where you are not the center of it?”

“Is it so difficult for you to answer my question because you are a fool, or because you wish to not admit it?” You hardened your tone.

“What is your question, my empress?”

“Why did you shoot me?!”

“The arrow was not meant for you!”

You felt your shoulders drop upon the confession. Your aggression ceased only because of your bewilderment.

“Then who?” You asked.

He backed away. “The general you so wish to defend.”

“Whatever it is that he has done, it can be solved with-.”

“-He murdered my wife.”

Hanno said it so easily. No pain, no rage, nothing. It was a fact, and that was what he wanted you to know.

And how stupid you had been. No one in all of Rome was pure of heart; including Marcus. He was a war general; how could you think he wouldn’t have committed sins against the innocent?

“Why so silent, my lady?” He asked. “Are you in disbelief that he has enemies?”

“I didn’t know that.” You admitted.

“That the general is too a monster, or that he killed the only thing in my life worth living for?”

“And that is your desire?” You prodded. “Take his life so that he may die knowing his wife will be ravaged by wolves?”

When he charged at you, you barely had enough time to reach in your dress and unsheathe your knife. Hanno stopped himself just in time for the tip to kiss his chest. Nothing to cause any more harm than a scratch.

Even though you were not the one hurt, you breathed as if you were. He stared down at you as you shrunk under his gaze, and the two of you remained frozen. That is, until he grabbed both your wrists, and rose them above your head.

“I am only merciful because the general still breathes.” He spoke so only you could hear. “If your bastard of a lover had put him to the sword this night you chose to visit me, you would be dead before you could scream.”

Your nose was an inch from his, that was how close he stood to you. His breath caressed your skin, and you turned away in disgust. He let go of your empty wrist, yet still held the one with the dagger.

“Did you believe you could kill me tonight?” He asked, yet you said nothing. Hanno then brought the dagger to his breastbone, angling it upward. “Do not stab head on; stab up.”

Silence and an iron gaze was your reply.

He then hovered it to the pulse point of his neck. “If you want a quick death, right here; with a thinner blade, preferably.”

Then, he placed the tip just above his brow. “If you need information out of a rat, and you have the stomach to do so, drag it across. It will make the mightiest of men cry like a child in the night.”

“You are clever and a skilled warrior,” you finally said. “what is it you want me to tell you?”

“That you will leave it up to the gods and to me if your general lives or not.”

“But I cannot.” You dared to dig the blade just a little into his skin, and his breath hitched. “My desire for him to live is stronger than for you to die.”

Hanno finally let go of your wrist, and you immediately retracted the knife from his brow. “So do you wish to try again to kill me?”

“I wish for you to show mercy.”

“Mercy?” He questioned. “Mercy upon the man who pillaged my home and killed my wife? Mercy for the one who has made me a slave?”

“I too am a slave and-.”

“-And?!” He cried. “And there is nothing! You are draped in silks whilst I in chains and are bathed in clear waters while I in blood, yet you say we are the same?!”

You swallowed your anger, knowing it would bring you nowhere. “You entertain the horrid creatures of Rome; I am forced to pleasure the emperor. We perform differently, but we are still slaves.”

“You are with child.” He stated. “Will that child also be a slave though the emperor is quick to claim it is his heir?”

The crackling of the torches in the room only added to the fire th in your soul. If not contained correctly, you would surely burn and take him with you.

 “A child…yes.” You relaxed, folding your hands. “A child that I could command to be Geta’s. Perhaps, if I wanted to have the brothers slaughter one another, I could say it belongs to Caracalla. Or, if I despised you anymore than I do at this moment…I could say that it is yours.”

Hanno’s eyes dropped in recognition, saying softly. “You carry an empty womb.”

You nodded. “It is the same as your honor.”

Moments later, the door behind you rattled, and Macrinus spoke even when you didn’t. “The time is up, my little empress.”

You bowed your head to Hanno, curtsying. “Sleep well.”

He said nothing in reply, and you turned on our heel, leaving the cell. You pulled your hood back over your head as Macrinus led you through the darkened streets of the city.

“Did you get what you came for?” He asked.

“No.” Was your immediate reply. “And I do not know truly what I wanted.”

The day was as blistering hot as the others, yet the stare Lucilla gave you as she was being led into the emperor’s viewing box made your blood turn to ice. There was not a hint of wrath upon her face; there was nothing at all.

She already looked as if her soul had been stolen.

“How does your shoulder fair, dear sister?” Caracalla brushed his fingers over your arm.

A watery smile was upon your lips like second nature. “It still aches, but it heals, thank the gods. And your overall health?”

He sighed. “I do not know how much longer I have upon this earth.”

“Do not say such things.” You squeeze his hands. “If the gods will it, you shall live for another hundred years.”

He kissed your hands that held his. “I hope so, my love.”

Your grin fell upon the title, and Geta immediately sat you down on the chair behind him that was beside Lucilla’s. He gave an apologetic look.

“He only grows more confused by the day.” He caressed your cheek. “You are well?”

You were far from it, but you could not say that. “Your son feels better now.”

Geta smiled, lowering his head down to kiss your womb. “He will need all his strength.”

The announcer on the other side of the arena yelled to gain everyone’s attention. “From the vanquished city of Numidia, the victor of three contests in the Colosseum, the barbarian Hanno!”

You watched as he ran up from the pit, sword in hand. On the other side, you watched at they brought in Marcus. You could barely look at his already beaten figure. The announcer continued. “Will challenge General Marcus Acacius for his treason against the lives of the Emperors and the enemy of the State!”

The two approached one another on the sandy field. Even from where you sat, so close to them, you could barely make out the look in their eyes. You assumed their was hatred, but your own eyes must have deceived you, because you swore you saw a hint of regret within Marcus’ own gaze.

You blinked and the battle between the two had begun. It was a different level of insanity at how they fought. Marcus was decades older than Hanno, and yet, there were moments where the Numidian had to keep up with him.

Than, the roles would be reversed.

Blood stained the floor of the Colosseum as they fought. Then, when all feel silent between them, and Marcus could barely stand, his lips moved as he spoke to Hanno, then raised his hand.

He yielded.

The patrons of the arena began to mumble amongst themselves, growing louder and louder. Geta rose to his feet. “Romans! What say you?”

In an instant, choruses begging him to be spared overpowered the few that wanted him to be killed. Geta shut his eyes, raising his hand, and they were silenced.

“The gods have rendered their judgement.”

His thumb pointed downward, and the crowd erupted in dissent. Your heart was forcing itself to beat out of your chest as you could only stare at the sight of Hanno glaring down at the general before him.

He tossed his sword to the side.

You hadn’t even noticed Caracalla stood until you heard him yell. “Kill him, kill him!” Like an angered child.

“Is this how Rome treats its heroes?!” Hanno shouted, staring at the audience all around him and pointing his sword. “If his life has no value, what are yours worth?”

Geta stepped up onto the barrier, balancing between the viewing box and a fifteen-foot drop into the arena. He held his arms out to his side, his sleeves dropping to the ground, and his pale face was red. “The gods have spoken! Kill him!”

From all sides of the stadium, hundreds of archers aimed their bows at the center of the battleground. Yet, none fired. Caracalla jeered.

“In the name of Jupiter, kill him!”

The arrows were released, and they screamed like none other as they fired into the center. As they pierced Marcus’ body, you did not know you had been wailing in fright until Geta had slapped you.

“You mewling cunt!” He cursed. “You wish to weep over the man who nearly had you killed?”

Blood fell upon your tongue from your bruised lip, and you did not dare to look at him nor Lucilla.

“Death will be too good for you!” She cried with all of her heart.

The noise from the crowd died as if the people themselves had done so. Then, just like the confused murmurs when Marcus yielded, the same began to grow and grow into a call of rebellion.

It was all in your ears. Lucilla’s weeping, the curses from the crowd, the panic of the emperors…but you stood absolutely still.

With hooded eyes, they drifted up to see that Geta stood just on the edge of the barrier, his back turned to you. Your gaze fell to the ground below you, and it was only then you realized how high up you truly were.

You do not know who or what willed you to, but you then looked at Hanno still the center, covered in blood. As if he knew what you would do, he shook his head.

“Ah, ah, ah.” Macrinus grabbed your arm roughly when you took one step towards Geta.

The emperors turned to him upon his appearance, and Macrinus loosened his grip on you before saying. “For our safety’s sake, we should leave.”

“Yes.” Geta stepped down, wrapping his arms around you. “We should.”

You never knew there was a safe house in Rome until you were forced into it. Perhaps that was the reason for it being a safe house, so that no one knew of it. Yet, apparently, almost all of the roman citizens found it that night. Or, they were simply rioting wherever a free patch of land was.

The cries played in your ears despite them being behind heavy walls of the safe house, and you dared not to peek out the windows as the several fires would temporarily blind you. In the house was you, Macrinus, Dondus (Caracalla’s pet monkey, although he’d call him his other half), and the twin emperors.

“How is the babe?” Geta asked as you sat with your head hanging low.

Of course he would ask that. You didn’t look at him. “He is in fear for his life.”

“I understand,” he sighed. “but there-.”

“-But what?” You finally looked at him, hissing. “Chaos has fallen upon the city because of your actions.”

“There was nothing else to do.” Geta glared at you. “He and his bitch were plotting to kill us! If I’d let him live-.”

“-Don’t you hear them?” Caracalla cried out from his seat, holding Dondus. “They’re calling for our heads! She is right, you brought this upon us!”

Geta placed his hands on him. “Calm yourself, brother. The Praetorians will put down this crowd like they have others-.” The money upon Caracalla’s shoulder chirped out in anxiousness from the people outside. “Keep the ape still!”

“Beware of how you speak to Dondus!” His brother berated.

“Perhaps,” Macrinus finally intervened. “you should take Dondus and Julia elsewhere. The noise outside is too much for them; you should comfort one another someplace quieter.”

Caracalla nodded, gathering up Dondus and moving to help you stand, but Macrinus reached his hand out first. You took it, and as you stood, he said into your ear.

“I will find you on the right side of the hall.”

This was not the time nor place for riddles, but you could not react in any sort of way. You looped our arm through Caracalla’s and walked out of the room, hoping to find somewhere quieter.

“I’m afraid,” you confided in him, truthfully.

“I am as well.” Was all he could say.

You stopped in the middle of the hall once he found an open door. “I…I need time with my own thoughts. Please.”

He nodded, cradling Dondus closer to his chest before entering the room, shutting the door tightly. Within the minute, you watched as Macrinus approached you from the other side of the hall.

You spat. “What do you want?”

“I know I stole your moment of vengeance, and for that, I apologize.” He stood before you. “But let me make it up to you.”

“How could you possibly?”

From his cloak, he brandished a knife, holding the handle out to you. You took it without hesitation, yet question was still upon your face. “I do it myself?”

“You could,” he shrugged. “or, you could have his own brother do so.”

“Caracalla? He is senile.”

“Then I have a proposition for you.” Macrinus pointed to the door Caracalla was behind. “Convince him that Geta will destroy all of you if he is not disposed of. Convince him that, as the new emperor of Rome, he will need more trusting subjects. I shall be his second in command, and you shall be free.”

You furrowed your brow. “Who shall be first?”

“The monkey.” He smirked. “Do you believe he would put me above him?”

It sounded so simple; too simple. Yet, as the crowd began to die down, and you could no longer hear their protests from outside, the quietness brought to you what you had always known: You would never be your own person again so long as Geta breathed.

You held the dagger to your heart, saluting him. “I shall do my duty.”

He nodded. “May the gods be with you when you do, Brutus.”

An insult to most, and while it shocked you, you took it in stride as you stood outside the door. You made yourself look smaller, more afraid, and hid the dagger within your cloak as you entered the room.

There, sitting upon the floor, was Caracalla and Dondus. Like a scared child, he held the monkey close to him, grooming one another as if it was the only thing to bring comfort.

“Caracalla?” You whispered.

He stared up at you, and you noticed he had been crying. Immediately, you sat before him, bringing him into your arms.

“Nothing was ever mine.” He cried, embracing you. “Everything was ‘ours’, always. Even in the womb, he gripped the umbilicus in his tiny fist to deprive me of air.”

“He did?”

“Certainly, one cannot forget.”

You pulled away only to hold his face tenderly in your hands. “You must listen to me, for what I tell you is dire. Your brother wishes to blame you before the Senate; for what happened, for the chaos in the streets-.”

“-That is a lie!” He tore himself from you. “I didn’t do it!”

“I know that, but they don’t. No testimony is more damning than that of a brother against another.”

“He lies! He always lies!” He sobbed.

“He’s very persuasive.”

“What will they do to me?”

“I don’t dare imagine, but…gods above, I don’t wish to know what they will do to Dondus.”

His jaw quivered with the rest of his body. “What-what shall we do?"

You sighed. “I…I have a proposition, but it is most outrageous and-.”

“-Julia,” he begged, grabbing your hands. “dear, sweet sister, please tell me.”

Breath shuttering, you reached into your cloak and held the blade out to him. “Slay your brother tonight. You shall be crowned the sole emperor of Rome when morning comes, and Dondus, the child I carry, and I will be safe.'

He took it, yet still had that look of terror. “This…It has always been he who led everything. I do not know who to trust or-or who to command.”

“Then let me-.” You stopped yourself, eyeing the monkey that lay at his legs. You held your hand out to him, and Dondus climbed into your arms. “Let us help you. Claim Dondus as your first in command, and I your second.”

You wished the same as Lucilla and Marcus; to have Rome be a free empire. Yet, you would have to free Lucilla yourself before that happened.

Caracalla nodded yet said. “You-you are with child. You will become delirious as time progresses.”

And he was the epitome of having a clear mind.

“I will need a third.” He settled.

You shook your head. “That has never been done before-.”

“-I will be emperor!” He screamed. “If it is to be done, it shall be done!”

Raising your hands in surrender, you pleaded. “It shall, it shall! For a third…Macrinus. He has been loyal and informed us of the general’s betrayal.”

“Yes, yes Macrinus will do.” He grabbed your face and pressed his lips against yours. It didn’t even truly feel like a kiss, yet it shocked you nonetheless. “You are the wisest woman I have ever met, dear sister.”

You nodded, forcing a smile. With that, he stood on his feet and left the room. IT would have been easy to stay in there and wait for his return…

Yet, you wanted to be the last thing Emperor Geta saw.

No fear toiled within your body as you approached the throne room, not even when you hear the cries that you knew belonged to Geta. You walked through the doors, watching as Geta held his hands up in fear, begging his brother to spare his life as he was forced onto his knees, trying to stop the knife in Caracalla’s hand.

“I love you!” Geta squealed, staring up at him through tears “You are my brother, I love you!”

You moved to stand behind the younger twin, glaring at the man before you. Geta’s eyes dropped in relief.

“My love, my love, please help me!”

There was nothing uncertain about how you grabbed Caracalla’s hand that held the dagger. With eyes unblinking, you guided the blade into Geta’s throat, pushing it further and further as blood drained from his mouth.

The emperor was dead, and you would sleep like a child once more that night.

There was something inside of you when you awoke that morning. Not the child you had lied to all of Rome about; it felt like a parasite. You threw up an hour after you woke up, but when you checked with the healers, they said that there was nothing ailing you.

Was it…guilt? No, no it could not be.

Was it possible to feel guilt for the act of killing someone, but not feeling it for who was killed?

You had no time to debate these issues as if you were a philosopher.

Dressed in your finest silks, you made way into the room where the hundreds of senators met, carrying a hefty sack beside you. You sat in a chair next to Macrinus.

“You have done well.” He said softly.

You smiled. “Only because of you.”

Your gaze turned to Caracalla, who sat in one of the two thrones that were there for him and Geta. He looked like the worst you had ever seen him be. A blood rag had been placed at his feet.

“Now I am the only one.” He began, voice low. “I was the true us, and he was the false me. We were always ‘we,’ all our lives, but now I am only I, me, alone.”

The senators look at one another in silent terror. The only ones to not feel fear were you and Macrinus.

Caracalla continued. “My hand held the blade, but my father’s hand guided mine. I was the puppet, dancing on his string. As Emperor, I have convened the Senate to appoint my First Consul and bestow upon him the power to administer the military and civic functions of the Empire.”

He tossed his hand to the second thrown, revealing his fury companion. “I name Citizen Dondus!”

Where the senators were beyond terrified, they were now confused. Macrinus was the first to rise, applauding. “Hail Dondus!”

You repeated his sentiment, clapping with vigor. Caracalla and the rest of the mortified senators applauded all repeating ‘Hail Dondus!’.

Once the excitement died down, Caracalla resumed. “As is custom, I am naming a Second Consul to advise the First and to assure his integrity. Though you will find that Dondus is incorruptible! As Second Consul, I name…”

Macrinus took one step forward.

“The mother of the future heir to the throne, Julia!”

All eyes fell upon you, standing taller than you ever had done in your life. How strange it was though, that the same reaction to a monkey being assigned first in command, was to you, a woman.

Utter silence, until Caracalla applauded enthusiastically. Like sheep, the senators followed; all but Macrinus.

“Yet, as mother to the heir,” the emperor said after finishing. “it is apparent she shall be incompetent for majority of her advising. So, for the first time in the history of Rome, I name Citizen Macrinus as my third!”

Even with this third twist in a counsel, the senators seemed more so relieved at the decision. Macrinus did not smile or even acknowledge the honor, simply stared ahead. Caracalla gathered Dondus in his arms.

“There will be a triumphal parade to celebrate. There will be games and mass executions! Long live the Empire!”

“Long live the Emperor!” You and the senators all yelled.

The Emperor Caracalla carried the First Consul Dondus sweepingly out of the hall, to the Senate’s terrified silence. You picked up the sack that had been beside you this whole time, then making your way to the center of the room.

You opened the sack, and out fell Geta’s decapitated head. The Senate gasped and gagged at the sight of the former emperor’s head. You almost felt sorry for the horror they felt that whole time. Yet, there horror is what would bring you fortune.

“This is what befell your emperor.” You pointed to the head at your feet. “He was slaughtered by the one who shared a womb with him. Tell me, senators, is this who we must trust to maintain the greatness of the Roman Empire?”

They did not glance at one another in uncertainty; no, no they were listening to you.

You continued, your heart stammering. “I am not the one who will stand with you for the rest of my days, it is the son I carry within me. And if it is my son who will become emperor, then there must still be an empire for him once he is born. Hysteria has poisoned the streets for decades now, it is time to put an end to it!”

Murmurs and nods of approval began to echo amongst the counsel.

“Every single one of Rome’s children matters; from the beggars to the emperor himself. If one falls, so shall the rest of the Empire. I have walked beside the lay people of the city, and they feel betrayed by the former emperor for the murder of their beloved general. To right this wrong, I call for the release of Lucilla, daughter of Marcus Aurelias.”

Not one of the hundreds of senators made a sound. Deep within you, you knew that there wouldn’t be much rejoicing over Lucilla’s freedom, but you still had to try.

“The people adored her for far longer than they adored the general!” You pleaded. “If we kill her only for the amusement of the elites, then the children of Rome-!”

 “-Shall live.”

You turned to Macrinus, who finally stepped all the way forward.

“Forgive me,” He bowed mockingly. “my lady, but for a woman complimented to have a golden mouth, you have no idea what you are saying.”

A few of the senators chuckled.

“You wish to free the woman who mean to have you, and the emperors killed?” He questioned.

You refuted. “I wish to show the world that Rome is capable of forgiveness.”

“A desire so foolish, only the emperor’s favorite whore could have it.”

“Another word of slander out of your mouth, and I will have your tongue removed!” You stood toe-to-toe with him.

He grinned like the devil, and just from your outburst alone, no matter how warranted it had been, he had you. Macrinus stepped away, looking around at the senators.

“Me thinks the little girl believes she is Marcus Aurelius himself born again.” He straightened his tone. “What say you, senators? All in favor of releasing a traitor to the Empire, speak.”

Not one of them said ‘aye’. If you weren’t under a sheer amount of duress, you would’ve seen perhaps a few faces of inner turmoil, debating on calling for Lucilla’s release.

Yet, no one said a word because they shared the one thing that will contribute to the death of humanity: Cowardice.

Macrinus tutted. “Now, dear Julia and I happen to have, through good fortune and not a little skill, the remaining emperor’s ear. We can speak reason in it and tame the madness in the street. Yet, I will leave the domestic work of calming the emperor to his second in command. As for myself, to restore order to Rome, I will need power over the affairs of the state. Including command of the Praetorian Guard. The decision is in your hands. Ballot or hand?”

One hand rose immediately. Another followed, then ten, then thirty, and then, all of them. He provided no evidence for his cause…yet there was a unanimous decision.

Macrinus held his hand out to you, and you could only stare up at him in question.

“I believe we shall take the seats that are rightfully ours.” He said lowly.

Carefully, you slipped your hand into his, and he led you up the stairs to sit upon the chair that belonged to Geta, while he took Caracalla’s.

This would be the first and the last time a woman ever sat upon the emperor’s throne.

After being embarrassed that morning, you paced around your chambers. Perhaps you could have found Caracalla and gave him the same reasonings the senate did not listen to. Perhaps he could somehow see to the logic that would be in setting Lucilla free.

No, of course he wouldn’t. Even if his mind was sound, he still knew she was apart of the coup to try and have him dethroned; killed in his mind’s eye.

As your mind grew heavy with existential possibilities towards the future, the door to your chambers opened. Stopping where you stood, you watched as Macrinus entered.

“Now, try to make me understand this," he shook his head. "I let you have your vengeance on the man who used you as a slave, I promised you freedom, and yet you wasted it.”

You clenched your jaw. "How dare you-."

“-How dare I?” He tensed his voice. “How dare I keep silent about your lie? How dare I give you the privilege to take your revenge? I have saved you more than you believe I have harmed you, lady Julia."

The name had always bothered you, but with one emperor dead and the other incapacitated, you assumed it would stop.

Now, it only enraged you more; or perhaps that was just because it was Macrinus saying it.

You glared. “It was your own mistake to believe you were the only one who desired power.”

He took a deep breath, then moving to sit on your bed. “Sit beside me, Rome’s Delight; I have a story to tell you.”

“I am not a child, you may tell me in short.”

“You are not the only slave wishing to be free.” He pulled back the collar of his clothing, revealing a branded ‘M.A’ “You are lucky enough to not carry your master’s mark, but were a slave nonetheless. Marcus Aurelius spoke of peace while still using violence against those who served him.”

Swallowing your pride thickly, you said. “I’m sorry.”

“You have learned now, that is all that matters.”

“But Lucilla will still be dead.” You tried to keep your voice steady. “She wanted the emperors to be gone as much as you, but she will-."

“-Her father enslaved me.”

“Her father is dead; and if taking his empire wasn’t enough, than killing his last child will satisfy you?"

Macrinus clutched your arm, fingers tightening with every word. “I would be careful with how you speak to me. I wish to offer you one last ounce of kindness before I regret it. Now tell me, Brutus, will you accept me as Rome’s new emperor?”

You had all the right to say it was Caracalla, but you thought better of it. So, with the softening of your entire person, you nodded. “I accept you.”

He dropped your arm. “I’ll let you say goodbye this time.”

Macrinus led you down into the dungeons of the palace, and he was right; somehow it was more heavily guarded than the gladiator pit. Even when the worst of the worst prisoners sneered or jeered at you, your sorrow and anger could not stir your fear.

The door to one of the cells was open, and you ran in just as Lucilla turned to see you.

“Five minutes.” Was all Macrinus said before locking the door and leaving.

You embraced one another when he left. Neither of you said anything, just clung to each other as if the world itself would tear you apart.

“Forgive me, mother Lucilla.” You choked up.

Lucilla pulled away, taking your face into her hands. “Sweet child, there is nothing to forgive.”

“I failed you.” The tears finally came. “I was right there in the senate’s room, I-I told them the chaos that would befell Rome if-.”

“-You were in the senate’s room?” She sounded as if her breath had been stolen.

You nodded. “Yes, but they wouldn’t listen!”

“My dear girl,” she smiled. “if you were able to even get half a sentence in, than they listened! My father but sixteen years ago said that it was a shame I had been born a women, for I would have been a magnificent emperor. Yet, here you stand; you who had been once a slave, rose above into having a sear in the senate council.”

Still, no matter how much pride she held, your own shame outweighed it. “I still have failed you.”

“I have already accepted my fate.” She whispered. “I must take care of those who matter to me before I leave this earth.”

“Do not say such things!” You cried. “I’ll still find a way to save you.”

“Hanno is my son.”

You expected her to deny your attempts at rescuing her, you even expected her to coddle you, curse you…but this?

“What?” You uttered.

“He is Lucius Verus Aurulius,” she said gently. “second of his name, but the first son of Maximus Decimus Meridius.”

“The-the gladiator?” Was somehow the first question you asked.

“Yes.” She nodded. “Lucius didn’t run away, I sent him. With him as heir to the empire, I know many would not rest until he was dead. How was he to fight for a claim he knew nothing about? Now, he is here; and I am no longer frightened of dying.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to!”

She shushed you, combing her fingers through your hair. “I can speak to you until the earth is burnt by the sun of how I have made peace, but I know that will not work. So, I have two final requests for you.”

“Anything.”

Lucilla walked to the small desk she had in her cell, then picking up a scroll loosely wrapped in twine. She handed it to you. “My first is to give this to my son before tomorrow. It…explains a great deal of things I do not have the time to say to him.”

You took it, holding it to your heart. “And the second?”

She smiled, wrapping her arms around you and kissing the side of your head. “To take care of him as I intend him to take care of you.”

It was not the first time that day your eyes had grown. “He despises me.”

“If the gods are merciful, then I truly believe you will both come to see eye to eye as the only two who remain.”

“I nearly killed him.” You admitted. “The night before his duel with Acacius, I brought a knife with me and stabbed him; well…not enough to harm him.”

Lucilla shook her head, giggling. “He will need someone who disagrees with him.”

You found yourself laughing along with her, even through your sobs. She pulled away from you, wiping your tears. “He is a good man. He may deny it but believe me when I tell you.”

“I trust you.” You nodded.

She took a deep breath. “I will be with you, even when I’m gone.”

“I…I know.”

“Now go before I beg you to stay.”

You forced yourself away from her before you could change your mind. You could not even look at her as you left her cell and went up the hall. Just in time, you remembered to hide the scroll as Macrinus approached you.

“Leaving so soon?” He asked.

Sighing, you said. “She’s…inconsolable. I couldn’t bear another moment with her.”

Macrinus nodded. “You should rest for the remainder of the day. It has been quite exhausting.”

“Yes,” you agreed. “it certainly has.”

It was the first time that night you were forced to sneak out of the palace on your own. Fortunately, you remembered the route you took to the Gladiator pit and managed to dodge any of the guards on patrol that night.

The pit proved to be more difficult as the overseers of it had less space to watch over, yet you still somehow managed to maneuver them.

Perhaps the gods were on your side.

“Hanno.” You whispered once you found his cell.

The man turned over his shoulder once he heard your voice and approached with a scowl. “What are you doing here?”

You wasted no time, holding out the scroll. “Your mother told me to give you this.”

He paused for only half a beat. “My mother died when-.”

“-Your mother is Lucilla, daughter of Marcus Aurelias.” You whispered fiercely. “And you are Lucius, the lost son.”

His eyes didn’t leave yours as he reached down to the latch of the door, and cracked it opened. “Get inside.”

Though you wished to, you didn’t question how he had unlocked it and only walked in. He shut the door tightly, then took the scroll from you. You stood there as he unraveled it to read. His face changed every few seconds, ranging from distress to downright confusion. When he was finished, he looked at you.

“She gave this to you?” You nodded. “Why?”

“I was allowed to say goodbye to her.”

“From Macrinus?” He tested. “Was this before or after you attempted to steal his power?”

“I was cruel to you.” You admitted. “Even after discovering Acacius had pillaged your home and murdered your wife, I expected you to show mercy. I am astounded you did, but as I look back, I wouldn’t have blamed you if you didn’t. My desire for the general to live extends to your mother; if not more. She did not give up my name at any moment despite the fact I too was apart of the coup to try and overthrow the emperors. I cannot simply let her die.”

Lucius stared at you, his gaze intimidating yet at ease. He approached you. “You wish to save her life?”

“More than anything.”

“It is a rumor that Macrinus was the one to puppeteer Caracalla in slaying his brother. But…it wasn’t him, was it?”

Breathing deeply, you looked at the floor. “It was I.”

“Look at me.” He commanded softly, and you did. “Would you kill again if it meant protecting her?”

Your mind said ‘yes’ without a moment’s hesitation, but your heart only sunk into your stomach at the thought. It must have been apparent on your face, for he said.

“There is no shame if you are unable to.”

“I will be with him in the emperor’s box.” You said, determination in your eyes. “I will simply need you to buy me time in the arena. It shall be done.”

Lucius nodded, and released along breath before saying. "I treated you harshly. I...I don't believe I would have survived what you have been put through."

You picked at your fingers. "I think you would have."

"No." He solidified. "I wouldn't."

A silence fell between the two of you. There wasn't a hint of discomfort; as if, for the first time, you felt seen.

“You never told me your name.” Lucius uttered.

You pressed your lips together, shrugging. “It was never important.”

“It has been,” he said. “and it is now. You know my true name, if I am to understand you as how my mother wishes I do, then I must know yours.”

Your mouth parted to speak the first syllable, but even that had felt foreign. You instead lied. “I do not remember it.”

As he looked at you, the steely gaze you always knew began to disappear. “You must remember how it sounded from your mother’s mouth.”

“She died before she could hold me.”

“Then your father.” He walked closer to you, yet you felt no fear. “It does not matter if he was wretched or kind, he spoke your name and your name alone. What did it sound like?”

Like he loved you. Even when he was cross, he never raised his voice. You hated more than ever how tears started to build within your eyes.

“Geta had beaten me until I could no longer use it.” you confessed. “It will feel like poison upon my lips.”

“Then whisper it to me so you will scarcely have to move them.”

You had been lain down on a bed and had every bit of a man touch and invade your body. Even before the emperor, you had lain with people in the past of your choosing…

But none of that amounted to the intimacy you felt in that cell as Lucius stood nearly chest-to-chest with you, hovering his ear over your mouth as you finally (finally) spoke your name aloud.

If the heat of his body lingering over yours did not set your entire being aflame, it was the breath he released once he said.

“It’s a kind name.”

It was all too much for you, so you pulled away from him, drying your eyes. “I…I will pray for your safety.”

He outheld his hand to you. “Strength and honor.”

A saying you had overheard people use as they entered the stadium. You shook his hand. “Strength and honor.”

You didn’t expect to be in the parade Caracalla raved about the day prior. Yet, there you were, draped in the finest and most colorful silks with jewelry in your hair. Inside your sleeve, you’d hidden the same kitchen knife you attempted to stab Lucius with.

You were sat beside Caracalla, who had Dundus upon his shoulder, and who had only grown more delusional since the day prior.

“Where is my brother?” He pulled on your sleeve like a child as you were escorted from the float and into the Colosseum.

A watery smiled pulled upon your lips, and you soothed him. “He feels most unwell today.”

“He should be here.” He sulked as you walked. “He would be happy for me.”

“And he is.” You lied. “You will see him again shortly.”

That managed to ease him, and you both were seated in the emperor’s box with Macrinus. It didn’t escape your vision how hundreds of Praetorians also circled the entire arena. As the time to the match grew closer, you did your best to calm your own nerves. This would be for the good of Rome. Once it was done, you would be able to rest easily again.

It was then you watched as, on one side of the Colosseum, a wagon was rolled out into the center of it. Tied to a pole, dressed up as if she were Venus herself, was Lucilla. All that attempt at soothing yourself was gone once you saw her eyes.

“Must we kill Lucilla?” Caracalla questioned.

You couldn’t even snidely repeat his question to Macrinus you were in such a state of anxiety. Macrinus responded.

“Until she is dead, you will never know peace.”

Thus, the event commenced. The announcer himself even sounded guilt-ridden as he spoke of the crimes Lucilla was being charged with. Treason, betrayal, all of it only anguished the spectators even more to see her being prepared for execution.

“Let it not be said that the Emperor is not merciful!” He yelled. “The queen will be granted a champion to defend her!”

Out from the other side of the arena came Lucius. Half of the Praetorians held their weapons to the man, while the other half faced the civilians as if expecting them to riot. Once again, at the sight of the scene before them, it would not surprise you.

You had been taught one a many myths by your father, mainly belonging to the Greeks. You were Cassandra; blessed by Apollo to speak of prophecies but cursed to not be believed.

When it seemed that hope was gone…Lucius rose his sword, and hundreds of gladiators sprinted from all sides.

The crowd and Caracalla were in an uproar at the excitement. Pandemonium ensued as the gladiators began to climb the barriers and civilians were attempting to enter the arena. The sound of arrows screaming entered your ears; so much so you could not hear what Macrinus was saying to another man, and why Caracalla was screaming.

You simply blinked, and once your eyes were open, you watched as Macrinus dove a needle into the side of Caracalla’s neck, killing him.

Only a gasp tore through your throat, having no ability to scream. Your body soon found reason to move, and you rose to your feet, remembering your duty. Macrinus had acquired a crossbow, aiming it towards Lucilla and Lucius now at the center of the arena.

You rose the knife from your sleeve, charging towards the man. The arrow was fired, and you leapt upon his shoulders.

He moved wildly, trying to force you off of him. You made attempt to slash his throat, but it made contact with his eye instead.

Still…he overpowered you. Flipping you over him, you dropped down into the arena, your head colliding with the ground.

The sky was orange above you when you opened your eyes. Your head had never felt so awful before, and you were surprised you could even sit up. All around you, bodies littered the Colosseum floor. If there was not blood laid before you, there were swords and shields.

Your eyes drifted to the center, and now sunken to the floor, was Lucilla on her wagon. You forced yourself to stand and walk towards her.

When you could see the arrow sticking in her chest, you began to run.

Climbing atop the wagon, you untied the ropes around her hurriedly.

“Mother,” you begged. “mother, can you hear me?”

“I am still here, sweet child.” She whispered weakly.

“Save your energy now.” You managed to free her, and then pulled her to your lap.

“I will be seeing my beloveds now.” She smiled.

“No,” you hissed. “you are going to live.”

She reassured. “It is alright. I have fulfilled everything that was asked of me, and what I wished for.”

“Mother-!”

“-You will look after him, won’t you?”

You wanted to cry; you wished that sadness was the first thing you felt. But no, it was anger. Still, you nodded. “I will, but you will be there to make sure he takes care of me too!”

“He shall.” Was all she said.

“You will live, just please stop talking.”

“I love you.”

“Lucilla…” Your voice broke.

“Tell Lucius I would do this all again for him.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Lucilla rose her hand to your cheek, brushing it tenderly one last time.

Her eyes were held open as she went limp in your arms. You closed her eyelids, knowing her gaze would haunt you.

You did not move for the first hour, nor did you cry out in despair. It was when the sun was completely gone, and you tore yourself away from her corpse did you collapse into a fit of sobs.

The ugliest sounds were released from your mouth as you could barely stand. You do not know how long you cried, but when you could finally move again, you crawled to the nearest sword, and trailed it behind you before climbing back up onto the wagon.

You tied the rope from her body around her legs, and brought her back into your lap, sword in hand.

There was no rest for you that night. You would nearly drift off into sleep, but you couldn’t bring yourself to give in until you could bury her properly. You also couldn’t bring yourself to bury her at the same time.

When you had lost time altogether, and the sky was purple as twilight broke, a gentle hand shook you.

Raising the sword in surprise, you felt your body relax once you saw Lucius. You should have asked how he survived, what happened to Macrinus, anything else…but all you said was.

“I wouldn’t let anyone touch her.”

He nodded, tears threatening to fall as he gazed upon his dead mother. He took a deep breath. “May I take her?”

You handed her to him, and he took her into his arms. You scooted off the wagon, your eyes reddened and exhausted.

“Where,” you cleared your throat. “Where should she be buried?”

“I…” He heaved. “I know where my father’s grave is.”

“Okay.” Was all you managed.

And you walked by his side, neither of you knowing what your fate would befall in Rome.

Yet…once both slaves, you were now free.

[multific]

The One He Writes To

Johnny MacTavish x Reader

Summary: You were only meant to write one letter. A gesture of support. But when Soap writes back, it begins a chain of letters.

You never thought anyone would read it.

The paper felt too clean. The words are too stiff.

But you wrote it anyway, one letter, addressed “To any soldier who needs it”

You wrote about the sky that day. The rain on your window. You thanked them for their service. You told them, whoever they were, that you hoped they were safe. And then you signed it.

Sincerely,

Someone who still believes in letters.

You never expected a reply.

Until one arrived a month later.

Dear ‘Someone,’

Didn’t expect a letter like that, not gonna lie. Most mail we get is dull as shite, but yours made me laugh. Real rain-on-the-glass kind of stuff. I liked it. Made things feel a bit more real. Anyway. My name’s John, but everyone calls me Soap. No, I won’t explain why. That’s classified.

Write back? It’s quiet as hell out here when the bullets stop flying.

Yours (sorta),

Soap.

That was how it began.

One letter turned into two. Then three. Then dozens.

You never even saw his face, he never sent a photo, but his handwriting became something sacred. The sharp angles.

The occasional smudge from a dusty glove.

The way he always signed off: “Yours.” Sometimes “Yours, always.”

He was funny. Witty. Crude in places.

But sometimes, something deeper slipped through. Memories of home. Things he’d lost.

The way he’d describe the sky over foreign mountains like it was poetry, even if he claimed he was shit at writing.

And over time, you started writing about yourself too.

The real things. The ache of being alone. Your fears. Your dreams. Your secrets. And he listened, even through ink and distance.

And then… the letters stopped.

A week went by. Then two. Then five.

You checked the mailbox obsessively, fingers trembling every time it was empty.

You told yourself he was fine. That maybe the base moved. That maybe mail was delayed.

But there was a part of you that wondered if he’d died.

If your last letter, the one where you wrote “I think I might be falling for you” in shaky script, had never made it.

It had been two months.

You were on your porch one late afternoon, arms wrapped around yourself, rereading his last letter.

The sky was gray. Your chest felt empty.

And then you heard it.

Boots on gravel.

And there he was.

Soaked in rain. Hair shorter than you'd imagined. A duffel on his shoulder. Drenched, exhausted, and very much alive.

You dropped the letter.

He didn’t say a word at first.

You barely breathed. “J-John?”

A flicker of relief crossed his face. He nodded, once. “It’s me.”

You ran to him before he could say more, arms flying around his shoulders as he dropped the bag and caught you. You were crying. He was shaking.

“I thought y-you…” you choked.

“I didn’t,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to yours. “I’m here. I’m okay.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him.

To really see him. His eyes were tired but they lit up when he saw you.

“I got shot,” he said quietly. “So, I couldn’t write. Thought about it every day, about you.”

You touched his face, breathless. “I d-didn’t even know w-what you looked like.”

He gave you a soft, crooked smile. “Disappointed?”

You laughed through tears. “N-no. Never.”

His hand found your waist, gentle. “You said in your last letter that you were falling for me.”

You nodded, afraid to speak.

“I fell too,” he whispered. “Months ago.”

He kissed you before you could reply.

It was slow. Real. The kind of kiss you only give someone who knows your soul before your face.

When he pulled back, you were smiling.

He brushed your cheek with a calloused thumb. “Write me again?”

You took his hand and pressed it to your heart.

“Stay,” you said softly. “And I’ll say the words in person from now on.”

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[thinkinonsense]

dbf!logan who adores taking care of you *mdni

a/n: sorry if this doesn't fit the exact vibe lmao i kinda went off script with this one

logan and your father have been close friends for quite some time now. They met at one of your father's odd jobs and around the time that you first started university was when logan met you.

the prettiest young thing he's ever seen. it didn't take long for logan to sink his claws into you and make you his.

it started out innocently, logan would catch you rushing out of the house to go on a date with some frat guy and he would stop you at the door.

"might wanna pull down that dress, bunny." logan said, reaching down to tug at the tiny red dress you were wearing. "don't want 'em thinkin' that you're easy, right?"

his sweet condescending words send a flush of heat up to your cheeks. logan had never spoken to you like that; no one had really.

"right, mr.howlett." you nodded, avoiding his piercing gaze. "t-thanks."

logan hated seeing you leave with some asshole who didn't know how to treat a girl like you. only he could handle you.

as the months passed, logan finally made his mark on you. he had been waiting it out for too long; tormented by images of you kissing guys that you didn't even like. he hated how you would come back with messy hair and a frown on your face from a night of disappointment. on logan's way out, he would pass you on the porch and fix your hair for you. see? he wasn't too bad after all.

you wanted logan and he knew it for certain, he could smell you and there was no escaping that.

"come sit." logan stated, startling you. your father had a work emergency to take care of, he said he would be right back but it's already been ten minutes alone with logan.

carefully, you decide to sit on the other end of the couch; farthest away from his thick thighs were spread for his own comfort.

"closer, bunny." he instructs, patting his lap for you to sit. "i don't bite."

you hesitated for a second before taking a seat on the dark denim material. it tickled the back of your bare thighs a little.

"i'm not sure about this, mr.howlett." your voice was meek; eyes staring down at his belt buckle rather than up at his hazel ones. "my father should be back soon."

"we've got enough time." logan assured, lacing a hand through your hair, pulling you closer until your lips meet.

everything started out slow, logan didn't want to scare you away. it wasn't until he felt you moving on top of him, that he deepened the kiss and slipped his hand under your shirt.

you shouldn't want someone like logan; broken beyond repair, old enough to be your parent, and someone who waited you out for his own selfish needs.

"l-l-logan." you pant against his lips, grey beard tickling you softly.

his belt buckle catches on your cotton underwear, causing your eyes to roll back. logan adored every sound that fell from your lips. engraving every moment into his brain. your little reactions to the friction reminded that none of these boys you wasted your time with knew how to care for you like he does.

neither of you were exactly sure how much time had passed but sooner than you would like, a car pulled into the driveway.

logan was the first to pull away from the kiss, admiring his hard work. he loved how messy you got while kissing him. your eyes a daze and a blissed out smile upon your lips.

"ya made a mess on that pretty face, sweetheart." he whispers wiping your smeared red lipstick and adjusting your top.

you liked being logan's dirty little secret and he enjoyed riling you up any chance he got; whether it was quick heated kisses while waiting for your father to come back the garage with those tools logan asked to borrow, or if he had a couple minutes to lift up that short skirt that's been plaguing his mind all day long.

one thing about being with an older man like logan is that he took care of you like how you deserved.

[wendichester]

hello, I love the vibe that Jensen and Jared have with their wives and all of them together. Sort of like a big family. Could u do something like that with Jensen x actress! Reader?

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 casserole nights,

pairing. jensen ackles x actress!reader ft. the padaleckis genre. domestic fluff

wordcount. 623

notes. thank you sm for requesting this, sweets 😙

It’s a quiet Sunday when the real magic happens.

Not the red carpet stuff. Not the award shows or interviews or film sets.

This is better.

This is casserole in the oven. A kid’s sock mysteriously on the stairs. Jared's laugh echoing from the back porch while Jensen flips burgers and pretends to be cooler than he is with a spatula in hand.

And you? You’re barefoot in an oversized T-shirt, sipping rosé in the kitchen, helping Gen prep salad while the smallest Ackles runs through the room yelling something about frogs and lightning.

It’s beautiful chaos. And it feels like home.

You met Jensen on set, of course. You were the new girl—that season’s mysterious guest star with a sword, a backstory, and the kind of snark that made Dean Winchester raise an eyebrow.

You were supposed to die in episode 7.

You didn’t. Because somewhere between fight training and late-night rewrites, the writers caught on to what you two already knew.

There was something real. Something honest.

Now here you are, three years and one wedding later, chopping cucumbers in his favorite house, surrounded by laughter and family.

Gen bumps your hip with hers. “Still not tired of him?” she teases, grinning. “That voice doesn’t get old?”

You snort. “Please. That man could narrate my nightmares and I’d still blush.”

“Gross.”

“You asked.”

Out on the deck, Jensen catches your eye through the screen door. He’s wearing sunglasses and a backwards hat, and he’s so smugly proud of whatever he's grilling. When he sees you, his whole face changes—softens. Warms. He mouths “hi, baby,” like you haven’t been near each other all day.

Your heart does that flutter it always does.

You mouth back, “hi, chef.”

Dinner is loud and messy and beautiful. Jared tells a story about Misha tripping over a fake demon corpse. Gen almost chokes on her wine. The kids yell over each other about superheroes and pancakes and something about Jensen snoring like a “dying rhino.”

“You love my snore,” Jensen mutters into your hair later, arms around you as you help clean up.

“You deny your snore every time,” you whisper back.

“Because it’s not a snore. It’s a—masculine exhale.”

“You almost broke the baby monitor.”

He tickles your ribs until you squeal and nearly drop a plate. Behind you, Jared yells, “Get a room!”

Later, when the dishes are done and the house is calm— (Gen and Jared asleep upstairs, the kids all finally knocked out, the porch lights still glowing) —you find Jensen in the kitchen, alone.

The radio’s playing something old and low. He’s leaning against the counter. Barefoot. Tired eyes. Soft smile.

You step toward him, hands still damp from the last towel-dry.

He holds out a hand.

“Dance with me?”

You don’t answer. You just slide into his arms.

There’s something perfect about it— the hush of the house, the echo of laughter still in the walls, the way his hands fit at your waist like he’s been holding you forever.

You rest your head on his chest. He smells like cologne and barbecue and home.

“I like our little family,” you murmur.

He kisses your temple. “I love it. I love you.”

Your eyes flutter closed. “Even when I eat all the fries off your plate?”

“Especially then. It’s part of your brand.”

You smile. “I want a night like this every week. All of us. Just—this.”

He nods against your hair. “We’ll make it a tradition. One big crazy table. You, me, our weird beautiful crew.”

And just like that, another piece of your heart roots itself here.

Not in the spotlight. Not in the script. But in this little pocket of heaven between the casserole and the quiet.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

[croworro]

I found this song a bit ago London by badflower, and I think it would make such a cute schlatt fic bc it fits him so well 🫣

The quiet life

Pairing: Jschlatt (John) × fem!reader

NSFW 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Word count: ~ 3.7k

Warnings: Slow burn, intense yearning, domestic daydreaming, emotionally intimate smut, friends-to-lovers, sharing a bed, soft boy feelings, whispered confessions, Schlatt being painfully in love, aftercare, cuddling, slight language, eventual smut

Summary: You’re just friends. The trip was just supposed to be to about making content. But now you’re playing house in a too-small LA apartment, pretending not to notice how close you’ve gotten. But Schlatt does notice—constantly. You wear his shirt, make him laugh in your kitchen, fall asleep inches away like it means nothing. And he? He’s rewriting his entire future around you.

A/N: Omg first of all, this song is going on my playlist IMMEDIATELY!! also I really really hope this is the vibe you were hoping for. I leaned heavvvyyyy into yearning schlatt, because men don’t yearn enough nowadays smh. Hope you like it anon! Also what do we prefer for schlatt, I’ve seen people use John and Jay for him but idk what I like better?

He wasn’t supposed to stay this long.

Originally it was just a weekend thing, shoot a few videos, film a podcast episode, catch up with his other friends in LA. But then you’d offered your couch. Then you’d started inviting him to late-night drive-thrus and mid-day coffee runs and content brainstorming on your apartment floor in pajama pants and a clay face mask.

And suddenly it was ten days later and his return flight had been “pushed” three times.

No one questioned it. Not even you.

You were used to people overstaying in LA. But you weren’t used to how soft he looked when he watched you talk. Or maybe you were. Maybe you just didn’t care.

He sat on your balcony now, pretending to scroll through his phone. You were inside, fixing your hair for some shoot you’d roped him into, humming a song under your breath he couldn’t place.

The sun was setting in that cliché LA way, rosy and fake and too warm for February. He hated this city. The traffic, the people, the way everyone was always looking past you, scanning for someone more important. He hated the fake smiles and overpriced restaurants and the rooftop bars that charged $40 for a drink he didn’t even like.

But he’d never been more comfortable anywhere than he was on your couch, in your too-small apartment, with your laugh echoing through the paper-thin walls.

He stared at the skyline, but all he saw was a different view.

Something quieter. Pine trees instead of palm. A kettle on the stove instead of a ring light in the corner. You with your hair tucked into a hoodie, his hoodie. Cold tile under his feet in a creaky kitchen. A radio playing something old. Your voice calling to him from the next room.

A life where none of this mattered, numbers, views, subscribers. Just you and him and a porch light that buzzed when it rained.

He could see it so clearly it made his chest ache.

“Yo,” your voice called from behind him, snapping the fantasy clean in half. “Ready to film?”

He blinked, startled. Looked up.

You were in cutoff shorts and a tank top, hair clipped up, cheeks flushed from rushing around. You were glowing in the warm light, realer than anything he could’ve imagined.

“Yeah,” he said, voice scratchy. “Let’s do it.”

You walked past him onto the balcony, brushing your fingers across his arm as you passed, totally unthinking. Totally unaware.

He sat there for another second, pretending it didn’t wreck him.

Filming took longer than it should’ve. It always did when he was with you.

You kept going off-script, cracking jokes that made him snort mid-sentence. Your camera overheated. You lost the mic pack for twenty minutes and blamed him like he’d eaten it. He didn’t even fight you on it. He would’ve gladly swallowed it whole if it meant hearing you laugh like that again.

Now the sun had long set and your apartment buzzed under the weight of warm LED strips and half-broken lamps. You were cleaning up the kitchen, barefoot in a pair of plaid pajama shorts, your tank top swapped for his old t-shirt, something he’d left behind on his last visit that you never gave back.

He leaned against the counter and watched you move around, sipping from the same water bottle he’d been using all day.

You handed him a plate to dry.

“Bet you didn’t think you’d be doing dishes in my apartment when you booked that flight,” you said, side-eyeing him with a smirk.

He shrugged, trying to keep his voice casual. “Could be worse.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re here enough. I should start charging rent.”

He wanted to say, Yeah, well you should just move in with me.

But he just chuckled and took another plate.

The two of you worked in sync, like you’d done this a hundred times. Like this was normal. Like you were just two people at home after a long day, worn out, comfortable, quietly tangled in each other’s orbit.

And that’s when it hit him again.

You weren’t his.

You didn’t belong to him. You weren’t building that life with him, not really. This was temporary. A glitch. A shared moment that wouldn’t mean the same thing to you as it did to him.

To you, it was probably just a fun week with a friend.

But to him, it felt like a preview of something he’d never be brave enough to ask for.

You wiped your hands on a dish towel and glanced over.

“What?”

“Huh?”

“You’re looking at me weird,” you said, laughing softly. “You okay?”

He forced a shrug. “Just tired.”

You eyed him for a second longer than normal. Like maybe you didn’t fully buy it. Like maybe you were starting to feel it too, whatever this was. But then you looked away and stretched, your shirt riding up slightly as you did.

He looked away fast. Took a breath. Let it sit.

“Hey,” you said, suddenly.

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad you stayed.”

And just like that, he was ruined again.

It was just past midnight when you padded into the living room, rubbing your eyes and clutching the edge of a blanket around your shoulders. Your voice was soft and half-asleep.

“Hey,” you mumbled, stopping in the doorway.

Schlatt was on the couch, curled uncomfortably with a throw pillow under his head and a YouTube video paused on his phone screen. He looked up at you, trying to blink himself more awake.

“Everything okay?”

You nodded, then hesitated. “I feel like a dick.”

He blinked. “Why?”

You came in a little further, chewing your cheek. “Because you’ve been sleeping on this stupid couch for like… a week and a half now. And it sucks.”

He sat up slightly, one elbow propped on the armrest. “I’ve had worse.”

You rolled your eyes. “That’s not the point. My bed’s a queen. And I don’t move around. You’re gonna wake up with permanent scoliosis if you stay on that thing.”

He opened his mouth to say something clever. Something to diffuse the way his chest suddenly got tight. But then you said it:

“Just come sleep in my bed.”

And he felt his brain short-circuit.

You said it like it was no big deal. Like it was a logical, normal thing. You were doing him a favor. Being nice. There was no hidden meaning in your voice, just sleepy kindness, the way you’d speak to any friend who looked like they were starting to fuse with your furniture.

But he wasn’t just any friend. Not in his head.

“You sure?” he asked, forcing a smile. “I snore. And sprawl.”

You gave him a look. “So do I. You’ll fit right in.”

He didn’t move right away. Just sat there, watching you yawn and pull your blanket tighter around yourself. You looked so soft like this. Bare-faced. Hair mussed. Half-asleep in the doorway like a scene out of a movie he wasn’t supposed to star in.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “Yeah. Alright.”

You didn’t wait for him to follow, just turned and walked back down the hall.

He stared after you for a second, running a hand over his face like maybe that would help clear his head. It didn’t.

When he finally stood, grabbed his charger, and followed you to your room, he already knew he wouldn’t sleep. Not really. Not with you a few inches away, breathing slow and steady beside him, wrapped in that same damn blanket.

You lifted the covers without a word when he walked in. He slid into the space next to you, careful not to touch. Careful not to think too hard about how close this felt to the life he kept dreaming about.

The room was dark and quiet except for your fan humming in the corner. You were already drifting off when you murmured:

“Now you won’t have a broken back.”

He swallowed.

“So generous of you.”

He teased but inside, he was screaming.

Because this, laying next to you, watching the soft shape of your shoulder in the dark, breathing in your shampoo, this was the closest he’d ever been to that other life.

The one where you weren’t just letting him sleep in your bed.

The one where it was his bed too.

He layed there for hours, wide awake. The fan hummed quietly in the corner, stirring the warm air in slow, lazy circles.

Schlatt lay perfectly still. Not asleep. Not even close.

He was hyper-aware of everything: your breathing, the slight shift of the mattress every time you moved, the faint scent of your shampoo lingering in the pillows. His body was tense, coiled in a way that left his back sore and his thoughts louder than they’d ever been.

You hadn’t touched. You were respectful. Friends. Two people sharing a bed to avoid a shitty couch.

But still, he was in your bed.

You sighed beside him, kicking off the covers. “Fuck, it’s hot.”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t dare.

You must’ve assumed he was asleep, because a moment later, he felt you shift, slow and quiet, like you were trying not to wake him. He felt the blanket rustle, the mattress dip behind him, and then the unmistakable tug of fabric sliding down your legs.

He nearly stopped breathing.

You slipped off your pajama shorts, nothing too scandalous, just something soft and loose. But now all that was left between you was his t-shirt and your underwear, and you had no idea he was awake and losing his mind.

He wanted to roll over. Just to look. Just to see you in that soft, sleepy state. But he stayed frozen.

Until you moved again.

This time, you rolled closer.

Not all the way. Not pressed against him. But enough that your knee brushed his under the blankets, and you didn’t pull back. You just settled there, warm and bare-legged and totally oblivious to the way you were unraveling him piece by piece.

He couldn’t do this anymore.

“Y’know I’m awake, right?” he muttered, voice low and gravelly.

You went still.

For a second, there was nothing but the fan and the thudding in his chest.

“…How long have you been awake?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

“Since you kicked me in your sleep,” he lied. “Like, an hour ago.”

You exhaled, a quiet laugh. “Well, shit.”

He finally turned to face you.

And there you were, hair messy, face flushed, blanket pooled at your waist. His shirt hung off your shoulder, and the hem just barely covered where it needed to. Your legs were bare in the moonlight cutting through the blinds, crossed loosely like you had no idea how badly you were fucking him up just by existing.

“You could’ve said something,” you said softly.

He blinked. “And said what?”

“I dunno.” You shifted, propping yourself on your elbow. “Just that you were awake.”

He didn’t reply, he just swallowed. His throat was dry.

You looked at him, really looked at him, and something in your face softened.

“What are you thinking now?”

He hesitated, fingers curling in the sheets between you. Then:

“That I wanna kiss you,” he said, voice barely there. “But I don’t wanna fuck it up.”

You didn’t move for a moment. Just looked at him, blinking slow, the air thick between you. Then you leaned in.

“Then don’t fuck it up,” you whispered.

And that was it.

He kissed you slow, like he had all the time in the world to make up for. Your lips were soft, warm, a little unsure at first until you sighed into it, your hand sliding up to cup his jaw.

The sheets shifted as you moved closer, your leg sliding over his hip, pulling him in. His hand found your waist, then your thigh, gripping like he was trying to memorize the shape of you.

When your hips rolled against his, he gasped against your mouth.

“Wait,” he breathed, forehead pressed to yours. “Are you sure?”

You nodded, eyes dark and heavy. “I’ve been sure.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time, his fingers slipping under the hem of his shirt on your body. He found your skin, soft and warm and his, and you shivered at his touch.

Everything slowed. Every movement was careful. Reverent.

He pulled the shirt up, and you let him. He pushed the blanket down, and you reached for him with shaking hands.

There was no rush. Just heat and breath and quiet moans pressed into each other’s mouths, like you were afraid to break the spell. He touched you like he’d imagined a hundred times but never dared. You arched into him like you’d been waiting for this just as long.

“John,” you breathed.

And he nearly lost it.

Because this—this moment, this warmth, this body beneath his, was real. Not a fantasy. Not a dream he’d take home and replay in his shitty bed in New York while he jerked off. This was happening.

And it was better than anything he ever imagined. You felt the way he trembled when you whispered his name.

“John,” you said again, slower this time, like it meant something heavier.

It did.

He looked up at you, eyes wide and glassy in the dark, his mouth slightly open like he couldn’t believe this was real. His hand slid along your thigh, fingertips brushing so gently you almost shivered from it.

“Say it again,” he murmured.

You leaned forward, your lips barely grazing his. “John.”

He groaned, low and wrecked, like the sound was ripped straight out of his chest. Then he kissed you hard, deeper this time, desperate. His hands roamed your body, worshipful but greedy, like he didn’t know where to touch first.

“You’re so—fuck, you’re soft,” he breathed into your neck, dragging his mouth down to your collarbone. “Been thinking about this for so long. You have no idea.”

You whimpered softly as his hand slipped between your thighs, cupping you through your underwear.

“I thought about this,” he said, voice hoarse and honest, “when you laughed in that shitty parking garage. When you passed me a drink and didn’t look away. When you wore my shirt and didn’t give it back. Every time you got close and didn’t mean to.”

You gasped when he pressed his fingers against the fabric, slow, patient pressure, teasing you through the damp cotton.

“I kept thinking—if I just had you once,” he continued, kissing up your jaw, “just once—maybe I could get it out of my system.”

He dragged your underwear down your thighs. You helped him, lifting your hips slightly, and he tossed them aside like he’d been waiting his whole life to do it.

“But now I’m here,” he whispered, running two fingers up your slit, slow and reverent, “and I know I’m never gonna want anything else.”

You whimpered, breath stuttering as he circled your clit in lazy, feather-light movements.

“Please,” you said, not even sure what you were asking for, just more.

He kissed your knee, your thigh, your hipbone. “I got you,” he murmured. “Just let me take care of you.”

He slipped two fingers inside, slow and gentle, curling them just right as your back arched. His thumb pressed against your clit again and again, and your legs trembled as you reached up to bury your hands in his hair.

Your breath hitched. “I’m—fuck—don’t stop.”

“Not going anywhere,” he said, voice thick. “Come on, sweetheart.”

You came with a soft cry, body shuddering, legs tightening around his wrist. He didn’t stop until you were gasping, until it was too much.

He kissed you again, deeper now, slower, letting you catch your breath. Your hand fumbled for his waistband, pulling at it clumsily.

“Take it off,” you whispered.

His eyes fluttered shut for a second. “Yeah,” he breathed. “Yeah, okay.”

He kicked his sweats off, crawled back over you, and lined himself up slowly, like he wanted to savor this, not just take it.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he said.

You just wrapped your arms around his neck, tugging him down until your mouths met again. “I want you.”

He pushed in slowly, both of you moaning at the stretch, the warmth, the relief of finally having each other. He buried his face in your neck as he bottomed out, whispering your name like a prayer.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “You feel like—fuck.”

You rolled your hips, and he moved with you, slow at first, long and deep, dragging it out like he never wanted it to end. His hands gripped your waist, your thigh, your hands, anywhere he could touch, he did. He needed to feel all of you. Needed to memorize this.

“Look at me,” he whispered, pulling back slightly. “Let me see you.”

You blinked up at him, dazed and open, and the look in your eyes almost undid him.

“Christ,” he whispered. “You’re so fuckin’ perfect.”

You pulled him in again, kissed him like you’d always been his, and when you clenched around him, he cursed into your mouth.

It was soft. Hot. Messy. You didn’t hold back. You said his name again and again like it belonged to you. And when you came a second time, with your nails dug into his back and your body arched into his, he followed, whispering something wrecked and quiet into your skin, something you didn’t catch, but felt deep in your bones.

After, he didn’t move. He just stayed there, buried inside you, your hands tangled in his hair, breathing in your scent like he wasn’t ever going to get enough. He hadn’t pulled out yet. Didn’t want to.

Your fingers traced slow, lazy lines along his spine. His lips were at your throat, soft and reverent, kissing gently between shaky exhales. His whole body was trembling, not from exertion, but from something quieter. Something that had been building for days. Weeks. Maybe longer.

Neither of you spoke for a while.

Just the hum of the fan. His heartbeat against your chest. The warmth of his skin slick against yours.

Finally, he shifted, pulled out slowly with a soft grunt and kissed your forehead before collapsing beside you, one arm still hooked around your waist. You turned toward him immediately, letting his chest become your pillow. He wrapped both arms around you and pressed his face into your hair.

You didn’t think you’d ever felt him this quiet before.

“John?” you whispered.

He didn’t answer right away. Just pulled you closer, kissed your forehead, your cheek, your jaw.

Then, barely louder than a breath:

“Move back.”

You blinked. “What?”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and wide and full of something that looked almost like fear.

“Move back to New York,” he said again, voice breaking a little. “Please.”

Your mouth parted, but you didn’t say anything yet. Just stared at him.

“I know it’s selfish,” he rushed on, kissing your shoulder, then your temple. “I know you’ve built a life here and it’s not that easy, and I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t—fuck, if I didn’t feel like I’d fall apart when I go home without you.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

He cupped your cheek, brushing his thumb gently beneath your eye.

“I wanna wake up with you,” he whispered. “Every day. Not on some couch in your living room or a fucking rooftop party, but like—really. In some house where we cook the same dumb breakfast every morning and you wear my hoodie for real.”

You exhaled, shaky.

“I’ve been pretending it’s fine,” he said. “But I can’t do this fake life thing anymore. Not when I know what it feels like to have you like this.”

His voice cracked.

“I don’t want a version of you I get in little doses when I’m lucky. I want you in the quiet. In the boring. I want all of it.”

You searched his face. He looked… open. Scared. Hopeful.

So much hope it hurt.

You touched his jaw. “You really mean that?”

He kissed your palm.

“I’ve never meant anything more.”

And then, slowly, you nodded. Just once.

Dividers by @uzmacchiato

[sillygoose067]

hi!! can you write anything for lewis pullman that gives off vibes of “home by edward sharpe & the magnetic zeros”? 🧎‍♀️

Hey precious nonnie! Of course I can — or at least I can try. Here's what my attempt looked like...

———————————————————————————-

Home

Lewis Pullman x Reader

You’re not built for the spotlight.

You never learned how to smile like you mean it when you're being looked at, or how to enter a room like you're supposed to be there. You're not polished. You're not curated. You’re the kind of person who leaves a coffee ring on the table, who laughs too loud at the wrong parts of movies, who still doesn't always know what to say when someone compliments your shoes.

But then came Lewis.

And he didn’t try to change you. He never asked you to shine brighter, speak less, dress up. He just… saw you. The way you are — and maybe the way you've always hoped someone would.

Lewis lives like someone out of time. Half in this world, half in an older one. He’s got the soul of a front porch and a rusted mailbox. He collects things with stories — not because they’re valuable, but because they’ve been through something. There's a kind of reverence in the way he turns objects over in his hands. A worn cassette tape. A broken harmonica. A chair that creaks every time he leans back, but still holds.

He doesn't fix things, not really.

You noticed that early. There’s a loose tile in his bathroom he keeps stepping over. A drawer that sticks. The same pair of boots, beaten to hell, that he wears like armor. You once asked, “Why do you keep stuff that’s falling apart?”

He looked up, slow, like he was turning the thought over before speaking it aloud.

“Because they still hold,” he said, that half-smile pulling at the corner of his mouth like a secret. “They don’t have to be perfect to be worth keeping.”

And something in your chest broke a little — in that soft, aching way that means something’s being rearranged.

People ask what it’s like, being with someone like him. They mean the fame, the films, the face on the billboards. But that’s not what you think of.

You think of him barefoot in the kitchen, humming something off-key with his back to you while he stirs the eggs. You think of how he always forgets his wallet, but never forgets the look on your face when you’re tired. You think of that night in the gas station parking lot when the car broke down and he made you laugh so hard you cried, sitting cross-legged on the pavement, eating crushed peanut M&M’s and watching the sky turn to bruised lavender.

You think of the silence — the good kind — the kind that fills the space between two people like a warm quilt. You and him, reading different books on the same couch. His feet on your thigh. Your hand in his shirt. Nothing special. Everything that matters.

He doesn’t try to fix you, either.

When you spiral, he doesn’t feed you platitudes. He just stays. He rubs slow circles into your knee. He brings you water. He doesn’t ask you to snap out of it — just says, “You’re okay. I’m here.”

You believe him.

He's never needed a version of you that performs. He fell in love with the parts of you that most people skip past — the mess, the sharp edges, the soft places where you’ve bent but not broken.

You’re not part of the machine he lives in — the glitz, the industry. But you’re part of his life, the real one. The one that starts when the cameras shut off.

You fold his laundry while he scribbles in the margins of a script. You wipe toothpaste off his chin when he’s half-asleep. You bring him thrifted records he never knew he needed. You hold space for the silences between projects, between selves.

He never asked you to glow. And maybe that’s what made you start to.

This love isn’t manicured. It’s not shiny. It’s built of found things. Shared fries. Late-night drives with no destination. Unspoken tenderness. That feeling when your fingers brush his in the middle of a crowded room and suddenly nothing else matters.

He doesn’t need new. Or smooth. Or seamless.

He needs real.

And that’s what you are.

You, in all your chipped edges and unraveling threads. You, with your open palms and too-loud laugh and soft, stubborn heart. You, who still holds.

Because home isn’t where you live. It’s him — pulling you close without words. It’s your names scrawled in steam on the bathroom mirror. It’s falling asleep mid-conversation, your leg draped over his like you forgot where he ends and you begin.

It’s burnt toast. It’s the third voicemail. It’s dancing in the living room with no music and all the windows open.

It’s two people, bruised and human and trying — choosing each other anyway.

It’s the wobble in the table. The drawer that sticks. The love that holds anyway.

That was home.

[crushpunky]

actress!reader is worried about drew

masterlist | actress!reader masterlist

warning: mentions of disordered eating/extreme weight loss, proceed with caution and remember that food is fuel !!! 

Y/n sat out on the covered porch, a book in her lap and Charleston curled at her feet. The sunlight of the early morning peaked through the windows, the aroma of coffee filling the air. Drew sat opposite her, sprawled out on the sofa, his long legs dangling off the edge. His glasses perched on his nose in a way that always made y/n’s head spin as he flipped through a script. This quiet comfort was the usual way they began their day, climbing out of bed and making coffee before soaking in the tranquility of the morning.

“I’m gonna grab some breakfast, what do you want?” Y/n asked, closing her book and getting up with a groan. Drew looked up from his script, his sunken eyes raking over the way the light shone off y/n’s skin.

“I’ve got coffee, I’m alright.” Drew said, flashing a small grin before returning back to his script. Y/n sighed, placing her hands on her hips. He had been preparing for his new project, a Luca Guadagnino picture alongside Daniel Craig that supposedly “required” him to slim down. Drew was already a naturally lanky guy, often building on muscle for OBX, so the idea of losing even more weight seemed insane to y/n, but Drew insisted. She appreciated his commitment and ability to go “all in”, but as he began to lose more and more weight it seemed to be overkill.

“Drew.” Y/n said sharply, glaring harshly at Drew.

“Y/n.” Drew said back, mocking her tone playfully as he looked back up at her.

“What do you want for breakfast?” Y/n repeated, quirking one of her eyebrows. Drew sighed, placing the script down before sitting up and moving to face her. Y/n took a step forward, standing between Drew’s legs and grabbing onto his hands.

“I’m alright, baby. I promise.” Drew whispered, placing a kiss to y/n’s knuckles. As y/n looked down at him, she felt her stomach swirl at his sunken features and the way he was practically swimming in clothes that used to fit him like a glove.

“Drew, please.” Y/n said quietly, her eyes beginning to prickle with tears. As much as she tried to mask her fear as worry, she could feel herself begin to slip. The fact of the matter was that she was utterly terrified. Terrified of the way Drew was pushing himself, going so far just for some stupid, goddamn project. The boy she had fallen in love with, the curves and angles she knew like the back of her hand sinking into something almost unrecognizable as Drew lost more and more weight.

“Baby, hey, don’t do that.” Drew went to stand, his footing stumbling and body swaying for a moment before y/n forced him back onto the couch with a sob. It had become a more and more common occurrence, the bouts of dizziness or shortness of breath that made y/n’s heart break each time.

“Hey, I just got up too fast I’m—” Drew rambled.

“No, Drew, goddamnit!” Y/n shouted, ripping her hands out of Drew’s grip and wiping her eyes harshly. Drew’s eyes widened before hesitantly wrapping his hands around y/n’s torso, his touch featherlight. Y/n wasn’t one to raise her voice often, especially not at him, but the anger in her voice was glaringly apparent.

“I’m fucking tired of this, Drew! It’s ridiculous and—” y/n sobbed, “you’re scaring me. You look sick, Drew.”

Drew sighed, closing his eyes and resting his head on y/n’s stomach. She continued to cry, her body shaking as tears streamed down her cheeks in a way that made Drew feel nauseous. He smoothed his hands along her back, gently tracing the contours of her hips.

“This isn’t healthy.” Y/n whispered. Drew lifted his head to meet her glassy eyes, the fear and worry staining her face. He hated seeing her like this, the hurt on her features acting like a stab to the heart.

“Ok, ok.” Drew muttered, taking y/n’s hands gently as he nodded to himself. Sure, he had been in touch with a nutritionist and maybe he had been… neglecting some of their warnings and recommendations, but he knew this role was going to be big. He wanted to do this right. He wanted to prove to himself and others that he could do it, but was it worth the risks? Hell, was it worth the pain he was causing y/n? Certainly not. Nothing could ever excuse the anguish he was causing her, anguish he would kill anyone else if they were causing her.

“I’ll… slow down, okay?” Drew said, his thumb tracing along y/n’s knuckles gently. Y/n closed her eyes before pressing a kiss to the top of Drew’s head.

“Thank you.” She whispered, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. Drew’s arms snaked around her, pulling her flush to his chest as he stood again. He inhaled deeply, his hands curling into the t-shirt of his that hung off y/n’s body. He never thought he’d feel this way about someone else. Feeling so fiercely protective of and willing to do anything to avoid seeing them in pain. Feeling so in love that he’d do anything, anything, to see them happy… but here he was on the porch of their shared home, holding onto y/n so tightly as if he could lose her at any second.

“I love you, baby. I’m sorry I scared you.” Drew said gently, his fingers tracing lightly along the curve of y/n’s back.

“I love you, Drew. Please don’t scare me like that again.” Y/n said into the front of Drew’s shirt, her grip on his torso tightening. The two of them stood in the soft morning light for a moment, holding onto each other so tightly it was impossible to discern where y/n ended and Drew began.

“How about Claire’s, hm?” Drew said into y/n’s hair. Her grip on him loosened slightly, allowing her space to look up at him, her lips curling into a wide grin.

“That sounds good.” Y/n whispered, reaching up onto her tiptoes to press a kiss to the curve of Drew’s jaw.

[promise-of-soup]

₊˚ପ⊹Prologue!'*•.¸♡ I Choose~! ¸.•*'

SPOILERS FOR THE ENTIRE PLOT OF EPISODE 17!! (For all parts)

♡Synopsis: Sent to "Waves of Love" alongside six of your Ghoul friends, you were pleased to discover that your crush was one of the cast members. The universe has gifted you with a chance to confess in a controlled setting where you could always scoff it up to acting or a script! The cameras are rolling, his name is on the tip of your tounge, but alas...

♡AKA: You didn't get your shot, but he can't move on without knowing if you chose him or not.

♡Tags: Prologue, setting up the scene I guess? retelling parts of the last chapter for episode 17 but with some added stuff lol.

♡Notes: basically, one part per each of the six characters which will include build up on how you got a crush on him, what happened during the show, and then you confessing when it's all over and you're back to Darkwick (the parts will be released in the order I put them in the list). I was fucking angry at the confession scene, hence this!

✧˚ · .make your choice at the end (links to the individual parts at the end)

Finally.

You get to do this, for real.

Your heart races in your chest, beating so hard you can feel it about to burst, as cliche as that is. The butterflies in your stomach fly so fast they almost cause an internal tornado.

Chill and fresh air overtakes your lungs with a deep breath as the silence of the world overtakes your ears. Only the waves of the ocean, and love, haha, are heard. You look around the romantic pool scene, and while all of your friends look handsome and well put together tonight, your eyes widen when you reach him.

With his hair swept to the side and his tailored suit clinging to his skin, he looks ideal, romantic, like you're the only two people there and nothing matters, like you can have him all to yourself in a few moments and go to a fancy porch. You've spent the past three days waiting for the producers to allow you more moments with him, for the cameras to stop so that you could relax your shoulders and take comfort in his presence like you always do, and you spent months awaiting his company between missions, hoping his name is spoken every time you get a new case to work on, just to spend more time with him by your side. The anomaly does not matter, the danger of the situation does not matter, this stupid show doesn't even matter; you just want him to know.

Of course, letting him know your feelings in this setting is also ideal, because if he cringes at you and backs away once the cameras turn off, you could always tell him that you were playing it up for the camera, you were only doing it for narrative purposes and that you just see him as a friend. But earlier when he promised you to be with you if you pick him, however scripted some parts of it had to have been, made your heart thump and your face grow warm with a hope that his behaviour these last three days is real, that he also feels the same as you do.

You take a deep breath... the crew drop their heads again.

Oh.

The anomaly appears once more, putting everyone on edge, you might be making this up, but you can swear he looks at you with a protective glare.

"choose." the ghastly woman tells you as she looms above your head, "choose!"

And so you do.

Your eyes shut for courage, your fists clench as well, and you say, loud and clear as per the script and as per your heart:

"My soulmate is..."

A screech echoes through the air - the anomaly.

And as the chaos begins and the mission is forced to a close, you have failed for good... Or have you?

·˚ ༘₊· ͟͟͞͞꒰➳You chose:

Jiro | Ren | Haru | Jin | Rui | Edward

[jadeshifting]

❦ … LOCKBOX … OF … (WILDEST) … DREAMS

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

if u want the KEY, here it is —> 🗝₊˚⊹♡

.　　. 　 ˚　. ABOUT ME

— i’m JADE, a very typical and normal shifter with too many DRs, too many interests, and too many soulmates (none in this reality, ew.)

— i love books and movies and anything I can devour and integrate into my identity, which I do with all of them. born in ‘05, i’m 19, and pinterest, tumblr and letterboxd haaaate to see me coming. I write— sometimes a whole bunch of nothing, sometimes things I’m convinced belong in the bible, but I still do it like my fingers will fall off at anytime

.　　. 　 ˚　. ( pssst, my pinterest )

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

　　　.   　　˚　　 　　*　　 　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　　　　 ˚　.˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　 　　 　　　　 ੈ✧̣̇˳·˖✶

i want a yellow diamond engagement ring .. a BIG one. i want a country house with a porch. i want a velvetine bunny rabbit with floppy ears. i want a stone house next to the sea. i want the whole sea.

and I can HAVE it, and so can you. isn’t shifting fun babes ౨ৎ

.　　. 　 ˚　. SHIFTING JOURNEY

it’s likely nothing you haven’t heard before. I found out about shifting when everyone else did (Hogwarts, which I’m sure you can tell stuck to me like tar) and lived with only misinformation for sustenance on shiftok for a loooong time (rip </3) until I had the sense to use amino, some reddit, and finally ended up on shiftblr

.　　. 　 ˚　. MI BLOG

i talk about all sorts of things on here !! like a one-stop shop for shifting & scripting—you may notice that i love to focus on scripting, though. in my ( humble ) ( NOT ) opinion, our community is oversaturated with advice that more often than not overcomplicates the very natural, automatic process that is shifting. rather that putting the simple process of shifting under a microscope, i find it much more fun to explore everything you can do with it. i take emoji anons and i’m happy to chat about pretty much anything !! you can refer to my inbox guidelines below or my “asks <3” tag for more specific examples of the kinds of questions i take

— inbox guidelines ( coming soon, PATIENCE )

— anons list

❦ … ALTERNATIVE … REALITIES

(not DESIRED, because I don’t desire things I already have or places I already go to)

.　　. 　 ˚　. HOGWARTS REALITY … school in the echoing, ever shifting stone walls of Hogwarts, excelling at forms of magic that are unknown to the rest of the world. holing up in dorms, lanterns’ glow illuminating ink-smudged fingers and invented incantations. returning to the manor in the summertime, when the fun really stars, when we twirl absurdly in silken gowns at gala after gala, kiss people our families wouldn’t approve of, take our liberties in between swaths of velvet and drenched in silvery champagne. in the end, though, it all comes down to one thing: power. the opulence, our loyalties, our endless magic. it all serves that one thing

— hogwarts masterlist

— shiftmas masterlist ( 4 hogwarts )

.　　. 　 ˚　. 2006 MYSPACE HOTTIE REALITY … thrust into fame from both my booming myspace blog and a face people can’t seem to do anything but affix their eyes on, my serious acting career does nothing to stop the diabolical antics i put on with my hot friends and my absolutely smoking boyfriend—in the public eye, sure, but mostly in the grainy hot pink sanctuary of my infamous myspace account. they can’t take their eyes off of me

— jare & i keep making headlines ( hot )

.　　. 　 ˚　. THE WALKING DEAD REALITY …

— intro

— 5 senses ( waking up there. )

— things i’m looking forward to

— what’s in my (apocalyptic survival) bag

— walking dead radio

— my DR self moodboard

— trapped with Negan

.　　. 　 ˚　. SUPERNATURAL REALITY

— intro

— hunter log 001

— lookbook

— things i’m looking forward to

— my life ( told through tarot )

— me as a perfume

— why would the winchesters let you join them? ( script inspiration )

— blueberry & sugar lemon perfume

.　　. 　 ˚　. EVER AFTER HIGH REALITY

— a guide to classes at ever after high

— lore blurb

— shoutout to my original s/o (nostalgia, apple ml)

— fairytale parent ideas

.　　. 　 ˚　. SMALLVILLE REALITY

— my dr basics ( pre-intro )

— my dr self moodboard ( Jade Apple LaRue )

.　　. 　 ˚　. NYC STAR REALITY

— musings ( things i’m looking forward to )

— yearning 4 my boyfriend when he’s away

.　　. 　 ˚　. BTS REALITY

— trendsetting

— the 4 seasons

.　　. 　 ˚　. JURASSIC WORLD REALITY

— my DR self moodboard

— a day in my life on Jurassic World

.　　. 　 ˚　. OUTER BANKS REALITY

— my DR self moodboard

— what’s in my bag?

— 5 senses ( waking up there. )

.　　. 　 ˚　. MUCH ADO ABOUT LOVE LETTERS REALITY

— DR blurb

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

　　　.   　　˚　　 　　*　　 　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　　　　 ˚　.˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　 　　 　　　　 ੈ✧̣̇˳·˖✶

❦ … NAVIGATION

.　　. 　 ˚　. asks are always open and I luvvvv them, i’d be totally happy to write scenarios, blurbs, give shifting motivation or scripting ideas, or really anything else. don’t be shy & feel free to send whatever you want :-)

MUSINGS ( SOMEONE STOP HER. )

𓆩♡𓆪 — the spectral glamour girl

𓆩♡𓆪 — don’t feel guilty for your main character syndrome

𓆩♡𓆪 — there are plenty of fates worse than yours

𓆩♡𓆪 — traveling the multiverse vs traveling the world

𓆩♡𓆪 — why do we use face claims? ( on self expression vs. self acceptance )

𓆩♡𓆪 — “this is the best method” and why that doesn’t serve your shifting journey

SCRIPTING IDEAS

𓆩♡𓆪 — waiting room ideas

𓆩♡𓆪 — hogwarts elective classes to script

𓆩♡𓆪 — places to script (hogsmeade)

𓆩♡𓆪 — scripting your family ( i swear it can work even if they’re not dead )

𓆩♡𓆪 — enriching your life ( adding depth to the mundane in your DR )

𓆩♡𓆪 — the art of moodboarding ( & using it to script )

𓆩♡𓆪 — uniquely characterizing yourself ( small, important details )

𓆩♡𓆪 — luck ( aka the secret weapon to surviving the apocalypse without getting rid of the plot )

𓆩♡𓆪 — 100 scripting ideas . road trip edition

𓆩♡𓆪 — so, you wanna shift to the hunger games? ( no judgement, just ideas )

𓆩♡𓆪 — supernatural scenarios ( romance w/ Dean vers. )

𓆩♡𓆪 — grungy / haunting fem. faceclaims

ITTY BITTY SHIFTING CONTENTS

𓆩♡𓆪 — my favorite shifting experience

𓆩♡𓆪 — my “method”

𓆩♡𓆪 — struggling to escape an escapist mindset

𓆩♡𓆪 — drift & shift ( a teensy nighttime routine for the girlies that have a hard time chilling out )

𓆩♡𓆪 — some of my niche (?) DRs

𓆩♡𓆪 — what happens to my CR body when i shift?

𓆩♡𓆪 — combinations : my CR vs. my DR ( one drink, one eat )

𓆩♡𓆪 — would my DR selves get along if they were separate people? hmm

𓆩♡𓆪 — positive affirmations ( vers. holiday )

𓆩♡𓆪 — my girly engagement ring in the multiverse

FRUIT ASK GAME 🍒

— 🍒 the ask game

— 🍎 what i’m best at in my DRs

— 🥑 the most comforting part of my day in my DRs

— 🍅 secrets i’m keeping in my DRs

SLYTHERIN HEADCANONS

pansy parkinson headcanons

theodore nott headcanons

blaise zabini headcanons

blaise zabini headcanons no.2

lorenzo berkshire headcanons

draco malfoy headcanons

[bizarrelovesquare]

Dan posted this video that gave us a HUGE peek into Martin's notes about episodes they're working on...

Screenshots (with about 90% ID of what's visible, bless his handwriting) under the cut! Fair warning, it's long, but there's a lot going on here, and it's so much to think about!

picture 1: ????? chicken head funnier

picture 2: (first page) Reactionator

? Speakers all over town People's phones Therapist Doof & Candace

Therapist thinks she is crazy but is tactful

The shrink is delusional ? ? exercise that is the catalyst for Cand. being delusional

Candace "It's A Wonderful Life" -- After actual bust C sees everyone doing much worse she feels sad

Family - I think you discuss it Cruise Ship - P&F Van/Doof Last chance to Candace A / Perry back

(second page) Doof's DEI W/A C's Therapist

Doof same therapist

Ferb is next a speech therapist

Doof trauma-dumping on therapist

Therapist "The real self-destruct button is in your head"

Therapist does ex(?)nemesis - therapist

Therapist sees - "WAIT, I GET IT, what Candace is doing gets taken away by what HE'S DOING--"

(note going down side of page) GUEST ON DOOFENPUSS

Doof ? regular ? ? - but she can't ? this because of C ? Confidential ALL DANVILLE Doof and Vanessa on cruise ALL CHARACTERS ? Reactionator blackmail secret I ever tell you w/Lindana whose solved mysteries

picture 3: (script on the table) (our first potential season 6 title?) PHINEAS AND FERB

"VANESSAY"

Written by Martin Olson & Olivia Olson

picture 4: Vanessay

Change tennis to playground

Roger & slushy guy not zapped

Rog. - reflects ray w/ his teeth - set up teeth first Doof: strong jaw -

Agent T thumbnotes "Up the chimney is a weird visual pun" Stacy: "You know we have a front door."

C & Stacy w/ambient sounds joke sequence - cut down?

Mono - "Four seasons of this show" Why did I ? ? ?

To Liv for Vanessay Playground - see how ? ? trap sets scene - a handled window box

Stacy: "Hey ? I ? ANIMAL NOISES!" CUT TO BLACK

Stacy pushes ? out of doorway

Dimin: after "Shorty" - No prize is worth this!

picture 5: T For Teen For Liv - SC 916 Perry leaps into air & does triple flip & lands ready to fight

Pitch n buttons for each

Exec note - Thurs - T For Teens 1:48 end of C/Stacy annual ? sudden cut to end ? w "napkins"

MEAP - PT2 S&P CONCERNS

(I cannot make this bit out to save my life. Martin what in the world my dude)

picture 6: Meap pt 2 - thumbnotes

22 to Meap - "Uh-uh! An ship ? us away!" (clumsy)

Fix pronunciation "St. Lois" joke C is shushed by Meap

Tidy up - don't have everyone say "Don't forget to flush"

C pressing red button to explode ? ship sucks

Brenda joke sexist "No one tracks you through the universe more than your wife"

picture 7: 501 PT1 Exec notes - bigger intro of Doof instead of him on yearbook 10:27 Buf. throw away Constitution Irving beat #2 too quick to nerd

Deconstructing thumbatic

Instead of "psychosis" "phantasma"

607 - Isa hair - 704 OWCA shredding SC

C feels good - "? ? that every day"

12 min: Viewers see The Murder Board

Biblio Blast anim. notes Perry incompetent - smashes into Doof's roof Cut down - plants surrounding/attacking Cut down Doof/Per table start w/Doof "We have to HIT SELF DESTRUCT"

picture 8: (page 1) song by the paver the wind makes love w/each other again

around us - it all seems so real meaning confounds us - cuz nothing's revealed we're SW in love w/each other again

Middle 1: From nothing we hustle Towards each other again Our love seems to circle Without any end

V3: The cloud of unknowing has such beautiful colors But where is it all going ? towards one another? we're SW - in love w/each other again

Middle 2: We seek out each other Every time we appear Sometimes we find another Before we disappear

INSTRUMENTAL W/DANCING SKELETON

(page 2) Middle 3: The breeze says to hug her And show how we feel Slowly healing each other Every turn of the wheel

Repeat V1: So basically - We're SW Along by the river We sit on a porch and The wind makes us shiver We're SW in love w/ each other again We're SW in love w/ each other again

JOSH - The paver of

picture 9: While Dance

says to hug her how we feel healing each other turn of the wheel

Repeat V1: (So basically)

We're SW Alone by the river We sit on the ? and The wind makes us shiver We're SW In love w/each other again

picture 10: Swampy

is trapped

back build something

element

State Triangle

"It's like the Berm[uda Triangle] totally different

(Teen lounge) & P&F build

too much like

Dan wants PLANE to

Doof is the ship

Jon said we turn strong where Doof is in the clouds - there's

picture 11: It's a whole new summer Perry (reblog if u cried)

Earthquake

Mom is laughing so hard she can't look

Staring contest - Try not to laugh

Candace has to be ? at Jeremy's larping tournament but she laughs

picture 12: Perry sick, "Can you take

Candace P&F canoe race

Laughtrack-inator Start ? - reveal Doof hits them w/a Doof keeps cranking it up

Doof rises wall of ? behind at ?

Laugh-inator Cut to surgeon heart

Norm: Good mg. sir Doof: But I programmed you to

picture 13: (this is another view of the page in picture 2, but this one reveals slightly more at the bottom, nothing too noteworthy added except for this)

LINDANA 80'S COP MOVIE - GUEST ON DOOFENPUS

[bonbonly]

Retired scriptwriter!Nico would definitely always give the reader a script for a movie as a favor…unless he finds out that movie was being produced by Lewis…then you’re in trouble.

i lowkeyyy had way too much fun writing this

bon's thoughts (18+)

"mr. rosberggggg" you cry out in a sing-song voice, twirling your hair. you stomp your foot a couple times on his front porch, before harshly kicking at his door. with a huff, you bunch up the ends of your dress, adjusting your fur coat as you move to the side of the house. as expected, the window's open and you sigh, crawling in like a rat scouring for food.

nico exits his bathroom, a towel around his shoulders as he dries his hair and at the sight of you seated so haughtily on his couch, he groans out loud and rolls his eyes, "ms. (l/n), this does count as breaking into my house, you are aware of that right?"

"doesn't matter, mr. rosberg! i've come to ask about the script you were working on? remember, i said i can bring you back to the oscars!" you gaze over at the shelf right above his TV, all his awards on display. a hint of cobwebs was present, and you clear your throat to bring his attention back onto you, "mr. rosberg, i trust you have it finished, correct?"

he lets out a low chuckle, rubbing his jaw as he walks over to the dining table where all his papers lay askew. he shifts through some, crinkling the edges as he tosses them around and brings back a large binder, "for you, ms. (l/n). hopefully, this'll put you in contention for the oscars this year... and maybe if it's successful i'll come back to the industry again, does that sound-"

but his words mean nothing to you once you grab hold of the script, you're flipping through with vigor, excitement bubbling inside you as you squeal out loud, "oh, lewis will never refuse me with this!"

nico's lips form into a thin line, his hand still in the air from when he was gesturing his words and he tilts his head, "i... i beg your pardon? l-lewis? what does he have to do with this?"

"oh my dear, mr. rosberg!" you coo, pinching his cheek which makes him snap his neck away from you in disgust, his eyes hooded with rage at the way you're babying him, "producer lewis told me that if i had a good script, he'll let me sign onto his production house! of course, i'll have to work with legalities to get out of carlos' contract but i can handle it! now you being the sweet gem you are have just given me the opportunity to finally impress him!"

nico's jaw goes taut at your words, and he yanks the binder from your hands and tosses it to the wall, thereby knocking over one of his oscars. you shriek as it crashes onto the ground, crumbling into a million pieces. your worries about the material award is put on hold when he digs his fingers in your hair, yanking your head back to get a clear look of him, "how fucking dare you...gör," he emphasizes the last word with a harsh shake of your head, which causes you to yelp in surprise. your eyes go wide, staring at him with that oblivious look you always gave him when you crossed a line.

"w-what'd i do wrong?" you ask, and he laughs right at your face, his hand traveling down to grab your jaw, his fingers digging into your cheeks,

"too many things you've done wrong. and i've been quiet about all of them, but this? going to the man that nearly ruined my career? with my script? that i generously spent weeks working on for you?" he tosses you onto his couch, his knee pushing your legs apart for him to settle between them, "just the nerve, the fucking audacity of you to come here begging like a cheap whore for me to write you a script, and i do it every time because i keep thinking you're a star, and then you remind me time and time again that whores like you will never learn!"

he hikes your dress up, noticing your thin lace underwear and he glares at you, "im not surprised, just disappointed really," and he hooks a finger into the waistband and pulls it back, letting the fabric slap onto your mound with a firm snap! that has you whimpering. "no, no noises from you, you keep your mouth shut. i don't want to hear any of your bullshit."

he grabs your panties and slides them down your legs, all the time berating you as he stuffs the underwear into your mouth. the fur coat slips down from your shoulders and he rips your dress off, using the fabric to tie your hands behind your back as he flips you onto your stomach.

"every fucking time... when will I ever learn?" he mutters, trailing his finger down your back, "this is how you get roles right? how you get awards? your cunt's just too good to pass up on, that's why they keep making you win hoping you'll spread your legs again next year, hm?"

his touch is torturous, his movements slow and it's hours before he finally slides his cock into your weeping pussy, finally giving you the pleasure you were craving for. he ignores your strangled moans as he buries himself to the hilt, sliding out until his tip kisses your folds before slamming right back into you. a few more harsh thrusts that sends you to heaven before he grabs a hold of your hips and sets a relentless pace. he leans down to pin his weight on top of you, loving the way your moans flood his empty house. he snakes his hand around to circle your clit, your moans now screams that momentarily distract nico from the fact that lewis was calling you. you pathetically try to wriggle away but nico holds you down, letting his cock root into the gummy walls of your creamy cunt and he grabs the phone,

"had an appointment didn't you? you were gonna tell him about my script?" he scoffs. he smacks your ass hard, and you jolt forwards as your face burrows into your coat, tears streaming down from your face, "should let him know you won't make it right?"

nico answers the call, tossing it right in front of your face and he finally yanks the panties from your mouth, yanking your head back as his fingers find your hair. he picks up your pace, "i want to hear you scream, slut, be as loud as you can be."

that's more than enough for you to be babbling, sobbing and screaming at how good you feel, how you'll never make a mistake like this again! "mr. rosberg, oh rosberg!" you punctuate with each moan, and nico laughs behind you. there's silence from lewis's side, exactly what nico wanted. his thrusts become erratic, and when he's close to cumming, he pulls you up flush against his chest as he rubs your clit hard, determined to make you milk his cock. your guttural scream floods lewis's ears through the phone, combined with nico laughing out loud at the mess you've made,

"you slut! look at you!" he chuckles, "i have to get my couch cleaned now! there's some on the table... be a good little girl and lick it off for me, hm?" he lets you go, untying your wrists and kissing your forehead gently before grabbing the phone right above your head.

"you stay away from her, hamilton," nico growls into the phone, "i better not see that contract signed by her." and then he hangs up, tossing the phone back onto the couch before heading back to his pile of scripts waiting for him at the dining table.

[antonsbf]

Unspoken

chapter 2- once more to see you

⤷ summary: a slow-burn, emotional story about childhood friends torn apart by time and dreams—only to meet again years later as rising stars in the spotlight. Between secrets, past feelings, and second chances, they learn that some things never really fade.

⤷ pairing: idol/actor!ni-ki x actor!male reader

⤷ wc: 1.5k

⤷ warnings: heavy angst! slow-burn! secret feelings! yearning male reader! childhood friends!

⤷ read chapter 1 read chapter 3

"it's not like i'm going to disappear. we'll still talk. i'll be back soon enough, i promise."

that had been the promise he swore he wouldn’t break. the one i clung to long after he turned and walked away that night by the creek. even when other words were spoken, and even after time pulled us apart, it was that single vow that stayed with me—the last real thing i had to hold onto.

he had been the person i grew up with. the one who had always been there, even when nothing needed to be said. the one who made me laugh through the rough patches and somehow always knew exactly how to push my buttons when i needed it. the one who, without even trying, felt like home.

and maybe that’s why it hurt so much—because even when everything else faded, that promise never did. not for me.

✦ ✦ ✦

five years later. five years and ni-ki had become a memory i tried not to touch too often.

life had a way of moving on even when you didn’t want it to. and somehow, without meaning to, i learned how to live with the space he left behind.

at first, it was little things, his contact slipping lower and lower down my favorites list. the empty spot beside me at the creek the summer after he left. the inside jokes that stopped making sense because no one else was there to laugh with me. the days where i'd reach for my phone without thinking, fingers hovering over his name, only to pull back and pretend it didn’t sting.

then bigger things, the day i realized i didn’t know what song he was obsessed with anymore. or whether he still cracked his knuckles when he was nervous. or if he even thought about me at all. whether he still missed the way our hometown smelled after it rained, or if he remembered the way we used to sneak out just to sit under the stars and talk about stupid dreams.

he had been chasing a dream, and i-i had been left behind trying to figure out what mine even was.

sometimes, when it got really quiet, i could almost imagine he was still here. that if i closed my eyes long enough, i could hear his laugh from down the hall. feel the familiar thud of his sneakers against the wooden porch steps. catch the scent of fresh grass and summer sweat and the cheap cologne he used to over-spray before every "big moment" in his life.

sometimes, i hated how easily i could still conjure him.

✦ ✦ ✦

acting wasn’t something i’d planned. it wasn’t like i woke up one morning and thought, hey, i want to be a bl actor.

it just... happened.

a friend dragged me to an open audition when i was nineteen. "you've got the face for it," they'd joked, shoving a script into my hand. i didn’t even take it seriously at first—just read the lines, half-laughing, not thinking anyone was actually paying attention.

but someone had been. someone saw something i didn’t even know i was showing.

the first role was small. background. hardly more than a name in the credits. but it led to another. and another. and suddenly, somehow, i was y/n, rising bl actor with a growing fanbase and a face that people started recognizing on the street.

funny how that worked. when i was a kid, i used to think the only way to matter was to stay next to ni-ki. now people screamed my name at fan meetings, shoved letters into my hands, told me i saved them without even knowing it.

i smiled through it all. smiled for the cameras. smiled for the fans. smiled for the interviews where they asked me about "first loves" and "inspirations" and i lied through my teeth because the real answer was someone who hadn’t even seen me become this person.

and yet... none of it ever really filled the space he left.

there were nights i would come home after a long shoot, collapse onto my bed, and stare at the ceiling, feeling like a stranger in my own life. nights where the applause felt deafening but the silence afterward was worse. nights where i wondered if he would even recognize me now.

✦ ✦ ✦

i wasn’t bitter. at least, that’s what i told myself. bitterness was too ugly of a word. i was just... realistic now. ni-ki was never coming back to the life we had. not really. fame changes people. time changes people. and maybe the worst part was that he wasn’t the villain. he hadn’t broken his promise on purpose. life just... pulled him too far away for promises to keep.

and me? i survived.

i built a life out of auditions and scripts and interviews where i smiled too brightly and told polished stories about my dreams. i learned how to cry on cue, how to fake laughter, how to pretend a love story was real when the cameras were rolling and forget it the moment they cut.

i was good at pretending. maybe too good.

✦ ✦ ✦

when my manager handed me the new script, i didn’t think much of it. another bl drama. another love story. another faceless co-star to pretend to fall for.

i flipped through the pages on the ride home, half-distracted, until i hit the name. the stage name at the top of the character list. a name i hadn’t heard in too long. but one that felt like it had been carved into my ribs.

nishimura riki. his real name. not a character. not a role. him.

at first, i thought i was hallucinating. or maybe someone else just had the same name. but a quick search confirmed it: ni-ki. idol turned rising actor. making his debut in the very same project i’d just signed onto. of all the projects. of all the people. of all the times.

life had a funny way of laughing at you when you thought you’d finally moved on.

✦ ✦ ✦

the first day of rehearsals felt like waiting for a storm you knew was coming.

i spent the morning getting my makeup done, my hair styled, my outfit prepped. i laughed when the staff joked. smiled for behind-the-scenes cameras. played the part of "friendly, easygoing y/n" so well i almost believed myself.

but under it all, my hands wouldn’t stop twitching. my heart wouldn’t stop pounding. i told myself it didn’t matter. that it had been five years. that he probably barely remembered me.

but when the director finally called for rehearsal and i turned around there he was.

ni-ki.

older now. taller. still awkward in the way he shifted his weight from foot to foot. still ni-ki in the way his mouth tilted into a half-smile the second he saw me.

he looked like someone i used to know and someone i hadn’t met yet, all at once. familiar and foreign and terrifying. and all at once, it hit me like a punch to the chest: all the years i spent trying to forget, trying to move on, trying to survive, none of it worked. because the second our eyes met, it was like no time had passed at all.

✦ ✦ ✦

"hey," he said, voice deeper than i remembered.

i swallowed hard. my mouth opened, but no words came out.

there were a thousand things i could have said. "you left." "you broke your promise." "i missed you." "i hate you for not missing me back."

but all that came out was, "...hey."

the director called us over before either of us could say anything else. we fumbled through the first rehearsal, stiff and awkward. the kind of awkward that had nothing to do with inexperience and everything to do with all the things between us left unspoken.

when the scene ended, ni-ki glanced at me. his mouth opened like he was going to say something.

but the staff swarmed us with notes and touch-ups and schedules before he could.

and maybe that was a mercy.

because i wasn’t sure if i was ready to hear whatever he had to say. or worse, what he wouldn’t.

✦ ✦ ✦

later, as i sat alone in the makeup room, wiping off the fake sweat from a fake emotional scene, i caught sight of myself in the mirror. i looked the same as always. polished. put together. exactly the way the world expected me to be.

but inside, i was thirteen again, knees scraped from climbing trees, laughing until i couldn't breathe while ni-ki teased me about losing another race. i was seventeen again, heart pounding too fast when we held hands under the summer stars. i was eighteen again, standing by the airport window, watching the boy i loved walk away, too scared to ask him to stay.

time was supposed to heal things. wasn’t it?

so why did it feel like the wound had just been ripped wide open all over again?

i leaned forward, resting my forehead against the mirror, letting the cool glass soak up the warmth of my skin. i told myself to breathe. to be patient. to remember that this was just another scene. just another project. just another co-star.

but no matter how much i lied to myself, the truth was simple.

he was here.

he was real again.

✦ ✦ ✦

taglist: @kaiyunsim @deliousberry @arequiem4u  @yourmaple17 <33 (leave a comment to be added for future chapters)

[yourmomsawh0r3]

Bienvenido,Pedro

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x Latina Actress!Reader

Genre: Fluff, Family Love, Protective Dad Moment, Latinx Culture

Setting: Miami, Summer Weekend BBQ

a/n: this is for all my fellow latinas and pedrito lovers. hope you enjoy! ✨🫶🏼

You and Pedro had been together a little over a year red carpets and set trailers, cuddling in between takes, early-morning café con leches, and late-night script reads sprawled on your living room floor. You were both actors, both stubborn, both deeply in love.

But this weekend was a whole new kind of performance:

Pedro was meeting your entire family.

Not just your parents. You were talking everybody tíos, tías, second cousins who lived two hours away, babies you didn’t even know the names of yet… and most importantly: Abuela Carmen.

You had warned him, gently.

“She watches everything. She’ll know if you’re faking.”

Pedro smiled, confident as always. “I’ll win her over.”

“You think you will. But if she doesn’t like you, no one else will.”

⸻

Saturday – Miami

The backyard was already full by 2 p.m. Speakers were blasting Romeo Santos and Marc Anthony. Someone was on the grill, smoke rising in gentle waves. Kids darted around barefoot while someone’s baby screamed on the porch swing. Your Tía Sonia was already sipping her sangria and talking louder than the music.

Pedro arrived carrying a bottle of tequila and a bouquet of rosas blancas (white roses), looking effortlessly hot in a light button-down shirt (top few buttons undone) and fitted jeans that were clearly working overtime.

He leaned down to kiss your cheek. “You didn’t say it’d be a full block party.”

You laughed. “This is a casual hangout.”

And just like that, your tias spotted him.

A wave of gasps and chisme swept through the women.

Tía Rosa elbowed your mom. “Mira esa sonrisa.”

(“Look at that smile.”)

Tía Mili whispered, “Dios mío… qué guapo… y de atrás también.”

(“My God… he’s so handsome… and from the back too.”)

Tía Gladys nodded, lifting her sunglasses. “No tiene ni un mal ángulo ese hombre.”

(“That man doesn’t have a single bad angle.”)

Pedro waved politely as the group giggled like teenagers.

You rolled your eyes. “You’re causing problems already.”

He whispered, “It’s the jeans, isn’t it?”

You smacked his arm.

⸻

Your mom hugged him tightly. Your little cousins clung to his legs like Velcro.

Your dad? Stiff handshake. Steely eyes. Classic.

Pedro handled it all with charm and patience offering to help bring out chairs, complimenting your aunt’s empanadas, even bouncing the screaming baby for a few minutes (to the horror of your baby-fearing cousin, who whispered, “He’s already dad material”).

Then came the moment you’d been prepping him for.

Abuela Carmen.

She sat like a queen in the shade, rosary in hand, cafecito balanced perfectly on the arm of her chair. Her glasses covered half her face, but her judgment was razor sharp.

You brought Pedro over slowly, like you were approaching a sleeping jaguar.

“Abuela,” you said, “this is Pedro.”

She looked him up and down, lips pursed.

“El actor chileno.”

(“The Chilean actor.”)

Pedro bent slightly, kissed her hand. “Es un honor, señora Carmen.”

(“It’s an honor, Mrs. Carmen.”)

She squinted. “Eres más guapo sin barba.”

(“You’re more handsome without the beard.”)

He laughed softly. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all week.”

She cracked a smile tiny, but real.

Then? She patted the seat beside her.

“Ven, siéntate. Vamos a hablar.”

(“Come, sit. Let’s talk.”)

And just like that, he was in.

⸻

Later, while Pedro was helping stack empty soda cans, your dad appeared like a shadow beside him.

“Pedro. Ven conmigo.”

(“Pedro. Come with me.”)

You were mid-bite of pastelón when you froze.

“Oh, no…”

Pedro followed your dad around the side of the house where it was quieter, near the lemon trees.

“She loves hard, my daughter,” your dad started.

Pedro nodded. “I know. I’m lucky for it.”

Your dad looked him dead in the eye.

“You gonna marry her, or just play pretend until it gets hard?”

Pedro swallowed slowly, then answered without hesitation.

“I want to marry her. I think about it every day.”

Silence.

Then your dad gave him a long, thoughtful stare.

“I built this house with my bare hands. I raised her here. Every scratch and bruise she’s had, I was there. So if you’re gonna be in her life… really in it… then you better build something just as solid. You understand?”

Pedro nodded, quietly but firmly.

“Yes, sir.”

Your dad gave a rare smile. “Good.”

Then, just like that, he added:

“Come on. Carmen saved you the last slice of flan.”

⸻

As night fell and the fairy lights flickered on, the music slowed.

A familiar beat came through the speakers: Aventura.

You squealed, pulling Pedro by the hand. “Come on, come on! I know you’ve been practicing.”

You started swaying to the rhythm, your hips moving effortlessly to the bachata beat. Pedro followed, tentative but smooth, the rhythm catching his steps.

Your aunts were gathered nearby, sipping coquito and watching like hawks.

Tía Sonia: “Ay, míralo, sí sabe bailar.”

(“Oh, look at him, he can dance!”)

Tía Rosa: “Y ese trasero… ¡Jesús, María y José!”

(“And that butt… Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!”)

Tía Mili: “Y mira cómo la mira… ese hombre está perdido por ella.”

(“And look how he looks at her… that man is smitten with her.”)

Pedro’s hand found your lower back, his other clasping yours. He leaned close, whispering in your ear, “Are they still staring at my ass?”

You grinned. “Tía Rosa gave it a ten outta ten.”

He chuckled, pulling you closer. “Maybe I should propose right now. I’ve got their vote.”

⸻

Later That Night

As the guests left, bellies full and cheeks sore from laughter, Pedro helped you bring in the folding chairs. Your abuela called out one last thing before going inside:

“¡No lo dejes ir, mi amor!”

(“Don’t let him go, my love!”)

You blushed.

Pedro winked. “You heard the woman.”

You leaned against him in the quiet. “So… how do you feel?”

He smirked. “I think I just got adopted by 42 people.”

You nodded. “Pretty much.”

He kissed your temple. “And I’d do it all again for you.”

(Pedro now FaceTimes Abuela Carmen weekly. Your dad won’t admit it, but he calls Pedro ‘mijo’—‘my son’—when he thinks no one’s listening. Your tias are still gossiping about “that Chilean actor with the smile and the jeans.”)

⸻

It had been six months since Pedro met your family and somehow, they loved him more now than they did back then.

He was fully in.

He played dominoes with your uncles (and lost every time), knew exactly how Abuela Carmen liked her café (extra sweet, just like her mood if Pedro was around), and he even joined the family group chat. (Though he’d muted it after your cousins sent too many dancing frog memes.)

But tonight?

Pedro had a secret.

And a ring box in his pocket.

⸻

It was your dad’s 60th birthday so naturally, the whole neighborhood was there again. Balloons, banners, three different coolers of drinks, and a lechón (whole roast pig) spinning on the grill.

You wore a sundress and your hair half-up, smelling faintly of vanilla and coconut, and Pedro thought you looked like his future.

Which, if all went well… you would be.

He had already talked to your dad (again), who gave a long, gruff speech that ended with:

“If she says no, I’ll be the one proposing to you instead.”

(“Si ella dice que no, yo te voy a proponer a ti.”)

Pedro: “Noted.”

He had your mom, your tias, and even the cousins sworn to secrecy. But most importantly, he had Abuela Carmen’s blessing sealed with a wink and a “hazlo bien, mijo.”

(“Do it right, my boy.”)

Later that evening, the music turned soft. The moon was high, string lights glowing golden.

You were sipping your sangria when the familiar beat of Prince Royce’s “Darte un Beso” started playing.

Pedro appeared, hand out. “May I have this dance, hermosa?”

You raised an eyebrow. “What’s gotten into you?”

He just smiled. “Come on. Just trust me.”

He pulled you close, one hand on your waist, the other clasping your fingers. Your bodies swayed effortlessly years of dancing in kitchens and hotel rooms turning into this quiet moment under the stars.

You didn’t notice your family forming a circle around you, silent, phones out, eyes wide.

Then the song faded. Pedro reached into his back pocket.

Dropped to one knee.

Your heart stopped.

The tias gasped.

Abuela Carmen wiped a tear.

Your dad took a shot.

Pedro looked up at you, eyes shining.

“Mi amor… You are the love of my life. Every moment with you has been better than the last. I’ve seen a lot of places, but you are home. So… will you marry me?”

You blinked fast, completely overwhelmed.

Then shouted, “¡Sí! ¡Sí, carajo!”

(“Yes! Yes, damn it!”)

Everyone screamed.

Your mom cried.

Your cousins lit sparklers out of nowhere.

Tía Rosa fanned herself, muttering, “¡Ay Dios mío, esto es mejor que una novela!”

(“My God, this is better than a telenovela!”)

Pedro stood, slid the ring onto your shaking hand, and kissed you breathless.

Then Abuela Carmen’s voice rang out clear and proud:

“¡Vamos! ¡A bailar! Que mi nieta se va a casar!”

(“Let’s go! Time to dance! My granddaughter’s getting married!”)

And just like that, the bachata blasted again, and the party began your family spinning you in circles, Pedro never leaving your side.

The last thing you remember that night was your dad clapping Pedro on the back and whispering,

“Now you’re really stuck with us.”

Pedro grinned.

“Good. I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

⸻

Planning a wedding with Pedro was actually pretty smooth…

Until Abuela Carmen got involved.

You were sitting at your kitchen table, color palettes and flower samples spread everywhere. Pedro was across from you, chewing on a pen cap, deep in thought.

“I don’t know what a blush rose is, but I do know that if I wear a cream suit, your dad’s going to say I look like a waiter.”

You snorted. “Then don’t wear cream.”

He grinned. “Problem solved.”

Just then, your phone pinged. Group chat: “Wedding Committee 👰🏽‍♀️”

Abuela Carmen:

I want to walk down the aisle with Pedro. Holding his arm. Like a co-star.

(Quiero caminar por el pasillo con Pedro. Agarrado de su brazo. Como una actriz famosa.)

Tía Rosa:

Abuela, that’s not how it works!

Abuela Carmen:

I’m 84. I do what I want.

You looked at Pedro. “She wants to walk down the aisle. With you.”

Pedro didn’t even blink. “If she wants to walk me down like it’s the Oscars, she can.”

You stared at him. “You are enabling her.”

He smiled proudly. “I love her.”

⸻

Wedding Week

Your whole family had rented a small hotel nearby. The bridal suite was packed with tías, cousins, and a baby who would not stop screaming.

Abuela Carmen had not slowed down. She insisted on sitting in on every vendor meeting, taste test, and even your dress fitting. At one point, she tried on a tiara and announced,

“Just in case you need a second option for the bride.”

(“Por si acaso necesitan una segunda opción para la novia.”)

Pedro walked in mid-moment and actually applauded her.

⸻

The Night Before the Wedding

Your dad gave Pedro a gift a small, hand-carved wooden box.

Inside: a photo of you as a little girl, and a note that read,

“Take care of my daughter the way you would take care of your own soul.”

Pedro got choked up.

Your dad pretended he didn’t see.

Then they drank whiskey on the porch in silence.

⸻

Wedding Day

The venue was beautiful open air, with hanging lights and orchids everywhere. A mix of Spanish ballads and acoustic love songs played as guests took their seats.

You were in the bridal suite when you got the text:

Pedro:

Don’t freak out. She’s walking me in.

She’s wearing sequins.

I love her.

You peeked out from behind the curtain and saw it:

Pedro walking down the aisle with Abuela Carmen on his arm.

She had a cane in one hand, Pedro in the other, and a smug, glowy expression like she was walking a red carpet. Her silver-sequined shawl glinted in the sun.

The guests lost their minds.

Tía Rosa was fanning herself.

Tía Mili whispered, “She looks like royalty.”

Tía Gladys clutched her heart and said, “That’s HER wedding now.”

Pedro walked her to her seat, kissed her hand, and whispered,

“Don’t worry. You’re still my favorite girl.”

She beamed and whispered back, “Make her happy, or I’ll haunt you.”

(Hazla feliz, o te voy a espantar.)

⸻

The Ceremony

When you walked down the aisle, your eyes locked with Pedro’s and he was already crying.

So were you.

So was literally everyone.

You reached him, and he took your hands, whispering, “You’re real. This is real.”

The vows were personal. He said your love gave him peace. You said his heart was the safest home you’d ever known.

And when the officiant said, “You may kiss your bride,” Pedro scooped you up and kissed you like it was the last scene of a romantic movie.

Cue: more screaming.

Cue: more crying.

Cue: Abuela Carmen yelling,

“¡Así se besa! ¡Eso sí es un hombre!”

(“THAT’S how you kiss! Now that’s a man!”)

⸻

The Reception

You danced to bachata. Your dad gave a speech that made Pedro cry again. Your cousins got tipsy and recreated your first date in charades.

Then, during the bouquet toss, Abuela Carmen snatched it before it even hit the air.

“Qué? Tengo planes.”

(“What? I’ve got plans.”)

⸻

Later That Night

Pedro helped you out of your heels and kissed your shoulder as you sat on the edge of the hotel bed.

“She really tried to outshine me,” you whispered.

He smiled against your skin.

“She did.”

You laughed.

“And I still couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

[littlepinkbirdie]

Little Heartbeat

Pairing: Lewis Pullman x Reader (Married) Genre: Fluff | Humor | Family Feels | Pregnancy Reveal Timeline: A few weeks after their 1-year wedding anniversary

You stood in the kitchen barefoot, hands nervously smoothing down the side of your sundress for the hundredth time. The soft hum of chatter and backyard laughter drifted in from the open screen door as Lewis appeared behind you — curls slightly tousled, shirt half tucked in, holding two lemonades like they were shields.

“You okay?” he asked, offering you one.

You took it and nodded. “Yeah. Just… kinda feels like we’re about to drop a bomb.”

“A tiny, adorable bomb with fingers the size of tic-tacs,” he said, then lowered his voice and added, “Still can’t believe there’s a whole human growing in you.”

You smiled down at your belly, barely showing but already the biggest secret you’d ever kept.

“I feel like I’m lying to everyone,” you whispered. “They think we’re just hosting a barbecue because we missed Easter.”

“Well, technically, we are feeding them,” Lewis said, motioning to the table full of ribs, coleslaw, and your mom’s famous potato salad. “We're just also about to break their brains.”

He kissed your temple, gently. “Whenever you’re ready.”

You glanced toward the cake on the patio table. White frosting, lemon filling, and a single sentence piped in gold script: “See you in January, Baby Pullman 💛”

It was subtle. Simple. Elegant. And totally out of place next to the basket of hot dog buns.

You laughed nervously. “They’re either going to cry… or someone’s going to choke on a deviled egg.”

About twenty minutes later, you stood beside Lewis as everyone gathered around the cake.

“Okay!” you called, trying to sound casual as Lewis wrapped an arm around your shoulders. “We figured it was time to cut dessert!”

Your best friend rolled her eyes. “You two are so dramatic with your cakes. Remember your engagement one?”

“Hey,” Lewis said, grinning, “we like a good surprise.”

He stepped aside to hand you the knife. You sliced through the soft frosting, and your mom leaned in with a phone to take pictures—until she paused, squinting at the inscription.

Her eyes widened. “Wait… wait a minute.”

Silence fell over the group like a dropped curtain.

Your dad leaned in next. Your sister gasped. Your best friend dropped her solo cup.

“Oh my God,” someone whispered.

“You’re pregnant?” your mom said, voice trembling. “Is this—are you serious?”

You and Lewis shared a glance before nodding.

“I’m twelve weeks,” you said softly, eyes already stinging. “We wanted to wait until it felt real… and now it really, really does.”

The backyard erupted. Cheers, tears, a dropped beer bottle, and someone — you suspected your sister — screamed, “I KNEW IT! She wasn’t drinking mimosas at brunch!”

Your mom covered her mouth as tears spilled down her cheeks, hugging you tight and whispering, “My baby’s having a baby.”

Lewis was immediately pulled into a hug by your dad, who clapped him on the back so hard he nearly dropped his lemonade.

“I’m gonna be a grandpa?” your dad said, half-choked up. “Does this mean I can finally buy that ridiculous rocking chair?”

Lewis laughed through his own tears. “Buy two. I’m gonna need one too.”

Later, when the sun was setting and the cake was mostly crumbs, you and Lewis sat on the porch swing wrapped in a blanket of contentment and half-melted twilight.

“Everyone handled it better than I thought,” you said, resting your head on his shoulder.

“No one fainted. Only one person cried into a hamburger. I’d call that a win.”

You laughed, but then he turned to you — his expression soft and full of something that looked an awful lot like awe.

“You’re going to be such a good mom,” he said quietly, like it was just for you.

And when you looked at him, glowing under the warm golden light, hand resting over your belly, you knew two things for certain: You were no longer just the two of you. And this, this was the start of everything.

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You were curled up in the passenger seat of Lewis’s truck, hand resting over your still-small bump, as the driveway came into view — his parents’ cottage framed by pine trees and early summer sun.

He reached over and laced your fingers together, thumb brushing over your knuckles.

“You sure you’re ready?” he asked.

You smiled at him. “Only been thinking about this since the minute we found out.”

“You’re gonna make my mom cry, you know,” he said, pulling into the gravel. “Like... not sniffly cry. Full-on waterfall.”

“I packed tissues,” you grinned. “For both of you.”

An hour later, the four of you were seated around the back porch table, lemonade in hand, feet bare in the cool grass. Lewis’s mom had made her famous blueberry crumble. His dad was flipping grilled veggies. It felt like the kind of afternoon that hung in the air like a secret — quiet, golden, sacred.

You exchanged a glance with Lewis. He gave the tiniest nod.

“Okay,” he said, clearing his throat. “We have something we wanted to tell you. Something kind of big.”

His mom leaned forward, eyes already suspiciously wide. “Okay…?”

Lewis looked at you. You smiled and placed his hand gently over your belly.

“We’re having a baby,” you said softly.

For a second, the porch fell completely still.

And then—

“Oh my God,” his mom whispered, covering her mouth with shaking hands. “Are you serious?”

Lewis was already getting pulled into a hug before he could answer.

His dad stepped back from the grill, stunned. “Wait. You’re—? You’re gonna be a dad?”

Lewis laughed, nodding, voice choked. “Yeah. We are.”

His mom’s hands were on your cheeks, her eyes shining. “Oh, sweetheart,” she whispered, pulling you into the kind of hug that felt like home. “You’re giving me a grandbaby.”

“I didn’t want to say anything,” she sniffled, “but I had a feeling. You were glowing when you walked in.”

“I think that was sweat,” you joked through your own tears.

His dad eventually wrapped both of you in a big, warm bear hug, voice thick with emotion. “We’re so happy for you, honey. You two are gonna be such good parents.”

“You’ll come visit, right?” his mom asked, wiping her eyes. “Whenever you want. For help. For rest. For—anything.”

“You’ll probably get sick of us,” Lewis said.

“Never,” she promised. “You’ll just have to pry the baby out of my arms.”

Later that night, you were curled up on the couch beside Lewis, your head on his chest, the fire crackling in front of you. From the kitchen, you could still hear his mom humming — baking banana bread for the baby, because she said she needed to “practice grandma recipes.”

Lewis kissed the top of your head. “You did perfect today.”

You smiled into his chest. “So did you.”

“I still can’t believe it,” he whispered. “We’re building a whole little person.”

You turned your head to look up at him, eyes soft. “And they’re already so loved.”

AUTHOR NOTE: okay so im obsessed im making this a series.