#scrape empire

[jimmytimmyjames]

empires truly is thee smp. there is nothing else like it. what even is an smp if jimmy isn't being bullied and desired by everyone; if lizzie and joel aren't being insanely funny, and making oblique references to the fact that they are literally married irl; if oli theorionsound and falsesymmetry aren't being isekai'd into the second season; if the creators don't have their characters take each other on dates and have kids and homoerotic rivalries. every single creator in this series is gold, and when you stick them all in the same lore-driven world, the genuinely quality story-telling and the insane shenanigans surpass anything else ever. each of their dynamics is perfect tbh. i love you empires smp members i love each and every one of you

[waugh-bao]

*

[thepencilnerd]

Feels Like Trouble

pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x F!Doctor!Reader summary: You and Robby have been secretly dating for a while now. Most of the ER is clueless—except the five people who could probably write dissertations on your dynamic. Enter a frat boy med student with too much confidence and not enough self-awareness. Robby? Jealous. You? Oblivious. Everyone else? Watching the drama unfold like it's peak primetime television. warnings: cringe flirting, depiction of boundary-pushing behavior, mutual pining, protective!Robby genre: fluff, slow burn, banter, crack vibes, emotional constipation, robbie's love language is acts of service, strong!reader energy because women run the world word count: 6.3k a/n: robby in his protective, simmering, quietly feral era + men anticipating my needs without me having to ask is my roman empire. p.s. also check out my other Dr. Robby fics (Not Enough | And Through It All) if you're interested <3

It started at the nurses’ station.

You were finishing up notes from a back-to-back shift, hair a mess, sleeves rolled, running purely on caffeine and spite. You barely registered the med student who leaned in a little too close—Jackson, of course. Jackson, who everyone knew had barely scraped through med school with a transcript that looked like a cry for help and a reputation for quoting his frat days like gospel. Jackson, who thought calling women 'Doc' in a tone meant to charm was somehow endearing. So, yeah. Not a great dude, to say the absolute least.

"Hey, Dr. L/N," Jackson said with that ever-present grin, leaning just a little too close. "You, uh... ever take pity on exhausted interns and grab a drink after shift?"

You gave a polite smile. "I’m not really a spirits person, but thanks."

Jackson blinked. "Huh?"

"You said drink, right? I’m more of a coffee or tea girl. Caffeine over cocktails."

He opened his mouth like he was going to try again, but you were already turning back to your chart.

"Good luck today!" you said cheerfully, not noticing the groan from your colleagues. Just around the corner, Mateo muttered to Javadi, "That’s the fourth time this week. It’s painful, man."

Javadi sipped her carton of apple juice with focused precision, attention directed solely on your ability to brush off such obvious advances without it getting in the way of your work. "Seventh, actually. If you count the half-made attempt on Monday. She's bulletproof."

"Try Jackson-proof," Mateo scoffed.

Two beds down, King leaned over to Langdon with her gloved hands clasped and asked, "Why does Jackson keep hovering around Dr. L/N like a... rabid mosquito?"

Langdon just smiled knowingly, looking over to the nurses' station where the man of the hour sat. "Don’t worry. Robby'll take care of it. Eventually."

Unbeknownst to you, Robby had been watching the entire interaction—and every interaction before that. If any med student so much as breathed near you with less-than-pure intentions, he was up in arms, ready to intervene at a moment's notice.

There was that time Whitaker nearly took your eye out when a patient came in with a nail embedded in his femur; the force of pulling it out snapped Whitaker’s elbow backward—only for Robby's hand to catch it mid-swing before it could clock you in the face. Or when Santos nearly sliced your finger open as you gently guided her through her first incision—Robby had materialized behind her in the span of a gasp, steadying her hands with a calm correction that masked sheer panic. Or when Javadi passed out for the second time during a gnarly pelvic realignment and collapsed straight into you, nearly giving you a concussion from her deadweight—Robby had been there then, too, catching you both with lightning reflexes and barely concealed fury.

At this point, the only person in the hospital who hadn’t triggered Robby’s internal security system was Mel. And that was only because she kept a respectful three-foot radius and shared snacks with you during breaks. The two of you had a quiet little tradition—inviting her out to try the new cat café when it opened downtown, or attending weekend adoption events together like it was a team-building exercise. Langdon once joked that she was the third wheel in the most wholesome slow-burn romcom he'd ever seen. Mel's only response was two blinks and a single nod of acknowledgement.

Everyone in the ER noticed your dynamic—the way you and Robby worked together like a well-oiled machine, never needing to speak aloud to know what the other needed. It was intuitive. Rhythmic. Like watching a dance you’d been rehearsing for years.

Still, only a handful of people actually knew about your relationship. Abbot, Collins, McKay, Dana, Langdon, and Mel.

Abbot had been Robby’s sounding board from the very beginning. Back when Robby was still pacing around the break room, torn between professionalism and the undeniable, slow-burning pull he felt toward you, it was Abbot who told him to get over himself and ask you out. Life was too short for regrets.

Collins, McKay, and Dana didn’t know officially—but they knew. The meaningful glances, the subtle handoffs of coffee, the shared silences that were too loaded to be casual. They never said a word because they lived for the soap-opera-worthy drama of it all.

Langdon and Mel were on the same wavelength. They hadn’t caught you red-handed, but their spidey senses were borderline clairvoyant. They never probed, never asked. Just watched it unfold like a plotline they already knew the ending to.

Besides them, the rest of the department remained blissfully unaware—except for the way Robby’s entire demeanor shifted over a year ago. A quiet warmth started to replace his usual stoicism. People credited it to the anonymous private donation made to the ER around the same time.

But the truth was, it had nothing to do with money.

It was you. 

You, of course, were oblivious to whatever other people thought or said—unless it had something to do with your patients. Robby sometimes joked that you were pathologically unbothered, something he made a mental note to ask you about, and he wasn’t wrong. The rumors from the nurses, the looks from the interns, the knowing smirks from Dana or Langdon? All of it flew over your head like air traffic.

Maybe you just didn’t see it. Didn’t see how Robby’s entire world seemed to tilt when you entered a room. How effortlessly the two of you moved in sync like second nature—side by side in trauma bays, tossing instruments, treatment plans, and glances back and forth like muscle memory. Everyone else could see it.

You were always focused on the next decision, the next step, the next person who needed your help. You didn’t think about what you needed until the shift was over—if ever. Your well-being came last, always.

But not to Robby. Never to Robby.

He noticed everything.

The slump in your shoulders. The faint crease in your forehead when a headache was starting to set in. He knew when you were on the verge of running on empty, when your patience was thinning, when you hadn’t eaten since sunrise. He never made a show of it. He just acted.

He didn’t wait for you to ask. He didn’t expect you to remember to need anything.

Because he already knew. He just... knew.

Your coffee, brewed and sweetened exactly how you liked it, would be waiting for you at the nurses’ station first thing in the morning. A second cup at lunch—always packed, always hot, even if you never had time to drink it. He’d drop it off like it was routine, like it was no big deal, because he knew the odds of you being pulled into another case mid-sip were astronomical.

Your favorite sandwich from the cafeteria, left quietly on your desk with a sticky note that said, “Eat this or I’m calling your mother.” You'd sooner pass out from hunger than remember to eat. He knew that. So he took the thinking out of it for you.

And after the longest days—those days where you'd made a thousand decisions, answered a hundred questions, led back-to-back codes—he’d cook dinner at his place. Quietly, without fanfare, and pieced together with the same kind of intention you gave your patients. He’d hand you a glass of water—because that was one other thing that you along with 80% of the population deprived yourself of—and steer you to the couch while he handled the rest. Just so you could turn your brain off.

You never asked, never had to, yet he always knew.

You’d just been snapped back to the present by the sound of an unwelcome familiar voice—again.

"Dr. L/N," he said, sidling up to you again with that same confident grin—clearly not deterred by every failed attempt before. "I’ve got a list of mocktails that might just change your mind. Pretty creative, right? I googled it during lunch. There’s this one with lychee and—"

You blinked at him slowly, like you were buffering.

"Jackson," you said, voice firmer this time, "I don’t even have time to finish a protein bar most days, let alone entertain another pitch for drinks. You’re taking time away from my patients, my patients. I sincerely hope you don’t treat them the same way—ignoring their boundaries and refusing to take no for an answer."

You didn’t say it harshly. Just plainly. Clearly and finite. Like a diagnosis that needed no follow-up.

Across the room, Robby pulled down his glasses as his lip quirked up into a slow, private smirk. Pride bloomed across his face so fast he had to duck his head behind a chart to hide it. He knew better than to coddle you. The mutual discomfort and stifled reactions from the staff were one thing. Watching you handle yourself like that? That was something else entirely.

From across the nurses’ station, the staff collectively cringed like someone had just dropped a post-op surgical tray. Santos and Mateo physically turned away to hide their budding laughter. Javadi buried her face in her sleeve, secondhand embarrassment blooming. Mohan took off at a brisk pace to see a patient. Whitaker closed his eyes and mouthed a silent prayer to the ceiling. Meanwhile, Dana, McKay, and Collins couldn’t look away if they tried, pressing down their grins and wishing they'd brought popcorn. Langdon sipped his coffee like it was a box-office premiere. King, ever diligent, kept her focus on irrigating her patient’s wound—Langdon would fill her in later with full commentary. Before you could continue—

"Dr. L/N," your savior called, tone light but cutting through the air like a scalpel—just loud enough to interrupt whatever nonsense Jackson was about to say next.

You turned and there he was.

Dr. Robby—your chaos compass, your caffeinated partner in crime, loyal boyfriend, favorite soon-to-be roommate, and at the moment, your very composed but unmistakably irritated attending—his expression perfectly calm to the untrained eye, but you could read the tension in every line of his face.

"Got a case," he said flatly. "Now. Come on."

You blinked, confused but relieved. "Okay."

You didn’t miss the way Jackson shrank a little at Robby’s tone, nor the way Langdon grinned over his coffee like he'd just won a bet. You caught up to him by the supply closet, where he all but dragged you inside and shut the door behind you.

"What's up?" you asked, eyebrow raised.

He stared at you, a little too intently, like he wasn’t sure whether to scold you or wrap you in bubble wrap. "Are you seriously asking me that after that guy just tried to chat you up in the middle of the ER like this is Grey’s Anatomy?"

You blinked, tilting your head. "Wait… was that flirting?"

Robby blinked back. "You’re joking."

You were. "I thought he just wanted to split an energy drink or something."

He huffed a quiet laugh, some of the tension bleeding from his shoulders as his hands came up to ruffle his hair. "Jesus."

You poked his chest lightly. "You’re kind of cute when you’re flustered, you know that?"

His ears went red immediately. "I’m not flustered. I’m... professionally annoyed."

You blinked. "You’re jealous?"

"I’m not jealous," he said tightly. "I’m—concerned."

You grinned, stepping close. "Concerned is hot."

"He was twelve."

"He's definitely at least twenty-six."

Robby exhaled through his nose. "I’ve been very chill about this whole 'let’s not tell the hospital we’re dating' thing. But if I see him so much as come within two feet of you again, I’m submitting a formal notice that you are very much taken and a complaint with HR about his behavior. And if that doesn’t work—" he leaned in closer, voice dropping—"I’m dealing with him myself."

You raised an eyebrow, lips twitching into a smirk. "What’s that going to look like—are you gonna slam your clipboard down and tag team him with Abbot? Because honestly, I wouldn’t hate that."

Your voice was teasing, but your cheeks were warm. Watching Robby get territorial from a respectful distance? Unexpectedly hot. And now, you couldn’t help but push his buttons to see how much more riled up he’d get.

He didn’t answer. Just leaned in slowly, deliberately, raising both of his arms to cage you in—palms flat against the wall on either side of your head. The move sent heat straight to your cheeks, blinking up at him as he leaned closer, so close his breath brushed your lips.

Then he kissed you—hard and fast and possessive, his hands sliding up into your hair, threading through it with the kind of reverence that made your knees go weak. You gasped softly into his mouth, one hand instinctively rising to cup his jaw, your fingers grazing the edge of his beard before curling into the softness of it. He leaned into your touch, like he’d been waiting for it all day.

Your other hand slid up into his hair, tugging gently at the strands at the nape of his neck, and you felt it—the way his pulse thrummed just beneath your fingertips, the way he shivered just slightly at your touch.

His thumbs caressed the line of your jaw, then drifted down to the curve of your neck, holding you like you might slip away if he wasn’t careful.

It was fire and softness, urgency wrapped in warmth. And you never wanted to stop.

When you finally pulled back, you were both breathless. "Is that allowed in a supply closet?" you smirked. 

"If they didn’t want people kissing in here, they wouldn’t make it this conveniently located."

You smacked his arm, giggling.

"I’m serious," he added, voice softening but maintaining a firm undertone. "I don't share."

You looped your arms around his neck. "Good. I wasn’t offering."

He grinned, still close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin. "That thing you said back there—about boundaries, about respect." He paused, eyes scanning yours. "That was... incredible. Seriously. You handled it perfectly."

Your brows furrowed for a moment, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice.

"It was... commanding," he added a moment later, voice lower, more playful now. "Alluringly so."

You snorted. "You're ridiculous."

"Yeah," he agreed, pulling you closer to pepper your face with kisses. "Ridiculously in love with a woman who knows exactly how to shut down frat boys without breaking stride, resuscitate half the ER, deliver excellent patient care, and still make rounds on time."

His hand slid down your back, warm and steady. "You’re the whole damn package, you know that? It’s genuinely unfair."

You chuckled, burying your face briefly in his shoulder.

Somewhere down the hall, Dana's voice rang echoed through the PA, summoning you for the consult. Robby groaned, forehead dropping to your shoulder.

"This is not over," he muttered.

You kissed the corner of his mouth, a smirk following soon after where your lips lingered. "Got any dinner plans?"

Robby raised an eyebrow, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. "Actually, yeah. I’ve got a date—with my incredibly beautiful, breathtaking, beyond intelligent, and painfully witty girlfriend."

You blinked at him, then laughed, delighted. "Wow. Sounds like a catch."

He leaned in and bumped his nose against yours, grinning. "She really is. And I think she’s about to say yes."

You didn’t say anything at first. Just smiled, so full of affection it made your cheeks ache. Then you nodded, brushing your thumb gently along his cheekbone.

"Yeah," you whispered, "she definitely is."

[lovebugism]

✶ ┄ HOLY GRAIL !

part one | part two

summary: in ancient rome, where survival is determined by the whims of a mad ruler, the empire's beloved general gives you – his first and only love – to the crazed emperor to ensure your safety. (6k)

pairing: marcus acacius / fem!reader, emperor geta / fem!reader

contents: established relationship, strangers to lovers, angst, hurt/comfort cw for mentions of war and violence, mentions of sex work, swearing, smut 18+ (dubcon, m receiving oral, unprotected sex, cuckholding, exhibitionism) (this is a pretty dark fic so pls heed the warnings!!!)

Marcus Acacius was the name on the lips of a thousand fallen empires. His ledger ran a deep scarlet color, which dripped like proof from his sword. The war had destroyed the General over the years — had turned the man into an empty thing filled only by untamable ghosts. The relentless battle had wrung his boyhood from his body like a slow, merciless death. Any remaining innocence has since been replaced with violence.

Rome made a legacy of his grotesque evils, turned him into a saint. Marcus Acacius did not want to be a saint. He did not want to be angry; he did not want to be cruel. He only wanted to love and to be left alone with his tenderness. His mouth filled with blood instead.

You loved him like all doomed, grotesque things are meant to be loved. In the dark. In the shadows of war. In the depths of the soul.

“This is me,” he confesses, the great General Acacius, returning to you like a ghost to its haunt. “This is who I am.”

His golden armor is sullied from a victorious battle, tainted now with blotches of soil and dried blood that’s not his own. His dirtied, unholy fists tremble at his sides as he fights the urge to cross the threshold of your quarters to meet you. Marcus knows he doesn’t deserve to be held by you now. Not when he still wreaks of death.

He can still feel the breath of a fist on his bruised cheek, but the way his sword felt plunging through the beating heart of an enemy soldier plagues him most of all. 

“Love turned on me long ago— It is not a burden I compel you to carry.”

So, please, do not love me, he doesn’t say. I only know how to destroy you.

You smile at him, eyes soft with sympathy, and cross the threshold of longing with an admirable effortlessness. You cradle his weathered, war-torn face in your palms, willingly staining your delicate hands with the blood stained there.

“I love you despite. So I imagine I’ll carry it anyway,” you coo to him, gentle eyes locked firmly with his heavy ones. “And I’m certain you love me in return, regardless of what you think the siege has made of you.”

“There is naught I can do about it,” Marcus admits, words heavy with choked-back emotion. He melts into your touch but continues to deny himself the want to hold you back. “Not while I still oversee this campaign. Not while there is a war to be won—”

“We love each other, don’t we?” you interject, pleading eyes searching for emotion behind his dark, stoic gaze. Marcus swallows hard. His scruffy chin scrapes your palm as he nods once in response. You grin and say the unforgiving truth out loud. “So fuck the war.”

You pull him down by his face to press a kiss to his unclean lips. Marcus rests his shaking hands over your waist and lets you build cathedrals in his mouth with your tongue. The blood in his teeth turns to holy water. 

Marcus long understood that bringing you to the city would be his last act of love.

Keeping you in the heart of Rome was the only way he could ensure your safety, with the surrounding towns still under merciless siege. The people there were docile, and loyal most of all to the General who had won them a thousand wars. They would not hurt you because it was not in their kind too, and because they feared General Acacius’ wrath as much as they respected his mercy.

This was known to everyone in Rome except its Emperors.

Geta and Caracalla ruled together following their father’s untimely demise but shared not a brain between them. They were boys, after all, the oldest being hardly two-and-twenty –– it was in their nature to talk more than they listened, and to pretend as if they knew the world despite never leaving the city walls. 

They were as cruel and as stupid as anyone who wished to rule an empire would be.

But the two of them relied heavily on their General to keep the restless public at ease. It made it easier for Marcus to bring you with him, knowing he had the trust of the most powerful men in Rome. He knew Geta kept meticulous care of his most precious gifts — all Marcus had to do was get you there, really, and the Emperors would do the rest for him. 

It was simple, but it was not easy; though he imagines no war ever has been or would be. Both of you had survived, yes, but neither of you had been spared. Bringing you here was a testament to that, which you seemingly could not comprehend. You were as soft and green as the countryside he plucked you from, too naive for politics.

Marcus tells himself that this was the merciful decision, anyway, as he gives you a tour of Caracalla’s labyrinthine gardens — the place farthest from the feasting hall where the noblemen dined. Hidden behind climbing leaves, free from prying eyes.

“I can’t imagine why you would be so apprehensive in bringing me here. It’s beautiful,” you marvel aloud as you walk ahead of the man guiding you. 

Your sandals pad faintly along the cobbled trail as you skim your palm over the bed of blooming roses. The petals feel like silk against your skin. You pluck one from the soil, careful to avoid its thorns, and hold it up to your nose. You turn to face Marcus with the crimson flower resting on your cupid’s bow.

“And it smells better, too,” you quip softly, tilting your head to your shoulder as you smirk behind the budding rose.

Marcus just barely manages to bite back his own grin until you reach out for him, tapping the delicate flower against the bridge of his strong nose. He exhales hard through his nostrils in place of a laugh.

Your giggling comes carried on the breath of a warm summer breeze — a symphony of salty ocean, dainty florals, and the pretty oils you’d bathed in. The wind billows through your thin, white gown and creates music with rustling leaves. You squint one eye when the setting sun peeks through the swishing tree limbs, bathing you in a golden-hour aura. 

You’re as beautiful as sin. Sweeter than death. Smiling at him like this is the beginning of something that died the moment you entered the city walls.

Marcus clears throat and gently guides your hand away. His cautious eyes flit around the vacant garden. He’s constantly looking over his shoulder, you find, despite being the strongest man in all of Rome. You feel safest at his side, so you don’t know why he always looks so frightened.

“I know you are drunk on youth and immortality, petal, but we cannot get ahead of ourselves,” he advises, all stiff and stern, though the term of endearment spills effortlessly from his mouth. “We’re in the city now. So we must play the part. Like we discussed.”

He speaks to you with an unintentional sort of vagueness that makes you bow your head like a scolded child. Your arm falls limp at your side. A scarlet petal slips from its stem and hits the unforgiving stone.

“I know,” you murmur with a poorly hidden frown that conveys otherwise. Your sheepish gaze flits from the ground to Marcus’ unwavering stare and to the ground again. “I just thought— whenever we were alone, that we might—”

“We aren’t alone. We must behave as though the city is full of eyes. Understand?”

“I can’t,” you confess, peering up at the General from beneath your lashes. 

Marcus’ chest stings, like the fiery sun blazing his newly-fashioned armor. “What do you mean you can’t?” he bites emotionlessly.

He looks like a corrupt sort of angel in this light, unnaturally handsome and hopelessly wartorn. He was as hard as the earth below your feet — a statue made of clay, iron, and marble — cold to the touch and melting only for you. 

His heavy eyes were so brown they looked almost black, and they shone with a perpetual sort of gloom. His gaze swam with the prophetic darkness of a man who’s seen too much, though you often felt like you could drown in its void. For a man so adept at killing, he looked at you with a remarkable softness.

It wasn’t as shallow as physical desire. It was something far more cruel. You wanted Marcus Acacius the same way flesh wanted to knit itself together over a healing wound. It was simply in your nature to love him. 

“I mean, it’s impossible,” you ramble with a concerned furrow to your brow. Your grip on the flower’s papery stem tightens until the bulb rattles with the force. “How am I to be here with you but not touch you? That’s like asking the seasons not to change— It’s unnatural, and it’s cruel—”

Marcus swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. His hands begin to ache with the urge to touch you. He balls them into fists instead.

“It’s the only way I know to keep you safe!” he confesses, words sounding heavy in his mouth. His eyes flit across the garden in a paranoid search of something that isn’t there. “Emperor Geta will take care of you. I know he will. And his brother is a half-wit, but he is kind when he wishes. He’ll take a liking to you, I’m sure of it—”

You interject his anxious rambling with a stubborn shake of your head.

“I can’t be someone else’s,” you murmur, voice as wet as the tears glittering in your wide-eyed gaze. “I don’t know how.”

“You will learn,” Marcus tells you with an emotionless stare. Not because he’s sure you will, but because he knows you have to. “For me.”

Your pretty features swirl with anguish. “Marcus…” you whisper his name in a feeble whimper caught in your throat.

He does not soften at your emotion like you’re used to. He’s practiced apathy for so long that it comes naturally to him now. He bites his tongue to keep from kissing you and lets the blood stain his teeth all over again.

“If not for your own sake, then for mine. The Emperors would have my head if they understood the pretenses I brought you under.”

You flinch at his words, perhaps finally understanding the weight of the unforgiving world in which you live. The surest example of such cruelty stands before you now, in the only man you ever loved now using your purest devotion as a means to keep you pliant. But your anger for the merciless arrangement is long eclipsed by your yearning.

“Then I will,” you tell him, rigid with a glacial disposition Marcus hasn’t seen before now.

The choices here were few. Either you were slaughtered outside the city walls by soldiers and pillagers, or you were slaughtered within them — in the metaphorical sense that burns physically in your chest now. 

Being without Marcus feels like a fate worse than death, but you want him so desperately to live. So much so that you’ll fall on the sword of your longing and bleed out at his feet. Knowing that you’re under the same sky would have to be enough for you. 

You can’t tell which it is — sacrifice or self-slaughter — but Marcus knows it isn’t as poetic as all that. 

Death is death.

Emperor Geta staggers drunkenly down the spiral stone steps of the west wing of his castle. The path to his chambers is illuminated by several dwindling torches hung along the brick walls. The subtle squeaking of his leather sandals sounds much louder in the quiet — filled only by crackling flames, a distant dripping noise, and the song he slurs under his breath. 

The latter ceases suddenly when he stumbles to a stop at the sight of General Acacius. The man stands like a statue outside his bedroom door — arms crossed behind his back, old spine perfectly straight — like the obedient guard dog he is. 

The thought makes the Emperor’s lips curl into a crooked smile. “What are you doing here, dog?” he calls to the General as he approaches him, voice echoing down the soulless corridor.

“Your nameday present, your majesty—” Marcus answers and tries not to make a face when the Emperor stands before him. The bittersweet scent of wine stains his breath, overwhelmingly so. Geta was never one to practice temperance. “—I was told to see that you got it.”

The younger man hesitates. “From my uncle?” he wonders aloud.

Marcus nods wordlessly in response.

Geta pauses for a moment. His wide, glassy eyes flit over the General’s shoulder to the arched doorway behind him. His stomach swirls at the thought of what may lie inside. The last nameday present his uncle sent from overseas was a monkey his younger brother has grown much too attached to.

“Well… What is it?”

Marcus swallows hard and steps aside. “Look inside, your majesty.”

Geta takes a deep breath in and swings the creaking door open. His bedroom is lush with crimson silk and golden candlelight, familiarly fragranced with cinnamon and sweet myrrh. It’s accompanied by something foreignly floral, a feminine rosy-lavender that catches his attention before his eyes ever find you.

He steps through the threshold and finds a strange girl standing by the window, before a platter of fruit and wine — bathed half in the silver beams of a full moon, and half in flickering orange flames. 

White silk adorns your frame, so delicate it’s nearly see-through. One of your shoulders is mouthwateringly bare, and there’s a slit in the fabric that rises to your hip. You look as pure as a dove, though you’re so obviously built for sin.

The ground sways beneath Geta’s unsteady feet.

You crunch audibly into an apple before you realize anyone’s there. The juice runs down your chin before you swipe it away with the back of your hand. Only then do your eyes lock with the Emperor’s, who seems equally stunned to see you there. You tense and say nothing as you hide the bitten fruit behind your back.

“It’s a woman,” Geta observes to no one in particular, though his dark eyes have not yet wavered from yours.

Marcus stands behind him and nods — hands still clasped behind his back, heart still pounding against his ribcage. “Yes, your majesty. In plain terms.”

“Well,” the Emperor glances over his shoulder. “What does she do?”

“Whatever you want,” the General answers, though the words taste like vinegar on his tongue. He swallows the bitterness down like bile and leers at you, looking upon his lover as though she were a stranger. “You need only ask.”

Geta, satisfied by his answer, turns back to you. His initial surprise has ebbed into something more pleased, diabolically so. His pink lips curl into a sneer as he walks slowly towards you, eyeing you up and down with curious eyes — a predator stalking its prey.

“Is that true?” he asks you, voice ringing through the quiet room. “Or is he confusing you for a dutiful hound?”

“A dutiful whore, your majesty,” you correct with an acquiescent smile, following the story as Marcus intended. 

The half-truth comes easily to you. Not a lie exactly, but not the whole tale either. You’d spent many of your years working in a brothel on the outskirts of Rome. You were a young woman, unmarried, without family or viable prospects — whoring seemed the most obvious decision then, though it feels so long ago now. 

You’d waited your whole life for something, for Marcus, though you hadn’t expected it to kill you when you found it. You won’t die a saint if the crazed Emperor decides to take your head, but perhaps you could be a martyr. Perhaps that’ll be enough.

Fear beats through your body like a second heart, but your eyes never waver from the Emperor’s. It’s easiest to meet his gaze. He feels more like a human that way. 

There are flecks of gold in his dark eyes, and dark strands in his gold hair. He’s got stubble on his long neck, spots on his broad nose, and wrinkles on his forehead. Not quite as perfect as the pristine white-gold armor would let on.

His eyes flit down your form once more. Something sparks in the deep brown of them, a flicker of silent realization. He spins suddenly on the heel of his sandal to flash Marcus an accusatory glare.

“Is she your whore, General?” he lilts into the heavy silence. His brows raise when he receives no answer from the man across the room. “The question was not rhetorical, Acacius.”

“No, your majesty. She is not mine,” Marcus answers, then clears his throat when the words get stuck there. It’s like he’s plunging a knife through his own heart. He can feel the cold sting of the sharpened blade and the burn of the blood on his skin. “Though, I don’t believe whores belong to anyone.”

A boyish chuckle spills from the Emperor’s mouth. “No. They don’t,” he says with an airy giddiness. “Not before now, anyway—”

Geta spins back again, pleated skirt fanning around his pale thighs. His smile fades with an eerie swiftness. “What are you waiting for? Undress,” he commands with a wave of his ringed hand.

Your wide eyes flit instinctively past him to Marcus, who still idles in the doorway. Only then does he realize how long he’s been staring at you. He forces himself to glance off in another direction, but his gaze keeps finding yours — like a magnet, or a planet with its own gravitational pull.

Your eyes lock, and the only thing you hear is each other, though neither of you has spoken a word. This is the only way, you hear his voice in your head as clearly as your own. This is the only way to stay together. The only way to survive.

Geta mistakes your fear.

“Don’t worry about him, little dove,” he coos, and taps the bottom of your chin with his fingers — as soft and petaled as your own. He smiles when your attention turns to him again, speaking loud enough for the General to hear. “He’s only the guard dog. And good boys get scraps, don’t they, Acacius?”

Marcus’ face screws like he’s tasted something sour. He’s grateful the Emperor isn’t looking at him to see it. “They do, your majesty,” he monotones.

“So you will watch. And report to my uncle how his lovely present fared,” he calls to the older man, though his eyes remain locked with yours. You tense when his pale hand reaches suddenly for your face. He holds your cheeks in his fingers until your lips jut in a soft pout. “Let’s hope I don’t have to send him back your head, little dove.”

He says it with an absentminded effortlessness, as though it’s something he’s done before. 

Still, you manage a small smile and blink up at him with innocent eyes. “What good is a dead whore, your majesty?” you quip.

Geta’s grin widens.  “Precisely. Now undress.”

You reach for the singular sleeve of your slip with trembling fingers. Your right hand sweeps across your left shoulder, skin blazing with fear and anticipation. The fabric trails down down down your arm before falling to your feet in a puddle of milky white silk. Your bare body glows silver and gold between moonlight and flame. 

Goosebumps pebble over your skin despite the humid summer night as Geta circles you like prey. His eyes trail slowly down your form in time with his rhythmic steps. The sound of his sandals scrapping the stone floor, crackling candlelight, and subdued breathing are the only sounds in the quiet room for several long moments.

The Emperor disappears behind you, and you forget how to breathe. Your wide, wet eyes find Marcus once more — pleading, though for what, you cannot say. His face reveals nothing but wrath burns in his gaze.

Geta reappears at your right side. You smell grape wine on his breath when he nears you, breathing heavily through his mouth as he reaches out to touch you. His ringed hands smooth over your collarbone. Your breath catches in your throat. He smiles as though your fright pleases him.

“You’re skittish for a whore,” he muses, playful in a way that makes your stomach wrench. “Are you sure the General didn’t bring me a virgin?”

You swallow hard as his hand trails down your body. Over the swell of your breast, skimming his thumb over your taut nipple, before tracing the expanse of your ribs. His fingers run down your stomach and past the thatch of hair between your legs. They dip finally between your thighs. 

Geta hums a faint moan at the velvet feeling of your pussy. The way your lips part for his fingers, silky skin warm and wet to the touch. 

“I’m whatever you want me to be, your majesty,” you answer, breathing hard through your nose when he pulls his hand away — a warmth you find yourself begrudgingly grieving.

“I need only ask…” the Emperor coos, running his middle and pointer finger over your bottom lip. They shine with the honey you leak despite yourself. Your mouth parts, and he rests the pads of them on your tongue. “…Do I not?”

You nod wordlessly through the salty fingers in your mouth, trying to imagine their Marcus’.

Geta smiles when he parts from you. “Undress me,” he demands. 

You work at his tricky armor with nervous hands and bated breath. 

You unclasp his cape first. The white fabric, now free from its chain, falls heavily to the floor behind him. Your fingers have gone noticeably clammy as they struggle with the sleeves of his tunic. It takes you a beat too long to loosen the laces at his shoulders. The cloth falls finally and puddles around his feet, leaving his lean body on display before you.

His torso is lean and mostly hairless, save for splotches of chestnut on his sternum and stomach. His skin is smooth and flushed from the alcohol. His stomach is slim but noticeably full. The Emperor is well-taken care of, though his subjects outside the keep suffer from the consequences of war.

Your trembling fingers curl around the hem of his loincloth. His pale skin is warm to the touch, boiling with desire while you freeze over with fear. You crouch before him as you drag the garment down his scruffy thighs. You hear Geta sigh above you when his half-hard cock meets the cool summer night air. 

He’s paler there compared to the rest of his golden body, though the mushroom tip glows a faint strawberry-red color. A vein trails in jagged lines to the base of his heavy cock, fading as it reaches the thatch of dark blonde hair at his pubic bone. He’s not nearly as thick as Marcus, though not many people could hope to be — but he is long and thin and soft like velvet.

“How do I look?” Geta wonders as he steps out of his loincloth. He tilts his chin to his chest to peer down at you, on your knees to untie the intricate laces of his sandals. You blink up at him with wide, uncertain eyes. “Without my armor,” he adds, then repeats. “How do I look?”

You realize, then, that he wants your praise. Though you’re unsure why, you’re not in any position to deny him of it. “You’re a— a very handsome man, your majesty,” you respond cautiously, with a wavering smile.

You hear his breath catch at the compliment. The corner of his mouth flickers upward, and his nostril flares as he takes a deep breath in. 

“Well, go on, then,” he insists suddenly, nodding his head to egg you onward. “Good whores don’t keep their masters waiting, do they? You don’t want to see me impatient, little dove.”

You wrap his stiff cock in a tentative fist, averting your gaze as you give an experimental kitten lick to the bulbous, strawberry tip. Your tongue swipes away the pearlescent pre-cum beading there. The salty tang is foreign on your tongue, sweeter and thicker than you’re used to.

You imagine your lover when you take the Emperor’s cock in your mouth. A practiced form of dissociation that comes naturally to you now. 

You focus on the way the stone floor digs into your knees as you cup his balls in your hand — a desperate attempt to finish him quickly. Geta shudders when you swallow him whole, burying your nose in the coarse thatch of hair at the base of his cock. His head tips back as he groans at the ceiling.

“You are a proper whore…” the Emperor moans with a delirious smile. He tilts his flushed cheek to his freckled shoulder to sneer at Marcus, then frowns when his eyes meet the back of him. “Are you distracted, General?”

The man keeps his back turned and his eyes trained on the wall, counting the bricks there to distract his racing mind. His mouth snarls at the Emperor’s words. His hands ball into fists as he fights to keep his composure.

“Just giving you your privacy, your majesty.”

“Nonsense!” Geta laughs, loud. “You should watch! You should observe— so you know what to tell my uncle.”

Marcus can hear the mischievous lilt in the younger boy’s voice. Like it’s all just a game to him. Like you’re just a whore to be played with, and like Marcus’ only hope of companionship is warfare. Both might’ve been true once, but not since you find each other.

The general smacks his lips against his teeth. “As you wish,” he deadpans and spins on the heel of his sandal.

He’s strangely grateful to find the Emperor’s body obscuring your own. Geta’s lean, pale form towers over your kneeling one — back muscles flexing, hips thrusting, fingers knitting in your hair.

But Marcus can still hear the sounds of your mouth on the other man’s cock. The room fills with heavy breathing, wet noises, and the Emperor’s unabashed whines. Embers of envy burn in the General’s empty chest. A wildfire of want and wrath rages behind his ribcage.

You swallow with Geta’s cock in your throat and squeeze softly at his balls. You hear his breath hitch just before a lengthy moan spills from his parted mouth. Several loads of salty cum spit down your throat a second later. The man shows you little mercy as he holds you by your hair, keeping your nose pressed to his pubic bone. You take shallow breaths through your nose and try not to choke.

You pull off of him when he lets you go. A string of saliva threatens to keep you connected. You take a deep breath in and swipe at your swollen mouth with the back of your hand, staying on your knees while the Emperor tilts his head back. He exhales a breathy laugh of relief at the ceiling. You peer up at him with wide, wet eyes, still so uncertain of your fate.

“Proper whore, indeed,” Geta muses, almost to himself, as he drops his heavy head once more. 

His flushed chest sparkles with a foreign feeling at the sight of you beneath him — eyes teary and fearful, lips swollen and rosy, features flushed with sweat and sex. His cock jerks, still sensitive but threatening to harden again. He grips himself with a loose fist.

“On the bed,” he instructs suddenly, then grins madly at your shock. “You didn’t think I was done with you, surely. Not until I mount you like a mare, anyway— Treat you like the bitch in heat you are…”

Geta cups your warm cheek in his free hand. His touch is strangely gentle as he cradles you there, right before he smacks gently at your jaw to urge you upward. 

Your bare feet pad towards the bed, then. Geta swats your ass as you go and laughs when you squeak in response. You fight the urge to look at Marcus, lest you see the rage burning in his eyes — lest he see the heartbreak swimming in yours. 

Marcus watches you crawl over the silken sheets, both of you sporting similar far-off gazes. He feels a bit like a ghost now. An empty, invisible thing, doomed to watch the rest of the world go on without ever being able to live in it. It’s dreadfully symbolic of how he’s lived most of his life, and how he’s spent the years loving you. Because even if a ghost is full of love, the only thing it knows to do is haunt.

The silk pillow feels cool under your burning cheek. The mattress dips under the Emperor’s weight when he kneels behind you. His ringed fingers smooth over your ass and down the arch of your back. He treats you with an uncharacteristic sort of tenderness, as though he were molding you out of clay.

“You are a pretty thing, aren’t you?” he whispers under his breath. “And timid, too… I like that…” 

Your pussy clenches at his words despite yourself. Geta’s chest swells with pride accordingly. “You don’t have to be scared, little dove. I’m going to take such good care of you.”

Despite his words, he does not bother to ready you for his cock when he positions himself at your pulsing entrance. You hadn’t expected him to, of course — not many men were as kind as Marcus in that way, who often treated your pleasure as if it were his own. But the slick sticking to your thighs has made your pussy more than pliant. Your velvet walls swallow Geta’s cock with a pulsing vigor.

The Emperor groans as he fucks into you, savoring every inch as he buries himself to the hilt. His ringed fingers dig into the plush of your waist, as though you were a toy he didn’t want getting snatched away.

“Look at the hound!” Geta giggles boyishly to himself. “He’s itching for a feel of you— I just know it.”

Marcus remains as still and stoic as the battalion trained him to be. He reveals nothing on his face, though his skin prickles with flames of envy beneath his armor. 

Marcus Acacius was not a jealous man. His love for you was a testament to that. He visited the brothel you boarded in and spared the same coins as every man in the establishment did. But it was different now. Because the Emperor does not deserve you, and he forces Marcus to watch as if he knows it, too.

Something within him seethes, like a feral animal trapped behind his ribcage, desperately clawing its way out.

“Look at him,” Geta snaps when he sees you staring at the wall, eyes glassy and glazed over. He’s grinning all over again when your gaze snaps to Marcus’. 

The soldier’s weathered eyes burn with tears then. General Acacius has faced death a thousand times over, but it wasn’t quite as heartwrenching as this. His wrath simmers to a boil. He swallows it down like fire.

This is her salvation, he tells himself. This is how she survives.

Your features twist with the anguish of being seen as the Emperor lays himself over your back. His slick chest sits flush with your spine, pinning you to the mattress. “I bet he can taste you now. Smell you,” he murmurs in your ear, chapped mouth brushing the shell of it. “His mouth is salivating at the thought of putting his tongue on you— Isn’t it, dog?”

Marcus swallows through the emotion threatening to strangle him. He blinks away stinging tears and feigns an air of nonchalance. “It would be… impolite to talk so brashly about something that doesn’t belong to me, your majesty,” the General responds. Obedient. Loyal like a hound.

Geta grins wide. “Good answer, Acacius.”

When the Emperor finally fucks into you, it’s with a sloppy sort of precision. There is no rhythm or care to his thrusts. He is led only by his blinding pleasure, like a man who has only ever fucked playthings and his own fist. He props himself on one forearm and curls the other beneath you, holding your breast in his ringed hand.

Geta’s flushed cheek presses against your own while he slides in and out and into you again. You hear his groaning as you feel it rumbling in his chest, still laid against your back. You stare at a framed portrait on the wall across the room and wait for it to be over, even as your body refuses to dismiss its simmering orgasm.

Your swollen clit ruts against the silk sheets with each of the Emperor’s sloppy thrusts. You can feel a wet spot forming beneath you, and your stomach twists at the thought of seeing proof of your own pleasure. 

His balls smack your leaking cunt, creating a symphony of lewd noises — moaning, whimpering, clapping, smacking. Marcus thinks the sounds of war were more merciful than this.

“Do you understand what that means, little dove?” Geta croons into your ear, words choppy through his labored breaths and irregular thrusts. “You belong— to me now… So whatever you used to be— whoever’s you used to be— no longer matters.”

He thrusts once, hard, and shudders above you with a choked-back groan. You grit your teeth to swallow down your own noises of pleasure. The assault on your clit, though unintentional, is still yet relentless. You feel the distant white-hot burning feeling begin to swell in the pit of your stomach. A coil about to snap.

“Fucking me— Making me feel good—” the Emperor pants, punctuated by his hips against your ass. “—Is your only duty now. Understand?”

You nod, cheek running over the silk cushion as you grip it in your fists. “Yes, your majesty,” you gasp.

Geta presses his smile to the apple of your cheek. He can feel you leaking around him. You’re enjoying this just as much as he is, to be sure. A proper whore, indeed.

“Now… Take my spend like a good bitch, and thank me for it—”

He fucks you harder, and your face twists with a pleasure you’re too weak to fight away. 

Your gaze falls instinctively to Marcus as your orgasm threatens to swallow you whole. Your eyes squeeze shut in a feeble attempt to hide. Your mouth parts with a silent moan as you cum around the Emperor’s cock.

“Thank you, your majesty,” you whimper obediently into the pillow as you tremble beneath him. “Thank you.”

Geta buries a whine in your neck when he cums again. He gives you only two pitiful, warm loads but still possesses more stamina than your Marcus. He stills, then shudders, then rests his unforgiving bodyweight on top of you when pleasure makes a puddle of him. And of you, you assume, as a mixture of your spend leaks out of your cunt and onto the sheets.

“Write to my uncle, Acacius—” Geta slurs into your skin, heavy through labored pants. “—A thank you for my nameday present.”

Marcus forgets, until then, that he can still be seen. He felt more akin to a corpse hidden in the walls, forced to spend his afterlife in a merciless purgatory. His heart has stopped beating, frozen over, and now sits dead in his chest. He will never be as gentle as he was with you. He will be bloodied knuckles and pulsing wounds. Rough and cruel and angry.

“Yes, your majesty,” the General nods, thankful that it’s over now.

Geta rolls off of your body and onto the empty spot beside you — not shy about his nude form or yours. The sudden lack of warmth makes you shiver. 

“And tell him to send another— To keep the General’s bed warm, too,” he says, patting your ass with his palm before smoothing tenderly over the skin. “One whore’s as good as any other, I’m sure.”

Marcus flinches at the thought of being with anyone other than you. He couldn’t hide the look of disgust if he tried. It makes the Emperor laugh loudly in response.

“Oh, did you— Did you want to try this one?” Geta muses knowingly, pointing to your limp body, still trembling beside him with the aftershocks of your orgasm.

“No. No, no, no— See, this one’s mine,” he corrects the General as if he were a child. “And it would be impolite to touch something that belongs to me, would it not? It would be treasonous, even.”

“Yes, your majesty,” Marcus nods, lip flickering in a mere hint of a smirk as his plan finally comes to fruition. “It would be.”

The Emperor sees you now as his property, and no one hurts what belongs to him without meeting a certain death. Marcus is comforted only by the thought that nothing can touch you now. Not even him. But perhaps that’s the price he pays for love. Perhaps, in the end, love is grief.

“So best tread lightly, Acacius,” Geta warns with a crooked smile, petting you like a dog. “I’d hate for someone to get hurt.”

[stareiiez]

sinister mark only let a threesome happen once, and that's because his stupid fucking mohawk looking variant wouldn't shut up about how fat your ass is.

as much as he WANTED to rip that twunk's head off his body and use it as a nice little footrest in his empire, well-- he wanted to contribute to charity at least this once. he has rules, of course.

no cumming in her, on her, and no making her cum.

that last rule was absolute bullshit, but he never said about making you not squirt because his dick game is that good. whatever god up above should be praying for his variant's health and safety when it happens. mohawk mark is just fucking happy to get to see both of your holes open and exposed in your effiel tower position.

sinister mark was all hands and teeth that night in your bedroom. he bit you harder than normal when you had the gall to moan from how thick the other variant was inside of your overworked cunt. sinister mark's cum was helping to lubricate the soda can wideness into your abused pussy. his teeth scrape against your shoulder bone when you moan from both painful bite and the painful stretch between your thighs. his blunt nails are scrapping up your sides, marking every subtle bump of your ribs under your skin. he wants to claw you harder, but the rush of crimson that drains down his throat distracts him from hurting you further.

it's both thrilling and embarrassing that mohawk's first thrust makes you unravel all too quickly, you can't clench down upon enough to make you cum so prettily. your juices violently paint up the sweaty planes of the variant behind your kneeled over form. your jaw dropped open and crying watery sobs. your throat aches, and drool smears the corners of your kiss swollen mouth.

death won't come soon enough for the bastard who's smiling behind you. brown hues twinkle with mockery and triumph. if you weren't so god damn hot, still squirting and practically pissing on his variant? sinister mark would have thrown you off his body and contributed to the mess you three have already created by spreading viscera and gore onto black sheets.

then? you'd be fucked in the bloody mess, just because he can.

[sukithesadfox]



INTERFACING - You fuck it up. Your juvenile glee at finding a slide leads you to swing down into the pipe far too fast. INLAND EMPIRE - Like the child you used to be. AUTHORITY - But you are not a child any more. ELECTRO-CHEMISTRY - Fuck that shit, bomb it down there and scream the whole time! PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT - We can take it. We can always take it. PAIN THRESHOLD - Pain, radiant and sharp, jolts through you. You can not, in fact, take it. [Health -1] REACTION SPEED - You fly out of the slide, propelled by your weight and your enthusiasm. ENDURANCE - The metal jars against you, then you're sliding over the harsh ground instead. COMPOSURE - You land heavily at Kim's feet, and begin to whine like a child with a scraped knee. ESPRIT DE CORPS - His infinitesimal regard for you as a normal human being is so dead at this point he's not even surprised. KIM KITSURAGI - "Normal people, when they go down a slide, they're fine." AUTHORITY - He's questioning your authority! VOLITION - Sitting on the floor and crying after being beaten up by a slide, you have precious little authority to question. [Morale -1]

[tokoyamisstuff]

Delicate

Sinister! Mark x GN!Regenerator! Reader

A/N: After -> this <- post by @kikiiguess, thanks for matching my freak on a catastrophic level!

⚠️Contains Comic Spoilers⚠️

18+ disturbing content

Synopsis: After escaping from the wasteland dimension, Mark has developed a concerning appetite... Warnings: angst, blood, injury, hurt/comfort, masochism, literal cannibalism, this is oddly sexual charged

It was way past midnight when you woke up finding the bedplace next to yours empty once again, starting to wander the barely illuminated hallways in search for your lover.

A few days prior he had finally returned to your dimension after weeks of absence - yet what exactly happened or how he was even able to find his way back remained a mystery.

All you were sure of is that he had returned a shell of his former self, completely driven by inferior instincts.

From what you could understand of the scraps of information he provided in between demented nonsense, Mark and several of his alters got stranded in a dead universe, with no access to food or water...

...so naturally, as time passed and their hopes of rescue were dwindling, their last option was to start eliminating each other in their desparation for survival.

Truth be told, you were almost 100% sure it was your Mark that made them all turn on each other in the first place.

You've had it all with this man, so you were confident to say it was definelty in his range of possibilities - though this was a new low, even for him.

Damn it, how many times did you tell him to not trust Angstom of all people?! He had been a pain in the ass in your dimension, and now you found out the hard way that goes for this one as well.

But sadly your boyfriend was a fatal combination of both greedy and bored - so being able to expand his empire across the multiverse seemed like just the kind of diversion he needed.

Maybe you if you had been more assertive, then none of this would've happened...

Not much later you finally run into him, hunched over the corpse of your comrade and holding a severed limb as his teeth scraped off the flesh. Witnessing carnage of this extent wasn't really new for either of you, but the context made it just so much more gruesome.

Ever since he came back he's nothing short of instable, however not in the way you were used to. It had always been subtle, well hidden behind a charming facade and skilled manipulation tactics.

There had been method to his madness up until now, but the isolation and sheer hopelessnes of his situation made the last remnant of his sanity slip away like sand between his fingers.

At times his mind conjures voices and other hallucinations, making him even more paranoid than usually. And more often than not he thinks that he's still trapped in that very same wasteland dimension. Well, back then his only solace was imagining himself back home by your side, and now it had become impossible for him to differentiate...

...not to mention, he seems to be plaqued by an aching hunger that can never be quenched.

The doctors claimed it was psychosomatic, caused by the trauma, and that he will most likely adjust to normal food again...

...and yet he hasn't gotten any better, no matter what you tried.

"Want some?" Mark's voice cut through the silence like shards of glass, and you shot him a both disappointed and sympathetic look before shaking your head. "Thanks, I'll pass..."

"I was just so hungry, you know?" You hear a bone creaking as he munches on it, and you feel like throwing up. "Always hungry...it never goes away..."

As much as it pained you to see him this way, in the end you prefer to have him like this than not at all.

Finding him here was no coincidence, surely. He always deliberately fled from your side, whenever this vile urge became too overwhelming. Harming you - the one and only person he evidently cared for - was out of the question.

The old Mark was still hidden somewhere in this delirious menace, you were sure of it...

...you just needed to find a way to lure him out.

"Come" you whisper softly, understandingly, yet also cautious - like you were trying to appease an unpredictable beast that could lash out without warning shall you make one wrong movement. "Let's go to bed."

For a split second a panicked aggression flared up in his eyes, although he didn't act upon the impulse he developed to ensure his survival. He mustered your outstreched hand suspiciously, as if not quite knowing what to do with it, but after a while of whatever his disturbed mind was contemplating, he accepted your offer.

You mutely led him the way back to your shared chambers, with him leaving a trail of blood from the carnage left behind. That's a problem for tomorrow you - or preferably someone else - to clean up.

Right now all that counts is being there for the man that would- no, has conquered entire civilizations in your name.

You owe this to him!

There was no use trying to reason with him about getting cleaned up, so you gently guided him onto the mattress and climbed in right after. Blood from his clothes, hair and skin was soaked into the sheets, drying into a deep shade of crimson. He was entirely covered in it, mixed with his own saliva as it dripped down his chin.

You cradled his face into your hands, pecking a kiss on the bridge of his nose before smearing the proof of his earlier slaughter into nothing but a fading red.

"I didn't plan to be last, I swear..." your boyfriend uttered as he wrapped his arms around your middle, his scruffy beard tickling the crook of your neck. "It just continued not to be me. Maybe I don't look tasty? I don't want to not look tasty..."

You let out a shuddered breath, continuing to let your fingers comb through his messy hair but getting tangled in the dried blood. "I'm just glad to have you back."

Mark had always cursed himself for being so pathetically attached to you. He never intended to fall in love, downright refused this foreign feeling long before he even understood them.

After having spent his whole life in solitude, indifferent to anything 'normal' people seemed to value, he convinced himself that it was actually a sign of superiority.

...and then he met you.

A plaything, a pastime at first.

Back then the GDA had messed with the pain center of your brain, so you'd be more effective in battle. After all, regeneration isn't helpful if you feel every single hit, especially after getting severely injured.

However those experiments came at a price - it caused the side-effect of mistaking pain for pleasure instead.

That's what makes the two of you such a great match: You can basically never break under the weight of what it means to be a sadistic sociopath's spouse. With you he can go all out, implement his dominating power without any consequences.

Who would've thought that the first battle he would ever lose was the one with his own heart?

In a certain way, that other dimension was better. Easier. Absent of any irrational social rules or confusing emotions he couldn't get behind. It was survival of the fittest - a concept he as one of the strongest beings in the universe was very fond of.

Back there, his lack of empathy wasn't consiered monstrous there - it was an advantage. Finally a reassurance that he wasn't broken or wrong.

He was the one that made it out alive, after all.

"How-" Mark's voice is raspy, wild eyes boring into your skull as his fingers tentatively wrapped around your neck. "How do I know this is real? Have you ever been real?!"

You were oddly calm despite being at a madman's mercy, but frankly you were used to it. He increases the pressure on your windpipe just enough to be uncomfortable, but you can feel the barely contained violence behind his grip.

Why didn't you think of this earlier? The solution is so obvious!

"...take from me and find out."

"...no." Mark's voice is firm in a brief moment of clarity. "No" he repeats, "I can't-"

"Why not?" You ask, tone almost offended that he'd reject your generous offer. If he wasn't currently slightly out of mind himself, he would've definetly called you out on this ridiculous behavior.

But his answer stands. There's lines even he does not cross, at least when it came to you. Hypocrite.

"Your folk has less than 50 pure-blooded Viltrumites left, and you just eviscerated one of them...but me? I can take it, I swear."

Your boyfriend had always shared the Viltrumite mindset that humans - except for certain individuals like you were one - are inferior creatures, not much different from cattle or vermin even. Many times he had hunted them for the sheer fun of it...

...but now he didn't even stop at his own people. If he continues, the Viltrumites will eventually turn against him no matter his royal heritage.

Things can't go on like this.

Maybe it's time for more drastic measurements.

"Stop being stubborn" you coo, invitingly batting your lashes but he shuts you up with a glare.

"No, you stop!" He rubs his face frantically, attempting to become at least somewhat clear-headed again. "Even your regeneration has limits. What if I-"

"You won't." Without hesitation, you dig your nails into your forearm, deeply enough to break the skin.

The sheer sight of it leaves him utterly conflicted, exasperated as he's sure once he gives in, he might not be able to stop himself. You see it in the way his hands tremble, barely hovering over your body, and his jaw clenching so hard that you hear his teeth crack.

You dare to cup his cheek, pouring all of your affection into the smile you gift him alongsdes with the essence of your very self. "I love you, Mark. And...I trust you with my life."

"Shit...why are you doing this to me...?" Mark carefully takes ahold of your wrist and brings it to his mouth, lips slightly parted as the intoxicating scent of your blood drings to his nostrils.

It's not the first time, and by far not the last.

Initially he's only licking across the wound, incredibly mellow as if he only wanted to clean it...

...but when the liquid finally graces his dry throat, he lets out a low growl and immediately straddles your waist, pouncing on you like a starved animal. He rips apart your sleeping shirt and lets his canines sink deeply into your exposed shoulder, tearing off the first layer of tissue.

You fail to suppress almost inaudible moans escaping your throat, having the love of your life causing you such delightful pain being almost too much to handle. And when his keen senses make him aware of your reaction, it only spurs him to go further.

"Ohhh..." he almost groans in pure ecstasy, ferociously covering your body in bites and craters of missing flesh. "You like that, huh? Nasty thing."

Mark's hands explore every inch of your body alongsides his mouth, the uncertainty of whether his next move will be mending or hurtful only adding to your excitement. He observes you intently, pupils blown wide by this sheer addicting deed.

His tongue forces your mouth open, the metallic taste of your own blood invading your senses. He can feel your pulse spiking up, as if that feeble little heart of yours wanted to remind him it knows exactly who it belongs to.

Good.

The others tasted so fucking disgusting. But you...

"Fuck" he panted against your skin, drunk on the feeling of having your mind and body submit to him so easily. "So fucking perfect...taking it all so good...it's like you were made just for me..."

Finally he could be as close to you as he deep inside always dreamt to be, and you were enjoying this twisted kind of love.

Part of you is now incorporated in him forever. Poetic.

After what felt like both an eternity and a flash of time, your boyfriend kissed a spot that had just healed for the last time, licking his lips in satisfaction and pulling away.

At long last, he was satiated.

Sitting up, Mark was practically beaming at you, with a look like you had hung the moon just for him. "Damn, babe" he cackles, the metaphorical fog around his soul finally lifting. "You're a freak, you know that?"

"Takes one to know one." You roll your eyes with a wide grin on your face, and the endearing sight makes him crash his lips over yours once again, sighing contently into your mouth.

Before you knew it, your boyfriend began trailing more sensual kisses across your body - from your neck down to your collarbone, chest and finally down your navel, making you shiver the further he descended.

A wolfish smile is playing on his lips as he settles between your legs, his teeth softly nipping into your thigh, mischievous eyes never leaving yours.

"Hope you're ready for dessert..."

[lazy-ahh]

Oooooh superhero gn reader x Viltrumite mark, please! During the Invincible War, Mark goes to take reader back to his universe, saying he’s missed them and their life together. Reader rejects him, and makes a deal: if reader wins, Mark has to stop wrecking chaos on the planet. If mark wins, reader will go back with him and whatever ‘life’ they created. And reader ends up losing. :)))

THE WRONG UNIVERSE TO LOVE YOU IN

pairing viltrum! mark grayson x (superhero) gender neutral reader

this one wants you back. the problem? you don't belong to him. you belong to the mark who loves eve, the mark who will never know you loved him first, the mark whose laugh still echoes in your dreams. now, as his fingers wipe blood from your face with terrifying gentleness, reality splits open: stay and die for a love that was never yours, or let him steal you away to a world where you were his—where you'll always be second to a ghost of yourself. (he promises to be better. you almost believe him.)

taglist @hhoneylemon , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff

the sky is bleeding red when he finds you—a sickly crimson streaked with smoke, the air thick with the scent of burning metal and charred flesh. the distant wails of sirens blend into the chaos, a symphony of destruction that never seems to end.

you’re panting, your bruised knuckles pressed into the cracked pavement as you push yourself up, every muscle screaming in protest. the city around you is a graveyard—skyscrapers reduced to skeletal husks, streets littered with bodies, some still twitching, others long gone. the invincible war has turned your world into a slaughterhouse, and standing in the middle of it all, untouched by the ruin, is him.

mark grayson.

but not your mark.

this one is different—sharp where your best friend is soft, his jaw set in a hard line, his eyes dark with something unreadable. there’s a cruel twist to his lips, a coldness in his stare that makes your stomach knot. he wears the viltrumite empire’s uniform, the sleek, lighter armor a stark contrast to the torn superhero costumes scattered around you. a few blood stains littered the fabric, some of it still fresh, glistening under the firelight. it’s not just from battle—no, this mark wears it like a trophy.

you had just finished killing other variants of him, their lifeless eyes staring up at you, their faces so familiar it made your hands shake. you mourned them, grieved for the versions of you in their worlds who must have loved them as fiercely as you love yours. your breath still comes in ragged gasps, your heart pounding not just from exhaustion, but from the weight of what you’ve done.

and then he arrived.

this mark moves with a predator’s grace, his steps measured, his shoulders squared with the confidence of someone who’s never lost. there’s a quiet intensity in the way he surveys the wreckage—like a king surveying his domain. but when his eyes land on you, something shifts. the cold superiority in his gaze softens, just for a second, before he schools his expression back into something unreadable.

"there you are," he says, voice low, almost reverent, like he’s been searching through a thousand broken worlds just to find you. the way his eyes trace over you—lingering on the blood smeared across your cheek, the way your chest heaves with exhaustion—makes your skin prickle. it’s not relief in his tone. it’s claiming.

and you realize, with a sinking dread that coils like ice in your gut, that this isn’t over. it’s only beginning.

"missed you," he murmurs, the words rough, scraped raw from his throat. his voice is different from your mark’s—deeper, edged with a hunger that makes your pulse stutter. he says it like he’s been holding it in for years, like he’s carved the words into his ribs just to keep them close.

your chest tightens, heart hammering against your sternum. you’ve heard the stories—whispers of alternate marks, warped by viltrum’s cruelty, ripping through dimensions to drag back what they think belongs to them. and now he’s here, standing in the wreckage of your city, looking at you like you’re a ghost he’s been chasing. like you’re already his.

"you don’t even know me," you spit, swiping the back of your hand across your split lip. the metallic tang of blood coats your tongue, bitter and familiar.

he tilts his head, considering you with a gaze that feels like a physical touch. "i know enough," he says, voice dropping into something dangerously soft. "in my world, you were mine." his thumb brushes over a streak of dirt on your jaw, possessive and tender all at once. "we had a life. a future." his eyes darken, something feral flickering behind them. "i’m taking you back."

your fists clench, nails biting into your palms hard enough to draw blood. you think of your mark—the boy who scraped his knees racing you down suburban streets, whose laughter was always a little too loud, a little too bright. the one who looks at eve like she hung the stars, while you’ve spent years swallowing down words that taste like rust and regret.

"what happened to me?" you choke out, the question tearing from you like a wound ripped open. "in your world. did i—" your voice fractures. "did i love you too? or did you just force me to?"

his pupils dilate, just slightly, the only crack in his controlled facade. for a heartbeat, he looks almost human. "you begged me to stay," he says, low and rough, like the memory is a blade twisting in his gut. "the night before the viltrumite fleet came. you held onto me like you knew." his jaw tightens. "then they burned our world to ash. but you—" his thumb presses against your pulse point, a mockery of tenderness. "you were always meant to survive."

the air leaves your lungs. you can see it—some other version of you, screaming as the sky split open, clinging to a monster because they didn’t know he’d become one.

"no."

his expression darkens—not like a storm rolling in, but like a door slamming shut. the brief vulnerability in his eyes snuffs out, pupils contracting into something cold and calculating. his jaw tightens, the muscle flexing as his teeth grind together, like he’s biting back words he’ll never say. the softness that had flickered across his face for just a second hardens into something unreadable, the lines of his face sharpening into a mask of imperial discipline.

but his eyes—oh, his eyes. they’re not just empty. they’re hungry.

the way he looks at you isn’t just possessive. it’s devouring. his gaze drags over you like he’s memorizing the shape of your defiance, like he can’t wait to break it apart and remake you into something that fits in the hollow of his hands. his lips twitch, not into a smirk, but into something far more dangerous—a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, a smile that says, you think you have a choice?

and then, just like that—it’s gone. his face smooths back into viltrumite indifference, as if that momentary crack in his armor had never existed. but you saw it. you felt it. and that’s what terrifies you the most. "you don’t get a choice."

"then fight me for it," you snap, surging forward until your forehead hovers a breath away from his, close enough to feel the heat of his skin, close enough to count the flecks of gold in his darkened eyes. the scent of smoke and iron and something uniquely him clings to the space between you, thick enough to choke on. he doesn’t flinch—doesn’t even breathe—just holds your gaze with a half-lidded, almost lazy intensity, like you’re a puzzle he’s already solved.

then his eyes drag downward, slow and deliberate, lingering on the part of your lips, the quickened rise and fall of your chest. there’s no shame in it, no pretense—just hunger, plain and unapologetic. your pulse stutters. for one terrifying second, you almost falter, because this isn’t the look of a conqueror assessing his enemy.

it’s the look of a man remembering how you taste.

"if i win, you leave this planet alone. if you win…" your voice wavers as a memory blindsides you—your mark’s face, soft in the moonlight on his rooftop, his fingers brushing yours as he smiled at you with something warm and unreadable. you’d let yourself imagine, just for a second, that it was love. that it could be you.

now, you’re bargaining with a ghost of him.

"i’ll go with you," you whisper.

he grins finally, all teeth, but still disciplined—like he’s savoring the way your breath hitches when he leans in. "deal."

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

the battle is brutal.

you’re strong—strong enough to have shattered the ribs of other marks, strong enough to have left their bodies broken in the rubble of this war. but him? he’s something else entirely. every hit he lands cracks through your bones like fault lines, every impact vibrating through your teeth until your jaw aches. you dodge, but you’re always a half-second too slow, his fist grazing your cheekbone hard enough to send stars exploding across your vision.

and the worst part? he’s smiling. small and private just for you, but still there.

not the sharp, cruel grin of a conqueror—no, this is lazy, almost playful, like he’s savoring the way your breath comes in ragged gasps, the way your muscles scream as you push yourself beyond limits that should have broken you already. he’s toying with you, you realize with a sickening lurch. not because he needs to, but because he wants to see how long you’ll last.

"you took down six of them," he muses, catching your fist mid-swing like it’s nothing, his fingers tightening until your knuckles creak in protest. "six of me." his voice drops, something almost like pride curling through it. "that’s not nothing."

then his knee slams into your gut, and the world blurs.

you don’t even feel the moment his fist collides with your ribs—just the sickening crunch, the way your body folds around the impact before you’re hurled backward, crashing through concrete and steel like paper. debris hails down around you, dust choking your lungs as you gasp, vision swimming in and out of black.

when the ringing in your ears fades, he’s already there, crouched beside you with all the casual grace of a predator who’s never known fear. his fingers brush the hair from your face, smearing blood across your temple in a mockery of tenderness.

"you put up a good fight," he murmurs, thumb dragging over your split lip. his voice is almost fond, like he’s praising a well-trained weapon. "stronger than most. smarter, too." his grip tightens, just slightly, forcing your gaze up to his. "but you were never gonna win."

your body screams—muscles torn, bones fractured, blood pooling beneath you like a second shadow. but the pain in your chest is worse, a hollowed-out wound no advanced viltrumite healing could ever fix. you think of your mark—his stupid, lopsided smile, the way his voice softened when he said your name, the light in his eyes when he looked at eve—a light that was never, ever for you.

and now you’ll never tell him.

"promise me," you whisper, the words slick with blood, metallic and bitter on your tongue. there’s so much more you want to say—begging, pleading things that claw at your throat like trapped birds. promise me you’ll love me. promise me i won’t just be another trophy. promise me you won’t get bored and break me when i’m no longer new. promise me you won't throw me aside like he did. but all that comes out is: "promise you’ll leave this world alone."

mark’s thumb drags across your cheekbone, smearing dirt and blood in a mockery of gentleness. his touch is warm, almost reverent, like you’re something precious instead of something stolen. "i promise," he says, and for a heartbeat, his voice is so soft it almost sounds like the boy you knew.

then his arms lock around you, lifting you against his chest like you weigh nothing. the sky splinters above you—crimson and gold and burning, the last beautiful thing you’ll ever see.

(and somewhere, in another life, your mark screams your name, raw and shattered, as the rubble of your city collapses around him. but you’re already gone, and the universe does not care.)

1.9k words full of my number one favourite invincible variant!! thank you so much to the anon who requested this one-shot heheheh <33

[nikixkoo]

𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐕𝐄𝐓 𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄𝐒

pairing: jungkook x f!reader.

word count: 4.2k

content warnings: smut [MDNI], unprotected sex, make out, kind of public display, jungkook’s a bit (a lot) possessive, and lots of teasing.

a/n: hi! it’s niki here. 𐙚 this is my first time writing, but i hope u enjoyed reading this as much as i enjoyed doing it. english isn’t my first language, so please be kind if something isn’t right written! lots of love, muak. ≽^•⩊•^≼

She’s everything he hates to love. He’s everything she pretends not to need.

summary: In the world of wealth, secrets, and perfectly polished lies, you walk through the marble halls of the most prestigious university in the country like you own the place, because you practically do. Heiress of an empire. Flawless reputation. Everyone wants you. Everyone fears you.

Except him.

The only one who’s never looked at you like you were fragile. The only one who sees through the diamonds, the designer, the perfectly curated mask. Your favorite person, your first secret, and your biggest weakness.

You push his buttons. He tests your limits. You make him jealous on purpose. He pulls you into his bed like it’s nothing.

It’s not official. It’s not healthy.

But it’s yours.

The sun hits the field like a spotlight, casting golden light over expensive turf and even more expensive egos. Cleats scrape, whistles blow, and the boys of Rutherford’s lacrosse team move like they’re auditioning for the front page of some legacy magazine. At the center of it all, Jeon Jungkook.

Fast, lethal, and disgustingly good at everything. He runs drills like a general, yelling commands, barking orders, and still managing to look like a god dipped in sweat. The kind of boy that makes good grades and bad decisions.

Today’s practice? Open to the public.

Translation? It’s a flex. A show. A power move.

And of course, you’re there. You’re always there. Not for the game. Not for the sport. But for him.

You sit front row, sunglasses on, designer outfit hugging you like sin, legs crossed like a weapon.

You know he can see you. You know he wants to look. And he doesn’t, not once, until he scores the final shot, whips his helmet off, sweat in his hair, and finally lets his eyes land on you.

He doesn’t look away when he meets your eyes. He drags that gaze down your legs, up your figure, and settles on your mouth, like he’s remembering the last time he had you underneath him, begging. The way you moaned his name with your lip gloss smudged and your voice wrecked.

The crowd starts to thin after the final whistle, mostly girls pretending not to stare, and boys pretending not to envy.

You stay seated. You know he’ll come to you.

The crowd is gone, and Jungkook walks out of the changing rooms like he’s got the whole world in his back pocket.

Still damp from the shower, curls sticking to his forehead, gym bag slung low over his shoulder. He’s in his uniform pants, but the top is gone, replaced by a thin black t-shirt that clings to his chest in all the ways that make you want to bite something.

He sees you. And he doesn’t look away this time.

He slows as he reaches you, shadow falling over your seat. You’re still sitting like the spoiled goddess you are, legs crossed, lip gloss fresh, phone in hand like you weren’t just watching him like a movie you’ve seen a hundred times and still crave.

You don’t even look up. “Took you long enough.”

Jungkook snorts. “Didn’t know I had a timer.”

“You always do.” You finally glance at him, the corner of your mouth twitching. “You just pretend you don’t hear it ticking.”

There’s a pause. A beat of quiet so thick it feels heavy. His eyes roam your face like he’s searching for something, maybe your limit, maybe your weakness. But the truth is, you both know the answer already.

“You like pushing me, don’t you?” he murmurs.

You tilt your head. “Only when I know you’ll push back.”

The tension coils in the air, charged and dangerous.

“You wore that outfit for me?”

“You scored that goal for me?”

Touché.

He steps closer. Just a little. Close enough that your knees could brush if you shifted, but you don’t. Neither of you moves. You’re locked in that perfect space where tension thrives, just shy of something unforgivable.

“People are starting to talk,” he says quietly.

You hum. “They’ve always talked. They just don’t know what to say now.”

His gaze drops to your lips again. “They think you’re mine.”

You arch a brow. “Aren’t I?”

A beat passes. He doesn’t answer.

And maybe that’s your favorite thing about him, that he never says the things he feels. Not out loud. He says them in stares. In clenched fists. In the way he only kisses you when no one’s watching.

You stand, finally. And the shift is magnetic. Now you’re the one in his space. You fix the collar of his shirt like it bothers you, like touching him doesn’t set fire to your veins.

“Walk me to my car?” you ask sweetly, even though it’s not really a question.

He doesn’t respond. Just steps aside and lets you lead the way, like always.

You don’t talk.

Not until you’re leaning against the door, and he’s standing too close, eyes flickering from your lips to your neck to the space between you that’s already melting.

“You’re exhausting,” he mutters.

“And yet,” you smile, “you keep coming back.”

He leans in, nose brushing your cheek, mouth ghosting over your ear.

“I should let someone else deal with your attitude.”

You grin, unbothered. “You won’t.”

Tic tac, tic tac. He doesn’t answer.

Then his lips are on yours. Rough. Familiar. Dangerous.

Your lips move at the same pace as his, the tip of your tongue touching the piercing of his lower lip every time it enters his mouth, causing chills to run through your body.

It doesn’t last long. It never does when it’s this heated. He pulls away like he hates himself for it, and you fix your lipstick like nothing happened.

His breath is still warm on your lips, and his hand is still wrapped around your waist like he forgot how to let go. His gaze is locked on you. Dark, unreadable, burning.

You smirk, like none of it fazes you. Like your knees didn’t almost give out thirty seconds ago.

“Missed me?” you murmur.

Jungkook exhales a sharp breath. “You’re such a fucking brat.”

You tilt your head, feigning innocence. “And you like it.”

His jaw tightens, and for a second, just a second, his eyes flicker like he might kiss you again.

But instead, he drops his hand from your waist and takes a single step back, like space is the only thing keeping him sane.

“Do you even realize what you’re doing to me?” he mutters.

You blink, caught off guard by the shift in his tone.

“This game you play,” he goes on, voice low and dangerous. “Showing up, looking like that. Acting like I’m just some guy you can tease whenever you’re bored.”

“I don’t—”

“Yes, you do,” he cuts you off. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”

You cross your arms, chin raised. “And what if I do?”

He laughs under his breath, bitter. “Then you’re more cruel than I thought.”

You take a step toward him. “And you’re more obsessed than you pretend to be.”

That gets him.

He looks at you like he wants to say something, something real. Something that would make this whole fake, undefined thing very real, very fast. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he leans in again, mouth brushing your ear.

“I could ruin every guy who looks at you the wrong way,” he whispers. “And the worst part? You’d love it.”

You swallow hard.

He’s right. You would.

But you can’t let him have the last word, not today.

So you turn your head slowly, lips ghosting over his, your voice just as quiet, “You won’t do it, though. Because you don’t want people to know you care.”

His eyes narrow. “I don’t.”

You smile. “Then why haven’t you left?”

A beat. He doesn’t answer.

He just watches you walk around the car, heels clicking like a countdown. Before you slide into the driver’s seat, you glance at him one last time.

“See you around.” You echo sweetly.

Then you shut the door and drive off, leaving him standing there. Alone, silent, and very, very messed up.

Your dorm is a war zone.

Shoes tossed across the floor. Perfume clouds lingering in the air. The faint bass of the party already vibrating through the walls from four floors down. And in the middle of the mess, you.

Dressed in baby pink, your favorite color. Tight, tiny, and just shy of dangerous. Glossy lips. Winged liner. Hair perfectly undone.

You look like heartbreak with a trust fund.

“I swear to God,” Val says, flopping onto your bed, “if Jungkook shows up with that skank again—”

“Valeria,” Mar warns from the bathroom, “we’re not calling her that.”

You grab your earrings, smirking. “We are if she shows up in that tacky rhinestone top again.”

Val snorts. “Queen behavior.”

Mar pops her head out, mascara wand in hand. “Are you even gonna talk to him tonight?”

You pause.

“No.”

The silence is loud.

Val lets out a dramatic sigh. “You two are exhausting. Just admit you’re in love, make out against the nearest wall, and let the rest of us live.”

You grab your purse, ignoring the heat in your cheeks. “We’re friends.”

“Yeah,” Mar mutters. “With benefits and unresolved trauma.”

You flip them both off with a perfectly manicured hand and head for the door.

The party is already on fire by the time you step in.

Music pulsing. Air thick with perfume, sweat, and secrets. Someone’s spilled tequila on the marble floor. There’s a fight brewing in the kitchen. And all of it fades the moment you see him.

Jungkook.

Center of the room like he owns it.

Black tee hugging his body like sin. Tattooed hand lazily holding a drink. And a girl, that girl, clinging to him like she’s got the right.

She laughs too loudly. Leans in too close. Touches his chest like she’s not two seconds away from being buried alive.

You freeze. Smile cracking.

Valeria steps beside you, looking bored. “Oh. He brought that one.”

Mar sips her drink. “Didn’t she throw up at the Halloween party?”

You glare. “Why the fuck is she touching him?”

Val raises a brow. “Better question, why do you care?”

You don’t answer. You’re too busy watching.

He hasn’t seen you yet. Or maybe he has, and he’s pretending he hasn’t.

Because that’s what he does, right?

Pushes. Pulls. Drives you crazy, then reels you back in.

You down half your drink in one go. You don’t storm off. That’s for girls who lose.

You walk. Chin high, back straight, smile razor-sharp.

He wants to play games? You wrote the damn rulebook.

And right on cue, there he is—Kim Jisung, legacy boy, wine-stained lips, and a crush on you so big he’d probably kill Jungkook for just breathing near you. You find him by the bar, bored and beautiful.

“Dance with me,” you purr into his ear.

He doesn’t hesitate.

You don’t look back, but you know Jungkook’s watching. And that’s the point.

The music gets louder. Lights blur. Jisung’s hand slides a little too low. His breath is a little too close.

But it doesn’t matter.

Because he’s not the one you’re thinking about.

Not the one you want.

He finds you in the hallway, half-drunk on power and tequila.

“You think he can touch you like I do?” Jungkook’s voice is low, dark, dangerous. “You think he knows what you like?”

You roll your eyes, leaning against the wall. “Are you seriously jealous right now?”

He laughs once, sharp and humorless. “You don’t get to play the victim, princess. Not after the way you looked at me all night. Like you wanted me to lose it.”

You tilt your head, lips curved. “Did you?”

He’s in front of you in a second. Hand against the wall next to your head. His scent all over you, soap, sweat and sin. His eyes drop to your lips.

“You don’t want him,” he says.

You hum. “Maybe I do.”

He grits his teeth. “Liar.”

“You’re not my boyfriend, Jungkook.”

His smile is slow. Infuriating. “No. But I’m the one who fucks you so good you forget your name.”

Your breath catches.

He sees it, how your fingers twitch, how your lips part.

And he leans in even closer, brushing his mouth over yours but not kissing you.

“I could take you right here,” he whispers. “Push that bratty attitude right out of you.”

You clench your jaw. “Then why don’t you?”

“Because you want me to,” he says, cruel and sweet. “And I like watching you beg.”

His body cages yours, eyes dark, jaw tense.

“You’re playing with fire,” you murmur, tilting your head, lashes fluttering like you’re not completely wrecked by the way he’s looking at you.

Jungkook’s breath is heavy. Controlled. But you know him. You know what’s under all that control. And it’s dangerous.

“You think you’re the only one who knows how to play?” His voice is low, lethal. “You think I didn’t see the way you looked at him?”

“Maybe I wanted you to see.” You smirk, brushing your fingers over his chest. “Maybe I wanted you pissed off.”

He leans in, lips brushing your ear.

“Congratulations, princess,” he growls. “You got what you wanted.”

Silence. Thick. Heavy. Tension so sharp it could slice you both open.

His hand slides up your waist, fingers splaying across silk and skin. He doesn’t kiss you yet, no, he’s crueler than that.

“I should leave you standing here,” he whispers. “Let you think about what you’ve done.”

Your breath catches, again.

“But I won’t.”

Because the thing is, Jungkook doesn’t do restraint where you’re concerned. Not when you look at him like that. Not when your lips are swollen from teasing, from smirking, from wanting.

He presses you back against the wall, one hand on your throat—not tight, just there. A warning.

“You want me angry?” he murmurs. “Then take it. Feel it.”

And finally, finally, his lips crash into yours.

It’s not soft. It’s not sweet. It’s teeth, heat, and too many nights pretending you’re just friends.

You tug at his shirt. The hallway is too public. Too risky. Too perfect.

But just as it starts to blur, right when you think he’s going to lose it completely, he pulls away.

“I hope he saw that.”

And then he walks off. Leaving you against the wall. Pissed, panting, and ruined.

2:37 AM. You slam the door shut behind you.

Not loud enough to wake your roommates. Just loud enough to feel it. To feel something.

Your heels hit the floor first, followed by your jacket, then your body. Flat onto the designer duvet you bought out of boredom last fall.

Everything feels too much. Your skin still burns where he touched you. Your lips still tingle like they’re waiting for more.

And your heart? That traitorous thing is pounding like it doesn’t know the difference between lust and loathing anymore.

You press your fingers to your mouth, eyes fluttering shut.

He kissed you. No, he devoured you.

Like you were his punishment and his reward all at once.

And the worst part?

You let him. You loved it.

You told yourself you had the upper hand. That he’d be the one crawling back.

But now you’re the one lying on your bed, thinking about his hands, his voice, the way he said:

“I hope he saw that.”

God. He’s so annoying. So cocky. So hot when he’s mad.

You roll over, burying your face in your pillow.

You shouldn’t have gone with that guy. You shouldn’t have cared about Jungkook being with that girl.

But you did. You do.

And now you’re here, lying in your palace of silk and envy, trying to convince yourself this isn’t getting out of hand.

You’re not in love. You’re just obsessed. Right?

Right?

Your phone buzzes from the floor where you carelessly tossed it earlier.

You ignore it for a second, maybe out of pride. Maybe because you already know who it is.

But when it buzzes again, you glance over.

koo ♡ [2:47 AM]:

still thinking about me?

You blink.

Another message lands before you even finish rolling your eyes.

koo ♡ [2:48 AM]:

didn’t know you were into public displays. should’ve kissed you harder.

And then, as if he didn’t just detonate a bomb in your chest:

koo ♡ [2:49 AM]:

sweet dreams, princess.

You stare at the screen. Heart hammering. Skin flushed.

Pillow no longer enough to hide your grin, or your frustration.

God, you hate him. You want him. You hate that you want him.

You type something. Delete it. Type again.

You [2:52 AM]:

u’re so full of yourself.

His reply is instant.

koo ♡ [2:53 AM]:

🤥 you weren’t complaining when i had you against the wall.

You let out a strangled laugh, biting your lip so hard it stings.

He’s cocky. He’s smug. He’s impossible.

And he wins.

Because now you’re wide awake, cheeks hot, thighs pressed together, and you know—

This isn’t over. Not even close.

Saturday nights used to be chaos.

Drinks. Laughter. Parties you’d barely remember and dresses you’d only wear once.

But tonight?

Silence.

Your friends are out with their boyfriends—tragic, really. You stayed behind under the guise of needing rest, but mostly because you couldn’t stand the thought of pretending to care about some mediocre couple’s anniversary dinner.

Now it’s just you.

Satin robe. Hair up. Music low.

A glass of red wine you’re not even sipping anymore.

You’re sprawled across your bed, legs bare, mind racing with thoughts you shouldn’t have… of him.

Then, you hear three soft knocks. Your stomach flips.

You don’t need to check. You know it’s him. Of course it’s him.

You open the door, and there he is. Jeon Jungkook, dressed like a sin you’d commit twice, hoodie half-zipped, jaw sharp enough to hurt, that same smug glint in his eyes like he already knows you’ll let him in.

You lean against the frame. “Didn’t know we had plans tonight.”

He shrugs, stepping inside without waiting for permission. “You didn’t answer my texts.”

“Maybe I was busy.” You close the door behind him.

He turns to face you, eyes raking over your robe, your bare legs, the curve of your smirk.

“Yeah,” he says, voice low, “looks like it.”

You roll your eyes. “What do you want, Jungkook?”

He doesn’t answer at first. He just looks at you. Like he’s trying to decide if he wants to tease you or ruin you.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he says finally. “Figured you might need company.”

“You figured wrong.”

He smirks. “That so? You always answer the door in lingerie when you’re not interested?”

You don’t respond.

You just turn and walk back to your bed, knowing he’s watching your every move.

He follows, he always does. The tension stretches, electric and maddening.

“You look comfortable,” he says, eyes still glued to your legs.

You tilt your head. “You look needy.”

He laughs under his breath, leaning back like he owns the room. “I am.”

You hate how that makes your heart race. Hate how your thighs clench. Hate how this game always ends the same.

But you love it, too. The way he looks at you like he’s starving. The way he speaks like he’s daring you to lose control first.

“You should leave,” you whisper.

He leans forward slowly, voice like smoke. “You should make me.”

His voice is low, cocky, soaked in heat. You should slam the door in his face. You should tell him to fuck off.

But your thighs press together. And you don’t move.

Jungkook steps closer, slow and deliberate, like he knows exactly how this ends. His eyes drop to your robe, the slip of skin peeking out, the hint of lace beneath. You don’t bother hiding it. You know what he came for.

“You’re not wearing anything under that, are you?”

You say nothing.

You just tug at the tie of your robe, slow and calculated, and let it fall open an inch, enough to show the soft dip of your waist, the lace of your panties, the fact that there’s not a bra in sight.

His jaw flexes.

“Fuck,” he breathes.

Then he’s on you.

The kiss is instant, hot and brutal, mouths colliding like magnets. His hands grab your waist, your ass, your everything, like he doesn’t know where to start. You let the robe slide off your shoulders, pooling onto the floor in a puddle of satin and sin.

He groans against your lips, breaking the kiss just to stare.

“Turn around,” he says, voice wrecked already.

You smirk, walking slowly to the bed, hips swaying, his eyes glued to every step.

You don’t even hear him undress, just the soft shuffle of fabric, the sound of his belt hitting the floor, the low curse under his breath when you bend over the edge of the bed.

He’s behind you a second later.

You feel him. Warm, solid, hard. His hands smooth over your hips, your thighs, spreading you open with a possessive grip.

“You like teasing me, huh?” he mutters, his voice thick, lips brushing your ear. “Walking around like that. Knowing I’d show up.”

You grind back against him just enough to make his breath hitch. “You always show up.”

His laugh is low, dark. “Because I know what this pussy tastes like.”

Then he drops to his knees.

You feel his mouth first. Warm, wet, and filthy. Dragging his tongue from your entrance up to your clit, slow and deliberate. You gasp, thighs trembling, fingers clenching the sheets.

He moans like he’s savoring every drop of you, his tongue lapping and sucking until you’re squirming, until your knees feel weak and your back arches without permission.

And then his fingers—two, thick and perfect, sliding inside you with ease. Curling just right. Pushing every button you forgot existed.

“Fuck, Jungkook…”

“That’s it,” he murmurs into your cunt. “Say my name.”

You do. Over and over.

Your moans fill the room, echoing off the walls like a song he knows by heart. You grind into his face, desperate, needy, shameless.

But he pulls back before you can finish.

You whimper, lifting your head to look back at him.

He wipes his mouth with his thumb, eyes dark with something dangerous. “You’re gonna take me so fucking well, baby.”

He strokes himself once, then twice, before grabbing your hips and lining up behind you.

“A spoiled little brat like you?” he groans, pushing inside, inch by inch. “You were made to be ruined.”

And god, he does.

He sinks in slow, deliberate, like he wants you to feel every inch of him stretching you open. And you do. Every fucking inch. Your hands grip the sheets, head falling forward as your mouth drops open in a soundless gasp.

“God, Jungkook…”

He groans, hips flush against your ass now, buried to the hilt. His hands grip your waist like he owns it, like he owns you.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he growls, dragging out slowly just to slam back in, making your legs jolt. “Missed this pussy.”

You can barely breathe.

He fucks you like he’s angry. Like you owe him. Like every roll of his hips is payback for every smirk, every tease, every time you walked past him like you didn’t need him.

Your body shakes with every thrust, skin clapping against skin, the room filled with the obscene sounds of sex and low curses.

“You wanna act like you don’t care?” he grits out, fingers digging into your hips. “Like I don’t fuck you better than anyone ever could?”

You cry out when he hits that spot, the one he always finds, like your body was made for him.

“You gonna walk away from me again?” he growls, voice wrecked, fucking into you harder now, unforgiving. “Let some other guy touch what’s mine?”

“N-no, fuck—”

You don’t even know what you’re saying anymore. You just shake your head, moaning, melting, unraveling under every filthy word, every punishing thrust.

“You’re mine,” he breathes, low in your ear now, his chest slick against your back. “Say it.”

You choke on a moan. “I’m yours.”

“Again.”

“I’m yours, fuck, I’m yours—”

He groans like he’s losing control, one hand sliding up to wrap around your throat, pulling your back to his chest. The angle makes you whimper, makes your toes curl, your eyes roll back.

“You feel that?” he whispers, grinding deeper, slower. “That’s how you beg without saying a word.”

You’re close.

So fucking close you’re shaking, nails clawing at the sheets, your body clenching around him so tight he swears under his breath.

“Cum for me,” he orders, voice rough, hand tightening on your throat just enough. “Be a good fucking girl and cum.”

And you do.

It hits you like a wave, loud, violent and blinding. Your legs tremble, your whole body shaking as the orgasm rips through you, soaking his cock, your moans turning shameless and broken.

“Fuck,” he grunts, hips stuttering, losing rhythm. “Gonna fill you up, baby. Take it—”

He throbs inside you, spilling deep, pulling your body back against his as he groans your name into your skin. His thrusts slow, messy, drawn-out until he’s spent and breathless.

Silence follows.

Just the sound of your panting, your bodies tangled, your skin flushed and marked.

And then his lips brush your shoulder.

“Still think I should’ve left?”

You laugh weakly, voice ruined. “Shut up.”

He pulls out slowly, and you wince, sensitive. You collapse on the bed, and he follows, arm thrown lazily over your waist, breathing steadying.

And in the quiet, with your body still buzzing and his cum dripping between your thighs, you hate how safe it feels.

How much you want him to stay.

How much he already knows he will.

Part 2? Probably yes.

[writeriguess]

I think you wrote CEO Bakugo x secretary reader fic once? Could you write another please? Plot can be whatever but please include smut 😝

Insubordination

The click of your heels was sharper than usual when you stormed into Bakugo’s office.

"You rescheduled my vacation time again," you said without preamble, tossing the printed memo onto his desk. Your jaw was set, eyes flashing. "That’s the third time."

Bakugo didn’t even look up from his monitor. "Your vacation doesn't matter if your department's falling behind."

You scoffed. "You mean your schedule’s falling apart because you refuse to hire a second assistant."

Now he looked at you. Slowly. Like a predator sizing up the one thing stupid enough to challenge him in his own den.

"You’re my assistant. You don't get to dictate shit."

"And you don’t get to keep pulling this control-freak crap every time you feel—threatened," you snapped, voice low. "I’ve kept your world spinning for three years. If I vanish for four days, the company won’t burn."

He stood so fast his chair scraped back across the floor.

“You wanna find out what happens when you vanish?” His voice was a growl, each word dripping threat—and something else.

You stared, breathing heavy, defiant. You wanted him to break. You wanted something to break, because god, it had been building for too long. The late nights. The friction. The glances that lasted a second too long. The silence that buzzed with things unsaid.

He crossed the room in three strides.

"You think you can talk to me like that and walk away?"

Your back hit the glass wall of his office. “What are you gonna do about it?”

His hand slapped the glass beside your head. The other gripped your chin, tilting your face up to his. His breath was hot on your cheek, his gaze fierce and unreadable.

“I should fire you.”

“You won’t.”

"Why?"

"Because you like it when I talk back." Your voice came out rough. Shaky.

He didn’t answer. He crushed his mouth to yours like he was starving for it.

And fuck, you kissed him back like you’d been starving longer.

Bakugo shoved everything off his desk with one violent sweep — your planner, his laptop, even a framed plaque with his name on it crashed to the floor — and hoisted you onto the wood like he owned you. Like you were just another part of his empire to bend, conquer, ruin.

"Been waiting for a fucking excuse," he muttered, tearing open your blouse with both hands, buttons flying.

"You're such a goddamn control freak—" you gasped, arms around his neck, thighs tightening around his waist.

"And you're a pain in my ass." His mouth found your throat, biting down hard. "But you're mine."

The word should’ve made you flinch. Instead, you pulled him closer.

He gripped your jaw, forcing you to meet his eyes. “You walk around this place like you don’t know what you do to me. But I see how you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention.”

Your breath hitched. “You’re always watching.”

“Damn right I am.” His voice dropped to a low, possessive rasp. “Watching you bend over my desk. Watching you talk back in that tight-ass pencil skirt.”

You reached down, fingers fumbling at his belt, but he swatted your hand away.

“No. Hands on the desk,” he ordered. “You started this with your mouth. Now keep it shut unless you’re begging.”

He pushed your skirt up roughly, tugged your panties to the side. The air hit your soaked heat and he froze, growled.

“Fuck. You’re already this wet?” His thumb slid between your folds, drawing a sharp moan from you. “All that attitude today—you just wanted me to snap, huh? Wanted this.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

He unzipped his pants, pulled himself free. Thick, hard, flushed at the tip. The sight of him made your hips shift involuntarily.

“No condom,” he warned, voice ragged.

“Don’t care.”

That was all he needed.

He lined up, grabbed your hips, and buried himself inside you in one brutal thrust.

Your cry echoed off the office walls, half-shock, half-relief. The stretch was obscene. You felt every inch of him.

He didn’t wait. He fucked you like he was claiming territory — one hand braced against your lower back, the other tangled in your hair, pulling your mouth to his. His pace was punishing, all gritted teeth and panting curses against your lips.

“Always giving me that look—like you’re better than me,” he snarled, pounding into you. “Say it. Say you want me.”

You gasped, nails digging into the desk. “I want you—Katsuki, please—”

He groaned like the sound of his name on your tongue split him open.

“You feel that?” he growled, slamming deeper. “No one else gets this. No one else gets you like this.”

Your orgasm hit fast and hard, ripping through you without mercy. You bit your own wrist to muffle the scream.

“Fuck—fuck, I can feel you coming—” His rhythm faltered, hips stuttering. “I’m gonna—shit—”

He came with a broken growl, burying himself to the hilt, his whole body trembling against yours.

Silence settled thick after. Just your ragged breathing, your shared sweat cooling on skin.

Bakugo pulled back, still braced on the desk, chest heaving. His forehead dropped to yours.

“This doesn’t change shit,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “Still your boss.”

You let out a breathless, shaky laugh. “Yeah. And I’m still your problem.”

His smirk returned, slow and wicked.

“Damn right you are.”

[fidesvirtusobsession]

𝔄 𝔐𝔦𝔩𝔩𝔦𝔬𝔫 𝔇𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔪𝔰

Yandere Emperor x afab concubines reader

Description: Plucked from the streets and forced into the Emperor’s harem, Yn refuses to bow to fate. She fights, schemes, and searches for any opportunity to escape the palace’s suffocating grip. But as she navigates the treacherous world of politics, power, and whispered conspiracies, she catches the attention of Emperor Zhéyàn—a man as ruthless as he is unreadable. In a palace where survival is an art, will she be able to reclaim her freedom—or will she find herself woven into the empire’s fate?

The sound of her bare feet slapping against the cobblestones was the only thing Yn could hear as she sprinted through the twisting alleys. Her breath came in sharp gasps, heart hammering in her chest. The city, usually bustling with life and noise, felt suffocating now. Too many corners. Too many eyes watching.

She knew these streets. Knew every crack in the stone, every loose board she could slip under, every shadow deep enough to swallow her whole. But none of it mattered when they were already closing in.

It had been a mistake—staying too long near the merchant stalls, laughing with the baker’s daughter, standing in the sun where her face could be seen. She hadn't noticed the house master watching from the silk shop across the street. A man with gold-threaded robes and a calculating gaze, one who judged worth with a glance. And in that moment, he'd decided: Pretty enough.

"That one," he'd told his guards, voice cold and certain. "The Emperor’s harem has room for another."

And just like that, her fate was sealed.

Yn had been running ever since, slipping through side streets, dodging hands that reached for her. Her legs burned, her lungs screamed for air, but she didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. She knew what happened to girls taken behind those gilded walls. They became ornaments. Playthings. Forgotten names and silent mouths.

"Get back here, girl!" a guard barked from behind, heavy boots pounding the ground. "Don’t make this harder!"

Harder? It was already impossible. She could hear the jangle of armor, the sharp whistle one man gave to signal the others. They were surrounding her, closing the trap like wolves circling prey.

She ducked into a narrow alley, heart pounding in her ears, only to skid to a halt. Another guard stood at the end, smirking, arms crossed as if he'd been waiting. Of course they knew her routes. The streets she called home were nothing compared to the reach of palace dogs.

Desperation clawed at her throat. She spun around, ready to risk another path, when a hand snatched her wrist. Rough. Unforgiving.

"Let go!" she snarled, twisting and kicking, but her strength was nothing against the iron grip of someone trained for this.

The guard yanked her forward, face impassive. "You should be grateful," he muttered, almost bored. "The palace will feed you. Dress you in silk. You’ll live better than you ever did here."

Yn spat at his feet. "I'd rather starve in the streets."

The streets blurred past in a rush of dust and panic. Yn thrashed in the iron grip of the palace guards, bare feet scraping against the rough stone as they dragged her away from the life she knew. Her heart pounded in her ears, drowning out the muttered curses of the men hauling her toward the looming palace gates.

The slap came fast, sharp enough to make her ears ring. She tasted blood, but it only fueled the fire burning inside her chest. She thrashed, bit, kicked, but they were too many, too practiced. She was dragged, half-limp, through the streets she'd once run freely.

Onlookers turned away. No one interfered. Why would they? It wasn’t the first time a pretty girl had been plucked from the gutter for a higher purpose.

"Hold still, you little—!" one growled, tightening his grip on her wrist.

Yn’s answer was swift—a sharp twist and a vicious bite to the soft flesh of his hand. The guard yelped, jerking back, and she used the moment to kick at the other’s shin, adrenaline making her wild.

“Stupid girl!” The second guard stumbled, nearly dropping her. “You think this fight matters? You’re palace property now.”

“Like hell I am!” she spat, kicking again, heels digging into the ground as they pulled her forward. “You’ll have to kill me before I sit pretty in silk for some spoiled bastard!”

The third guard, older and wearier, only sighed. “They always fight,” he muttered. “Doesn’t change a damn thing.”

The palace walls loomed closer, golden in the dying light. Beautiful, cold, inescapable. A gilded cage. She’d heard the whispers from girls who’d been taken before. Once you passed through those gates, you were no longer a person. Just another flower in the Emperor's garden, waiting to wither.

She didn’t care. She couldn’t care. If she stopped fighting, if she let them take her into that gilded prison, she’d never see freedom again. Her fists lashed out, nails clawing at skin, voice raw from screaming as people on the streets turned away. No one interfered. No one ever interfered.

They reached the palace gates too soon. Tall, imposing, decorated with gold filigree that caught the dying light like fire. A beautiful lie.

The last thing she saw before the gates closed behind her was the sky turning crimson—like the universe itself was bleeding for her.

The guards didn’t slow. One yanked her forward by the waist, throwing her over his shoulder like a sack of rice. She kicked and punched, but his armor dulled the blows.

“Let me go, damn you!” Yn snarled, beating her fists against his back. “I’m not something you can claim!”

The sun hung low over the palace, casting golden light through the lattice windows of the grand hall. Incense curled lazily in the air, failing to mask the bitterness of court politics. Zhéyàn, the Emperor, sat on his throne, sharp golden eyes half-lidded in boredom as the steward droned on.

“…and with the new batch of girls brought in from the outer provinces, Your Majesty, I’m certain you’ll find one to your liking,” the steward said, her tone practiced and smooth. “The ministers continue to whisper about heirs. A distraction might ease the pressure.”

Zhéyàn didn’t react, swirling the tea in his porcelain cup. He’d heard it all before. The officials, the nobles, even the servants—they all spoke of duty, legacy, and heirs. As though a womb could settle an empire.

The steward, an older woman with silver threaded through her dark hair, pressed on. “I selected them personally—educated, graceful, untouched by the corruption of the city. A few from the countryside, some from merchant families. The house master is already preparing them—”

A scream cut through the air, followed by the unmistakable thud of bodies hitting the ground.

“Let me go, you bastards!”

The hall fell silent. Zhéyàn’s gaze flicked up, suddenly alert.

The steward paled. “What in the heavens—”

Another shout echoed through the open courtyard outside the hall, followed by a string of curses sharp enough to make the gathered officials exchange uneasy glances.

“Get off me! I’m not some prize to be bought and sold!”

The heavy wooden doors burst open, and two guards stumbled inside, struggling to restrain a young woman. Dirty, disheveled, and wild-eyed, she kicked and twisted with the kind of ferocity born from desperation.

One guard grunted as she drove her elbow into his ribs. “Hold her down, damn it!”

Zhéyàn leaned forward, intrigued despite himself.

The steward, flustered, hurried to explain. “Ah—this one, Your Majesty, was a last-minute acquisition. The house master saw her in the market and deemed her… suitable.”

“Suitable?” Zhéyàn echoed, watching as the girl—no, the woman—bit down on the arm of the second guard hard enough to draw blood.

The steward winced. “She was… less than compliant. But her looks—once cleaned up, of course—”

“Let. Me. GO!”

Zhéyàn didn’t move. He simply watched.

The tiger at his side, Huāng Xie, lifted its massive head, golden eyes narrowing as it observed the commotion with lazy interest.

Finally, Zhéyàn spoke, his voice calm but cutting through the chaos like a blade.

“Enough.”

The room froze. The guards halted mid-step, one holding Yn by her upper arm, the other wiping blood from his lip.

Yn, breathless and trembling with adrenaline, snapped her gaze toward the throne.

Zhéyàn met her glare without flinching. Beneath the dirt and fury, she was striking—not just in appearance but in spirit. The concubine house broke most women before they even reached the palace gates. This one? She was still fighting.

“How charming,” he drawled, resting his chin on one hand. “The steward brings me flowers, and yet one arrives with thorns.”

The steward bowed hastily. “Your Majesty, I assure you, she’ll be trained into proper decorum. This behavior is—”

“Expected,” Zhéyàn interrupted, eyes never leaving Yn’s face. “A caged bird always beats its wings before it realizes the bars won’t break.”

Yn’s lip curled. “I’m not a bird. And I won’t stay in your damned cage.”

A sharp intake of breath swept through the hall. No one spoke to the Emperor like that.

Zhéyàn smiled, slow and deliberate. “Is that so?”

He rose from his seat, robes whispering against the polished floor as he descended the steps of the dais. The guards stiffened but didn’t move as their Emperor approached. Huāng Xie padded silently behind him, tail flicking.

Standing before Yn, Zhéyàn studied her like one might examine a curious artifact.

“Tell me, street rat,” he murmured, voice low enough for only her to hear. “Do you know how many women have stood where you are now? Cleaned, polished, and presented like lacquered dolls?”

Yn’s breath hitched, but she refused to look away.

“They all came in with dreams of escape,” Zhéyàn continued, fingers brushing Huāng Xie’s fur as the tiger prowled closer. “Most realized too late that freedom in this palace is an illusion.”

Huāng Xie paused beside Yn, nose twitching as he sniffed at her dirt-streaked clothes.

The steward wrung her hands. “Your Majesty, if you’d prefer, we can return her to the house master and—”

“No.” Zhéyàn’s golden eyes gleamed. “Keep her.”

The words landed like stones in the hush that followed.

“Train her, clean her, dress her in silk if you must.” He tilted his head, smile sharpening. “But don’t break her. I find her far more interesting when she bites.”

With that, he turned and ascended the steps once more, Huāng Xie brushing past Yn’s side as if in silent approval.

The guards hesitated, waiting for further orders.

Zhéyàn waved a dismissive hand. “Take her away. Make sure she doesn’t destroy half the palace before nightfall.”

Yn, still catching her breath, clenched her jaw as the guards moved to drag her off again.

But this time, she didn’t scream.

She simply stared after the Emperor, defiance burning in her eyes like an ember refusing to die.

As she was pulled from the hall, the steward muttered under her breath.

“May the gods have mercy. That girl is going to be nothing but trouble.”

Zhéyàn heard—and smiled.

“Perhaps,” he murmured, settling back into his throne. “But what’s a kingdom without a little rebellion?”

The hall buzzed with uneasy murmurs as the guards dragged Yn away, her defiant glare lingering like smoke in the air. The steward, still pale from the scene, hurriedly bowed before Zhéyàn, her forehead nearly touching the polished floor.

“Your Majesty,” she began, voice tight with strained composure, “I deeply apologize for the disturbance. I had no idea the girl would be so… unruly.”

Zhéyàn, reclining in his seat once more, waved a hand lazily. His golden eyes glinted with something closer to amusement than anger.

The steward swallowed hard, choosing her words carefully. “Rest assured, I will personally speak to the girl. She’s clearly frightened and unaware of her place. Given time, I’m certain she can be… molded into something more fitting for the palace.”

Zhéyàn hummed thoughtfully, fingers tapping against the armrest of his throne. “Do you intend to break her spirit entirely, Steward? That would be rather dull.”

The steward’s eyes widened. “N-no, Your Majesty. I only meant to ensure she understands the reality of her situation. I will calm her down, speak sense to her. The last thing we need is for her defiance to spread among the other girls.”

Zhéyàn leaned forward, golden gaze sharpening. “See that you don’t mistake control for obedience. I don’t want another lifeless doll paraded before me.”

Huāng Xie, the tiger, stretched languidly at the foot of the dais, golden eyes half-lidded as he rumbled in satisfaction.

The steward bowed deeper. “Of course, Your Majesty. I will handle the matter personally.”

Zhéyàn leaned back once more, the smile curling at the edge of his lips betraying his amusement.

“Good,” he murmured. “Do try. I look forward to seeing how long it takes for her to slip through your fingers “

The walls of the concubine house closed around Yn like a silk-covered cage—beautiful, suffocating, and inescapable. She stumbled into the courtyard, wrists raw from the ropes they'd only just cut loose. Her clothes, once practical and sturdy for street life, were torn and stained with dirt from her struggle. Stray strands of hair clung to her sweaty face, and her chest heaved with exhausted defiance.

“Move.”

The guard shoved her forward, and Yn barely caught herself, stumbling onto the pristine stone pathway. Around her, silk-clad women paused in their embroidery and quiet gossip, eyes narrowing in assessment. Some whispered behind delicate fans. Others looked away, uninterested.

Her heart pounded in her chest, panic rising like bile in her throat. Her arms were aching from the tight grip of the guards, but she refused to show any weakness. She wasn’t going to submit. Not to them. Not to the Emperor. Not to this life.

One of the guards, the one who had been the most vocal in dragging her here, chuckled cruelly. “I can’t wait to see how long it takes for her to turn sweet and obedient. You’ll break, eventually,” he said with a nasty grin, his eyes roaming over her dirtied clothes and disheveled hair.

Yn’s chest tightened, the insult cutting deeper than she expected. Something inside her snapped—her resolve hardened, her pride surging up through the anger burning in her veins.

Before any of the guards could react, Yn swung her fist. It was a wild, desperate motion, one driven by instinct and fury. She aimed for the man’s jaw, hoping for even a hint of satisfaction.

But her aim was off. The force of her punch collided with his face, but the impact wasn’t as satisfying as she’d hoped. Her fist instead struck his nose, the sickening crunch of bone splitting the air. The guard staggered back, his face bleeding, but Yn barely noticed. Her hands throbbed with a sharp, searing pain, and she let out a cry of frustration, clutching at her wrist.

“I told you to stop!” one of the guards shouted, seizing her by the arm. “You’ll pay for that!”

The two others closed in on her, eyes full of fury.

But before they could lay hands on her again, two figures stepped into the room. Lian, with her practiced grace, and Mei, her gaze hardened but filled with a quiet understanding. Lian took one look at the guards, her gaze icy.

“Enough,” she said firmly, voice carrying an authority that immediately made the guards hesitate. She glanced at Yn’s broken hand, then back at the guards with a disappointed sigh. “You’ve done enough. This is not how we handle matters here.”

Mei stepped forward, placing a gentle hand on Yn’s bruised wrist. “Let me see,” she said softly, her voice soothing as she began to assess the damage. “You were too rash. You should’ve waited for a better moment.”

Yn gritted her teeth, pain coursing through her, but she didn’t pull away. Mei was always gentle with her, unlike the others. She tried to resist, but the tears threatened to well up in her eyes as her hand was carefully tended to.

Lian crossed her arms, her gaze coolly sweeping over the guards. “If you think a woman’s spirit can be broken with pain, you’re sorely mistaken. If you want obedience, try kindness. If you can manage that, maybe we’ll see how it goes.”

The guards looked between each other, unsure of how to respond to the unexpected reprimand. Lian turned to Yn with a small, reassuring smile. “Let’s get you cleaned up,” she said, her tone softening just a bit. “You need rest. Let the guards handle the rest of their mess.”

Mei gave Yn a sympathetic look, guiding her gently towards the back of the house to tend to her injuries while Lian kept her calm, her presence acting as a shield against the rest of the chaos around them.

Yn’s hand still throbbed, but in the midst of the pain, there was a small, flickering feeling—one that she hadn’t had in a long time. Maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t entirely alone in this.

Yn stood in the center of the bathhouse, the steam swirling around her like a suffocating fog. She felt exposed, her skin raw and dirty from the streets. She had been yanked from her life, torn away from everything she knew, and now she stood here—alone. The thought of being forced into this bath, cleaned like some animal, ignited a bitterness in her chest.

She stood in her old, tattered clothes, a far cry from the lavish silk robes the other concubines wore. Her body was tired, covered in grime and the wear of the harsh life she had fought to survive. The humiliation of this situation hit her hard, like a weight pressing down on her chest, suffocating her resolve.

“Don’t be shy,” Lian’s voice cut through her thoughts. Yn looked up to find the older girl standing at the doorway, her expression kind, but laced with an understanding that Yn couldn’t quite grasp.

Mei was behind her, arms crossed, leaning against the wall with an expression that seemed to hide a great deal beneath her calm exterior. The steward watched from the side, her face unreadable, but there was a certain coldness in her gaze.

Yn remained still, the bitterness building, but Lian stepped closer. “Let us help you. You’re not alone here.”

There was no escape. Yn knew that now. Her only choice was to play along, to endure, at least until she found a way out. The water, warm and inviting, seemed almost like a mockery. She didn’t deserve it. She didn’t deserve any of this.

But Lian’s voice softened, “You need this. Let us clean you.”

Yn didn’t respond immediately. She didn’t want their help, but she didn’t want to fight them, either. Slowly, reluctantly, she stepped into the bath, the warm water surrounding her as she lowered herself in. It felt like the water was mocking her, lapping against her skin with the same cold indifference the world had shown her. She closed her eyes, letting the warmth seep into her aching muscles, but it did little to ease the tension in her chest.

Lian motioned for the attendants, who poured water over Yn’s head, their hands gentle as they washed away the dirt that clung to her skin. Mei observed from the corner, quiet but watchful, her eyes never straying too far from Yn, as if waiting for her to break.

The scent of soap and oils filled the air, and for a brief moment, Yn was transported back to simpler times. Times when she’d bathed in the quiet comfort of her own home, away from all this. But now, those memories were just that—memories.

“I know it’s hard,” Lian said, her voice gentle as she helped Yn scrub the dirt away. “But you’ll get used to it. We all do.”

Yn didn’t respond, her eyes trained on the water beneath her, unable to meet their gaze. She didn’t belong here. She wasn’t like the others. She didn’t want to be here.

Once the bath was finished, Lian helped Yn out of the water, her touch surprisingly gentle as she wrapped a towel around her. The heat of the water had relaxed her body, but her mind was still sharp, still defiant. She hadn’t let them break her, not yet.

“You should get dressed,” Lian said, offering her a robe made of soft, pale silk that contrasted sharply with the dirty, torn clothes she had been wearing.

Yn hesitated, glancing down at the fine fabric. She didn’t want to wear this. She didn’t want to be treated like this. But Lian’s steady gaze held hers, and with a resigned sigh, Yn slipped into the robe. It was soft, luxurious even, but it felt wrong on her body. She didn’t deserve this. She was just another girl in this palace, another face in a sea of beautiful, obedient women.

Lian smiled, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “It’ll be alright. We’re all in this together.”

Yn didn’t speak, just nodded quietly. She didn’t trust Lian’s words, not yet. But for now, she would play along. For now, she will survive. She had no other choice.

The steward watched silently, her eyes lingering on Yn for a moment longer before he turned to Lian and Mei. “Get her settled in,” she said, her tone flat.

Lian nodded and motioned for Yn to follow her. As they left the bathhouse, the scent of oils and soaps clung to Yn, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that she had lost more than just her freedom.

But as they walked down the hall, she kept her head high, unwilling to let anyone see the tears that threatened to break free. She would endure this, but she wouldn’t let it break her.

Not yet.

Lian led Yn through the quiet halls of the concubine quarters, the soft sound of their footsteps echoing off the polished floors. The other girls—Mei and a few others—followed behind them in silence, casting glances at Yn every so often. Despite the warm gestures and kind words, Yn could feel their eyes on her, like they were trying to gauge whether she would fit in with them, or whether she would break under the pressure of palace life.

Finally, Lian stopped in front of a simple wooden door, its frame carved with intricate patterns, though it lacked the ornate grandeur of other rooms in the palace. She opened it with a soft click and motioned for Yn to enter.

"This is your room," Lian said, her voice soft but warm, like she was offering something precious. "It’s simple, but it’s yours for as long as you’re here. You can decorate it as you like, and it will be a place of your own."

Yn stepped inside, her gaze immediately scanning the room. It was larger than any space she had ever had for herself, yet it felt almost too empty. A bed with white silks, a small table near the window, and a wardrobe on one side. In the corner, a display shelf for any gifts or tokens given to her—perhaps by the Emperor, perhaps by other guests.

But none of it mattered. It was just a gilded cage.

Her eyes flicked to the small window near the bed, where the moonlight leaked through the curtains, casting a pale glow on the room. She felt the weight of it—this was not freedom. This was confinement dressed in silk.

Her fingers lightly traced the wood of the table as her mind worked, already scheming and planning. She knew this palace better than most, and she had spent enough time observing the guards, the routines of the servants, and the flow of life here to start putting the pieces together.

Lian and Mei stood by the door, watching her, though they said nothing for the moment. There was a tension in the air—an understanding between them that Yn wouldn’t be here long if she had her way. But for now, they would let her have her space.

"It's... not as grand as some of the other rooms," Lian said, as if trying to reassure her. "But it’s comfortable, and the Emperor will likely send gifts for you in time."

Yn's eyes flicked toward the shelf where such gifts would be placed. Jewelry, perhaps, or other trinkets. Things she didn’t want. Things she couldn’t care less for. She had no use for any of it, not while she was stuck in this gilded cage.

“Thank you,” Yn said quietly, her voice low but polite enough to mask the bitterness curling in her chest. She made a point not to look at Lian or the others, though she could feel their eyes still on her, watching her every move.

"You should rest," Mei said after a long silence, her voice soft. "Tomorrow will be a busy day, getting to know everyone and the routines here."

Yn didn’t respond. She wasn’t tired. Not yet. But she knew there was little use in resisting for now. She had to wait for the right moment.

“I will,” Yn finally said, taking a deep breath and glancing around the room again. Her gaze lingered on the small window. If she could find a way out, she would.

Lian stepped forward and gently set a folded robe on the bed. "You’ll need this for tomorrow. Something simple for when you meet with the others. The Emperor prefers it when we look... presentable."

Yn picked up the robe, eyeing it for a moment before tossing it aside carelessly. "I don’t need it," she muttered under her breath.

Lian didn't seem to take offense. She just nodded, a soft understanding in her eyes. "It’s your choice, but the Emperor will expect certain things from you. You’ll learn what they are soon enough."

Yn nodded without speaking, already mentally mapping out her next move. She’d have to be clever, patient, wait for the guards to grow lax in their vigilance. The layout of the palace was already ingrained in her memory, and she knew where the hidden passages and servant tunnels were. She could slip out unnoticed. It wasn’t a matter of if—it was a matter of when.

Mei and Lian lingered for a moment, both silently observing Yn, before Mei spoke, her voice calm. “We’ll leave you for now. But if you need anything... anything at all, let us know.”

Yn gave a small, almost imperceptible nod as they exited, the door clicking shut behind them. The room was silent now, save for the faint hum of the palace at night.

She moved to the window again, pressing her palm to the cool glass, her eyes scanning the courtyard below. Beyond the walls of the palace, there was freedom, and one day, she would reach it. She would escape.

Her fingers curled into a fist, the determination within her solidifying. She had been brought here against her will, but she would not let this be the end of her story. Not now. Not ever.

She turned away from the window, her eyes flicking over the room one last time, before she sank down onto the bed. Tomorrow, she will play the part. But tonight—tonight she would dream of escape.

Yn sat on the edge of the pristine silk-covered bed, her damp hair falling in loose strands around her face. The soft fabric of the robe Lian had given her felt foreign against her skin, far too delicate compared to the worn clothes she’d lived in before. The room was quiet, save for the faint rustle of the curtains as a cool breeze slipped through the slightly ajar window.

Her gaze drifted to that window, moonlight pooling on the floor beneath it. It was small, but not impossible. If she could hoist herself up and slip through, she might land quietly in the courtyard below. The guards rotated shifts around midnight—she’d seen it often enough when sneaking near the palace walls for scraps. If she timed it right, she could be gone before anyone even noticed she was missing.

But the walls. The palace walls were tall and smooth, built to keep people like her out… or in. Her brows furrowed as she leaned back, palms pressing into the plush bedding. Maybe if she could slip into the servant tunnels? They ran like veins through the palace, and the kitchen staff were up before dawn. If she could blend in, steal some plain clothes—

Her thoughts were interrupted by a soft creak from the hallway. Instinctively, her body tensed, ready to fight, to run. But the sound faded, leaving only the weight of silence behind.

With a frustrated sigh, Yn dragged her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. She hated this. The softness. The stillness. It wasn’t hers. She belonged out there, under the stars, with dirt under her nails and freedom in her lungs—not locked away like a doll on display.

Her eyes flicked to the empty shelf meant for gifts. The thought made her stomach turn. She didn’t want silks or jewels. She wanted the streets, the thrill of running barefoot down alleys, the warmth of the sun on her face as she bartered for fruit at the market.

She glanced at the door. Locked, of course. They weren’t stupid.

Her head tipped back against the carved headboard, and she closed her eyes, mind still racing with plans. The window. The tunnels. The guard rotations. There had to be a way.

The moon climbed higher, casting pale light across her face as exhaustion finally began to creep in. Her thoughts slowed, tangled with dreams of scaling walls and slipping past watchful eyes.

Tomorrow. She’d find a way tomorrow.

Sleep claimed her quietly, the last thing on her mind not fear, but defiance.

The morning sun filtered through the paper screens, casting soft golden patterns across the floor. Yn stirred awake, momentarily disoriented by the softness beneath her. The bed. The silk. The scent of jasmine lingering in the air. Reality crashed down like a wave, and her muscles tensed as she sat up, heart pounding.

Still here.

Before she could plan her next move, a knock sounded at the door, sharp and precise.

"Lady Yn," Lian’s voice called from the other side. "It’s time to rise. We have much to do today."

The door slid open before Yn could answer, and Lian, ever poised and graceful, stepped inside, followed by Mei, who offered a gentler smile. Both were dressed impeccably in pale, flowing robes, their hair twisted into intricate buns adorned with delicate pins.

Yn, by contrast, still wore the robe they’d forced on her the night before. Wrinkled now, slightly askew, but no less suffocating.

"I’m not interested," Yn muttered, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. "Go play palace doll without me."

Lian’s smile didn’t waver, but her eyes sharpened. "You’ll find that disinterest is a luxury you can’t afford here."

Mei stepped forward, her tone softer. "We’re not your enemies, Yn. If you don’t learn the rules, you'll suffer for it. We’ve seen it happen."

Yn met her gaze, reading the sincerity there. Mei looked tired, older than her youthful face should allow, like someone who’d long since accepted her cage but still pitied the new birds thrown into it.

With a reluctant sigh, Yn stood. "Fine. Show me the circus."

The day began in the dressing hall. Rows of concubines, some chatting quietly, others silently enduring the hands of servants as they were preened and polished like ornaments. Lian led Yn to a quieter corner, where a maid waited with brushes and fabrics.

"You’ll be expected to look presentable at all times," Lian explained, arms crossed as she observed the maid combing through Yn's hair. "Even if the Emperor doesn’t call for you, palace officials, visiting nobles—they all watch. A single misstep can cost you everything."

Yn snorted. "Good. Maybe if I mess up enough, they’ll throw me out."

Mei winced. "It’s not exile you’ll face if you offend the wrong person."

The weight of that warning settled like a stone in Yn’s stomach.

After dressing—simple robes, thankfully, nothing too elaborate for a first day—they moved to the outer gardens. Other concubines strolled along stone paths, laughing behind delicate fans, their faces masks of practiced ease. Servants flitted about, tending to blooms and fetching refreshments.

Lian gestured subtly as they walked. "Morning hours are for leisure. Reading, embroidery, music—anything that shows refinement. If you can’t sing, learn. If you can’t play the qin, pretend you’re trying."

Yn eyed a group of women giggling under a willow tree. "And if I’d rather climb that tree?"

Mei actually laughed, earning a sharp look from Lian. "Then you’ll be gossip fodder for weeks. And you’ll stand out. Which is dangerous."

The weight of their words pressed down harder with each passing minute. Meals were formal, conversation measured. Etiquette lessons filled the afternoon—how to bow, how to walk, how to smile without baring teeth.

The soft patter of footsteps faded as Lian and Mei left Yn’s room, their gentle reminders of "Stay out of trouble" and "Don’t wander too far" lingering in the air.

With a quiet huff, she stood, slipping into the simple shoes left by the door. The palace stretched far beyond the concubine quarters, and boredom was a dangerous motivator. If they were going to keep her here, she might as well learn its weaknesses.

The palace was alive with movement, a world within a world. Yn walked slowly through its winding corridors, her bare feet brushing against the cool stone. The scent of incense and fresh jasmine drifted through the air, mixing with the faint aroma of ink and parchment from the nearby study halls.

She had been left alone for the rest of the day—an unusual mercy. Or perhaps an oversight. Either way, she intended to make use of it.

Her eyes flickered over the passing figures, each one a piece of the empire’s grand design.

A group of servants hurried past, carrying trays of steaming food and silken fabrics, their eyes kept low, their movements practiced and precise. She noticed how they barely spoke, only communicating in glances and nods. Their silence was not born from discipline, but from fear. Mistakes in the palace were costly.

Not far from them, a young boy, no older than six, clung to his nurse’s robes. A noble’s child, judging by the embroidered silk of his tunic. His round face was scrunched in frustration, small hands tugging at the woman’s sleeve.

"I don’t want to study!" he whined.

"Hush, young master," the nurse scolded, casting a nervous glance at the guards nearby. "Your father will hear of this."

Yn watched as the boy sulked but followed, disappearing behind a carved wooden screen. A child of power—one already learning that in this palace, obedience meant survival.

She turned a corner and nearly walked into a pair of diplomats, their conversation sharp and clipped. They wore the colors of rival regions, their voices laced with careful politeness.

"The Emperor’s patience is not infinite," one murmured.

"Neither is his rule," the other countered, though more softly.

Yn kept walking, pretending not to hear. Politics were not her concern. Escape was.

Ahead, a line of imperial guards stood at attention, their polished armor gleaming in the morning light. They were like statues, barely breathing, eyes forward, unreadable. She had fought against these men only days ago—biting, kicking, drawing blood. Now they barely acknowledged her presence.

Except for one.

A guard slightly older than the rest exhaled sharply when he saw her, as if already exhausted. His grip on his spear tightened.

She gave him a slow, mocking smile. Yes, poor man, I am still here.

Beyond the guards, the world opened up into a sprawling courtyard. Flowers bloomed in careful, deliberate patterns, a beauty too precise to be natural. Stone paths wove between koi ponds and carved gazebos, a paradise designed for those who would never leave.

Like me, she thought bitterly.

And yet, even within this gilded prison, there were cracks in the design. Routes the architects had not accounted for. Shadows where the watchful eyes of the palace did not linger.

Yn strolled forward, fingers brushing the soft petals of a peony, gaze flickering towards the high walls beyond.

She was learning. Observing.

Soon, she would find her way out.

The hallways were eerily empty. Most concubines were busy with their scheduled activities—embroidering flowers they'd never wear, practicing music for ears that rarely listened. Servants flitted by, their gazes sliding off her like she was just another ornament.

Yn moved quietly, brushing past the polished wooden pillars and delicate silk curtains that separated one lavish section from the next. Her eyes darted, not for beauty but for opportunity.

A cracked window. A loose panel. A hallway too dimly lit for prying eyes.

There has to be a way out.

But her thoughts were interrupted by a soft chattering sound—tiny, insistent meows.

Curious, Yn followed the noise, slipping past a side entrance that led to one of the quieter palace gardens. It was less manicured than the grand courtyards, more wild and forgotten. That explained the strays.

Three cats lounged under the shade of a crooked plum tree. One, a scruffy ginger with torn ears, stretched lazily. Another, sleek and black, watched her warily from a distance. But the third—a small gray tabby with bright, mischievous eyes—trotted right up to her, tail high.

Yn knelt, hand outstretched. "Well, aren’t you brave?"

The tabby sniffed her fingers before nudging its head against her palm, purring loudly.

A flash of green caught her eye. Close to the edge of the garden, half-hidden among the weeds, catnip grew wild and untamed. She grinned.

"Of course. That’s why you're so friendly."

Yn plucked a few sprigs and rubbed them between her fingers, letting the scent bloom. Within moments, the ginger stray perked up, sauntering over with a curious rumble. Even the black cat crept closer, cautious but intrigued.

Before long, she was surrounded. Cats flopped beside her, rolling and purring, content under her gentle touch.

For the first time since being dragged into this gilded prison, Yn felt something other than anger or exhaustion.

Peace.

Soft fur under her fingers. The sun warming her back. No guards. No silk-clad concubines whispering behind fans. Just her and these little survivors, thriving in the cracks of the palace's perfection.

A tabby paw batted at her sleeve, and she laughed quietly.

"Guess we’re all strays here, huh?"

But as the sun dipped lower, shadows stretching long across the ground, reality crept back in. She couldn’t stay here forever.

With a reluctant sigh, Yn stood, brushing dust from her robe. The cats blinked up at her, content and drowsy.

"Don't get too comfortable," she murmured, gaze drifting toward the high walls in the distance. "Next time, I’m not coming back."

And with that, she slipped away, the scent of catnip still clinging to her fingertips.

The sun hung lazily in the sky as Yn wandered further than she should have. The palace grounds were vast, and after her morning spent with the strays, she’d pocketed a few sprigs of catnip—just in case. Not like she had much else to entertain herself with.

The courtyard near the emperor’s private quarters was quieter than the rest. Too quiet. It should’ve been her first warning.

Her second came when the stray she'd been trailing—a scrawny thing with patchy fur—bolted like its tail was on fire.

Yn barely had time to register the low rumble vibrating through the air before a flash of white and black fur cut across her path.

A tiger.

Not just any tiger—Huāng Xie, the emperor’s infamous beast.

For a moment, time froze. The tiger, muscles coiled, stood at the top of the stone steps leading to the courtyard. Its golden eyes locked onto her.

Her foot caught on an uneven tile, and she went down hard, palms scraping against the ground.

The catnip.

The crushed leaves tumbled from her pocket, releasing their sharp, minty scent into the air.

The palace guards stationed nearby froze, hands flying to their weapons. One servant shrieked and darted behind a pillar.

"She's dead," someone whispered.

Even the concubines watching from the shaded walkway stood wide-eyed, fans forgotten in their trembling hands.

Yn didn’t move. Heart pounding in her ears, she slowly lifted her gaze to the tiger, now prowling toward her, each step deliberate and soundless.

Well, she thought grimly, at least it won’t be boredom that kills me.

Huāng Xie paused a breath away from her sprawled form, nose twitching.

Then, to everyone’s horror, the massive predator leaned down—

—and purred.

Deep, rumbling, content. Like thunder softened by silk.

The tiger’s wide head bumped against her shoulder, almost knocking her flat again. Yn barely had time to blink before it flopped down beside her, tail flicking lazily.

It wanted belly rubs.

The silence was deafening.

From the balcony above, Zhéyàn stood, arms crossed, golden eyes sharp with disbelief—and, if one looked closely enough, amusement.

One of the guards finally found his voice. "Is… is it broken?"

Another guard hissed, "Shut up! Do you want it to remember it's a tiger?!"

Yn, thoroughly stunned, stared at the giant feline now rolling half onto its back, head resting comfortably on her lap. The crushed catnip lay scattered around her like an offering.

"You're not very good at being a tiger, you know," she muttered, hesitantly scratching behind its ears.

Huāng Xie purred louder, tail thumping against the stone.

Zhéyàn, still watching from above, chuckled under his breath. Interesting.

He turned to the steward beside him, whose face had gone pale.

The emperor ordered, lips curling into a lazy smile. "I’d like to meet the woman who tamed my tiger."

Yn, oblivious to the new attention, sighed and pushed at Huāng Xie’s massive head.

"Get off me, you overgrown house cat. I'm trying to escape here."

Tags: @yourhornysister

[sabrinajenre96]

The quiet scars after the storm

Michael Robinavitch x Resident!Reader

Warning: angst with comfort, hospital setting, rooftop moment, found family, pregnancy reveal, emotional healing, soft domestic vibes

POV: Reader’s POV

---

The rooftop was quiet.

Not silent, not really—not with the hum of traffic far below, the occasional rattle of a vent kicking on, and the ever-present pulse of the hospital itself. But quiet enough. Familiar. Steady. Like always.

Except tonight, it wasn’t empty.

I paused at the doorway, fingers curling around the edge of the door. There he was, back to me, leaning against the ledge like the weight of today had finally knocked him off his feet. Except he hadn’t fallen. Not physically. But the morgue earlier... that had knocked something loose in him. I’d seen it. Everyone had. The moment his composure shattered, and he’d cried like a man trying to hold the pieces of the world together and failing.

Michael.

My Michael.

“You stole my spot,” I said softly, stepping forward.

He didn’t turn around right away. But I saw his shoulders rise with a deep breath. “You always have a way of finding me up here,” he murmured.

“That’s because you always come here when something breaks,” I replied gently, standing beside him now. “And today? A lot broke.”

He gave a dry, bitter laugh. “You can say that again.”

I let the silence sit with us for a second before I spoke again. “What Jake said... it wasn’t okay.”

“I know he’s grieving,” he muttered, eyes fixed on something out in the distance. “But accusing me like that... like I didn’t try—”

“I know,” I cut in. “I saw her chart. I was in that trauma bay. Her heart was gone the second that bullet hit. You did everything you could. More than anyone else would’ve.”

Michael finally looked at me, eyes glassy but holding. “His mom was there.”

“I know. She apologized,” I said with a shrug. “I told her not to worry. But it still sucked.”

He looked down, scraping a hand across the stubble on his jaw. “Lilah okay?”

I blinked, thrown by the sudden shift. “Yeah, she’s fine. She went to the ballet studio after tutoring some kids. Didn’t want to go to the concert—said it was too overwhelming. My mom picked her up after and took her home.”

Relief softened his expression. “Good. She didn’t answer my calls... I was worried.”

“She’s a teenager,” I smirked. “Selective hearing. Selective replying.”

Michael nodded slowly, a faint curve to his lips. “At least one teenager loves me.”

My chest squeezed. I knew what he meant. Jake’s words had cut deeper than any of us expected. Not just the blame. The venom. Like Michael wasn’t human. Like he hadn’t held that girl’s hand until her last breath.

“She adores you,” I said, voice firmer. “She asked you to adopt her because you showed up every single day when no one else did. She’s yours.”

He glanced at me. “I needed that.”

“I know.” I reached into my pocket. “And... speaking of needing something—this might not be the perfect moment, but...”

He took the folded paper from my hand slowly, almost like he already knew. Opened it. Stared at the grainy little sonogram picture in silence.

“You’re—” His voice caught. “We’re—”

“Pregnant,” I finished, soft and sure. “Again.”

His eyes widened, glassiness returning for an entirely different reason this time. “Despite today, you still manage to give me the best news of my life.”

I smiled. “I do what I can.”

He laughed—a real one, tired and shaky but real—and pulled me into a gentle hug. His hand hovered at my waist, almost reverent. I felt his fingers brush the hem of my black scrubs and the soft cotton of the white shirt underneath.

“I don’t even want to think about how we’re breaking this to Lilah and Harlow,” I joked, forehead resting against his. “Harlow’s already recruited Mousse for her schemes. A baby will just be a sidekick.”

“She’s four and already building an empire,” he mused, eyes closing. “We’re in trouble.”

“Big trouble,” I agreed. Then I held out my hand, fingers open.

“Let’s go home.”

He laced his fingers with mine without hesitation.

Together, we left the rooftop. Step by step, down the stairwell. Past the ghosts of today. Past the things we couldn’t change. Past the wounds we would nurse together.

Because we always did.

[waugh-bao]

*

[internetdaddy98]

Eros and Empirics

Previous | Next [Series Masterlist]

Pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x F!SeniorResident!Reader Summary: Robby expresses his desire to know you fully, not just in the heat of your secretive moments but in the quiet details of your life.

Word Count: 3.2 K Content Warning: Medical procedures, will most likely be medically inaccurate at times.

Robby woke slowly.

The moonshine filtering through her linen curtains was pale and gold, and for a moment, he forgot where he was. The sheets were too soft, the room too warm. And then he felt the press of a small body curled against him, her bare leg tangled between his, her breath steady against his collarbone. Y/N.

Her apartment.

Her bed.

His heart gave a traitorous twist.

It was early, maybe five, maybe earlier. He was used to it. The world always started for him before anyone else. But this morning, for once, he didn’t feel the need to move. He just wanted to stay. Absorb it.

Her.

She was tucked beneath the covers, face half-hidden, messy brown hair spilling over the pillow, one hand fisted gently in the fabric of his shirt like she wasn’t ready to let go even in sleep.

And God help him, he didn’t want her to.

Carefully, he slipped from the bed, trying not to wake her. Her sheets smelled like vanilla and clean linen. Her nightstand had a half-drunk glass of water, a novel with a cracked spine, and a worn tube of lip balm. Things so small and intimate it made his breath catch.

He padded barefoot into the rest of the apartment, soaking it in without the haze of last night’s heat between them. It was still quiet, early-morning hush over everything. Outside, the street was just starting to stir, birds, a garbage truck rumbling down the alley, a dog barking distantly.

Inside, her world was still.

He moved through the living room slowly. The details of her life were everywhere. Art books and first-edition novels, a framed psychology degree from NYU next to her coat hanging neatly on a hook by the door. A small vase of dried lavender. A Polaroid camera. A silk scarf draped over the corner of a mirror. Every detail was curated but unpretentious, lived-in. Personal.

He paused at the piano in the corner.

It was old, upright, chestnut wood with a few chips in the varnish, but well-loved. Music sheets were stacked carefully, tucked with bookmarks and scribbled notes. His fingers grazed the keys, but he didn’t press them down. Instead, he looked at the photo sitting on top of it: a younger Y/N, maybe seventeen, at a recital. Her hair was longer, pulled half-up, and she was smiling, really smiling, in a way he’d rarely seen in the hospital. Free. Unburdened.

He didn’t know if that version of her still existed. But God, he wanted to meet her.

There were more photos in the hallway, Sheri as a child with scraped knees and a gap-toothed grin, her parents in a vineyard, some older relatives at what looked like a christmas dinner. The more he looked, the more he realized just how much of her life she’d never talked about. Not because she was hiding it, but because she’d never been asked.

And now she was offering it to him, open-palmed and quiet and brave.

He lingered by the bookshelf, picking up a slim volume of poetry and flipping through it. A note was scribbled in the margin in her handwriting: for the days that hurt in silence. He stared at it for a long time.

When he finally returned to the bedroom, you were just beginning to stir.

Your eyes blinked open slowly, lashes fluttering against your cheek before you focused on him, shirtless, barefoot, leaning in the doorway with the moonlight at his back like some ghost she hadn’t expected to stay.

“You always wake up this early?” you asked, voice still rough with sleep.

He smirked faintly. “Some habits die hard.”

You stretched, a soft sigh escaping you as you rolled onto your back and pushed the covers down, bare legs curling into the sheets. The moonlight caught the dip of your waist, the slope of your collarbone, and for a moment he felt something primal twist in his chest.

But he didn’t move toward you yet.

Instead, he watched you.

“What?” you asked quietly, voice hushed in the still morning.

“I’m just looking,” he said honestly.

“At what?”

“At everything you are.”

You flushed. “Do I disappoint?”

He crossed to you then, kneeling beside the bed, brushing his hand through the mess of your hair. “You’re beautiful.”

Your eyes softened.

“I’ve never—” he started, then stopped. Swallowed. “I never let myself want this.”

“But you do,” you whispered.

He nodded, pressing a slow kiss to your shoulder, just above the curve of the sheet.

“I do. I want you. Not just your body, not just the secret, not just the adrenaline of getting away with it in a fucking supply closet—though, Christ, that too—but you, in this bed, with your stupid candles and your crooked piano and the way you write in margins.”

Your throat worked around a swallow. “You read my poetry book.”

“I want to read everything,” he murmured, kissing you again. “All of it. All of you.”

You leaned forward then, kissed him like you meant it, soft, slow, unhurried.

And in that morning light, tangled in sheets and sunlight and honesty, something in Robby settled for the first time in years. Not silenced, not quieted. But held.

—----------------------------------

The ER never slept, not even on days when the morning light broke in slow golden strands across the windows of the trauma bay. But this morning felt different. Calmer, somehow. As if the universe had paused for breath and let in something softer between the crash of stretchers and the clatter of coffee cups.

You stepped onto the unit just after 6:30 a.m., hair tied in a low ponytail, hoodie unzipped, and a takeaway tray in your hands. You moved with quiet certainty, your expression unreadable to most, but not to him.

Robby was already there, early as always, leaned against the counter outside trauma room two. He had a pen between his fingers, flipping it with the idle precision of a man who never really stopped thinking. He looked up the moment he sensed you.

Not turned. Sensed.

Your eyes met for a fraction of a second longer than would’ve passed for casual. Something passed between you, warmth, reassurance, the kind of intimacy that didn’t need to be loud to be real.

He said nothing. Neither did you.

But you handed him a second coffee as you passed, the exact way he liked it, no words exchanged. You wore a small smile and a steady step, and the minute Dana caught sight of you across the nurses’ station, the charge nurse pointedly raised one eyebrow and offered a slow, approving nod.

“Well, finally,” Dana drawled.

You froze mid-step. “What?”

Dana sipped her coffee with exaggerated calm. “You know what.”

You didn’t have to turn to feel Robby behind you, his presence like gravity, like the steady pressure of a star. He appeared at your side a second later, expression unreadable but eyes brighter than you’d seen in weeks. He looked like a man who’d exhaled for the first time in years.

“Morning,” he said to Dana.

“Mmm,” Dana said, her grin widening. “So… HR knows?”

“HR knows,” Robby confirmed, nodding once. “We disclosed it last night.”

You added quickly, “We submitted everything by the book. It won’t affect patient care. We’re both still professionals first.”

Dana held up her hands. “Hey. No judgment. Just… it’s about time.”

There was a short pause.

“Is there a betting pool I should know about?” Robby asked dryly.

Dana didn’t even blink. “There was. Santos won it. Said it would happen this quarter.”

Santos appeared from behind a curtain, pulling off gloves with a triumphant smirk. “I always knew you two were going to combust. But I didn't think it’d be in an alley. Bold move.”

You flushed from the neck up.

“I told you not to talk about it—” Robby began.

Santos grinned. “What, you think I didn’t recognize that look you had the next day? Man was walking like he’d been struck by lightning. And Sheridan couldn’t look anyone in the eye.”

Whittaker passed by with a chart, looking nervous. “Should I… come back later?”

Mel piped up from across the room, smiling gently. “No, Dennis. You’re witnessing love in a hopeless place.”

You buried your face in your hands. But Robby, for once, didn’t seem phased. He chuckled—a real, low sound—and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.

“All right,” he said. “Everyone gets one day to harass us. But then it’s business as usual.”

Dana lifted her coffee. “Cheers to that, Dr. R.”

You flushed, but Robby only gave a soft exhale that might’ve been amusement, might’ve been relief. There was something easier about the set of his shoulders this morning, something almost unrecognizable to the ones who’d known him longest. He looked... lighter. The storm behind his eyes was still there, but it had a quiet in it now. A steadying calm that hadn’t been there in months.

He turned to you and said quietly, just for you, “You ready for rounds?”

You nodded. “Always.”

You walked together toward the huddle, footsteps falling into rhythm. You didn’t reach for his hand. He didn’t touch the small of your back. But there was an unmissable closeness in how your bodies moved near one another. Not possessive, just connected.

At the patient board, the rest of the residents gathered: Santos with her sarcastic smirk, Whittaker with his usual nervous energy, Mel with her careful warmth. A couple of interns hung in the back, eyes wide, obviously new.

Robby cleared his throat. “Morning. Quick huddle before rounds. Interns, evaluations start today, make sure to shine with your seniors and show them what you’ve learned, and make sure you drink water, because no one else is going to tell you when your brain is turning to soup.”

Soft chuckles. Santos rolled her eyes. “He says that like he ever drinks water.”

“I hydrate,” Robby said, deadpan. “It’s just black and roasted and comes in a mug.”

A few more laughs.

His gaze flicked to you, just a second’s glance, but enough for her to feel it settle on her skin. He always saw you, not just in the obvious ways. He noticed the minute tension in your shoulders, the slight downturn of your lips when you were too tired to fake it. And now that they weren’t pretending anymore, he let that concern show in soft, quiet ways.

He handed you a protein bar later that morning, just before the next trauma came in.

“You didn’t eat,” he said. “You’ll start shaking again.”

“I don’t shake,” you said.

“You do when your blood sugar tanks.”

You took the bar. Your fingers brushed and then he held your hand. He held the contact and your breath caught in your throat.

Around you, the ER pulsed with life, alarms, footsteps, orders barked and nonstopped charting, but in that second, it was just the two of you again. The unspoken tether of months, years, threading you closer with each quiet kindness.

And it wasn’t all sweetness.

When a difficult peds trauma came in later, you took the lead without hesitation. You were measured, firm, voice steady as you called out orders, but Robby hovered just within your orbit—ready if you faltered, ready if you needed him. You didn’t. You never did. But the fact that he was there mattered more than you could admit aloud.

Afterwards, he pulled you aside, voice low. “You did good in there.”

You smiled, tired but grateful. “You doubted me?”

“Never,” he said. “But I worry anyway.”

Your heart tightened at that. Because that was him, always, the man who kept every worry locked tight behind those cool gray eyes, but who noticed everything. The man who fought the world with his hands and himself with his silence.

You stood by the trauma board, arms crossed, squinting at the cluster of cases lighting up in red. You were waiting for the next wave. They always came in waves.

“Quiet before the chaos,” came a voice behind you.

You turned slightly. Dr. Collins stood there, coffee in hand, her usual expression unreadable but not unfriendly. She was in scrubs, her red jacket slung over one shoulder, the picture of poised competence.

You gave a small smile. “You know, everyone says that, and it’s always true. Creeps me out.”

Collins chuckled. “You get used to it.”

“I heard about you and Robby.”

You stiffened. Just a little. Not enough to be obvious, but enough that Collins noticed.

“I’m not judging,” Collins added quickly, sipping her coffee. “He and I... that was a long time ago.”

You turned toward her fully now, brows raised. “Yeah?”

Collins nodded, leaning against the counter beside the trauma board. “Before you were even in medical school, I think. It didn’t last long. We were fire and ice—too much heat, not enough glue.”

You hesitated. “I knew it happened, but didn’t know why it ended.”

Collins smiled wryly. “We don’t advertise it. Didn’t end badly, exactly, just… ended. He was complicated. Still is.”

That made you laugh under your breath. “Yeah. I’ve noticed.”

Collins glanced over at you, eyes sharp but not unkind. “So… can I give you some unsolicited advice?”

You looked wary but nodded. “Sure.”

Collins shifted her coffee to her other hand, her tone growing quieter, less clinical. “Robby’s spent most of his life keeping people at arm’s length. It’s not because he doesn’t care. It’s because he cares too much. And somewhere along the line, he decided that if he let people in, they’d either leave, or he’d lose them. So he built walls. Really good ones.”

Your voice was soft. “I’ve seen them.”

“Then you know how hard it is to be let in. He’s let you in, hasn’t he?”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah. He has.”

Collins studied you for a moment, then said, “Then don’t waste it. But don’t expect it to always be easy. Loving Robby is like… like trying to hold onto something that doesn’t always want to be held. You have to be steady. Patient. And maybe a little selfish, too. You have to ask for what you need.”

There was silence between them for a moment. The overhead lights buzzed faintly. You leaned against the counter, mirroring Collins. “Did you love him?”

Collins didn’t answer right away. She took a slow sip of her coffee, then set it down gently on the steel counter. Her eyes went distant, thoughtful.

“I think a part of me did,” she said finally. “But I also think I loved the idea of fixing him more than I loved who he really was. And you can’t fix Robby. You can only choose to stay.”

You looked down, chewing on that. “I don’t want to fix him.”

Collins smiled softly. “Then you’ve got a chance.”

Just then, a trauma alert crackled through the intercom. You and Collins both stood a little straighter.

“Back to it,” Collins said, straightening her scrubs.

You looked at her, something flickering in your eyes. Gratitude, maybe. Or recognition. “Thanks. For saying all that.”

Collins gave a half-smile, already turning toward the trauma bay. “You’re welcome. Just don’t break his heart, Sheridan. He doesn’t have many lives left.”

You stood there a moment longer, the trauma board now lighting up like a Christmas tree behind you. But your mind was still on Collins’s words. On what it meant to be let in by someone like Robby. And what it meant to stay.

Robby didn't touch you in front of the others. Not once. But when you passed in the hallway near radiology and no one was looking, he let his knuckles graze yours. When you came back from the break room, jaw clenched from a phone call with a combative family member, he reached over and brushed a loose strand from your cheek.

“I’ve got your six,” he murmured, just low enough for your ears only.

“I know,” you whispered back.

Later, in the staff lounge, Dana caught Robby refilling your water bottle.

“You’re ridiculously smitten,” Dana said, not bothering to hide her grin.

Robby gave a weary exhale. “Don’t start.”

“I mean it. She softens you.”

“She grounds me,” he said.

And he meant it. Because whatever weight he carried—whatever ghosts still lurked in his chest from COVID, from Adamson, from years of holding back, you had become the one person who could coax him out from behind the walls he’d built.

You weren’t loud. You weren’t commanding. But you saw him.

And now, finally, he let himself see you back, not just as a resident, not just as a colleague, but as the woman who made him want more. Who made him remember what it felt like to want something for himself.

By the end of the shift, the teasing had faded. The work had taken over again. He let his hand rest lightly at the small of your back for just a breath. You stood at the computer terminal. Your brow furrowed slightly in concentration, but your posture was more relaxed than it had been before. More grounded. You hadn't been rattled. If anything, you'd been unnervingly steady.

Robby watched you for a moment. Something was different.

“You okay?” he asked casually.

You glanced up, then gave him that small, almost imperceptible smile he’d come to read like a pulse. “Yeah. Just tired.”

“Sure,” he said, but his tone was knowing. “Still… something’s on your mind.”

You hesitated, saving the chart and logging out. “Talked to Collins earlier.”

Robby's eyebrows lifted, just slightly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You looked up at him now, her gaze direct but unreadable. “She said you’re complicated.”

Robby gave a soft huff of laughter, rubbing the back of his neck. “She would say that.”

“She also said you build walls.”

That made him pause.

He didn’t speak for a moment, just looked at you, searching your expression, trying to see what else might be behind those words. You didn’t push. You just let the silence stretch, comfortable in a way that still surprised him sometimes.

“Was she warning you off?” he asked finally.

You tilted your head, your voice soft but certain. “No. She was telling me not to waste the opportunity” Robby looked down, that answer hitting deeper than he expected. His voice, when it came, was quieter. “She’s not wrong.”

You reached for his hand, lacing your fingers through his. “I’m not going anywhere, Michael.”

He looked down at your joined hands, then up at you. And for a moment, everything, the years, the baggage, the ghosts fell away. There was just you. And the quiet certainty in your eyes.

“Good,” he said. Then softer, more to himself than to her, “Good.”

She squeezed his hand once more. 

“You want me to wait and walk out with you?” he asked.

You looked at him, smile soft. “Always.”

And maybe the world hadn’t changed. Maybe the hospital was still loud and unpredictable, and their jobs still unforgiving.

But the weight was different now.

They weren’t pretending.

They weren’t hiding.

They were them.

And for the first time, that felt like enough.

———————————————— Want to join the taglist? shoot me a comment! @rosiepoise88 @nosebeers @andabuttonnose @luvr4miya @cannonindeez @hagarsays @captainoates @lemonlime09 @delicateflorencia @iceb1ink1uck @moonshooter @qardasngan @penbridgertonn @foreverchangingfandoms @msdariaknight @kmc1989

[p1astr81]

Spidey-Osc! -op81

in which: Oscar Piastri takes on the double life of being a high school student and also the hero of New York. While playing the part of spider-man, Oscar starts to get closer to his classmate, a girl he otherwise wouldn’t have dared to even look at. (au)

(based on Tom Holland’s spiderman, with the webbing mechanism of Toby’s)

pairing: spiderman!oscar piastri x fem!reader

warnings: use of y/n, lots of exposition, not proof read… (lmk if there’s anything else!)

an: isn’t my editing fabulous guys?? for the purpose of this, everyone is 18. This will also be multiple parts, this being part 1.

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4

‧‧₊˚ ⋅* ۶ৎ ‧₊ ‧₊˚ ⋅

Oscar swung between the towering buildings of New York, his eyes hyper focused on the scum who just stole the donations from Santa’s Salvation Army bucket. The guy clearly wasn’t too smart, as he was dressed in a bright red coat. That only made it easier for Oscar to track him from the high altitude.

The perpetrator ducked into an alleyway, which Oscar took as his cue to begin chasing him on foot. Webbing between tight alleyways was a recipe for disaster. Or disastri, as his two friends loved to joke.

As he dropped onto the sidewalks, he slipped on a patch of ice and ended up bumping shoulders roughly with a girl. In a rush, he threw a quick sorry! In her direction. But he took note of her clothing. White coat, pale pink gloves, the color of her hair. It would be difficult, but he would find her later and apologize properly.

For now, he had a thief to chase. “Hey!” He called after the guy as he began to climb a fire escape. Really? Oscar thought to himself. Trying to get away by climbing? While I can scale the Empire State Building in seconds? Evidently, the guy wasn’t very smart.

As the red coat guy reached for another rung of the ladder, Oscar shot a web from his wrist, sticking his hand to the rung. The guy let out a sound of frustration as Oscar webbed his feet in place, too.

Oscar pulled his phone out, and called the local police. An easy task for him, as he had their number saved.

Once he’d called in the crime, he began to heckle the red coat guy. “Stealing from charity? That should be a federal offense.” He tsk’ed under his mask.

“Don’t you have something better to be doing?” The criminal insulted. “Don’t you?” Oscar fired back quickly, his hands perched on his hips. The guy responded with a grunt as he tried to yank his hands and feet free. It was no use.

The pair of them heard the police siren looming closer, and red coat guy was frantically trying to free himself. Oscar chuckled.

A singular cop car stopped outside the alleyway, and a single cop stepped out of the vehicle. Could Oscar really have asked for much more from the NYPD? Definitely not.

“I’ll let you take it from here,” Oscar told the cop before quickly scaling the side of the building. He got a running headstart, and jumped from the side, slinging a web out to the nearest building. Oscar lifted his feet as to not scrape them along the pavement. He continued down the streets of New York, his eyes on the lookout for the white coat girl. Unfortunately, Oscar never found her.

۶ৎ ۶ৎ ۶ৎ

Oscar grabbed his anatomy book from his locker and as soon as his hand was withdrawn, his locker was shut by another force.

Logan.

“Mate, I get you’re spiderman and all,” he lowered his voice, not wanting to expose Oscar’s secret identity. “But you were supposed to come over and play video games with me and Fred.”

Oscar sighed. “I forgot.” He ran a hand over his face. “Dude. This is the third time.” Logan pointed out, highly annoyed.

“I know.”

Oscar opened his locker once again to retrieve his anatomy notebook and binder.

“Excuse me.” He heard from beside him. He looked up, his eyes quickly finding you as you waited for Logan to move away from your locker that he was currently leaning on.

It was luck of the draw when it came to Oscar getting a locker next to the most popular, prettiest, and smartest girl in his year. Every guy would kill to have his locker. In fact, a lot of them tried to pay him to switch. He didn’t, of course.

He thought the proximity of your lockers would help him make a move. But Oscar was awkward, and there was this nagging voice in the back of his head that told him you were way out of his league.

So to spare his dignity, everyday he would keep his head down and wouldn’t even dare to look in your direction.

Today, he did. And he quickly took note of the white puffer jacket you wore. And the corner of his eye caught sight of pale pink gloves sticking out of your pocket. And your hair color, well, it was the exact same as the girl he bumped into on the street yesterday. He bumped into you yesterday.

Logan apologized, stepping to the side so you could grab your supplies for your anatomy class next period.

When you walked away, Logan lowered his voice and gushed, “did you see that? She talked to me!” It snapped Oscar out of his trance. He laughed and shook his head. “Because you were in her way.”

Logan shrugged. “A win is a win.” He replied.

Oscar chuckled. “I’ll see you at lunch.” He parted ways with Logan, walking the short distance to his anatomy class.

Halfway through anatomy, Oscar’s desk mate, Lando, leaned over into his space. “What’re the odds you think I can get her to tutor me?” He whispered. Oscar knew who he was talking about. You. You sat at the table in front of the pair with one of your good friends, Alexandra.

Now, Oscar and Lando weren’t friends per say. They didn’t hang out outside of school, but they were friendly.

“I’d say if your intentions aren’t to get with her, then decently high.”

“Well, obviously my intentions are to get with her, but she doesn’t need to know that.” Lando sassed.

“Yeah well you don’t think-“

“Piastri,” Mrs. Coulson called.

“Yes?”

“Which valve is this?” Her ruler pointed to the valve between the right atrium and right ventricle.

“Uh,” He thought quickly. “AV bicuspid.” He answered, and noticed that you had turned around enough in your chair to lock eyes with him.

Mrs Coulson hummed, clearly unsatisfied that he actually got the answer. “Pay attention.”

He watched as you tried to hold back a laugh. Whether it was at him for being caught out and not paying attention, or at the teacher for failing to embarrass him, he didn’t know.

You turned back around in your chair, and leaned over to Alex. “I’ve never got a good look at him, but he’s actually kinda cute.” You whispered, chuckling with Alex.

And because of Oscar’s enhanced hearing, he heard it. He felt his face immediately heat up.

۶ৎ ۶ৎ ۶ৎ

As was routine, Oscar found himself swinging from building to building. It was a rather slow day. Anything that caught his attention either turned out to be nothing, or the cops where already on it.

That was until he heard a shout. A quick “hey!” Nearly muffled in it’s entirety by the heavy blankets of snow.

But Oscar heard it, and quickly scanned the area to identify the problem. He nearly groaned when he realized it was another robbery. Safe to say, he was bored of taking care of thieves.

Nonetheless, he swooped down, webbing the small pink bag from the perpetrators hands and yanking it from their hold.

He stood on top of a lap post. “Who does this belong to?” He called, but almost everyone on the sidewalk below ignored him. Well, all but one.

You stood at the bottom of the street lamp. “It’s mine!” You called up. Oscar froze momentarily when he locked eyes with you. Quickly, he snapped himself out of it, dropping down smoothly in front of you.

“Here you go, uhm, ma’am.”

Accepting her handbag, she raised a brow. “Ma’am? Wow that makes me feel old.” She chuckled.

Oscar started to panic. “I just meant… well you don’t look old. You look amazing actually—er, uhm—young, I meant.” He was making a total fool of himself. Thank god for the mask, he thought.

You laughed. It was a sound that tickled something inside Oscar’s brain and made him feel warm inside, despite the freezing cold air that threatened his body with hypothermia.

“Well, thank you.” You smiled, and the warmth inside Oscar’s body intensified.

My god he was down bad.

“Oh! Also, I bumped into you yesterday. Never got to properly apologize for that. So, I’m very sorry about that.”

You laughed again. “Did I hear that right? Spider-man remembered my face? I’m truly honored.”

Oscar did not miss the way your eyes slowly raked over his body, shamelessly checking him out. His face was on fire. Just wait ‘til Logan hears about this.

He tried to play it smooth, but his laugh came out awkward. “I should probably get back to protecting the city.” He cringed as the words came out of his mouth. “Yeah probably,” you nodded, ginning at him. “See ya, Spiderman.”

“See ya, (y/n)!”

He left you with that, throwing a web at the building across the street and leveraging himself 15 stories into the air.

He didn’t even realize he’d called you by your name.

۶ৎ ۶ৎ ۶ৎ

He arrived at Logan’s soon after, still in his suit. He hoped no one was watching as spiderman sneaking through the window of a random house would surely stir up some stories.

Logan and Fred paused their game when they say the human spider crawling through the window. “I see you didn’t forget today.” Logan jabbed.

Oscar waved his hand through the air, ripping off his mask and moving to sit between them. “You guys aren’t going to believe who I just talked to.”

They both stared at him, unmoving, waiting for him to tell them. “Y/n. Y/l/n.” Logan tilted his head the slightest degree, his eyes narrowing. Fred just stared blankly. “And I think she was flirting with me.”

Logan bursted out laughing. “She wasn’t flirting with you. She was flirting with spider-man.”

“Yeah but who wears the suit? Me.” Oscar pointed out.

“But every girl would flirt with spider-man. I think Megan Fox would flirt with Spider-Man.”

Oscar shoved him roughly. “Shut up, man. You’re just mad she didn’t flirt with you.” And then Oscar remembered the conversation he overheard during anatomy earlier that day. “And! She was talking to Alex during anatomy and I heard her call me cute.”

Logan bit back a laugh. “Cute? Like how you would describe a bunny?”

Oscar rolled his eyes.

۶ৎ ۶ৎ ۶ৎ

“Alex, you’re never going to believe what happened to me yesterday.” You walked into anatomy gushing.

Oscar straightened up a little, prepared to shamelessly eavesdrop.

“Ugh, did you finally get that hot guys number who dresses up as hawkeye?” You smiled, shaking your head. “I told you, if you want his number you’re going to have to get it yourself. I’m not helping you with that.” You laughed.

“But no, yesterday, on my way to work, my bag was stolen and guess who got it back for me?” You gushed. Alex raised her brows and motioned for you to continue. “Spider-man. And then when he gave it back, he started flirting with me!”

From beside you, Lando scoffed. The girls turned around in their seats, looking at him with questioning glances. “He’s not even all that. He’s a guy swinging about in his pajamas. He’s no Captain America.” Ouch.

You rolled your eyes. “You’re just saying that cause he’s built better than you.” Your gaze shifted to meet Oscar’s

“What do you think about him, Piastri?”

“Uhm,” he shifted in his seat uncomfortably. “I think he’s… chill.”

Your grin did it’s best to hold back your laugh, but it ultimately came out anyway. A light chuckle. Unknowingly, your gaze drifted to his biceps, which were hardly contained by his shirt. The cuffs of the short-sleeve where borderline strangling his arms. You raised your brows, looking to Lando. “I think you should ask your friend for some gym advice.”

Oscar felt his face heat up. Was she… flirting with me? Not as Spider-Man… but as just me? Oscar questioned to himself. Surely not. Surely she was just trying to get under Lando’s skin.

I’m out of her league, he reminded himself

۶ৎ ۶ৎ ۶ৎ

Oscar worked on autopilot. Web, swing, scout. Web, swing, scout. The cycle came naturally to him. He hardly even thought about where he was shooting his webs.

As much as Oscar wanted the city to be safe, it was getting quite boring nowadays. Most days, he would end up on a rooftop somewhere, sitting on the ledge and she paid half attention to the streets below. Most of his attention would be directed to his phone where he scrolled through socials.

A scene caught Oscar’s attention, and he realized his boring night might not be so boring after all.

A girl, sat on the edge of a cafe rooftop, adorned in a white coat and pink gloves. Oscar dropped down softly behind you.

“You shouldn’t be so close it the edge. It’s dangerous.” He called. You smiled brightly, twisting your head to see him. “It got your attention, didn’t it?”

Oscar bowed his head and joined her on the ledge. “I suppose it did, yes.”

It began to snow lightly, flakes falling on your eyelashes as you looked out over the city.

“So, what are you up here for anyway?”

You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye. “I’m on break. I work in the cafe.” You explained while gesturing down to the building you were both sitting on top of. Oscar leaned over the ledge to peek at the side of the building. Indeed, it was a cafe. “And…” you started, facing him. “Like I said, to get your attention.”

Under the mask, he lifted his brows. “Really? Is there something you need?” He asked, wondering if something was wrong.

You laughed, your head bowing as you did so. “No.” You shook your head, smiling at him. “You’re just…” you shrugged. “Nice to talk to.”

Oscar felt his face heat up as he started to fiddle around with his fingers. He had to remind himself that it wasn’t Oscar you were saying this to. It was spider-man.

You tried not to laugh at how obviously flustered he was. But it was quite the ego boost, knowing she made a superhero nervous.

“I don’t think I’ve ever gotten that one before. Definitely been told the opposite though.” He joked and you laughed. That felt like a huge accomplishment to Oscar.

“But I was wondering,” you started, staring out at the city once again. You swung your legs through the air. “how did you know my name yesterday? I know I never told you it.” Your narrowed eyes interrogated him. Your expression daring and intimidating.

He quickly scanned his brain for an excuse. “Maybe I said something that sounded like your name?” He offered. You didn’t buy it and shook your head pointedly. “No. I know I heard you right.” You were sure.

Oscar sighed. “It’s on the inside of your bag.” He gestured to the same one lying next to you. You checked it and saw he was right. “I didn’t want you to think I was creepy.” He sighed.

“Oh, well-“

You didn’t get to finish your sentence, as the watch on his wrist began to incessantly beep. “Sorry, I’ve gotta take this.” He excused himself, jumping to a nearby rooftop.

Once he was sure he was no longer within earshot, he answered Tony’s call.

“Kid, I need you at the compound.” Tony sighed through the speakers.

“Why? Did something happen?”

“No. I need you to help me wrap Morgan’s presents. I bought way too many.”

[sixeyesonathiel]

bloom in the blood — teaser

pairing — ares!gojo x aphrodite!reader

synopsis : in the early days of olympus, when the gods were still shaping their thrones and their names were still sharp in mortal mouths, two ascensions altered the course of heaven. one, carved from war and flame. the other, crowned in silk and worship.

they were never meant to meet.

but the world doesn’t always listen to prophecy. and when love and war find themselves in the same room—the sky holds its breath.

a/n : tags to be included just know it's a oneshot full of banter and yearning w/ smut, all i can say is prepare for satoru crashing out bcs the woman he's falling for fucks around with literally anyone but not with him LMAO. do tell if y'all want me to create a tag list for this <3 this oneshot is based from my drabbles, you can check it out here!

the sky was red, raw, still bleeding from the last war when they dragged you before the gods. your bare feet scraped the cold marble of olympus, bruised and dusted with ash, each step a reminder of the mortal earth you’d been torn from. your lips burned, stained with pomegranate wine you hadn’t chosen—left at your shrine by men with trembling hands, their eyes wet with desperation, their voices cracking as they whispered your name. your skin shimmered under the flickering torchlight, kissed by pollen, crushed gold, and the weight of offerings piled too high. mortals called you blessed. beloved. a miracle. their words clung to you like damp silk, heavy and unwanted.

but you were no goddess.

not yet.

just a woman with a face sharp enough to cut empires, beautiful enough to set them ablaze.

your gaze flicked upward, defiant, as zeus loomed from his throne—marble carved from thunder, draped in stormlight that pulsed like a living thing. his eyes, cold and ancient, studied you like a riddle he’d already decided was beneath him. behind him, olympus breathed, its golden columns trembling faintly, as if the mountain itself feared what you might become.

they called you dangerous.

not for a blade in your hand—you carried none—but because the world wielded one for you. kings had slaughtered bloodlines for a glance from you. sons had burned their fathers’ bones for the ghost of your smile. temples—holy, sacred temples—had crumbled to ash because your name lingered on mortal tongues longer than any prayer. when the gods tried to turn away, the mortals only screamed louder, their voices a tide that drowned out divine decrees.

“if she makes gods tremble as a mortal,” zeus declared, his voice rolling like a storm down a shattered peak, “then let her be a goddess. let her be worshipped instead.”

his words were not praise. they were a sentence.

they crowned you with pearls ripped from the marrow of sea monsters, their luster cold against your scalp. they bathed you in milk and honey, the sweetness cloying, sticking to your skin like a second chain. silk wound around your limbs—dyed with sunset and desire, so thin it felt like a lover’s breath—until you stood transformed, a vision too heavy to bear. they named you divine, not out of reverence, but to leash you. a crown, after all, is just another kind of collar.

elsewhere, the god of war tore a man apart with his teeth.

his name was satoru, and it still is, though mortals speak it only in shadows, pouring wine into the dirt, whispering behind bolted doors. they call him plague-bearer. butcher. saint of slaughter. but the truth is older, sharper: he was the first to ascend, not through glory or fate, but because even the underworld spat him back out. they say he died once, maybe twice—it didn’t matter. his body refused to rot. his sword never fell. every battlefield he touched still bears the scars of his hands, the earth itself remembering the weight of his steps.

“war can never be loyal,” zeus once muttered, watching him from a distance, his voice thick with something like fear. “we made him because we had to. because nothing else could stop him.”

satoru never craved divinity. but when the gods opened their gates, he strode through, blood-soaked and laughing, his grin a blade that cut deeper than steel. he killed like it was art, each stroke deliberate, each scream a note in a song only he could hear. he smiled like it hurt, like the act of joy was a wound he’d chosen to bear.

in a world where the gods were still young, still bleeding from mortal wounds, two forces were carved into being: love and war. they were never meant to meet. you didn’t know him. didn’t care. your temples rose on distant peaks, your altars draped in roses and gold, where men wept in your lap and tore each other apart just to die with your name on their lips. and far from your sanctums, satoru stood knee-deep in blood, his grin white and wild under a black sun, never knowing that the one thing forbidden to him—the one thing he might break for—was already burning with worship on another mountain.

“love has always ended wars,” the fates whispered, their threads taut between bony fingers. “but this love will start one.”

he didn’t know your name. not yet. but he would. because war always finds a reason to burn. and the gods, poor fools, had just given him his.

you.

the gods were arguing again, their voices a dull roar in the vaulted halls of olympus.

satoru leaned against a massive column, its marble too smooth, too clean for the filth still clinging to his skin. a half-empty goblet dangled between his bloodstained fingers, the wine inside catching the torchlight like liquid rubies. his armor hung loose, undone, the red and black silk of his tunic parted to reveal a chest still smudged with battlefield dirt, scars glinting faintly under the divine glow. his boots scuffed the polished floor, leaving faint streaks of mud and blood—marks of a war he’d abandoned hours ago, bored of its predictable end. he tilted his head back, pale lashes brushing his cheekbones, and watched a spider crawl across the gilded ceiling with more interest than he spared the council’s squabbles.

another pantheon forming. another city teetering on war. someone wept over tithes, another over priesthood succession—it was all the same. petty noise, perfumed panic, the soft rot of gods grasping at power they hadn’t earned. satoru’s lip curled faintly, his boredom a sharp, living thing, coiling in his chest like a beast waiting to snap.

“have you heard?” a goddess hissed, her voice sharp behind an ivory fan, pearls clinking against her goblet as she leaned toward a godling draped in rubies. “he made her divine. the mortal girl. the one whose beauty sparked three wars last year alone.”

satoru’s gaze didn’t shift, but the spider froze, legs tensing, as if it felt the air thicken. he didn’t look at them—not yet. not until the word slipped from their lips like a curse.

“the new goddess,” they whispered, reverent and afraid. “goddess of love.”

he laughed, a sound that cut through the murmurs like a blade through silk. not polite. not cruel. something raw, guttural, that made lesser gods flinch and the marble itself seem to shiver. he pushed off the column, muscles flexing under pale skin, the goblet swaying dangerously in his hand. his mouth curled into something too sharp to be a smile.

“goddess of love?” he echoed, dragging the words slow, like they tasted of ash. he stepped into the circle, wine sloshing against gold, his boots leaving faint smears on the floor. “what, she fluttered her lashes and someone handed her a throne?”

silence.

a few gods shifted, their robes rustling like dry leaves. one chuckled, too nervous to stop, and choked it back under satoru’s glance. the air tightened, heavy with the weight of his presence—smoke, cedar, and something scorched clinging to him like a second skin.

“love doesn’t win wars,” he muttered, tossing the goblet aside. it hit the steps with a dull clink, wine pooling red and rich, seeping into the cracks like blood. “love dies screaming on battlefields. love is what weak men beg for before i take their heads.”

his lip curled, baring teeth still stained with the memory of violence. “she must be fucking useless.”

he didn’t think of you again. not until the festival.

it was a spectacle he despised—loud, gaudy, drowning in gold and laughter too sweet to trust. a celebration of the seasons, where gods flaunted new robes and mortals poured honey-wine with trembling hands.

satoru had been summoned, not invited, dragged in like a blade on display. he slouched in a throne too polished, near the edge of the marble amphitheater, a goblet loose in his hand, the wine inside warm and sour. his other hand rested on the hilt of a dagger hidden under his robes—not because he needed it, but because its weight felt more honest than the applause.

he watched nothing. heard less. the perfume in the air stung his throat, thick with jasmine and myrrh. the lyre’s notes clawed at his skin, too soft, too delicate. he shifted, restless, the silk of his tunic catching the light, red and black like a wound half-healed.

then you appeared.

he didn’t see you first—he felt you. the hush that fell, sudden and absolute, like a thousand throats catching at once. the sunlight shifted, bending as if it answered to something greater than itself. then you stepped into view, and the world tilted, just enough to make his breath hitch.

you weren’t dressed to be seen. you were dressed to be worshipped.

translucent silk clung to your body, whispering secrets with every step, its edges catching the light like liquid flame. your skin glowed with divine ichor, kissed by gold dust and perfumed oils that smelled of lotus and something darker, sweeter. your hair was pinned with ivory combs, delicate strands spilling over your shoulder, catching the sun like threads of molten glass. each step was silent, commanding—not ethereal, not fragile, but like gravity itself knelt to you.

your eyes swept the crowd, slow, dismissive, lips parted just enough to hint at indifference. you offered nothing but presence, yet every god and mortal leaned forward, supplicants at an altar they hadn’t chosen. your hands were bare, wrists unbound, and somehow, every divine being forgot what power tasted like.

satoru blinked, his grip tightening on the goblet. for a moment, he thought it was a trick—a glamour, a curse. but no. you weren’t trying. you didn’t need to.

you didn’t look at him. not once.

and that was the problem.

his fingers clenched, wine sloshing over the rim, dripping onto his thigh. something coiled in his chest—sharp, nameless, alive. by the time he realized he was standing, the goblet had cracked in his grip, gold bending under his strength. his palm bled, slow and deliberate, wine mingling with blood, trickling down the stem in delicate streaks.

he didn’t notice.

couldn’t.

not when you were gliding across the marble like a storm on the verge of breaking, your gaze never once faltering in his direction.

his breath slowed, not calm but honed, like a predator scenting something it hadn’t learned to name. every instinct rose, ancient and patient, stirring under his skin like a tide pulling back before a crash.

you didn’t speak. didn’t smile. didn’t flinch.

and that made it worse. because satoru had killed kings for less. because gods had begged for his glance—and you didn’t even spare him a thought.

the silk of your dress shivered as you passed a column, your shoulder brushing the edge of shadow, and he could swear it trembled in your wake. behind you, a chorus lifted their voices, their song soft and reverent. he didn’t hear it. not really.

he was watching the way your bare foot kissed the marble, the arch of your ankle, the tilt of your chin like you carried the weight of a crown you hadn’t asked for. he saw the way your hands rested at your sides, loose but commanding, as if you could summon oceans with a flick of your wrist.

you were beautiful. too beautiful.

but it wasn’t that.

it was the nerve.

you hadn’t even looked at him.

and now you’d never leave his thoughts again.

weeks passed, and your name became a wound. once a curiosity, it grew into an invocation, spoken in places it didn’t belong—on battlefields, by dying men whose last breaths weren’t for war but for love. soldiers carved your sigil into their armor, scratched it into blades like a charm against death. queens knelt at your altars, clutching roses and begging for your favor before sending their sons to slaughter.

and satoru hated it.

not because it rivaled him. not because it mattered. but because every time your name crossed mortal lips, it clawed beneath his skin, a splinter that refused to bleed out.

so he did what he always did when the ache grew sharp—he picked a fight.

he stormed your temple in the middle of a rite, dust still clinging to his greaves, blood crusted along his throat like a second skin. his tunic was torn, dark with sweat and ash, and his mouth curved in something too wild to be a smile. laughter lingered in the cracks of his lips, though his eyes were cold, sharp, like a blade half-drawn. the doors groaned under the weight of his steps, and every priest in attendance forgot how to breathe.

acolytes scattered like doves, their robes fluttering in panic. dancers froze mid-turn, silk suspended like a held breath. the air thickened, heavy with incense and the scent of crushed petals—hibiscus, lotus, rose—cloying and sweet, clinging to the back of his throat.

only you didn’t move.

you sat on a platform of rose-quartz steps, draped in sheer ivory that caught the torchlight like moonlight on water. garlands of hibiscus curled around your ankles, their red petals stark against your skin, like blood spilled in offering. lotus petals floated in a shallow basin at your feet, their scent thick with honey and something deeper, darker. your posture was relaxed, one elbow resting against the curve of your throne, fingers tangled lazily in your hair, as if the world hadn’t just shuddered at his arrival.

but you felt it. he knew you did.

your face was unreadable beneath a thin veil—until you lifted it. your eyes met his, not with fear, not with awe, but with a flicker of irritation, like a cat disturbed by a sudden noise.

“you’re not supposed to be here,” you said, your voice low, silken, sharp enough to draw blood.

satoru stepped forward, boots crushing a garland underfoot, the petals snapping like bones. the sound echoed in the vaulted chamber, louder than it should have. his pale hair clung damply to his brow, blood dried along his cheekbone, dark against skin that glowed like moonlight. his smirk was mean, carved from something jagged.

“then make me leave.”

incense twisted between you, thick and heavy, curling upward like it, too, waited for your next move. petals bled under his boots—red, white, bruised—sticking to the leather like offerings gone sour. his shoulders rolled back, lazy but deliberate, like a beast stretching before a hunt.

you didn’t rise. didn’t blink. your eyes dragged over him, slow, unimpressed, taking in the blood, the sweat, the torn silk. “you think you can scare me into reverence?”

he scoffed, circling the altar like a storm circling its eye. “i think you’re used to men begging.”

his grin sharpened, teeth glinting in the torchlight. “i’d rather die.”

“pity,” you murmured, standing at last.

your voice was quieter now, but it cut deeper, each syllable a needle under his skin. you stepped forward, and the floor seemed to shrink beneath him. your chin tilted, crown catching the light, shoulders squared in soft defiance. the silk of your robes whispered as you moved, the sound louder than it should have been in the silent hall. “dying is the only thing you’re good at.”

he laughed, low and dangerous, the sound rumbling like thunder trapped in his chest. blood lingered between his teeth, a faint red stain when he bared them, and for a heartbeat, your gaze lingered on his mouth—too long, too sharp.

there it was. the spark.

“you think love matters on a battlefield?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper, daring you to lie.

your gaze didn’t waver. “i don’t need to fight,” you said, stepping down to his level. the silk barely rustled, but the room tightened with every inch you closed. “they destroy themselves for me.”

his mouth twitched, not amusement but something darker, hungrier. “then you’re just another coward,” he hissed, and now he was close. too close. his breath was fire, his presence heat, cedar and blood and something scorched. “you watch from your throne while the world tears itself apart in your name.”

you stared up at him, unmoved, gold at your temples glinting like a challenge. “you kill to feel alive,” you said, soft but vicious, each word a blade. “i make them beg to live.”

you leaned in, just enough for him to catch the sweetness on your throat—lotus, honey, divine. “which of us is the monster?”

and everything stopped.

satoru froze, his smirk fading, his breath catching like a blade in his chest. the air cracked, too thick, too heavy, incense flaring upward like it feared what came next. the god of war—untouchable, insatiable—stood still, not because he couldn’t move, but because something in him didn’t know how.

you weren’t afraid of him. you didn’t want him. you didn’t need him.

and that was the moment he started to burn.

you turned away first, veil slipping back down with a flick of your fingers, the gesture effortless, dismissive. you sat, the hem of your robe curling around your ankles like water, the room exhaling with you. the acolytes trembled in the shadows, their breaths shallow, their eyes darting between you.

behind you, satoru stood in silence.

his fists clenched, knuckles white, blood seeping from where his nails bit into his palms. his breath came sharp, chest heaving once—twice—then stilled. his eyes traced the curve of your shoulder, the fall of your hair, the way your fingers rested on the throne like you held the world in your palm.

he didn’t leave.

not yet.

he stayed, long enough to make the acolytes’ hands shake, long enough to memorize the shape of your silence. because now he knew your name. and war never forgets.

you weren’t a threat to peace—you were a reason for war to breathe again.